Chapter Three
Mt. Holyoak was ready for their invaders.
The army had been sighted a half-hour before, affording the occupants time to congregate in the outer bailey to greet their conquerors.
A blanket of melancholy covered the old and young alike, each scared of his individual fate at the hands of the man they called the Dark One.
Surely Satan himself was upon them, and it was not even an uncommon sight to see old women cross themselves.
The old men-at-arms gathered in semi-straight rows, awaiting their new liege and wondering if they would live to see the sun rise.
All of the household servants were huddled together, whispering in urgent tones as they listened to the soldier on the wall give them a description of events as they unfolded.
Tensions were high, fears higher, and the sky above threatened rain of mighty proportions. Chill winds whipped through the bailey, blowing them all about and more than one person wondered if the Dark One himself had conjured the wind.
Remington was still in the castle, gazing from a high lancet window at the army below. It had only been two days since Charles had returned with word of the Dark Knight’s approach and she felt grossly underprepared, but there was naught to do now but welcome the new lord of the keep.
Honestly, she had felt no fear or apprehension until this very moment when she looked out over her beloved landscape and saw a hoard of troops approaching, more soldiers than she had ever seen.
When they reached the bottom of the hill, the army came to a halt and several men broke off from the group and started up the incline.
As the men rose higher along the road, so did Remington’s anxiety.
Over the years of living with daily fear, she had learned to bank her emotions well.
Sweaty palms were the only outward indication of her inner turmoil and she turned for her mirror once more to make sure she looked presentable.
As if the Dark Knight would care, but she wanted to look presentable nonetheless.
She had chosen a green silk surcoat that turned her eyes into glittering emeralds.
The neckline was low across her white skin, skimming the very edges of her shoulders as it descended down each arm and hugged her slim torso.
A belt of gold links hung at her waist and her luscious hair was pulled back from her face, secured at the crown of her head and creating the illusion of a fountain of hair cascading down upon her.
Remington never considered herself beautiful. She was not as hard on the eyes as some, she thought, but was truly ignorant of her radiance. Guy would tell her how lovely she was, but she never believed him. The man was a molester and an abuser; she was positive he was a liar, as well.
“Remi.” Jasmine was standing in the doorway. “Hurry – they’re almost here.”
Remington continued to stare from the window at the approaching figures, the chill wind lifting tendrils of her hair.
“Go down and order the drawbridge lowered, Jasmine,” she said softly. “I shall be down shortly.”
Jasmine fled. Remington heard her sister’s flighty footfalls and knew she should follow, but she was fascinated with the knights down below. The closer they came into view, the more intrigued she was with the knight riding in the lead.
Even from where she was, she could see he was twice the size of the other men around him.
And the destrier he rode was the color of ink, as black as sin.
She swore she could see the red eyes of the beast. He rode the animal with the arrogant confidence of a knight, implying untold power and strength with not so much as a word spoken.
It radiated from him like a scent, yet it was far more heady.
She knew without being told that the knight in the lead was the Dark Knight… the Dark One. It could be no one else.
Entranced, she watched the horses as they ascended the road.
As they neared the very top where the road ended and dropped off into the moat, the ancient drawbridge began to lower laboriously.
She could hear the wood popping and the hinges creaking as the wheels were turned, reversed to lower the bridge.
Remington snapped from her train of thought, knowing that the bridge lowering was her cue to attend to the bailey. With a deep breath to force her courage, she quit the chamber.
By the time she reached the bailey, the drawbridge was almost completely down.
She stood, frozen, at the top of the steps just outside the keep entry as the bridge slammed to a halt and the rigging was secured.
She could see straight through the opening, straight to the Dark Knight, who sat immobile atop his destrier at the edge of the drawbridge.
She could see how absolutely massive the man truly was and the fear she was trying so desperately to fight down began to gain speed.
Her breathing quickened and her heart began to race, but there was nothing more she could do other than face the fear that was fighting to overwhelm her.
The Dark One had come.
*
Gaston continued to sit at the edge of the drawbridge, like a statue.
He was not about to enter the bailey of the massive structure and lay himself open to ambush.
He would wait until someone from the fortress approached him and then he would state his business.
The longer he sat, the more he wondered if the people inside were truly daft.
Surely the lady of the keep would come out and express herself, be it to declare her intentions to fight to the death or simply hand over the fortress.
His apprehension began to mount. He hoped he would not have to kill her in front of her people.
He was trying to accomplish a peaceful take over and murder in the first few minutes of contact was not on his agenda.
Still standing on the steps, Remington watched and waited, waited and watched.
The man outside on the huge armored destrier continued to remain stationary and the tension and confusion in the bailey rose.
They were the victors and obviously they had met with no resistance – why did they not come in?
“What are they waiting for?” Jasmine whispered.
“I do not know,” Remington shook her head, apprehensive as well as confused. “Mayhap they expect me to go to them.”
“Do not go to them.” Rory snapped. “Make the bastards come to you, Remi.”
Jasmine shushed her younger sister harshly as Remington gathered her skirts. “I suppose there is only one way to find out. If they trample me with their chargers, bury me in my gold silk, will you please?”
Jasmine gave her sister a wry smirk, watching her closely as she crossed the outer bailey. Her strides were confident and proud, not at all timid as was her mood. The eyes of the young and old were on the straight, elegant back and the cascades of rich, colorful curls.
Remington’s eyes were trained on the largest knight.
She could only assume he was the leader and walked directly for him.
She let go of her skirts because her palms were sweating so badly she was positive she would leave stains on her coat, but she held her head high and tried not to maintain any sort of an expression.
She had grown very good at masking her emotions and she drew upon the practice.
But, in faith, she was fairly terrified by the time she crossed the drawbridge with soft, dainty footfalls.
In the distance, thunder rolled like the devil laughing and a chill shot up Remington’s spine.
Icy wind whipped harsher about her, lifting her hair as if it had a mind of its own.
The force of the gale met her head on, plastering her surcoat to her body and outlining every curve and flare blatantly, giving the knights full views of her round breasts and womanly hips.
Her green surcoat streamed out behind her like a wildly waving banner. She came to a halt several feet in front of the men, her heart pounding in her ears and fighting the urge to sway in terror, but she lifted her face expectantly. Patiently, she waited for the monstrous man to speak.
Gaston looked down at her. From the moment she had exited the castle in the brilliant green dress, his eyes had been drawn to her.
When she crossed the bailey toward him, her body erect and proud, he had been riveted to her as he had never been riveted to anything in his life.
Her hair was magnificent and her body, outlined by the wind, was beyond description.
Pleasing was a grossly inadequate word. But it was her face, when it came into full focus that hit him hardest of all.
An angel, was his very first reaction. I am looking into the face of an angel!
The angel was waiting respectfully for him to speak, but in faith, he did not trust himself to.
He forced himself to cool as unhappy confusion swept over him.
Why did he react like that to her? By God’s Bloody Rood, he’d never reacted to a woman in his life!
They were nothing more than breeders of men, the inferior sex with minimal intelligence.
True, some could be beauties, but they were a worthless lot for the most part.
No woman warranted attention beyond a night of relief, and he was positive this woman in front of him was no exception.
… then why couldn’t he catch his breath?
The woman continued to wait and he let her, allowing his eyes to rove over her delicious body under the veil of his visor. He shouldn’t have, but he found himself so damn curious about his reaction to her that he couldn’t stop himself. What was different about her other than her obvious beauty?
Nothing, he told himself sharply. She is a simple woman, like all the rest.
“Who are you?” he finally asked, his tone cold.