Never Love a Lord

by Heather Grothaus

  Sybilla glanced at Piers Mallory, Alys’s husband, and he shook his head while making a sweeping motion over his stomach, as if mimicking Alys’s maternal condition.

  Alys continued, “I have worried myself sick that they had disposed of you! But, Sybilla, how could you?”

  This mysterious accusation startled Sybilla. “How could I what, Alys?”

  “I know we didn’t know him very well, but he seemed such a good man! And he aided Piers when no one else would! And surely there was another way you could have ended this—the poor man had just lost his wife! Oh, poor, poor Lord Griffin!” she wailed.

  “Alys, what are you talking about?”

  The little blond woman pushed at her flowing eyes with the heels of her hands for a moment. Then she sniffed and looked at Sybilla mournfully. “You’re here, smiling at all of us, and so Julian Griffin must be dead!”

  Sybilla couldn’t help the laugh that burst from her. It obviously startled everyone gathered around her, for they exchanged quick, wary glances with each other.

  Save for Alys, who had now put on her angry face. “It’s not funny! He has a baby, Sybilla!”

  Sybilla truly tried to stanch the laughter which seemed to well from her toes, but her little sister’s outrage at the idea that Sybilla had actually murdered Julian Griffin was just too much. She made her way to the table all had so recently been conversing over and sat down, touching her fingertips to her eyes.

  “Alys,” she chuckled, then blew out a cleansing breath. There, that was better. “Lord Griffin is not dead.”

  Alys frowned. “He’s not?”

  And then Oliver placed a hand on the tabletop and leaned forward incredulously. “He’s not?”

  “No,” Sybilla stated firmly.

  Piers Mallory sat down across the table. “Then where is he?”

  “Presumably still at Fallstowe.” She looked at Alys pointedly. “With his baby, I might add.”

  Cecily sat down at Sybilla’s right side. “He brought a baby to a siege?”

  “He did.”

  Alys sat down on Sybilla’s left. “That cad!” she exclaimed.

  Sybilla chanced a glance at Alys’s husband and caught him rolling his eyes.

  “What’s he going to do?” Oliver asked, sitting down across the table, next to Piers. “Has he given you any clue?”

  “Yes. Actually he’s told me exactly what he plans to do,” Sybilla said. “He’s been researching Mother—all of Fallstowe, really—for quite some time. He’ll take the evidence he’s found to the king.”

  “And then?” Piers pressed.

  Sybilla shrugged. “From what I gather, the king is to pay him quite handsomely for his investigation.”

  Everyone at the table was silent for a long moment, staring at Sybilla.

  “That brazen son of a bitch,” Piers growled.

  “Sybilla,” Cecily said hesitantly, laying her hand on Sybilla’s forearm. “You know this, and yet—are you very sure that you haven’t killed him? Perhaps it was . . . an accident?”

  “I did not kill Julian Griffin,” Sybilla stated flatly. “As a matter of fact”—she paused, then lifted her chin slightly—“I’m becoming quite . . . fond of him.” She looked at the shocked faces around her. “And his daughter. Her name is Lucy, which isn’t horrid, I don’t think.”

  “Sybilla,” Alys whispered, her brown eyes as big as cartwheels, “Julian Griffin is—”

  “No.” Sybilla stopped whatever Alys was going to say by shaking her head and holding up a palm. “I don’t have much time, and I came here to tell Cecily something very important. It is a miracle that you are here as well, Alys. It will be so much better that I can tell the both of you at once.”

  “But what Alys is trying to say—” Cecily began.

  “No, Cee,” Sybilla interrupted again. “It can wait. I don’t want to tell you what I’ve come to tell you, but it can no longer be avoided. After I’ve said it, we may talk about Julian Griffin, if you wish, but not before.” She paused, lowering her voice. “If I wait much longer, I fear I won’t be able to get it out.”

  “Wait!” Alys said, sitting up straight on the bench and frowning crossly. “Why were you coming here to tell Cecily and not to Gillwick to tell me?”

  “Because Cecily is older than you,” Sybilla said.

  Alys’s frown deepened. “So?”

