Never Love a Lord

by Heather Grothaus

  “Are you certain you wish to enter, Father? I could pass your things right through the bars. I’ve explicit orders that this one is dangerous, no matter her fragile appearance.”

  “It’s quite all right,” a man’s voice answered. “I have no fear, and I would do what I can for this poor creature.”

  Sybilla’s breath caught in her chest and she quickly swiped at her eyes before struggling to shove up the wall behind her to stand.

  The guard was not amused. “Sit down!” he roared, pointing the torch through the bars at her.

  Sybilla inched back down on the stones.

  “I see you so much as twitch while I’m openin’ this door, you’re dead. Understand?”

  Sybilla nodded. “I understand.”

  The guard fished a ring of keys from his side and fit the one he sought into the square plate on the corridor side of her door. The hinges squealed as he pushed the door inward. A lithe shadow moved around the man’s back.

  “Go ahead, Father,” the guard said, never taking his eyes from Sybilla. “I shall remain right here until you’re ready to take your leave.”

  “Thank you.”

  The light from the guard’s torch was behind him as he entered the cell and made his way toward where Sybilla still crouched, but Sybilla knew the set of his shoulders, the swing of his hair, the sureness of his footsteps.

  He sank into a crouch before her, and then moved a bundle to under his left arm before laying his right hand atop Sybilla’s head. His blessing was clearly for the benefit of the guard, Sybilla was certain.

  After his “amen” she reached up with both hands, grasped John Grey’s wrist and brought his palm to the side of her face.

  “John,” she choked.

  “How has it come to this so quickly, Sybilla?” John Grey asked in an urgent whisper.

  She shook her head, so glad to feel his warmth against her skin. To have someone in the cell who knew her, who had loved her family, had loved Fallstowe, even if he had never loved her.

  “You’re to have your trial today—in only an hour,” John said, keeping his voice barely above a breath and his back turned to the door. “If you’re found guilty on all counts . . . Sybilla, the king will put you to death.”

  “I know,” she said on a watery sigh and then raised her eyes to try to make out his features in the gloom. “Are you here to give me my last rites?”

  She heard his faint huff of laughter. “You know I can’t do that. It’s only—”

  “A courtesy title,” they both finished, and it felt so good to Sybilla’s mouth to smile, even if it was only melancholic.

  “But the guard doesn’t know that, does he?” Sybilla guessed.

  “No. I’m here supposedly to hear your confession before God, to give you religious instruction before you make your oath to the king, and to bring you these.” He withdrew the bundle from under his arm and placed it in the narrow V made from her chest and drawn-up knees.

  “What is it?” Sybilla asked, feeling the bundle of cloth wrapped around something slightly more substantial.

  “Clean garments for your trial,” John Grey said. “A simple gown and some linen slippers—they’re made by the novices at the local house for the prisoners who come to their fate in less than suitable clothing. There is a comb in there as well.”

  “Thank you,” Sybilla whispered.

  “Here,” John said, fumbling inside his robes for an instant before drawing out a fine piece of what felt like silk as he pressed it into her hand. “My kerchief. Perhaps you can make some use of it if you can find some clean water. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

  “Why are you being so kind to me, John?” Sybilla asked. “After all that has happened, how could you?”

  His right hand covered both of hers and squeezed. “Because I realize who you are now, Sybilla. The weeks away from . . . from Fallstowe, that whole terrible, nightmarish mess. It’s made me realize that everything you do, you do for love. And although you may not want to accept it as true, you are loved in return by many, many people. Fallstowe’s citizens; your family; me, at last, although not in a way that one might expect after our shared history. Even those who claim to hate you admire you, against their will perhaps. You are a remarkable woman. A woman formed by God’s own hand.”

  Sybilla laid her forehead on John Grey’s knuckles, unable to speak.

  “But now you must tell me,” John insisted gently, “why you are doing what you are. Why you will not save yourself.”

  Sybilla raised her head. “How do you—”

  “I’ve seen Cecily,” John interrupted her.

