Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

"…War is a man's game, though no one thought to tell her that. She was not only playing with fire, she was seducing it…."

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 – 1215 A.D.

T he corridor outside of her apartment was dark and void of the usual guard. Sheridan should have thought that to be strange, but she was too concerned for Neely. When the door to her chambers finally opened, she walked headlong into a room full of the unexpected.

The Earl of Salisbury sat near the blazing hearth along with the bishops of Rochester, Lincoln, Worcester and Coventry. William Marshall stood near a bowl of winter fruit, gorging himself on ripe pears and throwing the cores to the puppy, who was dancing at his feet.

Shocked, she delved further into the room and was greeted by the Earl of Warenne. The Earl of Arundel was back in a corner, conversing quietly with Henry de Neville. The barons Fitz Herbert and Fitz Hugh rounded out the company, older men who had seen much fighting with Henry the Second and Henry St. James. The most powerful men in England filled her antechamber, all quite calmly, and all quite deliberately.

Sheridan's surprise was full-blown. She had no idea how to react. But it was especially evident when the Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury took her by the arm.

"Jocelin," she gasped, hugging him fiercely. "When were you released?"

He kissed her hand. "Earlier this afternoon by Neely."

Her head jerked towards the bedchamber door; Neely stood there, not a bloody mark on him, his dark eyes glittering at her. He bowed chivalrously.

"Oh, my," she sighed heavily, trying to get a grasp on the situation. "But who released Neely? I do not understand any of this. I was told that Neely was.…"

"I know," Jocelin patted her hand. "We had to get you back to your apartment without raising suspicions. 'Twas I who sent Millie after you with tales of death."

Her gaze was still on Neely. "Are you well? How did you get out?"

Neely moved to stand next to her. "It was quite strange, actually," he said. "A bear of a man opened my cell and grabbed me by the arm, took me to Jocelin's cell one flight up, and then told us both to leave. I don't know who he was or why he let us go. But I did not ask questions."

Another surprise in a night that had been full of them. She mulled over Neely and Jocelin's release for a few moments until the activity in the room caught her attention again. She looked around the room, awed by the company therein.

"All of these men," she whispered to Jocelin. "There was no indication in the corridor of their presence. No guards at all."

"Better not to raise suspicions with a collage of sentinels from all over England announcing a room full of nobles."

She understood, somewhat. "But why are they here?"

Jocelin's eyes twinkled. "With the king celebrating the anniversary of his father's death, certainly he did not expect any of us to attend. So, while he is occupied, so are we. Under his very nose."

Sheridan could see the strategy now. Shock fading, she was coming to understand the brilliance of such an assembly. No guards in the hall to announce their meeting, and assembling as the king himself was else occupied.

"The last I saw, he was entering the great hall as Jesus entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday," she said. "Everyone was at his feet."

"Then he shall be occupied for some time," Jocelin took her by the elbow and pulled her into the center of the room. "No better time to start than the present. Gentle nobles, if you please. Now that Glastonbury has arrived, let us begin."

The men around the room put aside their small conversations and Jocelin stepped into the center.

"Thank you for your attention," he said. "I suspect our time is limited to the duration of John's degenerate feast, so I shall come to the point. Henry?"

De Neville moved forward. A thin, wiry man, his family had been a fixture in Northumberland since the days of William the Conqueror. He was cunning and he was wise.

"Good men of England," he began. "There is no need to go into the details of why we are here; we've know this time has been long in coming. With John's recent defeat in France to reclaim his northern territories, he has once again returned to London and to levy more taxes against us and our properties. There was a time when the king would consult with his barons for such a thing, but that time is over. John views himself as an omnipotent emperor, not a king with responsibilities towards his people. We all know that he will tax us into the ground if we do not act."

The nobles glanced at each other, some knowingly, some nervously. Sheridan knew exactly what they were referring to; she and her father had had long discussions about the consensus of the allies. Though as a woman she should have kept silent, as Henry St. James' heiress, she controlled the powers of the earldom. She would speak on behalf of her father.

"I have fifteen hundred retainers camped ten miles to the east along the Thames," she said. "The Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury commands another four hundred. All of these men are awaiting the command to move."

The room was silent with the heaviness of the realization. Everything they had been planning, the secret happenings of months past, was finally coming to bear. They were perhaps a bit ashamed that a woman had been the first one to offer arms. Arundel finally spoke.

"I have two thousand men just north of the city," he said. "They can be ready to march at dawn provided we are all in agreement."

