Never Love a Lord (20 page)
Authors: Heather Grothaus
The man frowned furiously at her, but then nodded. “Very well. I give you my word. Call off your man and send for the child’s nurse.”
Sybilla nodded toward her steward, and Graves lowered his sword and took a step away from the man.
“Nurse?” she said pleasantly, pointedly.
Graves stepped forward, both hands clasped over the hilt of the sword still hanging in front of him. “You called, Madam?”
“What kind of nonsense is this?” the soldier demanded. “You expect me to believe that this old corpse is a baby’s nurse?”
Sybilla raised her eyebrows at the man. “Would you agree, sir, that it is a fact that Lady Lucy’s original nurse, a girl named Murrin, is no longer at Fallstowe?”
The man frowned. “Yes, that is true, I suppose, but still—an old man?”
“Graves is the most trusted servant Fallstowe has ever known.” She looked to Graves and hoped that the love she felt for him was evident in her eyes. “There is no one better to protect Lord Griffin’s child in his absence.” She nodded toward Julian. “Go on, Graves,” she ordered softly.
It took the old man a moment to walk to the dais steps and gain the platform. Then he laid his sword down carefully upon the lord’s table and turned to Julian, his wrinkled and knobby fingers outstretched.
“Would you come with me, please, Lady Lucy?”
The baby stared wide-eyed at the old man and shrank back against Julian for a moment.
“Graves . . .” Julian said in a choked voice, and then halted as if unable to speak further.
Sybilla barely heard the old man’s query to Julian.
“Think you this is the first precious daughter placed in my care, Lord Julian?”
Julian kissed Lucy’s head firmly three, four times and then handed the baby to the old steward.
Graves turned away, the baby still regarding him with wide eyes. “Let us go find a nipple, shall we?” he said soothingly, and his eyes met Sybilla’s when he passed her.
Sybilla hoped he would hear her.
Send him after me tonight.
Send him after me tonight.
He nodded once at her, the motion so slight that no one save Sybilla would ever have noticed.
And then he was gone.
Julian turned to face the hall aggressively as the king’s man stepped forward with chains. Erik refused the pair offered to him, obviously intended for Julian.
“Never,” Erik said, his chin lifted. “Not under the threat of death.”
Sybilla did not look at Julian again as her dagger was removed from her side, the cold bite of chain fastened around her ankles and wrists.
There will come a time, and you will see.
The time had come. And Sybilla saw.
Within moments, the men who followed Erik had laid hands to Julian’s trunks and his thick leather portfolio, filled with the history he’d collected about the Foxe family. He and Sybilla had waited in the hall, both shackled in a primitive manner on opposite sides of the room. She would not meet his eyes. And she spoke not another word to anyone.
Outside the hall, though, the bailey was in pure chaos.
Word had spread quickly from the household that Madam was being taken from them, although Fallstowe’s soldiers made no move to attack the tight ring of the king’s men who made a living corridor for the prisoners to walk through.
The servants and villagers felt no fealty to the king’s men, however, and they pushed against them in a mighty, furious wave, shouting obscenities, hurling eggs and dung at the royal soldiers. Sybilla did not acknowledge them with the slightest glance, only walked calmly between her personal guards—one to each side and one to the fore and aft. Julian noticed that none of the men dared touch her.
Likely very wise.
Julian followed, an officer to either side of him. At the end of the avenue of soldiers, a strange, fortified conveyance waited, with a soldier posted on each side of the open door. It was a wooden carriage of sorts, but the planked sides had been bolted over with close strips of thick iron, the windows barred. A team of six sturdy horses had been harnessed together tightly to pull the monstrosity. Julian had to laugh out loud when he saw the crucifixes fastened to each face of the imposing-looking rolling dungeon.
Then Sybilla did glance over her shoulder at him. “Flattering,” she said with a smirk.
“No talking,” the man to her left shouted, and made the mistake of shoving Sybilla’s shoulder roughly.
She did nothing more than pivot her head quickly toward him, but in the next instant the man was lying on his back in the dirt. Fallstowe’s citizenry went mad, pelting the man with rocks and manure until he cried out in a panic and was helped to his feet by his fellow soldiers.
Sybilla ignored it all, stepping up into the carriage awkwardly, no man daring to give her assistance after what had just happened to their comrade.
