Never Love a Lord

by Heather Grothaus

  “Oh really?” Cecily demanded. “And just who are you to—”

  “We’re going into the city to sell our wares, of course,” Alys interrupted her. “Not very much business in the village lately. Thought we’d try our luck with a larger market.”

  Alys could feel Cecily fuming at her side.

  The soldier looked pointedly into their empty cart once more. “I don’t see any wares,” he accused them. “Only some old blankets.”

  Alys swallowed with a gulp. She hadn’t thought this particular charade through.

  Then Cecily rescued them both, in a most shocking way. “Our wares are of a . . . feminine nature, you understand.”

  A sly, nasty smile grew across the soldier’s bristly face. “I see.” The tail end of the royal caravan was now rolling away in a cloud of dust, leaving the soldier alone at the crossroads with Cecily and Alys. “And where had you been plying your . . . wares?”

  “Bellemont,” said Alys, in the same instant that Cecily offered, “Gillwick.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  Alys laughed again, but this time even she could detect the quiver of uncertainty in her tone. “We do tend to get around.”

  “Like the clap, I’m sure,” the soldier said. He eyed Alys’s rounded stomach again. “I can’t see how your services would be much in demand.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Cecily quipped. “Farmers adore her.”

  The man’s eyes flicked to the road, cloaked in a storm of dust as substantial as an earthen wall, then back to Cecily. He didn’t look closely enough.

  “Perhaps you could give me a little sample then. A toll for using the road.” He grinned.

  Alys’s hand went to her mouth to cover her own smile as Cecily leaned slightly forward on the seat.

  “You’d need to ask my employer first,” she said coyly.

  “Really?” the soldier said, leaning forward to brace his forearm on the pommel of his saddle. “And where might I find that old bloke on a deserted road such as this?”

  Cecily waggled her index finger over the soldier’s shoulder. “It must be your lucky day, for he’s right behind you.”

  “Prostitutes!” Oliver shouted for what had to have been the twentieth time. He glared down at Cecily from his perch on his horse. Piers Mallory’s mount followed meekly on its lead.

  “I couldn’t very well tell him that we were Sybilla Foxe’s sisters, come to aid her,” Cecily said in their defense. “We’d have been arrested straightaway!”

  “Why did you have to be seen at all?” Oliver said. “You could have stayed back off the road until they passed. It wasn’t a holiday parade, Cecily.”

  “If you would have taken us with you in the first place, we wouldn’t have been here on our own at all, would we?”

  “I told you Piers and I would do all we could to help Sybilla. You don’t trust me.”

  “You’re not us, Oliver,” Cecily said simply.

  “She’s right,” Piers said calmly. Then he turned to look at Alys over his shoulder as he drove the cart. “I’m sorry, love. I’m only glad that you are unharmed.”

  “You’re apologizing?” Oliver said in a strangled voice.

  Alys reached up and patted her husband’s broad back from her seat in the cart bed. She looked rather mollified. “It’s quite all right, darling. I daresay that soldier is going to have a fantastic ache in his skull when he awakens, thanks to you. You’re such a wonderful protector.”

  Cecily looked up at Oliver expectantly and batted her eyelashes.

  “I think not,” he grumbled. “Once we return to Bellemont, you are not to leave the grounds—nay, the keep—nay! Our chamber, until after this child is born.”

  Cecily sighed and rolled her eyes toward her sister.

  Alys spoke up again. “Since we are nearly to London, can we please talk about what is going on with Sybilla? What did the two of you learn at Fallstowe? Was that indeed Sybilla in the midst of the king’s men?”

  Oliver was still too befuddled to speak, and so Piers added his calm commentary. “We think so. Graves is tending to Lord Griffin’s child at Fallstowe. Sybilla went willingly.”

  “Why is Graves tending to Julian Griffin’s infant?” Cecily asked. “Where is Lord Griffin?”