  “Cee is here? In London?”

  “Yes. Along with Lord Bellecote, and Lord and Lady Mallory.”

  Sybilla was speechless. How had they gotten here so quickly? She didn’t want them to see the end of her this way.

  “Sybilla?” John prompted.

  She tried to find John Grey’s eyes within the deep shadows of his face. “I love him, John. I love Julian Griffin. I love him how a woman is meant to love a man. A lord, a husband, a master of the hold. In a way that I have never and never intended to love a man in all my life.”

  “But, Sybilla, tender feelings aren’t—”

  “Listen, please,” Sybilla whispered. “Julian was sent to the king to apprehend me, and his reward was to be Fallstowe. He didn’t have to love me. He didn’t have to believe me. But he did. He does. He knew the facts of my family through his own investigation. He was willing to give up everything he had earned—his honored place among Edward’s court, unimaginable wealth for him and his daughter, the ultimate prize of Fallstowe itself—that the three of us might have some sort of a life together. He has loved me, as I am, for who I am. The only one who ever has, I suppose.”

  “And you would reward him with your death?” John asked incredulously.

  Sybilla shook her head in the darkness. “If I do not tell the king what he wants to hear, Julian will be implicated along with me. Stripped of his rank. Possibly imprisoned. Lucy will go to noble strangers at the king’s whim, separated from her father for who knows how long. Perhaps forever. Fallstowe and its people will fall to the Crown. I am damned either way. But I would go knowing that those whom I have loved most in this world are safe.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

  “I don’t know, Sybilla,” John said. “What if Lord Griffin refutes you? Denies your acceptance of guilt even as he thinks he is saving you?”

  “He is not a foolish man, John. I can only hope that he will not, if he but thinks of his daughter.”

  John Grey said nothing to counter her this time. Only squeezed her hands.

  “Father,” the guard called from beyond the bars.

  John looked over his shoulder. “Only a moment longer.” Then he turned back to Sybilla. “I will try my best to be present at the trial, if it is allowed. Perhaps I can vouch for you in some way that neither of us can yet know.”

  “John,” Sybilla breathed.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think I will go to hell?” To her own ears, her voice sounded like that of a very young child.

  As if he heard it, too, John Grey cupped the back of Sybilla’s head and pulled her face toward his to place his lips on her forehead.

  “No,” he whispered against her skin. He drew away slightly but kept his face near hers. “But I think there is a chance that you may go to heaven. I’m so sorry. Be steadfast. Stand before your king and speak with the power of your love behind your words in the face of the law. Love is the law, above all else, and God will not fault you for that.” He drew his hand from behind her head to cup her cheek gently and then stood. “I will wait outside the door while you change. God bless you, Sybilla Foxe.”

  “God bless you, John Grey.”

  Sybilla waited until the barred door creaked shut, the lock jangled, and she saw John’s slender back silhouetted by the guard’s torchlight before she rose to her feet on shaking legs.

 
She fished out the thin, floppy sandals and rough, wooden comb wrapped inside the light linen garment and laid them on the stones at her feet, placing John Grey’s fine silk kerchief atop one of the shoes. Then she draped the simple gown over one shoulder as she worked to free the bodice of her gown, slipping her arms from it carefully so as not to drop the linen dress on the stones and soil it. She worked the ruined red velvet to her waist and then slipped the scratchy gown over her head.

  Then she pushed the red gown over her hips to puddle on the floor before stepping both feet on it as if it were a rug. She bent at the waist to retrieve the kerchief and then turned to the wall behind her, feeling the stones with her fingertips for a trickle of wetness, dabbing the silk there, and then slowly, solemnly wiping her face. She stared at the nothingness of black before her, her eyes dry now, her mind already away beyond the cell.

  Chapter 26

  The king had dismissed Julian with a disgusted wave of his hand, sending him from the chamber as if he could no longer stand the sight of him. It hurt Julian. Edward was more than his king. Julian had saved the monarch’s life, married into his bloodline, taken a vested interest in the security of the realm. Julian considered Edward his friend.

