Lords of Darkness and Shadow (86 page)

He was distracted from his thoughts as the king abruptly rose from his gilded chair and began stomping around the room. Sean paid attention, thinking perhaps that it might be wise.

“It will do no good to smack the answer out of Jocelin,” the king was saying. “He’ll not tell us anything and I do not want to risk the wrath of the Church. Already I have pushed them by tossing their bishop in the vault. Even now, I wait for a decree informing me that they have sent word of my actions to Rome.”

Fitz Pons was on the opposite end of the conversation. He tended to be the most cowering, the most acquiescent, so the nobles would use him like a shield when dealing with the king. His submissive disposition usually buffered the king’s unpredictable temperament.

“Sire,” Fitz Pons said. “We know that de Braose arrived this afternoon. I have been told by several reliable sources that he has already met with Hugh de Burgh and the Earl of Salisbury. Given the swiftness of this meeting, I can only surmise that whatever they are planning, they are planning quickly.”

“But what?” John exploded. “I employ legions of spies, the best in the world. Why can no one tell me what this means?”

Sean knew he meant him. But he waited until the king actually addressed him before offering any information.  

“De Lara,” he said. “What do you know of this?”

Sean stepped forward, watching the room of men instinctively shift away from him.  “I know that when de Braose arrived, Salisbury and de Burgh were waiting for him.  They met at a tavern on St. Ciles hoping that they would not be noticed.”

John seemed pleased that his most reliable emissary had current information.  “Excellent,” his black eyes glittered. “Do we know what transpired?”

Sean shook his head. “It is not known, sire. But at the conclusion of their meeting, Salisbury set off for Billingsgate House.”

“Was he followed?”

“He was followed.  We discovered he went straight for Rochester, who is supposed to be at St. Bartholomew’s with the other bishops.  Rochester, interestingly enough, was in disguise. Once Salisbury left, Rochester sent out four riders, all four in different directions.  We were unable to track them beyond the city limits.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Something is amiss, I can feel it,” he hissed. There was panic in his features. “What do you intend to do about it, de Lara? The waves of dissention are growing. They are organizing now!”

Sean lifted an eyebrow. “One of the main pieces to the puzzle is in our vault at this moment. Though we cannot coax truths from the Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury as we would like, there is perhaps someone we can coax.”

“Who?”

His reply was as impassive as always, the features on his powerful face without emotion or care. Every man in the room was frighteningly thankful that the name from his lips was not their own.  They’d all heard tale of de Lara’s methods of torture. They were legendary. Agony was too tame a word.

“Neely de Moreville.”

The king’s features suffered happy illumination. “Henry St. James’ captain,” he breathed. “I’d forgotten he was in our vault along with Jocelin.  Surely he would know the heart of the matter.”

“It is possible, sire,” Sean said. “But, then again, he is a mere knight and perhaps not privy to the private dealings of his lords.”

John was animated with glee, paranoia. “Find out. By whatever means necessary. And take Gerard with you; his methods of persuasion can be quite barbaric.”

“By your command, sire.”

Uglier words were never uttered.

***

Sheridan sat alone at the table in the great feasting hall. There was no Alys, no Jocelin, and no Neely. She felt exposed and apprehensive.  After her encounter with Sean earlier, she also felt disoriented.  Four hours later, thoughts of his kisses still clouded her mind.

The great hall was warm, well-lit and fragrant with fresh rushes. Much wine had already been served.  She had imbibed more than she should have out of sheer nerves. She could only pray that William did not join the table; she was in no mood for his flirting tonight. What she wanted more than anything, at the moment, was to see Alys.

“Lady Sheridan St. James?” a male voice spoke. “Excuse me, but are you the Lady Sheridan?”

Sheridan shook herself from her lonely thoughts, glancing across the table. A man in pieces of armor stood there, short of stature, clean-shaven, with black hair and nearly black eyes. He smiled kindly.

“May I know who asks?” she answered.

His smile broadened. “I am Guy de Braose. I believe our fathers were friends.”

She blinked as the name registered. “Of course,” she said. “I was told you were coming to London.”

