Page 53 of Never Love a Lord
“No,” Julian said in a strangled voice, and then cleared his throat. “No, Graves, I think you have given me quite enough to think about.”
Graves stood there a moment longer before saying, in an unusually hesitant and sympathetic tone, “Loyalty can ofttimes be completely relative, wouldn’t you agree?”
Then he was gone from Sybilla’s chamber, leaving Julian staring dumbly at the destroyed room. At Sybilla Foxe’s destroyed life, dealt by Julian’s own hand.
Chapter 18
There were soldiers camped outside of Bellemont. The king’s soldiers.
Sybilla urged Octavian quickly from the road into a small dip in the rolling countryside leading to the Bellecote hold, considering this surprise.
Julian had vowed that he would send his men away, and he had. Of course he would dispatch them to Bellemont—Oliver Bellecote had vowed his support of Edward’s campaign against Sybilla and Fallstowe, and so it only made sense to have the bulk of Julian’s men camped at a location where ready aid was at hand. But the brief glimpse of tents and armaments she’d seen before departing from the main road to Bellemont had seemed too few to accommodate the hundreds of men who had appeared at Fallstowe initially.
Where was the rest of Julian’s army? She frowned and pondered. Likely Gillwick. Yes, Julian was keen enough to shield Sybilla’s retreat on all sides, and to be well-informed should either of her sisters attempt to give her aid.
Why hadn’t Cecily or Alys sent word to her, though?
For a brief moment Sybilla thought very hard about swinging Octavian back to the wood and returning to Fallstowe. She wasn’t certain if any of the men camped outside Bellemont’s walls would be on the lookout for her, or what scenario was playing out within the hold itself. But no sooner had the idea of flight occurred to her than she dismissed it summarily.
She must speak to her sister. And nothing or no one was going to stop her.
Sybilla closed her eyes and took a deep breath, turning her face up to the bright midday sun, trying to soak as much warmth and light into her body as she could hold. When she righted her head and opened her eyes, her vision seemed to dance, the green countryside around her to sparkle with gaiety and contentment. She relaxed her mouth and deliberately created a smile on her lips. Then she drew up her hood over her hair, adjusted her skirts in a dainty manner, and kicked at Octavian’s sides. She had to stop the beast twice before they crested the rise, chastising him for his accustomed aggressive stomp, and then patted the warhorse’s neck in praise as he reluctantly adopted and maintained a light, prancing trot.
Octavian so hated playing the dandy.
It seemed the better part of an hour before Sybilla actually rode through the sea of soldiers to arrive at Bellemont’s gate. And as she had suspected, a young man bearing the king’s colors stepped directly into her path, waving her to a stop.
Octavian snorted threateningly, and Sybilla could feel the warhorse’s shoulders bunch in anticipation of a charge.
“Shh” she whispered fiercely. “Easy. Easy. Hold, boy.” She brought Octavian to a stop, and the soldier approached, his arm outstretched, obviously thinking to take hold of the horse’s bridle.
Octavian tossed his head threateningly.
“I wouldn’t do that!” Sybilla called out with a laugh. “He is terribly ill-mannered and hasn’t yet learned not to bite.”
Thankfully the man halted his reaching hand, giving Octavian an uneasy look.
She let her smile shine down on the soldier’s upturned and wary-looking face, trying to summon the sunshine she had saved and pour it out with her words. Warm. Friendly.
“It’s a wonder I manage to ride him at all, really, he frightens me so,” she tinkled in self-deprecation. “Don’t tell anyone, though.”
“It seems a woman of such beauty should not be forced to ride such an unruly monster. Good day, milady,” the soldier said, his face bearing a slightly confused expression even as his mouth wanted to smile back up at her. “What business do you have at Bellemont?”
“Good day to you, as well, kind sir. I’ve come to see Lady Bellecote.”
“I see. Your name, if you please?”
“Oh, she’s quite expecting me,” Sybilla said, flapping a hand at him and then giving him a wink. “Although I dare say Lord Bellecote shall not be pleased, as it will mean hours spent speaking of such things as tiny gowns and nappies. I know the way. Just open the gate for me, if you would.”
“I can’t do that, milady,” the soldier said, but he winced as he said it, as if something in his head pained him.
“Whyever not?” Sybilla asked, putting on a look of hurt confusion.
“I . . . have my orders and they clearly state that—” He broke off, wincing again, this time even bringing his fingertips to his temple.
“Yes?” Sybilla said, looking at him so very closely and with deep, deep concern. “Your orders state . . . ?”
“I seem to have forgotten,” the man said bewilderedly.