  “He is also under arrest,” Oliver said. “Apparently he is being accused of collusion with Sybilla in treason against the Crown.”

  “What?” Alys gasped.

  “Graves hinted to the fact that any tender feelings your sister held for Lord Griffin were reciprocated.”

  “I don’t understand,” Alys said. “Then why would Sybilla willingly go to the king if it meant her certain trial and possible death?”

  Cecily nodded slowly as she spoke. “Because she is doing what Sybilla does best. Protecting. Defending. She is going to confess to save Julian Griffin. It’s why the child was left behind—because Sybilla has every intention of Julian Griffin returning to claim both his daughter and Fallstowe.” She looked up at Oliver. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  There was no trace of anger left on her husband’s face. “I fear you are, my dear.”

  Chapter 25

  Julian was treated with slightly more deference once released from his conveyance into a rear entrance of the king’s home, but he paid it little heed. His mind raced with the idea of Sybilla already inside, already in the midst of a terrible interrogation.

  What had she told the king?

  What would Julian tell him?

  He was snaking through the underground corridors, a handful of the king’s men buffering him fore and aft; from what, Julian could not say. Escape was the last thing on his mind while Sybilla was locked away somewhere inside the palace, and Lucy leagues away at Fallstowe. So many lives depended on his being exactly where he was at precisely that moment.

  The corridor opened up into a wider hall, and as the party accompanying him spread out, Julian spied young Erik, advancing toward him like a squall on the horizon.

  One of the king’s men stepped in front of Julian’s protégé, and Julian could not have been prouder when Erik shoved the man aside as one might swat at a persistent fly.

  “Lord Griffin,” Erik said. He stood there expectantly, his brows drawn down over his youthful face, his eyes sparkling with anger and confusion.

  “Have you seen her, Erik?” Julian asked.

  The man nodded succinctly. “It was I who encountered her upon her arrival.”

  “Is she well?”

  “I cannot say,” Erik replied, his face taking on a deeper expression of frustration. “Is it true?”

  “Where is she?” Julian was forced to begin walking forward once more as the king’s man gave the command, but Erik fell into step beside him. “Has she seen Edward?”

  “She’s under lock and key, of course,” the blond man said, as if shocked that Julian would think otherwise. “The king was engaged when the traitor arrived.”

  “I would think there would be naught more important to him at this point,” Julian muttered, and then flashed Erik a warning look. “Don’t call her that.”

  Erik suddenly seized Julian’s bicep with strong fingers, drawing the party of men to an unwilling halt around them both. “Julian, again I ask you: Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” Julian demanded, shaking his arm free of the younger man’s grip.

  “That you’ve fallen in league with a traitor,” Erik said. “That you are now against the king.”

  Julian paused. Yes, no—he was unsure of the answer himself. “It’s complicated,” was all he could say.

  From ahead, a soldier called back, “Move it along—the king awaits.”

  Erik shook his head slowly as a look of disgust came over his face, hardening it. He began backing out of the midst of the men surrounding Julian.

  Julian was forced to once more begin walking forward, away from his friend, who stood in the empty stone hall, alone.

  “I thought better of you, Julian,” Erik called to hi
m a moment later, his words echoing off the walls and floor.

  Julian tried to look back over his shoulder at the young man, but his view was blocked as the group funneled around a wide cylindrical column and into a different, narrower corridor. In another moment, the king’s soldiers divided to either side of a plain door, and Julian realized that they had arrived at the private entrance to the king’s court.

  Julian took it as a positive sign that he wasn’t led straight to the gallows.

  The king’s odious man opened the door for Julian and motioned him inside. Julian wanted to take hold of the edge of the wooden slab and slam it back into the man’s face as he entered the king’s private chamber, but he restrained himself, his eyes taking in the scene before him.

  The king was standing at the side of his table, his profile outlined by the bright sunlight pouring in from the high-set windows on the far side of the chamber. His long, lean frame was bent over sheaves of parchment, snippets of notes—the contents of Julian’s leather portfolio, which now lay limp and emaciated on the corner of the table.

