Never Love a Lord

by Heather Grothaus

  To Sybilla’s surprise, the old manservant walked to Amicia’s bedside and took a seat in the small upholstered armchair placed there for visitors. Then he sighed and once more regarded Sybilla with a melancholy expression of regret before addressing Amicia.

  “Would you care to begin now, Madam?”

  Amicia nodded once.

  “I was born in Gascony,” she said, letting her eyes roll to the bed’s canopy; and just as Sybilla was about to tell her that she already knew that, Amicia added, “At least, I think I was. I don’t know who my parents were.”

  Sybilla felt her heavy eyelids blink once, twice, a third time, and her head tilted slightly, as if she had just entered some strange dream. Perhaps this last seizing had affected her mother’s memory now.

  “Maman, you were born Amicia Sybil de Lairne. Your parents were Lord and Lady de Lairne.”

  “No,” Amicia said. She let her gaze fall back to her daughter as she repeated in a whisper, “No. I was left in the kitchens of the de Lairne château when I was only hours old. The cook found me tucked in a basket among the loaves and took me to Lady de Lairne. The lady decided that I looked strong enough that she would keep me.”

  Sybilla swallowed. “She adopted you as her own?”

  Amicia shrugged her left shoulder slightly. “I grew up alongside their daughter, only a pair of months older than I. I was raised to be her companion. They groomed me from an early age. When I was old enough to carry a large pitcher and make a neat plait, I became her maid.”

  Sybilla felt her legs go watery, and her first urge was to sit down on the edge of the mattress where her mother was propped on an army of silk embroidered pillows. But she suddenly found the idea of being so close to Amicia distressing—this woman she had thought she knew, but wasn’t quite so certain now—and so she stumbled back a pair of steps to lower herself into a chair, the twin of the one in which Graves still silently sat.

  “You were her . . . her maid?” she repeated breathlessly. “You must have loved . . . your sister very much to have agreed to play such a lowly part.”

  “She was not my sister,” Amicia hissed, and her chest hitched unevenly for several moments while she fought to regain her composure. She closed her wrinkly eyelids for a moment, and when she opened them once more, she seemed to have taken her emotions in hand. “You must understand this first part best of all, Sybilla: the woman everyone thinks me to be, Lady Amicia de Lairne Foxe—she doesn’t exist. She never existed. The truth is a dangerous thing, ofttimes. Who I am, truly, is that upon which hangs the fate of this castle and of your sisters.”

  Sybilla had enough clarity about her to realize that this was the second instance in which her mother had mentioned the safety of Alys and Cecily, but Sybilla had not been included in the concern.

  “And me as well, Maman?” Sybilla asked, distressed at the timid and weak sound of her voice in such a plaintive bid for reassurance. “It will keep me safe?”

  “Oh, my darling,” Amicia slurred. “I cannot save you.”

  Sybilla realized that the bathwater had gone frigid.

  She blinked, and was relieved to note that the coverlet on the bed had lost its shimmery appearance and that the curtains hung motionless once more.

  Sybilla stood with a great fall of water and reached for her robe. She stepped from the tub and swirled the quilted silk around her wet skin, belting it tightly as she went to her wardrobe.

  So Julian Griffin knew the sordid fact of Amicia Foxe’s birth. That was not good, but not completely unexpected since he had announced that he’d gone to France inquiring after Amicia de Lairne. Perhaps it was the best thing that he was here, conducting this ridiculous interview. Perhaps he did not know everything. Perhaps he could be persuaded to believe what Sybilla needed him to believe. Perhaps, perhaps . . .

  But if he was determined enough to discover that much, what else does he also know? He doesn’t seem a stupid man.

  She dropped her head and sighed, her hands fisting in the material of the gown she had pulled from the wardrobe, a sage-green damask with a wide skirt suitable for riding.

  It was as Amicia had warned her. This was the end game, and Sybilla would need all her wits and cunning about her in order to attempt to save Fallstowe. It was her only hope.

  She must keep hold of Fallstowe.

