Chapter 26
The king had dismissed Julian with a disgusted wave of his hand, sending him from the chamber as if he could no longer stand the sight of him.
It hurt Julian. Edward was more than his king.
Julian had saved the monarch’s life, married into his bloodline, taken a vested interest in the security of the realm. Julian considered Edward his friend.
And now that friend had sent Julian from him like a disobedient dog.
And Julian could not readily fault him, for if Julian had had his own way, he and Lucy and Sybilla would at this moment be in the process of leaving England forever, forsaking his king, his friends, his country, the law.
Edward must take into consideration the interests of the realm first; Julian understood that.
What he did not understand, however, was the unexpected presence of Lady Sybil de Lairne. Why had she traveled from her home in France to the king’s court, now of all times? Why was she being given leave to plunder Julian’s findings, at Edward’s side? What did she want? Whose side was she on?
The questions, the possibilities, made his head ache, and he was glad when the surly man showed him into a small, spartan chamber and left him alone with his thoughts. The door locked soundly after the man left, and Julian knew it would be guarded, but it mattered not. He did not want to escape.
The room was more than he could have hoped for: a narrow cot pushed against the wall, bearing a tray of bread and cheese and smoked fish, and a flagon of wine on its rough-looking coverlet.
A bowl of water and a cloth rested on the shallow stone sill of the small, high-set window.
He would have liked to change his clothing, but could not hope for such a luxury.
He sat on the side of the cot, bracing his forearms on his thighs, staring at the floor between his dirt-caked boots.
After several moments, he sighed and turned to the flagon to minister to his parched throat.
He had not finished half of the wine when the sounds of locks being breached echoed in the small chamber and the door swung inward.
Erik stepped inside, bearing a stack of what Julian immediately recognized as his own clothing, and his long-confiscated belt and sword. The young blond man walked to the center of the floor and then stopped as unseen hands closed the door once more.
Julian took another long drink, watching his friend—was Erik still his friend?—over the curve of the container. Holding the flagon by its neck, he lowered it and let it dangle between his knees.
“Good day, Erik. Have you come to harangue me some more?”
The young man’s jaw was set, his eyes cold. He tossed the stack of clothing onto the bed. It came unfolded, and Julian’s tunic and hose slid onto the floor. Neither man moved to retrieve them. Julian noted that Erik still retained the sword.
“My thanks,” Julian said.
“How could you do this to the king? To Lucy?” Erik demanded. “How could you do this to me?”
Julian sighed, placed the flagon back on the tray, and then stood, making his way toward the window while shrugging out of his shirt. “Sybilla Foxe has been very wronged, Erik.”
“Wronged? Was it she who conspired with de Montfort to ambush the king’s men at Lewes?”
Julian tossed his wadded shirt to the floor and picked up the cloth, dunking it in the icy water and then wringing it out. “Yes.” He began wiping his face.
“Then she is a traitor to the Crown!”
“Her own father led the king’s men that night,” Julian offered, scrubbing at his arms and shoulders. “He lost his life. Sybilla Foxe did not know what she was being sent to do.”
“Bullshit, she didn’t know,” Erik spat.
Julian paused to glance over his shoulder at his young friend. “She was no more than a girl. She didn’t know.”
“Even if that is true,” Erik conceded, “she held the castle unlawfully, denied the king’s every summons. What of her lineage? Is it true that her mother was not noble?”
Julian swiped the cloth over his stomach and then rinsed the rag. “There are . . . questions.”
Erik gave a frustrated growl. “Which you were supposed to answer, and my intuition tells me that you did. Edward didn’t send you to Fallstowe to be Sybilla Foxe’s judge or jury, and he certainly didn’t send you to rescue her. You were to secure the castle and—”
“I understood my obligation to the king perfectly well,” Julian shouted. He calmed himself with an effort after a moment. “I require no clarification of my orders from you.”
“Well, I suppose it’s somewhat comforting to know that your conscience troubles you,” Erik snapped.
Julian ignored the goad and crossed back to the cot to shake his clean shirt from the floor. He pulled it over his head and attended to the laces, glancing up first at his sword and then at the face of the man who held it.
“Are you going to give me that or slay me with it?”
“I haven’t yet decided,” Erik replied. “Perhaps the latter would be more merciful. Who’s the old French woman?”
