Never Love a Lord

by Heather Grothaus

  “What of the soldier?” Sybilla asked suddenly, glancing up at the old woman, who indeed looked so much like her mother. “What was his name? Where was he from?”

  Sybil de Lairne shook her head slightly. “I never saw him again.”

  Sybilla’s heart pounded in her chest. That soldier, she knew, had been her father. The man Amicia had said had kept her from the other soldiers, nursed her, cared for her. He had loved her mother. The idea made her breath catch in her throat.

  “And then, years later and quite suddenly,” Lady de Lairne continued, “a letter arrived from my sister. Her husband was dead, leaving her alone with three young daughters. She was in some sort of trouble. Amicia at last admitted her protection of me, in hopes that the years had softened her mother, and that Colette would welcome her back home. But instead Colette was furious. She would never admit the horror of what she had done, even though her actions could have saved Amicia and you girls. She said that there was little sense in two victims. And that what was done was done, and Amicia had made her choice long ago. She sent back a letter telling her never to contact her again.”

  Sybilla remembered vividly the day that letter had arrived, after the battle of Lewes. She remembered her mother’s bitter tears.

  “And so when Lord Griffin came to our home with his investigation, my mother told him the truth as she had used it to soothe her own conscience. She perpetuated the lie. Reinforced it. And shed not a tear that her only daughter was now dead, and her only grandchildren were in jeopardy.” Lady de Lairne paused. “She was an evil, heartless woman. And I am most terribly glad that she is at last dead.”

  “Why do you now confess this?” Edward asked. “Why not long ago? And how do I know that it is true? Your own king may not be pleased.”

  Lady de Lairne shrugged. “What do I care now? Why would King Philip III care? I am old. I can’t inherit anything. My family estate has fallen now to the hands of a distant male cousin, who could not care less if I live or die, if only that he does not have to support an old woman in one of his houses.

  “I knew I would come to England after Julian Griffin departed my home. I have missed that girl for thirty years. Every day. Every night. She does not deserve the reputation these vicious rumors have given her, and I will not allow for it. She is still my sister.” Lady de Lairne looked at Sybilla. “And you are my niece. I will protect you now, as Amicia would want.” Her next words were spoken clearly, emphatically. “As she protected me.”

  Sybilla could still not bring herself to look at the old woman. She didn’t know if she was grateful or furious. But she was desperately confused, and suddenly very afraid now. What did this all mean for her fate?

  “This is all very extraordinary,” Edward said quietly. “Lady de Lairne, I will have more questions, of course.”

  “Of course,” she deferred quietly. “But now I must ask to be excused, Your Majesty. I fear I am not as young as I once was, and the excitement of my journey and then reliving such memories has fatigued me greatly. May I rejoin you later, upon your request?”

  “Of course,” Edward said. “And I thank you for your bravery.”

  Lady de Lairne did not speak to Sybilla as she shuffled from the dais on the arm of a court servant. The king was silent. Sybilla wondered if Julian was indeed still in the cavernous chamber, which echoed only with the loud scratches of the scribe’s quill and the muffled rattles of the soldiers’ armor. She sat in her wooden chair, the hardness of it seeming to bruise her bones, her flesh being overtaken by the creeping coldness of the floor, her skin covered in gooseflesh beneath the pitifully thin linen garment she wore. She could no longer feel her toes. But there was a vibration in her now, and energy born of—not hope, exactly, but perhaps more of conviction. She was who she was. She was right in what she was doing this day, in this room, before this man.

  She would not be swayed.

  “So,” Edward said at last, pensively, as if still turning his thoughts over in his own head, examining them in this new light. “So, perhaps we have come down to the truth of your mother’s birth. Perhaps we have. But as for you . . . well, it’s not so simple as that, is it? There is no one to vouch for the circumstances of your birth, is there?”

  “No, my lord. There is not,” Sybilla said. “Although I was indeed present on that day, I fear I have little remembrance of it.”

  To her surprise, Edward snorted. Then he said, “Were you under the impression that Morys Foxe was indeed your true father?”

