Alexander still had eggs in his hand. She finished the one he’d handed her and now she took another from him.
“Not all of them,” he muttered.
She had a mouth full of egg. “Who?” she demanded. “Do you know of someone he cannot chase away? It does not matter, anyway. I will be like you and Peter and Bric and the rest of them. I will be a career agent for William Marshal and I shall never marry. My work for him shall be my husband. Besides… no one wants to marry a woman who kills on command. Even I know that.”
Alexander watched her stuff more egg into her mouth. “I think I may know one.”
She stopped chewing, egg on her lips. “Who?”
“Finish your egg. When he is ready to tell you, he will.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you actually know someone who might… well, God’s Bones, man, who is it? Is it Bric? I do not want to marry that loud-mouthed Irishman. You can tell him I said that.”
Alexander started to laugh. “Nay, it is not Bric, and I will not tell him what you said. It would hurt his feelings.”
“Ha!” she said, biting into the last egg. “That is not possible.”
“It is. He is very tender.”
She started laughing, full mouth and all. But she stood up to brush the excess egg from her traveling coat and the moment she did so, she suddenly stopped chewing. As Alexander watched, she spun away from him, grabbed the tree, and proceeded to vomit out all of the egg and ale she’d been eating and drinking. It had been a horrific combination, anyway. All of it came spewing out until there was no more.
Embarrassed, Christin hugged the tree, trying to catch her breath, as Alexander stood up behind her.
“Breathe, Cissy,” he said softly, putting a surprisingly gentle hand on her back. “Then sit back down. I will go find you some boiled fruit juice and some bread. That should help calm your belly.”
Christin wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She couldn’t even reply to him. All of that lovely food and conversation had been destroyed in an instant, all because she wasn’t used to such strong ale.
And she’d done it right in front of Alexander.
Mortified, and still drunk, she staggered off towards the church, hoping to find a dark, cool place to hide.
She could make it the rest of the way to Norwich on her own.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Royal Procession
Somewhere on the road to Norwich
It smelled like rain.
The sky was full of pewter-colored clouds and the road was already puddled from a rainstorm that morning. The trees were heavy with moisture and the foliage was thick all over the land.
The rainy season had started early in Norfolk, an area that seemed to have its own weather patterns that were separate from the rest of England. It could be a wild land, with dense forests and settlements that were still reflective of the Danes that used to populate the area. Some said there were doorways to other magical lands in Norfolk, through a stone ring or a fairy mound.
He didn’t believe in magic doorways or mythical lands, but he knew that hell existed because he lived it every single day.
Sir Sean de Lara rode very close to John’s carriage because that was his job. As the king’s personal bodyguard, he maintained close physical proximity to the monarch at all times. The carriage was a heavily-fortified cab built on top of a wagon chassis, lined with iron and a reinforced door that nearly doubled the weight of the carriage itself. There were small slits up at the top of the cab for ventilation, but little more. They hardly emitted any light. Inside, it smelled like a pigsty because the king lived and ate and slept and pissed in it.
It wasn’t the most pleasant form of transportation.
Sometimes John chose to ride like a mounted knight and in those instances, his escort moved much faster. But he’d wanted to take the carriage this time and it had been painfully slow going out of London on their way to Norwich Castle.
With the stormy weather, the roads had been rough and the heavy carriage fell into ruts, which exhausted the team of horses pulling it. There were six heavy-boned horses lugging that wagon and the days were cut short because they were often just too weary to continue.
In fact, in the last town, Sean had purchased two more big-boned horses so they could rotate out a pair and give them a rest. He’d always had a soft spot for horses, including the magnificent beast he owned, so he watched the carriage horses carefully and made sure they were well tended. Fortunately, the drivers were sympathetic and the horses were given massages and plenty of food when the entourage stopped for the night.
But it didn’t make this journey any less difficult or taxing, for all of them.
Even now, Sean tried to stay upwind of the carriage as he rode. He could hear the king inside, playing a citole, a musical instrument he had no real talent for. He had two of his advisors in the carriage with him, including a Marcher lord, Evan Monnington. Monnington Castle and the Lords of Dorè were relatively small and insignificant Marcher lords who had been deeply allied with Christopher de Lohr in the past since their lordship bordered his lands.
But that all seemed to change three months ago when the old Lord Dorè passed away, leaving his young son, Evan, as his heir. Evan had barely seen eighteen years and had fostered in the finest homes but, from what Sean could see, he was an idiot. Now, he was as thick as thieves with John and Sean knew why – it was because John was hoping to glean information on de Lohr and also station crown troops very close to de Lohr’s earldom.
The entire de Lohr alliance along the border was impenetrable, or at least it had been until Evan Monnington decided to become the king’s pet. Unfortunately, the king hadn’t much confided in Sean about what Evan had told him, so he could only guess. Even now, Evan was in the king’s carriage, speaking on God only knew what.
Sean suspected he would find out soon enough, considering John couldn’t keep a secret from him. Whatever it was, John liked to boast to Sean, his most trusted bodyguard and confidante. Advisors and courtiers came and went, but Sean remained constant.
The man known as the Lord of the Shadows.
Off to the east, a storm was brewing. They could hear the thunder and see flashes of lightning light up the sky. They could also see sheets of rain pummeling the earth, knowing that the storm would soon be upon them. There was a village up ahead, one that was fairly large, so they knew they could find shelter there for the men. The entire contingent, however, was looking to the east, wondering if they would be able to beat the storm.
That would have been a possibility had the carriage not slipped into another rut. The men knew the drill; as the drivers snapped the whips at the weary team of horses, two dozen men surrounded the wagon and pushed until it lurched out of the hole. By that time, the rain was starting to pelt them, meaning they’d be soaked by the time they reached the village.
But it couldn’t be helped. Sean bellowed commands to get the army moving forward, hauling that dreadful carriage the last mile or so. As he fell in behind the carriage, keeping an eye on the axels, which seemed to be folding under the strain of the bad road, the fortified rear door opened, spilling out Monnington.
“De Lara!” he shouted over the rain that was beginning to pound. “His Grace wishes to speak with you!”
Sean wasn’t particularly thrilled that Monnington addressed him so informally. The man hadn’t earned the privilege. But he dutifully dismounted, handing the reins over to the nearest soldier before sloshing his way through the mud to the carriage. Sean was an enormous man, big and powerful and intimidating, far superior to the mortal men around him. Reaching the door, which was still swinging open as the carriage swayed, he heaved himself into the carriage.