Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

"…. I should have known from the beginning not to concern myself. We have so many choices in life, in every situation. One choice can mean the difference between life and death. This choice, for me, would come to mean both…."

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 – 1215 A.D.

Tower of London

January, Year of our Lord 1215

H e shouldn't have bothered. He knew from the moment he observed the situation that he should have walked the other way and pretended not to notice. He was hidden by the fortified entrance of the White Tower from the group that had gathered near the newly constructed buildings on the eastern wall. It would have been so easy for him to slip away. But for some idiotic reason, he remained.

A drama was unfolding in the morning hours of the ninth day of January of the New Year. A young woman with bright red hair was hanging from a second story window of the structure as someone desperately attempted to pull her inside. Through all the screaming and drama, he could see that the red-haired girl was determined to leap to a nasty death below. He left the safety of the shadows, morbidly intrigued by the life and death struggle. Like the allure of a good beheading, it was pure entertainment.

The closer he moved, the more the players came into focus. It was frenzied and dangerous. The redhead was half out of the window, set upon a narrow protuberance of the stone that comprised the exterior of the building. She was howling, struggling to break free of the hands that held her. He couldn't hear what she was saying but, being female, he surmised that it probably wasn't terribly important. Better to let her jump and be done with it.

His attention then moved to the woman attempting to prevent the suicide; he couldn't make out the features at this distance, but he could certainly distinguish the blond hair that shimmered against the afternoon sky as gold would shimmer against the sun. He found himself more intrigued by the beauty of the hair than by the chaos unfolding around it.

He moved closer still, the hair luring him. As he arrived on scene, the few people that were standing about noticed his presence and quickly moved away from him. The movement was innate, like oil parting from water. No one with a sane thought in their head would dare stand within proximity of Sean de Lara. Like cockroaches, they scattered.

He didn't notice when the group shifted away from him. That was a normal happening and not worthy of his regard. Furthermore, he was looking overhead; the redhead was most of the way out of the window by now, the woman with the blond hair pleading urgently for her to come inside. Surely things were not as bad as they seemed, she said. But the red-headed woman was lamenting loudly. She was apparently unworthy, unloved, and wholly unsuited to remain in the land of the living. The blond assured her that none of this was true. She loved her dearly. Please come inside, Alys!

He maneuvered himself towards the window. He didn't know why, but he could see what was coming. The fall wouldn't kill her, but it could seriously injure her. He didn't know why he should bother with this idiocy. Perhaps to make up for all of the evil he had done in his life, there would be one good thing he could list as a contribution to Mankind. He saved a silly girl from breaking her neck. He could imagine St. Peter laughing him all the way back to the depths of Hell for that natty little side note to an otherwise problematical life.

He was almost directly beneath the window now. The redhead slithered out onto the narrowed shelf but the stone was slippery and she was unable to gain a foothold. Just as he reached the base of the window, her grip slipped and she plunged straight down.

She was still screaming when he caught her. She wasn't heavy in the least and he had stopped her fall with ease. But her flailing hands had clipped his nose and he could feel a trickle of blood. The girl stopped screaming, her mouth still open, when she realized that she was not a messy, broken blotch on the ground. Her startled blue eyes looked at her rescuer with such surprise that, for a moment, he actually thought he might crack a smile. He'd not done that in years. In his profession, there was nothing to smile over. He was sure he'd lost the ability long ago.

She must have stopped breathing at some point, because she suddenly took a huge gasp of air with her wide-open mouth. It was like looking at a fish. Without a word, Sean set the woman to her feet. She was shaken and her legs did not seem to work correctly. He steadied her when she couldn't seem to stand. Her mouth finally closed and she looked at him with a sickeningly yearning expression.

"My lord," she gasped. "I… I do not know what to say. Thank God you were here to save me, else… else I do not know what would have become of me."

He couldn't help responding. Stupidity always provoked his irritation. "You would have seriously injured yourself just as you were attempting to do. God had nothing to do with my appearance."

She clutched him for support. "But… my lord, I am sure that God sent you to save me. I am positive of this!"

"He did nothing of the kind, my lady."

"I am in your debt, forever and ever."

"Unwarranted, my lady."

"But I am your slave ."

He was thinking that he should perhaps disengage her hands and leave quickly. He did not like the way she was looking at him.

