“Oliver, you didn’t!” Cecily gasped.
He turned and walked to the bedside, perching his hip there and taking Cecily’s hand in both of his. “I’m sorry, Sybilla. If only you would have told me ... if I would have known—”
“That you were vowing to hand over a vast fortune to Edward? Perhaps die in a siege for the privilege of it?”
Cecily turned her head on the pillow. “What is she talking about, Oliver?”
He reached into his tunic and brought out the two halves of the parchment, looked down at them ruefully.
Sybilla crossed the room and held out her hand. “I believe those belong to me.”
“Would one of you please tell me what is going on?” Cecily demanded in a strident voice.
Sybilla took the pieces Oliver handed to her and then she, too, perched on the side of the bed, near Cecily’s feet. Oliver turned to face her. Sybilla looked down at the now three parts of parchment in her hands, her face sad and pale, for a long moment. She looked nothing at all like the Sybilla Foxe Oliver had grown accustomed to, nothing at all like the sketches in August’s book. This Sybilla was ... different.
She at last raised her eyes to Oliver and Cecily.
“It is time for my confession.”
A knot formed in Cecily’s stomach, despite the fact that she was still more than a bit dazed at the euphoria surrounding her. Oliver was at her side, clasping her hand, and she was going to marry him. He had come back for her, and only her, and wanted to marry her without any knowledge of the child she carried.
But Sybilla’s tone, her posture, her sad face, struck fear in Cecily. Sybilla was never bothered, never anxious.
“As you know, Cee, August and I entertained a very brief physical affair, last year at the winter feast. And I say with no pride that he was in love with me. He wanted to marry me. I have never professed an interest in matrimony, preferring instead to remain autonomous, even against the Crown, until I could secure safe positions for both you and Alys.”
“Wait,” Cecily interjected. “You said ‘until.’ What do you mean? That you would have married Oliver’s brother had I left for Hallowshire right away?”
Sybilla ignored the questions. “I was unsure of your commitment to Hallowshire. Although you did a fine job of hiding it, I could sense your discontent with your future, Cecily. And so I suggested to August that we revisit the idea of a betrothal between you and Oliver.”
“Why though?” Oliver asked, this time. “What good would that have done you?”
“If the king eventually executed me, you would have been the next in line for Fallstowe, Oliver,” Sybilla said matter-of-factly, and it made Cecily’s stomach turn. Cecily brought a hand to her mouth to still the tremble of her lips.
“But why me?” Oliver insisted. “It makes no sense, Sybilla. I was little more than a ne’er-do-well. Why would you entrust Fallstowe to me?”
“Because you were August’s brother, Bellemont is a legitimate and valued holding, in accord with the Crown. Edward would be hard-pressed to take it from you, even though he would likely fine you outrageously. And because, with Cecily as your wife, Fallstowe would always be her home, a place Alys and her family could come to, as well. The king wants me now, you see. I have committed grave insubordination against him, and he would see me punished whether he reaps Fallstowe as a result or nay.”
“You had more faith in me than my own brother,” Oliver said, and Cecily clearly heard the dejected tone of his words.
“August and I were very much alike,” Sybilla said with a sad smile. “He would never send someone else to perform a task he felt he could do better.”
Cecily frowned, the knot in her stomach tightening, but she said nothing to interrupt Sybilla as she continued. She took her hand away from her mouth in order that it could join the one already in Oliver’s grasp.
“After August refused a betrothal between the pair of you in no uncertain terms, and Alys was safely married to Piers and you seemed unsure regarding Hallowshire, Cee, I knew that I had to make a decision, else we could all lose Fallstowe forever.”
“Sybilla,” Cecily whispered. “What did you do?”
“I compromised.”
Cecily knew what her sister had done, without seeing the proof. “You never compromise.”
“I know,” she said ruefully. “And there is a reason why, which will become clear in a moment. I shouldn’t have, that is for certain. I sent a letter to the bishop.” She dropped her eyes to her lap, to the parchments she was shuffling over and over.
