Sybilla doubled over her knees, her eyes squeezed shut, and she fought the urge to scream at the burning pain now ringing her right ankle. She didn’t dare touch it, as she could feel the wetness running down and under the arch of her foot. She knew her boot was torn, ruined.
She would leave bloody footprints, but they would not be seen in the night, and perhaps would have disappeared with the dew by morning.
She heard the soft whinny again, closer this time, and Sybilla knew she must go now.
She placed her useless boots and the leg chain on the opposite bench and then took up the rotting blanket, again winding it around the chain—this time between her wrists—to dampen the sound. She returned to the seat she had so recently vacated and carefully, slowly, pulled it up.
It creaked at first, and Sybilla froze for several moments, waiting for any sign from beyond the carriage that the sound had been heard. But nothing else stirred, and so she lifted the bench farther.
The square of ground below was marginally brighter than the carriage’s interior, and Sybilla leaned her head down, listening for the telltale sounds of a soldier on patrol. She heard nothing. She held the seat aloft and swung her right leg into the narrow opening, reaching with her toes, lowering herself until her left buttock rested on the bench frame. Still, she could not reach the axle with her foot.
She lifted her right leg slightly, adjusting her bottom until she sat rather uneasily on the hard bite of wood. If she slid too fast and missed the axle, she would tumble to the ground conspicuously, the bench seat crashing closed behind her and marking her as a dead woman. The chain between her wrists was not long enough to afford bracing one hand to either side of the opening.
She tried with all her might to bring to mind the image of the axle she’d seen earlier in the day, to gauge how far away from her toes it could be. No more than two feet.
She had no choice.
Sybilla braced as much weight as she dared on the edge of the bench seat in her hands, clenched her buttocks, and slid. It seemed she was going to the ground before her feet struck the wooden axle at an angle, and she quickly bent her knees, turned her feet to cross the cylindrical beam and pushed at the seat above her head just as it was to slam shut on her fingers.
She paused in that most awkward position for several moments, listening, listening. Then she bent her elbows, lowering the seat above her, and leaned into the wooden frame of the underside of the carriage, sliding down into a crouch.
She stepped from the axle slowly, hiding behind the spokes of the iron-rimmed wheel, and looked about her. The camp was quiet, one man on guard beyond the carriage’s tongue, perhaps ten paces; one to the rear, the same distance. But the bulk of the camp lay between her and the road and the wood beyond, the soldiers seeming to stretch in either direction as far as she could see in the night.
She heard muffled steps directly behind her and Sybilla slowly, slowly turned her head.
Four massive hooves were just coming to a quiet stop, and then she heard Octavian’s gentle breath.
Sybilla did not stop to think of the likelihood that she would be immediately detained upon coming out of the carriage and daring to mount Octavian in that instant. She did not think of the arrows that might chase her and her faithful mount, likely find them both.
Octavian had come for her, and she would go with him. Right...
Now!
She scurried from beneath the carriage and stood aright, keeping an eye on the soldier to the fore of the carriage, obviously picking at his nose and examining his findings. She reached up for her horse’s mane and heaved herself up with a mighty effort, the blanket tangled in her wrist chains making her mounting all the more awkward. Octavian moved away from the carriage in a strange, sidestepping, backward manner, and then in an instant, reared back on his haunches and leapt into the darkness away from the camp and the road.
The soldier to the rear of the carriage swung around, just as his fellow guard called out, “What was that?”
The soldier chuckled as he saw the moonlit rump disappear in a blink into the shadows of the landscape. “I think it was your wild horse, mate. Missed your chance. Right behind you, it was.”
The other guard cursed crossly and then set to digging in his ear with his pinky.
Someone shook Julian’s shoulder roughly, as if they thought him to be asleep. Of course, Julian had not so much as closed his eyes since stretching out on the hard ground, his hands and ankles once more bound.
