Page 78 of Never Love a Lord
The mist disappeared even more quickly than it had coalesced, leaving Sybilla in a cell more pitch-black than before. She crossed one arm over her bosom and then brought her other hand to cover her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to halt her tears.
She sensed the room brightening behind her eyelids once more, only this time the light was more substantial, yellow, and Sybilla opened her eyes to see the dark, shadowed figure holding a torch beyond her bars. It was only one of the guards. He waved the torch back and forth, seeming to search the corners of her cell, for what Sybilla could only guess, and then his head turned to address someone just out of her sight beyond the rock walls of her cell.
“Are you certain you wish to enter, Father? I could pass your things right through the bars. I’ve explicit orders that this one is dangerous, no matter her fragile appearance.”
“It’s quite all right,” a man’s voice answered. “I have no fear, and I would do what I can for this poor creature.”
Sybilla’s breath caught in her chest and she quickly swiped at her eyes before struggling to shove up the wall behind her to stand.
The guard was not amused. “Sit down!” he roared, pointing the torch through the bars at her.
Sybilla inched back down on the stones.
“I see you so much as twitch while I’m openin’ this door, you’re dead. Understand?”
Sybilla nodded. “I understand.”
The guard fished a ring of keys from his side and fit the one he sought into the square plate on the corridor side of her door. The hinges squealed as he pushed the door inward. A lithe shadow moved around the man’s back.
“Go ahead, Father,” the guard said, never taking his eyes from Sybilla. “I shall remain right here until you’re ready to take your leave.”
“Thank you.”
The light from the guard’s torch was behind him as he entered the cell and made his way toward where Sybilla still crouched, but Sybilla knew the set of his shoulders, the swing of his hair, the sureness of his footsteps.
He sank into a crouch before her, and then moved a bundle to under his left arm before laying his right hand atop Sybilla’s head. His blessing was clearly for the benefit of the guard, Sybilla was certain.
After his “amen” she reached up with both hands, grasped John Grey’s wrist and brought his palm to the side of her face.
“John,” she choked.
“How has it come to this so quickly, Sybilla?” John Grey asked in an urgent whisper.
She shook her head, so glad to feel his warmth against her skin. To have someone in the cell who knew her, who had loved her family, had loved Fallstowe, even if he had never loved her.
“You’re to have your trial today—in only an hour,” John said, keeping his voice barely above a breath and his back turned to the door. “If you’re found guilty on all counts . . . Sybilla, the king will put you to death.”
“I know,” she said on a watery sigh and then raised her eyes to try to make out his features in the gloom. “Are you here to give me my last rites?”
She heard his faint huff of laughter. “You know I can’t do that. It’s only—”
“A courtesy title,” they both finished, and it felt so good to Sybilla’s mouth to smile, even if it was only melancholic.
“But the guard doesn’t know that, does he?” Sybilla guessed.
“No. I’m here supposedly to hear your confession before God, to give you religious instruction before you make your oath to the king, and to bring you these.” He withdrew the bundle from under his arm and placed it in the narrow V made from her chest and drawn-up knees.
“What is it?” Sybilla asked, feeling the bundle of cloth wrapped around something slightly more substantial.
“Clean garments for your trial,” John Grey said. “A simple gown and some linen slippers—they’re made by the novices at the local house for the prisoners who come to their fate in less than suitable clothing. There is a comb in there as well.”
“Thank you,” Sybilla whispered.
“Here,” John said, fumbling inside his robes for an instant before drawing out a fine piece of what felt like silk as he pressed it into her hand. “My kerchief. Perhaps you can make some use of it if you can find some clean water. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”
“Why are you being so kind to me, John?” Sybilla asked. “After all that has happened, how could you?”
His right hand covered both of hers and squeezed. “Because I realize who you are now, Sybilla. The weeks away from . . . from Fallstowe, that whole terrible, nightmarish mess. It’s made me realize that everything you do, you do for love. And although you may not want to accept it as true, you are loved in return by many, many people. Fallstowe’s citizens; your family; me, at last, although not in a way that one might expect after our shared history. Even those who claim to hate you admire you, against their will perhaps. You are a remarkable woman. A woman formed by God’s own hand.”
