Sean had a sickening feeling that he knew what was coming. It was inevitable, given the cloud of doubt lingering over the past few days. He stopped and faced the king.
“My lord?”
John rose from his silken sling-back chair. He was a short, weak, twisted man, hardly enough of a male to be in the same category as men like Sean. The only strength he had was his royal name and the power it wielded. He was very good at wielding it.
“I wish for you to ride for the Welsh Marches,” he said. “Surely Gerard told you that, too.”
“He did,” Sean said steadily. “But I would question why you would want me to go now, of all times. We are facing a serious siege and need all of our manpower here.”
“I must not lose the Marches,” the king said. “Clifford’s castles are key. They must be held. And when you are finished securing them, you will ride on Abergavenny and raze her.”
Abergavenny Castle was the de Braose stronghold. Sean knew this directive for what it was; a test. The king was demanding he prove his loyalty, no matter what was happening to London. John seemed oddly certain that London would hold, as would the Tower. He appeared more focused on insisting Sean prove his allegiance. His priorities were twisted just as the man himself was.
Even though Sean knew exactly what was happening, it made a serious issue far more complex; were he to march to Wales, he could not ensure the fall of the Tower. If the Tower did not fall, then the siege would break down and prove futile. Years of planning would be waste. The allies were counting on him.
“I would strongly advise against dividing your forces, sire,” he said. “You will need your strength here to protect the Tower.”
“Go to the Marches. And burn Lansdown along your way. While most of her troops are here trying to breach the Tower, we will attack her compromised castle. We will show both de Braose and St. James in one stroke that their treachery against the king shall not go unpunished.”
So there it was. Everything Gerard had warned him about. Sean did the only thing he could at the moment; he agreed.
“By your command, sire.”
*
The smell ofthe food made her nauseous. She pushed it away, not even wanting to look at it. It was a lovely tray of squab and boiled vegetables, but she couldn’t muster the appetite. Alys, seeing that her sister wasn’t eating yet again, took the food for herself.
“You really should eat something,” Alys said, her mouth full. “The food is wonderful.”
Sheridan didn’t reply. Seated in the impressive solar of Watford House in the town of Eastbury, a holding of the Earl of Warenne through his wife’s family, she hadn’t eaten or slept in three days. Three long, hellish days as the battle for London commenced. News was coming fast and furious, sometimes hourly. Though she should have been concerned with the outcome of the battle, all she could think about was the enemy. Sean was, after all, still her enemy.
The strong walls of Watford House had turned into a command post. Most of the allied nobles were gathered in the fortified manor house to discuss their strategies. The rooms reeked of stale rushes and old ale, and the house in general had a bad mood to it. Jocelin was there and Sheridan had singled him out for a particular hatred. When she found out what he had done, there was nothing on earth that would convince her to forgive him.
“Eat something, Sheridan.”
Jocelin’s command came as he entered the chamber with Arundel and Fitz Herbert. They had a map between them and headed straight for the large, heavily-constructed table near a set of nine very long, very thin lancet windows built into the northern wall of the room. It allowed for light and air in the massive chamber. While some of the nobles chose to attend the battle themselves, many of them maintained a distance while their men handled the task.
The bishops of London, Lincoln, Worcester, Rochester and Coventry had all returned to their homes, while de Warenne, Arundel, Salisbury and the Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury moved to Watford House to be near the siege. De Neville and de Burgh had moved to a location in Kent to ride out the storm, while Fitz Gerold and Fitz Hugh remained with the nearly twenty thousand men now storming the city of London.
The atmosphere was tense even at the best of times. War was never easy, and this war was the culmination of years of strategy. Now, as Jocelin and the others were reviewing the latest reports from London, Sheridan could only think about returning to the city and to Sean. It consumed every second, every moment of her day and night.
“Let us go walk in the garden,” Alys said, trying to get her sister’s mind off her troubles. “The weather isn’t so bad.”
Sheridan stood up without a word. She was a bitter, sullen woman these days. She didn’t acknowledge Alys’ kindness as her sister placed a heavy cloak on her shoulders to protect against the chill outside. Jocelin caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and excused himself from the gathering. He caught up to the pair just as they were leaving the room.
“Dani,” he said softly. “Have you eaten today?”
“Nay.” She would not look at him.
“I know you are upset, but you cannot go on like this.”
“Upset?” she growled. “Nay, I am not upset. I am destroyed and you are personally responsible.”
Jocelin had been drawn into this conversation with her too many times in the past three days. He’d tried to be logical, reasonable and kind, but she would not return the favor. It took all of his abilities to remain calm. These were the times when he thanked God for his celibacy and the fact that he had no daughters.
“Neely did what he had to do, what I told him to do,” he said steadily. “De Lara was abducting you and Alys to take you to the king.”
“He was not,” Sheridan seethed. “How many times do I have to tell you that Sean was taking Alys and me to safety? If he had been trying to abduct us, why was he taking us toward the Lanthorn tower?”
