Chapter 2
It seemed as though not a single candle was lit within the whole of Fallstowe Castle, implying that the entire household beyond the still, moon-washed stones was abed and unaware.
Julian Griffin was not so foolish as to believe that was true at all, and so he was willing to give the lady ample time to reply.
At least another moment or two. It would disappoint him greatly to order the drawbridge fired, but it seemed unlikely that Fallstowe would simply roll over at this late date when faced with yet another royal decree.
Yes, very disappointing indeed. Julian had been very much looking forward to speaking at length with Sybilla Foxe.
After the past year of research on her family—traveling both here and abroad—Julian had become fascinated by the enigmatic heiress of Fallstowe.
He dropped his hand and the heavy curtain covering the carriage window fell back into place.
Any matter, he was here to perform his duty for the king, and in return he would be rewarded with a home and lands for himself and Lucy. Scholarly curiosity notwithstanding, that was his main goal.
His thoughts turned briefly to Cateline; how smugly pleased she would be if she could see him now, outfitted in one of her cousin the king’s royal carriages, on the eve of leading a siege in the name of the Crown.
How far he had come from the penniless noble she had first met upon his return from the Eighth Crusade.
Julian had gained so much since then: a powerful friend and benefactor in Edward, the king’s own cousin for a bride, authority in London, coin to spare.
And most important of all, of course, was Lucy.
Julian sighed and moved the curtain back once more.
He could hear his archer conversing with another soldier.
Julian’s eyes shifted, and he saw Erik standing a few feet away from the carriage, overseeing the erection of a war tent.
Julian put his hand on the door latch, ready to remove himself from the carriage and set the siege in motion.
Sybilla Foxe was not going to surrender.
Before he could open the door, he heard the archer’s shout, and then the carriage shuddered as a loud crack emanated from the roof.
Julian turned his face up and saw a distinct point in the satin lining of the carriage ceiling directly above his head, where only a moment before it had been flawlessly smooth.
“What wuzzat, milord?” Murrin gasped, coming aright from her slouch in the corner where she’d been sleeping. Her hands reached instinctively for the traveling cradle beneath her arm, although Lucy had not stirred.
“All’s well, Murrin,” Julian said. He pushed the door open and stood up on the frame in order to poke his head over the top of the carriage.
An arrow, flaming wildly, punctured the king’s royal conveyance. Julian’s face turned upward to the castle’s tallest turret, and in the shadowed relief of the battlements, he saw a small figure.
A figure whose skirt was blowing wide in the wind.
Julian reached up and jerked the arrow free of the wood before hopping to the ground and closing the carriage door gently.
When he turned, he was immediately surrounded by his officers and two soldiers bearing torches.
None of the men said anything while Julian untied the wrinkled parchment and threw the flaming arrow to the ground.
He unfurled the page, saw his own writing, and then turned the parchment over.
You alone.
It was unsigned.
Julian looked up once more at the figure still standing in the crenellations, and he knew the author of the message just as surely as if she had whispered the two words into his ear.
“Hello, Sybilla,” he murmured through his grin.
“Shall we make ready, Lord Griffin?” Erik prompted, shaking Julian from his reverie so that he turned to address the armed man.
“Not yet, Erik,” Julian said, handing the man Fallstowe’s message. “It seems I’ve been granted an audience.” He turned to the carriage door again.
“You’re not actually going alone, though, are you?” Erik demanded incredulously.
“Of course not,” Julian said easily over his shoulder as he opened the door. Then he spoke to the carriage’s interior. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Murrin, but I’m afraid you’ll have to ready Lucy and come with me.” Julian turned back to his frowning officers.
“How many shall accompany us?” Erik asked, his blond brows drawn together ominously.
“No us, Erik—only Lucy and Murrin and I.”
“Lord Griffin, perhaps that is unwise,” Erik suggested, with obviously forced patience.
As one of Julian’s closest friends, it was oft difficult for him to retain professional deference before the other soldiers.
“Who’s to say that the viperous traitor won’t cut you down once you cross her threshold?
And then what will become of Lady Lucy?”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” Julian said, helping Murrin down from the carriage, the swaddled bundle that was his daughter held lovingly and securely in her arms.
“Blimy, milord,” Murrin gasped, staring up wide-eyed at the castle. From within the embroidered coverlet, Lucy began to fuss, and Murrin bounced on the balls of her feet out of habit. “Shh, kitten. Shh.”
Julian turned to his men. “Send the first runner with a message stating that I’ve begun negotiations. If you do not have word from me within one hour, send a second, fire the gate, and storm the castle.”
“Julian—” Erik began.
But Julian turned away from his friend and general, staring once more at the lofty battlements.
The figure was gone. But now, all along the crenellations of Fallstowe, balls of light burst into existence as, one by one, torches were lit.
In less than a minute, Fallstowe wore a fiery crown, and the hundreds of shadow figures that were her soldiers stood looking down on the king’s men.
It was a dangerous situation, yes. And in that briefest moment, Julian considered ordering Murrin to stay behind in the carriage with Lucy.
