Page 58 of Lords of Night and Shadow
CHAPTER TWELVE
“…. in reflection, I should have known what the outcome would be. As opposing armies clash with a mighty cheer, so it seemed that I should also clash with those I had once served….”
The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara
1206 – 1215 A.D.
“W here have you been?”
It was the first question out of John’s mouth when Sean appeared in the king’s private dining room adjacent to his bedchamber. There were a few retainers present but, for the most part, the king was supping alone. Sean realized it was because of the anticipation of Lady Sheridan; John had not wanted to share her so he had dismissed most of his entourage. But Sean was entering the room alone and instantly, the king’s fury, and distrust, was peaked.
“I was seeking safety for Lady Sheridan, sire,” Sean replied steadily, his clear blue eyes locked with the king’s black orbs. “She is too valuable to the cause not to amply protect. I apologize if I was gone overlong.”
D’Athée stood several feet behind the king, watching Sean with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. Truth be told, he was enjoying this; Sean de Lara had been the perfect son for nine long years. Too long to serve in someone’s shadow. D’Athée could see that perhaps now there was a chance for him to be the favored retainer of the king. He was pleased with the fact that de Lara’s reputation was fading before his eyes.
John’s gaze lingered on Sean for several long moments; it was clear that his distrust of the man was growing. No matter what he had told him about marriage to the St. James woman, there was more to it. John could feel it. Others had even suggested it and, being a pliable man, John would readily agree. It was sickening to think his Shadow Lord was turning on him, turned by the head of a woman no less. After a properly suspicious pause, he returned to his food.
“I told you to bring her to sup with me,” he said casually. “Why did you disobey?”
“She has fallen ill,” Sean replied. “This day has been too much for her. Rather than tax her further, I have locked her away where she can rest. She will be well enough to entertain you another day.”
John lifted a dark eyebrow at him. “I do not want her another day. I wish to see her today. Go and get her.”
Sean could feel the test of wills coming. It was faster than he had anticipated. How he handled the king’s demands could very easily dictate the course of his future and the decisive end of nine horrible years. He could not destroy it now, not when all eyes were upon him. But he was facing a situation that he had never before faced; that as a husband protecting his wife. A man protecting the woman he loved. There was something overwhelming about that realization, fierce and crazed yet controlled and deadly. As much as he wanted to snap the man’s neck, he knew that he could not.
“It must be another day, sire,” Sean replied. “She is in no condition for socializing. If you push her, she will fail, and her health is very weak. She will be no good to us dead.”
John’s black eyes flared. He stood up, knocking over his chair in the process and placing himself up against Sean as if to forcibly intimidate him. But there was a tremendous difference in size and height, and the king merely looked like an angry child standing before a man of Sean’s stature. Sean didn’t flinch as the king thumped him on the chest.
“Since when do you deny my orders?” he snarled.
Sean met him steadily. “I have explained to you my reasons, sire. They are beyond our control and I would ask that you trust me in this matter.”
The king’s cheeks flushed and his mouth began to work; Sean, Gerard and the few other retainers in the room could see that he was working himself up to a fit. It was a fast rise. When his fists began to clench and unclench and the veins on his neck throbbed, they knew the worst was coming.
“I do not believe you,” he hissed. “You have married this woman to keep her all to yourself. I have seen her; she is a beauty. You want her all for yourself!”
“I married her to better serve you, sire,” Sean answered steadily.
“Liar!” John screamed, spittle flying from his lips. Reaching out, he slapped Sean across the face, hard. “You are keeping her from me and I shall not have it. Do you hear me? I shall not have it! Bring her here if you value your life, de Lara. You will not disobey me!”
The slap hadn’t hurt in the least but Sean was beginning to sweat. He was starting to lose his patience against a madman and that was not a good sign.
“A dead heiress will do you no good,” he repeated as evenly as he could manage. “Bear in mind that I have lied, killed and absconded for you for over nine years. I know for what purpose you wish to see Lady Sheridan and it is not simply to talk to her. I know you well, sire, and I tell you now that whatever you have planned for her will kill her. She will not be able to handle it in her present state. Is that what you want? To kill her?”
The king lashed out again and hit Sean with a balled fist, once on the arm and once on the jaw. It was hardly enough to take notice and Sean watched as the king began to foam at the mouth.
“You are sworn to me, de Lara,” he sputtered, backing away from the mountain of a man. He jabbed a crooked finger at him. “You are sworn to me and must do what I command. And I command you to bring the woman!”
Sean’s face did not change expression. “I regret that I must deny you, sire.”