  After locking his portfolio away safely in the trunk in his own room, Julian went to the guest chambers afforded to Lucy and Murrin. He arrived just in time to take up his daughter from her crib. As usual, she woke gently, smiling, and making her little dove noises she had so recently mastered. He waved Murrin away when she approached.

  “She must be a soaking mess, milord,” Murrin argued. “At least let me change her before she soils your sleeve.”

  “She’s not that wet,” Julian argued mildly. “It can wait.” He took Lucy to a low-backed rocking chair and sat down, perhaps needing to absorb a little of the baby’s sweetness to chase away the sour mood his first official meeting with Sybilla Foxe had induced.

  “It would be pert of me to ask how it went,” Murrin said in an airy manner as she took to sorting through stacks of Lucy’s clothes in a trunk. She paused and glanced at him over her shoulder.

  Julian sighed. “Since your future depends on it as well as ours, it went better than I expected.” He sat Lucy up on his knee, smoothed a hand over her impossibly silky, fine hair. The top of her head was so soft, so delicate. It never failed to humble him that this precious, tiny creature had come from him.

  Murrin had given up all pretense of sorting nappies and now regarded him with an armful of forgotten clothes, her eyebrows disappearing into her head covering. “Will you arrest her today, then?”

  “No, no.” Julian frowned and shook his head. “I’ve not proven the king’s suspicions thoroughly enough for just cause. I must go about this slowly, so as not to arouse Lady Foxe’s ire any sooner than I must. Although we have been treated . . . cordially thus far.” Julian tried not to recall the first night of his arrival at Fallstowe. “I daresay we are entirely at her mercy.”

  “Hmm,” Murrin said noncommittally as she began to once more sort through Lucy’s clothing.

  Julian turned his daughter around so that she reclined against his chest, and Lucy began to pull up her legs to grab at her feet. He looked around the chamber, admiring the fine architecture, and the craftsmanship of the furnishings of even a guest room at Fallstowe.

  “It’s a fine chamber, isn’t it?” he remarked, not really expecting much of an answer from the nurse. After all, she was used to more lowly quarters than this.

  But Murrin stopped what she was doing once more and took a moment to appraise the room. She wrinkled her nose. “It’s quite small though, isn’t it? Lady Lucy would be much more comfortable in the family wing, I reckon.” She looked back at Julian. “Do you think they’ve a nursery outfitted, milord?”

  Julian shrugged. “It’s unlikely. There’s not been an infant in residence at Fallstowe Castle for many years, that I know of.”

  Murrin sniffed and then turned back to her chore, pulling out a fresh gown and length of cotton nappy before replacing the stack in the trunk and turning to walk toward where Julian sat with Lucy.

  “No matter, that. It shouldn’t take any time to choose a chamber and have it made over.” She reached her arms out for Lucy and this time Julian relented, having at last felt dampness on his leg. Murrin nestled the baby against her and touched a forefinger lightly to the baby’s nose. “Perhaps His Lordship will have the stones whitewashed for us, eh, milady? Then you shall be the princess of Fallstowe Castle!” Murrin giggled softly and then turned away to cross the floor.

  Julian felt a slight frown crease his brow at the idea that Murrin was already choosing living quarters for themselves, but he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if he felt guilty about what the king had sent him here to do. If Julian was correct in his theories, formed from his exhaustive investigation into Amicia Foxe and her family, then he was noth
ing more than a champion for justice. Righting a wrong. Revealing a lie and a treason.

  Evicting a woman from her family home for a wrong done through no fault of her own. A woman who has ruled Fallstowe with cunning and bravery greater than most men’s. Whose reputation even now heralds her as a warrior, a sorceress, a protector, and monarch in her own right.

  But Julian knew better than most that in every war there were bound to be casualties. Innocent lives destroyed for the greater good. The law was the law. And Julian owed Edward a debt that he was determined to pay.

  Lucy did deserve a home such as Fallstowe. The best Julian could give her. Julian may not have been in passionate, romantic love with Cateline, but surely the love that was absent from his marriage had bloomed a hundredfold and in pure, riotous color for little Lucy Griffin, his world. His reason for living.

