Chapter Four #5
“I cannot,” she breathed.
He kissed her again, hard. “Aye, you can. Agree to marry me.”
His kisses had her head swimming. “Agree?” she repeated stupidly.
“Aye,” he kissed her again, his tongue moving along her lower lip. “Say yes.”
“Yes?”
He gently suckled her lower lip when his tongue was done playing with her. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Now, I will see you at the feast tonight.”
With one more succulent kiss, he was gone. The door closed and Sheridan stood there for one solid minute before she realized that he had left. The only thought she could manage to grasp was one of shock.
What have I done?
*
When Sean returned to John’s apartments, he lingered out of sight for a nominal amount of time before making his presence known.
It was his usual method of operation so that the king, and others, would not know his pattern of coming and going.
There was far too much spying going on between noble and king, soldiers and officers, and he did not want to get caught up in that foolishness.
There were those who had tried to watch his movements over the years but they had only come to embarrassment or, in some cases, harm.
Sean de Lara was not a man to be watched or monitored. It was best if no one tried.
Even as he lingered in John’s receiving room, watching the king hold audience with some of his more loyal barons, his mind was elsewhere.
Thoughts of the fairest maiden in all the land filled his brain, numbing him to the activities going on in the room.
The king was angry about something; that much was obvious.
Sean watched his furious actions but did not hear his words.
The only words he could hear, at the moment, were his own.
You will marry me.
He wasn’t sure where those words sprang from, but they had come nonetheless.
He was not sorry in the least, though he was still rather surprised.
He’d never considered himself the marriageable type.
His work was his wife, the needs of the king his mistress, and there was no room for anything else.
He hadn’t even thought on the implications of his proposal or command, whichever one chose to call it.
Sheridan St. James was an heiress, and a very wealthy one at that.
She was governed by the Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury, the very man who was in the vault at the moment under arrest. Sean could only imagine how the bishop would react when all of this came to light.
He knew that Sheridan would not be the one to tell him. It would be Sean.
What he refused to entertain at the moment were thoughts of what it would mean to the king.
The term traitor came to mind. He suspected the king would never fully trust him again, yet he also knew that the man would eventually see the political benefit of such a union.
He was also fully aware that John would view his wife as something of communal property; it was the thought that disturbed him the most. The political aspect, he could deal with.
But his wife would most certainly not be communal property.
For that reason, and that reason alone, he would be more than willing to keep the union secret.
The less John knew the safer Sheridan would be.
But he could not ignore the fact that the political connotations were almost unfathomable.
For a man that had made politics his life’s work, it was strange that the politics of such a union, at the moment, did not overly concern him.
Sheridan St. James could have nothing but the clothes on her back for all he cared; he wasn’t interested in her wealth or political connections.
All he knew was that, from the moment he first spoke to the woman, she cleared all else from his mind like a divine flood, washing away the old in favor of the new.
He’d hardly spent more than an hour of combined time with her, but still, that time had been nothing like he’d ever experienced.
She made him feel alive and warm. She made him feel that life was worth living. He wanted to feel that way forever.
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.