“Or . . . we can proceed to the old ruins,” she said lightly, and then added, “and the Foxe Ring.”
He shouted his disbelieving laughter. “You can’t be serious! I have the choice of seeing where sheep do tawdry things in the presence of grown men, or I can view the legendary Foxe Ring myself? Fallstowe’s very beginning?” he said with a shake of his head. He laughed again. “This way, you say?”
Sybilla barely had time to nod before Julian Griffin kicked his horse’s sides and was galloping toward the Foxe Ring and a darkening sky full of emerging stars . . .
And the faint, round outline of a ripe moon peeking through the sheer curtain of a solitary cloud.
Julian reined his mount to a hard stop when the bones of the old Foxe keep and monolithic ring stood up suddenly in the night, like a mythical giant-king who had surrendered his crown of stones and laid it on the ground before him.
He huffed out a breath and smiled behind his foggy exhalation, trying to burn these first impressions into his memory for all time. The Foxe Ring. The legend come to life. The site where the biggest con in the history of England would be initiated, almost completely successfully, and Julian Griffin was close enough to touch it.
No sooner had that thought entered his head than he was swinging down from his horse and striding up the slight rise to the ring, marching into it as if it were a long lost lover to be captured in a running embrace. He reached the first stones—two uprights capped by a massive horizontal slab—and he placed both palms flat against the stones with a happy sigh. They were oddly warm and smooth despite their cold appearance. The comparison caused him to remember the woman riding behind him and he turned his head to look over his shoulder.
She was walking up the hillock with long, slow strides, leading her horse by limp reins, and Julian couldn’t help but think that she appeared to be a woman walking to her own execution. If Sybilla Foxe knew the entirety of her family’s sordid history, perhaps the Foxe Ring was not the fantastic place for her that most took it to be. His hands slid down and away from the stones and he turned to watch her unstrap the leather satchel from her horse’s saddle. She paused by her mount’s head, grabbed the bridle and whispered something into his cheek, then walked toward the ring.
She was simply beautiful. Unearthly so in the moonlight, and Julian could not help but feel a stab of jealousy for the man Sybilla Foxe had wanted to marry. He knew that tens of men had sought her hand, some even going so far as to petition Edward with the promise of bringing her to heel. The king had given his permission more times than Julian could remember, but not one had ever returned with any inkling of hope to win the lady. She was singular. Autonomous. Choosy about those with whom she kept intimate company, and the rumor was that once she had allowed a man into her bed, she refused to see him again in a personal capacity.
Julian wondered then just how many men that had been. And how a man went about joining that particular queue.
Sybilla stopped just beyond the ring, and her gaze went past Julian to the ruin behind him. After a moment, she looked at him. “My sister Cecily nearly died here, only days ago.”
Julian frowned; all sporting thoughts of casually gaining Sybilla Foxe’s bed vanished. “In the ring?”
“The ruin,” Sybilla answered. “The floor’s rotted out of the hall, and she was pushed into the dungeon by a jealous ex-lover of her husband’s.”
“My God. Has the woman been apprehended? Shall I send men to detain her?”
Sybilla stared at him oddly for a moment. “That won’t be necessary. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” Julian felt his brows draw together. “Sybilla . . .”
“Again you flatter me, Lord Griffin,” she said, a smile in her voice. “Rumor is that she leapt to her death, quite of her own volition. From a chamber at Hallowshire Abbey where she’d sought asylum. Strange, isn’t it? I suppose the guilt of it got to her.”
Julian wasn’t convinced, but then his mind seized on a bit of information Sybilla had inadvertently divulged. “Your middle sister has married?” Julian asked, alarmed that there were important developments he was as yet unaware of.
Sybilla gave him a smile that seemed rather sly. “Did I forget to mention that? Forgive me. Cecily married Oliver Bellecote, Lord of Bellemont, five days ago. She carries his child.”
Julian felt a prickle at the back of his neck. He’d sent soldiers to Bellemont, to accept Bellecote’s offer of assistance to the king. And now he learned that one of the Foxe women had ensconced herself there as lady, and was pregnant with a noble child, no less.
