Never Love a Lord

by Heather Grothaus

  “Was Amicia Foxe of noble blood?”

  “You don’t already know the answer to that question, my lord?”

  “I do.” Julian sighed. “I believe I’ve worked through the mystery surrounding Amicia’s installation as Lady of Fallstowe so many years ago. Perhaps I was only trying you to see if you would tell me the truth.”

  “But you truly desire knowledge about the lord’s betrayal at Lewes, do you not?”

  Julian stilled. “Which lord? Morys Foxe or the king?”

  Graves cocked his head. “Does it matter?”

  “Not really, no.” Julian watched the still man closely, and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Did Amicia Foxe commit treason by leading Simon de Montfort’s men to the king’s soldiers at Lewes?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you the answer was no?”

  “That’s impossible,” Julian spat. “All the evidence I have points to her. Witness accounts, descriptions, timing of events, opportunity, Amicia’s fondness for the de Montforts, her indebtedness to Simon himself. Rumor is always based at least some small part of it on truth. It could be no one else.”

  “Lord Griffin,” Graves began slowly, carefully, “what do you suppose would have been Lady Foxe’s fate had it been she who traveled in the dark of night to the barons’ camp, betrayed her king, and then was apprehended?”

  Julian held his palm up. “De Montfort would have given her up, certainly. Her past would have been discovered. She would have been definitively outed. Stripped of her title, humiliated, likely put to a common traitor’s death.”

  Graves nodded. “And after all that she had already risked, the great and awesome ruse that she had perpetrated, the spoils and respect she had won; after all that you have come to learn of her character to this point, do you think it likely that she would so blatantly and fearlessly wager her life—the lives of her entire family, Fallstowe itself—in such a brazen undertaking?”

  “The evidence I have, Graves—it could be no one else.”

  “Couldn’t it?”

  Julian was becoming frustrated. He was getting no answers. “Listen, old man—I have taken it apart piece by piece and then put it back together again, a hundred times—a thousand. A young, beautiful, raven-haired woman who was obviously known and trusted by de Montfort was seen at the enemy camp, seemingly instructing a small group of generals over a map. It is common knowledge that Amicia Foxe was Morys’s junior by a score of years, and tales of her handsomeness were widespread even at the time of their marriage. That night, she was dressed in common garb and would have been taken as nothing more than a camp follower, save the one anomaly that set her apart from a common prostitute: the jeweled dagger she carried under her cloak. She wielded it before a pair of soldiers who approached her as she was leaving the camp, supposedly offering to see her safely away. But I presume it was more likely that they were seeking to enjoy her charms before battle. Amicia did nothing more than brandish her weapon and warn them away with words, but both men reportedly died on the trail that night from mysterious internal injuries. It marked the woman in the soldiers’ minds as a sorceress, and thus the legend was born.”

  Graves had nodded throughout Julian’s rapid-fire condensing of the facts he held. “Let’s review, shall we? You say it was a handsome, young, dark-haired woman, carrying a jeweled dagger, on a desperate mission, who very swiftly and mysteriously dispatched a pair of ne’erdo-wells who threatened violation of her person?”

  Julian frowned. “Yes.”

  “How young do you think Lady Foxe would have been at that time, Lord Griffin?”

  “Do you mean Amicia?”

  “Do I?”

  Julian opened his mouth to insist that, yes, of course, that’s who he meant, but no words came to him. His heartbeat slowed, slowed, nearly stopped as the evidence towering above him tilted, swayed, and then came down around his heart.

  He didn’t want to hear the next question Graves posed to him, quietly, emphatically.

  “Have you not heard how closely Madam resembles her mother?”

  Sybilla, on the night Julian arrived at Fallstowe, the jeweled dagger at her hip.

  Her knowledge of warfare, the ways of the king, and her knack for thwarting him.

  Her assertion that Julian could not save her, that she could not save herself. That Amicia was not a traitor.

  The odd happenings in her bedchamber, the way she had seemingly thrown Julian against a wall without so much as touching him.

