Chapter 27 #2
Sybilla could still not bring herself to look at the old woman. She didn’t know if she was grateful or furious. But she was desperately confused, and suddenly very afraid now. What did this all mean for her fate?
“This is all very extraordinary,” Edward said quietly. “Lady de Lairne, I will have more questions, of course.”
“Of course,” she deferred quietly. “But now I must ask to be excused, Your Majesty. I fear I am not as young as I once was, and the excitement of my journey and then reliving such memories has fatigued me greatly. May I rejoin you later, upon your request?”
“Of course,” Edward said. “And I thank you for your bravery.”
Lady de Lairne did not speak to Sybilla as she shuffled from the dais on the arm of a court servant.
The king was silent. Sybilla wondered if Julian was indeed still in the cavernous chamber, which echoed only with the loud scratches of the scribe’s quill and the muffled rattles of the soldiers’ armor.
She sat in her wooden chair, the hardness of it seeming to bruise her bones, her flesh being overtaken by the creeping coldness of the floor, her skin covered in gooseflesh beneath the pitifully thin linen garment she wore.
She could no longer feel her toes. But there was a vibration in her now, and energy born of—not hope, exactly, but perhaps more of conviction.
She was who she was. She was right in what she was doing this day, in this room, before this man.
She would not be swayed.
“So,” Edward said at last, pensively, as if still turning his thoughts over in his own head, examining them in this new light.
“So, perhaps we have come down to the truth of your mother’s birth.
Perhaps we have. But as for you . . . well, it’s not so simple as that, is it?
There is no one to vouch for the circumstances of your birth, is there? ”
“No, my lord. There is not,” Sybilla said. “Although I was indeed present on that day, I fear I have little remembrance of it.”
To her surprise, Edward snorted. Then he said, “Were you under the impression that Morys Foxe was indeed your true father?”
“The whole of my life,” Sybilla said, knowing that this tiny detail could neither save nor damn her. The truth would suffice because it was irrelevant.
“It is no secret that he claimed you,” Edward conceded. “And without proof to the contrary, I cannot in good conscience contradict your patronage. Lord Griffin, have you any evidence that Sybilla Foxe was not indeed the offspring of the late Lord of Fallstowe?”
“None at all, my liege,” Julian said at once.
“So be it, then,” Edward said. He was quiet for a moment.
“The more arduous task lies yet ahead, any matter. The one that will decide your fate, Lady Sybilla. Although I have my own theories, I would hear it from your lips: Why is it that you and your mother repeatedly ignored all royal summonses, even after Evesham, when my father readily welcomed even the widows of the men felled under him?”
Sybilla swallowed. “It is because she—because my mother feared that . . . we would be recognized.”
“Recognized. Hmm,” Edward said. “Recognized would imply that someone important at court had met one of you previously, or had occasion to see you. Perhaps at some task you wished to keep secret?”
“Yes, my lord,” Sybilla said.
“Perhaps someone would have seen you at Lewes, you think?”
“Sybilla,” Julian warned.
“Let her answer,” Edward cut in sharply.
“Yes, my lord. At Lewes, precisely.”
“That’s what I thought. Do you know what a terrible spot of bad luck that battle was? Not only for my father’s men, but for you?”
Sybilla hesitated. “My lord?”
“The men were never supposed to reach Lewes that night,” Edward informed her quietly. “They were to remain at their camp, some miles away. Had they done so, Simon de Montfort’s men would have been in a very vulnerable location and been overtaken by the king’s troops the next day.”
Sybilla felt the vibration in her bones increase, even as Julian spoke.
“My liege, do you mean to say that the battle of Lewes should never have happened?”
“Not in the manner in which it took place—yes, that is exactly what I mean to say,” Edward said morosely. “Morys Foxe was killed that night. I am most certain that was not in your mother’s plans, was it, Sybilla?”
Tears welled heavy in her downcast, unblinking eyes and fell onto her thighs.
It was why her mother had been so shocked, so devastated. Morys was not supposed to have been where he was—none of the king’s men were. She had been pretending to cow to Simon de Montfort’s demand for information, when in reality, it was he she was setting up for an ambush.
How Sybilla had hated her mother for that ill-fated night! And how misplaced her fury had been!
“No, my liege. That was not in her plans. She . . . she loved my father very much.” Sybilla’s voice broke and she paused. “We all did.”