He gestured to the bench before him. “May I sit, my lady?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” He settled himself down in the chair; he was, truthfully, not much bigger than Sheridan. He had a very youthful, handsome face with big dark eyes. “I do apologize for not being here earlier. We ran into some foul weather which delayed our arrival.”

“No apologies necessary,” she assured him. “We are glad you have arrived safe.”

Guy smiled his thanks and glanced around. “Is Jocelin arrived yet?”

“Aye,” she said, wondering how much she should tell him. But she knew he was a trusted ally so she told him what she knew. “There was a bit of trouble this afternoon, I am afraid. Jocelin will not be attending our feast this night.”

“Oh,” Guy’s expression washed with disappointment. “I pray his health is good.”

“It is,” she assured him. “Sir Guy, I shall be frank. The king somewhat forcibly demanded my sister’s company today and when Jocelin found out, he went to the king and created something of a ruckus. I am afraid that he was put in the vault.”

Guy’s eyebrows rose. “He threw the bishop in the vault?”

She nodded. “My captain of the guard is also there.”

“And your sister?”

“I am told she will be joining us this evening, unharmed.”

Guy puffed out his cheeks. It was a lot to absorb. “My God,” he breathed. “I wish I had been here sooner. Perhaps I could have helped.”

“I appreciate your support, but I am sure there is nothing you could have done,” she said.

Guy smiled at her, a bashful gesture. He seemed mildly awkward at ease, like a shy adolescent.  “Would… would you mind if I sat next to you, my lady? I feel as if we are shouting at each other across the table and I suspect this conversation is not something we would want others to hear.”

She saw no harm in it. “I’d be pleased.”

He wasted no time in rounding the table and taking a seat next to her.  With another shy smile, he collected his goblet and took a healthy drink of his wine.  As the conversation stalled, Sheridan looked around the room, seeking her sister.

“I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing,” Guy said. “My father was very distressed.”

She looked at him, forcing a smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I know my father thought very highly of Sir Reginald. Did he come with you?”

Guy shook his head. “We’ve problems on the Marches. He is needed more there.”

“Ah,” she understood. “I have heard from my father that you have had much trouble as of late.”

Guy shrugged. “They wish to rule their own lands. We wish to rule it for them.”

She shook her head, taking another sip of her wine. “It seems that war and rebellion are everywhere.”

Guy did not respond directly. He changed the subject. “Salisbury should be joining us shortly. Truthfully, I thought he would be here by now.”

It occurred to them both that the room seemed to be oddly absent of the king’s opponents.  Sheridan and Guy seemed to be the only pair with the exception of Hugh de Burgh on the opposite side of the room. He’d not acknowledged them; in fact, Sheridan didn’t know him on sight but Guy did.  He had pointed the man out to her. Sheridan was coming to wonder if Alys would ever join them, and she was furthermore coming to feel nervous about the atmosphere of the entire room. As the celebration of King Henry’s death twenty years earlier, it was naturally full of John’s supporters.  Her uneasiness grew.

If Guy felt it, he did not say so. Though seemingly a slip of a man, he nonetheless had a great maturity about him.  Growing up in the ruthless House of de Braose had done that for him.  The family had a history of brutes and deviants, interspersed with men of good character. According to her father, Guy was one of those blessed with such noble traits.   Sheridan could sense that.

The clear sound of coronets suddenly pealed throughout the room, announcing the arrival of the king. The entire chamber jumped in anticipation. As Sheridan and Guy rose to their feet, Sheridan heard someone hissing behind her.

She turned, seeing her little maid cowering against the wall. The girl looked terrified and Sheridan immediately went to her.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”

The girl looked as if she’d been weeping. “My lady,” she whispered.  “Sir Neely… he is come back.”

“Where is he?”

“At the apartment, my lady. He is badly hurt.”

Sheridan’s heart lodged in her throat. “Hurt?” she repeated, shocked. “What happened?”

The girl shook her head, wiping her nose. “He would not say. He is on the floor of the chamber. I think he is dying!”

