Never Love a Lord (26 page)
Authors: Heather Grothaus
Sybilla hesitated. “My lord?”
“The men were never supposed to reach Lewes that night,” Edward informed her quietly. “They were to remain at their camp, some miles away. Had they done so, Simon de Montfort’s men would have been in a very vulnerable location and been overtaken by the king’s troops the next day.”
Sybilla felt the vibration in her bones increase, even as Julian spoke.
“My liege, do you mean to say that the battle of Lewes should never have happened?”
“Not in the manner in which it took place—yes, that is exactly what I mean to say,” Edward said morosely. “Morys Foxe was killed that night. I am most certain that was not in your mother’s plans, was it, Sybilla?”
Tears welled heavy in her downcast, unblinking eyes and fell onto her thighs.
It was why her mother had been so shocked, so devastated. Morys was not supposed to have been where he was—none of the king’s men were. She had been pretending to cow to Simon de Montfort’s demand for information, when in reality, it was he she was setting up for an ambush.
How Sybilla had hated her mother for that ill-fated night! And how misplaced her fury had been!
“No, my liege. That was not in her plans. She . . . she loved my father very much.” Sybilla’s voice broke and she paused. “We all did.”
“I am not an unfair man, Sybilla,” Edward said. “And regardless of what you or the love-struck Lord Griffin may think, I have read the results of his investigation thoroughly. I realize now that it was not your mother who went to Simon de Montfort’s camp that night. She sent you, did she not?”
Sybilla could only nod.
“And I understand in hindsight her probable intentions. But her intentions cannot be proven, and she cannot be questioned. The fact remains that you were sent to aid an enemy of the Crown, with disastrous results for the king’s men, for England, and for your own father. The act in itself was traitorous. And I must uphold the law.”
“Before you judge me, my liege,” Sybilla said suddenly, but calmly, “I would ask you only one mercy.”
“Yes? Sybilla Foxe asking for mercy?” Intrigue was high in the king’s voice. “You will wish for a stay of execution, certainly, and—”
“No,” Sybilla interrupted sharply. “I would not live out my days as a prisoner, of you or anyone else on this earth.” As she continued to speak in the space left by the king’s shocked silence, she slowly raised her head to at last look at Edward directly. “I ask that for my cooperation and full admission of guilt, you absolve Lord Griffin of the charges against him and grant him Fallstowe Castle and all its privileges as you previously warranted. The only crime Julian Griffin is guilty of is mercy. He had no choice but to become my accomplice.”
“That is a lie, Sybilla, and well you know it,” Julian shouted. “I have made my choices according to my own wishes—not yours, not anyone else’s! How dare you try to manipulate—”
“He had no choice,” Sybilla interrupted, not daring to look at Julian. “I took him to the Foxe Ring not long after his arrival at Fallstowe. On the last night of the full moon.”
Edward’s eyebrows rose and then lowered quickly. He stared at Sybilla in a queer manner, as if he had not heard her correctly, or not heard her at all.
Julian gripped the arms of his chair as if he would stand. “What has that to do with anything? You think I would be swayed by some old tale? That I would be taken in by whispers of legend or witchcraft? My actions are based on history, on fact, not a superstitious pile of rock!”
“His support and . . . affections became apparent after we had both visited the Foxe Ring,” Sybilla said to Edward, somewhat concerned at the way he was still looking at her from his place on the dais, some thirty feet away.
“I was in love with you before I ever laid eyes on the Foxe Ring!” Julian shouted, and then Sybilla couldn’t help but turn her head to look at him, his blatant admission still echoing in the air of the hall. “As you were with me,” he finished in a quieter voice. “I’ll not let you martyr yourself at the expense of my dignity, Sybilla.”
Sybilla swallowed the emotion lodged in her throat to turn stoically back to the king. “Of course I cannot force His Majesty to agree to any such demands I might make. But let history reflect that the following is my testimony.”
“Sybilla, no!” Julian shouted.
“I admit that it was I who aided Simon de Montfort in finding the king’s men at Lewes in the year 1264. The treason is mine, and I admit my guilt.” The scribes recorded her words furiously.
The king however, did not move.
Sybilla felt her chin lift as she continued this game of watchfulness with the monarch who for so long had sought her, and now had her in his clutches, her ready confession still wet on his scrolls.