  Are you a witch, Sybilla?

  Perhaps I am.

  Julian tried to shove his way through the roiling implications in his mind to reconcile the dates, the years past.

  “She could have been no more than fifteen,” Julian managed to choke out. “No—no, that’s . . . it’s not possible.”

  “Why?” Graves asked, and then turned to face Julian. “Why is it not possible that a girl, so desperate to please her mother—naively convinced that she would be aiding her father, her country—would not visit a family friend to give him assistance?”

  “Sybilla . . .” Julian swallowed, all his grand ambition for bringing the truth to light before the king, in the faith that good would triumph, crumbling like a grand statue that was revealed to be formed from nothing more than old, dried mud. An illusion. A crude rendering of the truth.

  Julian felt as though a crushing weight had descended upon his chest. “Sybilla is the traitor.”

  So shocked by this remolding of facts was Julian that he didn’t notice Graves had come back across the room until the old steward was standing near the door.

  “Is there anything else you wish to ask me at present, Lord Griffin?”

  “No,” Julian said in a strangled voice, and then cleared his throat. “No, Graves, I think you have given me quite enough to think about.”

  Graves stood there a moment longer before saying, in an unusually hesitant and sympathetic tone, “Loyalty can ofttimes be completely relative, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Then he was gone from Sybilla’s chamber, leaving Julian staring dumbly at the destroyed room. At Sybilla Foxe’s destroyed life, dealt by Julian’s own hand.

  Chapter 18

  There were soldiers camped outside of Bellemont. The king’s soldiers.

  Sybilla urged Octavian quickly from the road into a small dip in the rolling countryside leading to the Bellecote hold, considering this surprise.

  Julian had vowed that he would send his men away, and he had. Of course he would dispatch them to Bellemont—Oliver Bellecote had vowed his support of Edward’s campaign against Sybilla and Fallstowe, and so it only made sense to have the bulk of Julian’s men camped at a location where ready aid was at hand. But the brief glimpse of tents and armaments she’d seen before departing from the main road to Bellemont had seemed too few to accommodate the hundreds of men who had appeared at Fallstowe initially.

  Where was the rest of Julian’s army? She frowned and pondered. Likely Gillwick. Yes, Julian was keen enough to shield Sybilla’s retreat on all sides, and to be well-informed should either of her sisters attempt to give her aid.

  Why hadn’t Cecily or Alys sent word to her, though?

  For a brief moment Sybilla thought very hard about swinging Octavian back to the wood and returning to Fallstowe. She wasn’t certain if any of the men camped outside Bellemont’s walls would be on the lookout for her, or what scenario was playing out within the hold itself. But no sooner had the idea of flight occurred to her than she dismissed it summarily.

  She must speak to her sister. And nothing or no one was going to stop her.

  Sybilla closed her eyes and took a deep breath, turning her face up to the bright midday sun, trying to soak as much warmth and light into her body as she could hold. When she righted her head and opened her eyes, her vision seemed to dance, the green countryside around her to sparkle with gaiety and contentment. She relaxed her mouth and deliberately created a smile on her lips. Then she drew up her hood over her hair,
adjusted her skirts in a dainty manner, and kicked at Octavian’s sides. She had to stop the beast twice before they crested the rise, chastising him for his accustomed aggressive stomp, and then patted the warhorse’s neck in praise as he reluctantly adopted and maintained a light, prancing trot.

  Octavian so hated playing the dandy.

  It seemed the better part of an hour before Sybilla actually rode through the sea of soldiers to arrive at Bellemont’s gate. And as she had suspected, a young man bearing the king’s colors stepped directly into her path, waving her to a stop.

  Octavian snorted threateningly, and Sybilla could feel the warhorse’s shoulders bunch in anticipation of a charge.

  “Shh” she whispered fiercely. “Easy. Easy. Hold, boy.” She brought Octavian to a stop, and the soldier approached, his arm outstretched, obviously thinking to take hold of the horse’s bridle.

