Lords of Darkness and Shadow (89 page)

“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 is 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.

“… I found myself wishing my time and life were my own so that I would be better able to focus on the amazing events unfolding before me.  I would have given all that I’d worked for if just one afternoon could have been given to us where I did not have to worry about death and impending destruction… the storm was approaching swiftly….”

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 - 1215 A.D.

CHAPTER SIX

“I want to see the king.”

The guards in Plantagenet crimson gazed down at the round, redheaded young maiden standing before them. It wasn’t usual to have visitors to the royal wing unless summoned, either under their own will or kicking and screaming. But this young lady, clad in a pretty red gown, seemed quite determined. One of the guards recognized her as having been in the king’s chambers a few days prior. He immediately sent a page to the king’s secretary.

So Alys waited in the sumptuous surroundings. She knew the king would grant her audience.  She was certain he had been thinking of her just as she had been thinking of him. She knew that he was married, but it was of little consequence. She could still be a royal ward.  She wanted the same attention he had lavished on her before, the same undivided consideration and compliments to her beauty that he had given her. So many people, including Sheridan, had said so many terrible things about him, but she did not believe it.  He had been completely kind to her.  She knew he had feelings for her.

It wasn’t long before she heard a set of doors open down the long corridor. They banged into the wall, giving her a start. Looking up, she saw a massive figure coming towards her, silhouetted by the sun pouring in through the large lancet window at the far end of the hall. It took her a moment to realize it was Sean de Lara.

Her face lit up.

“Sir Sean!” she said happily. “You have come to…”

Sean reached out and snatched her around the arm, practically dragging her down the corridor. Alys’ momentary glee turned to alarm.

“You are hurting me,” she said. “Let go of my arm.”

Sean acted as if he hadn’t heard her.  He yanked her all the way down the corridor, ignoring her increasing pleas, until he reached the room he had come from.  He literally threw her inside and Alys lost her balance, tripping to her knees. Frustrated, terrified, she looked up to see him bearing down on her.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

She was petrified.  “I… I came to see the king.”

His jaw was flexing so hard that it looked as if he was going to snap his jawbone. “Does your sister know you are here?”

“Nay,” Alys didn’t realize she had her hands up as if protecting herself from de Lara’s wrath. “She is in bed, tending a sick headache.”

His jaw stopped ticking and he peered more closely at her. “Sick headache? Is she ill?”

Alys slowly lowered her hands. “She gets them sometimes. She cannot eat or stand for a few days until it goes away. Sometimes she vomits if there is too much light in her chamber.”

Sean’s fury at Alys was suddenly turned to grave concern for Sheridan. She had seemed fine when he saw her yesterday. But he had to keep his focus. “Get out of here,” he reached down and picked her up off the floor. “Go back to your apartment and stay there. Never return, Alys. Do you understand?”

Alys didn’t. “But why? The king was so kind to me the other day.”

His expression clouded, a terrifying vision of death and intimidation. “The king wants nothing more than to rob you of your maidenhood and violate you as you cannot even possibly imagine that a man could do. I could tell you horror stories that would give you nightmares for the rest of your life, but I will refrain simply for the fact that I would protect your dignity as a lady. But I swear that if you ever come back here again, I will spank you within an inch of your life. Do you comprehend me?”

Her big green eyes were wide with terror. “Aye,” she whispered.

“Then go home. Stay there.”

She was out in the corridor by this time.  Without another word, she turned to leave the same way she had come when another set of doors opened and she found herself walking straight into d’Athèe. His grizzled face twisted with delight at the sight of her.

“Ah,” he said. “The Lady Alys. The king will be delighted to see you.”

Sean was several paces behind Alys. He could do nothing but gaze impassively at her as Gerard took her by the arm and led her back into the open room.  Feeling sick to his stomach, he followed.

John sat before his elegant dressing table, watching his chamberlain cut the front of his hair with a very sharp dagger. He glanced into the polished bronze mirror, seeing Alys’ reflection, Gerard’s, and in the doorway, Sean. Shoving the chamberlain aside and nearly losing an ear in the process, he turned to his guest.

“Lady Alys,” he rose from his chair. “I heard you had come to see me. How kind.”

Alys smiled timidly. “I…I thought perhaps to thank you for the delightful afternoon we spent together, sire.”

John took her hand gently, a gesture that was as sickening as it was forced. “Ah,” he said sweetly. “A lady with manners. I was about to have my morning meal. Will you join me?”

Alys glanced hesitantly at Sean, fearfully at Gerard, before answering. “I would be honored, sire.”

Sean was starting to feel the distinct twinges of panic. He’d seen that expression on the king, too many times. He knew where it would lead. He had held the king off once with warnings of unified opponents should he violate a St. James woman, but he suspected that warning would only hold good once. Alys had walked right back into the jaws of the lion and he was very quickly realizing there was nothing he could do about it. She was going to be eaten.

As he watched Alys sit at the private table in the king’s bower, he could see the familiar pattern forming.  D’Athèe faded into the shadows as he, too, was expected to do.  If he didn’t follow the pattern, the king would wonder why. If the king began to ask questions, then Sean’s entire position could be in doubt. If his position was in doubt, then nine long, horrible years of his life would be wasted, never to be regained again. He could not blow his cover.  The king could not realize that a traitor lay closer to him than he had ever dared imagine.

He could not risk his position, not when everything was so close at hand.

Stupid girl!

He left the room and shut the door. There were guards in the corridor, watching him, and he would not react. He retired back into the large chamber that belonged to him adjacent to the king’s apartments. Of all of the turmoil he had ever felt about his position, this was the worst.  It was a nightmare. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew what he should do.  Holding his breath, he waited for the first screams. They were not long in coming.