“That’s not all you’ve done, though, is it?” Julian challenged her. “If you’re going to confess, let’s have all of it, shall we?”
Her eyes flicked to his. “Julian, don’t.”
“Look at her, my liege,” Julian said, moving forward to the edge of his chair and turning toward Edward, holding out an upturned palm to indicate where Sybilla sat. “Only look at her! Why do you think she would not want to be recognized? No one in this room today was present at Lewes to have remembered her! Look at her!”
And Edward did look. And then he brought his hands to the arms of his own chair and pushed himself to stand. “You,” he said. His hand went to the long, ornate hilt of the sword at his side.
“You,” he repeated, then suddenly walked to the edge of the dais and, in a spry manner, hopped down from it, landing surely on both feet, his eyes never leaving Sybilla. He began to stride toward her purposefully.
“No,” Julian shouted, and shot from his own chair, but in an instant his pursuit was arrested by a trio of guards, one of them Erik. They held him, forcing him back into his chair while Julian struggled, shouting, “Edward, don’t!”
Edward was nearly upon her now, his hand still laid upon his sword.
One last fight then
, she said to herself, and rose from the chair to stand defiantly before the tall, lean menace that was the king of England.
, she said to herself, and rose from the chair to stand defiantly before the tall, lean menace that was the king of England.
He towered over her, his eyes searching her face. “You,” he whispered now, and his brows lowered menacingly.
Then the king raised his hand.
Chapter 28
Julian let out a terrible roar from somewhere deep inside of him as he watched Edward’s hand rise and then disappear below him. The slap echoed in the chamber and was still chasing its own tail when he threw off the men who held him and leapt from the dais.
He ran at the pair, even amidst the sounds of guards converging on the aisle, their swords ringing as they cleared their scabbards. He didn’t care. His fingertips found his own hilt, his arm pulled as he ran, prepared to commit the greatest crime imaginable of a trusted soldier of the king.
No one would ever harm Sybilla again.
But as he came upon them, he saw not a broken woman, a furious man, but two people locked in a tight embrace. The king’s arms were around Sybilla’s back, the thin linen bunched against the lavish embroidery of the royal tunic, her dark hair cascading over golden thread like an ebony river.
Julian skidded to a halt as a score of soldiers ringed the three of them, their swords drawn, their intentions obvious. But Julian ignored them, his sword hanging from his arm, its point touching the grand floor. He didn’t think he would have the strength to lift it now, even to save his own life.
Sybilla’s pale, delicate hands pressed against Edward’s back, her forehead was laid against his chest, and even in the confusion that was so thick as to lend an audible buzz of nerves to the air, Julian could hear her plea.
“Forgive me, forgive me.”
Edward angled his chin toward Julian, although he did not look directly at him. “I’d put your weapon away now, Lord Griffin, were I you. I’d hate to have something unfortunate happen to you at this late date.”
Julian looked down at his sword as if just realizing he still held it, and then slid it back into its home slowly.
Edward took hold of Sybilla’s upper arms and held her away from him, but his first words were for his men. “Stand down. There is no danger to me here, from either of them.” As the men grudgingly backed away, he looked down into Sybilla’s face. “Indeed, perhaps I am in the presence of the greatest patriot England has ever known. It was you, wasn’t it? It was you who came into my tent and led me to de Montfort’s unready men. Urged me on to the surprise attack at Kenilworth Castle.”
Sybilla nodded. “Yes. It was I.”
Julian felt his legs go weak.
“Why did you not come to me? I would have protected you myself. Sybilla—you saved England, you saved my legacy.”
And then Sybilla Foxe said words that Julian would never have wagered in a hundred years would fall from her lips.
“I was so afraid.” And then she began to weep.
Edward drew her to him briefly once more, shaking his head. And then he released her, pushing her gently back into her chair and turning away from her.
Julian stepped toward her, fully intending to kneel at her side, but he was stopped short by Edward’s hand on his chest.
“No,” the king said, a disapproving frown on his long face. “This trial is still in order. I will have no more deviations. Go back to your seat, Lord Griffin.”
“But, my liege—”
“Now, Julian,” Edward commanded, giving him a little push and then walking toward the short steps that led to the dais.
