“You have not,” Sheridan assured him, thinking he looked different from when she had met him last night. He looked as if he’d slept in a field; there was hay in his hair and on his tunic. He looked exhausted. But those thoughts were cast aside as she realized that she was very glad to have Jocelin occupied, as he would not insist on accompanying her.
“If you will excuse me, I plan to have mass said for father this morning,” she said. “I am on my way to the chapel.”
“What of Alys?” Jocelin asked.
“She prefers to stay here.” Sheridan tossed the shawl over her shoulders and went to the door. “I shall take an escort, have no fear.”
She was halfway through the door as Jocelin called to her. “Neely is in the hall.”
Sheridan acknowledged him with a wave. She didn’t want Neely escorting her, of all people, especially if they ran into de Lara. In the dim, cool hall near the Flint Tower, she caught sight of the knight several feet away in a small alcove. His dark eyes fixed curiously on her.
“My lady is leaving?” he asked.
She couldn’t decide if she was still angry with him for spilling the evening’s events to Jocelin. Neely had only done what he felt he should do, and that was to protect the St. James family evenwhen they could not, or would not, protect themselves. For as many years as she had known him, he was more like family to her, and family always forgave family. But she still did not want him escorting her.
“I am going to church,” she said. “Give me a guard and I’ll be on my way.”
“I will take you myself.”
“Nay, you will stay here,” she lifted an eyebrow. “Alys is in one of her moods and I need you here should she decide to jump from the window again. I will depend upon you, Neely.”
He knew what had happened yesterday but, to his credit, had not said anything to Jocelin. Whatever Alys St. James did anymore didn’t surprise him.
“Is it bad?” he asked.
“Bad enough,” Sheridan replied. “Please do me this favor. I do not want Jocelin catching wind of her antics.”
Neely nodded in resignation. He and Sheridan had spent a good deal of time over the past few years concealing Alys’ peculiar behavior. He motioned to two of the guards standing against the wall. “Lady Sheridan wishes to go to church,” he said. “See that she is amply protected.”
It was more escort than she wanted, but she didn’t argue. Leaving the cold halls of the apartment tower, she descended the steps into the cool, bright January sunshine. The Tower grounds were fairly alive with activity, mostly soldiers as they went about their business. There were, in fact, many different Houses on the grounds, probably more than the Tower had seen in quite some time.
People tended to keep to themselves, however. There weren’t great social gatherings due to the tense political climate between the king and most of his barons. It was a heady world of intrigue and enemy, of suspicion and loyalty, and no one could be certain that their ally of the moment would be their ally tomorrow.Lives often depended upon silence. Therefore, nearly everyone Sheridan passed barely acknowledged her.
The Chapel of St. Peter was on the opposite side of the compound against the west wall. She walked past the White Tower on her way to the chapel, gazing up at the massive structure and remembering the previous evening with clarity. The yard in which she had met Sean was on the opposite side of the building and she was unable to catch a glimpse of it. Instead, she walked through the dry, cold grounds, thinking the whole place to feel rather desolate.
When she reached the chapel, she left the guards outside. The chapel itself was a long, slender chamber with a soaring ceiling and massive support columns. Long, needle-thin lancet windows lined the walls, running nearly floor to ceiling. There were no pews or benches, only a bare floor of hard-packed dirt. At the back of the chapel, near the door, stood the prayer candles, lit by those who paid a pence for a priestly prayer.
It was an empty chamber for the most part. Sheridan put the shawl over her head and began to walk towards the front of the hall, keeping an eye out for a priest or acolyte. As she drew near the altar, she caught sight of two priests in the shadows, conversing with each other. Taking a quick knee in a show of respect for the altar before her, she folded her hands in prayer.
It wasn’t long before she heard footfalls approach. Opening her eyes, she gazed into the face of a young man who could not have been much older than she. His hair was cut in the traditional priestly fashion, the crown of his head shaved bare in piety. He wore rough, if not slightly dirty, brown robes with a large wooden crucifix hanging around his neck. His blue eyes were kindly.
“I am Father Simon,” he said softly. “May I be of assistance to my lady?”
She stood up. “I would like a mass said for my father.”
“Of course. A shilling it will cost.”
She fumbled around in the small purse she had attached to her wrist. All the while, she wondered if it had been foolish for her to think de Lara even went near the chapel. This whole thing had been a ruse. Perhaps it had been a wasted one, and now it would cost her a shilling. Well, perhaps not a wasted trip, but she had truly hoped to catch sight of him again. The Lord of the Shadows more than likely did not suffer the illumination of God’s house. She was beginning to feel foolish.
She handed over the money. Father Simon smiled. “Mass will be said at Vespers. Your father’s name?”
“Henry St. James.”
“Of course. Good day to you, my lady.”
As he turned and walked away, Sheridan noticed straw on his robes, embedded near his shoulders, as if he had been laying in the stuff. It stuck her odd that William Marshall had been covered in the same substance. With a shrug, she gave it no further thought. Perhaps all men at the Tower suffered the affliction of mysterious straw.
Sheridan returned to her apartments near the tall, dark Flint Tower without catching another glimpse of Sean de Lara that day.