  Octavian tossed his head threateningly.

  “I wouldn’t do that!” Sybilla called out with a laugh. “He is terribly ill-mannered and hasn’t yet learned not to bite.”

  Thankfully the man halted his reaching hand, giving Octavian an uneasy look.

  She let her smile shine down on the soldier’s upturned and wary-looking face, trying to summon the sunshine she had saved and pour it out with her words. Warm. Friendly.

  “It’s a wonder I manage to ride him at all, really, he frightens me so,” she tinkled in self-deprecation. “Don’t tell anyone, though.”

  “It seems a woman of such beauty should not be forced to ride such an unruly monster. Good day, milady,” the soldier said, his face bearing a slightly confused expression even as his mouth wanted to smile back up at her. “What business do you have at Bellemont?”

  “Good day to you, as well, kind sir. I’ve come to see Lady Bellecote.”

  “I see. Your name, if you please?”

  “Oh, she’s quite expecting me,” Sybilla said, flapping a hand at him and then giving him a wink. “Although I dare say Lord Bellecote shall not be pleased, as it will mean hours spent speaking of such things as tiny gowns and nappies. I know the way. Just open the gate for me, if you would.”

  “I can’t do that, milady,” the soldier said, but he winced as he said it, as if something in his head pained him.

  “Whyever not?” Sybilla asked, putting on a look of hurt confusion.

  “I . . . have my orders and they clearly state that—” He broke off, wincing again, this time even bringing his fingertips to his temple.

  “Yes?” Sybilla said, looking at him so very closely and with deep, deep concern. “Your orders state . . . ?”

  “I seem to have forgotten,” the man said bewilderedly.

  Sybilla laughed uproariously. “Oh my! That does happen to me all the time!” She leaned down slightly and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I won’t tell anyone. Now, let me pass.”

  He nodded as if in a daze. “Yes, of course.” But then he halted, holding up one finger. “But I do recall that I am not to allow anyone to enter on horseback. I’ll need to take your mount until you are ready to take your leave of Bellemont.”

  “Nooo,” Sybilla said gravely. “I can’t let you do that, good sir.” Sybilla leaned down once more, and she was no longer smiling, putting on the act. “He would stomp you to death as soon as you laid a hand to him.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose.

  Sybilla stared at him. “He is trained to kill you. And I would let him. Now, open the gates and let me pass.”

  The soldier backed three paces away from Sybilla and Octavian before signaling the men on either side of Bellemont’s plain but sturdy wooden gates. In a moment, the bailey was revealed to her.

  Sybilla nudged Octavian’s sides, jerking on the reins when he made to rear. Fighting the beast into his previously submissive prance, she rode through the gate, blowing a kiss to the still perplexed-looking young man.

  She rolled her eyes once she was safely inside and the gates were closing behind her.

  “Edward, Edward.” She sighed. “You never learn.”

  She could have absconded with the whole of Bellemont once through the gates, Sybilla discovered, for she saw only a handful of Oliver’s own men and none of the king’s inside the bailey. Two little peasant girls were playing in the dirt near the steps that led into the hold, and so Sybilla dismounted there. She crouched before them and gave each girl a shiny coin in exchange for their promise to stand watch and tell anyone who approached that the horse belonged to the lady of Bellemont and was not to be put to stable or touched in any way.

  At their eager acceptance, Sybilla rose and strode to Octavian, grabbing his muzzle to pull his head down so that she could look in his eyes while she rubbed his forelock roughly.

  “Babies, Octavian,” she whispered, and glanced at the girls. “Careful.”

  The horse tossed his head free and sidestepped a pair of paces away from the girls before dropping his head to pick at the new grass growing along the side of the steps, his reins trailing after him.

  “No riding, girls,” Sybilla warned the urchins.

  “No, milady!” they piped excitedly, having forgotten all about their game now, watching the passing townsfolk with wary eyes.