  He rose from the chair to precede Murrin, who carried Lucy from the chamber, and headed in the direction of the great hall for the noon meal. Julian doubted very much that he would even catch a glimpse of Sybilla Foxe the remainder of the day, and that suited him quite well, he found.

  He had a priest to speak to this afternoon, and a message to send north.

  Chapter 8

  Sybilla was rather surprised and a little unsettled when Julian Griffin was late meeting her in the stables that evening. She had sent him an invitation to go riding with her shortly after the noon meal, and she had definitely expected him to be seated upon his mount and waiting for her in the yard when she arrived, but it had been a full quarter hour before he deigned to make his appearance, strolling into the stables with Fallstowe’s priest, Father Perry, at his elbow, smiling and conversing easily with the holy man.

  “You’ve already arrived,” Julian said with a lift of his tawny eyebrows. “I’m not late, am I?”

  “Quite,” Sybilla replied. “If you are too engaged in other business at my home, Lord Griffin, I shan’t trouble you with an activity as mundane as touring Fallstowe’s lands.”

  “No, no. Forgive me,” Julian said, and his face conveyed sincere regret. “I fear that I was so immersed in conversation with your good priest that I simply became unaware of the passing of time. Certainly, I am looking forward to riding out with you.”

  Sybilla very much wanted to beg off their excursion now. She was nervous, a condition as foreign to her as timidity, but there was no other option.

  “Your horse is saddled and waiting. Although we shan’t see the entirety of the grounds, we will still miss the evening meal. I’ve had Cook prepare a satchel for us.”

  An easy, surprised smile came over Julian Griffin’s face, and it caused Sybilla’s stomach to do a neat turn.

  “A picnic, then? Smashing. I haven’t eaten on the ground in months, and the weather is fair.”

  Sybilla felt her lips purse petulantly at his enthusiasm, and she turned away until Julian had bid Father Perry farewell and quickly took to his borrowed mount. He was still smiling when she looked back at him.

  “I shall follow your lead, my lady,” he said, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm.

  Sybilla kicked her mount and rode out into the yard ahead of him at a trot, muttering under her breath, “I certainly hope so.”

  They rode southwest from the gate, away from the woods and the road and toward the wide, fallow fields quilted with hedgerows and timothy grass. Sybilla kept their conversation matter-of-fact as they rode past the agricultural industries of Fallstowe, and she explained the different crops the field master oversaw, the unique schedule of rotation for the fields, the more rare varieties the manor was attempting. To her surprise, he seemed more than politely interested, asking pertinent and intelligent questions and seeming fascinated with the topic of harvest yields in relation to the weather conditions of last season.

  Sybilla looked at him curiously as they headed down a rather steep ravine toward the north of the demesne. “Do you run a farm manor, Lord Griffin? You seem rather intrigued by such dry topics as silage.”

  His glance caught hers, but he did not smile at her attempt at humor, which did not surprise her greatly. Alys was the funny sister.

  “No, I’ve never run a farm. Always wanted to, though. I lived on one for a time in my youth. I would that Lucy know such delight.”

  Sybilla guided Octavian through the shallow, muddy creek at the bottom of the ravine and turned to watch Julian Griffin do the same with his own mount. “Where is your family home, Lord Griffin?”

  He seemed loath to still his horse beside Sybilla’s, and even though Octavian was an enormous beast bred from mighty war steeds and dwarfed Julian’s borrowed mount, the man did not seem diminished at all in the saddle.

  “The city. London,” he clarified brusquely before she could ask. Then he nodded up the hill upon which the sun was spraying its last, red rays from the far, opposite horizon, turning the new grass to rust. “That way, then?”

  She answered him with a nod of her own, and he preceded her up the sharp rise. Her eyes followed him keenly, just as Octavian fell into step in his wake.