Guy had been relatively unnoticed since the moment he entered the room. He, too, had been shocked by the men unexpectedly receiving him in the St. James antechamber, but his shock had just as quickly disappeared. His father had told him to expect something like this and he was moderately prepared.

"I speak for my father, gentlemen," he said, his voice wise beyond his years. "If London is to be taken, you have de Braose support. Though we've war on the Marches, I have brought five hundred men with me. My father sends his approval for this action."

"It's not merely the action," Sheridan said, still hesitant to speak her mind in such auspicious company but feeling strongly that she should. "Once London is captured, what then? Where is this document I have heard tale of from my father, a charter that will ensure the monarchy will treat the barons with fairness?"

"I have it," William Marshall spoke, like the voice of God. "As Earl of Pembroke, I have appointed myself constable of the document. It has been worded mostly by Stephen, Archbishop of Canterbury and William, Bishop of London, but certainly we have all had a say in the content."

"Is it complete, my lord?" Sheridan asked. "Is it something that will justify our actions should we decide to move forward?"

William shook his head. "It is not yet absolute, my lady. That is why we've met here this night, to complete this document that the king will be bound to govern by."

William snapped his long, gnarled fingers and a man emerged from the shadows, a steward bearing the Marshall cross. From the folds of the man's tunic appeared a long, cylindrical tube, from which he pulled forth a fragile, yellowed vellum. The steward set it upon the table in the center of the room and the others looked at it with varied degrees of interest. It was a large document, full of careful writing.

Sheridan watched the others vie for a better look at the manuscript. She stood back, out of the way, her mind churning with thoughts that Henry St. James planted in her head. She could not rest until she had answers.

"My lord Marshall," she said. "I mean no disrespect, of course, but if I am to order my army to march on London and in essence, create an act of treachery, then I would have my deed supported by a valid foundation from this body of men. That is to say, if I am to march, then let it be for a reason. Let the king be able to behold that reason and fulfill it as required. I will not march for marching's sake. I will not be a traitor for traitor's sake."

As she finished, nearly every man in the room was looking at her. Arundel actually smiled but deferred all comments to the Marshall. He was, after all, the one she had addressed.

"Well said, little Henry," the Marshall said after a moment. The men around the table chuckled softly, as did Sheridan. "The reason is before you. We are reviewing it as you speak. But you will draw your own conclusion; if this document is not sufficient reason for you to march on our king, then I shall not require it, nor will I be disappointed if you do not. You must make your choice."

"Then if we approve the contents of this charter, we will move immediately to secure London in an effort to force the king into agreeing to our terms?"

"London is our hostage. By agreeing to our terms, the king can save her. By saving her, we can thereby save all of England."

"You make it sound simple, my lord."

"Simple, no. But necessary."

Sheridan had no more questions at the moment. William's gaze drifted over her, carefully; he had a good deal of respect for her as Henry's daughter. But there was something more to Lady Sheridan than met the eye; they could all see that. She had intelligence and she was well-thought. Henry had raised a sensible child.

Sheridan could feel his gaze, hoping he didn't think that she was an idiot. Here she was, surrounded by some of the most powerful men in England, all of whom were treating her with a great deal of respect. She supposed it was because of her father, never imagining it was because she was in the process of establishing her own foundation of support. Eyeing the men around the table, she walked towards the document, her gaze running over the yellowed parchment. She finally looked to the Marshall.

"I cannot read, my lord," she admitted. "Would you be so kind as to read what the document says?"

William smiled at her and wedged himself in between Fitz Herbert and Salisbury. His gaze focused on the first clause.

"First, that we have granted to God, and by this present charter have confirmed for us and our heirs in perpetuity, that the English Church shall be free, and shall have its rights undiminished…"

A knock at the door interrupted him. The mood of the room turned black with apprehension as Jocelin spoke quickly to Sheridan.

"Do not open the door," he instructed firmly. "Ask who it is and send them away."

She nodded and went to the door, followed by Neely with a dagger in his hand. He stood to the left of the door as Sheridan spoke through the panel.

"Who calls?" she asked.

"'Tis me," Alys' voice filtered through. "Let me in!"

Before Jocelin could stop her, Sheridan threw open the door. Alys stood there, looking perfectly safe, whole and sound. Sheridan was about to throw her arms around her when she saw a figure lingering behind her, nearly obscured by the dark shadows of the hall. The figure, in fact, had hold of Alys' arm as an escort would. It took Sheridan a moment to realize that it was de Lara.

And he could see everyone in the room beyond.

*

The sun was brilliant and the birds in the January-dead trees sang a happy tune. Spring was months away, but the weather seemed to be encouraging a quick approach. Being January, snowfall and the moisture it brought would have been good for the earth. But the sun was good for the people that ventured into the outdoors to bask in the cold, bright rays.