"I assure you that is not necessary," he removed one of her hands and was in the process of removing the other. "I would suggest you stay away from windows until the urge to climb out of them leaves you."

The young woman would not let go. She continued to clutch at him, re-grasping him every time he peeled her fingers away. For every digit he removed, two would take its place. He swore she had nine hands.

"Please, my lord," she gasped softly. "I must know the name of the man who has saved my life."

"Suffice it to say that I am a knight who has done his duty. No more thanks or obligation is necessary."

The redhead was still pawing him when he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. The blond hair he had seen two stories above his head was suddenly in his midst and for a moment, it was as if time itself stood still. Startled, he found himself staring into the magnificent face of the woman with the hair of gold. Nothing about her was foul or defective. She was, in a word, perfect. For a moment, he thought he might actually be gazing upon an angel. He could think of no other explanation.

But the exquisite woman wasn't focused on him. She was out of breath, evidence that she had run the entire way from the apartments above. From her expression, it was clear she had not known what to expect. Seeing the other woman alive, when she had presumed otherwise, was nearly too much to bear.

She grasped the hands of the hysterical redhead. "Alys," she breathed. "Are you hurt?"

Alys shook her head. "Nay," she suddenly seemed weak and faint, dramatically so. "This brave knight saved my life. He is my redeemer, I tell you. He snatched me from the very jaws of death."

The blond woman turned her attention to Sean and his heart began to thump loudly against his ribs. She was an incredibly lovely creature with luminous blue eyes and long, dusky lashes. Her skin was creamy, her nose pert. He tried to get past his fascination with her beauty, struggling to focus on her softly uttered words.

"My lord," she said. "My sister and I cannot adequately express our thanks. We are forever in your debt."

So they were sisters. Strange, he thought. When the redhead had expressed her indebtedness, it held no attraction to him. But with this sister….

"Obligation is not necessary, my lady," he said quietly.

She smiled the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. "You are too kind," she said in a sweet, lilting voice. "Consider the House of St. James your loyal servants, my lord. No favor you would ask of us is too great."

Something in Sean's expression grew dim. It was like a shadow falling over the sun, imperceptible to all but the experienced eye. But whatever warmth had been brewing was instantly quelled.

"St. James?"

"Aye, my lord."

"And your names?"

"I am the Lady Sheridan St. James and this is my sister, the Lady Alys."

His response was to gaze at the pair a moment longer before silently, yet politely, excusing himself. It was nothing more than a slight bow and he was off across the compound, an enormous man with arms the size of tree limbs. He walked with the stealth of a cat, disappearing into the shadows from whence he came. As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone.

The girls watched him go, puzzled by his swift retreat. Alys was positively crestfallen.

"You frightened him away," she said accusingly. "He said that no obligation was necessary. Why did you press him?"

Sheridan's lovely face darkened as she looked at her sister. "You silly cow," she snatched the girl by the wrist. "You frightened him with your insane behavior. What on earth possessed you to climb out of the window? Had he not caught you, you more than likely would have fallen on his head."

"That's not true!"

"He had no choice but to catch you."

Alys' pale face flushed. "How dare you. God sent him to save me!"

"Blasphemer," Sheridan hissed. "Be silent and come back inside with me. We will speak no more of this day or of your behavior. Mother would have your head if she knew what you have done."

Alys rose to the fight, but her face suddenly crumpled. She became overdramatic again.

"But he left me," she moaned. "He left in the night. His steward said so. What choice did I have but to end my disgrace?"

Sheridan tried to retain her dignity in the face of the crowd that still lingered. They pointed and whispered, but no one approached. She put her arm around her sister, hustling her back towards the entrance to the apartments.

"I do not know why he left, Alys," she said quietly. "Perhaps we shall never know. But that is no reason to kill yourself."

"But… but he said he loved me."

"Perhaps he was mistaken."

"How can you mistake love? And… and I believed him. I allowed him to…"

"Hush. We will speak no more of this, Alys. Not another word, do you hear?"

"But I am so humiliated," Alys wept softly.

Sheridan did not want to speak of her sister's plight. This wasn't the first time she had fallen for a man of unscrupulous character that had taken advantage of her. She was always falling in love with one man or another, pliable to their whims and lust. And this wasn't the first time she had threatened to end her suffering.