  There wasn’t a doorman, and so Sybilla let herself into the shadowy entry, pushing back her hood. It had been years since she’d stepped foot inside Bellemont. Before her mother had died. When August first began trying to win her.

  And won her he had, although what a poisoned prize she had turned out to be.

  Sybilla paused, closed her eyes, and dropped her head for a moment. She had to swallow twice before she had composed herself enough to venture farther into the castle, seeking the great hall. It was midday. Everyone would either still be at luncheon or just quitting it.

  In the great hall, she gasped a quiet breath when she saw the small group of people knotted together at one of the common tables, their heads leaning toward each other, their faces wearing similar masks of intense concentration as they conversed in low tones.

  Oliver and Cecily on one side, Alys and Piers on the other. Sybilla’s sisters were reaching across the table, clasping hands with each other.

  Sybilla placed a palm against the stone archway and leaned there, drinking in the sight of them. Oh, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed them both! Her throat constricted as she watched them, and she remembered that these were the same two little girls that had so long been in her charge, even up until months ago, weeks ago, when they were no longer little girls, but grown women.

  Alys, who would dance around in the cook’s apron, tucking dandelions into the rising mounds of dough and pinching anyone who told on her.

  Cecily, who had a lovely singing voice but was too shy to ever perform, and who would burst into tears at the slightest hint that she had disappointed anyone.

  Alys, who had kept what she’d thought was a kitten in her chamber for nearly a fortnight before anyone discovered that she had actually been spoon-feeding thinned porridge to a rat.

  Cecily, who’d been convinced that babies came from wishing for them in the well and then drawing them up in the bucket, which was why they were always so wet and messy for days after they were born.

  Now they were grown and away from her, away from Fallstowe, and both to be mothers themselves before the year was through. They had their own families now, their own homes. Sybilla loved them both so, and she missed them more than she could ever say, standing alone in the shadows, watching them.

  They would not like what she had come to tell them. And Sybilla didn’t want to. But, like most things in her life, she had no choice.

  Cecily turned her dark head just then, as if Sybilla had called her name. Maybe she had; Sybilla couldn’t honestly say. But in an instant, Cecily had popped up from the bench and was running across the hall toward her, her arms outstretched. Sybilla heard Alys gasp from the table.

  “Sybilla!” Cecily cried, and the relief in her voice was obvious. “Oh, thank God, thank G
od!”

  Sybilla smiled and stepped from the shadows, catching her sister and clinging to her just as tightly as Cecily hung on.

  “Cee,” Sybilla whispered, “it is so good to see you.”

  Cecily pulled away only enough to clasp Sybilla’s face in her palms and kiss both of her cheeks. Then she looked into Sybilla’s eyes. “We’ve been so worried, you have no idea! How did you get through the gates?”

  Sybilla smiled. “I rode Octavian.”

  Cecily’s eyes narrowed, but her smile was indulgent. “Yes, well, don’t tell me then. I truly don’t wish to know, any matter.” Cecily took her arm and the sisters began walking back toward the table, where Piers and Oliver were now standing.

  “Hello, Oliver,” Sybilla said lightly as she approached. “I take it the king doesn’t know you’re for me now rather than against me.”

  “I can better keep an eye on them this way,” Oliver admitted, and then took Sybilla from his wife’s grasp and also kissed each of Sybilla’s cheeks. His eyes held deep concern as they searched her face. “All right, Sybilla?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, and pulled away to face the table. “Piers, I’m rather surprised that you would have Alys away from Gillwick in her cond—” Then Sybilla noticed that her blond youngest sister had her head buried in her arms on the tabletop and was sobbing until her shoulders shook. Sybilla frowned. “Alys?”

  Then Sybilla’s littlest, most troublesome sister raised her tear-streaked face and scrambled over the bench to throw herself into Sybilla’s arms.

  “Sybilla! Oh, Sybilla,” she wailed. “I am so, so very happy you are here! Truly! I—I . . .” Her words were hiccoughs as she struggled to form them around her emotions.