The soldiers quickly moved to shut the door, even as her skirts slid inside, and Julian watched as a series of three locks along the seam of the doorjamb—all as big and thick as his own fist—were latched with loud clicks. Then a chain was dragged through two loops across the width of the door itself and secured.
Julian was afforded his own mount, although he would have much preferred accompanying Sybilla in the ridiculous wheeled prison. The chains around his ankles were removed, but his wrists were left bound. It was more than he expected, especially since Erik had already departed for London, ahead of the massive wave of soldiers, leaving Julian without his friend.
They rolled through Fallstowe’s gate and over the drawbridge in a sea of soldiers that seemed to be a mile long; one small woman the remote island in the very middle of it all.
Julian saw two men astride some distance away, watching the passing mob of boots and swords and banners. He looked closely.
One of them had the blocky silhouette of Piers Mallory, Lord of Gillwick; the other, Julian could only assume, must be Oliver Bellecote.
Julian did not signal to them in any way, only turned his head forward and rocked in the saddle. He trusted Sybilla, and so he would trust these men that she had deemed worthy of her sisters. They would be completely loyal to her—Sybilla would accept nothing less, and she gave nothing less to those whom she loved.
For some reason, that realization stirred an uneasy feeling in Julian’s stomach.
Chapter 22
Sybilla’s conveyance was abysmally loud and uncomfortable, but that suited her. The jarring motion of the racing carriage made it impossible for any of the guards riding alongside to keep a clear watch over her through the tiny, obstructed windows, and the outrageous clamor masked the sounds of her exploration of the carriage’s interior construction.
Even the floor was sheeted over with hammered metal, bolted to the frame and impervious to any tool she might have been able to procure; which, of course, she hadn’t. The window frames were solid, reinforced. The door didn’t so much as shudder as the carriage careened over the rutted road. The roof, she had seen upon entering the vehicle, held no hatch.
The benches to the front and rear of the carriage were upholstered, though, and so Sybilla began prying at the tacked edge under the front cushion, a lip of perhaps two inches, using her fingernails to pick at the material until she had pulled a small strip of it loose. She poked a finger into the hole and felt through the scratchy straw and woolen batting until she found the bench frame beneath. Wood, with a small gap where the seat and front facing met.
Sybilla smiled and rose to her knees on the hard metal floor. She hooked the fingertips of both hands under the lip of the bench and pulled with all her strength. The seat did not budge, and as the carriage hit a particularly deep hole, Sybilla was thrown onto her shoulder.
She grimaced and pulled herself aright again, this time sitting on her bottom. She turned her right hand palm up, and laid it under the bottom edge of the lip, and then curled her back to fit the cusp of her right shoulder against the back of her palm. She braced her feet against the opposite bench and threw herself upward against the seat. It creaked, almost imperceptibly on her first try, and so she did it again. And again. The three smallest fingers of her right hand felt as though they would shatter.
Perhaps it was after her tenth go at it that the seat bench lifted; sturdy, square iron nails pulling halfway from their moorings. Sybilla gave a huff of relief and quickly gained her knees. She peered through the gap created and was shocked to see the carriage’s front axle turning beneath her. Wasting no time, she once more grabbed the lip of the bench with her fingertips and pulled.
The seat pulled free easily this time, like opening the lid of a trunk, and Sybilla was rewarded with the sight of the brown dirt road spinning away beneath the carriage, dust and rocks tumbling furiously. One such rock chose that moment to hurl itself through the bench opening, whizzing past Sybilla’s face and missing her eye by a breath. It clattered around inside the carriage for a moment like a wild arrow, then fell to the floor near her left calf. Sybilla lowered the bench seat most of the way with one hand and picked up the rock with the other.
It was a wonder it hadn’t killed her. Oblong, the length of her palm, the rock could have been a rough-hewn end for a primitive spear, its edges thinned and chipped by years and years of hooves and wheels. She turned it over in her palm and looked at it for a moment, then slid it behind the rear upholstered edge of the opposite bench, between the seat and the back wall.
Then Sybilla lowered the seat bench back to its usual placement and climbed upon it.
Now she would wait. Wait, and try not to think about anything at all.
The whole of Edward’s army departed Fallstowe. Oliver was surprised they hadn’t left at least some soldiers behind to secure the castle for the king, but Piers had suggested otherwise.