“Come on.” Someone pulled sharply on his elbow, and Julian turned to see that it was Erik. “Don’t be any more of a fool than you have been, Julian. It’s almost over.”
Julian walked backward a pair of steps, his eyes on Sybilla’s pale face. She did not look at him.
Then he nodded, to no one but himself, it seemed, and turned to gain the dais once more.
Edward had gone to the scribe’s table and was leafing through sheaves of parchment, his long left arm braced at his side. The king spoke with the man at length and then turned away. Julian frowned as the scribe immediately took up several of the pages and then lifted the glass globe of the lantern to his left. He touched the corners of the pages to the flame and slid them into a wide-mouth brazier at his feet. The burst of flame was white as the pages disappeared.
Edward settled himself heavily into his throne in his typical posture: a sideways slouch, his previously broken leg stretched out before him, one elbow holding him aright in the seat. He stared at Sybilla for several moments.
“Sybilla Foxe,” he said at last. “Is it your admission that you sneaked into the royal camp in the year 1265 and informed me of the unguarded state of Simon de Montfort’s son’s army, leading to the siege at Kenilworth Castle, and later, the death of Lord de Montfort himself at Evesham?”
“It is, my lord,” Sybilla answered.
“And is it also your testimony that you have repeatedly and knowingly ignored royal summonses, resulting in several acts of outright disobedience to the Crown?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How do you plead to these accusations, then?”
“I am guilty,” Sybilla said, with a lift of her chin. Julian thought she had never looked so beautiful.
“Very well,” Edward said. “Stand for your sentencing.”
Sybilla gained her feet, and even at that distance, Julian could see her swallow.
“For your crimes, Fallstowe Castle shall be fined one quarter of its wealth, payable in one fortnight.”
Julian felt his mouth fall open, but below him, Sybilla only blinked.
But Edward was not done. “In addition, you shall supply the Crown with half of Fallstowe’s armed men, fully outfitted and paid, mustering at Midsummer for a campaign of unknown duration. How do you answer?”
Sybilla nodded. “As my king wishes. It will be done.”
“Very well,” Edward said. “All other charges against you are hereby dropped, found to be without cause.”
Julian felt the breath go out of him, but he had no real time for relief, for Edward then turned to him.
“Lord Julian Griffin, stand,” the king ordered.
Julian steadied his sword and gained his feet before bowing once to the monarch.
“You have also been insubordinate in the duties set upon you some months ago by my own word. How do you plead?”
“I am guilty, my liege,” Julian said, then added quietly, “and I am very sorry, friend.”
“Let it be recorded as such,” Edward said. “As of this day, you are hereby charged with the demesne of Fallstowe Castle, as vassal to the Crown. What you do with its current occupants”—Edward glanced at Sybilla—“is at your complete discretion. How do you answer?”
“I would—” Julian was forced to stop and look down at his feet while he cleared his throat. At last he was able to look at Edward again. “I would marry the current occupant, my liege, if it pleases you.”
Edward nodded slowly. “I think that it does please me, Lord Griffin. Someone must keep that woman in check, and obviously I am not up to the task.”
Julian smiled at his king. “It shall be done right away, my liege.”
“Very well. Lord Griffin, the other charges levied against you are hereby dismissed.” The king held up his hands briefly before slapping them back onto the arms of his chair and rising. “I’m finished here.”
The king made his way from the dais through his private door, prompting the mustachioed barrister to step forth.
“Court is adjourned,” he called out solemnly, to no one but Julian, Sybilla, and the soldiers still ringing the room.
Julian looked down at Sybilla where she still stood, her arms hanging at her sides, and smiled. Then, too late, he remembered the protocol after a private court was held, as the soldiers threw open the double public doors, and the droves of nobles and commoners ejected from the room earlier flooded the chamber like a tempest at sea. In moments, Sybilla was surrounded by the angry whirlpool, Julian stranded helplessly on the island of the dais.
Sybilla spun on her heel to face the crush of people who were roaring toward her like a rogue wave. The soldiers had obviously not expected such a response in a usually civilized venue, and so their shouts of restraint toward the bloodthirsty crowd were late, and nearly lost beneath the thunderous footfalls and voices.