But once inside, Julian had no intention of leaving Fallstowe until he’d brought the lady to heel, and he would not be separated from his daughter in the interim.
From what Julian had learned about the Foxe women, the heeling could take some time. Perhaps decades.
“Come along, Murrin,” Julian said mildly, and began walking around the fore of the company toward Fallstowe’s drawbridge.
“Directly behind you, milord,” the nursemaid chirped.
The three stood on the road near the edge of the moat when the giant slab of wood began to lower with shuddering creaks.
Once it had touched earth, Julian saw the flurry of activity within the bailey as the portcullis was raised.
Scores of soldiers were falling into rank in two lines to either side of the barbican, forming an aisle of blade and armor through the bailey, up the steps of the keep, and through the open double doors.
Red light from the torches bubbled together with shadows.
“Fancy,” Murrin whispered.
“Quite dramatic,” Julian agreed and then stepped onto the drawbridge.
They walked the predetermined path silently and swiftly, but still did not gain the steps of the keep for several moments.
During his march, Julian was silently counting the well-armed soldiers keeping watch over them, and mentally calculating the total with the number of men he had seen atop the castle itself.
Julian came to the conclusion that Fallstowe had been more than ready for his arrival, and that troubled him. If it came down to a battle, it would not be a short one, and he’d seen enough bloodshed already in the Holy Land to last him three lifetimes.
Only one more battle, though, he told himself as he stepped into the heart of the Foxe family’s lair. The doors shut firmly behind him, and Julian steeled himself not to turn around, even as he heard the thick beams set in place.
A thin, gray wraith stood at the top of a set of stone stairs, his posture stiff and formal, his hands clasped behind his back as if in anticipation of Julian’s arrival. Julian noticed the old man’s brief and discreet glance at Murrin and Lucy.
“Might I have the privilege of announcing His Lordship’s arrival to Madam?” the old man queried.
Julian felt a faint smile come to his mouth again.
“You must be Graves. Your reputation precedes you, even in lands abroad,” Julian offered with a tilt of his head.
“Lord Julian Griffin for His Sovereign Majesty, King Edward, to see Lady Sybilla upon her most recent invitation. Also, my daughter, Lady Lucy Griffin.”
Graves bowed, and Julian could detect neither approval nor scorn in the man’s expressionless face. Fallstowe’s steward was nearly a legend for his poor treatment of his betters.
“Won’t you follow me, my lord?” Graves turned on his heel and made his way down the dark stairwell.
The corridor emptied into a hall so large, Julian reckoned it was as grand as any in the king’s own home.
The ceiling was high, dark, domed, supported by carved buttresses which wore skirts of balconies and catwalk pleats.
Huge black-iron circles hung on thick chains, bearing hundreds of dormant candles.
Stacks of planked tables and benches were piled to either side of the polished stone floor, murky gray with shadows.
The only lights were a series of standing candelabras around the perimeter of the hall, and one lit iron chandelier suspended directly above the lord’s dais, where a table and a single high-backed chair rested, their occupant present and awaiting him patiently.
She seemed very small from so far away, and it was quite ironic, considering the immense trouble she had caused the king.
Julian felt his heartbeat speed up in a way that no thoughts of impending battle could inspire. In only moments, he would at last be face-to-face with Sybilla Foxe, the woman whose family he knew more intimately than his own. The woman whom many thought to be only a myth.
Ahead of him, Graves called out in a surprisingly robust yet still completely refined voice, “Madam, may I present Lord Julian Griffin and Lady Lucy Griffin?”
As Julian at last began to draw closer to the dais, his heartbeat did not further increase—in fact, it slowed until Julian wondered if time itself would stop.
He had heard tales of Sybilla Foxe’s unearthly beauty, her witchlike powers over the opposite sex, her frigid demeanor, but it was only when Julian was close enough to make out her features clearly, breathe the air around her, that he thought he might at last understand.
She lounged in one corner of her chair—which resembled more of a throne to Julian—her legs stretched out to one side beneath the table and her ankles crossed. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, her forefinger along her temple. A pitcher and a solitary chalice sat on the table before her.
She wore a scarlet velvet gown which shimmered in the candlelight, the arms and bodice fitting, her chest partially bared by the deep U cut of the fabric.
Her skin was alabaster, so white and smooth that it didn’t seem to be made of flesh.
Her hair, in contrast, was as dark as the underside of a grave, as were her eyelashes, which framed eyes of the most blazing aquamarine.
Her lips, full and motionless, rivaled the brightest summer apple—so red, Julian almost expected them to begin dripping at any moment.
She was a sculpture, a study in color and nature—snow, coal, jewels, blood. Julian Griffin’s heart stuttered to a start once more with his next breath, as if it had been startled back to life.
He shook himself inwardly. She was just a woman.
Julian reached the dais and stopped, bowing low. “Lady Foxe, it is a pleasure.”
“Lord Griffin,” Sybilla Foxe said, almost pensively, her posture not twitching. “Did you bring an infant to a siege?”