  “The whole of my life,” Sybilla said, knowing that this tiny detail could neither save nor damn her. The truth would suffice because it was irrelevant.

  “It is no secret that he claimed you,” Edward conceded. “And without proof to the contrary, I cannot in good conscience contradict your patronage. Lord Griffin, have you any evidence that Sybilla Foxe was not indeed the offspring of the late Lord of Fallstowe?”

  “None at all, my liege,” Julian said at once.

  “So be it, then,” Edward said. He was quiet for a moment. “The more arduous task lies yet ahead, any matter. The one that will decide your fate, Lady Sybilla. Although I have my own theories, I would hear it from your lips: Why is it that you and your mother repeatedly ignored all royal summonses, even after Evesham, when my father readily welcomed even the widows of the men felled under him?”

  Sybilla swallowed. “It is because she—because my mother feared that . . . we would be recognized.”

  “Recognized. Hmm,” Edward said. “Recognized would imply that someone important at court had met one of you previously, or had occasion to see you. Perhaps at some task you wished to keep secret?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Sybilla said.

  “Perhaps someone would have seen you at Lewes, you think?”

  “Sybilla,” Julian warned.

  “Let her answer,” Edward cut in sharply.

  “Yes, my lord. At Lewes, precisely.”

  “That’s what I thought. Do you know what a terrible spot of bad luck that battle was? Not only for my father’s men, but for you?”

  Sybilla hesitated. “My lord?”

  “The men were never supposed to reach Lewes that night,” Edward informed her quietly. “They were to remain at their camp, some miles away. Had they done so, Simon de Montfort’s men would have been in a very vulnerable location and been overtaken by the king’s troops the next day.”

  Sybilla felt the vibration in her bones increase, even as Julian spoke.

  “My liege, do you mean to say that the battle of Lewes should never have happened?”

  “Not in the manner in which it took place—yes, that is exactly what I mean to say,” Edward said morosely. “Morys Foxe was killed that night. I am most certain that was not in your mother’s plans, was it, Sybilla?”

  Tears welled heavy in her downcast, unblinking eyes and fell onto her thighs.

  It was why her mother had been so shocked, so devastated. Morys was not supposed to have been where he was—none of the king’s men were. She had been pretending to cow to Simon de Montfort’s demand for information, when in reality, it was he she was setting up for an ambush.

  How Sybilla had hated her mother for that ill-fated night! And how misplaced her fury had been!

  “No, my liege. That was not in her plans. She . . . she loved my father very much.” Sybilla’s voice broke and she paused. “We all did.”

  “I am not an unfair man, Sybilla,” Edward said. “And regardless of what you or the love-struck Lord Griffin may think, I have read the results of his investigation thoroughly. I realize now that it was not your mother who went to Simon de Montfort’s camp that night. She sent you, did she not?”

  Sybilla could only nod.

  “And I understand in hindsight her probable intentions. But her intentions cannot be proven, and she cannot be questioned. The fact remains that you were sent to aid an enemy of the Crown, with disastrous results for the king’s men, for England, and for your own father. The act in itself was trai
torous. And I must uphold the law.”

  “Before you judge me, my liege,” Sybilla said suddenly, but calmly, “I would ask you only one mercy.”

  “Yes? Sybilla Foxe asking for mercy?” Intrigue was high in the king’s voice. “You will wish for a stay of execution, certainly, and—”

  “No,” Sybilla interrupted sharply. “I would not live out my days as a prisoner, of you or anyone else on this earth.” As she continued to speak in the space left by the king’s shocked silence, she slowly raised her head to at last look at Edward directly. “I ask that for my cooperation and full admission of guilt, you absolve Lord Griffin of the charges against him and grant him Fallstowe Castle and all its privileges as you previously warranted. The only crime Julian Griffin is guilty of is mercy. He had no choice but to become my accomplice.”

  “That is a lie, Sybilla, and well you know it,” Julian shouted. “I have made my choices according to my own wishes—not yours, not anyone else’s! How dare you try to manipulate—”

  “He had no choice,” Sybilla interrupted, not daring to look at Julian. “I took him to the Foxe Ring not long after his arrival at Fallstowe. On the last night of the full moon.”

