Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

"…The defining moment came as swiftly as a thief in the night. Before I realized the time had come to pass, the cost was already higher than I'd ever dared to dream…"

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 – 1215 A.D.

"W here have you been, de Lara?" the king was still in bed, his latest conquest cowering beside him with the filthy bedcovers pulled to her neck. "I called for you earlier and was told you were not to be found."

The room was dark and smelled like painful sex. Sean had long since gotten over the shock of seeing a terrified, naked woman in the king's bed. He had learned to ignore it.

"Even I must eat, sire," he said steadily. "My apologies for not being available when you called. You know that is not the norm."

John threw off the covers, his skinny, naked body for the world to see. He made no move to cover his nudity or conceal the virginal blood on his large, flaccid member. Again, Sean saw none of this; he made a habit of always looking the king in the eye, for a variety of reasons.

"Summon my chamberlain," he said to Sean, who moved to do his bidding even before the command left the king's mouth. "Today is a great day. Do you know why?"

Sean eyed the small, wiry Master of the Chamber as the man scampered into the king's bower. He oft felt pity for the man, having been abused by the fickle monarch for the majority of his adult life. Even though Sean knew the answer to the questions, it was never a good idea to let on that he was indeed aware. It took the joy away from John of being able to tell him again. And to upset the king was not on his agenda at this moment.

"Pray tell, sire."

John's black eyes flashed. "Today is the day of the battle of Tours, whereupon my father died."

"A glorious day, sire."

The king threw up his arms as the chamberlain put his large, coarse linen shift over his head. "Tonight will be a feast like none other. And that is why I summoned you earlier."

"What is your wish, sire?"

D'Athée joined them at that point. Sean swore the man looked more grizzled and uncivilized by the day. He held a tray with food for the king; as was usual, one of John's Protectors retrieved the food from the kitchen and picked one person at random to taste the meal. This discouraged poisoning the food. Over the years, Sean had been confronted with more than one person who refused to touch the food. Such refusal always led to death. But it had discouraged many from tainting the king's meals.

Gerard set the tray down, eyeing the woman in the bed as the king dressed. It wasn't unusual for the unkempt knight to help himself to the king's leavings and by his expression, his thoughts on the woman were clear. But Sean maintained his focus on the king; never would he imagine himself stooping to d'Athée's actions though he had made it a strict policy never to comment on the other's behavior. Such opinions could be contentious, and in his position, he could not afford conflict with someone he often had to trust his life to. He had to let it be.

"I feel a trip to the Avenue of the Jewelers is in order," John said as he examined the multitude of colored tunics presented to him by the chamberlain. "I would gift myself with something befitting today's celebration."

"As you say, sire. When would you like to leave?"

"As soon as I am finished with my meal. See to it, de Lara."

"It shall be done."

"And another thing," John stopped him before he could leave. "The other night, in the hall, I saw a woman who has whet my interest."

"A name or a description, sire?"

John stood still as his chamberlain, now assisted by the Master of the Wardrobe, fit him with a heavy red tunic. "I cannot give you a name, but she was very young, seated with Jocelin, Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury."

Sean felt a wave of apprehension sweep him. "Those were the daughters of Henry St. James. Which one do you refer to?"

"There were two? I only saw one. The redhead."

An avalanche of relief descended upon him, followed instantly by a fire of guilt. The king must have seen the girl seated there when her sister wasn't present, for surely had he seen Sheridan, his request would have been much different. He shouldn't have been glad that the king's attention was diverted to the other sister, but he was. Now he faced a peculiar dilemma. He did something at that moment that he had never done before, at least not with the king. He bargained.

"Sire, if I may make a suggestion," he said.

John let his arms down as his servants finished securing the golden, lion-themed sash at his waist. "What is it?"

"Forgive my impertinence, but I would offer food for thought in this matter. It may not be a good idea for you to bestow your attention upon the St. James girl at this time."

John looked at him, a flicker of annoyance in his black eyes. "Why not?"

"Because her father was at the heart of the baron's rebellion against the crown. Since his death, his family has the pity of his allies. To summon the daughter, to take your rights as king, may inflame the barons even more. They will not view your bedding the daughter of their beloved dead ally kindly. You may be inviting more than you wish to deal with at this time." He moved towards the king, his blue eyes full of the grim reality of the situation. "The rebellion is like a simmering pot, waiting to boil over. One small incident and it could explode. But if you still desire the girl, I will bring her."

John sniffled, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his tunic. It was apparent that he was contemplating Sean's words. John trusted very few people and de Lara was one of them. The man had never steered him wrong in all of the years he had been in his service. He could see the implications as explained.

"I will consider your words," he said after a moment. The king was never one to agree with his advisors outright. He always manipulated the situation to make it appear as if they were agreeing with him. "Go, now. Prepare my litter."

Sean left without another word, listening to the cries of the woman in the king's bed as d'Athée raped her in the presence of the monarch.

*

Three days later, Sheridan still had not caught another glimpse of the enigmatic Sean de Lara. She faced the realization that de Lara had no more interest in her than a honey bee had in a wilted flower. Aye, she had been a pretty thing to flatter for an evening, but that was evidently the extent of it. She was coming to feel like Alys did at times, that men were non-committal and easily distracted creatures. It was the first time she had ever felt the sting of rejection.

