Chapter Seven #3
Jocelin lifted an eyebrow at him, a variety of schemes rolling through his mind. “I have,” he said deliberately, “an interesting thought. Would you hear it without concern?”
“I would.”
“Certainly, a husband would make her go. And a husband would do far better at keeping de Lara away from her permanently.”
Neely wasn’t so drunk that he did not understand the statement. “You will marry her off in order to keep de Lara away?”
“It seems logical.”
Neely suddenly stood up again, his manner self-righteous and strong. “Then allow me to wed her,” he half-demanded, half-pleaded. “I will kill de Lara if he comes anywhere near her. Bless me with that privilege, my lord, and I’ll not ask for God’s favor ever again.”
Jocelin had been expecting that statement for years.
He put a consoling hand on Neely’s shoulder and shoved him, again, down into the chair.
“Women like Lady Sheridan are not meant for men like you or me, my friend,” he said softly.
“She needs a man of station, with power. De Lara wouldn’t dare tangle with a man of rank. ”
It was not what Neely wanted to hear. But he had resigned himself to the inevitable long ago, as much as he told himself otherwise. “Who, then?”
Jocelin moved away from him, his weather-worn face lined with the glimmer of possibilities.
“Someone who had been vying for her hand for quite some time,” he murmured.
“There have been many. Who in particular do you mean?”
Jocelin turned to look at him, his profile illuminated by the dim light from the lancet windows. It was an eerie portrait of a man forced into a game of deadly chance, of life and death. It was time to take the leap. Jocelin, more than anyone, knew what was at stake.
“The most powerful man on the Marches,” he said quietly. “Guy de Braose.”
*
Sean had been waiting longer than he would have liked in the confession booth at the Chapel of St. Peter.
It was a dark, musty, eerie place to be at any given time of the day.
On the other end of the screen, he suddenly heard the door open and softly close.
Heavy breathing, as if the person on the other side had just run the entire length of London, filled the small vestibule.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Sean began. “It has been a day since my last confession.”
“What is it you wish to confess, my son?”
“Rumors of war abound, Father. It is said that I am to be sent to war on the Marches.”
The breathing slowed, steadied. “When?”
“I am not sure. I have not been directly ordered yet. ’Tis only a rumor at this point.”
“Why would you go?”
“De Braose is laying siege to Kington. Clifford has asked for help.”
“I see.”
“There is more.”
“What?”
“It is also rumored that part of my directive will be to raze Lansdown Castle.”
There was a long pause. “Why would you be ordered to do this?”
Sean sighed harshly, disgusted with the turn of events, though strangely he did not regret the actions that led up to it.
“Because I stopped the king from raping Alys St. James. The king suspects my loyalties now and will ask me to raze Lansdown to prove that my fealty is to him and not to the House of St. James. All plans of the attack on London aside, this is a very real problem in addition to so many others.”
“What will you do?”
“I am not sure. Much depends on the move against London.”
“It is imminent.”
“How soon?”
“Two days at the most. The majority of nobles are clearing out tonight.”
“This is fact?”
“I just left a meeting with Jocelin, Rochester and Coventry. Arundel and de Warenne are already gone and gathering with their troops outside the city limits. The rest will move out by dawn.”
Sean’s thoughts immediately moved to Sheridan. “If the king intends on sending me to the Marches, it will take a few days to prepare the army. The siege of London will prevent me from leaving.”
“Then the king must not know the nobles are leaving to join their troops. Their flight will spook him.”
“Agreed.”
“And you must do what you can to make sure the Tower is vulnerable once the siege has begun.”
“I will undoubtedly lead the battle against the allies. ’Tis a pity that I will be seen as the loser in all of this.”
“The truth will be told when this is all over. Just make sure you live to see it.”
“I’ll live to see it,” Sean assured him. “And I will live to claim my prize.”
The voice on the other side was silent. “Lady Sheridan?”
“Of course.”
The voice grunted, as if in pain. “Sean,” he spoke haltingly. “There is something you should know.”
“I fear to ask.”
“You should. Jocelin intends to marry Lady Sheridan to Guy de Braose before the week is out.”
He wasn’t surprised. He realized that he had almost been expecting it. But it took all of Sean’s self-control not to burst through the panel and grab the voice around the neck. As it was, his big hands worked furiously and sweat popped out on his forehead, indicative of his level of emotion.
“Did he tell you this?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Aye,” the voice said. “He feels that you are a danger to her.”
“He mentioned me by name?”
“He did. It seems that Neely de Moreville is aware that you and Sheridan have been, shall we say, meeting surreptitiously. Jocelin fears for Lady Sheridan’s life.”
Sean stood up; he couldn’t help it. He braced his hands on either side of the confession window, a gesture that was as powerful as it was pitiful. His fingers dug into the walls, angst in every move, every gesture.
“Tell him who I am,” his voice was a harsh whisper. “Tell him who I am and what I want. I’ll not allow her to marry another. She is meant for me and only me.”
The voice was laced with sorrow. He could feel the man’s pain. “I cannot.”
“You must or I will.”
“We swore when we started that only a select few would know your worth. ’Tis safer for you, Sean.”
“To hell with safety. Tell him. I beg of you.”
The voice sighed heavily. There was no fighting him, no reasoning with him. As always, men in love were irrational creatures. What made it worse was that Sean deserved everything he asked for, and so much more. To deny him anything at this stage of the game was inherently wrong.
“I will do what I can,” he finally said. “I cannot promise results. Jocelin’s mind is set.”
“Go, then.” It was not a request. “Go and tell him now. Lady Sheridan belongs to me.”
“He may have already told de Braose.”
Sean didn’t reply. He quit the vestibule before he was dismissed, storming blindly from the chapel. The contact waited a nominal amount of time before slowly opening the door.
Father Simon’s gaze was laced with regret.