All the while, she began to giggle uncontrollably.
Once, she spun around and tipped over, falling into the woman next to her, who also laughed. Fortunately, they were all laughing, and Christin went back to Alexander, who put his arm around her waist and basically walked her through every step. She held on to him, fearful she was going to tip again, until she finally came to an unsteady halt and put her hands to her head.
“I am not usually so giddy or so clumsy,” she said. “That terrible ale has made me drunk.”
Alexander looked at her, amused. “It has,” he said. “It has made everyone else drunk, too, including me. Whatever that drink was, it is was very strong.”
“And terrible.”
“And terrible.”
“Can we dance some more, then? I fear being drunk is the only way I am brave enough to do it.”
Alexander immediately put his arm around her waist again, turning her in beat with the music. At one point in the dance, the women broke off and went to the center of the dance area, looping arms and moving in a circle. Alexander had to walk Christin right up to the women so she could loop her arms, but the moment the circle started to move, she lost her balance and they ended up dragging her. Laughing hysterically, she simply lay in the dirt, staring up at the sky, as the circle moved around her.
“What’s wrong with my sister?”
Alexander turned to see Peter standing next to him, a knuckle of beef in his hand, as he peered curiously at Christin laying in the dirt. Alexander pointed at her.
“She’s drunk,” he said. “She drank that bitter ale too fast and now she cannot keep her balance.”
Once Peter realized what was going on, he started to laugh. “Good,” he said flatly. “It is good to see her loosen up. Honestly, she’s so serious all of the time. Jesus, Sherry, she’s killing men as if she were born to do it. What maiden does that? She needs to get drunk and have some fun.”
With that, Peter took a big bite from his beef knuckle and wandered off, leaving Alexander standing there, watching Christin as she tried to get up. But she couldn’t seem to sit up, so she rolled into her belly and rocked onto her hands and knees. By that time, he pushed through the circle of women and lifted her up underneath her arms.
“Come along, my lady,” he said. “Let’s go find a place for you to sit down. Or lay down. Whichever you prefer.”
Christin was still giggling as she tried to walk but she wasn’t doing a very good job, so Alexander swept her up into his arms and carried her away from the dancing.
“Where are we going?” she asked, arms around his neck. “Truly, I am fine. I can walk.”
She probably could, but Alexander thought she felt quite good in his arms so he didn’t want to put her down.
“You must not drink very much, very often,” he said.
They walked past the food table and Christin ended up hanging over his shoulder, watching the food longingly as Alexander walked further and further away.
“I am very careful with what I drink,” she said. “Usually, it’s watered down or boiled. But I was thirsty.”
“I know,” he said. “I saw.”
She pointed to the food table as they moved away from it. “I want more of those eggs, please. Can we go back?”
Alexander saw a stone bench beneath a yew tree that was next to a small church. There were people around, but no one sitting on the bench, so he deposited her onto the cold stone surface.
“Sit,” he commanded softly.
“But can I have more eggs?”
He put up his hands. “I will get you more eggs. You remain here. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
He held a finger out to her, silently commanding her to remain where she was, as he headed back to the food table to collect more stuffed eggs. By the time he returned, both hands full of eggs, she was simply sitting there, staring off into space.
“Here are your eggs, my lady,” he said. “Eat them in good health.”
She looked at him before looking at the eggs. Taking one, she simply stared at it for a moment.
“May I ask you a question?” she said.
“Aye.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
Alexander wasn’t nearly as tipsy as she was, but tipsy enough to loosen his tongue. He sat down next to her, closer than he should have simply because he wanted to. He’d just spent the past several minutes watching a thoroughly charming and exceedingly beautiful young woman have the time of her life.
He was enchanted.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Can’t a man be nice to you without you asking him foolish questions?”
Christin looked at him in surprise. “I do not think so,” she said seriously. “I think that I must know everything because no man has ever been truly nice to me.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Because of my father,” she clarified. “He terrifies everyone and no man is brave enough to be nice to me. You heard Bric. He said that he might offer for me if he was certain my father would not grind him into mincemeat. That is very true, you know. My father chases all of my suitors away. Well, if I had any. No one will come near me.”
Alexander still had eggs in his hand. She finished the one he’d handed her and now she took another from him.
“Not all of them,” he muttered.
She had a mouth full of egg. “Who?” she demanded. “Do you know of someone he cannot chase away? It does not matter, anyway. I will be like you and Peter and Bric and the rest of them. I will be a career agent for William Marshal and I shall never marry. My work for him shall be my husband. Besides… no one wants to marry a woman who kills on command. Even I know that.”
Alexander watched her stuff more egg into her mouth. “I think I may know one.”
She stopped chewing, egg on her lips. “Who?”
“Finish your egg. When he is ready to tell you, he will.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you actually know someone who might… well, God’s Bones, man, who is it? Is it Bric? I do not want to marry that loud-mouthed Irishman. You can tell him I said that.”
Alexander started to laugh. “Nay, it is not Bric, and I will not tell him what you said. It would hurt his feelings.”
“Ha!” she said, biting into the last egg. “That is not possible.”