  He did not have the air of entitlement that resulted from being royal, nor the aversion to his own family, if his daughter was any indication. He was not an active general in Edward’s army, a professional man of war. But Lucy Griffin had been born at the king’s home only months ago, when Alys and Piers had been in London.

  His dead wife, then. Her name, her name—what was her name . . . ?

  She topped the rise shortly after him and he silently let her lead the way, although Sybilla kept Octavian at a slow walk while she searched the very air around them.

  “Was Lady . . . Ke—” No, no, that wasn’t it! “Lady Catherine fond of the country?” she asked, and held her breath.

  “Cateline,” Julian corrected her.

  Sybilla winced inwardly. “My apologies.”

  “Think naught of it. It is a common enough mistake. She said ofttimes that she answered to anything closely resembling it.” He gave a wry smile and Sybilla returned it, relieved. “But no—Cateline preferred the excitement of town, the shops and fairs. Especially the dressmakers’ shops.” Sybilla looked over to Julian when he paused, and she caught him looking back at the small, purple shadow that was Fallstowe at dusk.

  His eyes came back to her, and the emotion in them was sincere. “She would have been very impressed by Fallstowe, though.”

  Sybilla directed her gaze over Octavian’s head once more, not liking the uncomfortable sensation Julian Griffin’s honesty provoked in her. Still, she pressed on, feeling as though she was on the verge of a very important discovery, like smelling the water on the air before a much needed rain.

  “It is through her position that you are here, is it not?” she guessed boldly.

  Julian was silent for a handful of moments. “In part, yes. I knew Edward years before Cateline and I met, however. We warred together.”

  Sybilla felt a surge of triumph course through her body, but outwardly she remained unmoved, as if she had known this all along. “The Crusade, yes.”

  “You seem to know almost as much about me as I do about you, Lady Sybilla,” he said, in a not entirely easy fashion.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sybilla hedged, as her mind worked up a fire behind her eyes that mirrored the flaming burst of the sun at their back.

  “You’re just humoring me,” he accused her. “You knew of Cateline, that she was a cousin to the king; that I had enjoined in the Crusade with him.” He paused. “What else do you know?”

  She gave him a smile over her right shoulder. “Lord Griffin, you flatter me. I daresay I could ask the same of you.”

  He shook his head at her, his mouth quirking once more. Sybilla’s heart thundered in her chest, and she quickly brought her head around so as not to look at him.

  He and his daughter were related to the king. He lived in the king’s home. He had been sent on a mission quite dear to Edward’s heart, and was trusted enough to command hundreds of the king’s men at h
is whim.

  I can help you, Sybilla. Let me.

  “Have you never thought of marrying, Lady Sybilla?” he asked suddenly from behind her, and Sybilla’s thundering heart came to a frozen stop, as the image of August Bellecote bloomed in her mind.

  “I have, yes,” Sybilla answered, struggling to keep her words from sounding choked as they scraped past her constricted throat. “I once gave it very serious thought.”

  “What happened?” Julian pressed. “I would think it to be the wisest choice you could have made, considering your circumstances. Not that it could have saved Fallstowe entirely, but—”

  “He died, Lord Griffin,” Sybilla interrupted him. “I would think that you above all others could sympathize with that.”

  The sound of hooves rustling in the wet grass rose between them for a time.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Would I have known him?”

  “We should eat if we are inclined to,” Sybilla said, blatantly ignoring his question. The last thing she needed was Julian Griffin prying into the strange order of events surrounding Sybilla’s secret marriage to August Bellecote.

  “All right, yes,” Julian said lightly, oddly unperturbed that she had declined to answer him. “Where shall we go?”

  Sybilla brought Octavian to a halt and took a deep breath, looking around the shadowy landscape as if considering their options.

  Which was exactly what she was doing.

  “Well”—she took a deep breath and blew it out quietly before turning to face Julian Griffin—“I think I shall leave it up to you.”

  His lips quirked and he gave her an amused look. “Me?”

  “Yes. We can either turn south, which will lead us to the husbandry barns where we might procure a table and afterward you might investigate the livestock . . .”

  “Or?” Julian prompted.