Never Love a Lord (27 page)
Authors: Heather Grothaus
“But what of Evesham?” Alys insisted. “You must tell us! We don’t know anything.”
“I will tell you,” Sybilla promised. “I’ll tell you everything very soon. But now we must hurry.”
“Why?” Cecily asked. “Sybilla, slow down, please!”
Sybilla didn’t answer, only chased the soldier around a sharp corner, her slippers hissing against the stone. The man stopped suddenly and stood to the side of a nondescript door.
“Lady de Lairne’s rooms, my lady,” he said solicitously.
“Thank you,” Sybilla breathed, although her eyes were on the thick wood of the door as her sisters came to a breathless halt to either side of her.
“At His Majesty’s request, I shall wait for you to emerge to lead you on to a guest chamber.”
“We might be a while,” Sybilla said faintly, raising her right hand to let her fingertips lightly graze the door.
“No matter,” the guard said, stepping a respectable distance away to give the room’s occupant privacy when the ladies entered. “This is my duty.”
“Sybilla, Cee,” Alys whispered suddenly. “Listen!”
All three women inclined their heads toward the door to better hear the faint notes wafting weakly through the thick wood.
It was a woman’s voice, singing a song the sisters were familiar with from their childhood.
Cecily turned to look at Sybilla and Alys, her eyes wide with surprised pleasure. “She sounds just like Mother!”
“Exactly like Mother,” Sybilla said faintly, and felt the frown crease her brow. She raised her fist and rapped on the door.
There was no answer after several heartbeats, and yet the singing continued. Sybilla reached for the door latch.
“Sybilla,” Cecily hissed, disapproval clear in her tone.
But Sybilla did not heed her sister, engaging the mechanism that held the door shut and pushing. It was unbolted and swung open soundlessly.
The volume of the tune increased minutely as the three women stepped inside the chamber. They were faced with a curtained bed jutting into the room, perpendicular to the door. The side drapes were closed, but Sybilla could see one footpost, indicating that the end of the bed had been left open to the hearth ablaze before it.
“I’ve got gooseflesh,” Alys whispered, rubbing briskly at her arms. “Is she hard of hearing?”
Sybilla led the way slowly, cautiously, toward the foot of the bed. “Lady de Lairne?” she called calmly, although inside her chest her heart thrashed against her ribs like the splintering of a great tree. “It’s Sybilla Foxe. I’ve brought my sisters, Cecily and Alys, to meet you, and to talk with you.”
“Should you really be calling her Lady de Lairne, though?” Cecily wondered aloud on a whisper.
Sybilla paused to look down at her usually meek younger sister. “Would you rather I shout ‘old woman’?”
“I see your point,” Cecily conceded.
They rounded the bedpost then, and no one was prepared for the sight that greeted them on the mattress. Sybilla reached out instinctively and found the hands of her sisters, just as they in turn were reaching for hers.
Lady de Lairne lay on her side facing the middle of the mattress, her elegant and matronly skirts arranged just so on the coverlet. Her soft gray hair was uncovered, caught at her nape in a short plait. Her eyes were closed in her pale, still, wrinkled face. Her hands lay slightly away from her chest on the bed.
And she was not alone. A silvery mist mirrored the old woman on the bed, and as the sisters stood and stared in the gloom of the chamber, the mist began to take clearer shape: a young woman in a long, plain gown, with hair the color of old, well-oiled wood. She was holding both of the old woman’s hands in her own, smiling at the still countenance, and singing so quietly that it would not have disturbed the flame of a candle.
“Mother?” Alys said in a choked whisper.
Sybilla’s body went ice-cold.
The child was of the village wise woman.
We looked enough alike that no one could tell us apart.
What do I care now? I am an old woman. I have no family save you to know the truth.
I will save you, as your mother saved me.
“Mother?” Alys asked again, still quietly but with a hint of desperation in her voice as the song finally came to an end.
