Chapter Three #3
“What do you think of him, Remi?” Jasmine asked.
Remington shrugged. “There is nothing to judge him by, yet. He was neither cruel nor friendly.”
“He is the devil,” Rory said flatly. “That is why he would not let you see his face. You would know he was the devil for sure.”
“I saw his eyes,” Remington murmured. “They were not the devil’s eyes.”
“Oleg said he betrayed Richard,” Rory said boldly. She was always bold and irreverent. “What kind of man would betray his king on the field of battle?”
“Quiet.” Remington hissed. “If he hears you, he shall kill you.”
“Ha,” Rory snorted. “I am not afraid of him.”
“Shut your mouth, Rory,” Jasmine snapped. “You are afraid of him also. We all are.”
“All of you shut your lips,” Remington snapped. “I have enough to deal with without your jibing and snipes.”
“The food is getting cold,” Skye said softly, picking at the apples. “He will not want to eat cold food.”
Remington looked over her shoulder at the mounds of food that had been prepared.
She knew Oleg had gone outside to inform the knights of their waiting meal, but that had been a while ago.
She sighed; Skye was right, of course. She would have to return all of the food to the kitchens and have it reheated.
She should have never brought it out as soon as she had.
Suddenly, they heard movement in the foyer of the castle, a great slamming and clanging and the unmistakable sound of armor.
Voices, male voices, were loud and demanding and Remington shot to her feet, ordering the kitchen servant forward and her sisters away from the tables.
The ladies took position against the wall by the hearth as Remington straightened her surcoat and moved towards the foyer.
She’d never seen so many knights before. They were everywhere, massive and powerful, shaking off the water and removing strategic pieces of armor so that they could sit more comfortably. She did not realize her eyes were bugging at the sight, but it was a truly remarkable vision.
After a few moments, several of the men noticed her and she cleared her throat. “Your meal awaits you, good knights. Be pleased to take a seat and be served.”
They did not acknowledge her with so much as a word, although every man seemed to stare a great deal at her.
She lowered her gaze, knowing her cheeks were flushing mightily and praying that someone would not make a grab for her.
Thankfully, no one grabbed her as they filed past and on into the grand hall with its thirty foot ceiling and seven foot hearth.
There were so many of them that she stood back, eventually watching each face that passed her curiously. They took their seats loudly, clamoring for wine, and noisily helping themselves to all Mt. Holyoak had to offer.
Remington stood in the doorway, watching in awe.
Her sisters had joined the serving maids, helping to keep the knights sated with their need for ale and food.
God only knew how badly she wanted this evening to be pleasant and she silently thanked her sisters for doing their part, even the usually rebellious Rory.
The door to the keep opened again and several more knights poured in from the hellish weather. Remington recognized the Dark Knight.
His helmed head glanced about the place as he removed his soaked mail gloves and moved to unlatch his helm.
Remington found herself biting her lip in anticipation of his face, wondering what he would look like.
Wondering if the face would match the fearsome voice.
She already knew his eyes were pleasant, beautiful even, but that said nothing for the rest of him.
She did not stop to wonder why she was so curious.
The man next to him removed his helm, revealing white-blond hair, straight and flowing to his shoulders.
His face was sharp and angled, but handsome.
He said something to the Dark Knight and smiled at his own words, looking about the foyer as he spoke.
The other three knights removed their helm, as well, and they were dark-haired.
One man, young, had a particularly beautiful face and his skin was darker, while his companions looked somewhat alike with curly black hair and square jaws.
Very attractive, she thought with surprise.
She had no idea such handsome men would be accompanying the Dark Knight, but in the same breath knew that she could expect a whole crop of bastards come spring. It was inevitable.
The Dark Knight removed his helm. It took Remington a moment to realize she was looking at the feared face itself, and furthermore thought to herself that it was not so fearsome after all.
His hair was as black as a moonless night, shorn up the back of his head and longer in the front so that it fell down over his eyes like a sweeping curtain.
He ran his fingers through it a couple of times and slicked it back on his head to keep it out of his face.