“It is. He is very tender.”
She started laughing, full mouth and all. But she stood up to brush the excess egg from her traveling coat and the moment she did so, she suddenly stopped chewing. As Alexander watched, she spun away from him, grabbed the tree, and proceeded to vomit out all of the egg and ale she’d been eating and drinking. It had been a horrific combination, anyway. All of it came spewing out until there was no more.
Embarrassed, Christin hugged the tree, trying to catch her breath, as Alexander stood up behind her.
“Breathe, Cissy,” he said softly, putting a surprisingly gentle hand on her back. “Then sit back down. I will go find you some boiled fruit juice and some bread. That should help calm your belly.”
Christin wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She couldn’t even reply to him. All of that lovely food and conversation had been destroyed in an instant, all because she wasn’t used to such strong ale.
And she’d done it right in front of Alexander.
Mortified, and still drunk, she staggered off towards the church, hoping to find a dark, cool place to hide.
She could make it the rest of the way to Norwich on her own.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Royal Procession
Somewhere on the road to Norwich
It smelled like rain.
The sky was full of pewter-colored clouds and the road was already puddled from a rainstorm that morning. The trees were heavy with moisture and the foliage was thick all over the land.
The rainy season had started early in Norfolk, an area that seemed to have its own weather patterns that
were separate from the rest of England. It could be a wild land, with dense forests and settlements that were still reflective of the Danes that used to populate the area. Some said there were doorways to other magical lands in Norfolk, through a stone ring or a fairy mound.
He didn’t believe in magic doorways or mythical lands, but he knew that hell existed because he lived it every single day.
Sir Sean de Lara rode very close to John’s carriage because that was his job. As the king’s personal bodyguard, he maintained close physical proximity to the monarch at all times. The carriage was a heavily-fortified cab built on top of a wagon chassis, lined with iron and a reinforced door that nearly doubled the weight of the carriage itself. There were small slits up at the top of the cab for ventilation, but little more. They hardly emitted any light. Inside, it smelled like a pigsty because the king lived and ate and slept and pissed in it.
It wasn’t the most pleasant form of transportation.
Sometimes John chose to ride like a mounted knight and in those instances, his escort moved much faster. But he’d wanted to take the carriage this time and it had been painfully slow going out of London on their way to Norwich Castle.
With the stormy weather, the roads had been rough and the heavy carriage fell into ruts, which exhausted the team of horses pulling it. There were six heavy-boned horses lugging that wagon and the days were cut short because they were often just too weary to continue.
In fact, in the last town, Sean had purchased two more big-boned horses so they could rotate out a pair and give them a rest. He’d always had a soft spot for horses, including the magnificent beast he owned, so he watched the carriage horses carefully and made sure they were well tended. Fortunately, the drivers were sympathetic and the horses were given massages and plenty of food when the entourage stopped for the night.
But it didn’t make this journey any less difficult or taxing, for all of them.
Even now, Sean tried to stay upwind of the carriage as he rode. He could hear the king inside, playing a citole, a musical instrument he had no real talent for. He had two of his advisors in the carriage with him, including a Marcher lord, Evan Monnington. Monnington Castle and the Lords of Dorè were relatively small and insignificant Marcher lords who had been deeply allied with Christopher de Lohr in the past since their lordship bordered his lands.
But that all seemed to change three months ago when the old Lord Dorè passed away, leaving his young son, Evan, as his heir. Evan had barely seen eighteen years and had fostered in the finest homes but, from what Sean could see, he was an idiot. Now, he was as thick as thieves with John and Sean knew why – it was because John was hoping to glean information on de Lohr and also station crown troops very close to de Lohr’s earldom.
The entire de Lohr alliance along the border was impenetrable, or at least it had been until Evan Monnington decided to become the king’s pet. Unfortunately, the king hadn’t much confided in Sean about what Evan had told him, so he could only guess. Even now, Evan was in the king’s carriage, speaking on God only knew what.
Sean suspected he would find out soon enough, considering John couldn’t keep a secret from him. Whatever it was, John liked to boast to Sean, his most trusted bodyguard and confidante. Advisors and courtiers came and went, but Sean remained constant.
The man known as the Lord of the Shadows.
Off to the east, a storm was brewing. They could hear the thunder and see flashes of lightning light up the sky. They could also see sheets of rain pummeling the earth, knowing that the storm would soon be upon them. There was a village up ahead, one that was fairly large, so they knew they could find shelter there for the men. The entire contingent, however, was looking to the east, wondering if they would be able to beat the storm.
That would have been a possibility had the carriage not slipped into another rut. The men knew the drill; as the drivers snapped the whips at the weary team of horses, two dozen men surrounded the wagon and pushed until it lurched out of the hole. By that time, the rain was starting to pelt them, meaning they’d be soaked by the time they reached the village.
But it couldn’t be helped. Sean bellowed commands to get the army moving forward, hauling that dreadful carriage the last mile or so. As he fell in behind the carriage, keeping an eye on the axels, which seemed to be folding under the strain of the bad road, the fortified rear door opened, spilling out Monnington.