The sparkling young woman at last turned her head slightly on the pillow to acknowledge the three sisters standing at the foot of the bed, peering in.
“Shh, girls,” she said with a smile. “My lady sleeps.”
Sybilla felt her knees twitch as if they would buckle, while at her side, Cecily gasped.
“Forgive me,” Cecily pleaded quietly. “Forgive me the terrible things I have said and thought of you.”
“I miss you so, Mother,” Alys wept quietly.
“Shh, shh, girls,” Amicia Foxe admonished again gently. She looked to Sybilla. “Well done, my own.” Her voice had an echoey quality, as if coming up—or down—from a great distance. And then her eyes landed on all three sisters in turn. “Take care of each other.”
And then Amicia Foxe sparkled away into nothing in the quiet room, to be followed in only an instant by the sound of the chamber door swinging open behind them.
All three women turned, realizing that none had closed the door behind them upon entering. And yet they had heard the click of the latch, a squeaking of old hinges, and now the giggling of what could have been two very young girls sneaking out of the chamber to find a bit of mischief. A door slammed, causing them all to jump, and yet they could still see the corridor clearly through the doorway.
Sybilla looked back at the bed once, and the figure on the mattress seemed somehow hollow now, deflated. And on the coverlet next to Sybil de Lairne, directly where Amicia Foxe’s ghost had sparkled only a moment ago, lay the missing miniature portrait.
“One of you fetch the guard,” Sybilla said, telling herself that her voice was firm, not at all shaky, as her eyes found the corpse of Sybil de Lairne once more. “Hurry.”
Chapter 29
He rode from London alone, through the night, and had stopped only once for a short meal and to change horses.
Now, Julian forced himself to pause some distance away from Fallstowe’s great drawbridge, giving his mount a chance to catch its breath, and taking the time himself to look at the imposing stone castle with new eyes. Inside those formidable walls, Lucy waited for him—the rest of his life waited for him.
And everyone would be waiting for Sybilla. It seemed to Julian that the castle itself was poised in anticipation of her mistress’s return, the stones sparkling bright enough in the midday sun to guide Sybilla all the way from London, if need be. Julian fancied he could even feel the physical pull of the castle on his own body, and he realized that although the stewardship of Fallstowe now belonged to him, by the king’s own hand on the parchment tucked over his heart inside his tunic, Fallstowe did not belong to Julian.
Julian belonged to Fallstowe. He understood now, watching the banners flap and hearing their sharp snap in the breeze, smelling the sweetness of spring emanating from the earth like steam, witnessing the ring of thin clouds like a wispy crown above the tall towers—Fallstowe was more than a hold. It was a legacy rich and dripping with history and emotion, strife and danger, magic and love. It had called to Julian two years ago when he’d begun his investigation of the Foxe family, and once it had gotten its toothed battlements into his flesh, it had never let go.
Now, it protected the most precious thing in Julian’s life: Lucy. And Julian knew that Lucy had belonged to Fallstowe from the very beginning, when he had imagined her so vividly as a little girl in long skirts, running over the rolling hills, playing at the fringe of the wood, her soft little slippers slapping against the tower stairs as she came up to visit her father at his ledgers. She would forever know this castle as her home. She would forever see it as a place of security and comfort, where she would be surrounded by those who loved her most in this world.
Julian took a moment to look up into the sky above the castle. “Thank you, Cateline. I swear to you that Lucy will know of you. And I hope that you are still proud of me.”
He looked back down at his horse’s neck, blinking the brightness away. When he raised his head, he saw one of the soldiers on horseback now, riding toward him.
Julian spurred his horse, happy to meet the man more than halfway.
Julian’s reunion with Lucy was one of the sweetest things he’d ever known. Seeing her little face, looking older somehow even in only four days—the longest he’d ever been away from her—caused a wrenching of his heart and a thickening of his throat that made words impossible things for him. Her big, toothless smile and squeal of surprise and delight as she’d lunged from old Graves’s arms, elicited a feeling of love so sharp as to be painful.