  And now that friend had sent Julian from him like a disobedient dog. And Julian could not readily fault him, for if Julian had had his own way, he and Lucy and Sybilla would at this moment be in the process of leaving England forever, forsaking his king, his friends, his country, the law. Edward must take into consideration the interests of the realm first; Julian understood that.

  What he did not understand, however, was the unexpected presence of Lady Sybil de Lairne. Why had she traveled from her home in France to the king’s court, now of all times? Why was she being given leave to plunder Julian’s findings, at Edward’s side? What did she want? Whose side was she on?

  The questions, the possibilities, made his head ache, and he was glad when the surly man showed him into a small, spartan chamber and left him alone with his thoughts. The door locked soundly after the man left, and Julian knew it would be guarded, but it mattered not. He did not want to escape.

  The room was more than he could have hoped for: a narrow cot pushed against the wall, bearing a tray of bread and cheese and smoked fish, and a flagon of wine on its rough-looking coverlet. A bowl of water and a cloth rested on the shallow stone sill of the small, high-set window. He would have liked to change his clothing, but could not hope for such a luxury.

  He sat on the side of the cot, bracing his forearms on his thighs, staring at the floor between his dirt-caked boots. After several moments, he sighed and turned to the flagon to minister to his parched throat. He had not finished half of the wine when the sounds of locks being breached echoed in the small chamber and the door swung inward.

  Erik stepped inside, bearing a stack of what Julian immediately recognized as his own clothing, and his long-confiscated belt and sword. The young blond man walked to the center of the floor and then stopped as unseen hands closed the door once more.

  Julian took another long drink, watching his friend—was Erik still his friend?—over the curve of the container. Holding the flagon by its neck, he lowered it and let it dangle between his knees.

  “Good day, Erik. Have you come to harangue me some more?”

  The young man’s jaw was set, his eyes cold. He tossed the stack of clothing onto the bed. It came unfolded, and Julian’s tunic and hose slid onto the floor. Neither man moved to retrieve them. Julian noted that Erik still retained the sword.

  “My thanks,” Julian said.

  “How could you do this to the king? To Lucy?” Erik demanded. “How could you do this to me?”

  Julian sighed, placed the flagon back on the tray, and then stood, making his way toward the window while shrugging out of his shirt. “Sybilla Foxe has been very wronged, Erik.”

  “Wronged? Was it she who conspired with de Montfort to ambush the king’s men at Lewes?”

  Julian tossed his wadded shirt to the floor and picked up the cloth, dunking it in the icy water and then wringing it out. “Yes.” He began wiping his face.

  “Then she is a traitor to the Crown!”

  “Her own father led the king’s men that night,” Julian offered, scrubbing at his arms and shoulders. “He lost his life. Sybilla Foxe did not know what she was being sent to do.”

  “Bullshit, she didn’t know,” Erik spat.

  Julian paused to glance over his shoulder at his young friend. “She was no more than a girl. She didn’t know.”

  “Even if that is true,” Erik conceded, “she held the castle unlawfully, denied the king’s every summons. What of her lineage? Is it true that her mother was not noble?”

  Julian swiped the cloth over his stomach and then rinsed the rag. “There are . . . questions.”

  Erik gave a frustrated growl. “Which you were supposed to answer, and my intuition tells me that you did. Edward didn’t send you to Fallstowe to be Sybilla Foxe’s judge or jury, and he certainly didn’t send you to rescue her. You were to secure the castle and—”

  “I understood my obligation to the king perfectly well,” Julian shouted. He calmed himself with an effort after a moment. “I require no clarification of my orders from you.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s somewhat comforting to know that your conscience troubles you,” Erik snapped.

  Julian ignored the goad and crossed back to the cot to shake his clean shirt from the floor. He pulled it over his head and attended to the laces, glancing up first at his sword and then at the face of the man who held it.