Sheridan was no exception. Seated on a chair her maid had brought in the yard outside of the Flint Tower, she held a piece of needlework that she had been attempting to complete for the better part of a year. It was an ambitious piece her mother had designed, with hummingbirds and flowers and little bees. Sheridan's slender fingers had never been good with a needle and the fabric was covered in little brown spots where she had poked herself and bled. Even now, she was attempting the piece to keep her mind off the other events that seemed to have embedded themselves into the fabric of her life. Nothing was simple any more. Things only seemed to grow worse.

Alys hadn't gotten out of bed for three solid days, ever since Sean had escorted her back to their apartments following her afternoon with the king. She had decided that she wanted to be a royal consort and was convinced that the king was in love with her. When Sheridan had, not so nicely, told her she was mad for even entertaining such a thought, Alys had taken to her bed, miserable. Sheridan and Neely had taken turns watching out for her, making sure she didn't try to leap from the window again or make an attempt to contact the king. She was essentially a prisoner. But a miserable sister was better than a dead one.

It was Sheridan's turn to take a break from guard duty. She wanted out of the apartments and into the sunshine for as long as it would last. While Neely grudgingly stayed with Alys, Sheridan, the puppy and her maid retreated to cool daylight of the Tower yard. While the puppy ran off and the maid gave chase, Sheridan attempted the needlework, her mind mulling over the millions of thoughts that had succeeding in robbing her of sleep as of late.

Her most prevalent thought was of Sean. He hadn't said a word when he'd dropped Alys off three days prior. His clear blue eyes had perused the face of every man in the antechamber before he left in complete silence. Shortly thereafter, the meeting had hastily disbanded. She knew that short of the king showing up at her door and catching them all in perfidious conference, having been seen by Sean de Lara had been the worst possible scenario. The nobles were clearly terrified and she felt as if they somehow blamed her for the event. Arrests were expected and some of them had even gone into hiding. But, so far, nothing had happened.

It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop, the hammer of the Gods that would smash them all into oblivion. Sheridan was afraid for herself, of course, but she was more afraid for Jocelin. Not even the Church could protect him were he labeled a traitor.

But more than that, she was concerned for what Sean thought. It wasn't as if he hadn't known her loyalties were not to John. They had discussed that at the onset. But she suspected, somehow, he knew her for what she was; a conspirator. Her loyalties lay with England, not with a deviant king. Still, she knew he did not see it that way. As the personal protector of the king, there was no way he could not understand that she was the worst sort of enemy.

It was a depressing thought. De Lara had always shown her such courtesy, such regard. She had enjoyed their encounters and the way in which he spoke to her. He did not speak to her as some men spoke to women, as if the female barely had a brain. Sean spoke to her with respect. She would miss that. She would miss him, too.

She went back to her needlework, stabbing herself for the tenth time that day. With a yelp, she put the sore finger in her mouth to suck away the blood. She needed a thimble but did not want to return to her apartment to get one. A shadow suddenly fell across her and a massive hand reached down to take the finger from her mouth.

"Let me see," Sean's voice was soft, deep. He glanced at the material in her hand. "From the looks of that, this isn't the first time you have done this."

Sheridan was more than startled. She nearly fell off her chair with surprise. "My lord," she struggled to catch her breath. "Forgive me. I did not hear your approach."

He wiped at the small dot of blood on her finger. "I meant that you should not." He kissed the fingertip and gave her back her hand. "There, now. Better?"

She looked between her finger and his twinkling eyes. "Much," she said. Then, she didn't know what to say other than the obvious. "Are you here to arrest me?"

He crouched down beside her chair, his blue eyes scanning the compound around them. "Why would I do that?"

"For the unlawful assembly you saw in my apartment. If you are here to take me, I shall go peacefully."

He pursed his lips, slowly shaking his head. "A memorial."

"Excuse me?"

"All of those men I saw in your apartment were friends of your father, having come to pay tribute to you and to his memory. All I saw was a memorial."

She just stared at him. Feeling her confused gaze, he turned to look at her. "Did you have something more to say to that?" he asked.

Sheridan was baffled, relieved, and overjoyed at the same time. She had no idea how to react. "Do I?"

"Nay, you do not."

"Are you sure?"

"I am."

"As you wish, then. But I would like to ask a question."

"What is that?"

"Why would you do this?"

"Do what?"