Now it was evening, after a long and much-needed nap for both father and daughter. Julian sat at the lord’s table with Lucy on his knee as a feast of ridiculous portions was served to them. Sybilla’s ornate chair to Julian’s right was conspicuously empty, and so, after some thought and assistance from Graves in fetching a thick coverlet, Lucy now presided over Sybilla’s table in her stead. The baby pounded regally on the table with an empty wooden cup and screeched her demands, the servants doting on her with little coos and words of praise. Julian could scarcely take his eyes from her, even to glance periodically toward the arch leading from the great hall, hoping with the sound of each footfall that it would be Sybilla come home to join them.
It was near the end of the meal when the king’s messenger arrived with a missive for Julian, as well as one for Graves, who was standing, ever ready, behind Lucy’s chair. Julian could not help the frown on his face as he split the seal and unfolded his own small square.
Lord Griffin,
Lady de Lairne is dead. I shall remain in London while she is readied to accompany me to Fallstowe. Graves will see to the details of her interment. Any plans for the future must be postponed indefinitely.
S—
Julian’s frown increased, and he was at once seized by a sadness for Sybilla’s loss, when the de Lairne woman had only just been found to her. But he was also unsettled by her statement referring to future plans. Certainly she was alluding to their wedding. But, postponed indefinitely? He looked over his shoulder to find Graves, but the man had already slipped from the dais unnoticed. Julian wondered what the old steward’s message had said.
He read the missive through twice more before folding it away inside his tunic. Then he stood, waving away the servants with an apologetic thank-you as they approached the table with dessert. He disentangled Lucy from her throne and left the hall, intent on seeking his tower chamber once more.
Sybilla was not coming home tonight.
She had not been so long and so far away from Fallstowe in years. It was such an odd feeling, Sybilla considered not going back at all as she stared out the carriage window, her head rocking on her fist as the large wheels rolled over the rutted road. People whom she passed in the conveyance, and those who passed her, did not know her identity. They didn’t know who she was or where she was from. Even if she chanced to meet other travelers face-to-face, the likelihood that they would recognize her was almost nonexistent. On this road, she was just a nameless, homeless woman.
Perhaps that’s what she was, any matter.
Sybil de Lairne’s wooden coffin followed Sybilla’s hired carriage in a tarp-covered wagon. Sybilla had encouraged both Cee and Alys to return to their homes at their husbands’ sides, although both of her sisters had protested vehemently and Sybilla thought it possible that Alys was entertaining the idea of a physical altercation in order to personally accompany Sybilla to Fallstowe. In the end, though, Sybilla had flatly stated she did not want their company, no matter how much she loved and treasured them. She did not want anyone’s company. She needed time to think, and think she could not do with Cee’s fretting or Alys’s endless questions, Piers’s stoicism and Oliver’s outright discomfort with the whole lot of them. She couldn’t fault any of them.
Cee and Alys would first go on to Bellemont and Gillwick, respectively. But they would likely arrive at Fallstowe only shortly after Sybilla, as she had instructed the drivers to travel at an easy pace, with orders to overnight at two inns between London and Fallstowe. The leisurely journey would give her more time to think.
All the questions she thought had been answered remained unanswered. And more questions had grown in the compost of convoluted facts and allusions between the time of Sybilla’s trial and the moment the ghosts of Amicia and Sybil de Lairne had departed the royal guest apartment. Alys and Cecily had questions, and Sybilla had her own, of course. But no one had any answers. Least of all the woman who was slated to marry Julian Griffin.
The vision of her mother’s spirit upon Sybil de Lairne’s bed haunted her still—the plain woolen gown, her simple, unadorned plait alongside a youthful and scrubbed-clean cheek. The look of love and protectiveness on her face.
My lady sleeps.
