Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

"…when it became obvious that nothing we had planned for would come to pass, other ideals took shape. It was necessary. A man of experience knows his limitations. I refused to accept mine…."

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 – 1215 A.D.

T he corridors of the royal wing were quiet at this time of day. As dusk fell and shadows waned, the royal guard were changing shifts and the king was taking his usual late-afternoon slumber so that he would be able to stand an evening of food and drink without retiring early. It spoiled his fun. De Lara and d'Athée were in their usual room, in the chamber off of the king's main bower. This time of day was like the calm before the storm. Sean was sharpening a small dagger; d'Athée was trying to make heads or tails out of a map of the Welsh Marches.

He wasn't an educated man. Gerard's strength lay in the physical realm. He was as strong as a bear but as shallow as a cat. There wasn't much he knew or cared about other than enough liquor to drink and enough women to bed. He relied on Sean's intellect where it really mattered. The two of them had worked side by side, day and night, for five years. To date, it had been a compatible relationship though they could hardly be called close. It was simply the way of things.

"De Lara," Gerard scratched his loused head, his frustrated expression fixed upon the map. "Kington; where is it?"

Sean glanced up from the dagger. "South of Montgomery."

"Where?"

Sean stood up, still rubbing the dagger against the stone, and walked over to where Gerard stood against the table. He looked at the map and thumped a finger on the spot.

"There," he said.

Gerard squinted at the map. "Is it a big castle?"

"Big enough. Clifford holds it, plus he also holds Clifford Castle and Hay-on-Wye Castle."

Gerard shook his head. "Not so."

"What do you mean?"

"Clifford came to see the king while you were off with the red-haired chit. De Braose is laying siege to Kington as we speak. He had it before and now he wants it back."

Sean lifted an eyebrow but did not respond further. He walked away from the table, back to his chair. Gerard was still focused on the map.

"He wants you to ride for Kington," he said. "He'll be sending you within the week."

"Who?"

"The king."

Sean had to consciously prevent himself from reacting. He took his seat casually, spit on the stone, and continued sharpening the dagger. "Did he tell you this?"

"Aye." Gerard looked up from the map. "De Lara, 'tis your business what you do with the red-head. God knows, I have done enough with women to warrant a fine place in Hell. But at least I take them after our king has had his fill. I think your actions have concerned him."

"Is that so?" Sean knew that Gerard could hardly keep a secret, or his opinions, to himself. With Gerard, sometimes it was difficult to separate the two. "What actions are those?"

"That you took the woman away from him. He doesn't like competition."

"So he is sending me to fight Clifford's war in punishment?" Sean snorted. "I would hardly believe that."

"He is sending you to smash de Braose."

Sean continued the steady grind of metal against stone, although his thoughts were racing. "That," he said slowly, "I would believe. Did he say this?"

Gerard nodded. "He is furious with the de Braose clan. With the final father and son remaining from that great dynasty, he is determined to crush them once and for all. Were the king to confiscate their holdings along the Marches, it would greatly enrich his coffers."

"Indeed," Sean sighed, trying to appear as if the information really did not concern him. "The House of de Braose has been a Norman fixture in England since the conquest. I am almost sorry to see the last of the line go."

"Don't be," Gerard said. "If I were you, I'd worry about the House of St. James."

Sean's heart skipped a beat. "What in the hell for?"

Gerard made his way over to where Sean was seated. "Because our king is mulling over the possibility of razing Lansdown Castle on your way to the Marches."

Sean stopped sharpening. He stared at Gerard, struggling not to overtly respond. "Why would he do that?"

"Why not?"

Sean held Gerard's gaze a moment longer, trying to read him. But the man's expression was characteristically stupid. He slowly went back to his blade. "Then he'd better send me with a large army. Lansdown is nearly impenetrable."

Gerard lingered around the chair for the moment. Sean could feel him breathing down his neck. He wasn't so sure why the man was being so solicitous, but he didn't like it. He was suspicious. The blade in his hand suddenly ended up at Gerard's throat.

D'Athée threw his hands up in response to the threatening action. There was a glimmer of humor in his dark eyes.

"Not me, my friend," he said with a smile. "I am not your enemy."

Sean's clear blue eyes were laced with venom. "Tell me everything you have heard and tell me why you feel the need to be so solicitous."

Gerard continued to grin at him in the hopes of infuriating Sean. It didn't work. After a moment, his smug grin faded.

