Chapter Eighteen #7
With the heat of the day increasing, they did exactly that.
Remington stood with Dane and Charles, waiting eagerly as the first signs of the approaching army came into view.
She could see nothing of the road from where she stood, but she could tell from the activity on the wall that the troops drew near.
When a hastily formed honor guard took position on either side of the portcullis, she knew Gaston was at hand.
She glimpsed the top of his head from where she stood before the inner wall obstructed her view.
Nicolas had placed Skye in her care to deliver the news to Gaston, and Remington clutched her limp sister to her breast as the incoming army filled the outer bailey.
Hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers milled about and the wagons bearing Rory and Arik were nearly swallowed up by the swarming mass.
But she could still see the wagons through the open inner gates, if little else. And she saw very clearly when Gaston approached Arik’s casket.
Her heart lurched to her throat at the sight of him and hot tears stung her eyes. She was so desperate to hold him, to console him as he would console her, that she began to shake. Skye glanced up and saw her sister’s expression before turning her gaze to the outer bailey.
“Oh…Remi, there he is,” she whispered gently. “Go to him, Remi. He needs you.”
She should have stayed where she was, but her heart controlled her legs. Without realizing it, she was walking across the inner bailey and straight for Gaston.
There was a sea of soldiers between her and Gaston, but it did not deter her in the least. She wove around them, moved in between, dodged destriers and wagons. Her eyes, as well as her heart, were focused on the massive knight several feet away. Roald was standing with him.
He did not even see her coming. One minute he was alone, dealing with consuming grief and anger, and the next moment a soft body was caving into him. He knew before he even looked that it was Remington.
His arms went around her, but he dare not show his grief in front of his men. His focus went to Remington and the loss of her sister.
“Angel,” he murmured; he would have liked to have done and said much, much more. “Are you all right? You are unharmed?”
She was pressed against his armor tightly, her eyes closed. “I left before the ambush,” her face came up, her eyes as bright as stars and he dashed away an errant tear with the tip of his glove. “Arik and Rory are dead.”
Her grief, his own, ate at him. He was still reeling with the shock; the reality had yet to sink in. “I know, love, I know.”
She put her hand to her mouth to stop the sobs from coming, sobs building in her throat. Her eyes fell on Arik’s casket. “He had become my friend, too. I’m so sorry for you, Gaston. I know how close you were to him.”
He couldn’t dwell on that, not right now.
Later, in private, he would give into his grief, but not here in the midst of his men.
He turned to Roald. “Are they ready to go? We should bury them before it grows too hot. Moreover, I am uncomfortable with anyone straying from the compound now. I want to get this funeral over with and close the gates.”
“They’re ready, my lord,” Roald said sharply, his formal demeanor wavering a bit. “We buried Arik with his sword and helm. Even though it is his father’s sword, we thought he would want to be buried with it.”
Pain flashed in Gaston’s eyes a brief second. “Aye, he would. The sword meant a great deal to him.”
The bailey was still chaotic as the incoming troops disbanded and then were put on stand-by. With the ambush, the alert was heightened and even the novice troops were given assignments.
Suddenly, there was a great commotion as Patrick leapt up onto the cart carrying Rory’s casket.
Nicolas and Antonius were right behind him, yelling at him to cease.
Gaston let go of Remington and bolted onto the wagon, restraining his cousin as he struggled to open the coffin that contained Rory’s body.
Patrick was possessed; he slugged at Gaston, trying to shirk him, but Gaston was firm.
Nicolas and Antonius jumped onto the bed of the wagon and grabbed hold of Patrick as Gaston spoke calmly and firmly to the young man.
His eyes were wild with grief and disbelief as his friend, his brother and his cousin grappled with him.
Remington stood with her hand to her mouth, shocked at what she was witnessing. She could see Patrick’s horror, his madness, and it tore at her. He was insane with grief.
“I just want to hold her,” he begged Gaston. “Just for a moment. I just want to hold her.”
Gaston had one hand on his arm and the other on his head, as if to comfort him forcibly. “Nay, lad, you cannot. We must bury her.”
Patrick began to plead with Gaston and Remington’s heart was breaking for him. Slowly, she approached the wagon as the men struggled to contain Patrick.
“Let him see her, Gaston,” she said softly.
