Sheridan did not want to speak of her sister’s plight. This wasn’t the first time she had fallen for a man of unscrupulous character that had taken advantage of her. She was always falling in love with one man or another, pliable to their whims and lust. And this wasn’t the first time she had threatened to end her suffering.
“You must be strong,” Sheridan did not know what more to say. They had been through this too many times in the last few years of Alys’ young life. “You must be strong and wait for the proper man to come to you.”
Alys’ expression brightened with unnatural rapidity. “Perhaps God sent the man who saved me to replace him. Perhaps it was fate, Dani. God sent my savior to save my life and mend my broken heart. Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“I do not.”
Alys’ tears faded as they entered the dark, cool corridors near the Flint Tower. “My savior must have felt something for me. Why else would he risk his life to save me?”
Sheridan could only roll her eyes in disbelief.
*
Nestled deep ina long stretch of ancient stone and mortar, the solar of the king was a dark place at any given time. In the day, itwas gloomy, but in the night, it was positively sinister. Phantoms lingered in the shadows and the heavy smell of alcohol reeked throughout the room. The king liked his drink and had a tendency to pass out with tankards in his hand, which then spilled upon the floor and seeped into the expensive carpets.
Tonight was no exception to the usual dreariness and stench. The dinner hour was swiftly approaching and the hall of St. George was filled with servants, vassals, and the finest food that England could provide her people. But the king’s solar was reserved for Henry II’s youngest son and the most prominent members of the king’s circle to attend him in conference.
It was a somber group that gathered this eve around their king, John Softsword. William Fitz Osbern of Monmouth lingered by the hearth, while the volatile pair of Humphrey de Bohun of Caldicot and Walter Clifford of Clun huddled a few feet away. Lesser lords with minor titles and lands completed the evening’s royal guest list; Bernard de Newmarch, Richard Fitz Pons, and Payn St. Maur. These men, and their immediate retainers which could number four or five additional men each, filled the solar to near capacity.
It made John feel secure to have these men around him. He was tortured by inner demons, hounded by a lifetime of failure and insecurities brought on by an insecure upbringing. He was essentially weak-minded and needed those of strong mind and opinions hovering close. Physically, he was a man of small stature, bad hygiene, and one heavily lidded left eye that gave him a rather dull appearance.
“Henry St. James, 3rdEarl of Bath and Glastonbury, died last year,” Monmouth continued the conversation they had been involved in since entering the private solar. “I was aware that the Bishop of Bath was in London on the widowed countess’ behalf, but not the daughters.”
“He fought with my father,” the king said, his usual cup of wine in hand. He was getting drunker by the minute. “He did, in fact, fight always on the side of my father. He has ever been against me.”
“There are many in London at this time that raise opposition to you, sire,” Monmouth replied. “We have kept watch of them, have no fear. Ask your Shadow; he will tell all.”
Attention turned to the darkened recesses of the room near the servant’s entrance. Back there, in the depths, lingered the king’s bodyguards. These two men were sworn to protect the king, sworn to do his will and fulfill every perverted and outrageous whim. To speak of them struck fear in the hearts of even the bravest of men. Gerard d’Athée and Sean de Lara were strong-arm men without an ounce of compassion if it ran contrary to their sworn duty.
“De Lara,” the king spoke to one of the two lingering in the blackness. “This news of the St. James’ women has come from you. Tell us all you know so that we may assess the threat.”
Sean came into the light. His deep blue eyes were fixed on the king, unwavering, cold and calculating. He was an enormous man, even larger than d’Athée and twice the size of any other in the room. He had been rumored to kill men with his bare hands, appendages as large as trenchers, and there wasn’t one in the room who did not disbelieve that. He had been with John for several years, far more feared than his bear-like counterpart Gerard, because there was one great difference between them: Sean had intelligence. A dangerous man with a brain was a dreadful prospect. And he had the ear of the king.
“My lords,” Sean spoke with a voice that seemed to rise up from his feet to exit his mouth. “I can tell you that we have seen a collection of opposing barons gather in London in the past few weeks, much more than we have ever seen before. The House of St. James is merely one of many.”
“Who else is here that we may not know about?” Fitz Pons demanded. He jabbed a finger in Sean’s direction. “We know you have spies that report to you, de Lara.”
“I have spies,” Monmouth muttered, out of turn.
“Weallhave spies,” Clifford interjected impatiently. “But our spies are spread out over our lands as well as in London. They run thin at times.” He glanced at Sean, his old eyes sharp and wise. “De Lara knows all, sees all. He knew that the House of St. James was at the Tower and told us so, last week. Today he has met the daughters, which is of no consequence to us. I care not for the women, but I do care for Jocelin. That is where the true power lies.”
The mood of the chamber was growing uncomfortable. Jocelin, Bishop of Bath, was an influential man with a tremendous voice within the church. The House of St. James was allied with the man and, consequently, most of the West Country. With all of England in civil war and conflict, alliances and enemies were of supreme importance at this time.
“The Earl of Lincoln arrived yesterday,” Sean continued. “Worcester, Coventry and Rochester have been here for weeks. I am also told that Salisbury, de Warenne and Arundel are on the road and due to arrive within days. De Braose rides with Salisbury.”
One could have heard a pin drop. It was more than they had imagined. The mood turned from uncomfortable to ominous as the shock of the information sank deep.
“De Braose is the most powerful lord on the marches. As we speak, he is waging war against the Welsh,” the king’s voice was tinged with bitterness. “Why does he come to London?”
“Reginald is on the marches, sire,” de Lara replied. “His son Guy rides with Salisbury.”
“God’s Bones,” Fitz Pons hissed through clenched teeth. “Two of the three most powerful marcher lords ride to London,not to mention Arundel. What does this all mean? Why are they all converging on London?”
“They ride against the king, of course,” de Lara said steadily. He paused, eyeing the crowd, wondering if they were ready for the rest of his report. “There is more, my lords.”
John glanced up from his nearly empty chalice. “What more?”
“I am also told that Fitz Gerold, Fitz Herbert, Fitz Hugh and de Neville are expected from the north, though I cannot be sure. The information is unclear and several weeks old. And then there is the matter of de Burgh…”