“Lady Sybil de Lairne.” Julian sat on the cot and worked at removing his boots.
“What’s she doing here?”
“That’s a very good question.” He kicked one boot free and raised his other foot to his knee. “I met with her in France before Lucy was born. She gave no indication at that time that she was willing to come to England for her testimony. Her mother was very old, very ill, and needed constant care.”
“Perhaps her mother has since died,” Erik offered grudgingly.
Julian kicked off his other boot and paused, thinking. “Yes. Perhaps she has.”
“Julian, I can’t support you if you insist on witnessing for a known traitor against our king.”
“I understand,” Julian said, standing and untying his breeches.
“For one,” Erik continued as if Julian had not spoken, “my first loyalty must be to Edward and England. I was to take your place here after you were rewarded with Fallstowe.”
“I remember well,” Julian said, sitting once more to don his hose. “Alliance with me could damage your future in the king’s employ.”
“Yes. But more than that, I cannot support your defection. It’s not in your nature, Julian, for as long and as well as we have known each other. Or, as well as I thought I knew you, I suppose.”
Julian stood, picked up his tunic and shrugged into it, fastening the ornate closures which began below his hips. It took him several minutes before the chore was complete, and then he raised his eyes to Erik and sighed.
“You may choose to believe what I am about to say or not, but I swear to you, it is the truth. I believe everything Sybilla Foxe has told me. Not because I am a fool, or because she has cast some sort of spell on me, or promised me all the riches of Fallstowe. I believe her because what she has told me fits, in light of the information I have gathered myself. It’s the truth. She has been wronged.”
Julian retrieved the cloth from the bowl and walked back to the cot to sit on the side and wipe at his boots.
“It was never my intention to lie to the king, or even to withhold information from him. Yes, I was going to see Sybilla Foxe away from England without trial. Yes, Lucy and I were going with her.” Julian held one boot before him, inspecting his handiwork. It would have to do.
“But in lieu of that part of my duty, I was willingly giving up my employ with the king, willingly giving up the prize of Fallstowe that he had so generously offered me. And I had already made arrangements to have the results of my full investigation—as well as my honest conclusions—sent to him. The king was to know the truth—all of it.” He paused to look up at Erik.
“It was the best I could think of, to assuage my sense of duty as well as my conscience. I could not let her be unfairly damned, Erik. I will not.”
“What will you say at the trial, though?” Erik pressed.
“The truth,” Julian said, and began to once more don his boots. “I will not lie to the king.”
“She’ll sacrifice you if she can,” Erik warned him.
Julian shook his head. “No. You’re wrong.”
“She was prepared to fight me and the other guards to get to the king before you.”
Julian felt a melancholy smile at his mouth. “Of course she was. You’re very lucky she was so fatigued.” He looked up at his young friend, but Erik did not seem amused. “You will see at the trial that what I say is true.”
“How can you trust her so?” Erik demanded.
Julian stood and faced his friend, looking at him levelly. “She loves me.”
“Of course she would tell you she loves you,” Erik began.
Julian shook his head. “I know that she loves me. I know that she loves Lucy. And I know that Sybilla Foxe protects those she loves. I can only hope that she knows how very much I love her.”
Erik’s brows drew together as if Julian had just spoken in some strange, foreign language. “It’s Sybilla Foxe, Julian.”
Julian felt another smile come to his mouth, but this time it was warm. “Yes. I’m very lucky, am I not?”
“You’re mad.” Erik shook his head and then looked down at the sword still in his hands. After a moment, he thrust it and the belt toward Julian. “Here. If you draw it at any time, they will cut you down. I will cut you down myself,” he clarified.
Julian stepped forward to take his weapon and strap it on. “I understand. Thank you.” When he was properly dressed, he looked up at Erik again. “You will be at the trial, then?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Erik answered solemnly. “It’s my duty to bring in the prisoner.”
Julian paused. “Be kind to her if you can,” he requested quietly.
“I shall do my duty,” was all Erik would promise. “If she wishes for a theatrical display, she shall have it and I shall oblige her—the trial is to be public.”
Julian frowned, feeling a bitterness in his heart. “He wants to humiliate her,” he murmured to himself. Then he looked once more at Erik. “Thank you. For the clothes and for your ear.” He held out his hand.