“It would appear so, because the king has ordered him to, and my name is Gilby.”
Guy processed the answers slowly. In fact, he was processing the entire circumstance rather slowly. His mind was muddled with pain and lack of food, and now that he was out of the vault, it was also muddled with relief. As Gilby collected the lead rope and smacked the mule on the buttocks to get it moving, Guy lay back down in the hay. He had the presence of mind to cover himself back up. His body was killing him and his head was swimming, but above everything, he felt a new resolve to do as he must. Lady Sheridan was out there, somewhere, and he had to find her.
When he did, he would marry her. To the Devil with de Lara.
*
Sheridan knew thelocale of Watford House in relation to London simply because she’d heard enough talk over the past few days to give her a very good indication. She therefore knew that she must travel southeast to the main highway leading from London to Gloucester. It had taken her and Neely an hour to reach Watford House and that had been at a moderately slow pace, so she assumed it would be even less if the horse was swift.
She had selected a high-bred bay steed that she thought might have belonged to Salisbury. The animal’s blanket bore Salisbury’s colors of yellow and light blue. In any case, it was a cooperative animal and she was able to saddle the horse and remove it past a dumbstruck stable boy without much trouble. Though she had no food or money, she did not want to take the time to procure those items lest her plan be discovered. She would simply have to worry about those things when the time came.
The big bay gelding had a smooth gait, making it an easy canter as she stole away from Watford House. She kept to the fields to shield herself from the view of the fortified manor, but soon enough was able to travel the road. The day remained cool, bright, and unusually quiet. As she loped down the road, the entire adventure began to take on the feel of a leisurely ride. Sheridan felt a tremendous amount of relief now that she had left Watford House, as if she was finally on her way to accomplishing her task. She struggled not to entertain the thought that Sean was dead. She had to have faith that he had survived.
Determination fed her actions where common sense did not. She knew very well how dangerous her actions were, but it didn’t matter. She further knew that she was riding into a city under siege, but that didn’t matter either. As the horse galloped south and midday turned to afternoon, she decided the best course of action upon reaching the Tower would be to go to the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula and speak with the priest who had said mass for her father. Perhaps the priest would know of de Lara’s whereabouts; truthfully, other than asking the king himself, she did not know where to start. Priests usually knew most of what was going on around them. Maybe the man could help her find some answers.
Since the topography was fairly flat as it neared the Thames, a few miles in the distance, the main road from Gloucester to London came upon her like a flat gold ribbon along the deep green of the land. Sheridan paused at the crossroads, noting a carriage off in the distance to the east, but little else. The road, for the most part, was vacant. Spurring the bay horse, she took off to the southwest, following the path that would take her right into the heart of London. From there, it would be straight to the Tower and straight to the chapel. Beyond that, she would take it from moment to moment. She did not want to think more than two steps ahead. She hoped the priest would be kind enough to help her. She hoped she wasn’t being completely foolish. She further hoped that she would survive all of this.
In the distance, she could see the smoke from the battle for London. Unnerved but no less determined, she spurred the horse faster.
*
“She is atWatford House, Sean.”
This time, they met in the confessional at the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. Sean felt his heart leap into his throat at those five simple words. It was as if his entire life hinged on that straightforward little statement and the relief he felt brought unexpected tears to his eyes. It was an indescribable moment of joy, relief, and odd desperation. His hands, against the wall of the confessional, now formed claws as his fingers, subconsciously, dug into the wood in a release of tension.
“You know this for certain?” he managed to ask.
“I do. The allies have reported this to me.”
“Is she well?”
“As far as I know,” the voice responded. “Jocelin has charge of her.”
Sean’s relief was tempered by the attack at the Lanthorn Tower. “So it was Jocelin who set upon me.”
“It was.”
Sean sighed heavily. “Then you did not tell him of me.”
There was a long pause. “I told him. But he does not want you for the lady. He feels that her life would be filled with hatred, political intrigue, and strife. He feels you court nothing but danger.”
“And he is correct,” Sean snorted. “But that does not change the fact that I will marry her. If Jocelin stands in my way, I will kill him. Mark my words.”
Passion in men did strange things to their common sense. The voice on the other side of the panel remained calm. “Is that how you would wish to begin your marriage? With a murder? I wonder how the lady would react.”
Sean slumped back against the side of the booth. He drew a weary hand over his face. “Probably not too well,” he admitted. “Then what would you suggest I do?”
“You will do your duty,” the voice grew oddly hard. “We are at the crest of our plans, Sean. I cannot have you running amuck with wild emotion. I must have you stable and focused. The Tower must fall.”
“Then it will fall without me, for I have been ordered to tend The Marches.”
The voice was clearly startled. “The Marches?Now?”
Sean wiped another hand over his face; his head was killing him and he wanted nothing more than to forget this day had ever happened. “I am ordered to reclaim Clifford’s castles from de Braose, raze Abergavenny and Lansdown Castles, and secure the Marches for John. While London is burning around his ears, he is more concerned for the Marches.” He sat forward, elbows resting on his knees and the clear blue eyes weary andunfocused. “Nay, ’tis more than that. It is a test. Our king is testing me.”
“A test? Why would he do that?”
“Because I stopped him from ravaging Alys St. John. In his twisted mind, he is now demanding a show of loyalty from me.”