They all stopped somewhat, gazing down on her. She looked at Patrick, a gentle expression on her lovely features. “Let him hold her one last time. He never got to say good-bye.”
Gaston’s gaze lingered on her a brief moment before he released his cousin. Nicolas and Antonius let go, allowing Patrick to dislodge the lid of the casket. Gaston gazed at Rory’s still body a moment, dressed in the emerald green dress Remington had worn the first time he ever saw her.
Rory looked sweet and peaceful and he slid down from the wagon bed and took Remington into his arms. To hell with appearance, if his men were foolish enough not to realize he was in love with her, they would know it now.
Nicolas was fighting off tears as Patrick lifted Rory from the casket and spoke to her as if she could answer him.
Remington sobbed softly, turning away at the sight of her sister cradled in the knight’s arms. She did not realize that the entire outer bailey had come to a halt, everyone watching as Patrick said his good-byes to Rory. Deep, tangible sadness filled the air.
Even Gaston was struggling with his feelings; he couldn’t watch. He held Remington as she fought to regain control of her emotions, stroking her head and feeling his own anguish like a knife. Now and again he would glance at Arik’s coffin, feeling the loss as deeply as if the man were a brother.
*
The funeral was brief. As soon as Father de Tormo finished the benediction, Gaston ordered the caskets buried and a full retreat into Mt. Holyoak. He vowed this would be the last funeral Remington would attend for some time to come; she looked so pale and fragile that it frightened him.
Once inside the keep with the bridge raised and the portcullis down, he felt a bit better. After settling Remington, he established himself in the solar to interrogate Nicolas about the attack.
“Did you see who it was?” he asked his cousin.
Nicolas had not changed his clothing or taken off his armor since the attack had happened the day before. He had not slept, either, and he was ashen with fatigue.
“It was Botmore, I am sure,” he said quietly. “I recognized the colors; they were the same colors that Botmore’s son was wearing when Arik killed him.”
Gaston, too, was gray with exhaustion. He raked his fingers through his hair.
“Brimley’s siege was intense when we arrived, although none of my spies could pick out Lord Botmore.
I had a feeling he was planning something for Mt.
Holyoak, though I knew not what. The man’s troops were there but, apparently, he was not to be found. ”
Nicolas nodded, draining the last of his ale. He had been living on ale since yesterday. “They struck quickly and then retreated,” his eyes reluctantly found Gaston. “They were aiming for me, you know. Rory just happened to be in the way. She stood between me and the forest where they were hiding.”
Gaston suspected as much; they were aiming for the knights, not the women. He closed his eyes and turned away, focusing on the thin window carved into the wall.
“Do we retaliate?”
The question hung there while Gaston remained riveted to the small window, seeing beyond the walls as his mind wandered. “As much as I would like to, I cannot. I have far more pressing business to attend to in London. Botmore will have to wait.”
“But what if he keeps up these ambushes? Why not wipe the man out now? It should not take more than a week.” Nicolas wanted revenge, for his brother and for Arik.
Gaston shook his head wearily. “Were Arik alive, I would send him to lay siege and go to London confident that Botmore would be no more. Patrick is next in the chain of command and he is not himself these days; I would not trust him with this assignment because it is too close to his heart,” he stood up, having his answers and eager to get some sleep.
“Botmore will have to wait, Nicolas. But have no doubt that Arik and Rory will be avenged.”
Nicolas continued to sit, exhausted to the bone and frazzled of nerve. “Bastard,” he muttered. “Was Brimley’s siege a ruse, then?”
“Probably,” Gaston nodded. “But one good thing came out of this; Brimley has pledged his loyalty to Henry.”
Nicolas raised his eyebrows wearily. The cost of loyalty was too high, in his opinion. Gaston unlatched the solar door.
“Get some sleep, Nicolas, as I intend to do,” he said. “We shall discuss this further when we have had time to recover.”
Nicolas looked up at Gaston, realizing for the first time how badly his cousin must be feeling the loss of Arik. Until this point, Nicolas had only been concerned with Patrick and Rory. Looking at Gaston, he could see the dull pain.
“I am sorry about Arik,” he said quietly. “He felt no pain…death was almost instantaneous.”
Gaston abruptly lowered his gaze. “He was a fine knight and I shall sorely miss him.”
It was as close as Nicolas as ever heard Gaston come to an emotional display.