She wasn't sure how to word her thoughts, not wanting to contradict him when they both knew very well that he had taken the time, effort and thought to cover actions that would have brought anyone else immediate imprisonment. In that instant, the blossoming relationship between them deepened. The path, for them, was chosen. It was a defining moment.

"Oh… I do not know," she finally gave up, her luminous eyes moving over his strong features. "I suppose I am simply wondering why you would be so good to me."

A smile played on his lips. "Because you are my betrothed."

"Am I still?"

His brow furrowed. "What would make you think that you are not?"

She put the needlework in her lap. "Must everything with you be so evasive? Do you realize that you have answered almost all of my questions with another question?"

"Have I?"

She growled in frustration and he chuckled softly. "'Tis not my intention to be evasive, my lady. But the answers you seek to your questions are ones that you can just as easily answer yourself."

Her gaze locked with his. A strange heat filled the space between them, a warmth that bloomed in her chest and spread outward into her arms and legs and fingers. Everything was tingling. The longer she looked at him, the stronger the warmth became.

"You are perhaps correct in some respects," she said softly. "But there are times when I would like an answer from your own lips."

He felt the heat, too. He was positively melting the longer he looked at her. "As you wish, my lady. What answer would you like to hear?"

She could not have pulled away from his gaze if she tried. She didn't want to try. But she could not have assumptions and conjecture between them.

"I would have total truth between us, Sir Sean," she said softly. "I expect nothing less and will accept nothing more. If I ask you a question, will you answer me honestly?"

"I will."

"Do you know what was transpiring in my apartment the night you brought Alys back to me?"

"Aye."

He didn't hesitate with his answer. Her heart leapt into her throat, thinking of all the men who were undoubtedly in danger. "Did you tell the king?"

"You said only one question."

Frustrated, she stood up and the needlework fell to the ground. "Do you have any idea how horrible it has been for me, knowing you saw all of those men in my apartment and knowing that because of me, their very lives are at stake? They're terrified and suspicious, and I do not blame them. And it is my fault!"

He stood up, too. Taking her hand, the one she had poked, he tucked it in to the crook of his elbow.

"Walk with me," he commanded quietly.

Dumbly, she obeyed. Sean walked her over to the wall, west of the Flint Tower. It was cool in the shadows, out of the view of most. Slowly, they paced the dirt as it stretched along the enormous expanse of masonry.

"As you said when we first met, you and I could be considered enemies," his voice was low, guarded. "If I chose to believe that, it would be easy. You have made it easy for me."

"I am not your enemy," she replied. "But I do not hold the same loyalties as you."

"Loyalties are perception. They are not always truth."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you should not believe everything you see or everything you are told." He came to a stop and faced her, his eyes scanning the walls before focusing on her. "I will say this once and then speak no more of it. You are a young, na?ve kitten caught up in a game played by ferocious lions. They will eat you if you are not careful. Your father was a lion like the rest of them and knew the game well. I cannot believe he has left you so defenseless in this den of animals."

She could sense concern in his voice. "What do you mean?"

He grasped her gently by the arms. "What I mean is that you must get out while you can. Take Alys and go home. I will come for you when I am able."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Do you know something that I do not? Are we in danger?"

"You have fifteen hundred men within a two hour march of London."

She struggled not to react. "Who told you that?"

"It is my duty to know that and more."

It wasn't his tone that scared her as much as his words. Her heart began to thump heavily against her ribs. She pulled from his grasp, stepping back to give some space between them. She was afraid and defiant at the same time.

"If you have spent the past week attempting to woo me so that you can get information out of me, then you have wasted your time. I'll not tell you anything."

"If you think that is the only reason I have wooed you, then you are more na?ve than I suspected."

Her fear and fury took hold and she turned away from him, unsure of what to say, unsure of what to do. She hadn't taken two steps when he grabbed her, spinning her around to face him. His body was pressed against hers, his face filling up her entire field of vision. The heat, the power, was overpowering.

"What I feel for you has nothing to do with politics," he growled. "What I feel for you is purely between a man and a woman. Do not believe for one minute that I do not know why you are here, or who your companions are, or even those passing in and out of your apartment. It is my responsibility to know all, see all, for the protection and information of the king. My eyes are his eyes in all things. I will admit this to you; I escorted Alys back to your apartment that night not for the reason you think. I did it because I saw you leave with young de Braose. Had I found him alone with you in your apartment, I would have killed him. Instead, I found you with a roomful of men conspiring around a table. I could have told the king the verity of my observations, but I chose not to. Politics, at that moment, did not come into play. I was simply glad that you were safe and adequately chaperoned regardless of the disloyal circumstances."

