Chapter Seven #4
“Aye,” Walter blinked slowly, with resignation. “I would trust you with my life.”
Gaston sat forward, resting his folded hands on the table. When he met Walter’s gaze again, it was if he had reached out and grabbed the man without actually touching him.
“Then trust me when I tell you that Henry is worthy to be our king,” he said quietly. “I do not give my loyalty easily nor lightly. I do not act upon whim. Know this to be true.”
Walter swallowed, visibly impacted by his words. He met Gaston’s gaze for a moment longer before relaxing back into his chair. Contemplatively, he turned his gaze to his father.
Brimley was looking back at Gaston. The silent moment ticked away as each man pondered his own thoughts until Brimley stirred.
“I can promise you no trouble from Crayke, sir, but at this point I can promise you nothing more,” he said. “We must have time to sort our priorities on this matter. You have given us much to think on.”
“I can ask for nothing more,” Gaston replied. “I would hope that you would speak with your allied barons on this meeting and assure them of our intentions. Peace will be met with peace, and loyalty with sworn allegiance from the crown. And the support of the Dark Knight.”
“And if there are those who would not know peace?” Brimley asked, his white eyebrows rising.
Gaston slanted the man a gaze that he was famous for; it was likened by men who had seen it to Judgment Day.
“Then they shall die.”
Brimley showed no fear. He nodded faintly and looked to his sons. “It would seem our visit is ended.”
Clive and Walter rose, as did Gaston and Arik. Brimley faced Henry’s knight with a new respect.
“In truth, Sir Gaston, I had no idea what to expect this day,” he said. “Your reputation paints you to be a mythical beast of sorts. I am surprised to see that you are a man of intelligence, not simply a man of war. We will speak again.”
“I look forward to that time, my lord,” Gaston answered.
Brimley nodded curtly, knowing the meeting was ended and anxious to return home. He felt better exiting the meeting than he had going in, and that was a positive factor in his mind. He motioned to his sons and they quit the solar in a small group.
“Why did not you ask him to stay the night?” Arik asked after the men had left.
“It would have been too much, too soon,” Gaston replied. “They are terribly uncomfortable as it is and I am sure would prefer the company of the stars to mine. They already have camp set up in the woods east of Mt. Holyoak.”
“What about Rory?” Arik asked, his sly tone unmistakable.
Gaston gazed coolly at him. “What about her? We shall be rid of her if she goes to Crayke and thereby the problem will be eliminated.”
Arik shook his head. “But you were going to punish her. Since when do you go back on your word?”
He was pushing and Gaston knew it. “You are not a clever man, Arik. Do not try to probe me innocently, for you shall fail. Now I must make sure our guests get off safely.”
Arik shut his mouth, although he was thinking a great many things. But he knew better than anyone not to voice his opinions.
*
Trouble was, Rory did not want to go. Remington found her with Charles as they experimented with secret potions and powder and Rory balked at the suggestion. She insisted staunchly that she had not put the eggs in Nicolas’ helmet and refused to take the blame.
Remington pleaded, yelled and threatened her sister in an attempt to convince her to leave with Lord Brimley. Rory ranted and threatened to return. She had not done the dastardly deed and she would not leave simply to escape the wrath of the Dark Knight.
Remington was flustered and angry at her sisters’ stubborn nature. She was trying to save the willful girl’s hide. It never occurred to her that Rory did not want to leave for an entirely different reason, and its name was Patrick.
Dane joined them later, chewing on a hunk of warm bread and excited about the fish he had caught. But one look at the experiments Charles and Rory were performing made him forget about his insignificant fish and he begged to help.
Remington was forgotten, as was Lord Brimley. With a resigned sigh, she perched herself on a stool and watched the mysterious research without enthusiasm.
She fully expected Gaston to ream her for her shrewd actions.
She saw an opportunity and chose to make the best of it, pleased with her cleverness, yet Rory was refusing to cooperate.
She was afraid, but not completely terrified.
Anything Gaston did to her could not be as bad as what Guy planned for her daily.
The sun had set by the time Lord Brimley took his leave of Mt. Holyoak and Oleg ordered up the evening meal of, what else, pork. The cook spiced it up with cloves and nutmeg and baked apples to accompany it.
