Page 72 of The Earl

Guy had fought in more than one mercenary company, at times with Bande de Valeur and others in France. He’d once told them a tale of him and his father fighting alongside the French king. It had been his closest brush with death, a festering wound that had unfortunately not convinced him of the merits of heavier armor.

Nearly always serious, Lance seemed even more so now. Conrad understood, of course. What they were about to do . . .

“We will return.”

He said it as much for himself as his friend.

“What do you believe he was thinking, your father, when he rode toward Westminster Hall?”

Conrad thought differently now than he had, having met Lindemere, a man who had nothing to gain for telling him anything but the truth.

“That he was in the right.”

“As are we, my friend.”

The certainty with which Lance spoke lit a flame inside of him. He admired his friend’s grit, his steadfastness. Unlike Conrad, Lance had earned every single accomplishment—none had been given to him.

“Aye,” Conrad agreed. “As are we.”

If justice chose sides, they would surely win. But he feared history did not bear that out. Sometimes, little thieves were hanged while great ones escaped.

“Dowe have the men to take it by force?”

“Are we prepared to lose them?”

An argument had broken out among the order and other leaders and continued throughout the morn. A letter had arrived at their camp, as expected, from inside London’s gates. The news it contained, however, was not what they had hoped to hear.

They’d arranged for FitzWalter, the castellan of London and chief banneret of the city, to alert them when it was safe to enter. Key merchants, nobles, and laymen had assured FitzWalter there would be little resistance to the Order of the Broken Blade and its supporters. They would enter through Aldgate, which was to be conveniently left open while mass was being offered throughout the city.

Instead, the mayor of London wrote only, “Await the banner.”

They watched from their position at the top of the ridge, all eleven officers of the rebellion staring at the banner. King John’s three golden lions on a field of red waved in the wind from Aldgate’s towers, jaunty and proud. No one seemed in a hurry to change or remove it.

“We cannot take London by force,” Lord Noreham said once again. Some of the others disagreed with him. They’d carried on this conversation for some time, watching that infuriating banner. Conrad had thus far kept his silence, content to listen to the arguments on both sides, but the others had insisted he should make the final decision. He would lead them to victory, or to their final stand against the corrupt king.

Each of the men looked to him now.

They could wait until the conditions were ideal, until the few who opposed them were distracted. If they could enter the city walls peaceably, their numbers would easily overwhelm those who stood against them. And though they had brought enough men to take London by force, many would lose their lives, and victory was anything but guaranteed.

With the news he’d learned from Bishop Salerno . . .

Conrad exchanged a glance with Terric.

His father had taught him to lead. Leading was often a lonely proposition, though, and his friends, the Order of the Broken Blade, had taught him the importance of not standing alone. He’d not make a rash decision. Taking a deep breath, Conrad glanced at the banner once more, still waving in the wind.

“We will lose support without the clergy. We will not have another chance.”

Terric’s nod was so slight, none other would have caught it. Aye, this was the right decision. Even if it cost some of them their lives.

“We take London,” Conrad pronounced loudly enough for all men to hear.

For the briefest of moments, none of them spoke, and Conrad could hear the noise Lance had spoken of, the murmur of several hundred men outside of their tents.

In the next, everyone began talking at once. Everyone except for Guy.

It was so unlike him to remain silent at such a pivotal time that Conrad moved his position to stand next to the mercenary.

“Do you not agree?”