Chapter 28
Julian let out a terrible roar from somewhere deep inside of him as he watched Edward’s hand rise and then disappear below him. The slap echoed in the chamber and was still chasing its own tail when he threw off the men who held him and leapt from the dais.
He ran at the pair, even amidst the sounds of guards converging on the aisle, their swords ringing as they cleared their scabbards. He didn’t care. His fingertips found his own hilt, his arm pulled as he ran, prepared to commit the greatest crime imaginable of a trusted soldier of the king.
No one would ever harm Sybilla again.
But as he came upon them, he saw not a broken woman, a furious man, but two people locked in a tight embrace. The king’s arms were around Sybilla’s back, the thin linen bunched against the lavish embroidery of the royal tunic, her dark hair cascading over golden thread like an ebony river.
Julian skidded to a halt as a score of soldiers ringed the three of them, their swords drawn, their intentions obvious. But Julian ignored them, his sword hanging from his arm, its point touching the grand floor. He didn’t think he would have the strength to lift it now, even to save his own life.
Sybilla’s pale, delicate hands pressed against Edward’s back, her forehead was laid against his chest, and even in the confusion that was so thick as to lend an audible buzz of nerves to the air, Julian could hear her plea.
“Forgive me, forgive me.”
Edward angled his chin toward Julian, although he did not look directly at him. “I’d put your weapon away now, Lord Griffin, were I you. I’d hate to have something unfortunate happen to you at this late date.”
Julian looked down at his sword as if just realizing he still held it, and then slid it back into its home slowly.
Edward took hold of Sybilla’s upper arms and held her away from him, but his first words were for his men.
“Stand down. There is no danger to me here, from either of them.” As the men grudgingly backed away, he looked down into Sybilla’s face.
“Indeed, perhaps I am in the presence of the greatest patriot England has ever known. It was you, wasn’t it?
It was you who came into my tent and led me to de Montfort’s unready men.
Urged me on to the surprise attack at Kenilworth Castle. ”
Sybilla nodded. “Yes. It was I.”
Julian felt his legs go weak.
“Why did you not come to me? I would have protected you myself. Sybilla—you saved England, you saved my legacy.”
And then Sybilla Foxe said words that Julian would never have wagered in a hundred years would fall from her lips.
“I was so afraid.” And then she began to weep.
Edward drew her to him briefly once more, shaking his head. And then he released her, pushing her gently back into her chair and turning away from her.
Julian stepped toward her, fully intending to kneel at her side, but he was stopped short by Edward’s hand on his chest.
“No,” the king said, a disapproving frown on his long face. “This trial is still in order. I will have no more deviations. Go back to your seat, Lord Griffin.”
“But, my liege—”
“Now, Julian,” Edward commanded, giving him a little push and then walking toward the short steps that led to the dais.
“Come on.” Someone pulled sharply on his elbow, and Julian turned to see that it was Erik. “Don’t be any more of a fool than you have been, Julian. It’s almost over.”
Julian walked backward a pair of steps, his eyes on Sybilla’s pale face. She did not look at him.
Then he nodded, to no one but himself, it seemed, and turned to gain the dais once more.
Edward had gone to the scribe’s table and was leafing through sheaves of parchment, his long left arm braced at his side.
The king spoke with the man at length and then turned away.
Julian frowned as the scribe immediately took up several of the pages and then lifted the glass globe of the lantern to his left.
He touched the corners of the pages to the flame and slid them into a wide-mouth brazier at his feet.
The burst of flame was white as the pages disappeared.
Edward settled himself heavily into his throne in his typical posture: a sideways slouch, his previously broken leg stretched out before him, one elbow holding him aright in the seat. He stared at Sybilla for several moments.
“Sybilla Foxe,” he said at last. “Is it your admission that you sneaked into the royal camp in the year 1265 and informed me of the unguarded state of Simon de Montfort’s son’s army, leading to the siege at Kenilworth Castle, and later, the death of Lord de Montfort himself at Evesham?”
“It is, my lord,” Sybilla answered.
“And is it also your testimony that you have repeatedly and knowingly ignored royal summonses, resulting in several acts of outright disobedience to the Crown?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How do you plead to these accusations, then?”
“I am guilty,” Sybilla said, with a lift of her chin. Julian thought she had never looked so beautiful.
“Very well,” Edward said. “Stand for your sentencing.”
