Chapter 4
Julian was not at all surprised when, upon returning to Fallstowe with his and Lucy’s things nearly an hour later, the old steward deposited Julian’s daughter and Murrin in a chamber at the bottom of a seemingly endless spiral of stairs and then began leading him up.
He had to fight against the grin which wanted to spread across his lips.
He had requested a chamber on the lowest floor. Therefore he wouldn’t be surprised in the least if the steward popped a trapdoor once they reached the top of the stairs and showed Julian to Fallstowe’s roof.
The circular stone room was small—only perhaps twelve feet across—but it was furnished in a manner befitting its relation to Fallstowe Castle.
A wide, wooden bedstead jutted into the center of the floor, its mattresses appearing freshly made with a thick coverlet and numerous pillows.
A small yet ornate table and two chairs were placed beneath one of the shuttered arrow-slit windows, a deep trunk beneath the other.
A single candleholder on both the table and the trunk gave the room a cozy, private glow.
A narrow wardrobe stood guard near the miniature hearth which was already ablaze with a modest fire.
Upon sight of the small wooden tub set before the crackling flames, Julian wondered if perhaps he had judged Sybilla Foxe too harshly.
She had ordered a bath for him.
He strolled over to peer down into the water, tugging already at the gold buttons of his tunic, while two of Fallstowe’s servants carried his own trunk into the chamber and set it at the end of the bed.
The water was black, owing to the lack of proper illumination of the room as well as the shadows thrown by the fire, but Julian could imagine the luxury of sinking into the warm, cleansing haven.
A small stool bearing a stack of woven linens and a rough cake of soap stood at the ready.
The smell of soured milk and mead was bringing the bile to the top of his throat.
The servants had quit the room save for Graves, who now stood near the door, obviously waiting for Julian’s attention.
“Will there be anything else this evening, my lord?”
“Thank you, Graves, but I am certain I shall be quite comfortable.”
The old man bowed and then took his own leave, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
Julian waited for a scraping of lock to reach his ears, but none came.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise again as he removed his tunic and dropped it in a heap by the tub and made his way to the table beneath the window.
Julian flipped the latch on the wooden shutter and pushed it open, shivering once convulsively at the increased breeze brought into the room.
He bobbed and turned his head, gauging the extent of his view before crossing to the other window and doing the same.
He sat sideways on the end of the trunk, removing his tall boots while he watched the disassembly of his army.
Edward would likely not be pleased. And Erik had been furious at first. But the king had not sent Julian to Fallstowe because of his penchant for foolishness.
In the midst of the commotion below, he saw Erik standing on the driver’s seat of the ornate carriage that had carried Julian and Lucy to Fallstowe, a long, blazing torch in his hand.
From the castle it appeared that the man was examining the conveyance to see that it was readied for travel.
Julian twisted around to seize the candleholder behind him and stood, leaning on the edge of the window and thrusting his arm and the candleholder through the square opening and waving it in an X fashion.
He withdrew his arm and peered out. Erik was returning the X gesture with his torch.
After a moment, the man climbed down from the carriage and resumed his duties of dismantling the camp.
Julian replaced the candleholder on the trunk and smiled to himself as he undid his breeches. When the soldiers were dispersing, a pair of men would be left behind with knowledge of Julian’s location inside Fallstowe. He was very glad he had made it a point to ask Sybilla Foxe for a lower chamber.
He kicked his breeches to the floor and then strolled to the tub in his hose and undershirt, still grinning at his cleverness.
As he removed his silk shirt, he brought to mind the memory of a panting Lady Sybilla trapped in his arms. Her body had fairly pulsed against his in her surprise and fury, and the smell of her skin, wafting up warmly from the curve of her neck, had been fragrant and sweet and at odds with her frosty demeanor.
Julian had barely been able to think around the bawdy imaginings of what it would be like to take her in his bed.
Perhaps she was not the devil everyone in the land—including the king—thought her to be.
Perhaps she was just protecting what was hers, what she thought her mother, and then herself, had earned.
Perhaps her actions were brought about by nothing more than self-preservation, duty, and loyalty, and in that Julian could find little fault.
After all, had he himself not done such things?
He shook off the comparison, though, along with his hose, and considered that Sybilla Foxe’s acquiescence to be interviewed might have more to do with his presence than her willingness to stave off a siege against her people.
It was almost as if he could feel her response to him as he’d held her in his arms.
Perhaps she might fancy him.
Julian stepped up to the tub. Because he was feeling quite triumphant, he leaned over and grasped the two sides with his hands and lifted both feet from the floor, swinging himself over and then lowering quickly into the water of the tub.
He was out of the tub faster than he had gotten in, and would have likely been distressed at the very feminine sounding shrieks emanating from his mouth as he hopped around the wooden tub, water flying everywhere, except that his capacity for self-observation was completely overshadowed by his desire not to freeze to death.
He snatched at the stack of linens on the stool, toppling it, and then fell upon the pile of rags.
They were all no bigger than the palm of his hand.
He kicked his way through the mess to the bed and pulled the coverlet from the mattress, wrapping it around himself, and then turned back to face the tub warily, panting.
The fire glinted off the recently disturbed surface of the water in the tub, and now Julian could clearly make out the glistening shards floating quietly in the water.
Ice. The bitch had filled his bath with ice water.
Julian lifted one arm beneath the cape-like blanket and sniffed.
He quickly turned his head away with a grimace.
He had to wash. He stomped to the overturned stool, righted it, and sat down at the side of the tub.
Steeling himself, Julian threw off the coverlet, snatched up one of the ridiculously small rags and the bar of soap, and dunked both of them in the frigid water.
He was not looking forward in the least to washing his hair.
And he no longer thought that Sybilla Foxe fancied him.
Sybilla lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy.
She was completely exhausted. The last three days had seen her younger sister kidnapped, rescued, and wed—with Sybilla herself deeply involved in each event.
She’d ridden hard to and from Hallowshire Abbey, organized the defense of Fallstowe in preparation for an attack by the king’s men, nearly gotten herself killed on the battlements, and now had to contend with Edward’s own emissary as a guest. Along with his infant.
Dawn was two hours away, and yet her eyes would not close.
Why had she agreed to this nonsense? Why hadn’t she simply given the command for her own men to open fire on Julian Griffin at first light?
Perhaps, she thought, it was because she knew that no matter how well prepared they were, they would not triumph.
The king had a near endless supply of soldiers at his disposal, and even if Fallstowe’s army struck down company after company, there would always be another to follow, until all of Sybilla’s soldiers were dead or everyone within the castle walls had starved to death.
She had precious few friends, and those she did claim would never sacrifice their own status within the realm by going against the monarch, especially if they suspected the grounds for the conflict.
So, in her eyes, she had been faced with seeing Fallstowe and her good people destroyed starting with this night, or agreeing to the unexpected interview, perhaps buying her more time to think of an alternative to surrender. For that, she could never do.
Escape? Perhaps to Bavaria, or Persia even.
But not France. She could never flee to the land of her mother’s birth.
Fallstowe was unguarded as far as was directly visible, and Sybilla knew it would not be difficult to gather all the coin she could assemble and simply disappear into the night with old Graves, leaving the entire mess of Fallstowe behind her.
But then she would also be leaving her sisters, and their children. Her family. Sybilla would never again have a home of her own. And she could never, ever return to England.
Perhaps she simply wanted to tell someone at last, although she couldn’t imagine confessing the sordid details of her family to Julian Griffin.
I will do all I can to help you.
Sybilla sighed and turned over on her left side, so that she stared through the bed-curtains which she had left tied. Her big windows were painted with night and diamonds.