Chapter 9
Sybilla forced her mouth to keep hold of the slight smile she’d donned for Julian Griffin’s benefit.
If it slipped only the tiniest bit, she felt she would be overcome with terror, and she knew, perhaps better than anyone else, that one’s outward appearance and demeanor were all that ever really mattered: how you presented yourself, what you said, your mannerisms. People took them at face value, and you either commanded or you were commanded.
So it counted for little that, as soon as she had stepped foot inside the ring of stones, she felt the moonlight hit her between her shoulder blades, just as surely and deeply as an arrow.
It took her breath, caused her heart to skip a beat and then flail wildly in her chest. The roots of her hair tingled beneath her scalp; her flesh crawled with soft lightning.
And still she drew ever closer to Julian Griffin, who stood beside the altar stone as if he had been waiting there for her for a hundred years.
The wind whirled through the ring, blowing the man’s tawny mane behind him like a wild sail.
One muscular leg was stretched to his side at an angle, and his hands were on his narrow hips.
He regarded her with a smile but no hint of rapturous passion.
Only perhaps excitement, or amusement. She searched his face for any sign that he felt even a fraction of the energy the stones were throwing off like waves, but he seemed unfazed.
She came to a stop immediately before him, so close that she had to turn up her face to look into his eyes.
He looked down and his smile became undeniably amused.
She could smell him now, the warmth of him coming from his thick, rich clothing, but it smelled not of prestige or money—it only smelled like . . .
The tang of mead on your tongue.
The crispness of autumn leaves crushed underfoot in a deep wood.
A stone fished from the bottom of a stream and held to your face in the sunlight.
Skin warmed by a fire’s smoke.
The wind over—
“Sybilla?” he asked quietly, and his amusement was clear in his tone.
She started, and realized she had continued to search his face for a sign, any sign, while being drowned by her senses.
“Yes?”
His smile grew infinitesimally wider and his shoulders gave a minute hitch. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. I’m fine,” she said, and although she’d meant the words to come out terse and scoffing, when her voice echoed back to her ears it was breathy, weak, and sounded confused. “Are you . . . all right?”
“Ravenous, actually,” he said. Then he moved and reached for the satchel hanging forgotten in her dumb hand. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll just get us set up here.” Her fingers fell open and he quickly turned to set the leather bag on the stone. “You don’t mind, do you?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“No,” she answered, and then blinked several times. At last she forced herself to move, turning her head to look up at the stones, the moon glowing above them, as if to make certain she was actually where she was.
Foxe Ring, yes.
Full moon, yes.
And nothing had happened.
She turned her gaze toward Julian Griffin’s back and felt her eyebrows lower.
He was making gruff little sounds of happy anticipation, and Sybilla found herself growing fantastically annoyed.
When she could command her feet to become uprooted from the loamy soil, she walked to stand at his side before the stone he was busy setting as a table.
“Your cook is quite capable,” he said. “She’s thought of everything.”
Sybilla glanced at the brown oilcloth, where Julian was sparking life to a candle as thick as her forearm.
As the flame bloomed, it tickled the glazing of a stout crock, its lid strapped tight with leather bands; a hunk of light-colored bread; and a corked flagon.
A moment later, Julian had pulled two small wooden cups from the satchel.
She looked back to his face when he rubbed his hands together in anticipation and then turned to perch one hip on the edge of the stone. He was back on both feet again in an instant, a look of bewilderment on his handsome face.
Finally, Sybilla thought.
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” he said in an annoyed voice, and then gave a short bow before gesturing to the stone. “I’ve completely forgotten my manners in the face of such a feast. Please, my lady, sit.”
Sybilla felt her eyebrows rise.
She drew an inaudible breath and then, holding her mouth tight, placed her hand in Julian Griffin’s offered palm while he assisted her onto the stone.
Her skin burned where he touched her, but an instant later the contact was broken as he reclaimed his own seat and reached for the crock, working straightaway at unfastening the leather straps.
In only a moment the lid was free, revealing a half of a roasted bird in a savory broth, surrounded by caramelized root vegetables and swirls of limp, new greens.
Julian hefted the crock with one hand and held it toward her. “My lady? Have you your eating knife?”
