Authors: Heather Grothaus
Never Love a Lord (15 page)
Lucy Griffin had one of her feet in each hand and was quietly blowing little bubbles of spittle. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Sybilla peering over the edge of the cradle.
“Bah! Pah-pah-da!” she said excitedly.
“Shh!” Sybilla frowned. “You’ll wake your father. It’s still night. Go back to sleep,” she said sternly.
The baby’s miniature brow crinkled, her chin dimpled, her bottom lip turned out.
“No, no, no!” Sybilla reached hesitantly to lay her hand on Lucy’s stomach. “Don’t cry, it’s all ri—my God! You’re soaking wet!” she hissed. She reached up to lightly grasp the baby’s hands and feet in turn. “And frozen through.”
Sybilla glanced over her shoulder at the bed, where Julian slept on, oblivious. Then she turned back to the child, who had managed to seize one of Sybilla’s fingers. Sybilla twisted her hand to extract herself from the little creature’s clutches and then reached in with both hands to lift Lucy from the cradle.
Once she had freed the child from the little bed, though, Sybilla had no idea what to do with her. Lucy dangled from Sybilla’s outstretched arms, kicking her feet inside her gown, and seemed quite happy to take in the view and chew on her fist. Sybilla looked around the room for some indication of the baby’s cache of clothing, but could see nothing.
“We’ve got to get you out of this wet gown,” Sybilla whispered. “But I’ve nothing to put you in.” She didn’t want to wake Julian because . . . because if she did, and Julian took charge of the infant, there would be no further reason for Sybilla to remain in the chamber. She would be forced back to her own dreaded, screeching room, or the solar, or the great hall. His warmth and the quiet lost to her.
She spied her quilted robe on the floor near the foot of the bed. Walking toward it, she caught a wrinkle with her toe and kicked it up onto the mattress.
“Shh,” she whispered as she laid Lucy down on the silk and began searching for the numerous ties holding the baby in the gown. “You really shouldn’t wet in your bed,” Sybilla said, her words little more than breath. “It’s too cold by far, and it should be quite smelly in the morning, I would guess.”
“Pah-pah-nah,” Lucy explained.
“That doesn’t matter in the least,” Sybilla argued in a whisper. “Ladies don’t do such a thing. Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“Nah-nah-nah.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Sybilla said grimly, pulling the gown at last over the child’s head with not a little effort and tossing it across the room with a grimace. Then she looked into Lucy’s eyes. “You’re a baby, I understand. But you must try to do better, all right?”
Lucy began blowing little bubbles.
Sybilla’s eyes narrowed, even though she was quite charmed. “Cheeky one, aren’t you?” She surveyed the ties holding the baby’s swaddle round her backside, and tried to undo it whilst touching it as little as possible. The soaking wet nappy went the way of the gown in short order, and then Sybilla pulled the sides of her own quilted wrapper around the child and picked her back up, this time holding her against her chest as she had seen Julian and the nurse, Murrin, do.
“Well then,” she said against the tiny cup of Lucy’s ear. “What are we to do now?”
To her surprise, Lucy reached out a chubby arm back toward the bed.
“Bah-bah.”
Sybilla felt her mouth pull down in a frown. “I don’t know about all that,” she said. “I’m only just now getting used to sharing it with him.”
And then Lucy laid her head down on Sybilla’s shoulder, tucking her stubby little appendage back inside the robe. “Bah-bah,” she repeated, this time around a yawn.
Sybilla brought her hand hesitantly to the baby’s back and stood at the side of the bed for a long time. She watched Julian sleeping; she felt the warming weight of his daughter in her arms, here in the odd place of the tower room.
Then she carefully drew up her knee, gaining the mattress awkwardly. She laid the thick cocoon of silk and wool and baby on her pillow near Julian’s shoulder and then she stretched out alongside Lucy, drawing the covers over the three of them.
