king is not privy to all of my findings as of yet.”
“Why not?” she demanded, looking at him sharply again.
“It would be unwise of me to report a plethora of unconfirmed ideas or half-truths.”
“How noble of you.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” she replied.
After a moment of tense silence, Julian turned away from the window and headed toward where he had deposited his portfolio. “Do you mind if I sit?” He picked up the thick leather packet and sat down on the settee, placing the portfolio on his thighs while he untied the leather string holding the bundle together.
A soft rap fell on the door, and an instant later a maid entered bearing the tray Sybilla had requested earlier. The somber-looking young woman set her burden on the table at Julian’s elbow, poured two cups and left them on the tray, exiting the room without comment. Sybilla Foxe had yet to move from the window.
Julian opened the ledger, but before flipping through the leaves of parchment contained within, he picked up the cup nearest him and took a sip.
“Where would you like to start?”
“I hope you don’t expect me to vomit the history of my family at your mere suggestion. Surely you didn’t think it would be so easy once you had breached my gates.”
“Very well,” Julian conceded with a nod. “What if I tell you what I know. If I am incorrect in any of my findings, or if you wish to offer further comment, you may instruct me.”
She turned to look at him over her shoulder, and Julian realized that she had crossed her arms over her chest and was grasping her elbows. For all of her bluster and strong words, she appeared wary, unsure.
She looked out the window once more. “Very well.”
“Your mother, Amicia, came to this land from Gascony at Christmastime, 1248.” Julian glanced up at her. “As part of the party of Simon de Montfort.” At the last words, Julian saw Sybilla Foxe’s slender throat convulse as if she swallowed.
“That . . .” She cleared her throat, then said in a low voice, “That is correct.”
Julian took a moment to consider her answer. He had not expected her to confirm this so easily. After all, this first admission was only the beginning thread to a much larger knot of yarn. He looked down at his notes briefly.
“She was received by Lady de Montfort at Kenilworth Castle, where she remained until February, when Simon returned to Gascony. She did not return to the place of her birth with him.”
“Why would she?” Sybilla said. “She was married by then.”
“To Morys Foxe,” Julian filled in immediately, not wishing to interrupt the unexpected flow of conversation between them. “They met on these very lands, inside the Foxe Ring, if the stories are to be believed.”
“They are,” Sybilla confirmed. She turned suddenly and walked across the short span of floor separating them. She stopped near the table and retrieved a cup of wine. After taking a long drink, she regarded him, although her eyes did not give the impression that she was entirely present.
“I know the tale by heart—Maman told each of us over and over, from all our earliest memories. She had been out riding with Lady de Montfort and some others, enjoying a particularly mild and sunny day for winter, when she became separated from the party. She was a stranger to these lands and quickly became disoriented. Night fell. She was cold, frightened. A moon rose, so full and bright that it seemed it would fall upon the earth and crush it, and against that brightness, she saw the outline of the ruins and mistook them for a populated place.”
“And Morys?” Julian prompted, held rapt at the melody of her voice speaking at such length. “I have been curious as to why he was out at the ruins in the dead of night, alone.”
Sybilla shook her head slowly, looking to a point seeming to be in a dark corner of the room. “Likely he was out enjoying the mild weather as well.”
“At
“Why not?” she demanded, looking at him sharply again.
“It would be unwise of me to report a plethora of unconfirmed ideas or half-truths.”
“How noble of you.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” she replied.
After a moment of tense silence, Julian turned away from the window and headed toward where he had deposited his portfolio. “Do you mind if I sit?” He picked up the thick leather packet and sat down on the settee, placing the portfolio on his thighs while he untied the leather string holding the bundle together.
A soft rap fell on the door, and an instant later a maid entered bearing the tray Sybilla had requested earlier. The somber-looking young woman set her burden on the table at Julian’s elbow, poured two cups and left them on the tray, exiting the room without comment. Sybilla Foxe had yet to move from the window.
Julian opened the ledger, but before flipping through the leaves of parchment contained within, he picked up the cup nearest him and took a sip.
“Where would you like to start?”
“I hope you don’t expect me to vomit the history of my family at your mere suggestion. Surely you didn’t think it would be so easy once you had breached my gates.”
“Very well,” Julian conceded with a nod. “What if I tell you what I know. If I am incorrect in any of my findings, or if you wish to offer further comment, you may instruct me.”
She turned to look at him over her shoulder, and Julian realized that she had crossed her arms over her chest and was grasping her elbows. For all of her bluster and strong words, she appeared wary, unsure.
She looked out the window once more. “Very well.”
“Your mother, Amicia, came to this land from Gascony at Christmastime, 1248.” Julian glanced up at her. “As part of the party of Simon de Montfort.” At the last words, Julian saw Sybilla Foxe’s slender throat convulse as if she swallowed.
“That . . .” She cleared her throat, then said in a low voice, “That is correct.”
Julian took a moment to consider her answer. He had not expected her to confirm this so easily. After all, this first admission was only the beginning thread to a much larger knot of yarn. He looked down at his notes briefly.
“She was received by Lady de Montfort at Kenilworth Castle, where she remained until February, when Simon returned to Gascony. She did not return to the place of her birth with him.”
“Why would she?” Sybilla said. “She was married by then.”
“To Morys Foxe,” Julian filled in immediately, not wishing to interrupt the unexpected flow of conversation between them. “They met on these very lands, inside the Foxe Ring, if the stories are to be believed.”
“They are,” Sybilla confirmed. She turned suddenly and walked across the short span of floor separating them. She stopped near the table and retrieved a cup of wine. After taking a long drink, she regarded him, although her eyes did not give the impression that she was entirely present.
“I know the tale by heart—Maman told each of us over and over, from all our earliest memories. She had been out riding with Lady de Montfort and some others, enjoying a particularly mild and sunny day for winter, when she became separated from the party. She was a stranger to these lands and quickly became disoriented. Night fell. She was cold, frightened. A moon rose, so full and bright that it seemed it would fall upon the earth and crush it, and against that brightness, she saw the outline of the ruins and mistook them for a populated place.”
“And Morys?” Julian prompted, held rapt at the melody of her voice speaking at such length. “I have been curious as to why he was out at the ruins in the dead of night, alone.”
Sybilla shook her head slowly, looking to a point seeming to be in a dark corner of the room. “Likely he was out enjoying the mild weather as well.”
“At
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