It wasn't even a sting. It was more like a foolish feeling. No man had ever captured her attention enough to warrant more than a passing thought. But de Lara had. Moderately depressed, she had decided by the third day that she wasn't going to linger on him any longer. Moreover, Jocelin had plans for a clandestine assembly by the end of the week and that was where her focus needed to be. All of the hopes and dreams her father had provided for were finally coming to fruition and her sense of optimism was palpable. She couldn't let thoughts of a man sidetrack her.

But hopes for a new day for England could wait, at least for the moment. Today, she decided that a visit to the Street of the Merchants would be in order. There had been rare times that she had been let out of Lansdown to shop in Glastonbury or in Trowbridge, and she had discovered that she was something of a lavish spender. If she liked what she saw, she bought it. Unfortunately, she'd not learned the art of bartering, as her rich father had simply advised her to make the purchase regardless.

Her mood improved with the prospect of shopping. Alys, after having slept until late morning, barely awoke in time to join her. Alys wasn't a spender, however; she was interested in the food rather than the merchandise. The Street of the Merchants was bordered by the Street of the Bakers, which was convenient for both sisters. The Avenue of the Jewelers, in the Jewish sector to the north and east, wasn't far off, either.

It was a cool day. The fog had rolled in sometime during dawn and had not yet abated. There was mist in the air, enough to make Alys' hair frizz but not enough to truly dampen. Sheridan dressed carefully for the day in a gown of undyed lamb's wool, soft and clinging, accentuating every curve. She wore a belt of silver thread and uncut citrine stones, the tassels of which trailed to her knees. The cloak she wore was heavy wool, of the same undyed color, with a stiff, protective collar and a rabbit fur lining. Her hair was pulled into a single thick braid that draped delicately over one shoulder.

Alys, as usual, was a mess until her sister stepped in to help. In short time, she was dressed in dark blue wool to protect against the chill. Her hair, however, was unmanageable with the mist in the air but, given her maiden status, she let it flow down her back like a giant frizzy mess. All she could speak of, as they left the apartments with their maid and escort, was the bread she would soon be tasting. All Sheridan could think of was the fabric she would soon be buying.

There was another great feast tonight in the Tower in honor of some victory the king accomplished against his brother, Richard, many years ago. Sheridan didn't keep track of such things, for they were petty family squabbles as far as she was concerned. What mattered was the here and now. There was, however, one benefit to this victory feast; as much as she pretended not to care otherwise, she knew de Lara would be somewhere in the hall. If she were to purchase a wonderful fabric and have it back to the apartments by the nooning hour, her maid could baste together an acceptable gown by suppertime.

Her thoughts were idiotic. She knew that even as she climbed into the litter that her men had brought from the stables. With her sister beside her and the maid on a small gray palfrey behind them, they moved from the Tower grounds through the new gate in the Lanthorn Tower and proceeded out to the avenue along the edge of the Thames.

The river was shrouded in mist as the sun struggled to penetrate. Sheridan was glad for her cloak, as the temperature had dropped considerably now that they were outside the protective walls of the Tower. They were nearing the massive bridge that led over the Thames when she caught sight of what she thought was a rat. It was certainly not an unusual site. But as her caravan grew closer, she saw that it was a tiny little dog. As her litter passed, the little dog sat on the edge of the road, its tiny tail wagging. She sat bolt-upright on the litter.

"Stop," she commanded. "Neely, bring me that pup."

Neely was on his charger at the head of the column. Those closest to him heard his audible, impatient sigh. He lifted his three-point visor, of the latest style, and fixed upon the little mutt. His initial reaction was to contest the request, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Whatever the lady wanted, he would oblige without question. It had long been a policy with him in the hopes that someday, the lady would see him for more than the captain of the guard. He was convinced that blind obedience and kindness would someday be the key to Lady Sheridan's heart.

Armor groaning, he dismounted his steed and clanged to the edge of the dirty avenue. The little dog didn't run; he merely gazed up at Neely with his big black doggy eyes. He was a white beast with little legs, short hair, and a big brown spot on his back. Neely reached down and scooped the mutt into one hand.

He walked over to the litter and extended the hand that held the puppy. Sheridan gently took the dog from his mailed grip.

"Look at him," she cooed. "He is freezing, poor little thing."

The dog wagged his tail happily and licked her furiously on the chin. She laughed out loud as Alys, not strangely, began to complain.

"'Tis cold, Dani," she said. "We must keep moving."

Sheridan was consumed with her happy little acquisition. Neely gave the order to move out and the procession continued to the road that led from the bridge and deep into the bowels of London.

The streets leading to the merchant district were cold, dirty and, at times, dangerous. Neely was on his guard as they made their way through the narrow avenues, passing by citizens of London whose faces were dark with suspicion and curiosity. By the time they reached the busier merchant district, the sun was starting to peek through the fog. Sheridan, having fallen in love with her little pet in the short trek from the Tower to the commercial quarter, perked up at the sight of the merchant stalls.

She climbed off the litter, leaving the dog enfolded within the heavy woolen blanket that had covered her. Though the sun threatened, the air was still cold and she pulled her cloak tightly about her. Her eyes fairly glittered at the sight before her.