  A woman joined him, seated at the narrow end of the table closest to Julian’s entrance, her back to him. He could see nothing of her save for the sleeve of her right arm, the swell of her skirts around the chair legs, and the veil covering her head, but he knew at once that it was not Sybilla.

  Edward turned his head and his narrow face regarded Julian with expected disappointment.

  Julian folded himself into a deep bow. “My liege. You sent for me?”

  Edward gave a humorless snort. The long fingers of his right hand drummed for a moment on a stack of papers upon which his arm was braced, then he straightened somewhat.

  “What in the bloody hell has been going on at Fallstowe, Julian?” he asked in an almost pensive manner.

  “My liege, I—”

  “I sent you,” Edward interrupted firmly, yet still reserved in tone, “to finish gathering the information I sought, and then to bring Sybilla Foxe to me. Imagine my surprise—nay, my shock—when none other than your nurse flies back to me reporting your defection.”

  “There were facts that—”

  “Here! Are! The facts! ” Edward shouted, and slammed his right fist atop the stack of papers. “I told you—I warned you—that she was cunning, did I not? I wanted you to succeed. Was prepared to reward you outrageously—unlike any other under my command. As my cousin. As my friend.” Edward straightened and swept his hand over the table, laden like a damning buffet.

  “She’s here, isn’t she?” Julian dared, and regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth.

  “By my own warrant!” Edward roared, and the woman still seated at the table jumped at the ferocity of his tone. He calmed somewhat and then pointed a long finger at Julian. “I trusted you.”

  “I was preparing to send you the very information you sought when your men arrived at Fallstowe,” Julian offered. “All of it there before you. You would have had it in hand by nightfall tonight, any matter.”

  “But not you, eh?” the king asked, his eyes sharp. “And not Sybilla Foxe.”

  Julian could not have imagined the pain the look of betrayal in his king’s eyes would have caused him. “I cannot say at this point, my liege.”

  “You cannot say.” Edward sounded unimpressed. “Did she bewitch you? Blackmail you? Threaten Lucy? I beg you, save yourself, Julian. If not for you, then for me.”

  “She did not blackmail me. And she would never do anything to harm Lucy,” Julian said. “As for bewitching me—perhaps. It certainly feels as though I’ve had a charm plied against me. But I can assure you, my liege, that nothing I have done was forced upon me against my will. I take full responsibility for my actions.”

  Edward shook his head, much in the same manner as the young Erik had only a half hour ago. “You’re in love with her. Of course. Half the men in England are, but I thought you would be impervious to her wiles.”

  “She escaped your men to come to you herself,” Julian pointed out. “I believe she has every intention of honoring your trial.”

  “She has no choice,” Edward hissed. “I will hold court this day, and her fate—as well as your own—will be cast. The law will no longer be denied, and neither will I!”

  Julian dropped his head in deference. When he looked up again, he noticed the woman seated at the table was leafing through the parchments, discarding this one or that, murmuring softly to herself as she seemingly searched for something. Julian frowned at the woman’s back.

  Edward chuckled darkly. “Worried that some information will get out to taint your beloved?” he taunted. “Have no fear, Julian—she’s already seen most of what you have compiled, long before even I had.”

  Finally the woman turned slightly in her chair; delicate knuckles covered by papery, veined skin curved over the arm of the chair. Her kind and noble face regarded him.

  “Good day, Lord Griffin,” she said in her lilting accent. “I cannot express my delight at our meeting again.”

  Julian felt his mouth fall open as he stared at the wizened, gamine figure in the king’s own chair.

  “Lady de Lairne?”

  Sybilla’s cell was what she would have expected from a dungeon: dark, dank, smelling of old water, wet rock, and despair. The filthy pot in the corner was the only furnishing, and so she had seated herself on the rough stones against the wall directly across from the iron-barred door.

