Her eyebrows flew up. “Are you saying this sort of thing has happened before?”
He didn’t answer. He continued to walk with her, holding her against him so that she would not collapse. Even when he thought she might be stronger, he continued to hold her simply because he liked it. As they neared the narrow steps that led back up into the Tower, a herd of men came flying through the doorway and down the narrow stairs. Even in the moonlight, Sean recognized the St. James colors.
Neely came rushing at them with his sword leveled. Shaken but not senseless, Sheridan could see what was about to happen and threw up her hands.
“Neely, no,” she cried. “Put the weapon down.”
He came to a halt several feet away. His dark eyes were twitching with alarm and anger. “Let her go,” he shouted at Sean.
Sean was completely calm, completely impassive. “The lady has had a fright.” His voice was as cold as ice. “If I release her, she may fall.”
Sheridan could see that there was no easy way out of this for any of them unless she took action. She patted Sean gently on the arm that held her. “It’s all right,” she told him. “I am well now. You may release me as he has asked.”
He did as she bade, but his eyes never left Neely. It was like a marauder tracking its quarry. Sheridan sensed the deadly tension as she went over to Neely.
“Put the sword down,” she ordered quietly. “Sir Sean has committed no wrong. He has saved me from an assassin.”
She pointed to the body several feet away in the shadow of the White Tower. Neely could see it faintly in the dark and he looked at her, puzzled as well as frightened.
“We heard the scream,” he looked her up and down. “Are you well?”
“Indeed,” she didn’t like his hovering manner. “As I said, Sir Sean saved my life. He should be commended.”
Neely looked at Sean. The last thing he would do was praise the man. After a long pause filled with hostility, he spoke tersely. “We are grateful.”
Sean didn’t reply. Though he was watching Neely, his peripheral senses were reaching out to every man around him. There were at least eight. With a lingering glance at Sheridan, he took several backwards steps, fading back into the shadows where the assassin lay. Sheridan held his gaze until he disappeared into the blackness.
When he was sure de Lara had left, Neely turned his full attention on her. “What happened?” he demanded softly. “How did you end up out here? You said that you were…”
She put up an impatient hand. “I know what I said,” she snapped, heading back towards the narrow stone steps. “I needed a breath of air. I was attacked and Sir Sean saved my life. Leave it at that, Neely. No more questions.”
He shut his mouth, but he wasn’t happy in the least. They both knew this would get back to Jocelin and there would be hell to pay.
CHAPTER THREE
“…Not to act on my thoughts would have been the wiser. My error was in the act of doing….”
The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara
1206 – 1215 A.D.
“Did she sayanything of value, then?”
“Nothing that I would consider, my lord.”
“But you conversed for some time.”
“It was light conversation, I assure you. Politics barely entered into it.”
These meetings were always clandestine; dark alleys, dark rooms, stables, anywhere they would not be easily recognized. Such had been the way for years, since Sean’s induction into the service of the king.
The meetings were no more than once every three months or so. To attempt a more frequent encounter would be to invite suspicion. As it was, Sean had to make sure his schedule and activities were nothing out of the ordinary. It was the middle of the night, after the king had retired for the evening, and Sean was in the stable bent over the hoof of his immense charger. The other half of the conversation came from the loft above, well hidden in the mounds of freshly dried grass. They never spoke face to face.
“I am truly not sure how much she knows,” the voice said. “Her father died last year and left her with a great earldom. From what I understand, she has assumed his mantel in everyway. What Jocelin knows, she knows. If there is imminent rebellion in the wind, she will know it.”
Sean used an iron pick to clean dirt out of the horse’s hoof. “If there is imminent rebellion in the wind, then you would know it, too.”
The voice grunted. “Not necessarily. Some of the barons believe I am too far removed from their cause and that my head is swept up in the storm of politics. Some believe my time came and went with Richard. In any case, I wield power, aye, but only within my own troops and close vassals. I do not have the pulse of the common man.”
