Page 73 of Never Love a Lord
“Thank you, boy,” she whispered. “Now go. Go home.” Her voice broke on the last word and she pushed his head away roughly. As her horse turned in a quick circle she slapped his rump, sending Octavian galloping through the crowd, which scattered and shrieked at the massive animal racing heedlessly past them.
When Sybilla turned back toward the palace, the guards were upon her.
“Milady, are you injured?” one of the guards asked, taking a quick assessment of her blood-smeared hands.
“I must see the king immediately,” Sybilla said, ignoring his query, although her voice sounded odd and faint to her own ears. When the guard took her elbow, Sybilla felt her knees buckle, and she stumbled against the soldier, who took her weight easily. “It’s urgent,” she managed to whisper. “I have come from Fallstowe Castle.”
“Come this way, milady,” the soldier directed her, and with his partner taking her other arm, the men commanded the crowd away and half carried Sybilla up the stairs to the ornate doors that marked the threshold to her fate.
A company of men seemed to appear from nowhere, opening the doors, accompanying her swift escorts into the grand entry, shouting orders for a surgeon, for a key to the chains that held her. The antechamber before the king’s court was already populated with the nobility who were of a mind to see the monarch, and they made no attempt to hide their shock and morbid curiosity about the woman being escorted across the marble floor.
“The king is not receiving yet this morn, milady,” one of the soldiers informed her with the utmost deference, trying to keep his words directed toward her ear. “But due to your state and the urgency of your request, you may await him alone while he is informed of your arrival.”
“Thank you,” Sybilla whispered, her lips numb as her eyes flicked to each lord and lady, openly staring at her. “Thank you.”
“But we must tell him who it is who awaits him,” the soldier continued with a slight smile. “Your name, milady?”
Sybilla turned her face up slowly to look at the soldier. “Sybilla Foxe,” she breathed, the two words barely stirring the air.
The soldier frowned. “I beg your pardon?” He leaned his ear closer toward her.
“My name is Sybilla Foxe,” she said, louder this time, and there was no mistaking that the majority of the persons gathered in the antechamber had heard her that time.
The air came alive with the sound of ringing metal, and as if conjured up, Julian’s blond general, Erik, appeared from somewhere deeper in the hall, leading his own group of travel-dirtied soldiers.
“She is a prisoner of the Crown!” Erik said clearly, his face darkened with fury as he stormed toward her, his own weapon drawn.
The hands once so solicitously supporting her elbows withdrew, leaving Sybilla to stagger aright under her own power.
The soldiers stepped away as Eric and his men reached her, joining the perfect circle around her where nothing but sword points lived.
Sybilla felt her shoulders draw up toward her ears, and she grasped her elbows, glancing around her at the handful of armed men, their weapons now trained on her without mercy.
“Seize her,” Erik commanded. “And take her immediately to the dungeons.”
“Wait,” Sybilla said. “I must see the king right away.” Her arms were grasped again, but this time there was no kindness in her captors’ hands.
“Oh, you’ll see him soon enough,” Erik promised. Then he stepped toward her, his face a mask of twisted fury. “Where is Lord Griffin?”
“He’s still with the king’s men,” Sybilla answered. “They follow.”
Erik glared at her. “You’ve ruined him, you know.”
Sybilla swallowed. “I hope not,” she whispered. Dizziness swam around her like hot little whirlpools.
A confused frown creased Erik’s brow for only a moment. “Go,” he commanded the men around him.
Sybilla was pulled backward from the antechamber, away from Edward’s private court, her bare heels skimming over the cold marble floor. In moments, she was in darkness, and yet it would be some time before she was interned properly in her cell.
“My God,” Alys breathed as she and Cecily waited in their cart at the crossroads. On the wider London Road before them, only a handful of miles outside the city itself, hundreds of the king’s soldiers stirred the brown dust as they passed. Men on horseback, men afoot, wagons carrying battle gear mostly hidden with tarps and covers. In the center of the mob, a lone, barred carriage rattled past, and its purpose was clear: a rolling fortress, a cell meant to contain the most dangerous of criminals.
Cecily stood suddenly on the seat, the reins still in her hands. “Sybilla!” she shouted at the carriage, her voice breaking with volume and emotion. “Sybilla!”
“Cee, sit down!” Alys hissed, and yanked hard on her sister’s hand even while one of the mounted guards blocking the narrow throat of their smaller path swung his horse around to face them with a suspicious glare. “Do you want us both arrested as well?”
“But what if she’s in there, Alys?” Cecily demanded. “I can’t just sit here and watch her pass!”
“There is naught we could do to aid her now, any matter. Keep your seat lest we find ourselves in our own metal box. We shall gain the city soon enough.” Then Alys groaned. “Oh, damn. Too late. Here he comes.”
