Chapter Six #7
“You are smiling again,” Arik stood next to Gaston, watching the goings-on.
Gaston made sure his smile vanished; truthfully, he had not realized he was grinning.
He disregarded Arik’s presence and walked to the edge of the lake, watching Remington and Rory obliterate Charles.
He was a strong young lad but no match against the two of them.
Skye was hauling Dane from the water just as Charles conceded defeat.
“Mercy, Mercy, I beg you,” he pleaded.
Rory dunked his head under once more and quickly pulled him back up. “Swear on the Bible that Remington and I are the most powerful and cleverest women in the realm. Swear it.”
“I do,” Charles declared in mock fear. “You are the most powerful, brutal wenches in all of England.”
“And because we are so powerful, we are also infinitely merciful and we shall spare you any further drowning,” Remington said, sloshing into the shallow water. Her dress was clinging to her like the skin of a grape; drawing looks of distinct interest from Patrick and Arik.
Gaston saw the looks and was seized with a tremendous sense of possessiveness. The woman wasn’t his in the least but he was swept with the urge to cover her from lustful eyes, including his own. He absolutely agreed with his knights’ silent opinions.
He went back to the tree and snatched up the blanket that lay upon the ground. Remington had emerged from the lake like Venus, pulling at her wet surcoat and laughing with her sisters when he came up upon her and threw the blanket around her body.
“What…what are you doing?” she asked as he wrapped her tighter than a babe in swaddling.
“You shall catch a chill,” he mumbled.
“In this heat?” she shook her head.
He wasn’t listening to her. He turned to his men. “Mount up. We return.”
The gaiety of the mood was quickly dulled by his abrupt manner and sharp orders. Remington watched, puzzled, as his knights did as they were told. Patrick even took Rory with him, mounting her wet body behind his and smiling at her when she mumbled something in his ear.
Skye, Charles and Dane were already trekking up the small incline away from the lake, turning to the path that led back to Mt.
Holyoak. Nicolas, on his huge charger, rode several paces behind them.
Antonius did not mount his destrier as ordered; instead, he and Jasmine began to walk back to the keep at a leisurely pace. It would seem the party was over.
Remington was irritated. Why did he disband their picnic so abruptly? His manner was curt and harsh and she received a sharp impression that the Dark Knight had somehow returned, but she had no idea why.
He was fumbling with his destrier several feet away and she tossed the blanket off, folding it carefully.
He did not acknowledge her in any way as she put the blanket over her arm and waited politely for him.
After a minute or so, she began to feel distinctly ignored and she was shocked to realize she was actually hurt.
What had she done to make his attitude change so quickly?
Moreover, why should she care about his attitude toward her?
Had the man lulled her into a false sense of security by being kind to her, kind enough so that she would reveal her darkest secrets, and now he was bored with her?
Hot humiliation shot through her. Damn him. Well, she would not be treated like the day’s entertainment, forgotten after the newness had passed. Quickly, she turned and began to walk back toward Mt. Holyoak alone.
She had just entered the trees when he rode up beside her.
“Do not you want to ride? It’s terribly hot to walk,” he commented.
“No, thank you, my lord,” she said stiffly, wishing he would go away.
The dress was drying but it still clung to her skin, and his eyes roved over the delicious curve of her delicate shoulders. With the horse still moving, he dismounted with the ease of a gymnast and resumed walking beside her. He felt her irritation but had no idea why she was annoyed.
They walked in silence the entire way back. Remington refused to look at him or even acknowledge his presence. They trekked up the road to the keep and were about to cross the bridge when he stopped her.
“Nay,” he said quietly. “Wait a moment.”
She looked up at him, annoyed all over again, when she saw he was looking into the outer bailey.
The soldiers were lined up, waiting for the next wet woman to run the gauntlet.
Between Rory and Skye, they had quite a show and they waited with anticipation for the grandest lady of all to see if she, too, was wet.
It was the best entertainment they had seen in a long while.
Gaston’s jaw ticked as he took the blanket from Remington’s arm and wrapped her gently in it, his eyes never leaving the soldiers.
“Wait here a moment,” he said, his voice low.
Curious, Remington did as she was asked and watched him cross the drawbridge with loud, deliberate steps. By the time he was over the bridge and passing under the portcullis, the men saw him coming and were scrambling to disband.
Gaston stopped as soon as he passed under the archway, his hands on his great hips. Remington couldn’t see his face, but she could see the soldiers scattering as if the devil had just appeared and demanded their souls.
It was truly astonishing; he had not said a word yet hundreds of soldiers had leapt to do his bidding in a panicked rush. Remington was stunned at what had happened, watching him with wide-open eyes as he returned to her.
“What…what happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he replied, taking her arm underneath the blanket.
Perplexed, she allowed him to lead her across the drawbridge and into a now-vacated bailey.