"He had me follow you this afternoon," he rumbled. "He wanted to see where you took the St. James girl. I followed you to the physic and back to the St. James apartments. Then I followed you back to the physic again, where you sent the man back to the St. James' chambers. And now, here we are, cozy comrades."

Sean had the point of the blade aimed right at his major artery. One flick and the man would bleed to death right in front of him. They both knew that it was not out of the realm of possibility; they'd both seen Sean do far worse.

"Why did he have you follow me?" Sean's tone was as deadly as the wicked gleam of the blade.

"Because you stopped him from having his way with the red-haired girl. You have never done that before."

A split-second of uncertainty crossed Sean's eyes, but Gerard was too dense to see it. "I told him why. There is no mystery to it."

Gerard shook his head, rubbing his neck against the blade. Spots of blood appeared. "But you took her to the physic and escorted her home."

Sean lifted an eyebrow. "I have done that before, too, and well you know it. In fact, you have accompanied me on such outings. I did nothing with the St. James woman that I haven't done before."

"Except stopped the king from taking her. You know as well as I do that no one does that and escapes his wrath, or his suspicions."

"So what has he sent you to do? Watch every move I make? Kill me as I sleep?"

Gerard shook his head, carefully. "No, my friend. Nothing so drastic. You are a favorite of our king. But you placed doubt in his mind with your actions. He will demand a show of your loyalty now."

Sean could see where he was leading. "To destroy Lansdown?"

"To prove you are more loyal to him than to the House of St. James."

With a hiss, Sean dropped the knife and turned away. "So that's it," he said. "He needs affirmation of my fealty."

"Aye."

Sean turned to him. "Does he really think I have loyalties to the opposition? For Christ's sake, I have spent nine years in his personal service. Does he really believe I would jeopardize my standing for a stupid wench hardly out of swaddling clothes?"

Gerard shrugged. "All I know is what I have heard. He has not told me anything directly. I would expect he would do that, to you, very shortly."

Sean's jaw was ticking, a million thoughts rolling through his mind. "He wants me out of London and off to the wilds," he muttered to himself. There was tremendous irony in his voice as he slowly shook his head. "Oh, sweet mercy."

Gerard left him alone. Sean didn't know where the man went, but he suspected it was to tell the king of their conversation. Of that, he was unconcerned. But he was deeply concerned with the course the last few minutes had taken.

So he would be ordered to ride to Kington, destroying Lansdown along the way. It didn't even matter that Lansdown would be his own when he married Sheridan. It had nothing to do with that. What mattered was making sure Sheridan was safe before he left, and there was no doubt he would go. He had to. Nine years had come to this point and he would not risk everything, at least not now.

Everything now hinged on the attack on London. It had to be before he left for the Marches so that he did not have to go. He would undoubtedly be required to stay and protect the city. Consequently, he had to get Sheridan out of London now and send her home for her own safety. However, if the attack on London was delayed and he found himself mobilizing for the Marches with Lansdown in his path, then he would find himself attacking the castle with Sheridan within its walls.

It was an appalling prospect.

A few hours before dawn found Alys wandering the halls of the royal apartments again. Roused from a deep sleep, Sean could hear her distant weeping. With a start, he threw himself out of the chair he had been dozing on and tossed open the doors from his chamber so hard that one of them actually unhinged. He was in the corridor, marching towards the sounds of her weeping.

She was disheveled and hysterical, attempting to tell a crimson-clad guard the purpose of her visit. Sean marched upon her and she cried out the moment she saw him. But he knew, whatever she said, could not be beneficial to anyone so he slapped a massive hand over her mouth and physically carried her back down the hall in the direction that she had come. He didn't want her anywhere near the royal apartments. She had already cost him much. He would not let her cost him everything.

Halfway down a servant's stair, he set her down. Her face was red and damp from weeping.

"I told you never to come back here again," he growled. "It was not a request but a command. I told you that if I saw you again that I would.…"

"Sir Sean, please," Alys sobbed. "I came to find you. My sister is very ill."

He forgot his anger. "What is wrong?"

Alys shook her head. "I do not know. I cannot wake her. She breathes harsh and labored, as if she is dying. I am afraid that she is!"

He didn't ask her any more. Grasping her arm, far more gently this time, he led the way back to the St. James apartment. The corridors were quiet and still at this hours with oil lamps burning every so often so as not to create total darkness. He could feel royal soldiers around him, guarding the different wings that they passed through, but he ignored them. By the time they reached the apartment, his panic had blossomed while Alys' had calmed. They made an odd combination.