“Fallstowe folk would have seen them all dead before the last man crested yon hills.”
Alys’s husband was right, of course. With Sybilla gone, it would be no great task to return the king’s army to Fallstowe and overthrow any of the men who—now leaderless—thought to resist. Sybilla
was
Fallstowe. Without her, there was nothing to fight for.
was
Fallstowe. Without her, there was nothing to fight for.
And Oliver wanted to fight.
He and Piers gained entrance to the gates without incident, the fighting men and villagers obviously relieved to see them. Oliver and Piers put them off, though, making their way straight to the hall, seeking the one who would know what Sybilla wanted them to do.
They found him not in the hall but in the kitchens. While the cook and the maids laid their heads upon the massive center workbench and sobbed, Graves sat in a little wooden chair by the hearth, calmly feeding an infant from a bladder.
Oliver halted in his tracks, Piers following suit, and both men simply stared at the old steward. In a moment, Graves deigned to look their way, and a slight smile cracked his dusty old countenance.
“She’s a beauty, is she not, my lords?”
“My God,” Piers said. “Is that Julian Griffin’s child?”
Graves sniffed. “Who else would she belong to?”
“What’s she doing here?” Oliver demanded.
“Can’t you see that she’s having luncheon?”
Piers turned to Oliver. “This is no good.”
Oliver grimaced and nodded. “All right, you old badger, what is it we are to do to rescue Lady Sybilla?”
“Do, Lord Oliver?”
“Yes, do. Sybilla has obviously been taken against her will to the king.”
“Has she?”
Oliver growled. “Well, I’m fairly certain she didn’t plan it thusly.”
The old man raised his eyebrows and shrugged, returning his attention to the infant who was regarding Oliver and Piers quite warily from the corners of her eyes.
Then Piers spoke, in his calm, thoughtful manner. “She already has a plan.”
“Doesn’t she always?”
Oliver was frustrated to the extreme. It had been enough of a struggle for him and Piers to leave Bellemont without their pregnant wives. If they did not resolve a way to rescue Sybilla Foxe, and quickly, they might as well not return to Oliver’s home at all.
Piers spoke again, and Oliver admired the man’s careful way of holding his tongue while his brains did their work. Oliver would have to try that in the future.
“What does Lady Sybilla need from us?”
Graves was silent for so long that Oliver did not think he would answer. The child’s feeding bladder was empty, and so the old manservant removed it and expertly placed the baby on his shoulder, patting her back as if it was his sole duty in life to care for children.
“What do you know of Madam’s character?” he asked musingly.
Oliver was not amused. “I’m not playing your little game, Graves.”
“Strong willed,” Piers said immediately. “Faithful. Cunning.”
Graves rewarded Piers’s answer by pointing at him with one gnarled finger. “And when the pair of you and your wives were in the most dire of straits, what did Madam do?”
“She came for us. Herself,” Piers answered. “She risked everything.” Piers glanced at Oliver uneasily. “For Cecily, she apprehended the villain who would have seen her dead. For Alys and me, she breached the king’s home herself.”
Oliver nodded, not liking the direction this conversation was taking. “Are you telling us that we need to go directly to the source of Sybilla’s trouble?”
“Why would you need to go to the king?” Graves asked mildly.
“Wait,” Piers interjected, then paused, obviously working out the situation in his head. “Julian Griffin was also arrested. You indicated that Sybilla might have gone willingly, and Lord Griffin’s child has remained behind at Fallstowe.” Piers looked to Oliver.
“Sybilla said she is in love with him,” Oliver said.
Piers nodded and then looked back to Graves. “She’s going to confess, isn’t she?”
“She can’t do that, though,” Oliver nearly shouted. “She’ll be put to death.” He looked at Piers. “We must go. I don’t know what we shall do when we get there, but Cecily and Alys will never forgive us if we don’t.”
“Again I ask you, why would
you
need to go to the king?” Graves repeated. “What skills would you add to Madam’s defense?”
you
need to go to the king?” Graves repeated. “What skills would you add to Madam’s defense?”
“Skills?” Piers asked this time, nonplussed. “If you mean skills in the way Lady Sybilla and our wives possess skills, then I don’t—”
“Yes, where
are
Ladies Cecily and Alys?” Graves interjected musingly.
are
Ladies Cecily and Alys?” Graves interjected musingly.