"You must be strong," Sheridan did not know what more to say. They had been through this too many times in the last few years of Alys' young life. "You must be strong and wait for the proper man to come to you."

Alys' expression brightened with unnatural rapidity. "Perhaps God sent the man who saved me to replace him. Perhaps it was fate, Dani. God sent my savior to save my life and mend my broken heart. Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"I do not."

Alys' tears faded as they entered the dark, cool corridors near the Flint Tower. "My savior must have felt something for me. Why else would he risk his life to save me?"

Sheridan could only roll her eyes in disbelief.

*

Nestled deep in a long stretch of ancient stone and mortar, the solar of the king was a dark place at any given time. In the day, it was gloomy, but in the night, it was positively sinister. Phantoms lingered in the shadows and the heavy smell of alcohol reeked throughout the room. The king liked his drink and had a tendency to pass out with tankards in his hand, which then spilled upon the floor and seeped into the expensive carpets.

Tonight was no exception to the usual dreariness and stench. The dinner hour was swiftly approaching and the hall of St. George was filled with servants, vassals, and the finest food that England could provide her people. But the king's solar was reserved for Henry II's youngest son and the most prominent members of the king's circle to attend him in conference.

It was a somber group that gathered this eve around their king, John Softsword. William Fitz Osbern of Monmouth lingered by the hearth, while the volatile pair of Humphrey de Bohun of Caldicot and Walter Clifford of Clun huddled a few feet away. Lesser lords with minor titles and lands completed the evening's royal guest list; Bernard de Newmarch, Richard Fitz Pons, and Payn St. Maur. These men, and their immediate retainers which could number four or five additional men each, filled the solar to near capacity.

It made John feel secure to have these men around him. He was tortured by inner demons, hounded by a lifetime of failure and insecurities brought on by an insecure upbringing. He was essentially weak-minded and needed those of strong mind and opinions hovering close. Physically, he was a man of small stature, bad hygiene, and one heavily lidded left eye that gave him a rather dull appearance.

"Henry St. James, 3 rd Earl of Bath and Glastonbury, died last year," Monmouth continued the conversation they had been involved in since entering the private solar. "I was aware that the Bishop of Bath was in London on the widowed countess' behalf, but not the daughters."

"He fought with my father," the king said, his usual cup of wine in hand. He was getting drunker by the minute. "He did, in fact, fight always on the side of my father. He has ever been against me."

"There are many in London at this time that raise opposition to you, sire," Monmouth replied. "We have kept watch of them, have no fear. Ask your Shadow; he will tell all."

Attention turned to the darkened recesses of the room near the servant's entrance. Back there, in the depths, lingered the king's bodyguards. These two men were sworn to protect the king, sworn to do his will and fulfill every perverted and outrageous whim. To speak of them struck fear in the hearts of even the bravest of men. Gerard d'Athée and Sean de Lara were strong-arm men without an ounce of compassion if it ran contrary to their sworn duty.

"De Lara," the king spoke to one of the two lingering in the blackness. "This news of the St. James' women has come from you. Tell us all you know so that we may assess the threat."

Sean came into the light. His deep blue eyes were fixed on the king, unwavering, cold and calculating. He was an enormous man, even larger than d'Athée and twice the size of any other in the room. He had been rumored to kill men with his bare hands, appendages as large as trenchers, and there wasn't one in the room who did not disbelieve that. He had been with John for several years, far more feared than his bear-like counterpart Gerard, because there was one great difference between them: Sean had intelligence. A dangerous man with a brain was a dreadful prospect. And he had the ear of the king.

"My lords," Sean spoke with a voice that seemed to rise up from his feet to exit his mouth. "I can tell you that we have seen a collection of opposing barons gather in London in the past few weeks, much more than we have ever seen before. The House of St. James is merely one of many."

"Who else is here that we may not know about?" Fitz Pons demanded. He jabbed a finger in Sean's direction. "We know you have spies that report to you, de Lara."

"I have spies," Monmouth muttered, out of turn.

"We all have spies," Clifford interjected impatiently. "But our spies are spread out over our lands as well as in London. They run thin at times." He glanced at Sean, his old eyes sharp and wise. "De Lara knows all, sees all. He knew that the House of St. James was at the Tower and told us so, last week. Today he has met the daughters, which is of no consequence to us. I care not for the women, but I do care for Jocelin. That is where the true power lies."

