Lords of Darkness and Shadow (79 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have spies,” Monmouth muttered, out of turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your excommunication was short-lived, sire.”

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

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

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

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

“As you say, sire.”

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

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

John’s eyes widened. “My brother’s chancellor? He lures my greatest supporter?”

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

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

“… Lo, there did I see my destiny when I gazed across the room on that fateful night….”

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 - 1215 A.D.

CHAPTER TWO

“Did you ever imagine what Adonis must look like?”

Alys was lying horizontal on the great bed that she shared with her sister. She was half-dressed for the evening meal, most of her time having been spent in the land of silly daydreams.  Sheridan had been attempting to hurry her up for the better part of two hours. But Alys moved, as always, on her own time.

“No,” Sheridan was gazing into a polished bronze mirror that was strategically affixed to the chamber wall. “I have not imagined that. And you should not waste your time. You must finish dressing or I swear that I will leave without you. The bishop will be here at any moment.”

Alys turned to watch her sister as she pulled a bonecomb through her silky dark-blond tresses. Sheridan’s hair was thick and straight, while Alys had more natural curl than she could handle.  Still, Sheridan was able to roll her hair with strips of cloth at night, resulting in cascades of curls for the following day.  In a world where beauty was judged on natural attributes, Sheridan often felt inadequate as far as her hair was concerned. But she did possess the loveliness of face and figure so as not to feel completely unattractive.

Alys never thought her sister was unattractive. In fact, she was proud and jealous of her beauty at the same time. She finally decided to push herself off the bed and go in search of her hose, which could take some time to locate. She was a messy girl and her clothes were generally strewn all over the room.

“Surely my savior has the face meant for Adonis, do not you think?” Alys bent over when she came across her shoe. “Did you not notice how handsome he was?”

Sheridan was in the process of pulling the front section of her hair back and securing it with an enormous comb in the shape of a butterfly. “I noticed how big he was, to be certain. The man was three times your size.”

“But he was beautiful,” Alys sighed.

Sheridan had not given him a second thought, but she did seem to recall unnaturally clear blue eyes and a square, firm jaw.  Upon deeper reflection, she supposed he had been rather handsome in a rugged sort of way.

“I presume so. I did not give much notice.”

Alys found her hose. “Do you suppose he will be at the feast tonight?”

“If he is one of John’s vassals, I am sure he will be.”

That prompted Alys to move faster. She yanked on her hose, affixed the garters, and put on her shoes. Then she snatched the comb that Sheridan had been using and began furiously brushing her hair.

Sheridan frowned at her sister’s pushy demeanor. Fortunately, she had finished securing her own hair and moved aside so that Alys could have full control of the mirror.   She went to the wardrobe to collect her slippers.

“Good Lord,” she grunted as she bent over for the shoes. “She cinched my corset far too tightly.”

“Who?”

“The maid.”

“Oh.” Alys had brushed her hair so roughly that it was turning into a giant frizzy ball of red hair. She smoothed her hands over it furiously. “Look, now. What do I do?”

Sheridan went to her rescue. They had been through this routine before, too many times. She put beeswax and a slight amount of oil on her hands and smoothed them over her sister’s hair, again and again.  Most of the strands tamed, but some clung to her as if alive.  It was like trying to tame a wild beast.

“If he is there tonight, do not make a fool of yourself,” she muttered as she smoothed Alys’ hair. “You already thanked him. There is no need to throw yourself at his feet.”

Alys was appalled. “I would do no such thing.”

Sheridan worked the oil into the ends of the hair until it was absorbed. “I know you far too well, baby sister. What have I told you before? You must be cool and pleasant. ‘Twill make you more appealing than if you lay at his feet like a door mat.”

Alys made a face, rolling her eyes. Then she yelped as her sister pulled a single, painful strand. “I am sure he will want to dine with me if he is there, do not you think?”