It was a shocking admission from John's most ferocious protector. She had never seen such passion from him, a palpable thing that reached out to embrace her. Her small hands found their way around his waist, hesitantly at first. His flesh, through his tunic, was firm and warm beneath her fingers.

"What did you tell him?" she whispered.

"That I saw old friends paying respect to the family of their deceased colleague."

Now that his admission was finally clear, she could hardly believe her ears. "You lied to protect me? My God, Sean… why would you do that?"

He could feel her hands and the power those small appendages had over him was unexpected. He would have done almost anything for her at that moment, just to feel her tender warmth, her response, against him.

"I told you why," he growled gently. "And you ask too many questions."

His lips descended on her, softly at first, but more persistent by the moment. The heat that had been smoldering between them ignited into a roaring inferno and Sean pulled her into his savage embrace, feeling her yielding body collapse against him. She was sweet, soft, delicious, and he kissed her as he had never kissed a woman in his life. Up until this moment, he wasn't sure if he really ever had. At least, not like this.

Sheridan's thoughts, as nebulous as they were at the moment, followed a similar path. The only tale of men's kisses she had ever heard had come from Alys, sloppy things that had left a chord of distaste in her mind. But Sean's kiss was nothing as she had been told; it was powerful and tender at the same time, warm and passionate. Being held by him, consumed by him, was nothing she had ever experienced before. She knew within the first few moments of delight that it was something she could learn to crave. Perhaps Alys hadn't been too terribly wrong about the allure of men, after all. Perhaps there was something to it.

"God," Sean breathed, his lips moving to her cheek. "I cannot go a moment of the day without thinking of you."

"Strange," she whispered, feeling his mouth against her skin. "We go for days without seeing one another."

"Not by choice, I assure you," he said. "The king keeps me quite busy."

She pulled back, gazing up at him. Strands of her long hair were caught on his mail and he carefully pulled them free.

"This is all so wonderful," she murmured. "But it is also so confusing. We've known each other a matter of days and already we are betrothed and…."

She couldn't finish her sentence. He tapped her tenderly on her chin. "And… what?"

She shook her head. "I was going to say mad for each other, but I am not sure that's true. Perhaps it is the newness of all of this causing me to speak before I think. I feel as if I am going to faint, yet I am so happy that I could shout it to the world." She put her hand to her forehead. "I do not know what I am saying, Sean. Forgive me."

He smiled at her, a delicious gesture wrought with delight and tenderness. "There is nothing to forgive. I feel as you do, though you'll not hear me admit it again. 'Tis wrong for a man to admit he feels faint and giddy."

She giggled, her wits returning after his kiss had drained her of them. Gazing up at his handsome face, she tenderly touched his forehead, his cheek, as if studying a fine piece of sculpture. There was so much character and strength in those powerful lines.

"I have never been mad for anyone," she whispered. "This is all so new to me."

He closed his eyes as her hand moved across his face. "Nor I. But I do know one thing; we will never be without one another. This I swear."

Her hand fell from his face, her features softening with concern. "But our situations are so different. Sean, I must ask you honestly; when you insisted on marriage, did you even think about my station, about yours, and how it would affect us both? The reality of the other night when you brought Alys back to the apartment only served to underscore that difference. Do you think any of those men would ever trust me again if they knew that you and I were speaking of betrothal? Do you think….?"

He put a finger to her lips. "I am aware of the implications, even more than you are. Do not think for one moment that those very thoughts have not crossed my mind a thousand times. And do not think for one moment that the king would not have me executed if he discovered our ties."

Her eyes widened. "Executed?" she gasped. "Oh, Sean, that cannot happen. You cannot…!"

He kissed her to silence her, a passionately urgent gesture. "Have no fear, my lovely little angel. As long as we keep this secret safe between us, for the time being, there is no danger."

She was torn between responding to his kisses and the verity of her fears. "But someone might see us together," she said. "Even now, someone might be watching. 'Tis not safe."

He sighed, kissing her a final time. "I know," he replied with regret. "Which is why our meetings have been irregular and, at times, brief. I do not know when I will see you next. It may be tomorrow, or it may be weeks away. Even now, I have been gone overlong from my post. But I consider the risk well worth the reward."

She shook her head. "You must go back immediately."

"I will, in time."

It was obvious he had no intention of releasing her any time soon. She pulled from his embrace, grasped his arm, and tried to turn him around. "You will go no w. Please."

He grinned, allowing her to lead him away from the shadows of the wall. "Aye, captain."

By the time they were halfway into the winter-dry yard, she had taken her hands from him and they were a respectable distance apart. There could very well be eyes on them now and they were both acutely aware.