“John Grey’s bishop?” Oliver guessed, and when Sybilla nodded, Cecily felt her eyes go wide.
“John himself came to collect quite a large sum of money. After I met him and learned how unsure he was of his own role, I increased my donation to the bishop, with a request that John Grey be sent to Hallowshire temporarily. I asked him to return to Fallstowe specifically for you, Cee. I thought he would either hasten your departure to Hallowshire, or beg for your hand. Which he did.”
“John Grey was your compromise?” Cecily asked, dumbfounded. “You thought to orchestrate my removal from Fallstowe, one way or the other?”
“Yes,” Sybilla admitted. “But that was not the reason John Grey had originally come to Fallstowe.”
Oliver chimed in then, his face a study of concentration. “He came to claim a large sum for the bishop,” he prompted.
“Yes,” Sybilla said lightly, looking down at the pages again for only a moment before looking back at Oliver. “He went to Bellemont, as well, of course. And when John Grey returned the payment to the bishop”—she looked into Cecily’s eyes—“August and I were married by proxy.”
The knot in Cecily’s stomach snapped, and her breath huffed out of her as if escaping.
Sybilla was married. To August Bellecote.
She had been married to him when he died.
“How long?” Cecily croaked. “How long before—?”
“One day,” Sybilla supplied. “I assume August was on his way to Fallstowe because he had received his copy of this.” She held up the severed proclamation. “His plan was to have Oliver accompany him, and then the three of us would work out the details.” She looked to Oliver. “He was to come to Fallstowe, negotiate a treaty with the king, and turn over the running of Bellemont to you.”
“That’s not all, Sybilla,” Cecily said, and squeezed Oliver’s hand. “Joan Barleg told me that August had relented—he was to agree to your suggestion that Oliver and I wed. It was to be a surprise.”
Cecily heard Oliver swallow. “But I never met him that day. His death was my fault.”
A wistful smile touched the corners of Sybilla’s mouth before she turned to Oliver with a stern look. “No, you mustn’t think that August died because of you. His death was not even Joan Barleg’s fault, although her leaving him alone as she did, knowing he would die ... it was unforgivable.”
“Soulless scavenger,” Cecily hissed. “I had no idea the type of woman she truly was.”
“You always want to think the best of everyone, Cecily,” Oliver said gently, and then grinned. “Save for me, of course.”
Cecily gave him a rueful smile, then she grew solemn once more as she looked to Sybilla. “You are Oliver’s sister-in-law. You are August’s wife.”
Sybilla looked across the room toward the blazing hearth and shook her head sadly. “No, I was never really his wife. Perhaps I am his widow, though. But the only people alive who know that are in this room now, save for the bishop. And he would never volunteer the information for fear of punishment from the king as well as a heavy tax on the coin I paid him.”
“I’m so sorry, Sybilla,” Cecily whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes. A thousand images swirled in her mind, of what life could have been like for Sybilla and August, had he lived. She could not help but think that Sybilla might have at last been happy.
Sybilla turned back to them suddenly. “You will be married right away.”
Oliver no
dded. “Yes. As soon as it can be arranged.”
“Father Perry has recovered. I am sure he would be honored to perform the ceremony in Fallstowe’s chapel, both of which I know are dear to you, Cee. Tonight, I think.”
“Tonight?” Cecily gasped, and looked to Oliver.
The corners of his mouth were turned down as he seemed to think, then he nodded. “Yes, tonight is fine. I have nothing else pressing to do.” He tossed a wink to Cecily.
“But, Alys and Piers aren’t here! And I have no gown to wear! And—”
“There is no time for those things,” Sybilla interjected gently. “Edward will send soldiers to Fallstowe now. They are likely already en route. You must be married and away from Fallstowe when they arrive. You have a family to think of now, both of you.”
Oliver held out a palm, indicating the room in general. “I fail to see how the pair of us leaving Fallstowe will put us out of the king’s reach. Once he finds out that you and August married, and that I have—through his death—inherited Fallstowe, it will be no burdensome task to find me.”