“Yes?” Julian asked, rising up on one elbow and looking over his shoulder where a soldier was bent on one knee. The sun would rise within the hour; already the sky was lightening above the wood. “What is it?”
“Sybilla Foxe has escaped,” the man said darkly.
Julian dropped his eyes to the ground for a moment, letting the realization sink in fully. “Did anyone see her? Try to stop her?”
“No, milord. No one saw a thing. We’re not even certain how she quit the carriage—it remains quite locked.”
“Good. If no one tried to stop her, that means no one is dead. The last thing she needs following her is a charge of murder.”
In that moment, Julian and the young soldier were joined by the king’s man who had arrested him and Sybilla in Fallstowe’s hall. He didn’t appear particularly cheerful.
“If you think to follow her lead and escape before gaining London and your just punishment, I hate to disappoint you,” the brazen one threatened. “As it is, you’ll be taking her place in the carriage to forestall any attempt at flight.”
“Because that conveyance is so obviously effective at containing prisoners?” Julian scoffed at the man. “Very well. I accept.”
The man looked confused for a moment, but covered his uncertainty quickly. “I’ll be sending men back to Fallstowe. She shan’t escape for long.”
“A piece of advice, soldier,” Julian offered. “Your men will not intercept Sybilla Foxe at Fallstowe. But if they would happen to cross paths with her, I would suggest that they not try to apprehend her in any way, lest they long for a hasty death.”
“She’s but one woman, alone, afoot without even her shoes,” the man sneered.
Julian knew a pang of concern at the information that Sybilla was barefoot, but he did not dwell on it.
“She’s not afoot,” Julian said casually, and then lay back down on the ground, making a show of adjusting his arms to comfort his head. “And she shall beat us all to London. If I were you, I would not be anticipating the humiliation that awaits you at having your prisoner arrive before you.”
“Bollocks, you say,” the envoy scoffed from behind him.
Julian shrugged and closed his eyes.
The man said nothing for several moments. Julian feigned disinterest, but his body was rigid with impatience.
“Rally the men. Break camp at once for London. No time to lose—we ride in a quarter hour. Ready a group of men to return to the Castle Fallstowe, on the watch for the prisoner.”
Then Julian felt the toe of the envoy’s boot nudge him roughly between the shoulder blades.
“If this is some ploy to distract me, to try to buy your little lady traitor some time to further her escape, you would do well to keep in mind that your daughter is alone at Fallstowe, and I have rein to do as I see fit with interferers.”
Julian did not so much as flinch. Come a bit closer, old chap . . .
He sensed the man crouching behind him now, heard his smug voice close to his head.
“Do you hear me, Griffin? You lead no one any longer. I am in charge.”
In a blink, Julian had rolled over, swinging up his arms until the chain suspended between his wrists looped around the odious man’s neck. Then he quickly rolled back again, yanking the envoy from his feet, across Julian’s body, where Julian held the man on the ground in front of him, his mouth directly over the envoy’s ear while the man gasped and kicked and clawed at the chain biting into his windpipe.
“You hear me,” Julian
said in a low voice. “And hear me well: should you even so much as whisper an allusion to the fact that I have a daughter again, I will beat you to death. Chains or no chains, soldiers or no soldiers. I will kill you with my bare hands. That is my solemn vow.” He pulled the chain tighter with a little grunt. “And if you dare to touch me again as if you possess some authority over me, I will dismember whatever appendage has offended me and feed it to the king’s hounds while you watch. Morsel by bloody morsel, you cowardly piece of dung.”
Several of the envoy’s soldiers approached now, some of them reaching for their swords.
“This is a man-to-man conversation,” Julian warned them. “I have not yet been relieved of my duties, and so I outrank this piece of filth I am defending myself from. Stand down. That’s an order!” To the envoy still in his clutches, Julian asked, “Do you understand me?”
The envoy gave a jerky nod.
Julian drew his knees up beneath him and gained his feet awkwardly, dragging the envoy aright with him before quickly releasing the chain from around the man’s neck and stepping away.