But Sybilla was not afraid. She lifted her chin and stared boldly at the first wave of common and noble gawkers. And as they drew impossibly nearer, when from the outside it would seem that they would overtake her with her next breath, trample the life from her, Sybilla held up her right hand.
As if a wall had been thrown up, the crowd stopped short, the sudden cessation of motion causing a silvery ripple to race back through the crowd still pushing their way forward, even as a musical sound, like the tinkling of small, crystal bells fell upon the hall from the rafters.
And then the crowd was completely, utterly silent, staring at her wide-eyed, some with a furious look of impotence and others with a sort of confusion. The footfalls of the soldiers increased in volume as they at last reached her, and as they placed themselves between Sybilla and the would-be vigilantes, she lowered her hand.
No sooner had her arm reached her side than it was seized from behind, and Sybilla found herself turned round in a sudden, forceful fashion, to face the intense expression on Julian Griffin’s face.
“Sybilla,” he whispered. “We’ve won.”
She felt a smile trying to come to her mouth, the muscles creaking, the expression hesitant to show itself. “Have we?”
“Have we?” he repeated incredulously. “You can’t be serious!”
“It only seems so . . . unfinished. Incomplete,” she said with a slight frown.
“You have retained Fallstowe,” Julian insisted.
Sybilla quirked an eyebrow at him. “If I agree to become your wife.”
Julian Griffin took on a pained expression of forced patience. “Do you wish to become my wife?”
Sybilla blinked coolly.
Julian sighed, rolled his eyes, and tried again. “Sybilla Foxe, will you marry me?”
And then the smile did come to her mouth, and although slight, Sybilla felt the sincerity of her happiness all the way to the core of her soul.
“Yes,” she said quietly, simply.
His smile matched hers, and he began to draw her closer to him.
“Sybilla!” a woman shouted. “Sybilla!”
Sybilla turned from Julian’s arms to try to locate Alys’s form in the pressing crush still being held off by the king’s soldiers. She spotted her youngest sister’s blond hair and round form on the fringe of the crowd near the wall, being blocked by a guard. Piers was beside her, and behind them both, Sybilla saw Cee and Oliver. She held up a hand toward them, signaling that she had seen them.
She turned back to Julian. “I have to go to my sisters,” she explained. “I need them to meet Lady de Lairne. Right away, I feel.”
Julian stared at her for a moment. “I understand,” he said. “But Sybilla, I must—”
“Lucy. I know,” she interrupted. “I don’t know when I will get away. Not tonight, at any rate. I would try to convince Lady de—my aunt,” she corrected herself, “to come back to Fallstowe with me. To see the place where her sister lived, the home where we grew up. Perhaps . . . perhaps she would even stay.”
Julian smiled down at her. “I think that is a most wonderful idea. I will have Erik accompany you back when you are ready to depart.”
Sybilla looked askance at him. “He’ll not try to murder me for corrupting you?”
Julian laughed and shook his head. “He is the only one I would trust with your life, save me.”
“Very well,” Sybilla said, anxious suddenly to be away, not from Julian but . . . away to somewhere very important.
He saw her impatience, and Sybilla could not help but notice the way his eyes lingered on her mouth, as if he wanted to kiss her but was hesitant.
“Yes, well . . . we shall be waiting for you at Fallstowe.” He touched her face gently. “Safe journey.”
Sybilla’s heart melted inside her chest at the tenderness showing through his stoic reserve. Julian should know by now that she did not give a damn what anyone thought of her. She reached up with her right hand to grasp his neck and then rose on her toes even as his arms went around her back.
And she kissed him before all those who were gathered in the king’s court. Thoroughly. It would be talked about for years.
Sybilla had made her wishes known immediately to the guard holding her sisters and brothers-in-law in check, and now, with Piers and Oliver having gone to help Julian outfit for the return journey to Fallstowe, Sybilla, Cecily, and Alys raced through hidden corridors, on the heels of the soldier, to the section of rooms where Lady de Lairne stayed.
“But how did she know to come?” Cecily was asking, even atop Alys’s own questions.
“Is it truly over, Sybilla? Are you free?”
“It’s over, and yes, I’m free,” she said absently, her eyes on the soldier’s back in the shadowy corridor. “I don’t know how she knew. It’s one of the many questions I hope to have answered shortly.”
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