Smells of cooking drifted on the warm evening air, filling Gaston’s nose.
He was hungry for he had missed the nooning meal and he found his attention focused on the fare ahead.
And he fully remembered he had requested Remington’s company at dinner, wondering if she would be conspicuously absent to avoid his anger.
Yet somehow, cowardice did not suit her.
He could only imagine that she would face his wrath head-on.
He was not disappointed. The meal was already well in hand when Remington appeared, clutching her son’s hand.
Gaston couldn’t help but straighten in his seat at the sight of her; she was dressed in a surcoat of wine satin, catching the light and making her rich hair appear richer.
Dane was well groomed, as befitting a proper young man, his eyes alive at the sight of so many knights.
It was the first time he had attended a formal meal and he was enraptured.
She headed directly for him, her head held high. He rose as she approached, greeting her with a courteous bow.
“My lady,” he said, and then looked at Dane. “Master Stoneley, a pleasure.”
“My mother said I could eat with you tonight,” he said eagerly.
“Indeed you shall,” Gaston indicated a chair for Remington. “Arik, seat our young friend.”
Arik moved down a seat, allowing Dane to sit next to him. He smiled at the lad’s enthusiasm.
Gaston helped Remington into her chair, smelling the floral scent until he was dizzy with it. Every time she moved, every time she tossed her hair, he was assaulted anew and thought it a most wonderful smell.
He seated himself and resumed eating. Remington was served by a wench, politely digging into her food under the intense gazes of her sisters. Even Rory had entered the room behind her and stood in the corner with the other two, whispering and staring.
Nicolas had not noticed Rory yet; his back was to her and he was buried in his meal. Remington wished Rory would go away until the storm blew over, but true to her nature, she would not hide. She was still angry at her sister for disobeying her wishes to go with Lord Brimley.
She was entirely silent; so was he. They ate in silence, neither one looking at the other for the duration.
Dane, however, kept up a running conversation.
He grilled Arik on the arts of war, the skill of the bow, anything he could think of, but he was so refreshing that the knight did not mind.
He answered the young man’s questions politely.
Somehow the conversation turned to entertainment, singing and other skills well-bred nobles were supposed to be well versed in. Dane looked proudly at his mother.
“My mother can play the flute. Did you know that?” he announced.
Remington froze in mid-chew, choking down a large bite as attention turned to her. Dane smiled happily. “She plays like an angel. Do you want to hear her?”
Remington coughed. “I do not think so, Dane. Not tonight.”
“I think I would like to hear you,” Gaston said quietly.
Her eyes snapped to him. “I…I really do not want to, my lord. I have not played in some time.”
He studied her a moment. “Later, then. I will insist upon it.”
Her gaze was guarded, wary. The minstrels that had played the evening before were entertaining again, having stayed one additional night by request of some of the knights. They struck up their instruments again, much to the delight of the men.
Remington had eaten her fill and waved for her trencher to be taken away.
Dane, next to her, continued to eat as much as the men and was being a delightful conversationalist. She thought it surprising that he was actually enjoying himself; usually he was fairly reserved.
But these giant men brought an excitement out in him and she could see that he held absolutely no fear of them. His admiration won out over all.
Guy did not like conversation at meals, which explained Dane’s usual quietness.
It was too easy to provoke his father and he ate his meals in fear of being slapped.
But these knights, these men among men, wanted to hear what he had to say and he was in boy-heaven.
He did so want to be like them, like Sir Gaston. Not his father.
The minstrels sang and told jokes like they did the night before and Remington sat back in her chair, listening to them yet acutely aware of Gaston next to her. She could see his massive hand out of the corner of her eyes, gripping his cup.
She stared at the back of his hand, remembering that it had grasped her this afternoon with such gentleness for all of its size.
And lord, was it big. She was positive if he splayed his hand, it would outstretch the perimeter of a trencher.
Gaston was by far the largest man that had ever lived, in her opinion.
He was as wide as the doorframe and just as tall.
It was difficult to comprehend such size, but for all of his mass, his face was entirely handsome.