It was Sheridan’s turn to make a face. Alys never listened to reason, from anyone. Finished with the hair-salvage, she fastened a delicate black hairnet over Alys’ head to compliment the red dress with black accents that she was wearing. When all was said and done, Alys’ wild mane was nicely contained.

“There,” Sheridan said. “Now you look presentable.  Have the maid beat the wrinkles from the dress before we leave.”

The little maid they had brought with them from their home at Lansdown Castle was in the larger antechamber airing out the heavy cloaks her mistresses would wear. The woman came when Alys beckoned, bearing the large paddle made from water reeds normally used to beat bed linens and rugs.  The red haired sister put her arms up and the servant girl went to work, smacking out the wrinkles from the linen that had formed when Alys had lain all over the bed during her daydreams.

With Alys finished, Sheridan returned to her final touches so that she would be presentable before the finest courtiers in England. It was, in truth, intimidating. She gazed at herself in the mirror, assessing her reflection; she wore a gown of iridescent green, like the color of the sea on a warm summer day. The sleeves were long with trailing cuffs, the neckline daringly low, and the bodice tapered at the waist to emphasize her slender torso.  A lovely necklace of rough-cut emeralds finished the look.

As she inspected her face, she noticed that her lips were chapped again. She had to constantly rub a solution of beeswax and salve on them to keep them from cracking and bleeding. On special occasions, she added a touch of ocher to the mix and turned her lips a delightful shade of red.  It was perhaps a bit much, and a little daring, but she liked the result when she was brave enough to do it. Tonight, she decided, was just such a night.

She wasn’t aware that Alys was also watching her as she went through her closing preparations.  Alys’ blue eyes grazed her sister, from head to toe, wishing yet again that she had been blessed with even half the beauty her sister had.  Though their facial features were similar, Sheridan’s were refined and delicate and Alys’ tended to be broader. Sheridan had lovely white teeth, with slightly protruding canines, that added charm and character to her beautiful smile. Alys had slightly protruding front teeth that made her look like a rabbit.  Sheridan also had a slender neck and shapely shoulders, whereas Alys’ neck was a bit thick. In fact, her entire body was a bit thick; not fat, but full. Sheridan had a trim waist made even more slender with the corset, which only made her breasts appear rounder and firmer.

Alys often wished she had been born in Sheridan’s figure. Perhaps it would have made a difference with the men she had fallen in love with. Perhaps they would have stayed.  But she wasn’t bitter, strangely enough. It was simply something she lived with.

A knock on the door sent their hearts racing with excitement. The little maid flew into the antechamber and opened the door for Jocelin, Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury. A rotund man who had been close friends with their father, Jocelin had taken it upon himself to assume the paternal role for the girls when their father passed away suddenly the year before.  Lillian, their mother, had not fared well with the death of her husband and the family had been in emotional need.  Jocelin had stepped in, not only for the family’s requirements, but also as a promise to Henry St. James.

The men had been united in their alliance against the oppressive monarchy that had driven a bitter wedge through the heart of the country. Henry’s death was unfortunate, as there was still much to accomplish in that arena and Jocelin knew they were well on their way. Tonight, the first festival feast of the year, would be an excellent opportunity to assess the growing opposition and reaffirm alliances. The king, allies and enemies alike would be in attendance and Jocelin was eager to gauge the playing field.

Unfortunately, the notion was on Sheridan’s mind as well. He knew the moment he looked into her angelic face that she was thinking the same thing he was. Henry St. James had no sons, and Sheridan had been inevitably directed into the role. She was the eldest child, intelligent and wise, and like her father in every way. She would have made a fine son and heir, and Henry had raised her as if she had been male. Truth be known, part of the reason Jocelin had assumed Henry’s mantel to keep Sheridan out of trouble. As Lady Bath’s daughter, she wielded the power of an important earldom and in these days of political upheaval, wise council was needed more than ever.

“Greetings, ladies,” Jocelin said in his great booming voice. “How lovely you look this eve.”

Alys grinned and spun about to display herself. Sheridan shrugged off the comment and accepted her cloak from the maid.

