Page 82 of Never Love a Lord
The guards came to a halt perhaps twenty feet before the dais, but Julian took two more steps before stopping and dropping to one knee. The mustachioed old barrister stepped forward, a scroll in his hands. He cleared his throat loudly, and the line of guards ringing the room beat their short swords on their shields twice to call to order the rumbling spectators.
He unfurled the scroll and read, “‘Hear ye, hear ye, let it be known to all who witness, today before our royal sovereign, King Edward, the trial of Julian Griffin, a general of the king’s army, and Sybilla Foxe, of Fallstowe Castle, to answer for charges of treason, espionage, and insubordination to the Crown.’”
With the announcement of each charge, the crowd behind Julian gasped.
The barrister continued, looking directly at Julian. “Do you swear that you are General Lord Julian Ignatius Alphonse Griffin, formerly of London and of the king’s first rank?”
Julian nodded. “I do.”
“Do you swear that your testimony today, before God and before your king, will be only true and accurate to your best ability?”
“I do.”
The barrister stepped slightly to the side and lowered his scroll. Edward’s eyes seemed to burn across Julian’s face.
“My liege,” Julian acknowledged.
Edward lifted his right index finger in the slightest movement, indicating the vacant chair ten paces to his right on the dais.
Julian rose and gained the raised platform, sitting in his chair. He was now on display for the hundreds of people gathered before him, and they stared at him unabashedly. Julian did not care. He ignored them all, keeping his eyes on the double doors so far away, waiting for the moment when the guards would swing them wide once more and he would see Sybilla again.
From his left, Julian heard the king warn, for his ears alone, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Lord Griffin.” Then he nodded almost imperceptibly to the barrister.
“Bring in the prisoner,” the mustachioed man called.
The doors opened, too slowly it seemed to Julian. And every head in the crowd below swiveled to the rear of the chamber. No one made even a sound as the first soldiers appeared. Julian caught a glimpse of Erik’s blond head near the center of the cluster and looked instinctively in front of it.
There, there she was. And the chamber was a vacuum as they led her in, the loud silence pressing against Julian’s ears until he thought they would burst. The soldiers fanned out around Sybilla as a buffer against the crowd.
Her proud dark head was bowed, her hair long and unbound down her back, around her shoulders. She wore a poor, thin, white linen dress, the narrow lace of her underdress visible at the rough neckline, the bodice nothing more than a plain seam under her breasts, the hem hanging limp just above her bare ankles, which were bruised and dirty above the tops of her pale feet where they disappeared into plain, white, peasant slippers.
She looked so slight, so pale, so . . . transparent, that Julian’s heart squeezed painfully. What had they brought her to, this proud, beautiful, powerful woman? This white shadow of herself.
And then, as if a signal had sounded, the crowd on the floor erupted with their loud judgments. Shouts of “Boo!” mixed with hissing epithets, vulgar name-calling, and accusations.
“Witch!”
“Traitor!”
“Whore!”
The individual accusations were soon lost in the roar of foul voices, and yet Edward let the humiliation continue until Sybilla had been brought to a chair just below the dais, at the head of the center aisle. Placing her below the common folk.
“Look at me, Sybilla,” Julian whispered, longing for just the slightest glimpse of her face, wanting her to see that he was here.
But she did not. She only came to stand on the left side of the chair set in the aisle for her, her head still bowed, her hands clasped in front of her.
The barrister signaled to the guards again, and this time it took several blows of sword on shield before the crowd was subdued.
“Sybilla Foxe, you are present in the king’s court to answer for charges of treason, espionage, and insubordination to the Crown. Do you swear that you are in fact the woman known as Lady Sybilla Foxe, presently of Fallstowe Castle?”
“I do.” Her voice was quiet but clear, and held no tremble.
“Do you swear that your testimony today, before God and before your king, will be only true and accurate to your best ability?”
“I do,” she said again.
“Sit down,” the barrister commanded.