“I am not an unfair man, Sybilla,” Edward said. “And regardless of what you or the love-struck Lord Griffin may think, I have read the results of his investigation thoroughly. I realize now that it was not your mother who went to Simon de Montfort’s camp that night. She sent you, did she not?”
Sybilla could only nod.
“And I understand in hindsight her probable intentions. But her intentions cannot be proven, and she cannot be questioned. The fact remains that you were sent to aid an enemy of the Crown, with disastrous results for the king’s men, for England, and for your own father.
The act in itself was traitorous. And I must uphold the law. ”
“Before you judge me, my liege,” Sybilla said suddenly, but calmly, “I would ask you only one mercy.”
“Yes? Sybilla Foxe asking for mercy?” Intrigue was high in the king’s voice. “You will wish for a stay of execution, certainly, and—”
“No,” Sybilla interrupted sharply. “I would not live out my days as a prisoner, of you or anyone else on this earth.” As she continued to speak in the space left by the king’s shocked silence, she slowly raised her head to at last look at Edward directly.
“I ask that for my cooperation and full admission of guilt, you absolve Lord Griffin of the charges against him and grant him Fallstowe Castle and all its privileges as you previously warranted. The only crime Julian Griffin is guilty of is mercy. He had no choice but to become my accomplice.”
“That is a lie, Sybilla, and well you know it,” Julian shouted. “I have made my choices according to my own wishes—not yours, not anyone else’s! How dare you try to manipulate—”
“He had no choice,” Sybilla interrupted, not daring to look at Julian. “I took him to the Foxe Ring not long after his arrival at Fallstowe. On the last night of the full moon.”
Edward’s eyebrows rose and then lowered quickly. He stared at Sybilla in a queer manner, as if he had not heard her correctly, or not heard her at all.
Julian gripped the arms of his chair as if he would stand. “What has that to do with anything? You think I would be swayed by some old tale? That I would be taken in by whispers of legend or witchcraft? My actions are based on history, on fact, not a superstitious pile of rock!”
“His support and . . . affections became apparent after we had both visited the Foxe Ring,” Sybilla said to Edward, somewhat concerned at the way he was still looking at her from his place on the dais, some thirty feet away.
“I was in love with you before I ever laid eyes on the Foxe Ring!” Julian shouted, and then Sybilla couldn’t help but turn her head to look at him, his blatant admission still echoing in the air of the hall.
“As you were with me,” he finished in a quieter voice.
“I’ll not let you martyr yourself at the expense of my dignity, Sybilla. ”
Sybilla swallowed the emotion lodged in her throat to turn stoically back to the king. “Of course I cannot force His Majesty to agree to any such demands I might make. But let history reflect that the following is my testimony.”
“Sybilla, no!” Julian shouted.
“I admit that it was I who aided Simon de Montfort in finding the king’s men at Lewes in the year 1264. The treason is mine, and I admit my guilt.” The scribes recorded her words furiously.
The king however, did not move.
Sybilla felt her chin lift as she continued this game of watchfulness with the monarch who for so long had sought her, and now had her in his clutches, her ready confession still wet on his scrolls.
“That’s not all you’ve done, though, is it?” Julian challenged her. “If you’re going to confess, let’s have all of it, shall we?”
Her eyes flicked to his. “Julian, don’t.”
“Look at her, my liege,” Julian said, moving forward to the edge of his chair and turning toward Edward, holding out an upturned palm to indicate where Sybilla sat.
“Only look at her! Why do you think she would not want to be recognized? No one in this room today was present at Lewes to have remembered her! Look at her!”
And Edward did look. And then he brought his hands to the arms of his own chair and pushed himself to stand. “You,” he said. His hand went to the long, ornate hilt of the sword at his side.
“You,” he repeated, then suddenly walked to the edge of the dais and, in a spry manner, hopped down from it, landing surely on both feet, his eyes never leaving Sybilla. He began to stride toward her purposefully.
“No,” Julian shouted, and shot from his own chair, but in an instant his pursuit was arrested by a trio of guards, one of them Erik. They held him, forcing him back into his chair while Julian struggled, shouting, “Edward, don’t!”
Edward was nearly upon her now, his hand still laid upon his sword.
One last fight then, she said to herself, and rose from the chair to stand defiantly before the tall, lean menace that was the king of England.
He towered over her, his eyes searching her face. “You,” he whispered now, and his brows lowered menacingly.
Then the king raised his hand.