Chapter Thirty #2
Gaston was embarrassed as they fawned over him, laughing and touching and tugging at the material. He managed a thin smile at Remington, who laughed at his humiliation and patted him sweetly on the cheek. He eyed her sisters, thinking their praises to be well rehearsed.
When they were gone, she turned to him, still smiling.
“Now, you see? You look wonderful in white. I think I shall make you several more of the same.”
He shrugged; resistance was futile. If she thought he looked handsome in white, then he would humor her.
He leaned over and pecked her cheek. “I will wear white. But I will not wear pink, or blue, or green, or yellow, or any other pastel color. I do not care if you make the tunic with your own hands or not; I shall burn it before I wear it.”
She giggled as he pulled on his boots. “Agreed, my love.”
He took her hand and led her from the room. “Now I am going to ruin this lovely tunic by putting my armor on.”
“I expected as much. But thank you for wearing it anyway.”
They paused in the corridor and he kissed her sweetly. “And I thank you for thinking enough of me to make it. I shall always cherish it.”
They gazed lovingly at each other a moment, warm silence between them. A door opened down the hall, the door to the nursery, and they both turned to see Eudora exiting into the corridor with a bucket in hand. Remington sighed.
“I suppose we had better go and say our good-byes to Arica and Adeliza,” she already felt her throat constricting with emotion.
He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her down the hall. “They’ll hardly miss us, I assure you. As long as they are fed and warm and dry, they’ll never notice our absence.”
“What a terrible thing to say!” she exclaimed, and he laughed.
“A mere jest, angel. Please do not dissolve into hysterics.”
She slapped at him playfully, between outrage and giggles. “Gaston, you are most inconsiderate and cold. Would you prefer that I not miss them at all?”
“Of course not,” he squeezed her gently, letting her pass first through the nursery door.
It wasn’t Remington who cried as she told her babes good-bye. It was Gaston. But his tears were short lived. As he cradled Arica in his massive arms, Nicolas came bolting in through the nursery door.
“Gaston,” he said urgently. “A small army approaches.”
Gaston carefully set Arica back in her crib before turning to his excited cousin. “Colors?”
“Yours,” Nicolas smiled with delight. “Patrick approaches.”
“Patrick?” Remington repeated happily, Gaston was already moving for the door. “Did he send word ahead of his arrival that I was unaware of?”
“Nay,” Nicolas shook his head.
Remington hastily lowered Adeliza into her crib. “Can I come, Gaston? Please?”
He shrugged. “You are chatelaine, are you not? ’Tis your duty to greet guests to Deverill.”
Remington preceded the men from the room, but not before she sent several serving wenches scurrying with orders.
Gaston observed with approval the manner in which she dictated command, firmly, calmly, and pleasantly.
She was obeyed because she treated the servants like people, not like animals, and was always rewarded with swift action and loyalty.
It constantly amazed him that a woman who was treated like an animal for nearly half her life was so patient and kind. As if all she had ever been dealt in her life was the same.
She smiled up at him as they made their way to the bailey, and he smiled back, still engrossed in his thoughts. This was the same woman who had reared back from him like a crazed creature, who had bore secrets too horrible to believe.
It was incredible how she had blossomed, how they both had blossomed in each other’s company. She craved affection, touching, as did he. Away from Guy and Mari-Elle, they had both been allowed to taste the true meaning of love.
His soft feelings faded as he thought of what was coming.
All testimonies had been given on Remington’s behalf, and still the church was staunch in their stance.
Resorting to lies seemed to be the only way to obtain what was so desperately wanted for the both of them, as much as Gaston loathed doing it.
Skye, Jasmine, and Remington herself were the secret weapons in this fight.
If they could convince the papal council of Guy’s evilness, then there was no way the annulment could not be granted.
But what if it wasn’t? A persistent little voice pushed, taunted, and irritated him. What then? Gaston thought seriously a moment. What then?
…If Guy were not proven a devil worshiper, he would remain a prisoner of the crown for the rest of his life.
He had not given his consent for the annulment, in spite of nearly being beaten to death; therefore, there were no provisions to be made for him.
The papal hearings were moving ahead on the basis of Gaston and Henry’s insistence that Guy was an unfit husband and an immoral, cruel barbarian.