John emitted something that sounded like a strangled scream as he whirled to d’Athée, a few feet away. He gestured at the man with claw-like hands.
“Go and get her, Gerard,” he commanded in a strangled voice. “Get her and bring her to me.”
“Do this and I will kill you,” Sean said to Gerard from across the room. “Do you understand?”
Gerard’s amusement from the beginning of the conversation had faded. Now he was in the middle of it, confused and edgy. He immediately unsheathed his sword at Sean.
“Make no threats to me, Sean,” he growled. “I am armed. You are not.”
Sean lifted an eyebrow at him. “I have no reason to arm myself unless you do not do as I ask. If I arm myself, you will die.”
John screamed again, this time in pure frustration. His body was beginning to contort. “Will no one do as they are told? I said get the St. James woman. I meant it. Gerard, go this instant if you value your life!”
Gerard was cornered but he was also stupid; he did not think for himself and was only able to do as directed. As much as he feared Sean, he was sworn to the king. If the king ordered him to do something, then he would do it. He swung the sword in a deadly series of arcs to prove to Sean that he meant business.
“Where is she, de Lara?” he asked in a low voice. “If you do not tell me, then I will tear this place apart looking for her and when I find her, it will not be pleasant.”
Sean didn’t react at first; he simply stared at the man. He could see where this was leading. After a moment, he turned his back on both men and walked to the entry to the room; two guards waited there, watching the happenings of the room with wide-eyes. Sean reached out and unsheathed the sword strapped to the side of one of the men; it was a smaller sword, more ceremonial than functional, but it was sharp and strong. It would have to do. Sword in hand, Sean turned in d’Athée’s direction.
“Now,” he said in a tone that caused most men to run in terror. “If anyone is to experience unpleasantness, it will be you. You will not go anywhere near Lady Sheridan. She is out of your reach.”
“You see?” John screeched. “He is trying to keep her from me!”
Gerard’s lip twitched menacingly. “Once the king is done with her, I will take my fill and there isn’t a damn thing you can do to stop me.”
Gerard had just signed his death warrant; Sean knew that he meant his threat. Only death would stop him and Sean fully intended to kill him to protect his wife. Any control over the situation had fled and now it was deadly. Sean intended that he and Sheridan would survive it.
“Aye, there is,” he rumbled. “I will end your miserable life before you leave this room.”
“You can try.”
Sean’s sword went up.
*
Guy was very surprised to see Sheridan. When she and Gilby entered the old man’s tiny rooms that were inconspicuously lodged in a corner of the barracks, Guy nearly leapt out of the bed with joy. But his broken ribs and cracked collar bone prevented it. He lay there with an amazed smile on his face as she came near the bed and greeted him warmly. When he reached out to take her hand, she let him. He was obviously very glad to see her and she was genuinely touched by his concern.
But there was no time for the polite reunion. Gilby needed Sheridan’s help to move Guy and the old man hustled around the room, gathering things they would need and rattling instructions.
“My lady, I need for you to assist young de Braose,” he said as he threw items into a satchel and collected an old black bag shoved under a table. “He cannot walk without assistance.”
Sheridan took a closer look at Guy; she had a suspicion why he was lying in bed looking as if he had been run over by a stampede. The last time she had seen him, he was being taken away by the king’s guard. She bent over him, inspecting the enormous bruise on the right side of his head.
“Oh… Guy,” she breathed, stopping short of actually touching the wound. “What did they do to you?”
Guy smiled, lop-sided from the swelling on his face. “Beat me within an inch of my life,” he said, almost proudly. “But they could not make me tell them anything.”
“What did they want to know?”
Guy tried to shrug. “Everything. Our strength and strategy, mostly. I seem to remember Walter Clifford doing some of the interrogating, I am sure, to seek revenge against my father. They are old enemies, you know. My father will be furious when he finds out.”
“But you told them nothing? Not even Clifford?”
Guy shook his head. “Not a word. No matter how hard they beat me, which was quite hard at times.”
He seemed rather casual about the entire thing but Sheridan was horrified. “I am so sorry,” she whispered sincerely. “Can you at least stand? You may lean on me.”
He nodded, moving extremely slowly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and grunting with pain as his ribs moved around. Sheridan had him by the arm, struggling to help him to stand, as Gilby finished collecting his tools and medicaments. He seemed indecisive with a few things, putting some things aside while collecting others. But when he saw that the lady was having difficulty with the patient, he stopped his collecting and helped the man finally rise to his feet.