“I am told de Warenne is on his way to London,” she said. “He was an old friend of my father’s. When he arrives, I should like to see him.”

Jocelin helped her with the heavy, fur-trimmed garment. “We will both see him upon his arrival. Tonight, I have arranged for us to be seated with the Bishop of Coventry.  William is a very old friend and a strong supporter of our cause.”  When Sheridan turned to face him, adjusting the neck of the cloak, he lowered his voice so Alys would not hear. “We will speak to him about arranging a meeting with the other allies.”

“How soon can this be done?”

“I do not know. There are many we must arrange this with, and it must be done in all secrecy. Should the king discover our plans….”

“He’ll arrest us all and execute us for treason.”

Jocelin bobbed his head with resignation. “It is possible. I also understand that William Marshall will be at the feast tonight, another mark in our favor.”

“William Marshall?” There was excitement in her tone. “Do you think we could arrange to sit with his party? No offense meant to the Bishop of Coventry, but William Marshall is legendary. The man has served three kings and I, for one, would be eager to bask in his presence.”

Jocelin patted her shoulder patiently. “In time, little one. You do not invite yourself to the Marshall’s table. You wait to be summoned.”

“But…”

“Tut,” he held up a finger, cutting her off. Now was not the time to continue this discussion. To change the subject, he lifted his voice to Alys. “Are you ready, my dear? There is much food and festivity awaiting us. We must hurry before it is all over with.”

Alys bolted from the door with Jocelin and Sheridan close behind. A small contingent of the Bishop’s men and of St. James men await in the hall, commanded by a knight who had been Henry’s captain for many years.  Neely de Moreville was a powerful man with an unspectacular face, but of calm and good character. He bowed to the ladies, paying particular attention to Sheridan. 

“If my lady is ready,” he extended an elbow.

Sheridan took his offered arm and followed him down the corridor. Jocelin and Alys were immediately behind them, followed by four St. James guards and four Ecclesiastical guards.

The Tower of London was a labyrinth of dark corridors, a grand hall and cramped rooms. It had recently seen some expansion; a new moat had been added, filled by water from the Thames, and several buildings and apartments were added on the south side of the White Tower.  The largest addition, however, was the Bell Tower that loomed high above the fortress.

The group left the east apartments and crossed the bailey towards the White Tower. The feast would be in the keep’s great hall.  Sheridan’s gaze moved over the new, enlarged surroundings.

“I have never seen such a large structure,” she said. “Surely this is the strongest and most impregnable fortress in the world.”

Neely took any opportunity to speak with Sheridan. Being his liege’s daughter, he had watched her grow from a sweet child into a dazzling young woman.  But he knew his place, well aware of their difference in station.

“It has quite a history, my lady,” he said. “Especially over the past few years with the contention of power between King John and his brother, Richard.”

“I heard tale that John laid siege to the tower several years ago while Richard was in the Holy Land.”

Neely nodded. “Richard’s chancellor, William Longchamp, initiated a massive expansion project, the results of which you see now. John took advantage of his brother’s absence and attacked the new defenses. Longchamp was forced to surrender not because the fortifications failed, but because the Tower ran out of supplies.”

Sheridan thought on that a moment. “’Twould seem that John will stop at nothing to gain what he wants.”

“Keep that in mind, my lady.”

Having served the House of St. James as long as he had, Neely had been trusted with their innermost secrets. He was well aware of Henry and Sheridan’s position on John. He was, in fact, extraordinarily uncomfortable that she was here at the core of King John’s wickedness.  It had been, in his opinion, foolish of her to come, but this journey had been planned for a long time and nothing would stop Sheridan from accompanying Jocelin in her father’s stead.

Neely knew more than he let on about the king, as did Jocelin. They both knew the man had no morality. He had been known to seduce the wives of his advisors while the men were powerless to stop him. For those who tried to resist him, he had them thrown in the vault and took the women anyway.  Sometimes the men were left in the Tower to rot. One did not refuse the king and live to tell the tale.