Sheridan fought her panic. Guy had walked up behind her, listening. When she turned around, he was standing there.

“I must leave,” she said to him.

“I heard,” he replied. “Who is Sir Neely?”

Sheridan realized that she was actually shaking. “The captain of my guard. He was in the vault this afternoon.”

Guy’s features tightened. “It sounds as if the king’s men have had a little fun with him.”

Sheridan couldn’t manage a reply. She was heading for a side exit just as the king was entering the hall.  Guy thought perhaps it would be the chivalrous thing to escort her. He had no idea it was the worst move he could ever make.

Sean was watching them from the shadows.

“… War is a man’s game, though no one thought to tell her that.  She was not only playing with fire, she was seducing it….”

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 - 1215 A.D.

CHAPTER FIVE

The corridor outside of her apartment was dark and void of the usual guard. Sheridan should have thought that to be strange, but she was too concerned for Neely. When the door to her chambers finally opened, she walked headlong into a room full of the unexpected.

The Earl of Salisbury sat near the blazing hearth along with the bishops of Rochester, Lincoln, Worcester and Coventry.  William Marshall stood near a bowl of winter fruit, gorging himself on ripe pears and throwing the cores to the puppy, who as dancing at his feet. 

Shocked, she delved further into the room and was greeted by the Earl of Warenne. The Earl of Arundel was back in a corner, conversing quietly with Henry de Neville. The barons Fitz Herbert and Fitz Hugh rounded out the company, older men who had seen much fighting with Henry the Second and Henry St. James.  The most powerful men in England filled her antechamber, all quite calmly, and all quite deliberately.

Sheridan’s surprise was full-blown. She had no idea how to react.  But it was especially evident when the Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury took her by the arm.

“Jocelin,” she gasped, hugging him fiercely. “When were you released?”

He kissed her hand. “Earlier this afternoon by Neely.”

Her head jerked towards the bedchamber door; Neely stood there, not a bloody mark on him, his dark eyes glittering at her. He bowed chivalrously.

“Oh, my,” she sighed heavily, trying to get a grasp on the situation. “But who released Neely? I do not understand any of this. I was told that Neely was.…”

“I know,” Jocelin patted her hand. “We had to get you back to your apartment without raising suspicions. ‘Twas I who sent Millie after you with tales of death.”

Her gaze was still on Neely. “Are you well? How did you get out?”

Neely moved to stand next to her. “It was quite strange, actually,” he said. “A bear of a man opened my cell and grabbed me by the arm, took me to Jocelin’s cell one flight up, and then told us both to leave. I don’t know who he was or why he let us go. But I did not ask questions.”

Another surprise in a night that had been full of them.  She mulled over Neely and Jocelin’s release for a few moments until the activity in the room caught her attention again.  She looked around the room, awed by the company therein.

“All of these men,” she whispered to Jocelin. “There was no indication in the corridor of their presence. No guards at all.”

“Better not to raise suspicions with a collage of sentinels from all over England announcing a room full of nobles.”

She understood, somewhat. “But why are they here?”

Jocelin’s eyes twinkled. “With the king celebrating the anniversary of his father’s death, certainly he did not expect any of us to attend. So, while he is occupied, so are we. Under his very nose.”

Sheridan could see the strategy now.  Shock fading, she was coming to understand the brilliance of such an assembly. No guards in the hall to announce their meeting, and assembling as the king himself was else occupied.

“The last I saw, he was entering the great hall as Jesus entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday,” she said. “Everyone was at his feet.”

“Then he shall be occupied for some time,” Jocelin took her by the elbow and pulled her into the center of the room. “No better time to start than the present. Gentle nobles, if you please. Now that Glastonbury has arrived, let us begin.”

The men around the room put aside their small conversations and Jocelin stepped into the center. 

“Thank you for your attention,” he said. “I suspect our time is limited to the duration of John’s degenerate feast, so I shall come to the point. Henry?”

De Neville moved forward. A thin, wiry man, his family had been a fixture in Northumberland since the days of William the Conqueror.  He was cunning and he was wise.