“Go on,” Sybilla said tersely. “I find I’m not at all hungry at the moment.” Julian shrugged and brought the crock back to the oilcloth in front of him even before Sybilla could add crossly, “It must be the air.”
He pulled the leg of the bird away easily and bit into it, leaning over the crock. “Mmm,” he mumbled, and then chewed thoroughly. Sybilla watched his throat as he swallowed, her stomach clenching, and at the same time hoped he would choke to death.
“This is quite good. Delicious, actually. Tarragon?” he asked, raising his eyes to her face as he swirled the bone in his mouth and finished off the leg.
“I’ve no idea, I’m sure,” she snipped.
“Lovely. Majestic,” he said, and then popped a bit of turnip into his mouth. A moment later, he said, “I’m glad you’ve realized that it’s in your best interest to conduct our business in a more friendly manner. Your cooperation may hold sway with Edward.”
“Friendly manner?” Sybilla repeated. “You think because I haven’t killed you yet that we’re friendly now?”
He gave her an indulgent look, as one might give a small child who vowed to run away from home due to poor treatment, before pulling a hunk of thigh meat free and setting it between his teeth with relish. Sybilla felt a bit of her discombobulation evaporate at his condescension. Her eyes narrowed.
In the next instant, Julian Griffin’s eyes went wide, and harsh hacking sounds emanated from him. He grabbed at his throat with one hand and gained his feet, beating on his chest with his other fist.
Sybilla watched calmly until a moment later, when the lord fell into a fit of wild, wheezing spasms. The corners of her mouth turned down with disappointment, and she reached for the flagon and cup.
“I beg your pardon,” he rasped as he regained his seat.
Sybilla handed him the cup of wine and then poured one for herself. She brought it to her lips but paused before drinking.
“All right, then. Go on. Tell me what you know,” she said quietly, and then took a drink.
Julian had drained his cup and was wiping at his brow with his sleeve. He rested his wrist on his knee, the cup clasped loosely in his fingers, and regarded her.
“I’m not certain you’re prepared for that,” he said, and his face held no trace of condescension.
“I’ll not have this hanging over my head any longer, Julian. Edward has sent you here to do his bidding. I would know the details of what I have been charged with so that I might have time to gather evidence to disprove it.”
“You think I would charge you falsely? I can assure you, what I know as fact is bolstered by witnesses, documents. The things I have pieced together on assumption, I have done with much forethought, but I would not hand you over to the king based on my own theories, unless they could be substantiated.”
She said nothing, only held his gaze.
“Sybilla, I—” He broke off abruptly, reached for the flagon, and refilled his cup. After taking a drink, he regarded her for a long moment before beginning again. “I have come to admire you greatly these past few months.”
“You can’t admire someone you don’t know,” Sybilla pointed out.
Julian nodded in acquiescence. “I admire what I do know of you then. What I have learned, and yes, what I have seen thus far in my short time at Fallstowe.”
“Are you attempting to flatter me into a stupor before getting to it, Lord Griffin?” she snipped. “Because I find I am in no mood to play your court games. Either tell me what you know and get it over with, or this is finished.”
“Finished? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Sybilla said coolly, “that we will return to Fallstowe, you may collect your daughter and your servant, summon your minions, and have at the siege.”
“I’m not leaving now that I’m in, Sybilla,” Julian answered quietly, but his tone was every bit as cool as Sybilla’s had been. “Surely you don’t take me for that kind of fool.”
“Then it will be your general who leads your men in your name,” she said pointedly. “Get on with it, Lord Griffin.”
His head bobbed slightly as he stared at her, obviously considering his options. “All right,” he said quietly at last.
He set his cup deliberately on the oilcloth, and the flame from the candle seemed to want to dip inside and explore the shadow of his wine.
“Your mother was serving as the de Lairne lady’s maid in Gascony when Simon de Montfort was appointed to that post by King Henry III.
The barons were not giving Simon his due, and so your mother saw a means to thwart her employers—the ones that had saved her from a life of poverty as an infant—and perhaps better her station at the same time.
She conspired with de Montfort to bring the de Lairnes to heel, and in exchange, after his triumph in Gascony, Simon agreed to allow Amicia passage on his return to England. ”
Sybilla said nothing, but inside she quaked at the accuracy of Julian’s information.