“Because the allies are leaving the Tower tonight. War is looming, Neely. Once Sheridan is gone, the threat of de Lara will be abolished.”
Neely’s reaction was slow. “So it is tonight. Pity I did not know it. ’Twill be difficult to command in my current state.”
“You know it now,” Jocelin replied. “There is still time for you to regain your senses before we depart.”
Neely blinked his eyes, struggling to focus. “Indeed. But what if Lady Sheridan will not leave? You should have heard her defend de Lara. He was kind and considerate, she said. I fear that she will not want to go.”
Jocelin lifted an eyebrow at him, a variety of schemes rolling through his mind. “I have,” he said deliberately, “an interesting thought. Would you hear it without concern?”
“I would.”
“Certainly, a husband would make her go. And a husband would do far better at keeping de Lara away from her permanently.”
Neely wasn’t so drunk that he did not understand the statement. “You will marry her off in order to keep de Lara away?”
“It seems logical.”
Neely suddenly stood up again, his manner self-righteous and strong. “Then allow me to wed her,” he half-demanded, half-pleaded. “I will kill de Lara if he comes anywhere near her. Bless me with that privilege, my lord, and I’ll not ask for God’s favor ever again.”
Jocelin had been expecting that statement for years. He put a consoling hand on Neely’s shoulder and shoved him, again, down into the chair. “Women like Lady Sheridan are not meant for men like you or me, my friend,” he said softly. “She needs a man of station, with power. De Lara wouldn’t dare tangle with a man of rank.”
It was not what Neely wanted to hear. But he had resigned himself to the inevitable long ago, as much as he told himself otherwise. “Who, then?”
Jocelin moved away from him, his weather-worn face lined with the glimmer of possibilities.
“Someone who had been vying for her hand for quite some time,” he murmured.
“There have been many. Who in particular do you mean?”
Jocelin turned to look at him, his profile illuminated by the dim light from the lancet windows. It was an eerie portrait of a man forced into a game of deadly chance, of life and death. It was time to take the leap. Jocelin, more than anyone, knew what was at stake.
“The most powerful man on the Marches,” he said quietly. “Guy de Braose.”
*
Sean had beenwaiting longer than he would have liked in the confession booth at the Chapel of St. Peter. It was a dark, musty, eerie place to be at any given time of the day. On the other end of the screen, he suddenly heard the door open and softly close.Heavy breathing, as if the person on the other side had just run the entire length of London, filled the small vestibule.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Sean began. “It has been a day since my last confession.”
“What is it you wish to confess, my son?”
“Rumors of war abound, Father. It is said that I am to be sent to war on the Marches.”
The breathing slowed, steadied. “When?”
“I am not sure. I have not been directly ordered yet. ’Tis only a rumor at this point.”
“Why would you go?”
“De Braose is laying siege to Kington. Clifford has asked for help.”
“I see.”
“There is more.”
“What?”
“It is also rumored that part of my directive will be to raze Lansdown Castle.”