  Cecily leaned forward to speak around Sybilla. “And Bellemont is closer than Gillwick.”

  “So?” Alys insisted.

  “Alys,” Piers finally begged from behind the hands rubbing his face. He looked at her with a pleading expression. “I love you so, my darling. Would you please shut up and let Sybilla tell what she has to tell?”

  “Oh!” Alys said, as if just remembering that there was news to be had. “Of course. Yes. Sorry, Sybilla. Go on.”

  Sybilla looked at Piers Mallory. “You, sir, are my hero.”

  The stocky man shot her a weary grin.

  Then Sybilla drew a deep breath and laid both of her hands on the tabletop, palms up. Her sisters immediately took hold.

  “You both know that there have been rumors for many years about Mother. And they have grown to the point that the king believes he has grounds to take Fallstowe away from us.” Sybilla swallowed. “Away from me.”

  “Yes,” Cecily said gently. “We’ve heard the rumors.”

  Alys squeezed Sybilla’s hand. “But it’s just that the king can’t stand the idea of a lady holding so rich a prize as Fallstowe, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter whether the woman was Mother, or you.”

  “I don’t think it is entirely that the king was against Mother’s ruling Fallstowe because she was a woman,” Sybilla said. “But because she was never a lady to begin with.”

  Chapter 19

  It was so silent in the hall immediately following the tale she told of Amicia Foxe’s enormous ruse that Sybilla could hear her own heart beating. And now three of the faces regarding her did so with mouths agape, eyes wide, complexions pallid.

  Save Piers Mallory. But Sybilla suspected that the news of her mother’s play to nobility didn’t surprise him in the least after what he’d been put through by his own family.

  Alys was the first to break the silence, of course, although the point she chose to touch upon was not what Sybilla expected.

  “So I’m only half noble?” she said, her eyes still wide.

  Sybilla shrugged. “It would seem so. Yes.”

  On her right, Cecily huffed a mirthless laugh. “I scarcely can believe it,” she said, and then hurried to reassure Sybilla by bringing her other hand to her sister’s forearm. “But I do believe you, of course, Sybilla. It’s only, well . . . but I suppose that does explain a lot about Alys’s personality, though, doesn’t it? Forgive me, Piers.”

  “No offense taken, Cee,” Piers assured her mildly.

  “Me?” Alys screeched. “Me? At least I waited until I was married, Saint Cecily!”

  Cecily glared at her younger sister for a moment but then looked to Sybilla, her brown eyes heavy with sympathy. “But one would never know it from Sybilla, would they? Completely noble, to her core.”

  Sybilla stared at Cecily, willing herself not to weep yet. She opened her mouth, but as usual, Alys began speaking once more.

  “Yes. And it’s not as if that gives the king complete grounds to seize Fallstowe, any matter. Nobles marrying commoners might be unusual, but it’s not completely unheard of. And while Mother had no noble blood to speak of, she is no longer the head of Fallstowe—you are, and you are absolutely Papa’s girl. Like him in so many ways.” Sybilla felt the tightening in her chest increase as Alys regarded her with such sweetness. “You always were his favorite.”

  Sybilla could not look at either of them, so she dropped her gaze to the tabletop, the tears pushing heavily on her eyes causing the wooden surface to blur and rise toward her.

  She felt Cecily’s hand tighten on her arm. “Sybilla? What is it?”

  “I—” Sh
e tried to begin, but the word came out as a croak, and so she was forced to stop, swallow. She closed her eyes and a tear slipped from beneath her lashes, feeling white-hot against her cheek.

  “I’m not Papa’s girl, though,” she said hoarsely, her eyes still closed. “Morys Foxe was not my father.”

  Oliver’s voice was hushed with shock. “What?”

  “Oh, Lord have mercy,” Cecily whispered.

  “Sybilla!” Alys demanded, and shook Sybilla’s hand, prompting Sybilla to look at the stunned woman. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Mother was pregnant when she arrived in England,” Sybilla said. “My father was a common soldier in Simon de Montfort’s army. So you see”—she pulled her hands away gently to tend to her wet face—“I am actually completely common. And once Edward finds out . . .” She shrugged again.