The mood of the chamber was growing uncomfortable. Jocelin, Bishop of Bath, was an influential man with a tremendous voice within the church. The House of St. James was allied with the man and, consequently, most of the West Country. With all of England in civil war and conflict, alliances and enemies were of supreme importance at this time.

"The Earl of Lincoln arrived yesterday," Sean continued. "Worcester, Coventry and Rochester have been here for weeks. I am also told that Salisbury, de Warenne and Arundel are on the road and due to arrive within days. De Braose rides with Salisbury."

One could have heard a pin drop. It was more than they had imagined. The mood turned from uncomfortable to ominous as the shock of the information sank deep.

"De Braose is the most powerful lord on the marches. As we speak, he is waging war against the Welsh," the king's voice was tinged with bitterness. "Why does he come to London?"

"Reginald is on the marches, sire," de Lara replied. "His son Guy rides with Salisbury."

"God's Bones," Fitz Pons hissed through clenched teeth. "Two of the three most powerful marcher lords ride to London, not to mention Arundel. What does this all mean? Why are they all converging on London?"

"They ride against the king, of course," de Lara said steadily. He paused, eyeing the crowd, wondering if they were ready for the rest of his report. "There is more, my lords."

John glanced up from his nearly empty chalice. "What more?"

"I am also told that Fitz Gerold, Fitz Herbert, Fitz Hugh and de Neville are expected from the north, though I cannot be sure. The information is unclear and several weeks old. And then there is the matter of de Burgh…"

"Hugh de Burgh," John slammed his chalice to a table, missed it, and it clattered to the floor. "I will punish that man, I swear on my father's grave. He defies me, my old tutor. I will strip him of everything my father ever granted him and call it swift justice."

John's rage was up. If it became worse, he would throw himself down on the rushes in fits. It was important that he remain in control, important for his cause that he put on a strong appearance. No doubt nearly every man de Lara named would be in attendance at the feast tonight and they must see nothing other than a collected monarch. Sean glanced at Gerard, the great hairy beast of a man, and with a silent gesture sent him in search of the physic. He was well aware of the signs of impending convulsions.

The nobles sensed this as well. De Lara took a step towards the group and immediately the men moved to vacate the chamber. There was a feast awaiting and much plotting to attend to. They would leave de Lara to calm the king.

When the room was empty and John sat twitching in his chair, Sean took a moment to study the man. He was attempting to assess just how close he was to seizures.

"Sire," he said quietly. "You needn't worry over those who would oppose you. Your loyalists are just as strong. This is an old story and an old issue. We have dealt with worse. The monarchy will prevail, I assure you. It always has."

"But the church stands against me," John was salivating as he spoke. "Worcester, Coventry and Bath are in London, no doubt to assist the barons in plotting my downfall."

"They are men of the church, sire. Perhaps they are merely in London on papal business."

John grunted. "The church has ever been against me. And that nasty little business a few years ago…"

"Your excommunication was short-lived, sire."

"But I had to prostitute myself and my country in order to please that bastard, our gracious, sympathetic and illustrious pope," John's rage was gaining again. "He damn near emptied our coffers with his demand for tribute. But it was of no avail. The man is still against me."

"Even if that is the case, sire, you count the bishops of York, Northumberland and Chester among your allies. They understand your vision for England and for her holdings."

"Pah. They understand nothing but tribute and penance. I must pay for the sins of my father and those before him. That is the foundation of their hatred, you know. The sins of my entire family. 'Tis not just my political stance that has provoked the abhorrence of the church."

He was speaking with the petulance of a child, exaggerated, with dribble flying from his lips. Sean knew that paroxysms were imminent. His next words were specifically designed.

"As you say, sire."

"Of course I say. The church is full of idiots and mercenaries."

"The church favors those who pay well for its loyalty, sire. And I have heard that Northumberland has been well-courted by William Marshall as of late."

John's eyes widened. "My brother's chancellor? He lures my greatest supporter?"

"Money is sometimes greater than faith, my lord. Or the love of a king."

John's rage exploded and he was twitching on the rushes by the time the royal physic arrived.