Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“But what of the men you brought with you?” she gazed over her shoulder, seeing four soldiers with Canterbury’s tunics.
“Won’t they tell that they have seen me?”
“They do not know you on sight,” de Tormo took her into the castle. “Do not worry overly. I shall make up some excuse should the question arise. For all they know, I am here to deliver a message to Gaston’s cousin.”
She took him into the solar, ordering wine and food. When the serving girl left, she turned to him.
“What’s going on? Why is he still in London?”
“The annulment proceedings are taking longer than he thought,” he replied.
“Henry sent for the men you listed to testify on your behalf; Lord Brimley and his sons, Lord Ripley, Sir Alfred Tarrington from Crigglestone Castle. Ripley even went so far as to declare he would kill Stoneley on sight if he ever saw him again; the man was most convincing.”
“And what of the men presiding over the council? Are they men of good standing?”
De Tormo raised an eyebrow. “You mean the Board of Inquisition? Only the most powerful men in the country, next to Henry, of course. John Morton, bishop of Ely and his brother Robert, the bishop of Worcester; Christopher Urswick, dean of York; Richard Fox, bishop of Exeter; the papal legate John of Imola, and the archbishop himself, Thomas Bourchier. Believe me, Remi, ’tis a mighty papal council. ”
She swallowed, feeling rather apprehensive. “Are they receptive? Can you tell?”
De Tormo shrugged. “’Tis difficult to say. But you have a most convincing argument, and they have yet to put me on the stand. I shall persuade them without a doubt that your marriage to Guy must be dissolved.”
She let out a long sigh and sat heavily, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “Who testified on Gaston’s behalf?”
The serving wench brought in a huge tray of cheese and bread and de Tormo dug in with gusto. “No one, yet. But the men gathered behind him are the likes of which even I have never seen, Remington.”
She felt a small surge of hope. “Truly?”
De Tormo nodded, chewing noisily on a piece of cheese. “Statements on his behalf will not begin until after yours are finished.” He eyed her a moment. “Guy has demanded to speak, too. You should be aware of that.”
She stiffened slightly. “All the better. Then they can see for themselves how evil and insane he is.”
De Tormo shrugged; pleased she was looking at it from that angle. As far as he was concerned, his main worry was that Guy would present himself as the victim in all of this. The man was cunning enough to make such an attempt, but he did not voice his thoughts. She had enough to worry over.
“Gaston should be returning in a few days to take you back to London,” the priest said. “Mayhap you should think on packing.”
“I have already packed,” she said. “In fact, Jasmine made me two new surcoats to take. I am ready to go, father. I just wish…he’d hurry.”
De Tormo smiled. “And do you know who else wishes he would hurry? Martin. He is dying to see you. Gaston did not want him coming with me to Deverill Castle, afraid he would never leave.”
She smiled. “I miss Uncle Martin. He came to me at St. Catherine’s, but I only saw him once. He said he was planning to trail me so that I would always be protected, but he did not.”
“Because Gaston recognized him in the common room when we came to see you,” de Tormo replied, licking his fingers. “He chased his uncle out and told him he would lock him in the Tower if he was insistent on disobeying Gaston’s wishes.”
She understood, a faint smile on her lips. She would have loved to have heard the argument between Gaston and Uncle Martin, both men grimly determined to do their own will. She was surprised she had not heard the shouting that surely must have taken place.
“Will I be staying at Braidwood?”
“Most likely not,” de Tormo answered. “I fear St. Catherine’s shall again be your home. By the way, Remi, no one but Henry and a select few know of the babes. Not even Guy knows. Gaston thought it best not to tell anyone, lest you be viewed as…well, a concubine.”
“You mean a whore?” she smiled ironically. “I do not care, Father, truly I do not. But I will keep silent.”
He lifted his eyebrows sympathetically; she and Gaston loved each other so that it was unfair to brand her as a kept woman. It simply wasn’t the case. “Speaking of which, how are the little ones?”
Her face brightened. “Fat and happy. They are looking more like Gaston every day. And Adeliza is already cutting a tooth.”
“Is that so?” de Tormo smiled. “Well, I must be sure not to stick my finger in her mouth lest I get bitten. Gaston misses them dreadfully, you know. They are all he speaks of.”
She smiled sadly as the priest stood up, wiping his hands on his robe. She suddenly caught a heady whiff of body odor and fought the urge to pinch her nose, rising along with him.