  “That’s why we always thought she favored you,” Alys said wonderingly. “She was readying you for this day.”

  Sybilla nodded. “And it’s why she bade me see the pair of you married well. She knew that if the truth was discovered, there would be little recourse for me, but you and Cecily would be safe.”

  “That . . . that”—Cecily seemed to struggle to find words for a moment—“that bitch!”

  Sybilla turned to look at her usually reverent sister, unusually shocked at the foul accusation toward a woman Cecily had loved very much.

  “She may as well have thrown you to the lions!” Cecily accused her, her face a mask of delicate fury unlike anything Sybilla had ever seen from her.

  “No,” Alys argued meekly, shaking her head. “No, Mother loved Sybilla best—she would never put her in such jeopardy.”

  “Then why didn’t she see that Sybilla was first to marry?” Cecily demanded, and then shot to her feet, as if her anger would no longer allow her to sit. “I will stop praying for that woman’s soul, for surely she resides in hell this day.”

  “Cecily,” Oliver said softly, and rose to stand at his wife’s side, turning her into his chest, where she clung and began to weep loudly.

  Alys still seemed quite subdued with shock. “But . . . but surely Edward would not punish you for something which you have no control over, not when you’ve done so well by him at Fallstowe.”

  Cecily pulled away from Oliver, her anger still pulsing through her tears. “Perhaps not, but he’s pushing the old bone that Mother somehow aided Simon de Montfort at Lewes, isn’t he?”

  Sybilla nodded. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Alys insisted. “Papa was killed at Lewes! Mother may have been capable of and done things that none of us thought her able, but she loved Papa. She did not betray the king at Lewes.” Alys turned to Sybilla. “Did she, Sybilla?”

  “No,” Sybilla said, even more quietly than before. “No, she did not.”

  Piers spoke then. “You’re completely sure of that? You have proof?”

  Sybilla nodded, cleared her throat. “I am completely sure.”

  “See!” Alys said, triumph in her voice. “I knew it!”

  “Mother didn’t betray the king or Papa,” Sybilla said. “I did.”

  Oliver Bellecote sat down on the bench near his wife’s hip. “Fuck me,” he breathed.

  “Sybilla,” Cecily whispered. “That can’t be true.”

  “It is, though,” Sybilla said on a sigh, better able to control herself now that the bulk of it was out. “In my defense, I was not quite sixteen, and not at all sure of what I was doing that night. I thought I was . . . helping.”

  “That’s what she led you to believe, wasn’t it?” Piers suggested. “Amicia.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sybilla said. “It was I.”

  Cecily slapped the table with her palm. “It does matter!”

  “It matters very much, Sybilla,” Oliver said gravely. “You were only a girl, coerced into what you did with no malice or ill intention of your own. For Christ’s sake—your own father was killed in that battle!”

  “He wasn’t my father, though,” Sybilla reminded him lightly. “And Amicia did not think him to be in the thick of the fighting. She never expected him to be endangered by what she had set in motion.”

  “I remember,” Alys said softly. “I remember the night we received word that Papa was dead. How distraught everyone was, Mother included.” She turned to Sybilla, confusion in her eyes. “Except you. You never wept. I remember thinking that was when you became so . . . cold. But it wasn’t that you didn’t care, was it?”

  “It was that you had realized what you had done,” Cecily supplied. “What she had persuaded you to do.”

  “I thought I had killed my father. I didn’t know all the truth until the months before she died.”

  “The king is a reasonable man,” Piers said suddenly, although his attention was focused on the tabletop, as if studying it, contemplating its nature. “He is just.”

  Sybilla took a deep breath, focusing her thoughts. “Although Julian is under oath to take his evidence to the king, he has also promised me that he will stand up on my behalf. He’s . . . he’s offered me a life after all this is over. A life with him and Lucy.”

  No one gathered around the table spoke. They only stared at her with wild shock. And so Sybilla expounded.

  “But he doesn’t know about Lewes yet. He still thinks it was Mother. Perhaps if I tell him—”

  “No!” Cecily shouted, and stepped toward Sybilla, grasping her by her shoulders. “No, you mustn’t tell him! You mustn’t tell him that!”