Neely approached. "If it pleases my lady, I will have the litter bearers wait here. I will escort you into the avenue."

Sheridan nodded. "You'd better bring another man. I intend to purchase many items today and may need another pair of arms."

Neely emitted a low whistle and motioned to one of his more seasoned soldiers. As the man stepped forward, he turned back to Sheridan.

"If my lady is ready?"

She grinned. "Always."

He and the soldier followed several feet behind Sheridan and Alys. Their very first shop was a perfume den, a place that stank like a sheik's harem. Exotic oils from all over the known world filled the shelves of the dingy little shop and it wasn't long before Alys smelled in horrible combination. Sheridan was wise enough not to rub the oil on herself, but Alys got caught up in the goods and found herself a victim of her sister's enthusiasm.

Neely stood by the door, watching Sheridan forcibly rub scented oil on Alys' arm and grinning when Alys would snort and howl. As he watched, he thought to himself that it was good to see Sheridan smile again. She'd smiled so little since her father's death. Today was the first time in months he'd actually seen shades of the old Sheridan return.

It seemed like ages passed as he stood and watched them. Finally, Sheridan settled on Gardenia and Lilac and paid extra to have the oils placed in lovely glass phials. Alys couldn't remember which fragrance she liked best so she settled for something that smelled like Apple Blossoms. The perfume miser wrapped the goods in dried grass and an envelope of fabric, handing them off to the happy women. As Sheridan left the shop, she handed the packages to Neely and continued on down the avenue.

Nearing the second shop, this one of fabric goods, Alys spotted a vendor across the street selling apples cooked in honey and spices. She tore off across the street.

"Go with her," Sheridan told Neely. "Don't let her buy more than one. And for heaven sakes, don't let her wander further away. There are smells all over this street that will lure her."

Neely didn't like leaving Sheridan, but did as he was asked. The seasoned soldier remained behind with Sheridan, posted just outside the stall door of the fabric merchant.

This stall was bigger than the perfume miser's. It was lined with bolts of fabric from every part of the world. Sheridan started at one end and inspected every piece, every thread, in every bolt, until she reached the other side. The merchant had spied her early on and had taken to following her through the accounting of his wares, answering any questions she may have. Her questions were intelligent, usually about the country of origin and the materials used.

A fabric called Albatross was a particular favorite; it was very fine, all-wool, and favored by women in the cloister for their wimples. Another favorite fabric was called Brocaded Brilliantine– a silk and wool mix styled in a brocade pattern. Lastly, the merchant showed her something new from Paris called French Crepon, a delicate yet durable weave.

In a relatively short span of time, she had selected three fabrics– a Brocaded Brilliantine of deep green with a golden undertone, an Albatross of pale yellow, and a French Crepon of ruby. The merchant also had all manner of notions to accompany the fabrics such as thread and faux decorations. One such decoration was a bird made from sawdust and real feathers. It looked positively alive. Delighted, Sheridan purchased it with the intent of having it paired with the ruby satin.

She also purchased a variety of delicate Irish lace, woven with golden thread as fine as a spider's web. Sheridan appreciated good craftsmanship, as she herself had never had a particular talent for needlework. Handing the fabric off to the soldier waiting outside the door, she proceeded down the avenue.

The street was quite crowded by now, mostly with nobles seeking finery whilst visiting London. For many of those from the far reaches of England, a visit to the Street of the Merchants was required lest their reputation suffer. Street vendors dotted the street, selling soft wheat cakes, honey candy, fruit, and meat on a stick. Sheridan looked around for Alys and finally found her at the cart of another street vendor who was selling fruited cakes. Even across the distance, Neely caught her eye and she simply shook her head in a combination of disgust and resignation. She didn't blame Neely for not keeping a rein on her sister's appetite; she'd never been able to do it very well, either. Alys would eat herself to death some day and they'd all be to blame.

Sheridan became aware of a rumble of noise, gradually increasing in intensity. There seemed to be some commotion on the opposite end of the street, but she couldn't clearly see what was happening. It looked to her as if there were a great many soldiers about. But passing notice was all she gave it as her attention fell on the next stall. In addition to more fabric, there were also a variety of items that had been brought from the Continent– carved wooden figurines from the land of the Norse, beaded jewelry from Greece, and little blocks of incense that looked like dirt but that, when lit, created smoke of the most wonderful scent.

She couldn't keep her hands off the finery. Her fingers soon smelled of myrrh and sandalwood as she handled the little blocks of incense and put them to her nose. Then they made her sneeze and she had to put them back. The bolts of material were of less variety than the previous stall, but she rifled through them nonetheless. She did manage to come across a very fine blue wool from Scotland, which she promptly put on her purchase list. Alys would look wonderful in the color. Noticing that there was a shelf of material next to the front door that she had missed, she went to inspect a bolt of thin, gauzy linen when a shadow moved through the doorway. She saw no more than that before someone abruptly pulled her away from the door and back against the wall.

It was dark, as whoever had her against the wall was quite a bit larger than she and covered her with his entire body. Startled, not to mention terrified, she opened her mouth to protest when a mailed glove covered her lips.

"My apologies, my lady," a quiet, very deep voice rumbled. "I did not mean to startle you, but you must stay here, just for a moment."

