Lords of Darkness and Shadow (83 page)

“That’s terrible. How do you survive?”

“By my wits alone.”

“That must be terribly difficult.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting my wits aren’t up to the task?”

She laughed, a dazzling display of lovely teeth and tinkling gales.  Before she could reply, the door to her bedchamber opened.

“Dani?” It was Alys. “Who are you talking to?”

Sheridan quickly stood up, wondering why she suddenly felt so horribly guilty. “I…,” she faced her sister. “A… person was passing by as I was looking out of the window and I simply said good morn.”

Alys was at the window and pushed her head through. Sheridan was positive she would see Sean and the entire morning would be filled with lectures and angry exchanges. Sheridan turned back to the window, her eyes falling upon the last place she had seen Sean and fully prepared to make excuses to her sister.

But a strange thing occurred; Sean had disappeared and there was nothing below but dirt and stones.  Curious, not to mention disappointed, Sheridan scanned the area but saw nothing. It was, yet again, as if he had simply disappeared.  Alys, bored with the featureless view, went over to the bed and threw herself onto the mattress.

“I am so miserable, Dani,” she threw her arm over her forehead. “The only man I was every truly attracted to has apparently decided he is interested in you.”

It occurred to Sheridan that her patience for Alys’ self pity was very thin. An unselfish sister would have been happy that she had found some interest in male companionship. But Alys could see nothing but her own disappointment.

“If you are speaking of de Lara, then I would suggest you find another subject,” she said. “Jocelin warned us about him. My encounter with him last night had, shall we say, brutal moments.  You’d best forget about him.”Alys peered at her. “What about you? Will you forget about him?”

Something in Sheridan changed at that moment. She had never lied to her sister in her life. But she decided in that flash of time to keep her feelings about de Lara to herself. Alys would only create misery if she knew that her sister actually had some curiosity towards the man. And it wasn’t the fact that it was de Lara; Alys created misery if her sister showed interest in any man.  If Alys could not be the center of male attention, she had always been determined to ruin her sister’s chances.

But Sheridan said nothing of what she was thinking. She promised herself at that moment that she would keep her feelings to herself. It would be safer for all of them if she did.  Moreover, if her bizarre interest in de Lara was something to last for only a day or two, she did not want to be embarrassed. Alys created quite enough embarrassment to go around with her own dalliances.

“He is forgotten,” she said simply. “Now, what will we do today, darling? What is your preference?”

Alys shrugged. “I do not feel like doing anything. I do not want to see anyone or be seen. Perhaps we will stay to the apartments and contemplate our pitiful existence.”

Sheridan didn’t feel like staying to the apartments. She felt like walking out on the grounds on the off-chance that de Lara might find her again. 

“As you say,” she said as lightly as she could, heading for the massive wardrobe against the wall. “I plan on going to the chapel this day and having the priest say mass for father.”

They all knew how Alys hated attending mass. Too often, she fell asleep in the middle of it and snored like an old dog. “You go ahead,” the redhead snorted. “I will wait for your return.”

Sheridan dug through the wardrobe, coming across the delicate black mass shawl that had belonged to her grandmother.  She really had not planned on paying for mass today, but it was as good an excuse as any.  Her stomach twitched with an odd, giddy excitement and she knew in the same breath that she was being foolish.  De Lara was more than likely long gone, maybe forever. But she didn’t care. The urge to see him again, to speak with him, was strangely overwhelming.

She blew into the antechamber where Jocelin was still glowering.  She was mildly startled to see another body present; she’d never even heard him enter.

“My lord Marshall,” she dipped into a polite curtsy. “I did not know you were here, my lord.”

William Marshall sat opposite Jocelin, his gray eyes piercing as they gazed at her. “I have only just arrived, my lady,” he stood up. “My old friend and I barely had time to speak last night. I went to his chamber and they told me he had come here. I apologize if I have intruded.”

“You have not,” Sheridan assured him, thinking he looked different from when she had met him last night. He looked as if he’d slept in a field; there was hay in his hair and on his tunic. He looked exhausted. But those thoughts were cast aside as she realized that she was very glad to have Jocelin occupied, as he would not insist on accompanying her.

“If you will excuse me, I plan to have mass said for father this morning,” she said. “I am on my way to the chapel.”

“What of Alys?” Jocelin asked.

“She prefers to say here.” Sheridan tossed the shawl over her shoulders and went to the door. “I shall take an escort, have no fear.”

She was halfway through the door as Jocelin called to her. “Neely is in the hall.”

Sheridan acknowledged him with a wave.  She didn’t want Neely escorting her, of all people, especially if they ran into de Lara.  In the dim, cool hall near the Flint Tower, she caught sight of the knight several feet away in a small alcove. His dark eyes fixed curiously on her.

“My lady is leaving?” he asked.

She couldn’t decide if she was still angry with him for spilling the evening’s events to Jocelin.  Neely had only done what he felt he should do, and that was to protect the St. James family even when they could not, or would not, protect themselves.  For as many years as she had known him, he was more like family to her, and family always forgave family. But she still did not want him escorting her.