The envoy whipped around, his hands still at his bruised throat. “I’ll kill you for that,” he croaked, his eyes wild.
Julian stared back at him, opened his hands slightly to let the chain dangle in a wide arc. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The envoy hesitated. “Lock him in the carriage,” the man shouted hoarsely, and a pair of soldiers reluctantly moved toward Julian. “And keep a closer eye on this one!”
Julian did not resist as the men indicated that he should move toward the reinforced wagon that had until recently interned Sybilla Foxe. In fact he went willingly.
Like the envoy he had just chastised, Julian wished to gain London before Sybilla Foxe did.
Chapter 24
Sybilla felt as though she and Octavian became one in the moonlight, her fingers tangled in his mane as the chains between her wrists clanged with each jarring gallop of the war steed. The flesh of her legs was hot and wet and prickled where it gripped Octavian’s sides. She leaned close over his neck, her knees pressed to his heaving flanks, her ankles drawn up behind her, the tops of her feet laid close along the bunched curve of Octavian’s rump. She had no need to drive him, lead him—it was as if he knew their destination, knew the urgency. His hooves were solid, sure, his gait steady and untiring.
They were spirits, wraiths, streaking over a dark and shadowed land toward London. Sybilla felt the tears on her cheeks leaving little ghosts of cold as the rushing air dried them. She was racing toward her death, and she couldn’t seem to get there quickly enough.
She had not gone back to Fallstowe Castle.
The morning sun was high in the sky when the walls of the great city came into view, and Octavian began to instinctively slow. She let him wander from the road to drink from a rain barrel set against a little cottage, and she tried to smooth back the voluminous tangles of her hair, but it was of no use. The red velvet of her gown was caked with dirt and horse sweat, and she knew her face must be as well.
She would enter Edward’s court looking like a common beggar, which was in truth what she was now.
They were back to the road in moments, and through the gates without incident, although as she drew closer to her intended destination, she couldn’t help but notice the increasing stares she drew from the citizens of the city. By the time Octavian drew to a halt before the guards, a small crowd had gathered behind her. She dismounted with care, her joints and muscles creaking, and a pair of soldiers rushed forward with concerned looks on their faces as they took in her chains, her hard-traveled appearance.
Before they could approach her, Sybilla reached up with both hands to grasp Octavian’s muzzle and pull it to her face. She pressed her lips to the damp, scratchy hair, the warmth of him, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.
“Thank you, boy,” she whispered. “Now go. Go home.” Her voice broke on the last word and she pushed his head away roughly. As her horse turned in a quick circle she slapped his rump, sending Octavian galloping through the crowd, which scattered and shrieked at the massive animal racing heedlessly past them.
When Sybilla turned back toward the palace, the guards were upon her.
“Milady, are you injured?” one of the guards asked, taking a quick assessment of her blood-smeared hands.
“I must see the king immediately,” Sybilla said, ignoring his query, although her voice sounded odd and faint to her own ears. When the guard took her elbow, Sybilla felt her knees buckle, and she stumbled against the soldier, who took her weight easily. “It’s urgent,” she managed to whisper. “I have come from Fallstowe Castle.”
“Come this way, milady,” the soldier directed her, and with his partner taking her other arm, the men commanded the crowd away and half carried Sybilla up the stairs to the ornate doors that marked the threshold to her fate.
A company of men seemed to appear from nowhere, opening the doors, accompanying her swift escorts into the grand entry, shouting orders for a surgeon, for a key to the chains that held her. The antechamber before the king’s court was already populated with the nobility who were of a mind to see the monarch, and they made no attempt to hide their shock and morbid curiosity about the woman being escorted across the marble floor.
“The king is not receiving yet this morn, milady,” one of the soldiers informed her with the utmost deference, trying to keep his words directed toward her ear. “But due to your state and the urgency of your request, you may await him alone while he is informed of your arrival.”