There were two St. James soldiers in the hall protecting the door. Alys waved them aside as the little maid unbolted the panel from the inside. Once inside, the little puppy jumped all over his feet and it was an effort not to step on the beast. The room was warm and dimly lit. Avoiding the dog, Sean went straight to the bower.

It was nearly pitch dark in the room, but he could hear Sheridan's breathing the moment he entered the door. It sounded like a death rattle.

"Bring some light," he commanded quietly as he went for the bed. He could barely see her in the darkness and he felt for a pulse. It was fast and weak, and his heart sank. "How long has she been like this?"

Alys hovered behind him as the maid brought forth a fish oil lamp. Immediately, they could see how pale Sheridan was.

"A few hours," Alys said. "The physic gave her some medicine and she fell asleep, and now I cannot wake her."

Sean put both hands on her face, enormous appendages that swallowed up Sheridan's entire head. His fingers were in his hair, his flesh against her. Stabs of longing, of angst, filled his chest as he touched her.

"Sheridan," he whispered. "Sheridan, can you hear me?"

She was limp, like a corpse. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. "Wake up, angel. Hear my voice and awaken."

"She won't." The panic returned to Alys' tone. "What shall we do?"

Sean didn't hesitate. "Send for Gilby," he snapped softly. "Tell your guards in the hall to go for him; he is near the barracks. Tell them to hurry."

Both Alys and the maid fled. Alone in the room, with a small lamp casting an eerie white light on Sheridan's features, Sean gazed at her with a tremendous amount of sorrow. His thumbs continued to stroke her cheeks, his forehead finally coming to rest on her own. It was a helpless gesture. Never in his life had he felt so powerless, listening to her labor to breathe, terrified that she was indeed going to die right in front of him. The thought nearly brought tears to his eyes, and it was a shocking realization.

Pulling her limp body up against him, he cradled her against his massive chest, rocking her gently with the inborn instinct of all human beings. It was a deliciously painful gesture, her fragile warmth against his strength.

He was still holding her when Gilby came. The old man had to practically pry her out of Sean's arms. Sean had known Gilby for many years and trusted the man's discretion. He knew that no word of his actions or behavior would reach the ears of others. Sean, Alys and the little maid watched with baited breath as the old physic examined Sheridan. He listened to her chest, checked her pulse, checked her eyes. He even looked in her ears. Finally, he shook his head.

"Nothing to worry over," he said. "She is simply reacting to the medicaments I gave her for her head sickness. She is very sensitive to something I gave her, though I am not sure what."

Sean let out a sigh as if his entire body was deflating of air. "Then she will wake from this without incident?"

"She will. But better to watch her to make sure that she remembers to breathe. The potion's property is strong and can, in fact, put one to sleep forever if one isn't careful."

Sean lifted an eyebrow. "If it is so strong, why did you give it to her to cure her head sickness?"

"I didn't give it to her to cure her head sickness. I gave it to her so that she would sleep until it passed."

Sean couldn't decide where he was more angry or more relieved. He settled for relieved. "You could have at least told us so that we wouldn't panic when we could not wake her."

Gilby grunted. He packed up his leather satchel and headed for the door. "I shall be by in a few hours to see how she fares," he said. "Until then, someone should stay away with her. If she stops breathing, pinch her. She'll resume quickly enough."

The physic wandered out into the antechamber, pulling his cloak tightly about him in anticipation of the chill of the corridor. Leaving a relieved Alys to watch over Sheridan, Sean followed.

"I'll send a guard to escort you back," he said.

Gilby shook his head. "No need," he said. "I welcome the solitude."

"Very well. We shall see you tomorrow, then."

The old man glanced at him, something of curiosity and disapproval in his eyes. "Do you plan on staying here? I would advise against it."

"So noted."

Gilby moved close to him. "The Chapel of St. Peter. One hour."

"That is sooner than expected."

"There is much to discuss."

Sean simply nodded and the old physician shuffled out of the antechamber, closing the door softly behind him.

The time was upon them. He could feel it.

*

"She has been cavorting with de Lara since nearly the day we arrived," Neely was obviously drunk. "We have all tried to explain to her the evils of the man, but she will not listen."