She recognized de Lara's voice immediately. Looking up, she was able to discern his features in the weak light of the shop. He dropped his hand from her mouth and she was able to speak.

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "Why have you restrained me?"

His clear blue eyes were steady and appraising as he gazed upon her. He was in his armor, an enormous man made even larger by the protection he wore. All she could see was the face beneath the raised visor, the features everyone had told her to be terrified of. Even now, she could not summon the will.

"I saw your sister outside and assumed you were somewhere close by," he said. His tone turned serious. "Please do as I ask; stay here and do not leave until the king clears this avenue."

She was torn between the thrill of seeing him and the frightening ambiguity of his words. "I do not understand."

His hands gripped her upper arms; she could feel his strength through his mail, her fabric. It was the most powerful, wonderful feeling she had ever known. "I mean that you should not," he said quietly. "But I would ask that you trust me in this matter."

She wasn't sure how to take him. She could hear the commotion outside as the king approached. "You do not think… you do not believe that I would try to harm the king somehow? Is that what you think?"

His eyes flickered with humor. "Nay."

"Then why do you wrest me against the wall like a common criminal?"

"What I do is for your protection, not the king's."

An idea occurred to her and she was coming to understand what he meant. The light of comprehension dawned. "You do not want him to see me, is that it?"

He didn't answer. He continued to gaze down at her, thinking he'd never in his life seen a lovelier creature. Three days of not seeing her, of not witnessing her beauty or coming to know her wit, had left him starving like a man without food. But he had been the shadow of the king and the king had been busy, affording him no opportunity to break away.

"I would express my deep regret at not having been given the opportunity to see you for the past few days," he changed the subject as delicately as he could. "I hope you have been well."

Part of her wanted to hear his words very much. The other part of her did not want to be sucked into the mysterious games he liked to play.

"I have," she replied, rather casually. "A pity that you have been so busy."

"More than you know. But I would like to remedy that."

"What do you mean?"

A grin played on his lips. "Must I be plain?"

"I am afraid so."

He lifted an eyebrow with feigned reluctance. "Very well. I have been thinking on this subject since the night we walked together in the yard so I may as well spell it out. But first, you should know that I am not a man given to whims. I do not make swift decisions."

She cocked her head. "That makes no sense. You are a knight. Sometimes you must make split-second decisions that will affect your very life. And now you say that you do not make swift decisions?"

Now his eyebrows furrowed. "Cheeky wench. That is not what I mean."

"You said you were going to be plain. You have not been plain."

He gave her a look that suggested she was in for a spanking if she didn't curb her mouth. "You have not let me be plain, nor have you allowed me to explain myself. Do you want to hear this or not?"

"If I must."

An expression of momentary outrage was replaced by a reluctant grin. "You are not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

She returned his smile, a radiant gesture that lit up the room. "Did you expect any less?"

"God help me, I did not."

"Then pray continue."

"I will if you will shut up."

She pressed her lips together in a gesture of complete silence. His eyes twinkled at her. "Now, if I may continue," he went on. "What I was going to say was that I would like to.…"

He suddenly trailed off. There was a small window for ventilation over Sheridan's head. Sean caught sight of the king's procession passing by the stall, tracking every sound, every movement. He remained as unmoving as stone; the only indication that he was not a statue was the slight movement of his eyes. She felt his grip tighten on her arm before he finally looked down at her once again. His manner was suddenly very serious.

"Stay here," he whispered. "Do not leave until the king has gone. Do you comprehend?"

There was something in his tone that frightened her. She nodded her head. "Aye."

He thought to give her a smile of encouragement but stopped short. He took both of her hands in his massive gloves, holding them gently, urgently. "I am going to ask that you trust me, Lady Sheridan."

She was thoroughly puzzled. "What…?"

"As you once trusted me with your sister's life, I am asking you to do so again."

She had no idea what he meant. He suddenly kissed both of her hands and was gone. The man moved so swiftly that the sharp action took her breath away. Her heart thumping with fear, and a bit of excitement from his kiss, she hid behind the fabric bolts enough to be able to peer from the open door to see what was happening. Powerful curiosity had the better of her.

The king was speaking with Alys.

*

Seated in a fine chair in the antechamber of her borrowed apartments at the Tower, Sheridan stared into the weak fire. The flames licked at the blackened brick, crackling unsteadily as the sun waned. Soon, night would be upon them all and the celebratory feast would commence. But Sheridan had no thoughts of feasting this night. All she could think of was the horrors of the afternoon.

Alys had been commandeered by the king. Nay, not by the king; by Sean himself. Sheridan had heard her sister screaming as she was taken from the Street of the Merchants, the sounds of horror echoing in her brain. When Neely had tried to intervene, he had been hit from behind by a massive, burly man and hauled away, unconscious. Someone had told her that he had been taken back to the Tower and thrown in the vault. She didn't even know Neely's fate and the trepidation of it ate at her.

Horrified, Sheridan had been escorted back to her Tower apartment by what was left of her guard. She had sent for Jocelin immediately and, in a rage, the bishop had set off in search of Alys. That had been several hours ago and she had yet to receive any word. Though she could have very easily collapsed into tears, she had to remain strong until she knew the fate of both her sister and Neely. Crying would not accomplish anything.

