Chapter Thirty-Five
Gaston skirted the edges of the trees that lay at the bottom of Mt.
Holyoak’s rise. The very same trees and shrubs where Remington had once collected flowers the summer before, the very first time he had actually had a chance to speak with her.
When he met Dane. When he realized that he felt something for her.
In early summer they were awash with gardenias, wild roses, jasmine, dogwood and other delightful blooms. The smell was heady in his nostrils as he paused at the very border of the trees, his eyes scanning the walls of the great fortress that two men so dearly claimed.
He drank in the sight of the stone edifice, feeling the warm memories and possessiveness filled him like a bottomless well; it ran much deeper than he realized. True, he was extremely fond of the fortress, but gazing at it again brought him to the realization that he was home. His and Remi’s.
His eyes scanned the battlements and he could see sentries walking their posts. His sentries. Although he knew it was not possible, somehow he had wildly imagined that Guy would return and kill all of his men, replacing them with rebels. He could see now that that was not the scenario.
Spurring Taran on, he galloped up the steep narrow road that led to the drawbridge of his mighty keep.
The men stationed on bridge-duty saw him storm up.
Shocked, the cries that the duke had returned bounced among the soldiers until every one of them had turned up to greet their liege.
By the time the bridge was lowered and the sharp-teethed portcullis raised, Gaston’s men were assembled with waiting arms.
He rode in, balanced atop his excited warhorse. Roald and Charles were the very first to rush forward and greet him.
“My lord,” Roald called, smiling. “What brings you back to Yorkshire?”
Gaston bailed off Taran, sidestepping all pleasantries. “Did Guy Stoneley return here?”
Both Roald and Charles looked shocked. “Returned?” Charles gasped. “Is he free?”
Gaston’s answer was before him; they had no such knowledge of Stoneley’s return and Gaston felt as if he had been hit in the stomach. No Guy, and no Remington.
His breath exhaled painfully, laboriously. “He escaped and took Remington with him. I was expecting…nay, I was hoping he would come here.”
Charles went white and closed his eyes. “God help her. Oh, dear God, help her.”
Roald looked concerned, glancing at his young friend before turning his attention back to Gaston. “We have heard no word of his escape, nor of his presence anywhere in the area. He took Lady Remington, did you say?”
Gaston nodded, suddenly very weary and sickened. He had no idea where else to look, or where to go. But he knew without a doubt he would spend the rest of his life looking for her. He would never, ever rest.
Roald could read the fatigue and the defeat in his liege, an expression he had never seen before on Gaston’s face.
“You are exhausted, my lord,” he said quietly. “Mayhap a bit of food and rest and we can help you search. In fact, Charles can send messages to the likes of Brimley and Ingilsby and ask for their help. Can’t you, Charles?”
Charles was nearly overcome by the news, but he managed to nod. “I…I can go to the solar and compose the necessary letters.”
“Good lad,” he gave the boy a shove in the direction of the castle. “On your way, then. The duke will rest while you write the directives.”
Gaston couldn’t speak for the moment, too overwrought.
He felt Roald give him a slight nudge and he followed, into the familiar interior with the familiar musty smell.
Inside, Roald directed him to go to the master chamber and promised he would have food sent up to him.
Not realizing that his knight had just ordered him about, Gaston did as he was told.
The bed that greeted him was the same bed he and Remington had shared, the same bed where the twins were conceived.
He simply stood and stared at it, the pain welling within him almost more than he could bear.
Tears filled his weary eyes and dripped down his stubbled cheeks and he did not care; he felt as if he could cry rivers.
Armor and all, he fell forward onto the mattress, his entire body aching with fatigue and anguish. My god, if she wasn’t here, then where could she be?
Where could she be?
Roald came up not a quarter hour later, bearing food for the duke. The meal was set quietly on the table by the hearth and Roald closed the door softly, listening to Gaston’s snores rattle the furniture.
The rest did him wonders. When he awoke several hours later, it was with a clear mind and a determined heart.
He bathed and shaved, donning clean clothes.
An off-white tunic that Remington had made for him embraced his torso, resting next to his heart.
Somehow he felt closer to her as he wore it, to be clad in something that she had made with her own hands.
It eased his ache and intensified it at the same time.