“The king will not be pleased.”
Sybilla chuckled then, and Julian found himself quite taken with the husky sound. “Lord Griffin, when has the king ever been pleased with any of the goings-on at Fallstowe?”
He couldn’t help but return her smile. “Lady Alys has found herself a good match, has she not? I met Lord Mallory in London, quite briefly.”
“Indeed,” Sybilla agreed. “I think highly of Piers and his grandfather. Both brave and noble men, if ever any truly exist.” Sybilla paused and then looked Julian in the eyes. “Alys shall bear Piers’s child as well, you know.”
The prickle at the back of Julian’s neck grew to a nagging pain. “No, I didn’t. So it seems that you are the last.”
“So it seems,” she agreed, giving him a single, regal nod of her head. Then her sly smile returned. “All four of them met here. In the Foxe Ring.”
“As did Amicia and Morys.” He couldn’t look away from her. It was as if the moonlight was doing magical things to her eyes, her hair, her gown; making them shimmer and sparkle and glow. “Fascinating.” He shook himself, and swung his hands together once in a clap as if it would break the spell. “Well then, since you’ve already said that there’s no floor to be had in the old keep, shall we?” He raised his eyebrows and then turned and entered the ring, looking up and around him at the standing stones as he walked toward the center altar stone.
He stopped and turned to speak to Sybilla, but she was not there. A quick search with his eyes found her still caught in the moonlight, standing outside the ring. “Sybilla?” he called out. “Aren’t you coming in?”
She walked slowly to the very perimeter of the ring, stood just beyond the stone he’d laid hands on. “Are you certain you want me to, Julian?” she asked, and he noticed that there was no smile on her face, no tease to her words. She glanced up at the sky and then quickly back to him, her blue eyes reflecting the moon like diamond wraiths, turning his guts to jelly. “The moon is full. As learned as you are on all things Foxe, and as eager as you were to gain the ring yourself, certainly you are aware of the legend.”
“Do you believe in it?” Julian asked her, and realized that, although they were standing more than a score of paces apart from each other, they were both speaking in whispers. It didn’t seem to matter—each word from their mouths was as crisp and clear as if they had been breathing gossip directly into each other’s ears. “Do you believe that if the moonlight catches us both inside the stones, we are fated to be together for all eternity?”
She stood so still, she could have been carved from the same stones. Her arms hung at her sides; in one hand she grasped the satchel she’d brought containing a meal for them both to share. Her face was alabaster, expressionless, glittering with exquisite, flawless beauty.
“Do you?” she asked, her words barely breaching the air, and yet they seemed to Julian to echo around and around in his brain.
He shook his head slightly, but it was a heartbeat longer before he could bring his lips to form the words. “No.” He swallowed. Then he smiled and made a spontaneous bow. “It would honor me greatly, Lady Sybilla, if you would join me in the Foxe Ring. There.” He stood and spread his arms. “That is what I think of old superstition.”
Chapter 9
Sybilla forced her mouth to keep hold of the slight smile she’d donned for Julian Griffin’s benefit. If it slipped only the tiniest bit, she felt
she would be overcome with terror, and she knew, perhaps better than anyone else, that one’s outward appearance and demeanor were all that ever really mattered: how you presented yourself, what you said, your mannerisms. People took them at face value, and you either commanded or you were commanded.
So it counted for little that, as soon as she had stepped foot inside the ring of stones, she felt the moonlight hit her between her shoulder blades, just as surely and deeply as an arrow. It took her breath, caused her heart to skip a beat and then flail wildly in her chest. The roots of her hair tingled beneath her scalp; her flesh crawled with soft lightning. And still she drew ever closer to Julian Griffin, who stood beside the altar stone as if he had been waiting there for her for a hundred years.