Guy continued to cry foul, insisting that Remington was a reward for Gaston’s service to his king, and that she was furthermore being forced against her will. She was a victim of Henry’s power game.
Guy was still insisting that he loved her.
Gaston’s blood began to boil again, as it did every time he thought of Guy’s pathetic pleas. He wondered seriously why the man was so eager to hold onto her. Mayhap he truly did believe he loved her, as much as the vile man could love anything at all.
Thank God that Dane was safe at Oxford. He could not be used as a pawn anymore by his father, considering no one but Gaston, Henry and John de Vere knew where the boy was.
When Guy asked, he was simply told Dane was fostering.
Period. Certainly the church did not like the idea that a father was not being allowed knowledge of his son’s whereabouts, but Henry was firm with them.
The problems were between the father and the mother, and the boy was not to be involved in any way.
When the circumstances allowed, his whereabouts would become common knowledge.
They entered into the nearly completed inner bailey, the sky overhead a brilliant blue.
Gaston could see that the outer gates were beginning to swing open for his cousin, and he could see his threatening black and silver banners flying in the distance.
Removing himself from his train of thought, he clasped Remington’s hand and moved forward to greet his cousin.
Patrick rode ahead of the column of forty men, astride a great brown destrier. Remington noticed he was riding alone, like Gaston. He came to a halt, cuffing his horse when it tossed its head irritably.
“Greetings, my lord,” Patrick dismounted, raising his faceplate.
Gaston nodded faintly. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
Patrick took a few steps closer. “Merely progress reports on your men at Clearwell,” his blue-green eyes drifted to Remington. “Greetings, my lady. You look well.”
She smiled, although she thought she could detect a bit of coldness in Patrick’s voice. Not at all like the gentle Patrick she had come to know. “Thank you. How have you been?”
“Well,” he turned away from her and back to Gaston. “You look as if you are mobilizing, I am at your disposal.”
“We are preparing to leave for London,” Gaston detected the indifference to Remington, as well, and was puzzled. “I do not know how long we will be there, but I would welcome your support.”
“London?” Patrick’s eyebrows drew together. “What goes on there?”
Gaston raised his eyebrows in a helpless gesture. “What does not go on there? We are still in the midst of seeking an annulment for Remington and we are taking Jasmine and Skye with us for testimony.”
Patrick’s eyes drifted to her again. “I heard of the twins. I suppose I should congratulate you both.”
The tone was icy. Remington was shocked and she took a step back from him, lowering her gaze. Gaston stiffened.
“No need,” he said steadily. “You are tired, cousin. Retreat to the castle and I shall seek you later.”
Patrick removed a gauntlet. “I shall sleep in the knight’s quarters, Gaston. No need to house me in the castle.”
Gaston’s eyes narrowed at his cousin. This man in front of him was not the Patrick he knew. He went beyond the pleasantries, the overtures. “What’s the matter with you? Since when are you so distant and cold?”
Patrick fixed him in the eye. “I do not know what you mean. Surely this is what you expect of me, cousin. Seeing as I am only fit to train your men at Clearwell, and not reside in the duke’s residence.”
Gaston was surprised. “What in the hell are you talking about? You are training my men because you are the best man for the task, Patrick. How could you possibly think it was because I did not want you with me?”
Patrick refused to look at him, fussing with the other gauntlet. “I shall not delve into the subject with you here in the open. We shall discuss it later, if you like.”
“We shall discuss it now. Explain your words to me, Patrick. And explain your callous tone to Remington.”
“You mean your whore?” Patrick wasn’t fast enough to duck the blow that caught him in the jaw, a blow so hard that his helm was half-ripped from his head. He landed on the ground heavily, spitting out teeth and blood.
Nicolas and Antonius rushed forward, but not to stop Gaston. They were there to protect Remington.
Gaston loomed over his cousin, bending over the man as he struggled to push himself up. “You will apologize now or I will deal you a far more serious blow.”
Patrick sat up, his hand to his mouth. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes and Gaston was torn between great remorse and his still-peaked anger. He knew they were not tears of pain. Puzzlement won out.
“Patrick?” he whispered questioningly, almost demandingly.
Patrick rubbed his jaw, wiping at the blood and saliva coursing over his chin. “I’m sorry….I did not mean it.” His voice was barely a whisper.