“Good men of England,” he began. “There is no need to go into the details of why we are here; we’ve know this time has been long in coming.  With John’s recent defeat in France to reclaim his northern territories, he has once again returned to London and to levy more taxes against us and our properties. There was a time when the king would consult with his barons for such a thing, but that time is over. John views himself as an omnipotent emperor, not a king with responsibilities towards his people. We all know that he will tax us into the ground if we do not act.”

The nobles glanced at each other, some knowingly, some nervously. Sheridan knew exactly what they were referring to; she and her father had had long discussions about the consensus of the allies. Though as a woman she should have kept silent, as Henry St. James’ heiress, she controlled the powers of the earldom.  She would speak on behalf of her father.

“I have fifteen hundred retainers camped ten miles to the east along the Thames,” she said. “The Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury commands another four hundred. All of these men are awaiting the command to move.”

The room was silent with the heaviness of the realization. Everything they had been planning, the secret happenings of months past, was finally coming to bear. They were perhaps a bit ashamed that a woman had been the first one to offer arms. Arundel finally spoke.

“I have two thousand men just north of the city,” he said. “They can be ready to march at dawn provided we are all in agreement.”

Guy had been relatively unnoticed since the moment he entered the room.  He, too, had been shocked by the men unexpectedly receiving him in the St. James antechamber, but his shock had just as quickly disappeared. His father had told him to expect something like this and he was moderately prepared.

“I speak for my father, gentlemen,” he said, his voice wise beyond his years. “If London is to be taken, you have de Braose support. Though we’ve war on the Marches, I have brought five hundred men with me.  My father sends his approval for this action.”

“It’s not merely the action,” Sheridan said, still hesitant to speak her mind in such auspicious company but feeling strongly that she should. “Once London is captured, what then? Where is this document I have heard tale of from my father, a charter that will ensure the monarchy will treat the barons with fairness?”

“I have it,” William Marshall spoke, like the voice of God. “As Earl of Pembroke, I have appointed myself constable of the document. It has been worded mostly by Stephen, Archbishop of Canterbury and William, Bishop of London, but certainly we have all had a say in the content.”

“Is it complete, my lord?” Sheridan asked.  “Is it something that will justify our actions should we decide to move forward?”

William shook his head. “It is not yet absolute, my lady.  That is why we’ve met here this night, to complete this document that the king will be bound to govern by.”

William snapped his long, gnarled fingers and a man emerged from the shadows, a steward bearing the Marshall cross. From the folds of the man’s tunic appeared a long, cylindrical tube, from which he pulled forth a fragile, yellowed vellum.  The steward set it upon the table in the center of the room and the others looked at it with varied degrees of interest.   It was a large document, full of careful writing. 

Sheridan watched the others vie for a better look at the manuscript.  She stood back, out of the way, her mind churning with thoughts that Henry St. James planted in her head.   She could not rest until she had answers.

“My lord Marshall,” she said. “I mean no disrespect, of course, but if I am to order my army to march on London and in essence, create an act of treachery, then I would have my deed supported by a valid foundation from this body of men. That is to say, if I am to march, then let it be for a reason. Let the king be able to behold that reason and fulfill it as required. I will not march for marching’s sake.  I will not be a traitor for traitor’s sake.”

As she finished, nearly every man in the room was looking at her. Arundel actually smiled but deferred all comments to the Marshall.  He was, after all, the one she had addressed. 

“Well said, little Henry,” the Marshall said after a moment.  The men around the table chuckled softly, as did Sheridan. “The reason is before you.  We are reviewing it as you speak.  But you will draw your own conclusion; if this document is not sufficient reason for you to march on our king, then I shall not require it, nor will I be disappointed if you do not. You must make your choice.”

“Then if we approve the contents of this charter, we will move immediately to secure London in an effort to force the king into agreeing to our terms?”

“London is our hostage. By agreeing to our terms, the king can save her. By saving her, we can thereby save all of England.”

“You make it sound simple, my lord.”

“Simple, no. But necessary.”