The wind whirled through the ring, blowing the man’s tawny mane behind him like a wild sail. One muscular leg was stretched to his side at an angle, and his hands were on his narrow hips. He regarded her with a smile but no hint of rapturous passion. Only perhaps excitement, or amusement. She searched his face for any sign that he felt even a fraction of the energy the stones were throwing off like waves, but he seemed unfazed.
She came to a stop immediately before him, so close that she had to turn up her face to look into his eyes. He looked down and his smile became undeniably amused. She could smell him now, the warmth of him coming from his thick, rich clothing, but it smelled not of prestige or money—it only smelled like . . .
The tang of mead on your tongue.
The crispness of autumn leaves crushed underfoot in a deep wood.
A stone fished from the bottom of a stream and held to your face in the sunlight.
Skin warmed by a fire’s smoke.
The wind over—
“Sybilla?” he asked quietly, and his amusement was clear in his tone.
She started, and realized she had continued to search his face for a sign, any sign, while being drowned by her senses.
“Yes?”
His smile grew infinitesimally wider and his shoulders gave a minute hitch. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. I’m fine,” she said, and although she’d meant the words to come out terse and scoffing, when her voice echoed back to her ears it was breathy, weak, and sounded confused. “Are you . . . all right?”
“Ravenous, actually,” he said. Then he moved and reached for the satchel hanging forgotten in her dumb hand. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll just get us set up here.” Her fingers fell open and he quickly turned to set the leather bag on the stone. “You don’t mind, do you?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“No,” she answered, and then blinked several times. At last she forced herself to move, turning her head to look up at the stones, the moon glowing above them, as if to make certain she was actually where she was.
Foxe Ring, yes.
Full moon, yes.
And nothing had happened.
She turned her gaze toward Julian Griffin’s back and felt her eyebrows lower. He was making gruff little sounds of happy anticipation, and Sybilla found herself growing fantastically annoyed. When she could command her feet to become uprooted from the loamy soil, she walked to stand at his side before the stone he was busy setting as a table.
“Your cook is quite capable,” he said. “She’s thought of everything.”
Sybilla glanced at the brown oilcloth, where Julian was sparking life to a candle as thick as her forearm. As the flame bloomed, it tickled the glazing of a stout crock, its lid strapped tight with leather bands; a hunk of light-colored bread; and a corked flagon. A moment later, Julian had pulled two small wooden cups from the satchel.
She looked back to his face when he rubbed his hands together in anticipation and then turned to perch one hip on the edge of the stone. He was back on both feet again in an instant, a look of bewilderment on his handsome face.
Finally, Sybilla thought.
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” he said in an annoyed voice, and then gave a short bow before gesturing to the stone. “I’ve completely forgotten my manners in the face of such a feast. Please, my lady, sit.”
Sybilla felt her eyebrows rise.
She drew an inaudible breath and then, holding her mouth tight, placed her hand in Julian Griffin’s offered palm while he assisted her onto the stone. Her skin burned where he touched her, but an instant later the contact was broken as he reclaimed his own seat and reached for the crock, working straightaway at unfastening the leather straps.
In only a moment the lid was free, revealing a half of a roasted bird in a savory broth, surrounded by caramelized root vegetables and swirls of limp, new greens.
Julian hefted the crock with one hand and held it toward her. “My lady? Have you your eating knife?”
“Go on,” Sybilla said tersely. “I find I’m not at all hungry at the moment.” Julian shrugged and brought the crock back to the oilcloth in front of him even before Sybilla could add crossly, “It must be the air.”
He pulled the leg of the bird away easily and bit into it, leaning over the crock. “Mmm,” he mumbled, and then chewed thoroughly. Sybilla watched his throat as he swallowed, her stomach clenching, and at the same time hoped he would choke to death.
“This is quite good. Delicious, actually. Tarragon?” he asked, raising his eyes to her face as he swirled the bone in his mouth and finished off the leg.
“I’ve no idea, I’m sure,” she snipped.
“Lovely. Majestic,” he said, and then popped a bit of turnip into his mouth. A moment later, he said, “I’m glad you’ve realized that it’s in your best interest to conduct our business in a more friendly manner. Your cooperation may hold sway with Edward.”
