“…when it became obvious that nothing we had planned for would come to pass, other ideals took shape. It was necessary. A man of experience knows his limitations. I refused to accept mine….”
The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara
1206 – 1215 A.D.
The corridors ofthe royal wing were quiet at this time of day. As dusk fell and shadows waned, the royal guard were changing shifts and the king was taking his usual late-afternoon slumber so that he would be able to stand an evening of food and drink without retiring early. It spoiled his fun. De Lara and d’Athée were in their usual room, in the chamber off of the king’s main bower. This time of day was like the calm before the storm. Sean was sharpening a small dagger; d’Athée was trying to make heads or tails out of a map of the Welsh Marches.
He wasn’t an educated man. Gerard’s strength lay in the physical realm. He was as strong as a bear but as shallow as a cat. There wasn’t much he knew or cared about other than enough liquor to drink and enough women to bed. He relied on Sean’s intellect where it really mattered. The two of them had worked side by side, day and night, for five years. To date, it had been a compatible relationship though they could hardly be called close. It was simply the way of things.
“De Lara,” Gerard scratched his loused head, his frustrated expression fixed upon the map. “Kington; where is it?”
Sean glanced up from the dagger. “South of Montgomery.”
“Where?”
Sean stood up, still rubbing the dagger against the stone, and walked over to where Gerard stood against the table. He looked at the map and thumped a finger on the spot.
“There,” he said.
Gerard squinted at the map. “Is it a big castle?”
“Big enough. Clifford holds it, plus he also holds Clifford Castle and Hay-on-Wye Castle.”
Gerard shook his head. “Not so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Clifford came to see the king while you were off with the red-haired chit. De Braose is laying siege to Kington as we speak. He had it before and now he wants it back.”
Sean lifted an eyebrow but did not respond further. He walked away from the table, back to his chair. Gerard was still focused on the map.
“He wants you to ride for Kington,” he said. “He’ll be sending you within the week.”
“Who?”
“The king.”
Sean had to consciously prevent himself from reacting. He took his seat casually, spit on the stone, and continued sharpening the dagger. “Did he tell you this?”
“Aye.” Gerard looked up from the map. “De Lara, ’tis your business what you do with the red-head. God knows, I have done enough with women to warrant a fine place in Hell. But at least I take them after our king has had his fill. I think your actions have concerned him.”
“Is that so?” Sean knew that Gerard could hardly keep a secret, or his opinions, to himself. With Gerard, sometimes it was difficult to separate the two. “What actions are those?”
“That you took the woman away from him. He doesn’t like competition.”
“So he is sending me to fight Clifford’s war in punishment?” Sean snorted. “I would hardly believe that.”
“He is sending you to smash de Braose.”
Sean continued the steady grind of metal against stone, although his thoughts were racing. “That,” he said slowly, “I would believe. Did he say this?”
Gerard nodded. “He is furious with the de Braose clan. With the final father and son remaining from that great dynasty, he is determined to crush them once and for all. Were the king to confiscate their holdings along the Marches, it would greatly enrich his coffers.”
“Indeed,” Sean sighed, trying to appear as if the information really did not concern him. “The House of de Braose has been a Norman fixture in England since the conquest. I am almost sorry to see the last of the line go.”
“Don’t be,” Gerard said. “If I were you, I’d worry about the House of St. James.”
Sean’s heart skipped a beat. “What in the hell for?”