“There is a cart off to the side of the barracks, near the alley,” he said. “We must go to it.”
Sheridan had a good grip on Guy as they moved from the room, cloaked by the darkness as they moved into the corridor. Guy moved like a crippled old man and it seemed to take forever simply to move across the floor.
The door leading to the grounds was a few feet away and they were able to make it clear of the barracks in relative stealth. When it was clear that Guy could go no further, Gilby bade him stop when they were just a few feet clear of the barracks. As Sheridan practically held Guy on his two feet, Gilby scurried around the corner to his cart and grabbed hold of the small mule strapped to the guides. Leading the animal forward, he directed both Sheridan and Guy onto the back of the cart.
It was the same wagon that had been waiting for Sean when he had brought Guy from the dungeons. It was piled high with dried grass and dead weeds. With Sheridan’s help, Guy was able to burrow under the pile. Gilby waited until they were both settled before piling hay over them. He took his time in making sure they were adequately covered. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to travel, but it was essential in order to get them clear of the Tower. Covering the cart with an oiled tarp and piling his bags onto the back, he led the mule towards the gatehouse.
Truth be told, the old man was nervous. He hadn’t been nervous in years and it was a strangely exhilarating feeling. He would have been worried about himself if he hadn’t been nervous, for the gravity of the situation was wearing heavily on him. He knew how important it was. He had to get them to Watford House.
*
Sean tossed the sword aside, ignoring the trail of blood he left splattered across the floor. With a lingering glance at d’Athée in a wounded heap, he turned to the king.
John gazed back at him with more fear than he had ever exhibited. He had just witnessed a brutal swordfight ending in the goring of Gerard, who lay groaning on the ground. Sean had hardly raised a sweat. The king raised his hands.
“You are still my chosen one, de Lara,” he insisted, a far different attitude from the screaming man just moments before. “I did not mean it when I called you a liar. You have never lied to me. It was Gerard who thought so. He is the one who poisoned me against you.”
Sean was quite calm; he did not believe the king for a moment. “It is of no matter,” he said evenly. “If you have no more directives, then I must gather what is left of your army remaining at the Tower and head for the Marches. De Vere will not be happy that I must confiscate a good deal of the forces he commands.”
The king was like an eager dog; he couldn’t seem to apologize enough or be supportive enough. He was terrified and it showed. “You do not need to go to the Marches,” he told him. “I would have you here in charge of the Tower defenses.”
Sean looked at him, lifting a slow eyebrow. “What of your holdings on the Marches that were so important to you, sire?”
“It is more important to protect me at this moment. London is under siege.”
“What of Abergavenny and Lansdown?”
“Leave them. There will be another time. Moreover, Lansdown is now your holding and I suspect that you do not wish to raze your own property.”
Sean almost sighed with relief but he held himself in check. Still, there were unanswered questions lingering in his mind. “And my loyalties, sire? Do I still need to prove them?”
John shook his head until his dirty, shaggy hair slapped back and forth. “You are my most loyal servant, de Lara. I am sorry for the things I said. I will not let a woman destroy the trust that you and I have for one another.”
Sean knew he meant what he said. But in a minute, he could mean the exact opposite. That was the trouble with the king; he was indecisive, pliable, and underhanded. Sean knew better than to trust him.
“We have more things to worry about than a woman, sire,” he tried to turn the subject from Sheridan. “I must go now and see to the city. If I feel you are in too great a danger, then I will facilitate removing you from the Tower to a safer location.”
John nodded eagerly. “I will trust you, de Lara. You have kept me alive for nine years and I will not doubt you.”
Sean’s gaze lingered on him a moment before begging his leave. There was nothing more to say, at least not outwardly. Actions, at this point, spoke far more than mere words and Sean was eager to regain whatever was left of the tattered situation. More than that, he was vastly relieved that he would not be going to the Marches. Now he could do what he had planned all of these years in spite of the last-moment complications. Silently, he slipped from the room, leaving John to breathe a heavy sigh of relief when he was finally gone.
The king wiped the sweat from his brow, his heart pounding in his chest and grateful that de Lara had not turned the sword against him. Looking to Gerard on the ground, now pressing his hands against the wound in his side, he knew at once what he needed to do. De Lara was no longer controllable; he feared that one day soon the man would turn against him. Though Sean still seemed to be the same man on the surface, John could tell that something had changed. Everything had changed. Whether it was because of Lady Sheridan or not was no longer the issue. The fact remained that John believed Sean to be a threat to his life. Someday, the man would kill him. He knew it.
He had to do away with the threat. And there was only one way to do that.