Her new little puppy would have been a joyous diversion had she not been so troubled. After feeding the animal some scraps from the morning meal, the little dog had slept beside her the entire afternoon. She petted the dog absently now and again, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. And with the onset of night, her anxiety was growing.

Trust me , de Lara had said. She had up until the moment she saw him take Alys away. Now she didn't know what to think. All she could hear was Alys' screams rattling in her head. She had to close her eyes to erase the pain. Maybe she should have listened to what everyone had tried to tell her. The man is pure evil.

"M'lady," her little maid was standing in the bedchamber door. "What… what do you wish to wear this night?"

Sheridan looked at the woman as if she had gone mad. But in the same breath, she knew that the king would be at the feast. If the king was there, then de Lara would also be there, and possibly even Alys. She had to go, no matter how much she did not want to.

"My white silk that Father brought from France," she said. "I would wear the gold girdle with it."

The maid fled to prepare the garment. It was the most expensive gown Sheridan owned, a magnificent white piece that hung off her shoulders with a wide, rounded neck, a long waistline, and huge belled sleeves. Gold and white embroidery lined the neckline, edge of the sleeves, and the entire hemline of the gown. It was, in a word, spectacular. For some reason, she wanted to look her best tonight. One must always look their best when challenging the king.

She dressed carefully. The Gardenia oil she had purchased that day was used liberally. She left her long, silken hair unbound and flowing down her back in soft curls. Beeswax with a hint of ocher colored her lips. Gazing at herself in the polished bronze mirror, she saw someone different gazing back at her. It was hard to pinpoint, but somehow the reflection had matured. There was wisdom to the gaze, stiffness to the back that suggested an unwavering drive. She also realized, at that moment, that she would trade herself for Alys if she had to. Perhaps that was what she was attempting to do; strike a bargain with the man her father hated most. She wanted to make herself tempting. She hoped that Henry would forgive her.

There was a knock at the door. Snapped from her thoughts, Sheridan practically ran to the panel, throwing it open and fully expecting to see Jocelin and, hopefully, Neely and Alys too. Instead, her eyes widened with surprise and horror. Sean de Lara stood in the hall.

" You !" she gasped.

She tried to slam the door but Sean caught it before it could close. He wedged himself between the door and the frame as she struggled to shove it closed. He could have easily burst into the room, tossing Sheridan halfway across the floor in the process. But he simply held his ground.

"My lady," he said steadily. "I come with news. Please let me in."

She did something at that moment that she hadn't done since her father's passing. She unexpectedly burst into tears and Sean gently pushed the door open. She didn't resist. He stepped in and shut the panel behind him.

He stood there a moment, watching her sob. She looked absolutely radiant in the white gown. He wanted very much to pull her into his arms and comfort her.

"Lady," he said in a soft, gentle growl. "Please do not cry. There are things we must discuss."

She looked at him, furiously wiping the tears from her eyes. "You… you told me to trust you and then you took my sister."

He did put his hands on her, then. "I know," he murmured, steering her towards the nearest chair. "I had to."

She allowed him to seat her. He pulled up a stool from the hearth and sat in front of her. He gently took one of her hands into his great palm.

"Alys is fine," he said. "She will see you at the feast tonight."

She wiped a stray tear, her luminous eyes glimmering like a clear blue lake. "She… she is well? She is unharmed?"

He brought her hand to his mouth. "Aye," his lips brushed against her flesh as he spoke. "She is quite well. She had an afternoon of sweets and conversation with the king."

The tears faded and she experienced the sensation of his warm lips against her skin. It sent bolts of excitement through her veins. But his words garnered her focus at the moment. "Sweets and conversation?" she repeated. "But… I do not understand. Everyone knows that the king… when he sees a maiden he wishes, that he simply… or you.…"

He smiled, his lips still against her hand. It was as much as he dared do though he very much wanted to do more.

"That is why I asked you to stay in the merchant stall, for your own safety," he said. "The king has not seen you yet. But he has seen Alys already. I am sorry for my methods, but it was imperative that I act as I did in order to keep her safe. Suffice it to say that she is untouched."

Sheridan was still puzzled. "I do not understand any of this," she muttered. "If she is well, why did you not bring her back to me? And what of Neely? Where is he?"

"Your captain is in the vault," he replied. "I shall release him tomorrow. Other than an aching head, he too is well enough. But I have other news regarding the bishop."

"Jocelin?" she said, her voice laced with panic. "What has happened to him?"

Sean took a long, deep breath. He had only just calmed her and did not want to upset her again, but he was forced to speak the truth. "The bishop came to the king's apartments demanding Alys. I am afraid he was rather aggressive. I could not intervene, you understand. I was busy making sure that Alys did not come to harm."

This time, she gripped his hand. It was the first time she had done so. Feeling her soft, warm fingers against his flesh was a sensation he'd not felt in years. He'd forgotten how much he'd missed it.

"What happened to him?" she asked softly. "Please tell me."

"He is also in the vault."

Her eyebrows lifted. "The king threw a man of the church in the vault?"

His reply was strangely impassive. "It is of little consequence. The king has a long history of contention with the Church. They cannot do any more to him than they already have."

"But Jocelin is a bishop," she insisted. "Why did this happen?"