“I will not leave you, Sybilla!” Cecily argued.
“You will leave me,” Sybilla said firmly. “For the sake of your child growing up with a father, you most certainly will. And there is nothing for the king to find out.”
Oliver laughed harshly. “Nothing for him to find out?” he challenged.
Sybilla’s gaze went between Cecily’s and Oliver’s faces. “I love you both. I will love your child. And I will do everything that I can to protect all of you.” She stood and walked swiftly across the room toward the hearth.
Cecily felt her eyebrows draw down hard. “Sybilla!”
She tossed the parchments onto the blaze.
“No!” Oliver shouted, and his hand ripped from Cecily’s as he leapt across the room.
But he was too late. The parchment curled and melted into the wicked flames.
“You stupid woman!” Oliver shouted. “You have just burned whatever protection I could offer you!”
“It doesn’t matter, Oliver,” Sybilla said mildly, turning toward him. “The real truth—not those words on parchment—will come out. And when it does, there is no protection to be had for me. But the three of you, and Alys and Piers and their child, you will all be safe now.”
“Sybilla, you’re frightening me,” Cecily said.
“Don’t be afraid,” Sybilla said to her, and gave her a rare, encouraging smile. “Everything is as it should be. Mother warned me of this. I did not enter into it ignorantly.”
“Warned you of what?” Cecily demanded. “Sybilla, you must tell me—”
“I’ll send a maid up to help you dress,” Sybilla interrupted, and she walked to the door. “We shall join Father Perry in the chapel in ... let’s say two hours.” She opened the door, but paused to look at them both. “I am very happy for you. Truly. And I know that August would be, as well.”
Then she was gone.
Cecily and Oliver stared at each other for several moments, and Cecily knew that the shock on Oliver’s face must be reflected in her own.
She began to cry then, and Oliver flew to her side, gathering her close.
“Be not sad for Sybilla, my love,” he whispered into her hair. “She is doing as she pleases, what she feels is right, as she always does. And this time, I am inclined to trust her.”
Cecily pulled away to look up at him. “Are you sure, Oliver?”
“Sure that I want to marry you?” he asked incredulously. “My darling, I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“But, is this the right way?” she pressed.
He nodded briefly and then flashed her a smile. “I think it might be the only way.”
Cecily drew a deep breath. “All right, then.” She nodded. “All right.”
“Ho there,” he said gently, and placed a finger under her chin so that she would look at him. “We’re getting married. Tonight.”
And then Cecily caught her breath. Whatever happened tomorrow, she would be Oliver’s wife.
She began to cry again, but this time, she was smiling.
Chapter 27
The next pair of hours seemed like a very swift dream for Cecily. A maid had appeared in her room only moments after Sybilla left, bearing a beautiful rose gown that Cecily had never seen Sybilla wear. There was an ornate crispinette and veil, and matching slippers, as well. Oliver excused himself reluctantly as the maid assisted Cecily in a hurried toilette, brushing and scenting her hair before twisting it into a long rope of individual spirals. The bandages on her upper arm barely fit into the slim sleeve of the ivory underdress, but the pressure felt good to Cecily, and the wide sleeves of the gown proper hid any bulkiness.
Oliver returned from his own preparations just in time to take her elbow and lead her from her small chamber. He had wet his hair and discarded his tunic, stained with her blood. He would marry her in his billowing white shirt, and slim black hose. His eyes were merry now, his grin quick and infectious, and the pair of them actually hid their smiles of excitement behind their hands as they made their way from the keep and across the bailey to the chapel.
Cecily tried not to notice the scores of soldiers grimly and hurriedly crisscrossing the dirt beneath red torchlight, and Oliver did not mention them at all.
They stepped into the dark entry of the chapel, the smell of incense like a welcoming perfume to Cecily, and she breathed deep as her eyes welled again.
