In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,18
traipsing through the provinces.”
“I do not recall saying anything about a caravan.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Speed, dearest brother, would be of the essence, would it not? Who would pay heed to a knight and his squire carrying letters to the earl marshal from his beloved wife?”
The countess cradled her brow in one hand and refilled her wine goblet with the other. “I am not hearing this. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph … I am not hearing this.”
Lord Rhys folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. He was truly beginning to enjoy himself. The wench had more nerve and more spirit than a hundred Englishmen thrown together. Disguise herself as a squire? Run halfway across the Continent to find her uncle? Christ, but she was magnificent! Far too magnificent for anyone but himself to possess, by whatever means or method.
“William,” Isabella continued, more to herself, but loudly enough for the others to take heed, “would be furious. No. No, he would be more than furious; he would be in a rage. And doubtless, he would blame me for contriving the whole affair.”
“Do you not think he would be more furious if we did nothing and allowed the king to proceed with this travesty?” Ariel asked. “Surely he would want to know how Lackland is seeking to manipulate and undermine him. He would want to know, dear Aunt … if only to safeguard his back and ready himself for the next assault.”
Isabella looked up. “The next assault?”
Ariel took shameless advantage of her aunt’s confused state and went down on her knees before her. “Are you forgetting you have children of your own in the nurseries above us? If the king succeeds in shackling me to this gaoler’s son, what is to stop him from binding sweet Matilda to a Flemish foot soldier, or Sibilla to a lust-mad fishmonger, or Eva, Joanna, and Isabella to—”
“Stop!” the countess gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh, my poor dears—the king would not do such a thing … would he?”
Ariel’s response was a dramatic sigh, rife with pity and melancholy.
“Oh.” Isabella’s huge, swimming eyes looked to Henry for guidance. “What shall we do?”
The word applaud came wryly to mind as Henry assessed his sister’s performance, but it was Sedrick, quiet until now, who stepped forward and bowed solemnly before the countess.
“Forgive ma boldness, Lady Isabella, but as much as I am loathe to say it, there is some merit in what the Lady Ariel says. Lord William should be told what is happening in his absence. He should be told of the king’s connivings and he should be told without delay. I, in ma humblest capacity, would be more than willing to carry the news to Normandy … and to carry aught else ma lady deems necessary under the protection of ma sword.”
Ariel glanced up from beneath the thick sweep of her lashes, but Sedrick would not meet her eyes. He was the eighth son of a noble who had had very little to begin with, and nothing at all after deeding lands to his other seven sons. Sedrick had, if castle gossips were to be believed, at one time intended taking the cross and shaving his head in the tonsured style of a penitent. His plans went awry when several women in the village near the abbey where he was studying to take his vows gave birth to by-blows who bore a striking resemblance to the swarthy-skinned Celt.
Undaunted and secretly relieved to be off his knees, Sedrick of Grantham had quite happily taken up a cross of a more violent nature. He had answered the Lionheart’s call to join the Crusades, and, because of his size and ferocious appetite for battle, had soon joined the ranks of Richard’s personal guard.
Serving thus, he had made the acquaintance of William the Marshal—not only met him but managed to save his life by thwarting the aim of an assassin’s sword meant for the earl. Sent back to Milford Haven to recuperate from his wounds, he and Henry had struck up a friendship which had remained solid to this day. Despite his years of service to Pembroke, he still felt like a shy, cumbersome creature when he was near the dainty Lady Isabella and seemed always to be balancing on a bed of eggshells in her presence. He had, however, proven his bravery and loyalty to the House of Pembroke too many times to have his opinions or his concerns waived lightly.