Sean cocked an eyebrow. "When he started swinging his staff at the king's guard, there was little more to do. Even bishops must know that they cannot take to violence against the king."

She just sat there, dumbfounded. It seemed as if there was no point in arguing, for she knew what Jocelin was capable of. She'd seen it herself on occasion. When he had left her apartment hours before, he had been angry enough to kill.

"So what now?" she asked softly. "What will become of him?"

Sean pursed his lips thoughtfully, looking down at her hand enclosed within his. He stroked her fingers for a moment. "When the king's anger cools, he will most likely be released."

She was still as he rubbed her fingers, half of her thrilled with the newness of the sensation, the other half embroiled in the mayhem that was enveloping her.

"Jocelin gave John a convenient excuse to be rid of him," she said quietly. "The king knows that Jocelin is one of the leaders of the opposition against his tyranny. He took advantage of Jocelin's rage and used the excuse to jail him. With Jocelin out of the way, there is one less powerful foe to align against him."

Sean stopped rubbing her fingers and looked at her. His clear blue eyes were impassive. "I would not know, my lady."

She gently, but firmly, pulled her fingers from his grasp. "I think that you do," she murmured. "And perhaps it is best that you leave now."

"Why?"

"Because I ask it."

He stood up without another word and went to the door. Sheridan remained seated, staring at the lancet windows across the room, wondering why she felt so utterly horrible at the moment. He was leaving, yet he said he had saved Alys from the king's lust. Politics came into play and she grew scared. Her mind began whirling with doubt, fear, and finally hope. Abruptly, she stood.

"Sir Sean," she said.

He paused, his hand on the door latch. "My lady?"

She hated apologizing; it had never been one of her strong suits. "I… I do not mean to be cruel, for if what you say is true, then I owe you my gratitude for saving my sister yet again." She twisted her fingers as she approached him, confusion on her lovely face. "But there is so much about this world we find ourselves a part of that I do not understand. You, for instance; you are my enemy. Everyone tells me to fear you, yet you have been nothing but kind to me. When you had no reason whatsoever for protecting my sister, it seems that you did so. You have no reason to release Neely, yet you say that you will. And finally, you come to my apartment, kiss my hand and tell me that all will be well as if you and I are fighting for the same cause. I find you tremendously puzzling, Sir Sean. I am unsure how to read you."

He took his hand off the latch, a faint smile on his lips. He made no move to take her hand again or move closer to her.

"As well you should be," his voice was a gentle growl. "I can only tell you this; when I look at you, I do not see politics."

She lifted an eyebrow. "What is it that you see?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I see the most beautiful woman I have ever had the fortune to witness. And she has wit, charm and grace."

She was flattered. "So… is it your wish that we should be friends?"

He gave her an expression, gently done, that suggested she was mad. "Oh, no, my lady," he said softly. "Not friends."

"Then I do not understand."

His clear blue eyes gazed steadily at her, never wavering. "More than friends."

She comprehended his meaning; at least she thought she did. "If you think that our acquaintance should be something clandestine and disgraceful, think again. I'll have no part in being a… a concubine."

He laughed at her. "Nothing so scandalous."

"Is that so? Well, I still do not understand. But, then again, I have not understood anything about you since the day we met."

"I wouldn't worry overly. You'll have the rest of your life to understand me."

"The rest of my life?"

"That is usual when people marry."

Her mouth popped open. "Marry?"

He shook his head as if she was the most unintelligent creature on the face of the earth. Throwing caution to the wind, he threw an arm around her slender waist and pulled her hard against him. Sheridan gasped at the swiftness of the movement, at the shock and delight of being pressed up against his massive torso. He held her fast, a great warm embrace, his face lingering an inch above her own.

"Aye, you silly wench," he growled. "In case you have not yet understood my meaning, you will marry me. There is no one else on earth worthy of you."

She'd never been held by a man in this fashion before; the heat, the excitement, was nearly too much to bear. Her heart was racing and her mouth was dry, but all she could think, feel or hear was Sean's presence around her. It was an all-encompassing, all-consuming sensation.

His lips came down on her mouth, softly at first, but more insistently by the second. It was hot, warm, and deliciously wet. When he spoke, his lips were against her own.

"Agree with me," he commanded softly.

"I cannot," she breathed.

He kissed her again, hard. "Aye, you can. Agree to marry me."

His kisses had her head swimming. "Agree?" she repeated stupidly.

"Aye," he kissed her again, his tongue moving along her lower lip. "Say yes."

"Yes?"

He gently suckled her lower lip when his tongue was done playing with her. "Good girl," he murmured. "Now, I will see you at the feast tonight."

With one more succulent kiss, he was gone. The door closed and Sheridan stood there for one solid minute before she realized that he had left. The only thought she could manage to grasp was one of shock.

What have I done?

*

When Sean returned to John's apartments, he lingered out of sight for a nominal amount of time before making his presence known. It was his usual method of operation so that the king, and others, would not know his pattern of coming and going. There was far too much spying going on between noble and king, soldiers and officers, and he did not want to get caught up in that foolishness. There were those who had tried to watch his movements over the years but they had only come to embarrassment or, in some cases, harm. Sean de Lara was not a man to be watched or monitored. It was best if no one tried.