“They’re safe at Bellemont,” Oliver answered, but even as he did, a rock seemed to drop into his stomach.
“Are they?” Graves wondered.
Piers kicked a nearby chair. “Shit!”
Oliver grabbed Piers’s elbow. “Let’s go. If we ride hard, we should be able to meet them. They surely aren’t traveling very fast.”
After the two men ran from the kitchens, Lady Lucy gave a most satisfactory belch, and Graves praised her with a smile.
“Can’t have the pair of them mucking things up, can we?”
“This is a terrible idea,” Alys moaned.
Cecily shot her a reproving look as she jerked on the horse’s reins, navigating their cart into the grass to avoid a series of particularly deep ruts in the road.
“It’s a fantastic idea,” Cecily argued. “Whatever has happened to your sense of adventure, Lady Alys?”
“I believe I forgot to pack it and left it behind at Gillwick,” Alys muttered. “Of all people, I would think you to be more prudent at a time like this.”
“Prudence will not save Sybilla,” Cecily said firmly, and felt a strange feeling of empowerment come over her, bringing a bright smile to her face. “I do believe marriage and motherhood have effectively dampened your penchant for mischief.”
“Mischief?” Alys exclaimed. “Our sister is, at this moment, under arrest and en route to London, where she will be tried for treason. I hardly think
mischief
is an apt term to describe what we’re getting ourselves into.”
mischief
is an apt term to describe what we’re getting ourselves into.”
“Would you rather have—oh my! Hold on!” The cart’s rear wheels caught the tail end of a gully as they were pulling back onto the road, and the conveyance tipped precariously, causing Alys to shriek and grasp at the bench. Cecily stood from her seat and guided the struggling horse without diving headfirst into panic.
Once they were righted and traveling smoothly once again, Cecily sat down and continued where she’d left off, glancing at Alys’s pale face.
“Would you rather have waited, useless, at Bellemont, not knowing what was happening?”
“Of course not, no,” Alys said. “But I don’t see what we will be able to accomplish on our own. And Piers and Oliver will be so angry.”
“Then they should have taken us along in the first place,” Cecily said. “It’s their own fault. They should have expected it.”
“Expected it from me, perhaps, yes. But not you. It seems I’m not the only one whose personality has been affected by motherhood.”
Cecily pursed her lips. “True,” she conceded. “Any matter, I’m sure that when Sybilla stormed the king’s castle for you, and when she came to save me from wicked Joan Barleg, she had no idea what she would come across, nor exactly what she would do. We’ll figure it out.”
“This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” Alys muttered.
“No, it’s not,” Cecily said, enjoying the bright warmth of the sun on her face. “Your running off to the Foxe Ring and then to London with Piers Mallory, and my seducing Oliver Bellecote at the old ruins were the stupidest things we’ve ever done. This”—Cecily waved one hand in the air, as if searching for the words—“this is positively mundane. Two women on a ride through the countryside. Bland.”
“You’re mad,” Alys accused her.
Cecily smiled down at her sister. “You agreed to come.”
Alys brooded for several moments, her chin on her fist. “Besides,” she said at last, “I don’t know what to make of this revelation about Mother.”
“I don’t wish to talk about Mother,” Cecily said firmly.
“But I don’t believe it,” Alys argued. “I can’t believe that she would orchestrate this entire ruse, place Sybilla in such great danger. Sybilla was her shining star, the child she chose to succeed her, the one she trusted with her secrets. It makes no sense that she would throw her to the wolves as it seems she did, with no real hope of anyone to save her, ever. You have to admit.”
“Our mother was obviously full of secrets,” Cecily said. “There is likely much that we don’t know, and shall never know about what she did or why she did it. It’s difficult for you to accept because you are the baby, Alys. You don’t want to think anything bad of Mother.”
“That’s not it, though.” Alys brooded some more. “Don’t you get the feeling, if you were to stand back and look at things as a whole, that Mother did her best to keep us all isolated from certain facts?”
“She kept us isolated from most all the facts, I daresay.”
“Yes, but listen,” Alys insisted. “We didn’t know anything about the de Lairnes, and from what Sybilla said about what Julian Griffin reported from Lady de Lairne, they knew nothing about us.”
“That’s not odd,” Cecily said, “considering that Mother was posing as a lady of that family for years.”
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