  “Are you going to give me that or slay me with it?”

  “I haven’t yet decided,” Erik replied. “Perhaps the latter would be more merciful. Who’s the old French woman?”

  “Lady Sybil de Lairne.” Julian sat on the cot and worked at removing his boots.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “That’s a very good question.” He kicked one boot free and raised his other foot to his knee. “I met with her in France before Lucy was born. She gave no indication at that time that she was willing to come to England for her testimony. Her mother was very old, very ill, and needed constant care.”

  “Perhaps her mother has since died,” Erik offered grudgingly.

  Julian kicked off his other boot and paused, thinking. “Yes. Perhaps she has.”

  “Julian, I can’t support you if you insist on witnessing for a known traitor against our king.”

  “I understand,” Julian said, standing and untying his breeches.

  “For one,” Erik continued as if Julian had not spoken, “my first loyalty must be to Edward and England. I was to take your place here after you were rewarded with Fallstowe.”

  “I remember well,” Julian said, sitting once more to don his hose. “Alliance with me could damage your future in the king’s employ.”

  “Yes. But more than that, I cannot support your defection. It’s not in your nature, Julian, for as long and as well as we have known each other. Or, as well as I thought I knew you, I suppose.”

  Julian stood, picked up his tunic and shrugged into it, fastening the ornate closures which began below his hips. It took him several minutes before the chore was complete, and then he raised his eyes to Erik and sighed.

  “You may choose to believe what I am about to say or not, but I swear to you, it is the truth. I believe everything Sybilla Foxe has told me. Not because I am a fool, or because she has cast some sort of spell on me, or promised me all the riches of Fallstowe. I believe her because what she has told me fits, in light of the information I have gathered myself. It’s the truth. She has been wronged.”

  Julian retrieved the cloth from the bowl and walked back to the cot to sit on the side and wipe at his boots. “It was never my intention to lie to the king, or even to withhold information from him. Yes, I was going to see Sybilla Foxe away from England without trial. Yes, Lucy and I were going with her.” Julian held one boot before him, inspecting
his handiwork. It would have to do.

  “But in lieu of that part of my duty, I was willingly giving up my employ with the king, willingly giving up the prize of Fallstowe that he had so generously offered me. And I had already made arrangements to have the results of my full investigation—as well as my honest conclusions—sent to him. The king was to know the truth—all of it.” He paused to look up at Erik. “It was the best I could think of, to assuage my sense of duty as well as my conscience. I could not let her be unfairly damned, Erik. I will not.”

  “What will you say at the trial, though?” Erik pressed.

  “The truth,” Julian said, and began to once more don his boots. “I will not lie to the king.”

  “She’ll sacrifice you if she can,” Erik warned him.

  Julian shook his head. “No. You’re wrong.”

  “She was prepared to fight me and the other guards to get to the king before you.”

  Julian felt a melancholy smile at his mouth. “Of course she was. You’re very lucky she was so fatigued.” He looked up at his young friend, but Erik did not seem amused. “You will see at the trial that what I say is true.”

  “How can you trust her so?” Erik demanded.

  Julian stood and faced his friend, looking at him levelly. “She loves me.”

  “Of course she would tell you she loves you,” Erik began.

  Julian shook his head. “I know that she loves me. I know that she loves Lucy. And I know that Sybilla Foxe protects those she loves. I can only hope that she knows how very much I love her.”

  Erik’s brows drew together as if Julian had just spoken in some strange, foreign language. “It’s Sybilla Foxe, Julian.”

  Julian felt another smile come to his mouth, but this time it was warm. “Yes. I’m very lucky, am I not?”

  “You’re mad.” Erik shook his head and then looked down at the sword still in his hands. After a moment, he thrust it and the belt toward Julian. “Here. If you draw it at any time, they will cut you down. I will cut you down myself,” he clarified.

  Julian stepped forward to take his weapon and strap it on. “I understand. Thank you.” When he was properly dressed, he looked up at Erik again. “You will be at the trial, then?”