Charles and Roald met him in the solar. Charles presented the two missives destined for Castle Crayke and Ripley Castle and Gaston nodded his approval.
“You will write one more missive for me, Charles,” he said.
“I would like you to send word to my cousin Nicolas and instruct him to bring four hundred of my men here to Mt. Holyoak. If I am going to reside here for the present, then I would be well supported. And instruct him to bring at least fifteen knights as well.”
Charles, eager to do the duke’s bidding, sat and drew out a length of parchment.
Unfortunately, it was late and the sun had set, rendering any searching out of the question for the time being. Even so, Gaston and Roald sat in the solar discussing the possibilities as Charles wrote a careful missive to Sir Nicolas, instructing him to bring the duke’s army to Yorkshire.
*
Near dawn, a rider was sighted. In fact, two riders on one horse and the sentries on the wall sounded the alert loudly. Gaston and Roald, still in the solar, left Charles sleeping at the desk and made their way to the outer bailey.
As they reached the bailey, the portcullis was already going up. The closer Gaston drew to the opening, the more curious he became. His soldiers seemed most eager to tell him that two young women were approaching and his curiosity was piqued.
Gaston stood just to the inside of the portcullis as a dirty, ratty-looking nag plodded over the drawbridge. There were indeed two figures slouched over the horse, two small figures, and he nearly turned away from the riders to leave them in the hands of his soldiers when something made him stop.
A familiar face with sea-crystal eyes was looking back at him.
“Sir Gaston!” Dane gasped.
Gaston was stunned. “Dane!” Another head came up behind Dane, even more familiar because it was Gaston’s mirror image.
“Trenton!”
“Hello, Father.”
Gaston rushed forward, taking both boys off the ancient animal. They clung to each other for several long moments until Gaston pulled back to look each boy severely in the eye.
“By God’s Bloody Rood, what in the hell are you two doing here?” he demanded.
“Where’s mother? Did you find her?” Dane countered swiftly, urgently.
Gaston felt as if he had been slapped. Now he knew why they were there and he felt his pain and anguish start anew. “Nay, Dane, I have not found her yet. Did the earl tell you what happened?”
The two young men looked at each other guiltily. “Nay, he did not. We overheard Antonius tell him that my father had abducted my mother,” Dane replied.
Gaston raised an eyebrow. “Then I would assume that the earl does not know you are here?”
Dane shook his head firmly. “Nay, he does not. But I had to come to protect my mother. Why have not you found her yet?”
Gaston’s heart was being squeezed as he gazed back at the young face. “Because I do not know where your father has taken her. But have no doubt that I will find them both, and I will kill….”
He stopped himself but Dane finished the sentence for him. “You will kill my father, isn’t that right? I should like to help you.”
A flicker of regret crossed Gaston’s face and he put a hand on each boy’s shoulder, leading them forth into the outer bailey.
“No matter what your father has done, and no matter what your differences, ’tis not right that you should want to kill him, Dane.
He is still your father, the man from whose loins you sprang. ”
“I hate him,” Dane said simply. “Why is it acceptable for you to kill him and not me?”
Gaston thought a moment. How could he answer the question? He could give the boy a myriad of empty reasons, moral ones, but somehow none of them applied in this situation. How could he tell Dane it wasn’t right that he should want to kill his father?
“Because I am not his son,” he said lamely, knowing it was no reason at all.
“No matter what has happened, a son should not kill his father. I know that my explanation does not make sense now, but someday it will. You will not like to grow old knowing that you killed your father in your youth. It will sit heavy on your soul.”
Dane did not understand, but he did not press. He had confidence that Gaston would regain his mother.
“I know you do not believe in my dreams as my mother does, but… well, I remember having a dream about my father trying to kill my mother just after you came to Mt. Holyoak,” Dane said quietly.
“It was right before I dreamt about your death, but it turned out Sir Arik died instead. Whenever my dreams come true, I do not dream about them anymore. But I still dream about my father and mother sometimes.”
Gaston led the boys into the inner bailey. He paused a moment, facing Dane’s solemn face. “What happens in your dream?”
Dane hung his head. “I am not exactly sure. My mother is afraid, and she’s screaming. And I see blood. I can see swords, mayhap two or three,” he looked to Gaston again, puzzled. “I am not exactly sure what it means. It’s never very clear.”