Chapter Four
“… 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
“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.