“Thank you,” Sybilla whispered, her lips numb as her eyes flicked to each lord and lady, openly staring at her. “Thank you.”
“But we must tell him who it is who awaits him,” the soldier continued with a slight smile. “Your name, milady?”
Sybilla turned her face up slowly to look at the soldier. “Sybilla Foxe,” she breathed, the two words barely stirring the air.
The soldier frowned. “I beg your pardon?” He leaned his ear closer toward her.
“My name is Sybilla Foxe,” she said, louder this time, and there was no mistaking that the majority of the persons gathered in the antechamber had heard her that time.
The air came alive with the sound of ringing metal, and as if conjured up, Julian’s blond general, Erik, appeared from somewhere deeper in the hall, leading his own group of travel-dirtied soldiers.
“She is a prisoner of the Crown!” Erik said clearly, his face darkened with fury as he stormed toward her, his own weapon drawn.
The hands once so solicitously supporting her elbows withdrew, leaving Sybilla to stagger aright under her own power.
The soldiers stepped away as Eric and his men reached her, joining the perfect circle around her where nothing but sword points lived.
Sybilla felt her shoulders draw up toward her ears, and she grasped her elbows, glancing around her at the handful of armed men, their weapons now trained on her without mercy.
“Seize her,” Erik commanded. “And take her immediately to the dungeons.”
“Wait,” Sybilla said. “I must see the king right away.” Her arms were grasped again, but this time there was no kindness in her captors’ hands.
“Oh, you’ll see him soon enough,” Erik promised. Then he stepped toward her, his face a mask of twisted fury. “Where is Lord Griffin?”
“He’s still with the king’s men,” Sybilla answered. “They follow.”
Erik glared at her. “You’ve ruined him, you know.”
Sybilla swallowed. “I hope not,” she whispered. Dizziness swam around her like hot little whirlpools.
A confused frown creased Erik’s brow for only a moment. “Go,” he commanded the men around him.
Sybilla was pulled backward from the antechamber, away from Edward’s private court, her bare heels skimming over the cold marble floor. In moments, she was in darkness, and yet it would be some time before she was interned properly in her cell.
“My God,�
�� Alys breathed as she and Cecily waited in their cart at the crossroads. On the wider London Road before them, only a handful of miles outside the city itself, hundreds of the king’s soldiers stirred the brown dust as they passed. Men on horseback, men afoot, wagons carrying battle gear mostly hidden with tarps and covers. In the center of the mob, a lone, barred carriage rattled past, and its purpose was clear: a rolling fortress, a cell meant to contain the most dangerous of criminals.
Cecily stood suddenly on the seat, the reins still in her hands. “Sybilla!” she shouted at the carriage, her voice breaking with volume and emotion. “Sybilla!”
“Cee, sit down!” Alys hissed, and yanked hard on her sister’s hand even while one of the mounted guards blocking the narrow throat of their smaller path swung his horse around to face them with a suspicious glare. “Do you want us both arrested as well?”
“But what if she’s in there, Alys?” Cecily demanded. “I can’t just sit here and watch her pass!”
“There is naught we could do to aid her now, any matter. Keep your seat lest we find ourselves in our own metal box. We shall gain the city soon enough.” Then Alys groaned. “Oh, damn. Too late. Here he comes.”
The soldier kicked his horse lightly and trotted up to the sisters’ cart, his eyes keenly taking in the bed of the conveyance, the blankets, the limp sacks.
“Ladies,” he said dubiously, eyeing Alys’s obviously rounded shape. “What business have you on the London Road?”
“I don’t see how it’s any concern of yours,” Cecily bristled. “What are you now, a toll collector?”
Alys gave Cecily a sharp pinch on the back of her arm before saying, “We’re on our way to London, good sir.” Her face glowed with sweetness.
“Is that so?” the soldier challenged them. “What is your purpose?”
Never Love a Lord (Foxe Sisters) Page 21