"The king will announce a masque to be given in honor of his wife's birthday sometime next week," he said, his demeanor having returned to that of a predator as they crossed the compound. His gaze was everywhere, scanning. "You will attend this masque."

She glanced sidelong at him. "I will?"

"Aye. As will I. In costume, 'twill be a simple thing to steal a dance or a kiss. And I should enjoy the time with you."

"I will not see you between now and then?"

"I did not say that. You will indeed see me, at some point."

They walked in silence, nearing the Flint Tower. Finally, she came to a halt. "Sean, I must say something."

He paused. "What?"

Her face grew serious. "I… I would rather not see you again if the discovery of our association would lead to your execution. As much as it would pain me, I would rather have you alive and untouchable than a dead memory."

The mood between them grew solemn. His gaze lingered on her a moment, choosing his words carefully before he spoke.

"I told you once that the one trait that ignited my interest in you, other than your beauty, was your kindness. You were kind to me from the very first moment you looked into my eyes. Before you even knew my name, you were gracious, and even after you knew who I was, your civility continued. Even if you had been a plain, unassuming woman, I would have found your depth of character extraordinarily attractive. You, my lady, have a beautiful heart."

Her lovely cheeks flushed. "Your words humble me, my lord. But you must know that I mean what I say. I cannot even fathom the agony and guilt that your demise would bring me. I would be like Alys, attempting to throw myself from a window simply to rid myself of the anguish."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "I have no intention of allowing death to claim me any time soon. To not have you in my life, at my side, would be more painful than any death I can imagine." He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Have no fear, Lady Sheridan St. James. We will both live long, healthy lives together."

His kiss brought tears to her eyes. She'd known the man's affections hardly a few days and already she could not imagine being without him. With a wink, he left her standing there, watching him disappear into one of the doors that lead to the barracks flanking the Flint Tower.

*

"Siege is imminent. We are withdrawing the nobles from the Tower so that they may join their troops."

"Even Sheridan St. James?"

"Especially Sheridan St. James. God only knows what would happen to her should she be left behind. It is imperative that she get out immediately."

The bell tower of Winchester Cathedral had been a convenient meeting place time and time again. The king was in the sanctuary at Vespers and Sean, as usual, was prowling the grounds in search of any threat against the monarch. That was usual wherever the king went. Only this time, he had paused in his duties long enough to make a pre-arranged contact. It had been conveniently arranged to coincide with the mass. What he heard so far had him ill to his stomach.

He sighed heavily. "I told her to leave."

"Did you tell her why?"

"Of course not."

"Did she agree?"

Sean leaned back against the ceiling truss in the low-ceilinged room. "She did not have the opportunity. We became… sidetracked."

The figure behind the bell, well off in the shadows, would not have hay on his clothing tonight. The last time they had met, he'd neglected to see the grass until someone had pointed it out to him, hours later. It had been a foolish error. Tonight there would be no such opportunity for one.

"Sean," the shadow-figure began. "I do not know the extent of your involvement with Lady Sheridan, but if it is what I believe it is, then you must curb yourself. We have reached a critical point in our endeavors and I cannot have you distracted."

"It is not a distraction," Sean replied steadily. "We are to be wed when all of this madness is finished."

"Wed?" the figure repeated, incredulous. "Are you mad? You cannot marry the woman."

"I can and I will."

"Jocelin will never allow it."

"Jocelin will approve when all is said and done."

There was fidgeting and grunts of disbelief coming from the shadows. "So you believe that your service warrants the earldom of Bath and Glastonbury? Not that I disagree, but you picked a mighty difficult goal. To aim for Sheridan St. James is, shall we say, reaching for the heavens. She is gloriously wealthy and well supported by the Bishop."

Sean picked at the beam above his head. "This isn't about the damn earldom," he said, disgust in his voice. "She could have only the clothes on her back for all I care. She is a deeply compassionate and courageous woman, and I greatly admire her. That is why I am marrying her, and for no other reason."

"Don't tell me that you believe yourself in love with her?" the voice was cold.

"If not now, then I very shortly will be."

"Sean, Sean," the voice moaned, sing-song. "We cannot have this complication. Twenty thousand men are preparing to capture London as we speak. I need your head clear, not addled like a foolish child's. I swear on the grave of St. George that I'll remove Sheridan St. James myself and hide her from you until this is all over if you do not focus on the tasks at hand. You have come too far to fail now."

"I'll not fail," Sean said evenly. "And you'll not touch Sheridan. If I catch wind of you so much as looking at her, you'll rue the day you were born. She is not a pawn to be trifled with."

