Page 80 of Never Love a Lord
What he did not understand, however, was the unexpected presence of Lady Sybil de Lairne. Why had she traveled from her home in France to the king’s court, now of all times? Why was she being given leave to plunder Julian’s findings, at Edward’s side? What did she want? Whose side was she on?
The questions, the possibilities, made his head ache, and he was glad when the surly man showed him into a small, spartan chamber and left him alone with his thoughts. The door locked soundly after the man left, and Julian knew it would be guarded, but it mattered not. He did not want to escape.
The room was more than he could have hoped for: a narrow cot pushed against the wall, bearing a tray of bread and cheese and smoked fish, and a flagon of wine on its rough-looking coverlet. A bowl of water and a cloth rested on the shallow stone sill of the small, high-set window. He would have liked to change his clothing, but could not hope for such a luxury.
He sat on the side of the cot, bracing his forearms on his thighs, staring at the floor between his dirt-caked boots. After several moments, he sighed and turned to the flagon to minister to his parched throat. He had not finished half of the wine when the sounds of locks being breached echoed in the small chamber and the door swung inward.
Erik stepped inside, bearing a stack of what Julian immediately recognized as his own clothing, and his long-confiscated belt and sword. The young blond man walked to the center of the floor and then stopped as unseen hands closed the door once more.
Julian took another long drink, watching his friend—was Erik still his friend?—over the curve of the container. Holding the flagon by its neck, he lowered it and let it dangle between his knees.
“Good day, Erik. Have you come to harangue me some more?”
The young man’s jaw was set, his eyes cold. He tossed the stack of clothing onto the bed. It came unfolded, and Julian’s tunic and hose slid onto the floor. Neither man moved to retrieve them. Julian noted that Erik still retained the sword.
“My thanks,” Julian said.
“How could you do this to the king? To Lucy?” Erik demanded. “How could you do this to me?”
Julian sighed, placed the flagon back on the tray, and then stood, making his way toward the window while shrugging out of his shirt. “Sybilla Foxe has been very wronged, Erik.”
“Wronged? Was it she who conspired with de Montfort to ambush the king’s men at Lewes?”
Julian tossed his wadded shirt to the floor and picked up the cloth, dunking it in the icy water and then wringing it out. “Yes.” He began wiping his face.
“Then she is a traitor to the Crown!”
“Her own father led the king’s men that night,” Julian offered, scrubbing at his arms and shoulders. “He lost his life. Sybilla Foxe did not know what she was being sent to do.”
“Bullshit, she didn’t know,” Erik spat.
Julian paused to glance over his shoulder at his young friend. “She was no more than a girl. She didn’t know.”
“Even if that is true,” Erik conceded, “she held the castle unlawfully, denied the king’s every summons. What of her lineage? Is it true that her mother was not noble?”
Julian swiped the cloth over his stomach and then rinsed the rag. “There are . . . questions.”
Erik gave a frustrated growl. “Which you were supposed to answer, and my intuition tells me that you did. Edward didn’t send you to Fallstowe to be Sybilla Foxe’s judge or jury, and he certainly didn’t send you to rescue her. You were to secure the castle and—”
“I understood my obligation to the king perfectly well,” Julian shouted. He calmed himself with an effort after a moment. “I require no clarification of my orders from you.”
“Well, I suppose it’s somewhat comforting to know that your conscience troubles you,” Erik snapped.
Julian ignored the goad and crossed back to the cot to shake his clean shirt from the floor. He pulled it over his head and attended to the laces, glancing up first at his sword and then at the face of the man who held it.
“Are you going to give me that or slay me with it?”
“I haven’t yet decided,” Erik replied. “Perhaps the latter would be more merciful. Who’s the old French woman?”
“Lady Sybil de Lairne.” Julian sat on the cot and worked at removing his boots.
“What’s she doing here?”
“That’s a very good question.” He kicked one boot free and raised his other foot to his knee. “I met with her in France before Lucy was born. She gave no indication at that time that she was willing to come to England for her testimony. Her mother was very old, very ill, and needed constant care.”
“Perhaps her mother has since died,” Erik offered grudgingly.
Julian kicked off his other boot and paused, thinking. “Yes. Perhaps she has.”