Sybilla had known in that very instant that Lady Sybil de Lairne had perjured herself before the king of England.
And so Sybilla was still the illegitimate daughter of an illegitimate daughter.
She was still a traitor.
She was also now a patriot.
A coldhearted matriarch.
A stepmother.
A sister.
The mistress of Fallstowe, but entitled to nothing.
Who was the woman Julian Griffin wanted for his wife? Sybilla did not know, and so she was certain that Julian could have no inkling. How could she ever agree to marry him, to undertake those roles so foreign to her—the roles of mother and wife—when she had not yet come to a polite agreement with who she had been her entire life?
Who was she? What was she?
The carriage rumbled over the road, drawing ever nearer to that place which had for so long been her reason for existence, and which now seemed a stone enigma, housing the whole of the riddle of the woman who had once been Sybilla Foxe.
On the fourth morning, Julian knew that Sybilla had returned when he saw the packages on the lord’s table as he and Lucy came down to break their fast. A small, cloth-wrapped bundle tied with flaxen string and decorated with a tiny brass bell, the little vellum tag reading simply L in Sybilla’s light, flowing script. Next to it sat an even smaller wooden box with a similar tag labeled J.
He frowned at the gifts, and at the realization that he’d not seen Graves all the morn. Sybilla had likely returned in the night or the small hours of the morning then, but no one had alerted him, and it made him quite cross all around.
Lucy had already voiced her desire for the bell, and was now leaning down to the table even as Julian seated himself. The baby flicked her chubby fingers back and forth over the delicate fixture, letting its dulled tinkle echo in the strangely vacant hall. He pulled the package toward her and slipped the tie from the cloth.
Inside was a gorgeous miniature sleeveless robe in scarlet velvet, the full length of it and also the hood lined with white rabbit. Ornate silver clasps laddered up the front of the white fur trim. It was an outrageous gift for the child, but Julian couldn’t help his smile as he slipped Lucy’s little arms through the embroidered side slits and fastened the closures. It fit her perfectly and suited her more than humility warranted.
As his daughter continued to play with the little bell, Julian pulled his own gift toward him. He unhooked the little leather strip wrapped around a bone peg and lifted the lid of the box. Inside on a bed of boiled wool lay a silvered quill and ink pot, with an additional slip of vellum.
For your accounts.
The gifts were thoughtful, and in Sybilla’s generous mind, likely highly practical. But why had she not waited to give them in person? Had she not missed Lucy?
Had she not missed Julian?
His troubled thoughts were interrupted by a smiling kitchen maid who brought a tray of food and warmed, spiced wine, as well as a bladder of milk for Lucy.
“Good morrow, milord,” the girl chirped as she set the offerings in their precise place on the table. “Lady Lucy.”
Julian did not mince words. “Where is Lady Sybilla?”
The girl paused in her chore, giving him a kind if curious glance. “Madam doesn’t take breakf—”
“I know Madam doesn’t take breakfast,” Julian said with as much patience as he could muster.
“Of course, milord,” the girl apologized. “Madam arrived very late in the night. I would think her still at her rest.”
Julian’s temper darkened even further. As far as he knew, Sybilla did not have a bed to rest in any longer, as the splintered remains of the black monstrosity that took up the surface of her chamber still lay in ruined pieces on the floor.
And she certainly hadn’t sought the tower room in the night.
“Where is Graves, then?” he barked.
The serving girl blinked, and then crossed herself, owl-eyed. “Seeing to her ladyship’s grave, I believe, milord. Shall I have him fetched for you?”
Julian shook his head as he sat Lucy back against his chest in her luxurious robe and settled in to feeding her her breakfast.
“No. I shall find them myself.”
The serving girl bobbed a nervous curtsy before turning quickly away from the table.
Julian was not completely sure, but he thought he’d heard her whisper, “God be with you, milord,” as she’d scurried back toward the safety of the kitchen doorway.
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