  “I have to, Cee!” Sybilla insisted.

  “What do you mean, he’s offered you a life?” Oliver asked, staring at her intently. “He wants to marry you?”

  “He’s mentioned marriage, yes,” Sybilla said calmly, with a nod. “I don’t know where we would go. I don’t care, really.” She paused, looked around the table at the wary and concerned faces regarding her. “I think I’m in love with him. With him and his daughter.”

  Cecily brought her hands to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  To Sybilla’s left, Alys once more laid her head upon her arms and sobbed. “Oh no! All these years she’s waited! It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” she wailed.

  “Sybilla,” Oliver said carefully. “I don’t know how it’s happened that you’ve come to trust a man you barely know, let alone love him. You’ve always been so cautious, so careful. I . . . don’t know. But there is something you need to know about Julian Griffin before you tell him anything more. Something I learned from his own general the morning after his army arrived at Bellemont.”

  Cecily’s hands still covered her mouth, making her words barely audible as she stared, motionless, at Sybilla. “Don’t tell her, Oliver.”

  “I must,” Oliver insisted grimly. “Sybilla, the handsome payment Edward has promised Julian Griffin is Fallstowe itself.”

  Alys’s continued sobs filled the cool air of the hall. Sybilla stared at Oliver Bellecote as if he’d just told her that the sun would never shine again. She could think of nothing to say. She didn’t wish for him to repeat it—she’d heard him clearly, understood his words completely.

  One like Fallstowe?

  Exactly like Fallstowe, I hope.

  His endless questions. His intense interest in the grounds and industries. The way he walked about as if... as if it were already his home.

  It was already his home.

  He had tricked her. Tricked her into letting him in, telling him what he wanted to know. Tricked her into his bed. Tricked her into loving him.

  And the entire time, he was stealing Fallstowe out from under her.

  Sybilla stood slowly, calmly. “Thank you for that information, Oliver,” she said coolly. She felt she had come back to herself suddenly, as if she had been away for weeks and weeks, and had now come home. The coldness, the lack of emotion, the betrayal: old friends, all. And she was once again in familiar surroundings inside her own icy heart.

  “I’m sure you understand that I mu
st be away immediately. I have some things to tend to at the keep.”

  “Sybilla,” Cecily said, stepping toward her with her hands out. “Don’t leave now. At least stay the night here at Bellemont. Give yourself time to think, to plan what you will do. You’re in no state to make the journey back now.”

  “I will not have him in my house,” Sybilla said, and her voice was low, guttural, spoken between clenched teeth.

  Piers stood now. “Cecily is right; you’re in no shape to ride now, Sybilla. It’s too dangerous.”

  From behind her on the bench, Alys reached up to grasp her hand. “Please don’t go, Sybilla,” she said, weeping softly. “I’m so afraid for you.”

  “Stay here, where we can protect you,” Oliver offered.

  “I don’t need your protection,” Sybilla said quietly.

  Cecily stomped her foot. “You are not going! I won’t allow it!”

  Sybilla let her eyes flick to the double doors of the hall, and they blew open with a great crash, as if on a mighty gust of wind. All heads turned to look at the calamity just as the sounds of heavy hooves clomping on stone echoed in the hall.

  In moments, Octavian’s great, grey, muscled body pulled itself through the doors after his charging hooves. He clattered surely down the stairs and galloped toward Sybilla, his mane flowing out behind him.

  Cecily screamed as Oliver jerked her out of the path of the horse and Octavian whirled to a stop before Sybilla, standing between her and the people gathered there, his breaths whooshing out of him, stirring and heating the air.

  In a blink, she had pulled herself into the saddle and fished up the reins. She turned Octavian in a tight circle, looking down on her sisters clinging to their husbands.

  “I love you all very much,” she said, and she realized that her frigid tone belied her warm words. “You will know when it’s over.”

  Then she kicked Octavian’s sides, and the warhorse lurched forward once more toward the doors of the great hall even as her sisters shouted protests. The horse devoured the stairs in two leaps, and the two little serf girls, who had come to stare through the doors in amazement, leapt away from the opening just as Sybilla and Octavian burst from the keep.