Damn her!

Sean burst through the connecting door, into the king’s chamber.  The king had Alys on the floor near the table, the top of her gown ripped away to reveal snow-white flesh.  She was sobbing hysterically. The king looked at Sean, his expression between fear and annoyance.

“De Lara?” he said through clenched teeth. “What manner of crisis is this?”

Sean reached around the king and yanked Alys off the floor, so hard that he heard a bone snap. She screamed, clutching her wrist. Sean shoved her back through the doors and into the adjoining chamber, slamming the heavy oak panels behind her hard enough to rattle the walls.  Furious, bordering on a loss of control, he faced off against the king.

“Sire,” he was struggling to maintain his composure. “I told you that attacking a St. James woman would be foolish. With all of the allied nobles in London at this time, and particularly those paying tribute at Henry’s Wake earlier this week, can you not see the folly of your actions? I forbid you to deliberately incite a riot against the crown when we have worked so hard to contain it. Surely there are other women you can entertain yourself with.”

John gazed at him with his droopy-eyed, piercing stare. He fidgeted with the tunic that was askew on his torso. After an eternity of horrid, tension-filled silence, during which Sean was positive the man was going to have him arrested, the king suddenly broke into an unexpected, completely abashed, grin.

“De Lara,” he grunted, slapping Sean on the arm. “My most loyal servant. How on earth do you tolerate me? I am trying to destroy myself even as you try to save me. Are we such a foolish pair, you and I?”

Even at those words, Sean could not relax. He was so furious that he had bitten his tongue; he could taste the blood. “If it is a woman you want, I shall find one for you,” he said. “But I will not let you provoke the opposition as you seem so willing to do. I will not let you commit political suicide.”

John was still grinning as he made his way, lazily, back over to his dressing table. “Very good, de Lara, very good,” he spoke like a man who clearly understood his mistake. “I would prefer a blond. Not too thin.”

As quickly as his lust roused, it was as quickly forgotten. From somewhere, the chamberlain appeared and resumed cutting the king’s hair with a razor-sharp dagger.  It was as if nothing had ever been. It looked the same as it did when Sean had entered the chamber.

But Sean was used to that. John could be bitterly confusing in that sense. Without further thought. Sean retreated back to his adjoining room where Alys was huddled against the wall, holding her wrist. When she saw Sean approach, she began to cry loudly. He knelt beside her, swiftly, putting his hand on her head in a comforting gesture.

“I am sorry, Alys,” he muttered. “Truly, I am sorry. It was an accident. But I had to get you out of there and I apologize if I was brutal. Do you understand that?”

She was sobbing pathetically. “He… he tried to…”

“I know,” he felt so badly for her that he kissed her on the forehead. “Come, let me see what I have done. Please know I wouldn’t have intentionally hurt you for the world. I did not mean to.”

She sniffled, wincing when he ran his fingers over her forearm. “It hurts.”

“I know. I can feel the broken bone through your skin. Let’s get you out of here and to a physic.”

Sean went to the wall and pushed on one of the massive decorative panels that lined the perimeter; it swung open, revealing a steep, narrow staircase that disappeared into the darkness below. He took a taper in one hand and Alys in the other.

“Come along,” he said. “Watch the steps; they’re steep.”

Tears fading, left arm held tight against her body, Alys allowed him to lead her down the dark stairs.

As the secret panel closed softly behind them, the doors on the opposite side of the chamber softly opened. The king was standing in the archway with Gerard. The men gazed unemotionally at the wall with the hidden panel, each man thinking his own thoughts of what he had just witnessed. It was difficult to know their conclusions. It was the king who finally spoke, a great deal of reluctance in his tone.

“Follow him,” he said to d’Athée. “See where he goes.”

“He goes to take her to the physic, sire,” Gerard said. “You heard the bone snap yourself.”

The king mulled over the situation, Sean’s words. His weak mind was torn with suspicion and jealousy. “Indeed I did,” he said. “But I have seen him do worse and show no compassion. Why this time? Why with her? Perhaps he wants her for himself.”

D’Athee could only shake his head. The king waved a finger in the general direction of the concealed panel. “Follow them. Report back to me.”

Gerard, against his better judgment, obeyed.

***

“She is hurt enough,” Sean had Sheridan by the waist. “Go - sit over there, away from her. There will be no battles today in my presence.”

Sheridan wasn’t listening. She was so furious and terrified that she was crying. She wanted to take her sister’s head off but Sean wouldn’t let her.

“Ooooo,” she shook both of her fists at a weeping Alys. “You are a fool, do you hear me? A fool! I should kill you and be done with it!”

Sean bodily picked her up and carried her to the opposite side of the room. There was a chair; he set her down in it, gently, and grasped her face, forcing her to look at him.

“Calm yourself,” he commanded softly. “Alys needs your comfort, not your anger.”

Sheridan’s eyes were filled with tears.  Then, she closed her eyes tightly and refused to look at any of them.

“She’ll not get any from me,” she hissed. “Please, I need to lie down. I feel horribly ill.”

Sean swept her into his arms and put her right back onto the bed where he had found her a few minutes earlier. She had looked as if she was dying, lying in a dark room with a cloth over her eyes.  But a brief story of Alys’ morning to explain her splinted wrist had Sheridan leaping out of bed like a mad woman. It had, in hindsight, not been the brightest of ideas. Her sick headache was worse than before.

“What can I do for you?” he leaned over her, his powerful arms braced on either side of her.

She put her arm over her eyes, blocking out the light. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Darkness and quiet are the only things I need. This will pass.”