"Even as your threats fill my ears, that statement alone tells me that you are already in love with her," the voice replied. He sighed deeply, shifting in the shadows as he collected more pressing thoughts. "All that aside, she must leave the Tower. She will probably take it more seriously if Jocelin or one of the other nobles forces her to move."

Sean nodded. "That is where the directive must come. When I told her, I simply sounded like a jealous lover."

"Are you?"

"What?"

"Jealous?"

Sean hissed, running his fingers through his hair. "Probably. I saw young de Braose escort her back to her apartment the other night and was fully prepared gut him."

There was a pregnant pause, long and solemn. "Then you should know that Reginald was in negotiations with Henry St. James before his death to marry Guy to Sheridan, though she does not know it. Since she had refused all suitors up until that point, Henry thought it best not to tell her."

Sean felt as if he'd been slapped. "Who told you this?"

"Jocelin."

"Are negotiations still ongoing?"

"Aye. That is why Reginald sent Guy to London, among other reasons. It was Reginald and Henry's hope that once Sheridan met Guy, she would more readily accept him as a suitor."

Sean didn't have a ready reply. He just stood there. After a moment, he hit the beam above his head so hard that the entire bell tower shook. Sawdust and other flotsam floated down in the still air, landing on the floor, in his hair, on the bell. His jaw flexed dangerously, the clear blue eyes distant and hard.

"Never in my life have I ever wanted anything other than to serve the cause," he growled. "Since I was seventeen years of age, I have been completely selfless and dedicated to my task. You have seen nothing but flawless duty from me and it was because I had convinced myself that someday, I would be rewarded for my service. I knew this world would pass away and a new England would take hold where I would not have to stay to the shadows, where I would not be feared and loathed, and where I would not have to defend my life every moment of every day. Now, when I can see the light at the end of the road and I have found the only thing I have ever wanted, you are telling me that I am going to have to fight for this, too?"

The tone of the voice was patient, understanding. "I am not saying you will have to fight for this. I am simply telling you that there is competition. Did you suspect for one moment that there was not? Sheridan St. James is a beautiful, wealthy woman."

"She has a sister," Sean snapped softly. "Give Alys to de Braose. He'll still gain a fortune."

"In spite of what you may think, Guy de Braose is a fine young man. He is brave and level-headed. And from what Jocelin has told me, he is quite enamored with Sheridan."

Sean growled and the voice spoke quickly. "It's not his fault, Sean. He does not know of your interest, as no one does. I suspect you intend it that way, do you not?"

Sean stood there a moment, pounding the beam absently as he mulled over his thoughts and the words of wisdom from the shadows. "It is," he finally said. "No one can know, for obvious reasons."

"Then do not be hard on de Braose. You cannot fault the man his good taste."

Sean just rolled his eyes. There was resignation in his posture as he stepped away from the beam. "It is not as if my family is not as old or prestigious as the House of de Braose," he muttered. "My family, in fact, has been here far longer than the Norman usurpers."

The man behind the voice knew Sean well. He knew that de Lara was a man of impeccable character, of flawless devotion, and of singular mind when it came to King and duty. He'd never once asked for compensation or reward for the deadly task he had undertaken nine years ago. The words coming forth from de Lara at the moment were words of self-pity, of emotion. The man behind the voice was shocked at the depth he was witnessing.

"I know that very well," he said. "You can trace your lineage back six hundred years to the ancient kings of Deira. Your father was Viscount Darlington and your elder sister married into the Umfravilles of Prudhoe Castle, heirs to Northumberland. Your father's title and lands have passed to you since his death, including Stonegrave Castle. But because of your devotion to duty, the castle has stood unoccupied for six years, alone, waiting for your return."

Sean slapped the beam again, unexpectedly and sharply. "Exactly. Because my commitment to the cause was more important to me than assuming my rights as Viscount Darlington. And for what? To be told that all of this has been for naught, that what I truly want in reward for my service might very well be denied to me because you apparently don't trust that I can keep my focus on the cause? I find that offensive. I have given up more than anyone for what I believe in. You have no right to deny me what I want."

"No one is denying you," the voice said calmly. "But you must look at all angles. Your timing is poor. We must focus on what is most important right now."

"Is my sense of duty being called into question?"

"Most certainly not."

"I will not give up Lady Sheridan."

The voice, once again, sighed heavily. There was no getting around the subject. Men in love could be the most stubborn creatures on the face of the earth.

"As you say," the voice said. "But she must leave the Tower at once, for her own safety. I will instruct Jocelin to make it so. Now, may we speak on other matters?"