Sheridan had no more questions at the moment. William’s gaze drifted over her, carefully; he had a good deal of respect for her as Henry’s daughter. But there was something more to Lady Sheridan than met the eye; they could all see that. She had intelligence and she was well-thought.  Henry had raised a sensible child.

Sheridan could feel his gaze, hoping he didn’t think that she was an idiot. Here she was, surrounded by some of the most powerful men in England, all of whom were treating her with a great deal of respect. She supposed it was because of her father, never imagining it was because she was in the process of establishing her own foundation of support. Eyeing the men around the table, she walked towards the document, her gaze running over the yellowed parchment.  She finally looked to the Marshall.

“I cannot read, my lord,” she admitted. “Would you be so kind as to read what the document says?”

William smiled at her and wedged himself in between Fitz Herbert and Salisbury. His gaze focused on the first clause.

“First, that we have granted to God, and by this present charter have confirmed for us and our heirs in perpetuity, that the English Church shall be free, and shall have its rights undiminished…”

A knock at the door interrupted him.  The mood of the room turned black with apprehension as Jocelin spoke quickly to Sheridan.

“Do not open the door,” he instructed firmly. “Ask who it is and send them away.”

She nodded and went to the door, followed by Neely with a dagger in his hand. He stood to the left of the door as Sheridan spoke through the panel.

“Who calls?” she asked.

“’Tis me,” Alys’ voice filtered through.  “Let me in!”

Before Jocelin could stop her, Sheridan threw open the door. Alys stood there, looking perfectly safe, whole and sound.  Sheridan was about to throw her arms around her when she saw a figure lingering behind her, nearly obscured by the dark shadows of the hall. The figure, in fact, had hold of Alys’ arm as an escort would.  It took Sheridan a moment to realize that it was de Lara.

And he could see everyone in the room beyond.

***

The sun was brilliant and the birds in the January-dead trees sang a happy tune. Spring was months away, but the weather seemed to be encouraging a quick approach.  Being January, snowfall and the moisture it brought would have been good for the earth. But the sun was good for the people that ventured into the outdoors to bask in the cold, bright rays.

Sheridan was no exception. Seated on a chair her maid had brought in the yard outside of the Flint Tower, she held a piece of needlework that she had been attempting to complete for the better part of a year. It was an ambitious piece her mother had designed, with hummingbirds and flowers and little bees. Sheridan’s slender fingers had never been good with a needle and the fabric was covered in little brown spots where she had poked herself and bled. Even now, she was attempting the piece to keep her mind off the other events that seemed to have embedded themselves into the fabric of her life.  Nothing was simple any more. Things only seemed to grow worse.

Alys hadn’t gotten out of bed for three solid days, ever since Sean had escorted her back to their apartments following her afternoon with the king.  She had decided that she wanted to be a royal consort and was convinced that the king was in love with her.  When Sheridan had, not so nicely, told her she was mad for even entertaining such a thought, Alys had taken to her bed, miserable. Sheridan and Neely had taken turns watching out for her, making sure she didn’t try to leap from the window again or make an attempt to contact the king.  She was essentially a prisoner. But a miserable sister was better than a dead one.

It was Sheridan’s turn to take a break from guard duty. She wanted out of the apartments and into the sunshine for as long as it would last. While Neely grudgingly stayed with Alys, Sheridan, the puppy and her maid retreated to cool daylight of the Tower yard.  While the puppy ran off and the maid gave chase, Sheridan attempted the needlework, her mind mulling over the millions of thoughts that had succeeding in robbing her of sleep as of late.

Her most prevalent thought was of Sean. He hadn’t said a word when he’d dropped Alys off three days prior. His clear blue eyes had perused the face of every man in the antechamber before he left in complete silence. Shortly thereafter, the meeting had hastily disbanded. She knew that short of the king showing up at her door and catching them all in perfidious conference, having been seen by Sean de Lara had been the worst possible scenario.  The nobles were clearly terrified and she felt as if they somehow blamed her for the event. Arrests were expected and some of them had even gone into hiding.  But, so far, nothing had happened.