“Friendly manner?” Sybilla repeated. “You think because I haven’t killed you yet that we’re friendly now?”
He gave her an indulgent look, as one might give a small child who vowed to run away from home due to poor treatment, before pulling a hunk of thigh meat free and setting it between his teeth with relish. Sybilla felt a bit of her discombobulation evaporate at his condescension. Her eyes narrowed.
In the next instant, Julian Griffin’s eyes went wide, and harsh hacking sounds emanated from him. He grabbed at his throat with one hand and gained his feet, beating on his chest with his other fist.
Sybilla watched calmly until a moment later, when the lord fell into a fit of wild, wheezing spasms. The corners of her mouth turned down with disappointment, and she reached for the flagon and cup.
“I beg your pardon,” he rasped as he regained his seat.
Sybilla handed him the cup of wine and then poured one for herself. She brought it to her lips but paused before drinking.
“All right, then. Go on. Tell me what you know,” she said quietly, and then took a drink.
Julian had drained his cup and was wiping at his brow with his sleeve. He rested his wrist on his knee, the cup clasped loosely in his fingers, and regarded her.
“I’m not certain you’re prepared for that,” he said, and his face held no trace of condescension.
“I’ll not have this hanging over my head any longer, Julian. Edward has sent you here to do his bidding. I would know the details of what I have been charged with so that I might have time to gather evidence to disprove it.”
“You think I would charge you falsely? I can assure you, what I know as fact is bolstered by witnesses, documents. The things I have pieced together on assumption, I have done with much forethought, but I would not hand you over to the king based on my own theories, unless they could be substantiated.”
She said nothing, only held his gaze.
“Sybilla, I—” He broke off abruptly, reached for the flagon, and refilled his cup. After taking a drink, he regarded her for a long moment before beginning again. “I have come to admire you greatly these past few months.”
“You can’t admire someone you don’t know,” Sybilla pointed out.
Julian nodded in acquiescence. “I admire what I do know of you then. What I have lea
rned, and yes, what I have seen thus far in my short time at Fallstowe.”
“Are you attempting to flatter me into a stupor before getting to it, Lord Griffin?” she snipped. “Because I find I am in no mood to play your court games. Either tell me what you know and get it over with, or this is finished.”
“Finished? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Sybilla said coolly, “that we will return to Fallstowe, you may collect your daughter and your servant, summon your minions, and have at the siege.”
“I’m not leaving now that I’m in, Sybilla,” Julian answered quietly, but his tone was every bit as cool as Sybilla’s had been. “Surely you don’t take me for that kind of fool.”
“Then it will be your general who leads your men in your name,” she said pointedly. “Get on with it, Lord Griffin.”
His head bobbed slightly as he stared at her, obviously considering his options. “All right,” he said quietly at last.
He set his cup deliberately on the oilcloth, and the flame from the candle seemed to want to dip inside and explore the shadow of his wine.
“Your mother was serving as the de Lairne lady’s maid in Gascony when Simon de Montfort was appointed to that post by King Henry III. The barons were not giving Simon his due, and so your mother saw a means to thwart her employers—the ones that had saved her from a life of poverty as an infant—and perhaps better her station at the same time. She conspired with de Montfort to bring the de Lairnes to heel, and in exchange, after his triumph in Gascony, Simon agreed to allow Amicia passage on his return to England.”
Sybilla said nothing, but inside she quaked at the accuracy of Julian’s information.
“She was quite adept at playing the part of a noble lady—she knew the manners, the way to walk, to talk, to carry herself. When she arrived in England, she was a guest at Kenilworth and a favorite with Lady Eleanor de Montfort, the wife of Simon and the sister of King Henry III, who took an unusual liking to Amicia and allowed her to stay, even when her husband returned to Gascony. Lady de Montfort even went as far as to encourage the ruse, introducing your mother as Lady de Lairne to her peers, boldly flaunting her about as if it were a great game.
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