Lords of Darkness and Shadow (80 page)

Which was why they were particularly fearful for Sheridan. She was a magnificent creature and it would only be a matter of time before John saw her. When that time came and the royal summons arrived, Neely was still uncertain to what he should do. Jocelin wanted to whisk her to a convent if and when the occasion came. Not even the king, with as much trouble as he had historically experienced with the church, would violate the sanctity of a convent.  But the problem was that once she was committed, she would have to remain. For a beautiful young woman and the heiress to a massive earldom, that was not an attractive option. Therefore, being in London, at this moment in time, was risky in more ways than one.

Sheridan knew none of this, of course. They had decided not to tell her for fear of upsetting her. Though she was a stable and wise girl, still, they were attempting to protect her. No use in worrying over something that they could not control. But they could be on their guard.

The entrance to the White Tower loomed ahead.  The keep was constructed of pale stone that gave it a ghostly glow in the moonlight.  It was so tall that it appeared to touch the night sky. The St. James party mounted the steps and entered the small foyer immediately inside the structure.  There were two stewards there to greet them, ushering them further down the corridor and into the great hall beyond.

Lansdown Castle was a grand enough place with a large hall. But even the homey fires of Lansdown’s hospitality could not compare to what they soon witnessed. It was as if they had entered an entirely new world; never had Sheridan seen so many tapers, slender beams with gracefully lit tips.  They gave the hall an unearthly glow. The room was also very warm, not only from the amount of people in it, but because there was an enormous fire in the two massive hearths that bordered the east and west walls of the room.

More servants greeted them, dressed in finery affordable only in the house of the king. There were several long tables, all decorated with phials of wine and seasonal fruit.  Nobles, such as they do, sat on benches, tables, and all around the room. They were everywhere, the men who harbored such power in England.  On Neely’s arm, Sheridan watched it all quite closely. It was an intimidating sight.

Power and wealth reeked from every facet of the massive, fragrant hall. While Neely deposited Sheridan at the table and faded into the shadows, as other knights did as their masters took seat, Jocelin sat between Sheridan and Alys. Their soldier escort fell back against the wall directly behind them. The party was barely settled as Alys snatched her goblet and held it aloft for wine.

A servant was at her side almost immediately, filling the goblet. Alys downed her allotment and demanded more.  Sheridan settled herself on the bench, smoothing her gown and kicking off the dried rushes that had adhered themselves to her slippers.  All around the room gathered groups of men and women, the gaiety of laughter filling the warm, stale air. In the gallery above, a group of minstrels played a haunting tune. Sheridan twisted her head around, watching the group overhead for a moment, before returning her attention to the brilliant room.

“Do you see anyone that you recognize?” she whispered to Jocelin.

Jocelin’s sharp eyes scanned the hall.  It was like being in a roomful of predators; each man had the look of both killer and prey. There was an odd air about the place, of both suspicion and friendship.  His gaze came to rest on a group several yards to their left and he visibly perked.  “See there,” he said quietly. “The Bishop of Rochester and his party. And I also see with him the barons Fitz Gerold and Fitz Herbert, men from the Welsh marches.”

“Do you see de Warenne?”

“Nay.”

“Coventry or Rochester?”

“Not yet.”

Sheridan tried not to be too obvious about staring. “If you point out these men to me so that I may recognize them,” she whispered, “perhaps I will be able to set up the meeting we’ve all longed for. No one will suspect a lady in these circumstances of subversion.”

Jocelin cocked an eyebrow. “’Tis only subversion if what we are attempting to accomplish is thwarted. If successful, we shall be loyalists.”

“There is no one that disputes our rightness,” her voice grew stronger. “No one on earth that would dare to…”

Jocelin cut her off.  “Look,” he almost gestured but caught himself in time. “There is the Earl of Arundel. I haven’t seen the man in years.”

Sheridan caught sight of a short, redhaired man as he disappeared into a well-dressed crowd.  Before she could comment, Jocelin crowed again.

“And look there,” he bordered on excitement. “William Marshall in the flesh.”

