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Chapter 17

“My lord?”

Conrad lifted his head from his hands as Ansel entered his bedchamber. He watched his longtime advisor sink into the chair beside him, the fine leather creaking under his weight. Light from both the fire and numerous candles illuminated an opulent but small room.

He’d sent for the marshal immediately after the long, torturous evening meal, which he’d spent navigating the countess, followed by a private meeting with her in the solar.

In truth, he wanted nothing more than to be alone with Cait so he could explain his decision for altering their planned story. So he could speak with her more about her reasons for never telling Terric about their correspondence, for deciding to stop writing. He wanted to move past it, but he found he could not. Not yet.

But most of all he wanted to touch her. Feel her in his arms. Love her for as long as possible before her brother cut his short life in London. For Conrad had no doubt his friend would kill him if he dishonored his sister. He’d not do so intentionally, of course. But the prospect of waiting until they were wed before making her his . . .

Conrad had learned restraint at an early age, but their forced proximity on this journey did not bode well. She waited in the chamber next to them, and only one matter could keep Conrad from her.

“I spoke with the countess after the evening meal. She will not provide men.”

Ansel’s mouth dropped open. “Her husband . . . he was one of your first supporters.”

Indeed. And he’d assumed she would have another pressing reason for supporting their cause. Although Lady Lennox’s husband had initially served King John, her father had served another royal: King Philip II of France. Indeed, the two families were so close, Philip’s son, the future king of France, was considered a family friend. It would be to their advantage to blunt John’s powers, and ultimately his ability to continue the war no one wanted.

On behalf of his wife, the late earl had already made contact with Philip, who was well aware of the events unfolding in England. Lady Lennox was to be their door to the French king—a fail-safe they could rely upon should their stand in London be in vain. If she refused to help them, others would do the same.

“I know it well.”

Ansel looked as bereft as Conrad felt. “What reason did she give?”

Conrad made a sound of disgust. “She fears King John’s wrath if our campaign should fail.”

“So she would prefer to allow the king to drain her coffers in taxes to fund a war against her friends in France?”

“Apparently so.”

They sat, and drank, in silence.

Since he’d left the countess, Conrad had spent every single moment strategizing, thinking of someone powerful enough to fill the void she had created. He could think of only one person who possessed as much influence as Lady Lennox, who could speak to the French king on their behalf. If they secured his support, they would be facing King John on an even battleground.

Thus far, they’d not spoken to him. Had not asked for his support.

With good reason. He had been Conrad’s father’s greatest enemy.

“Stanton, Kenshire, Clave, Noreham, FitzWalter. . . ,” he said slowly, contemplatively, “for every signature we’ve obtained, for all those marching south with us, none will matter if our tenuous ties to France are not reinforced.”

Ansel looked up to the ceiling, as if knowing he’d not approve of Conrad’s next words.

“We’ve no choice.”

His marshal still did not understand.

“If we think to force the king’s hand by taking London peaceably, without the support of Lady Lennox, we need him.”

“No.”

Conrad would have smiled at Ansel’s adamant tone were his marshal’s concern not valid.

“Aye.”

He waited for Ansel to see they had no other alternative.

“You will take the men south, to Heath Castle, and bring word to the others of my delay.”