Even as he lingered in John's receiving room, watching the king hold audience with some of his more loyal barons, his mind was elsewhere. Thoughts of the fairest maiden in all the land filled his brain, numbing him to the activities going on in the room. The king was angry about something; that much was obvious. Sean watched his furious actions but did not hear his words. The only words he could hear, at the moment, were his own.

You will marry me.

He wasn't sure where those words sprang from, but they had come nonetheless. He was not sorry in the least, though he was still rather surprised. He'd never considered himself the marriageable type. His work was his wife, the needs of the king his mistress, and there was no room for anything else. He hadn't even thought on the implications of his proposal or command, whichever one chose to call it. Sheridan St. James was an heiress, and a very wealthy one at that. She was governed by the Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury, the very man who was in the vault at the moment under arrest. Sean could only imagine how the bishop would react when all of this came to light. He knew that Sheridan would not be the one to tell him. It would be Sean.

What he refused to entertain at the moment were thoughts of what it would mean to the king. The term traitor came to mind. He suspected the king would never fully trust him again, yet he also knew that the man would eventually see the political benefit of such a union. He was also fully aware that John would view his wife as something of communal property; it was the thought that disturbed him the most. The political aspect, he could deal with. But his wife would most certainly not be communal property. For that reason, and that reason alone, he would be more than willing to keep the union secret. The less John knew the safer Sheridan would be.

But he could not ignore the fact that the political connotations were almost unfathomable. For a man that had made politics his life's work, it was strange that the politics of such a union, at the moment, did not overly concern him. Sheridan St. James could have nothing but the clothes on her back for all he cared; he wasn't interested in her wealth or political connections. All he knew was that, from the moment he first spoke to the woman, she cleared all else from his mind like a divine flood, washing away the old in favor of the new. He'd hardly spent more than an hour of combined time with her, but still, that time had been nothing like he'd ever experienced. She made him feel alive and warm. She made him feel that life was worth living. He wanted to feel that way forever.

He was distracted from his thoughts as the king abruptly rose from his gilded chair and began stomping around the room. Sean paid attention, thinking perhaps that it might be wise.

"It will do no good to smack the answer out of Jocelin," the king was saying. "He'll not tell us anything and I do not want to risk the wrath of the Church. Already I have pushed them by tossing their bishop in the vault. Even now, I wait for a decree informing me that they have sent word of my actions to Rome."

Fitz Pons was on the opposite end of the conversation. He tended to be the most cowering, the most acquiescent, so the nobles would use him like a shield when dealing with the king. His submissive disposition usually buffered the king's unpredictable temperament.

"Sire," Fitz Pons said. "We know that de Braose arrived this afternoon. I have been told by several reliable sources that he has already met with Hugh de Burgh and the Earl of Salisbury. Given the swiftness of this meeting, I can only surmise that whatever they are planning, they are planning quickly."

"But what?" John exploded. "I employ legions of spies, the best in the world. Why can no one tell me what this means?"

Sean knew he meant him. But he waited until the king actually addressed him before offering any information.

"De Lara," he said. "What do you know of this?"

Sean stepped forward, watching the room of men instinctively shift away from him. "I know that when de Braose arrived, Salisbury and de Burgh were waiting for him. They met at a tavern on St. Ciles hoping that they would not be noticed."

John seemed pleased that his most reliable emissary had current information. "Excellent," his black eyes glittered. "Do we know what transpired?"

Sean shook his head. "It is not known, sire. But at the conclusion of their meeting, Salisbury set off for Billingsgate House."

"Was he followed?"

"He was followed. We discovered he went straight for Rochester, who is supposed to be at St. Bartholomew's with the other bishops. Rochester, interestingly enough, was in disguise. Once Salisbury left, Rochester sent out four riders, all four in different directions. We were unable to track them beyond the city limits."

John's eyes narrowed. "Something is amiss, I can feel it," he hissed. There was panic in his features. "What do you intend to do about it, de Lara? The waves of dissention are growing. They are organizing now!"

Sean lifted an eyebrow. "One of the main pieces to the puzzle is in our vault at this moment. Though we cannot coax truths from the Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury as we would like, there is perhaps someone we can coax."

"Who?"

His reply was as impassive as always, the features on his powerful face without emotion or care. Every man in the room was frighteningly thankful that the name from his lips was not their own. They'd all heard tale of de Lara's methods of torture. They were legendary. Agony was too tame a word.

"Neely de Moreville."

The king's features suffered happy illumination. "Henry St. James' captain," he breathed. "I'd forgotten he was in our vault along with Jocelin. Surely he would know the heart of the matter."

"It is possible, sire," Sean said. "But, then again, he is a mere knight and perhaps not privy to the private dealings of his lords."

John was animated with glee, paranoia. "Find out. By whatever means necessary. And take Gerard with you; his methods of persuasion can be quite barbaric."

"By your command, sire."

Uglier words were never uttered.

*

Sheridan sat alone at the table in the great feasting hall. There was no Alys, no Jocelin, and no Neely. She felt exposed and apprehensive. After her encounter with Sean earlier, she also felt disoriented. Four hours later, thoughts of his kisses still clouded her mind.