Father Perry beamed through his pale skin and tired-looking eyes. Cecily knelt at Sybilla’s side, flashing Graves a smile, and the three remained silent as Father Perry ushered Oliver away. In moments, Oliver was kneeling at her side. He nudged her with an elbow and then gestured over his shoulder. Cecily rose and entered into that dark closet, ready to purge her soul of her doubts and fears before committing to Oliver before God.
Cecily could not help but notice that neither her sister nor Fallstowe’s dignified steward partook of the penitential sacrament.
Then the four of them, Cecily, Oliver, Sybilla, and Graves, were standing before Father Perry and the altar.
Cecily and Oliver knelt, they prayed, they repeated their vows, promising their love and fidelity to each other and their maker. They shared the Host, and then a kiss.
And just like that, Saint Cecily became Lady Bellecote.
Father Perry embraced her first, with a kiss on her temple and a special whispered blessing in her ear.
Old Graves bowed over her hand and brushed his dry lips across her skin. “Has there ever been a more beautiful bride?” he asked rhetorically.
To which Oliver answered, “No, you old crab, there has not.” Then he and Graves shared a clasping of hands.
Sybilla turned Cecily into her own arms and embraced her tightly. “Congratulations, Cee,” she said. “I know you will be very happy.”
“Thank you, Sybilla. For everything,” she emphasized, and then pulled away. “I know we must be off first thing in the morn, but—”
“No,” Sybilla interjected, and her eyes went to Oliver, too, as he came to stand at Cecily’s side, his arm going around her waist possessively. “No. You must go now.”
“Now?” Cecily squeaked.
“I’m not certain Cecily should be astride so soon after her fall and now that she is carrying our child,” Oliver said.
“I’ve provided a conveyance and team,” Sybilla said matter-of-factly. “Cecily, your personal things are already inside, as well as some food and drink for the journey. I’m sorry, Oliver, but your mount will have to be left behind. I can spare no man to drive you.”
“Sybilla, aren’t you being a little rash?” Oliver queried. “Surely we can wait until the morning, when my own mount is rested. I can tether him to—”
“You must go now,” Sybilla insisted. “Please.”
Cecily looked up to Oliver, prepared to fight if he said they must.
Her husband stared at her sister. “All right, Sybilla,” he said quietly.
And then they were out of the chapel, where the carriage Sybilla had promised was waiting just outside the doors.
Sybilla embraced her again before Oliver helped her inside and closed the half door. Cecily placed her palms on the door and leaned out, the heavy drapes brushing her face.
“You will send word to Bellemont, won’t you?” she begged. “I shan’t be able to stand the thought of you here alone, not knowing what is happening.”
“I will,” Sybilla promised. “And I hope that I will see you again soon.”
Cecily frowned as Oliver embraced her sister. “Do send word. If there is anything I can do, I will do it. I owe you so much, Sybilla.”
“Just take care of them,” Sybilla said, and pulled away. “Take care of them both, and drive as fast as you dare.”
Oliver nodded with a grim look and then he leaned in the window to press a kiss on Cecily’s mouth. “Give a rap if the ride is too rough.”
The carriage rocked as Oliver took his seat above, and then Cecily swayed as the conveyance lurched forward. She leaned further out the window, waving to Sybilla as the carriage rattled into the barbican.
Sybilla raised her hand, standing with Graves in the midst of a storm of soldiers.
And then her sister was gone from Cecily’s sight, the carriage wheels clattering over the drawbridge that had barely had time to lower before Oliver drove over it at full speed, away from Fallstowe. The drawbridge began rising again immediately.
The scores of torches on the battlements high above gave the illusion that Fallstowe was afire.
Sybilla let her hand drop to her side as the carriage carrying Cecily vanished into the black throat of the barbican.
She had fulfilled her promise. Her sisters were safely away, and happy.
Her general approached her, and Sybilla wasted no more time dwelling on the melancholy of her singularness.
“How far?” she asked of the soldier.
“An hour, at least, milady.”
“How many?”
“It was difficult to estimate in the dark and from such a distance,” the general said. “More than three hundred, certainly. Perhaps even twice that.”
Never Seduce A Scoundrel Page 27