Lucy’s eyelids were drooping even as the baby stared at Sybilla, and Sybilla folded her arm beneath her head, as there were no more pillows, and stared back at the child as Lucy surrendered fully to sleep once more.
There was an uncomfortable, catching sensation in her stomach as Sybilla, too, closed her eyes and slept.
Chapter 16
Julian decided that he would have to have a serious discussion with Sybilla Foxe, addressing her reluctance to wake in the same bed with him.
He’d slept later than usual, and when he finally roused himself, it was to encounter an empty chamber—not even Lucy was present, although evidence of a very wet night for the baby was obvious from the gown and nappy crumpled up on the floor near the crib, as if they’d been hurled there in a heap. The nursemaid Sybilla had appointed was obviously well versed in such duties, as to have retrieved Lucy so quietly and efficiently.
Oddly enough, there was a wet spot in the center of Julian’s mattress as well, near his elbow, and Julian chuckled darkly to himself at the idea of asking Sybilla Foxe if she was of the habit of drooling in her sleep.
She’d come to him again last night, of her own volition, not driven there by the phantasm of her mother’s memory. Even with Lucy in the room, with whom Sybilla was decidedly still uncomfortable, she had stayed.
I’m beginning to think that I might be able to tolerate you elsewhere, if need be.
He would tell her today. He must. They needed time to address how they would both approach the king, and how they were to present the evidence Julian held, in the best possible light. And Sybilla must understand that if she possessed information that would aid their plight in any way, she must release it. She could not continue this mad and pointless loyalty to a woman who had used her so. Her mother’s memory could not harm her. Julian would not allow it.
But right then, he wanted a draught and to see his daughter, and so he dressed and once again trod quickly and lightly down the spiral stairs that he was actually becoming quite fond of.
Right away he saw the nurse Sybilla had secured for him, carrying a stack of linens and little white gowns through the corridor. “Good morn, milord,” the woman smiled, with a little curtsy in her stride. “Madam’s in the hall.”
“Thank you, Nurse,” Julian said. “But where is Lady Lucy?”
The woman frowned in a perplexed manner and then gave him a little smile. “Why, she’s with Madam, of course, milord. Where else would she be if not at your side?”
Julian turned in a half circle but then froze, his head tilted to the side as he experienced a moment of befuddlement. “I’m sorry, but you’re saying my daughter is with Lady Foxe?”
The nursemaid’s eyebrows rose and she regarded Julian with an air of suspicion. “Yes, milord. That is what I’m saying, precisely.”
“Voluntarily?” Julian pressed.
Now the nursemaid’s eyebrows drew downward with growing disapproval. “Lady Lucy was insistent that Madam not leave her, but I do believe the arrangement is quite mutual, if that’s what you’re asking after.” The nursemaid sniffed. “Since it was her ladyship who came to breakfast with the girl, I assumed you were quite aware of the situation and approved.”
Julian blinked. “Madam came to breakfast?”
Then the nursemaid did crack a little knowing smile. “I believe they shared a bit of porridge.”
A huff of laughter escaped Julian and he shook his head.
“Go on,” the nurse said gently and flapped a hand at him. “See for yourself. Although I wouldn’t interrupt—Madam’s about her business at the moment.”
Julian nodded absently. “Thank you.” And then he turned, half in a daze, toward the archway that would lead him to the hall.
He paused there, his eyes taking in the line of serfs and villagers queued up in the main aisle. Some carried baskets and bundles of goods, and one man held a goat on a woven lead. It seemed a score of children ran about the common tables playing catch-me and hoop, and several women with kerchiefs covering their heads sat on the benches, sampling from platters of sliced breads and pitchers of milk while they gossiped. There was a happy buzz in the air, and the sight was unlike anything Julian had ever imagined seeing in the heretofore luxurious and perfect hall. It was almost like a village fair.
Then his eyes found Sybilla. She was seated on her throne-like chair at her table, Graves standing just behind her and to the side, aloof to the goings-on, as usual. A clerk of some sort sat near her right elbow, a selection of open ledgers spread out before him.