The face. A granite jaw and prominent cheekbones met with her curious gaze, a straight nose and shadowy stubble. And the eyes found her, though not unkind, and she dipped into a quivering curtsey. He moved directly toward her.
“You and your knights may take a seat close to the hearth, my lord,” she said in a weak voice. “The goblet with encrusted jewels is yours.”
He glanced into the room but did not move, unaware of the hot stares of his men on Remington. The other knights moved ahead, but he remained.
“I would speak with you before I eat,” he said. “Where may we go that is private?”
Shaken, Remington led him to the small room her husband used as his private solar.
It was quiet, small, and cold. Gaston lit a bank of candles and turned to observe the room with quiet satisfaction.
It was richly furnished with all manner of scrolls and documents stacked against the walls.
Vellum had a certain smell, and this room smelled heavily of it.
“This is the solar?” he asked.
“Aye, my lord,” she replied, deathly afraid to be alone with him. “My husband spent a good deal of time here.”
His gaze lingered on the desk and the furnishings a moment, before he finally turned to face her. She kept her gaze lowered but she could nonetheless feel his eyes on her.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty and six, my lord,” she replied.
He moved around a very large desk, inspecting it slowly. “And how long have you been married to Sir Guy?”
Remington’s head snapped up. “You…you know of my husband?”
“Answer my question.”
“Nine years, my lord,” she said quickly, hoping she had not offended him.
His hands caressed the fine hide chair behind the desk. “How loyal are you to Richard?”
She blinked. “I…I do not understand, my lord. Henry is our king now.”
“I am well aware of who is king, madam. Answer me. How loyal are you to Richard?”
Remington looked at him. Obviously this man was not loyal to Richard at all.
Especially if the rumors she had heard were true.
Of course he expected her to be loyal to the dead king because her husband had fought for him and because they were in the heart of Yorkshire.
She wasn’t sure how he wanted her to answer and decided to be completely honest.
“I am not loyal to Richard, my lord,” she said. “I pledge my loyalty and my household to King Henry as my savior.”
He actually looked surprised. It was the first emotion she had yet to see from him. “Savior?” he repeated. “Why would you say that?”
Her breathing quickened as her emotions coursed through her veins. The thought of her husband in prison stirred her up tremendously and she spoke words from her very heart.
“Because my husband is in jail and will be there for the rest of his natural life, God willing,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Henry has done this for me and I willingly turn over all that I have to him. You need not worry about loyalty to the crown here, my lord. Everyone in this keep will gladly give it.”
His surprise was gone and he was back to his original cool demeanor. “You will forgive me if I do not take your word for it,” he said coldly. “How many peasants populate the surrounding villages of Boroughbridge and Easlinghope?”
The rapid jump from one subject to the next left her momentarily confused. “Boroughbridge provides for three or four hundred people, while Easlinghope sustains close to a thousand. Baron Brimley of Crayke Castle is lord of Easlinghope.”
Gaston nodded slowly. He knew most of this information already, simply from what Henry and his clerks had told him, but he wanted the information confirmed by someone close to the source.
He would have preferred to hear it from the steward of the keep and had no idea why he had asked the lady to inform him.
Much to his surprise, she seemed to have half-a-wit.
Besides, she was most pleasing to look at and she smelled pleasant, too. He could smell her from where he stood.
“Tell me of Mt. Holyoak,” he said. “What are her crops and sundry functions?”
“The vale is very fertile, my lord, and we are an extremely rich fortress in terms of crops and livestock,” Remington replied, feeling less nervous with him now that they were on a subject she knew something about.
“Sheep is our primary source of income. Half of the village of Boroughbridge is employed by our sheep works in one fashion or another. In addition to wool, mutton and lanolin, we grow wheat, millet and oats in great quantities and ship a good deal of it to London merchants. Harvest is approaching in August and we will be besieged with dealers come the time.”
“Do you have a mill?” he inquired.
“Aye, milord, a large one,” she said. “The peasants use it as well for their crops and we do not charge them a fee. Instead, they put a small portion of their harvest into a grain store which is then kept in reserves for years that are not so prosperous.”