Sean was broodingly silent, his mind a clutter of thought and emotions. He was unused to such disorder. "Aye," he finally said.

"Tell me of the king."

"He knows that something is amiss. He knows of Rochester's meeting with Salisbury."

"Has he gone so far as to rally his troops?"

"Not yet."

"You cannot let him, Sean. And you cannot let him leave the Tower."

"Understood."

"What is his troop strength?"

Sean pushed himself off the wall, crossing his massive arms as he spoke. "Warwick and Percy have a massive contingency from the north between them. They are nearing Coventry from what I am told, at least one week away. Suffolk has a thousand men to the east within a day's ride, as does Norfolk. William Fitz Osbern has brought his entire regiment from Monmouth, about eight hundred men. Plus the royal troops, there are nearly five thousand men in or around London that will oppose the siege."

The voice snorted. "We will crush them."

"You must be vigilant of Warwick and Percy from the north. They will be able to attack you from behind and create a second front."

"We can position men to prevent the main body of our army from being disrupted," he said. "Unless… unless we wait for Warwick and Percy to reach London and bed within her walls."

"I would advise against it. Take London now while she is weak. Call in reinforcements from the Marches to occupy Warwick and Percy."

The voice grew serious. "Then I must speak with de Warenne. He will know his loyal March allies."

"We cannot expect any more support from de Braose. He is raging war right now with the Welsh."

"Not the Welsh, Sean," the voice said softly. "Against Clifford. Reginald is going after Kington Castle on the Marches in an effort to wrest it from Walter Clifford."

Sean hadn't heard that bit of information, and he usually knew everything through his network of informants and spies. "But Clifford is here, in London."

"I know."

"Surely he is aware of the siege?"

"Possibly not yet. He has been here for some time. It takes time for news to travel."

"Then how do you know?"

"Young de Braose confided in a few."

Sean shook his head at the irony of it. "Revenge is sweet. Clifford stole it from the de Braose clan and now they want it back. Young de Braose has been telling everyone his father isn't here because he is fighting rebels."

"He is, in sorts, just not Welsh rebels."

There was a humor to the irony of political agendas and the petty wars of barons. Sean lingered the information a moment longer before tucking it away.

"We should meet by sunset tomorrow to follow any progress that has been made," he said. "The king will not be leaving the Tower anytime soon that I can see. We will have to rendezvous on the grounds."

"The well house near the barracks."

They had been in the bell tower overlong. Sean brushed the dust off his arms and made for the narrow, spiral stairs that led to the parapet below. He knew the king would soon be looking for him.

"Sean," the voice said. "The meeting you saw in Lady Sheridan's apartment the other night…"

Sean held up a hand. "No worries. I told the king it was a wake for Henry."

"I know." The voice paused. "My secondary sources tell me that he did not believe you. You should be aware."

Sean leaned against the wooden rail. After a moment, he smiled dryly. "It is not because he does not believe me personally. It is because he is suspicious of everything regardless of what we all tell him. He lives in a world of paranoia that the rest of us can only imagine."

"Are you certain?"

"Nine years of experience tells me this."

"Be cautious, anyway. You are our best, strongest asset in this war against tyranny."

Sean nodded, took another stair, and suddenly paused again. "I nearly forgot to ask. The document I wrote; did you receive it?"

"Father Simon delivered it. That is what we were examining the other night when you saw us in the St. James' apartment."

"I thought as much. Did it incorporate everything it should?"

"That and more. Your text is brilliant. You clearly have a talent with written prose."

"Under your direction, of course. But remember; I do not want my name mentioned anywhere. I am not responsible for this document that will change the course of this country. I would rather be an invisible contributor. Leave the glory to those who wish it."

"Have no fear. The impression was given that the Bishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London were the authors. No one will ever know that you are the true creator of the Magna Carta."

"Is that what you are calling it?"

"Fitting, is it not?" The voice suddenly took on a concerned tone. "And speaking of writing, are you still keeping your journals?"

"I am."

"Take care that they do not fall into the wrong hands."

"The priest keeps them for me in the chapel. They are safe."

"See that they are. I have always disagreed that you keep a log of your years with the king."

"Perhaps someday they will give historians an insight into his madness and the turbulence of the times. Besides, you know that I have always been fond of writing. It keeps me sane."

"You should stick to treaty writing. It is safer."

Sean snorted with humor as he reflected on the title of the treaty that had taken a year out of his life to write. The Magna Carta . Sean quit the bell tower and disappeared into the shadows below. When the cathedral was sufficiently vacant, the Voice disappeared as well.

Time was running short.