  Edward’s eyebrows rose and then lowered quickly. He stared at Sybilla in a queer manner, as if he had not heard her correctly, or not heard her at all.

  Julian gripped the arms of his chair as if he would stand. “What has that to do with anything? You think I would be swayed by some old tale? That I would be taken in by whispers of legend or witchcraft? My actions are based on history, on fact, not a superstitious pile of rock!”

  “His support and . . . affections became apparent after we had both visited the Foxe Ring,” Sybilla said to Edward, somewhat concerned at the way he was still looking at her from his place on the dais, some thirty feet away.

  “I was in love with you before I ever laid eyes on the Foxe Ring!” Julian shouted, and then Sybilla couldn’t help but turn her head to look at him, his blatant admission still echoing in the air of the hall. “As you were with me,” he finished in a quieter voice. “I’ll not let you martyr yourself at the expense of my dignity, Sybilla.”

  Sybilla swallowed the emotion lodged in her throat to turn stoically back to the king. “Of course I cannot force His Majesty to agree to any such demands I might make. But let history reflect that the following is my testimony.”

  “Sybilla, no!” Julian shouted.

  “I admit that it was I who aided Simon de Montfort in finding the king’s men at Lewes in the year 1264. The treason is mine, and I admit my guilt.” The scribes recorded her words furiously.

  The king however, did not move.

  Sybilla felt her chin lift as she continued this game of watchfulness with the monarch who for so long had sought her, and now had her in his clutches, her ready confession still wet on his scrolls.

  “That’s not all you’ve done, though, is it?” Julian challenged her. “If you’re going to confess, let’s have all of it, shall we?”

  Her eyes flicked to his. “Julian, don’t.”

  “Look at her, my liege,” Julian said, moving forward to the edge of his chair and turning toward Edward, holding out an upturned palm to indicate where Sybilla sat. “Only look at her! Why do you think she would not want to be recognized? No one in this room today was present at Lewes to have remembered her! Look at her!”

  And Edward did look. And then he brought his hands to the arms of his own chair and pushed himself to stand. “You,” he said. His hand went to the long, ornate hilt of the sword at his side.

  “You,” he repeated, then suddenly walked to the edge of the dais and, in a spry manner, hopped down from it, landing surely on both feet, his eyes never leaving Sybilla. He began to stride toward her purposefully.

  “No,” Julian shouted, and shot from his own chair, but in an instant his pursuit was arrested by a trio of guards, one of them Erik. They held him, forcing him back into his chair while Julian struggled, shouting, “Edward, don’t!”

  Edward was nearly upon her now, his hand still laid upon his sword.

  One last fight then, she said to herself, and rose from the chair to stand defiantly before the tall, lean menace that was the king of England.

  He towered over her, his eyes searching her face. “You,” he whispered now, and his brows lowered menacingly.

  Then the king raised his hand.

  Chapter 28

  Julian let out a terrible roar from somewhere deep inside of him as he watched Edward’s hand rise and then disappear below him. The slap echoed in the chamber and was still chasing its own tail when he threw off the men who held him and leapt from the dais.

  He ran at the pair, even amidst the sounds of guards converging on the aisle, their swords ringing as they cleared their scabbards. He didn’t care. His fingertips found his own hilt, his arm pulled as he ran, prepared to commit the greatest crime imaginable of a trusted soldier of the king.

  No one would ever harm Sybilla again.

  But as he came upon them, he saw not a broken woman, a furious man, but two people locked in a tight embrace. The king’s arms were around Sybilla’s back, the thin linen bunched against the lavish embroidery of the royal tunic, her dark hair cascading over golden thread like an ebony river.

  Julian skidded to a halt as a score of soldiers ringed the three of them, their swords drawn, their intentions obvious. But Julian ignored them, his sword hanging from his arm, its point touching the grand floor. He didn’t think he would have the strength to lift it now, even to save his own life.

