“Then how do you know?”
“Young de Braose confided in a few.”
Sean shook his head at the irony of it. “Revenge is sweet. Clifford stole it from the de Braose clan and now they want it back. Young de Braose has been telling everyone his father isn’t here because he is fighting rebels.”
“He is, in sorts, just not Welsh rebels.”
There was a humor to the irony of political agendas and the petty wars of barons. Sean lingered the information a moment longer before tucking it away.
“We should meet by sunset tomorrow to follow any progress that has been made,” he said. “The king will not be leaving the Tower anytime soon that I can see. We will have to rendezvous on the grounds.”
“The well house near the barracks.”
They had been in the bell tower overlong. Sean brushed the dust off his arms and made for the narrow, spiral stairs that led to the parapet below. He knew the king would soon be looking for him.
“Sean,” the voice said. “The meeting you saw in Lady Sheridan’s apartment the other night…”
Sean held up a hand. “No worries. I told the king it was a wake for Henry.”
“I know.” The voice paused. “My secondary sources tell me that he did not believe you. You should be aware.”
Sean leaned against the wooden rail. After a moment, he smiled dryly. “It is not because he does not believe me personally. It is because he is suspicious of everything regardless of what we all tell him. He lives in a world of paranoia that the rest of us can only imagine.”
“Are you certain?”
“Nine years of experience tells me this.”
“Be cautious, anyway. You are our best, strongest asset in this war against tyranny.”
Sean nodded, took another stair, and suddenly paused again. “I nearly forgot to ask. The document I wrote; did you receive it?”
“Father Simon delivered it. That is what we were examining the other night when you saw us in the St. James’ apartment.”
“I thought as much. Did it incorporate everything it should?”
“That and more. Your text is brilliant. You clearly have a talent with written prose.”
“Under your direction, of course. But remember; I do not want my name mentioned anywhere. I am not responsible for this document that will change the course of this country. I would rather be an invisible contributor. Leave the glory to those who wish it.”
“Have no fear. The impression was given that the Bishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London were the authors. No one will ever know that you are the true creator of the Magna Carta.”
“Is that what you are calling it?”
“Fitting, is it not?” The voice suddenly took on a concerned tone. “And speaking of writing, are you still keeping your journals?”
“I am.”
“Take care that they do not fall into the wrong hands.”
“The priest keeps them for me in the chapel. They are safe.”
“See that they are. I have always disagreed that you keep a log of your years with the king.”
“Perhaps someday they will give historians an insight into his madness and the turbulence of the times. Besides, you know that I have always been fond of writing. It keeps me sane.”
“You should stick to treaty writing. It is safer.”
Sean snorted with humor as he reflected on the title of the treaty that had taken a year out of his life to write. TheMagna Carta. Sean quit the bell tower and disappeared into the shadows below. When the cathedral was sufficiently vacant, the Voice disappeared as well.