On the table as well, within Sybilla’s curled left arm, sat Lucy, happily tossing and jerking on what seemed to be a string of . . . rubies? The baby squealed and flapped her arms up and down, as if at the wash, and the clatter of the heavy stones rang against the hard and shiny tabletop. Then he saw the twinkle down her front—several necklaces; gold links; fat, tear-shaped emeralds; pearls; topaz—the strands so long and weighty that some were worn across her chubby body, draping over her shoulder like a sash. Each wrist was laden with rings of hammered gold, some falling up to her elbows as she played.
A tiara, which looked to be made of diamonds, sat far back on her head cap.
“My God,” Julian breathed in disbelief. He had never seen so many costly jewels in one place before, outside of the king’s royal outfit, and now his baby daughter was bathing in them, at Sybilla Foxe’s side, while she held court.
“It matters not,” she was saying to the two men before her table. “You didn’t finish the job, and so you don’t deserve payment.”
“I did half of it, though,” the younger man argued petulantly. “He could pay me for half. I need the coin, milady.”
“He didn’t hire you for half a job,” Sybilla said without sympathy. “If you are in such need of coin, quit wasting my time and go finish what you promised to do. When you have completed your task, if your employer thinks the work is worthy, I’m certain he will pay you the agreed-upon amount. That is all.”
“But, milady,” the man began to whine.
“Who is next?” Graves called out, effectively dismissing the pair of men.
The old chap with the goat hobbled up to the table and handed the lead to the servant boy who stepped forward from the end of the table.
“Good day, Irving,” Sybilla said, glancing at the old man as she adjusted Lucy’s slipping crown. “How is your leg?”
“Much better, milady, and I thank you. I’m here to repay you as I promised. You saved our lives this winter, with that Fallstowe buck to freshen our nanny after we lost our’n.”
“Irving, I’ll not have your only kid,” Sybilla said coolly; one who didn’t know her might have taken her tone for scorning. “Especially since it is a male and you are still without.”
“No, milady, no—your buck was a good’un and give us twins,” the old man said with a smile.
“Be that as it may, I do believe that we are quite run over with billies at the moment. Is that not so, Graves?”
Graves closed his eyes, a long-suffering gesture that was perhaps supposed to be taken as a blink. “Where would we put another goat, Madam?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Sybilla said dismissively. “Please take him out, Irving, lest he befoul the floor.”
The old man bobbed a bow before the table, his smile shining in his knowing eyes. “Of course, Lady Sybilla. Sorry to trouble you with it.”
Julian found himself smiling, too.
“Who is next?” Graves called out, a sigh in his voice.
But then Sybilla turned her head suddenly, and her gaze landed on Julian. The corners of her mouth lifted hesitantly, as if she was unused to making such a gesture so early in the day.
Julian looked pointedly at Lucy for a moment, placed his hand over his heart, then held his palm toward Sybilla.
Her smile widened briefly before she addressed the hall. “A short recess, while I attend to other business. We shall resume within the half hour.”
The queue dispersed to the tables and the clerk rose and departed Sybilla’s side with a bow. Julian gained the dais and sneaked up behind his daughter, dropping a kiss on the side of her neck and causing her to squeal in delighted surprise.
He looked down at Sybilla with a smile as she withdrew her arm from around Lucy, allowing Julian to pull his daughter from the table with copious clanking and tinkling of jewels.
“Good morning, poppet,” he said to Lucy, kissing her again just because he couldn’t help it, and noticing that she smelled faintly of Sybilla’s personal cologne. “I see you’ve found a playmate. A wealthy playmate.”
“You should be ashamed, Lord Griffin—your daughter has absolutely no toys. Not one thing to amuse her could be found in her chamber this morn.”
“That’s not so,” Julian argued. “She has a doll. I think.”
“If you mean that knot of rags, you should be doubly mortified.”