  She assumed she was in the oldest part of the palace. The four walls of her prison were solid gray rock, as were the walls comprising the wide corridor beyond the bars. There had been no allowance for light into her cell, but as her eyes became adjusted to the darkness, she could see the flicker of wall torches down the corridor, causing the shadows cast by the crags of rock to dance and flutter like tiny, curious spirits peeking into her captivity. The doors of the other cells were staggered so that she could see only more unyielding rock through the bars.

  She thought she could escape the cell easily enough. But she knew that she would never emerge from the corridor alive, much less make her way undetected to the king’s side somewhere far above her head. As it was, a guard came down the long passage every quarter of an hour, Sybilla guessed, and held his torch close to the bars to assure himself that she was still within. Sybilla would simply have to wait until she was summoned.

  She went over her confession in her head once more, making certain she had recalled all that she would tell, and the manner in which she would tell it. Hopefully, it would absolve Julian of any wrongdoing and ensure that he and Lucy would still gain Fallstowe. Alys and Piers would be close by to them, as would Cee and Oliver. They could help him as he learned his way through the vast workings of the castle. They would smooth the way for him.

  Her cell suddenly seemed lighter and Sybilla looked up from the dark floor that she had been staring at. The corner of her cell to the right of the door seemed to have been taken over by a small, iridescent blob of white mold. Sybilla stared at it as the edges seemed to ripple, the blob to elongate, form. Her ears popped and she opened her mouth to relieve the uncomfortable sensation.

  Sybilla, her mother’s voice called.

  She stared at the transparent mist for a moment, unsure as to whether she was actually seeing what she thought she was, or if it was only a trick of her fatigued mind, her frayed conscience. Regardless, she turned her head away and looked through the bars of the door. She had no desire to entertain her mother’s ghost, or even what her befuddled mind might imagine was her mother’s ghost.

  Don’t confess, the voice said. Wait.

  Sybilla stared hard through the bars, feeling her jaw set, her eyes water. It did sound remarkably like her mother, only it was the sound of Amicia before she had been stricken, her words refined, unslurred, melodic.

  There is no need for it. You must continue to trust me. It’ s why I begged you and begged you to keep the secrets I shared with you.

  Sybilla’s head whipped around without hesita
tion. “You wanted me to keep your secrets to save your own reputation,” she accused her in a whisper. “Even as you swore to me that the truth would come out.”

  And it will come out. But it need not be through your own admission.

  “I don’t trust you. I was a fool to have ever trusted you. I was nothing to you but your automaton. Your sacrificial lamb. Your illegitimate and expendable, if very capable, offspring. You used me.”

  You will be saved.

  “You named me after a woman you hated!” Sybilla said on a wretched breath.

  No. You don’t know everything.

  “I know that your entire life was a lie. My entire life was a lie! And now it will be I who pays the price for your deceit. Are you happy now, Mother? Are you? Does it please you to know that you have lied to everyone you ever claimed to love? Who ever loved you?”

  The white mist was silent.

  “Just go away,” Sybilla sniffed, wiping roughly at her nose with the heel of her hand. “Leave me alone to do what I must do. You were always so good about that.”

  You were never alone. And you are not alone now.

  Sybilla felt her breath catch in her chest as a sob threatened to break free from her throat.

  The mist disappeared even more quickly than it had coalesced, leaving Sybilla in a cell more pitch-black than before. She crossed one arm over her bosom and then brought her other hand to cover her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to halt her tears.

  She sensed the room brightening behind her eyelids once more, only this time the light was more substantial, yellow, and Sybilla opened her eyes to see the dark, shadowed figure holding a torch beyond her bars. It was only one of the guards. He waved the torch back and forth, seeming to search the corners of her cell, for what Sybilla could only guess, and then his head turned to address someone just out of her sight beyond the rock walls of her cell.