“Now that we have eaten, I find myself exceedingly fatigued,” he said. “I think I shall sleep until sup.”
She nodded. “Aye, a nap and a bath will do you wonders.”
“A bath?” he eyed her and snorted. “Water is my enemy. It dries the skin and reveals parts of our bodies that are better left unseen… well, to those of us who are celibate, baths are a danger.”
She raised her eyebrows timidly, thinking his philosophy most disgusting but trying not to show it. “Then you never bathe?”
“Never,” he insisted. “A gateway to sin for men and women of the cloister.”
Oh, lord, she groaned inwardly. “Well, then, take your nap and I shall see you at supper. I have a few things to attend to now.”
She preceded the priest from the solar, calling to Oleg. The old man appeared out of the woodwork, greeting de Tormo and taking him away to his rooms.
Remington watched them go, still smelling de Tormo, and giggling with distaste as she thought of his hygiene habits. The man must have been a pig in a previous life.
*
The clerical quarters of Westminster were lavish, gaudy surroundings. Gaston stood by the long, narrow windows, gazing out over the gardens absently. Henry sat near the center of the room in a silk chair, 20-foot ceilings soaring above his head.
The whole room smelled heavily of incense; Gaston wasn’t sure of what type.
But it was heady and old-smelling and, in fact, intimidating.
Gaston was sure the scent was psychologically placed.
It reminded one that they were in the most omnipotent house of worship in the civilized world, outside of St. Peter’s Cathedral.
“Do you know why we have been summoned?” Gaston finally turned from the window.
Henry lounged comfortably, appearing almost bored. “I do not. I suppose they must have come to some snappish conclusion and intend to deliver it to us personally.”
Gaston stomach’s plunged. His palms were sweaty. “They’ll not permit the annulment. The law of the church will outweigh all of the compelling testimony given. God above all, including the laws of mercy and love.”
Henry shushed him, knowing there were ears everywhere. Gaston knew it, too, but he did not care. “Have faith, Gaston. You cannot know what conclusion they have come to.”
Gaston turned back to the window, his jaw ticking with agitation. After a moment, he shook his head. “I have known all along what their answer would be, but I had hoped…aye, I have prayed that they would reconsider given the extreme circumstances.”
Henry contemplated the rings on his hand. “Have faith, Gaston.”
Christopher Urswick stood in the shadows, listening.
Gaston was right, he knew. The church had gathered them together to deliver what de Russe suspected.
An annulment was impossible with both spouses still living, and a divorce was completely out of the question.
This had been a futile endeavor from the inception, but Henry had gone along because of what Gaston meant to him and he felt he had to put forth the effort.
Urswick pitied the Dark Knight, and the lady. To love each other so terribly, but to be forever denied matrimony was tragic at best.
On the far end of the room, a huge carved oak door swung open with a groan.
Three men spilled forth, all dressed in lavish garments, all various ages.
The tall young man that stopped just inside the door passed an eye at Gaston; he met Peter Courtenay’s eyes steadily.
Courtenay lowered his gaze hesitantly and took up station against the wall, silent and out of the way.
Archbishop Thomas Bourchier sat with a grunt behind his elaborate cherry wood desk, dark with stain and time.
His aged face was thin and pale, belying the man’s power.
He almost appeared docile and dense. Behind him, a young, dark-haired man stood stoically.
John of Imola was the apostolic delegate, a man with a direct line to Pope Innocent.
He was very young for a man in his position, but he was extremely bright and wise, which he had more than proven during the weeks of testimony.
Bourchier gazed at Gaston standing over by the thin windows. Somewhere in the cathedral, the monk’s choir was rehearsing the sweet strains of haunting music floated faintly on the air. Gaston merely gazed back unemotionally.
Bourchier cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming.”
“Get on with it, Thomas,” Henry said, almost unkindly.
Bourchier’s eyes flicked to the monarch as Christopher came out of the shadows to stand behind his king. Gaston remained by the windows.
“Very well,” the archbishop said with a matched tone.
“As you know, divorce is forbidden by the church. Annulments are granted only in extreme cases with the provision of severe circumstances. The papal board has heard the testimony on behalf of Lady Remington Stoneley and I must be honest when I say that the collective board feels that the basis of the annulment request is weak. Unless Lady Stoneley herself can provide more substantial evidence, your request will be rejected.”