Sheridan found herself gazing at a man that was relatively close. He was tall and lanky, with thinning gray hair.  When he turned in her direction, she was struck by the sharpness of his gaze.  His eyes fell upon Jocelin and he walked straight for him. Jocelin rose to his feet and extended a hand.

“My lord,” Jocelin said. “It’s been a long time.”

William Marshall brushed his lips against Jocelin’s papal ring.  His dark eyes twinkled. “Too long,” he said. “I am surprised you have managed to stay out of trouble since the last I saw you.”

Jocelin grinned. “Who has been spreading such lies?  Trouble is my bed fellow. We’re good friends and keep each other company.”

William laughed softly. Then his gaze fell on Sheridan and he bowed gallantly. “My lady.”

Jocelin took the opportunity to introduce her. “My lord William Marshall, may I present the Lady Sheridan St. James, eldest daughter and heiress of the late Henry St. James, 3
rd
Earl of Bath and Glastonbury.”

The Marshall appraised her courteously. But Sheridan felt as if God himself was scrutinizing her. She curtsied before the man and he took her hand chivalrously.

“My lady,” he greeted. “I knew your father. He was a righteous and cunning man.”

She smiled, mortified that her lips were twitching with nerves.  “Thank you, my lord. May I say that it is indeed an honor to finally meet you.”

“And you.”

“May I introduce my sister, the Lady Alys.”

William turned to the redhead. “My lady.”

He took her hand in a gentlemanly fashion and touched his lips to her fingers. But that was the end of it. With a lingering glance at Sheridan, the Marshall turned to Jocelin and the two of them lowered their voice in private conversation.  Sheridan looked over at her sister, now on her third goblet of wine. Alys was gazing adoringly at the Marshall.

Sheridan went pale.

“Oh, no….”

***

The feast commenced when the king entered the hall. It was with great pomp and ceremony, as befitting the monarch. Barons called to him, women waved at him. John, a short man with a droopy eye and noticeably bad hygiene, gestured benevolently to the group in the hall.  It was reminiscent of the Pope making his rounds among his admiring subject, with all the flair of a holy parade. Some of the older men who had served his father were less friendly towards him, yet there was respect as due the king. 

It took several minutes for the king to make his way to the dais where the royal table was lodged. Festooned with a variety of fine goblets and a huge centerpiece of marzipan sculpted into naked cherubs, John took his leisure time in reaching his seat. He was more intent to linger over the adoration of his subjects.

Jocelin watched him with disgust.

“He is not his father’s son,” he grumbled. “Henry was ruthless and deceitful, but at least he could call himself a man. His son lacks even that privilege.”

Sheridan leaned in to him. “I hear they call him John Softsword because of the loss of all of his holdings in France.”

“’Twas ten years ago that he acquired that name,” Jocelin said.  “That name and a few others.”

Sheridan suppressed a grin. “I was not allowed to hear those other names, Your Grace.”

“If I know Henry’s mouth, then I doubt that is true.”

Her smile broke through and she lowered her head so that the others would not suspect her joviality was at the expense of the king.  She collected her goblet and took a long sip of the tart wine.   Glancing up just as the king took his seat, she noticed several soldiers and retainers to the rear of the royal dais.  Though most were finely dressed nobles, some wore weapons and armor.  One man in particular looked familiar; he was so enormous that he was twice the size of nearly every man in the room.  About the time she began to realize where she had seen him, Alys grabbed her arm.

“Look, there,” she hissed. “The knight behind the king, dressed in full armor.  Do you see him?”

Sheridan’s initial shock sharply cooled. “I do.”

Alys’ fingers dug into her flesh. “My savior! He is behind the king!”

Jocelin couldn’t help but hear the commotion between the girls. Alys had jostled him about in her excitement.  “Here, here, what’s this? Who are you two talking about?”

The girls leaned close on either side of him, their focus on the royal party. “The massive knight that stands to the king’s right hand,” Alys was pointing and Jocelin took her hand and put it in her lap. “Do you see him?”