  Sybilla’s pale, delicate hands pressed against Edward’s back, her forehead was laid against his chest, and even in the confusion that was so thick as to lend an audible buzz of nerves to the air, Julian could hear her plea.

  “Forgive me, forgive me.”

  Edward angled his chin toward Julian, although he did not look directly at him. “I’d put your weapon away now, Lord Griffin, were I you. I’d hate to have something unfortunate happen to you at this late date.”

  Julian looked down at his sword as if just realizing he still held it, and then slid it back into its home slowly.

  Edward took hold of Sybilla’s upper arms and held her away from him, but his first words were for his men. “Stand down. There is no danger to me here, from either of them.” As the men grudgingly backed away, he looked down into Sybilla’s face. “Indeed, perhaps I am in the presence of the greatest patriot England has ever known. It was you, wasn’t it? It was you who came into my tent and led me to de Montfort’s unready men. Urged me on to the surprise attack at Kenilworth Castle.”

  Sybilla nodded. “Yes. It was I.”

  Julian felt his legs go weak.

  “Why did you not come to me? I would have protected you myself. Sybilla—you saved England, you saved my legacy.”

  And then Sybilla Foxe said words that Julian would never have wagered in a hundred years would fall from her lips.

  “I was so afraid.” And then she began to weep.

  Edward drew her to him briefly once more, shaking his head. And then he released her, pushing her gently back into her chair and turning away from her.

  Julian stepped toward her, fully intending to kneel at her side, but he was stopped short by Edward’s hand on his chest.

  “No,” the king said, a disapproving frown on his long face. “This trial is still in order. I will have no more deviations. Go back to your seat, Lord Griffin.”

  “But, my liege—”

  “Now, Julian,” Edward commanded, giving him a little push and then walking toward the short steps that led to the dais.

  “Come on.” Someone pulled sharply on his elbow, and Julian turned to see that it was Erik. “Don’t be any more of a fool than you have been, Julian. It’s almost over.”

  Julian walked backward a pair of steps, his eyes on Sybilla’s pale face. She did not look at him.

  Then he nodded, to no one but himself, it seemed, and turned to gain the dais once more.r />
  Edward had gone to the scribe’s table and was leafing through sheaves of parchment, his long left arm braced at his side. The king spoke with the man at length and then turned away. Julian frowned as the scribe immediately took up several of the pages and then lifted the glass globe of the lantern to his left. He touched the corners of the pages to the flame and slid them into a wide-mouth brazier at his feet. The burst of flame was white as the pages disappeared.

  Edward settled himself heavily into his throne in his typical posture: a sideways slouch, his previously broken leg stretched out before him, one elbow holding him aright in the seat. He stared at Sybilla for several moments.

  “Sybilla Foxe,” he said at last. “Is it your admission that you sneaked into the royal camp in the year 1265 and informed me of the unguarded state of Simon de Montfort’s son’s army, leading to the siege at Kenilworth Castle, and later, the death of Lord de Montfort himself at Evesham?”

  “It is, my lord,” Sybilla answered.

  “And is it also your testimony that you have repeatedly and knowingly ignored royal summonses, resulting in several acts of outright disobedience to the Crown?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “How do you plead to these accusations, then?”

  “I am guilty,” Sybilla said, with a lift of her chin. Julian thought she had never looked so beautiful.

  “Very well,” Edward said. “Stand for your sentencing.”

  Sybilla gained her feet, and even at that distance, Julian could see her swallow.

  “For your crimes, Fallstowe Castle shall be fined one quarter of its wealth, payable in one fortnight.”

  Julian felt his mouth fall open, but below him, Sybilla only blinked.

  But Edward was not done. “In addition, you shall supply the Crown with half of Fallstowe’s armed men, fully outfitted and paid, mustering at Midsummer for a campaign of unknown duration. How do you answer?”

  Sybilla nodded. “As my king wishes. It will be done.”

  “Very well,” Edward said. “All other charges against you are hereby dropped, found to be without cause.”

  Julian felt the breath go out of him, but he had no real time for relief, for Edward then turned to him.