The great hall was warm, well-lit and fragrant with fresh rushes. Much wine had already been served. She had imbibed more than she should have out of sheer nerves. She could only pray that William did not join the table; she was in no mood for his flirting tonight. What she wanted more than anything, at the moment, was to see Alys.

"Lady Sheridan St. James?" a male voice spoke. "Excuse me, but are you the Lady Sheridan?"

Sheridan shook herself from her lonely thoughts, glancing across the table. A man in pieces of armor stood there, short of stature, clean-shaven, with black hair and nearly black eyes. He smiled kindly.

"May I know who asks?" she answered.

His smile broadened. "I am Guy de Braose. I believe our fathers were friends."

She blinked as the name registered. "Of course," she said. "I was told you were coming to London."

He gestured to the bench before him. "May I sit, my lady?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." He settled himself down in the chair; he was, truthfully, not much bigger than Sheridan. He had a very youthful, handsome face with big dark eyes. "I do apologize for not being here earlier. We ran into some foul weather which delayed our arrival."

"No apologies necessary," she assured him. "We are glad you have arrived safe."

Guy smiled his thanks and glanced around. "Is Jocelin arrived yet?"

"Aye," she said, wondering how much she should tell him. But she knew he was a trusted ally so she told him what she knew. "There was a bit of trouble this afternoon, I am afraid. Jocelin will not be attending our feast this night."

"Oh," Guy's expression washed with disappointment. "I pray his health is good."

"It is," she assured him. "Sir Guy, I shall be frank. The king somewhat forcibly demanded my sister's company today and when Jocelin found out, he went to the king and created something of a ruckus. I am afraid that he was put in the vault."

Guy's eyebrows rose. "He threw the bishop in the vault?"

She nodded. "My captain of the guard is also there."

"And your sister?"

"I am told she will be joining us this evening, unharmed."

Guy puffed out his cheeks. It was a lot to absorb. "My God," he breathed. "I wish I had been here sooner. Perhaps I could have helped."

"I appreciate your support, but I am sure there is nothing you could have done," she said.

Guy smiled at her, a bashful gesture. He seemed mildly awkward at ease, like a shy adolescent. "Would… would you mind if I sat next to you, my lady? I feel as if we are shouting at each other across the table and I suspect this conversation is not something we would want others to hear."

She saw no harm in it. "I'd be pleased."

He wasted no time in rounding the table and taking a seat next to her. With another shy smile, he collected his goblet and took a healthy drink of his wine. As the conversation stalled, Sheridan looked around the room, seeking her sister.

"I was sorry to hear about your father's passing," Guy said. "My father was very distressed."

She looked at him, forcing a smile. "Thank you," she said. "I know my father thought very highly of Sir Reginald. Did he come with you?"

Guy shook his head. "We've problems on the Marches. He is needed more there."

"Ah," she understood. "I have heard from my father that you have had much trouble as of late."

Guy shrugged. "They wish to rule their own lands. We wish to rule it for them."

She shook her head, taking another sip of her wine. "It seems that war and rebellion are everywhere."

Guy did not respond directly. He changed the subject. "Salisbury should be joining us shortly. Truthfully, I thought he would be here by now."

It occurred to them both that the room seemed to be oddly absent of the king's opponents. Sheridan and Guy seemed to be the only pair with the exception of Hugh de Burgh on the opposite side of the room. He'd not acknowledged them; in fact, Sheridan didn't know him on sight but Guy did. He had pointed the man out to her. Sheridan was coming to wonder if Alys would ever join them, and she was furthermore coming to feel nervous about the atmosphere of the entire room. As the celebration of King Henry's death twenty years earlier, it was naturally full of John's supporters. Her uneasiness grew.

If Guy felt it, he did not say so. Though seemingly a slip of a man, he nonetheless had a great maturity about him. Growing up in the ruthless House of de Braose had done that for him. The family had a history of brutes and deviants, interspersed with men of good character. According to her father, Guy was one of those blessed with such noble traits. Sheridan could sense that.

The clear sound of coronets suddenly pealed throughout the room, announcing the arrival of the king. The entire chamber jumped in anticipation. As Sheridan and Guy rose to their feet, Sheridan heard someone hissing behind her.

She turned, seeing her little maid cowering against the wall. The girl looked terrified and Sheridan immediately went to her.

"What is it?" she demanded. "What's wrong?"

The girl looked as if she'd been weeping. "My lady," she whispered. "Sir Neely… he is come back."

"Where is he?"

"At the apartment, my lady. He is badly hurt."

Sheridan's heart lodged in her throat. "Hurt?" she repeated, shocked. "What happened?"

The girl shook her head, wiping her nose. "He would not say. He is on the floor of the chamber. I think he is dying!"

Sheridan fought her panic. Guy had walked up behind her, listening. When she turned around, he was standing there.

"I must leave," she said to him.

"I heard," he replied. "Who is Sir Neely?"

Sheridan realized that she was actually shaking. "The captain of my guard. He was in the vault this afternoon."

Guy's features tightened. "It sounds as if the king's men have had a little fun with him."

Sheridan couldn't manage a reply. She was heading for a side exit just as the king was entering the hall. Guy thought perhaps it would be the chivalrous thing to escort her. He had no idea it was the worst move he could ever make.

Sean was watching them from the shadows.