Julian laughed. “Perhaps she is getting old enough for a true toy, but, Sybilla, you can’t allow her to play with your jewelry.”
She frowned at him, obviously offended. “It’s mine. I shall do with it what I wish.”
“A diamond tiara, Sybilla?” he said. “Really? Is that appropriate for a baby?”
“It suits her.” She looked at him levelly now. “I was going to sit her in a great trunk of gold coin, but thought perhaps that would pose a choking hazard.”
He threw back his head and laughed then, from his very toes it seemed. “How is it possible that I find the two of you here in this state?”
Sybilla shrugged and then took the chalice of wine presented to her by a kitchen boy. “I supposed Lady Lucy feels she is indebted to me for rescuing her from certain death by drowning in her own clothes last night and placing her in bed with us,” she said lightly, and then took a sip from her cup.
“You got up with her in the night?” Julian said softly, completely amazed.
“I could no longer stand the incessant wailing,” Sybilla said.
Julian was baffled, bemused, and completely encouraged. “So that’s why the mattress was wet!”
Sybilla looked up at him and blinked through her frown. “What? Did you think it was me?”
“I did.” He laughed. He felt drunk with hope. “Or perhaps the both of us.”
She gave a short huff. “That’s disgusting.”
Julian only laughed again. And then kissed his daughter’s cheek once more, although this time she tried to dodge him.
A soldier approached the table just then. “Milady, a message has arrived for Lord Griffin.”
“As I am not Lord Griffin, perhaps you would do well to address the man.”
The soldier bowed and then made a quarter turn, holding a wax-sealed parchment toward Julian. “My lord.”
Julian took the note. “Thank you.” He looked down at it and noticed the seal was of a religious house. The bishop’s response to his query then. Good.
Sybilla did not show the least bit of interest in the missive. “I really must see to my duties the remainder of the morning,” she said, setting her cup aside and straightening in her chair.
“We shall leave you then,” Julian said with a bow. He turned to Graves, who had not so much as glanced toward Julian during the entire exchange. “Would you mind assisting me in stripping my daughter of her wealth, old chap?”
“How could I refuse?” he grumbled and was soon looping strand upon strand of precious jewels upon his wiry arm.
“Perhaps tomorrow we shall search for earbobs,” Sybilla said, looking coolly up at Lucy.
“Bah-pah-pah!” Lucy shouted.
Sybilla quirked an eyebrow at Julian. “Bad Papa?”
“That is not what she said,” he denied with good humor. “Shall I see you at the noon meal?”
“More likely at supper. I am besieged today.”
Julian nodded. “Very well, darling. Until tonight, then. Wave good-bye, Lucy.”
He ignored Sybilla’s widened eyes as he left the dais and the hall. He would be certain to call her darling more often.
Sybilla searched nearly all of Fallstowe for Julian before the evening meal. Lucy was readily located in the small chamber at the bottom of the stairs with Sybilla’s maid. The two seemed to be getting on much better now, and Sybilla was more pleased than she would have dared admit at the baby’s delight upon seeing her. She took several moments to hold and bounce the child, slipping a jeweled brooch onto the little ties of the baby’s gown, while she inquired as to the whereabouts of Lucy’s sire.
He was not in the stables or the chapel or the tower room; neither the hall nor Sybilla’s own solar. She sighed irritably as she made her way toward her own corridor, intending to change into a fresh gown before returning to the hall for supper. He would most likely turn up there any matter.
She heard the terrible crashing before she saw the jagged square of light falling through her doorway and onto the stone walls of the corridor. Horrible, shattering sounds of rending wood, accompanied by the grunts and labored breathing of a man at work.
Her brows lowered as she increased her pace toward her room, and then shot upward as she saw the black ruin that had only hours ago been her—very locked—door.
An ax had been taken to the carved slab, crudely chopping out the latch and then, as if for spite, applied to the center of the intricate design, leaving raw-looking, yellow gouges in the lacquered door. And then she shifted her gaze through the doorway and saw the worst of it.
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