“I am going to church,” she said. “Give me a guard and I’ll be on my way.”

“I will take you myself.”

“Nay, you will stay here,” she lifted an eyebrow. “Alys is in one of her moods and I need you here should she decide to jump from the window again.  I will depend upon you, Neely.”
He knew what had happened yesterday but, to his credit, had not said anything to Jocelin.  Whatever Alys St. James did anymore didn’t surprise him. 

“Is it bad?” he asked.

“Bad enough,” Sheridan replied. “Please do me this favor. I do not want Jocelin catching wind of her antics.”

Neely nodded in resignation.  He and Sheridan had spent a good deal of time over the past few years concealing Alys’ peculiar behavior.  He motioned to two of the guards standing against the wall. “Lady Sheridan wishes to go to church,” he said. “See that she is amply protected.”

It was more escort than she wanted, but she didn’t argue. Leaving the cold halls of the apartment tower, she descended the steps into the cool, bright January sunshine. The Tower grounds were fairly alive with activity, mostly soldiers as they went about their business. There were, in fact, many different Houses on the grounds, probably more than the Tower had seen in quite some time.  

People tended to keep to themselves, however. There weren’t great social gatherings due to the tense political climate between the king and most of his barons. It was a heady world of intrigue and enemy, of suspicion and loyalty, and no one could be certain that their ally of the moment would be their ally tomorrow.  Lives often depended upon silence. Therefore, nearly everyone Sheridan passed barely acknowledged her. 

The Chapel of St. Peter was on the opposite side of the compound against the west wall.  She walked past the White Tower on her way to the chapel, gazing up at the massive structure and remembering the previous evening with clarity.   The yard in which she had met Sean was on the opposite side of the building and she was unable to catch a glimpse of it.  Instead, she walked through the dry, cold grounds, thinking the whole place to feel rather desolate.

When she reached the chapel, she left the guards outside.  The chapel itself was a long, slender chamber with a soaring ceiling and massive support columns. Long, needle-thin lancet windows lined the walls, running nearly floor to ceiling.  There were no pews or benches, only a bare floor of hard-packed dirt.  At the back of the chapel, near the door, stood the prayer candles, lit by those who paid a pence for a priestly prayer.

It was an empty chamber for the most part.  Sheridan put the shawl over her head and began to walk towards the front of the hall, keeping an eye out for a priest or acolyte.  As she drew near the altar, she caught sight of two priests in the shadows, conversing with each other.  Taking a quick knee in a show of respect for the altar before her, she folded her hands in prayer.

It wasn’t long before she heard footfalls approach. Opening her eyes, she gazed into the face of a young man who could not have been much older than she. His hair was cut in the traditional priestly fashion, the crown of his head shaved bare in piety. He wore rough, if not slightly dirty, brown robes with a large wooden crucifix hanging around his neck.  His blue eyes were kindly.

“I am Father Simon,” he said softly. “May I be of assistance to my lady?”

She stood up. “I would like a mass said for my father.”

“Of course. A shilling it will cost.”

She fumbled around in the small purse she had attached to her wrist. All the while, she wondered if it had been foolish for her to think de Lara even went near the chapel. This whole thing had been a ruse. Perhaps it had been a wasted one, and now it would cost her a shilling.  Well, perhaps not a wasted trip, but she had truly hoped to catch sight of him again. The Lord of the Shadows more than likely did not suffer the illumination of God’s house. She was beginning to feel foolish.

She handed over the money.  Father Simon smiled. “Mass will be said at Vespers. Your father’s name?”

“Henry St. James.”

“Of course.  Good day to you, my lady.”

As he turned and walked away, Sheridan noticed straw on his robes, embedded near his shoulders, as if he had been laying in the stuff. It stuck her odd that William Marshall had been covered in the same substance. With a shrug, she gave it no further thought.  Perhaps all men at the Tower suffered the affliction of mysterious straw. 

Sheridan returned to her apartments near the tall, dark Flint Tower without catching another glimpse of Sean de Lara that day.

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

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 - 1215 A.D.

CHAPTER FOUR

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

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

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

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

“Summon my chamberlain,” he said to Sean, who moved to do his bidding even before the command left the king’s mouth. “Today is a great day.  Do you know why?”
Sean eyed the small, wiry Master of the Chamber as the man scampered into the king’s bower. He oft felt pity for the man, having been abused by the fickle monarch for the majority of his adult life. Even though Sean knew the answer to the questions, it was never a good idea to let on that he was indeed aware. It took the joy away from John of being able to tell him again.  And to upset the king was not on his agenda at this moment.

“Pray tell, sire.”

John’s black eyes flashed. “Today is the day of the battle of Tours, whereupon my father died.”

“A glorious day, sire.”

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

“What is your wish, sire?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It shall be done.”

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

“A name or a description, sire?”

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

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

“There were two? I only saw one. The redhead.”

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

“Sire, if I may make a suggestion,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop,” she commanded. “Neely, bring me that pup.”

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

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

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

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

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

“’Tis cold, Dani,” she said. “We must keep moving.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If my lady is ready?”

She grinned. “Always.”

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