*
Dinner was a festive occasion that night. A band of traveling minstrels had sought shelter for the night and began providing music and dancing at an early hour. The knights entered the hall listening to the music, pleased with the welcome addition to their meal.
Remington and her sisters did not eat with the men, as had become custom ever since their arrival.
Instead they stood back in the shadows and made sure no man wanted for anything.
The servants were very busy with the room full of knights and the roast pork was a huge success.
Remington had specifically ordered two fat pigs killed because she thought Gaston might be sick of mutton.
She watched him from her perch in the corner, studying his profile.
If she were forced to admit it, she would have confessed the man to be incredibly handsome.
There was a tremendous sensuality to him, as well, something that made her go weak every time he looked at her, but she had no idea that it was his sex appeal that made her limp.
She thought it was her healthy fear of the man and his reputation.
But she did not think of men in terms of handsome. They were simply men, a necessary evil.
The minstrels were a lively group of six older men, very accomplished at their art.
They were traveling to Raby Castle, just east of Durham, for the Earl of Hamsterley’s birthday celebration at the earl’s request. As the meal progressed, they sang and performed several bawdy skits, much to the delight of the knights.
Remington ignored the ribald jokes as she perused the room, making sure all was running smoothly. At one point, however, she drew the attention of the loudest minstrel of all and he made a dash for her.
“Ah,” he exclaimed loudly. “The most beautiful serving wench in all the land.”
Remington saw him coming and tried to escape him, but he happily captured her arm and pulled her towards the center of the room.
“Look what I have captured,” he crowed with delight. “The goddess Aphrodite in the flesh.”
The knights were well into their wine and began chanting “flesh, flesh,” and banging their tankards against the table.
The minstrel wasn’t trying to be deliberately cruel or embarrassing, merely lively. But Remington was mortified at the attention.
“She is lovely, is she not?” he asked gaily and was greeted by a roar of approval. He then turned to Remington. “Can you dance, lass? Dance with me.”
Remington was having a terrible attack of nerves. She shook her head firmly and tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight. Yet her mortification was of a good-humored sort; she wasn’t truly panicked. But she wished terribly that the man would let her go.
“Aye, you can,” the minstrel encouraged her loudly, supported by the cheers from the knights. “Dance with me.”
She was a bright shade of red, even more so when the minstrel handed his mandolin to his comrade and took her in his arms. She stiffened; her panic was quickly becoming real at the closeness of his body.
“I do not want to dance,” she begged in a whisper. “Please let me go.”
Again, the man was not trying to be cruel. He smiled encouragingly at her. “Just once around the floor, lass, and I shall leave you be. I promise.”
She did not want to do it; she did not want to be held close to him. Visions of drunken Guy popped into her head, demanding the same thing of her. Dance with me, he would slur. But take your surcoat off first so that I might feel your nakedness.
She was on the verge of panic, the verge of tears as the minstrel tried to pull her stiff body into a comfortable position. But suddenly there was a massive body next to them, as tall as he was wide, and the minstrel’s arms were removed.
Gaston was between them, facing the musician. “Lady Stoneley does not wish to dance, artisan. Choose another.”
The minstrel shrugged good-naturedly and spied another woman who would do just as well. Gaston took Remington by the arm and quickly escorted her to the edges of the room.
He could feel her shaking terribly in his grip as he leaned her against the wall. His eyes were gentle.
“He meant no harm,” he said quietly. “Are you very well?”
She nodded, trying desperately to get a grip on herself. “Fine, my lord. Thank you for intervening.”
“My pleasure,” he said softly.
He moved back to his men, resuming his seat and leaving Remington alone to calm her breathing.
She was so embarrassed and shaken that all she wanted to do was throw up and cry, in that order.
But she would not allow her emotions to grip her so completely, and she forced herself to re-focus on her duties in the hall.
The rest of the evening was pleasant and uneventful.
She knew how badly Dane and Charles wanted to attend the meal with the knights, but she would not allow them to mingle with the warriors.
She was terrified that the young boys would be in danger around the drinking, hardened men and she had no desire to see them hurt.
As much as they hated it, she confined them to their rooms but she was convinced it was for the best. Besides, as male relatives to a prisoner of the crown, she felt them to be particularly vulnerable in the presence of the Dark Knight and his men.
She was fully aware of Gaston’s vows to protect her and her son, yet she did not trust him.
It wasn’t him personally, but simply more her nature.
She did not trust any man’s word, no matter who it was.
Besides; the Dark Knight had betrayed his king to fight with the usurper.
Mayhap the man’s word was as rotten as a corpse.
He confused her tremendously. His reputation was sinister, yet the man she had grown to know over the past few days was anything but.
True, he could strike fear into the heart of men with a mere look, but he had been nothing but gentle and chivalrous to her.
The paradox was enough to keep her awake nights.