Sybilla gained her feet, and even at that distance, Julian could see her swallow.
“For your crimes, Fallstowe Castle shall be fined one quarter of its wealth, payable in one fortnight.”
Julian felt his mouth fall open, but below him, Sybilla only blinked.
But Edward was not done. “In addition, you shall supply the Crown with half of Fallstowe’s armed men, fully outfitted and paid, mustering at Midsummer for a campaign of unknown duration. How do you answer?”
Sybilla nodded. “As my king wishes. It will be done.”
“Very well,” Edward said. “All other charges against you are hereby dropped, found to be without cause.”
Julian felt the breath go out of him, but he had no real time for relief, for Edward then turned to him.
“Lord Julian Griffin, stand,” the king ordered.
Julian steadied his sword and gained his feet before bowing once to the monarch.
“You have also been insubordinate in the duties set upon you some months ago by my own word. How do you plead?”
“I am guilty, my liege,” Julian said, then added quietly, “and I am very sorry, friend.”
“Let it be recorded as such,” Edward said. “As of this day, you are hereby charged with the demesne of Fallstowe Castle, as vassal to the Crown. What you do with its current occupants”—Edward glanced at Sybilla—“is at your complete discretion. How do you answer?”
“I would—” Julian was forced to stop and look down at his feet while he cleared his throat. At last he was able to look at Edward again. “I would marry the current occupant, my liege, if it pleases you.”
Edward nodded slowly. “I think that it does please me, Lord Griffin. Someone must keep that woman in check, and obviously I am not up to the task.”
Julian smiled at his king. “It shall be done right away, my liege.”
“Very well. Lord Griffin, the other charges levied against you are hereby dismissed.” The king held up his hands briefly before slapping them back onto the arms of his chair and rising. “I’m finished here.”
The king made his way from the dais through his private door, prompting the mustachioed barrister to step forth.
“Court is adjourned,” he called out solemnly, to no one but Julian, Sybilla, and the soldiers still ringing the room.
Julian looked down at Sybilla where she still stood, her arms hanging at her sides, and smiled.
Then, too late, he remembered the protocol after a private court was held, as the soldiers threw open the double public doors, and the droves of nobles and commoners ejected from the room earlier flooded the chamber like a tempest at sea.
In moments, Sybilla was surrounded by the angry whirlpool, Julian stranded helplessly on the island of the dais.
Sybilla spun on her heel to face the crush of people who were roaring toward her like a rogue wave.
The soldiers had obviously not expected such a response in a usually civilized venue, and so their shouts of restraint toward the bloodthirsty crowd were late, and nearly lost beneath the thunderous footfalls and voices.
But Sybilla was not afraid. She lifted her chin and stared boldly at the first wave of common and noble gawkers. And as they drew impossibly nearer, when from the outside it would seem that they would overtake her with her next breath, trample the life from her, Sybilla held up her right hand.
As if a wall had been thrown up, the crowd stopped short, the sudden cessation of motion causing a silvery ripple to race back through the crowd still pushing their way forward, even as a musical sound, like the tinkling of small, crystal bells fell upon the hall from the rafters.
And then the crowd was completely, utterly silent, staring at her wide-eyed, some with a furious look of impotence and others with a sort of confusion.
The footfalls of the soldiers increased in volume as they at last reached her, and as they placed themselves between Sybilla and the would-be vigilantes, she lowered her hand.
No sooner had her arm reached her side than it was seized from behind, and Sybilla found herself turned round in a sudden, forceful fashion, to face the intense expression on Julian Griffin’s face.
“Sybilla,” he whispered. “We’ve won.”
She felt a smile trying to come to her mouth, the muscles creaking, the expression hesitant to show itself. “Have we?”
“Have we?” he repeated incredulously. “You can’t be serious!”
“It only seems so . . . unfinished. Incomplete,” she said with a slight frown.
“You have retained Fallstowe,” Julian insisted.
Sybilla quirked an eyebrow at him. “If I agree to become your wife.”
Julian Griffin took on a pained expression of forced patience. “Do you wish to become my wife?”
Sybilla blinked coolly.
Julian sighed, rolled his eyes, and tried again. “Sybilla Foxe, will you marry me?”
And then the smile did come to her mouth, and although slight, Sybilla felt the sincerity of her happiness all the way to the core of her soul.
“Yes,” she said quietly, simply.