Jocelin found the source of their curiosity. His eyes narrowed. “Aye,” he said slowly. “I see him.”

“Who is he?” Alys demanded.

Jocelin watched the large man for a moment before answering. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Because he saved my life today,” Alys said, oblivious to the tone of Jocelin’s voice.  “I… I had an accident.”

Jocelin looked at her then, sharply. “An accident?”

Alys didn’t want to explain herself. “Aye, I… I fell. He saved me. Who is he?”

By this time, Jocelin’s behavior had Sheridan’s attention. She wondered why he suddenly looked so tense.  She tugged on his sleeve gently.

“Do you know him?”

The bishop shook his head. “I do not know him, but I know of him.” He lifted his cup, regarding the ruby liquid inside. “If you must know, the barons call him the Lord of the Shadows.”
The disclosure caused both girls to look back to the royal platform. “Lord of the Shadows,” Alys repeated dreamily. “That’s marvelous.”

Jocelin gulped from his chalice. “Nay, young Alys, that is
not
marvelous. The man is a demon.”

She was indignant. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that he is the Devil’s disciple. He is the king’s protector and used by the king for the most evil of purposes. There is no man in this kingdom that does not fear him.  His presence, his very name, is synonymous with pain and death. If you see the man, run for your life.”

The girls looked at the dais with a bit more recognition and dread. “What do you mean when you say that the king uses him for evil purposes?” Sheridan almost didn’t want to know.

Jocelin debated whether or not to tell her; de Lara would be the one to come for her should she catch the king’s eye. “Evil, Dani,” he said quietly. “The king sends de Lara to commandeer women for his conquests.”

Sheridan tried not to appear too horrified, but Alys was unimpressed. “But what’s his name?” she insisted.

“Sean de Lara.”

“Sean,” Alys whispered, feeling it roll across her tongue. “Sir Sean de Lara. What a beautiful name.”
Jocelin turned on her. “Listen to me now, Alys. I know your penchant for the opposite sex. I know of your naïve views and your trusting ways.  Though I do not know the circumstances of de Lara’s involvement in your accident, I will tell you this; stay clear of him. Remove him from your thoughts. He is no prince to sweep you away nor a man to be trifled with. I promise you that the only reason John still sits upon that throne is because of de Lara. No one is brave enough to attempt his removal, and the man is deadly in more ways than one. Not only is he physical power, but he has intelligence. His tactical knowledge is without compare.  No army will go up against John during these times because of de Lara’s very presence. You will, therefore, heed my words; forget him. Harbor no false notions of his good character.”

Alys’ eyes were wide with disappointment.  Her gaze moved from the bishop to the dais and back again. “Are you sure? He didn’t seem that way to me.”

Jocelin patted her hand. “I am sure, little Alys.”

She didn’t look convinced, but to her credit, said nothing more. During Jocelin and Alys’ conversation, Sheridan’s gaze never left de Lara’s distant face; she had remembered the man from their afternoon encounter. He was three times her size, that was true, but he wasn’t misshapen or ugly as a giant would be. He had crystal blue eyes, the clearest she had ever seen, and a square jaw that projected power and astuteness. His features had been even and extraordinarily attractive. In fact, the man positively reeked of masculinity.  He was striking.

Nor had he been impolite or unkind to them. He had, after all, saved Alys’ life.  At no time did she receive the impression of death or hazard from him.  He seemed polite and chivalrous.  Puzzled, yet resigned to Jocelin’s words, she returned to her goblet and put the notion of the mysterious Sean de Lara out of her mind.

The meal was lavish and plentiful.  Huge slabs of pork and mutton were on display, served by the fancily-dressed servants.  William, Bishop of Coventry, eventually showed himself; a slight man that reeked of alcohol, he seated himself and several retainers across the table from Jocelin and the St. James women.  He greeted Jocelin amiably, introduced himself to the ladies, and spoke well of Henry St. James. He seemed congenial enough. But he finished the otherwise normal conversation by running an inviting foot against Sheridan’s leg.