Chapter Twelve #2
Guy tried to shrug. “Everything. Our strength and strategy, mostly. I seem to remember Walter Clifford doing some of the interrogating, I am sure, to seek revenge against my father. They are old enemies, you know. My father will be furious when he finds out.”
“But you told them nothing? Not even Clifford?”
Guy shook his head. “Not a word. No matter how hard they beat me, which was quite hard at times.”
He seemed rather casual about the entire thing but Sheridan was horrified. “I am so sorry,” she whispered sincerely. “Can you at least stand? You may lean on me.”
He nodded, moving extremely slowly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and grunting with pain as his ribs moved around.
Sheridan had him by the arm, struggling to help him to stand, as Gilby finished collecting his tools and medicaments.
He seemed indecisive with a few things, putting some things aside while collecting others.
But when he saw that the lady was having difficulty with the patient, he stopped his collecting and helped the man finally rise to his feet.
“There is a cart off to the side of the barracks, near the alley,” he said. “We must go to it.”
Sheridan had a good grip on Guy as they moved from the room, cloaked by the darkness as they moved into the corridor. Guy moved like a crippled old man and it seemed to take forever simply to move across the floor.
The door leading to the grounds was a few feet away and they were able to make it clear of the barracks in relative stealth.
When it was clear that Guy could go no further, Gilby bade him stop when they were just a few feet clear of the barracks.
As Sheridan practically held Guy on his two feet, Gilby scurried around the corner to his cart and grabbed hold of the small mule strapped to the guides.
Leading the animal forward, he directed both Sheridan and Guy onto the back of the cart.
It was the same wagon that had been waiting for Sean when he had brought Guy from the dungeons.
It was piled high with dried grass and dead weeds.
With Sheridan’s help, Guy was able to burrow under the pile.
Gilby waited until they were both settled before piling hay over them.
He took his time in making sure they were adequately covered.
It wasn’t the most comfortable way to travel, but it was essential in order to get them clear of the Tower.
Covering the cart with an oiled tarp and piling his bags onto the back, he led the mule towards the gatehouse.
Truth be told, the old man was nervous. He hadn’t been nervous in years and it was a strangely exhilarating feeling.
He would have been worried about himself if he hadn’t been nervous, for the gravity of the situation was wearing heavily on him.
He knew how important it was. He had to get them to Watford House.
*
Sean tossed the sword aside, ignoring the trail of blood he left splattered across the floor. With a lingering glance at d’Athée in a wounded heap, he turned to the king.
John gazed back at him with more fear than he had ever exhibited. He had just witnessed a brutal swordfight ending in the goring of Gerard, who lay groaning on the ground. Sean had hardly raised a sweat. The king raised his hands.
“You are still my chosen one, de Lara,” he insisted, a far different attitude from the screaming man just moments before. “I did not mean it when I called you a liar. You have never lied to me. It was Gerard who thought so. He is the one who poisoned me against you.”
Sean was quite calm; he did not believe the king for a moment.
“It is of no matter,” he said evenly. “If you have no more directives, then I must gather what is left of your army remaining at the Tower and head for the Marches. De Vere will not be happy that I must confiscate a good deal of the forces he commands.”
The king was like an eager dog; he couldn’t seem to apologize enough or be supportive enough. He was terrified and it showed. “You do not need to go to the Marches,” he told him. “I would have you here in charge of the Tower defenses.”
Sean looked at him, lifting a slow eyebrow. “What of your holdings on the Marches that were so important to you, sire?”
“It is more important to protect me at this moment. London is under siege.”
“What of Abergavenny and Lansdown?”
“Leave them. There will be another time. Moreover, Lansdown is now your holding and I suspect that you do not wish to raze your own property.”
Sean almost sighed with relief but he held himself in check. Still, there were unanswered questions lingering in his mind. “And my loyalties, sire? Do I still need to prove them?”
John shook his head until his dirty, shaggy hair slapped back and forth. “You are my most loyal servant, de Lara. I am sorry for the things I said. I will not let a woman destroy the trust that you and I have for one another.”
Sean knew he meant what he said. But in a minute, he could mean the exact opposite. That was the trouble with the king; he was indecisive, pliable, and underhanded. Sean knew better than to trust him.
“We have more things to worry about than a woman, sire,” he tried to turn the subject from Sheridan. “I must go now and see to the city. If I feel you are in too great a danger, then I will facilitate removing you from the Tower to a safer location.”
John nodded eagerly. “I will trust you, de Lara. You have kept me alive for nine years and I will not doubt you.”
Sean’s gaze lingered on him a moment before begging his leave.
There was nothing more to say, at least not outwardly.
Actions, at this point, spoke far more than mere words and Sean was eager to regain whatever was left of the tattered situation.
More than that, he was vastly relieved that he would not be going to the Marches.
Now he could do what he had planned all of these years in spite of the last-moment complications.
Silently, he slipped from the room, leaving John to breathe a heavy sigh of relief when he was finally gone.
The king wiped the sweat from his brow, his heart pounding in his chest and grateful that de Lara had not turned the sword against him.
Looking to Gerard on the ground, now pressing his hands against the wound in his side, he knew at once what he needed to do.
De Lara was no longer controllable; he feared that one day soon the man would turn against him.
Though Sean still seemed to be the same man on the surface, John could tell that something had changed.
Everything had changed. Whether it was because of Lady Sheridan or not was no longer the issue.
The fact remained that John believed Sean to be a threat to his life.
Someday, the man would kill him. He knew it.
He had to do away with the threat. And there was only one way to do that.