Jocelin sat across the table from the captain of the St. James guard. He had known the man for twenty years. Henry St. James treated him like a son, but that was never what Neely wanted. He wanted to be the son-in-law. It was not because of the wealth and power of the St. James clan; that much was certain. It was because of a deep and abiding affection he held for Sheridan. He'd become quite adept at controlling himself where she was concerned. Now, with disappointment, jealousy and liquor, the dam of control he had worked so hard to maintain had finally sprung a leak.

"Infatuated women are irrational creatures," Jocelin said quietly.

"They are indeed," Neely took another large swallow of the ale. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "De Lara knows who she is. And there is little doubt that the king sent him to charm her to see what he could draw out of her. There is no telling what she is divulged to him, and in turn, to John's cause."

"Are you telling me that she is untrustworthy?"

Neely's dark eyes clouded with uncertainty. "I am not. I am merely… speculating."

"Are you sure that it is not your jealousy talking?"

Neely pursed his lips as if to bitterly retort, but he took another drink instead. When it became clear that he would not answer, Jocelin took the bottle of ale away and stood up. He set the jug upon the nearest shelf of his small, modest accommodations near the chapel.

"Why do you come to me with this, de Moreville?" he asked. "What would you have me do?"

"Stop her. Tell her that de Lara only means her harm."

Jocelin wriggled his eyebrows. "Were it only that simple. Do you not know of women, Neely? The more you try to discourage them, the more they will do whatever it is that you are attempting to discourage them from."

Neely nodded or swayed; Jocelin could not be sure. He had been drinking long before he had ever sought out the bishop. Now he was down to the bare bones of emotions and shame.

"I tried to tell her," Neely muttered. "She would not listen."

Jocelin scratched his chin, thinking on all of the implications that clandestine communication with Sean de Lara could have. The long-term results, for both sides, could be immeasurable. He didn't like it at all.

"Sheridan may as well have taken up games with a viper," he said. "And this viper will kill her more swiftly than any reptilian creature. This viper has a brain and a heart, courage unparalleled and a skill beyond compare. To keep her away from him, we must be more cunning and more skillful than he is."

"Do you really think he is trying to draw information out of her about the resistance?" Neely was close to falling out his chair by now. It would not be long before he was passed out completely. "I cannot imagine what other purpose he may have. Surely he would not attempt to court her."

Jocelin frowned at him. "Court her? Of course not. Men like Sean de Lara do not court women. Their life and their loves are war and politics."

Neely tried to stand up, making a bad attempt of it. "Then you must speak to Lady Sheridan before she does something she regrets. Tell her… tell her to stay away from de Lara. Tell her that he only means her harm"

Jocelin steadied him and forced him to sit back down in the chair. "We may not have to worry over it much longer."

"Why?"

"Because the allies are leaving the Tower tonight. War is looming, Neely. Once Sheridan is gone, the threat of de Lara will be abolished."

Neely's reaction was slow. "So it is tonight. Pity I did not know it. 'Twill be difficult to command in my current state."

"You know it now," Jocelin replied. "There is still time for you to regain your senses before we depart."

Neely blinked his eyes, struggling to focus. "Indeed. But what if Lady Sheridan will not leave? You should have heard her defend de Lara. He was kind and considerate, she said. I fear that she will not want to go."

Jocelin lifted an eyebrow at him, a variety of schemes rolling through his mind. "I have," he said deliberately, "an interesting thought. Would you hear it without concern?"

"I would."

"Certainly, a husband would make her go. And a husband would do far better at keeping de Lara away from her permanently."

Neely wasn't so drunk that he did not understand the statement. "You will marry her off in order to keep de Lara away?"

"It seems logical."

Neely suddenly stood up again, his manner self-righteous and strong. "Then allow me to wed her," he half-demanded, half-pleaded. "I will kill de Lara if he comes anywhere near her. Bless me with that privilege, my lord, and I'll not ask for God's favor ever again."

Jocelin had been expecting that statement for years. He put a consoling hand on Neely's shoulder and shoved him, again, down into the chair. "Women like Lady Sheridan are not meant for men like you or me, my friend," he said softly. "She needs a man of station, with power. De Lara wouldn't dare tangle with a man of rank."

It was not what Neely wanted to hear. But he had resigned himself to the inevitable long ago, as much as he told himself otherwise. "Who, then?"

Jocelin moved away from him, his weather-worn face lined with the glimmer of possibilities.

"Someone who had been vying for her hand for quite some time," he murmured.