“De Lara!” he shouted over the rain that was beginning to pound. “His Grace wishes to speak with you!”
Sean wasn’t particularly thrilled that Monnington addressed him so informally. The man hadn’t earned the privilege. But he dutifully dismounted, handing the reins over to the nearest soldier before sloshing his way through the mud to the carriage. Sean was an enormous man, big and powerful and intimidating, far superior to the mortal men around him. Reaching the door, which was still swinging open as the carriage swayed, he heaved himself into the carriage.
The smell of urine and body odor hit him in the face and he fought off the urge to wrinkle his nose in disgust. But the Lord of the Shadows never outwardly reacted to anything. He was, if nothing else, enigmatic. It was part of his mystery.
The carriage before him contained a bed near the front, right behind the drivers, and then two cushioned benches on either side. There was one advisor sitting on the cushioned bench, looking ill because of the sway of the carriage, and the king in the bed at the front.
Bracing himself against the wall so he wouldn’t fall, Sean made his way towards a man covered in furs against the cold weather. A short man but strong for his size, his auburn hair had mostly turned to gray and one droopy eyelid gave him a rather dense appearance, but there was nothing dense about him. He was clever, crafty, bold, and without boundaries of any sort, as he had proven many a time. King John of England had been raised with wolves and behaved like one. Every time Sean was summoned, he wondered what fresh new hell he was going to face.
John didn’t keep him waiting.
“How long until we stop for the night?” John asked.
“The village of Scole is not too much further, your grace,” Sean said. “About an hour.”
John nodded, hitting his head against the side of the cab when the wagon lurched. He grunted unhappily, hand to his head.
“I think I shall ride tomorrow,” he said. “The roads have not been kind to us.”
Sean felt some relief in that directive. “Nay, your grace, they have not been,” he said. “We can leave the carriage in Scole and move much swifter on horseback. We will collect it when we return to London.”
John nodded, but it was an absent gesture, as if his mind were elsewhere. “Monnington and I were just discussing the coming festivities at Norwich,” he said. “It has been at least two years since we were last there.”
“Two years last August, your grace.”
John lay back on his cushions. “Norwich Castle has always been a particular favorite of mine,” he said. “The only problem is that the House of de Winter has taken it over. It belongs to them more than it belongs to me.”
“That is because your ancestor who came to these shores with the Duke of Normandy was given stewardship of the castle, your grace,” Sean said. “The crown may hold Norwich, but it has never been out of de Winter hands. The only time it has even fallen was when the garrison was weakened by a disease that swept through it and the Earl of Norfolk was able to capture it when you and your brothers revolted against your father. Had the garrison been at full strength, it would have never been captured.”
John lifted his shoulders. “It is of no matter now,” he said. “It belongs to me. Or, to Old Daveigh de Winter. I could not take it back if I wanted to.”
“That is true, your grace.”
“At least I am paid well for the privilege of having de Winter as my steward.”
“Aye, your grace.”
John scratched his head thoughtfully. “Do you think all of the de Winter allies will be in attendance?”
>
Sean braced himself as the carriage bumped over a particularly bad rut. “I would think so, your grace. This is to be a very special feast in your honor.”
“Du Reims? Summerlin? De Vaston? Even de Lohr?”
“More than likely, your grace.”
“Those men are not my allies, you know.”
Sean nodded. “It puts them in an awkward position, your grace,” he said. “De Winter serves the crown but has always historically been allied with those houses. With them attending this feast, it will be like attending a feast with a disagreeable old grandfather. You know you should go and tolerate him purely out of respect, but the awkwardness of the event is almost unbearable.”
“And I am the old grandfather?”
“To them, I would imagine so, your grace.”
John fell silent as he looked up at the ceiling, mulling over the situation. “Monnington told me something interesting,” he said. “Christopher de Lohr’s eldest daughter, Lady Christin, serves at Norwich.”
A warning bell went off in Sean’s head. Whenever John began to speak on women, there was usually trouble ahead, so he proceeded carefully with the conversation.
“I do not know, your grace,” he said. “I do not bother myself with details that do not concern me.”
It was a lie; he knew very well that it was true. Christin de Lohr did serve at Norwich Castle. But John was oblivious to the change in his tone.
“I have been thinking on something,” the king said. “Monnington gave me the idea. Christopher de Lohr was my brother, Richard’s, champion. In fact, he held the title of Defender of the Realm until my brother’s untimely death. After that, he allied with me for a time but that relationship turned sour. I believe I know how to bring the man back into the fold.”
“A brilliant idea, your grace?”
John rolled onto his side so he could face Sean. “I have a son in need of a wife.”
Sean’s eyebrows lifted. “Young Henry, your grace? But he is only six years of age.”
John shook his head. “Not him,” he said. “Robert.”
Sean understood. Robert FitzRoy was the illegitimate son of the king, born almost thirty years before from the daughter of John’s old tutor, Ranulf de Glanvil. Ranulf’s daughter, the fair Isabella, had died in the birth and John’s father had insisted the boy be raised as part of the royal household, so he’d had every advantage.
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