"There have been many. Who in particular do you mean?"

Jocelin turned to look at him, his profile illuminated by the dim light from the lancet windows. It was an eerie portrait of a man forced into a game of deadly chance, of life and death. It was time to take the leap. Jocelin, more than anyone, knew what was at stake.

"The most powerful man on the Marches," he said quietly. "Guy de Braose."

*

Sean had been waiting longer than he would have liked in the confession booth at the Chapel of St. Peter. It was a dark, musty, eerie place to be at any given time of the day. On the other end of the screen, he suddenly heard the door open and softly close. Heavy breathing, as if the person on the other side had just run the entire length of London, filled the small vestibule.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Sean began. "It has been a day since my last confession."

"What is it you wish to confess, my son?"

"Rumors of war abound, Father. It is said that I am to be sent to war on the Marches."

The breathing slowed, steadied. "When?"

"I am not sure. I have not been directly ordered yet. 'Tis only a rumor at this point."

"Why would you go?"

"De Braose is laying siege to Kington. Clifford has asked for help."

"I see."

"There is more."

"What?"

"It is also rumored that part of my directive will be to raze Lansdown Castle."

There was a long pause. "Why would you be ordered to do this?"

Sean sighed harshly, disgusted with the turn of events, though strangely he did not regret the actions that led up to it. "Because I stopped the king from raping Alys St. James. The king suspects my loyalties now and will ask me to raze Lansdown to prove that my fealty is to him and not to the House of St. James. All plans of the attack on London aside, this is a very real problem in addition to so many others."

"What will you do?"

"I am not sure. Much depends on the move against London."

"It is imminent."

"How soon?"

"Two days at the most. The majority of nobles are clearing out tonight."

"This is fact?"

"I just left a meeting with Jocelin, Rochester and Coventry. Arundel and de Warenne are already gone and gathering with their troops outside the city limits. The rest will move out by dawn."

Sean's thoughts immediately moved to Sheridan. "If the king intends on sending me to the Marches, it will take a few days to prepare the army. The siege of London will prevent me from leaving."

"Then the king must not know the nobles are leaving to join their troops. Their flight will spook him."

"Agreed."

"And you must do what you can to make sure the Tower is vulnerable once the siege has begun."

"I will undoubtedly lead the battle against the allies. 'Tis a pity that I will be seen as the loser in all of this."

"The truth will be told when this is all over. Just make sure you live to see it."

"I'll live to see it," Sean assured him. "And I will live to claim my prize."

The voice on the other side was silent. "Lady Sheridan?"

"Of course."

The voice grunted, as if in pain. "Sean," he spoke haltingly. "There is something you should know."

"I fear to ask."

"You should. Jocelin intends to marry Lady Sheridan to Guy de Braose before the week is out."

He wasn't surprised. He realized that he had almost been expecting it. But it took all of Sean's self-control not to burst through the panel and grab the voice around the neck. As it was, his big hands worked furiously and sweat popped out on his forehead, indicative of his level of emotion.

"Did he tell you this?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Aye," the voice said. "He feels that you are a danger to her."

"He mentioned me by name?"

"He did. It seems that Neely de Moreville is aware that you and Sheridan have been, shall we say, meeting surreptitiously. Jocelin fears for Lady Sheridan's life."

Sean stood up; he couldn't help it. He braced his hands on either side of the confession window, a gesture that was as powerful as it was pitiful. His fingers dug into the walls, angst in every move, every gesture.

"Tell him who I am," his voice was a harsh whisper. "Tell him who I am and what I want. I'll not allow her to marry another. She is meant for me and only me."

The voice was laced with sorrow. He could feel the man's pain. "I cannot."

"You must or I will."

"We swore when we started that only a select few would know your worth. 'Tis safer for you, Sean."

"To hell with safety. Tell him. I beg of you."

The voice sighed heavily. There was no fighting him, no reasoning with him. As always, men in love were irrational creatures. What made it worse was that Sean deserved everything he asked for, and so much more. To deny him anything at this stage of the game was inherently wrong.

"I will do what I can," he finally said. "I cannot promise results. Jocelin's mind is set."

"Go, then." It was not a request. "Go and tell him now. Lady Sheridan belongs to me."

"He may have already told de Braose."

Sean didn't reply. He quit the vestibule before he was dismissed, storming blindly from the chapel. The contact waited a nominal amount of time before slowly opening the door.

Father Simon's gaze was laced with regret.