Chapter Eleven #8
Mari-Elle’s eyes narrowed at her. “Do not get flippant with me, mistress.”
Remington lifted an eyebrow, remarkably cool, but there was no mistaking the challenging air of her stance. “I was not attempting to be rude, my lady, merely stating a fact. If you will only taste the meat, I am sure you will find it most delicious.”
Mari-Elle glared at her a moment before lowering her eyes to her plate. Gingerly, she took a taste and pushed it away. “Awgh. I cannot stomach mutton,” she declared. “You will serve me something else, mistress, and no more of your backtalk.”
“But it’s good,” Dane insisted, across the table. “Do not you like it?”
Mari-Elle looked imperiously at the boy. “You were not invited to speak and I would demand you to hurry and be gone.”
Remington couldn’t stop herself. She walked around to Dane and put her hands protectively on her son. “He is more welcome at this table than you are, my lady. Or had not you noticed?”
Gaston looked sharply at her, but Mari-Elle was faster to the draw. The Mari-Elle of old suddenly burst forth in all of her sinister glory and the trencher of mutton and gravy went flying, missing Remington and Dane by mere inches. Gone was the woman trying to impress her husband.
“How dare you speak to me like that,” she snapped savagely.
Dane scrambled off the bench; he did not want to be between his mother and the angry lady. Across the table, Trenton lowered his head and started to cry softly. As Gaston rose to his feet, Dane did the only thing he could think of; he ran around the table and grabbed Trenton by the arm.
“Come on,” he hissed.
Trenton yanked back from him, but Dane grabbed him again. “Come on unless you want to get hit.”
Trenton saw his mother and father on their feet, and after a split second of indecision, allowed himself to be pulled along by the younger boy.
The boys were forgotten by the adults at the table. Gaston’s face was severe.
“Mari-Elle, I want you out of my sight,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “You were not invited into my dining hall and I do not wish to see you here.”
“I did not start this and refuse to be punished,” Mari-Elle snapped back, although her voice was not raised. “Your Lady Remington is quite insubordinate.”
“And you my lady, are insulting and arrogant,” Remington shot back. “How dare you tell my son he is not welcome at his own table.”
Mari-Elle opened her mouth but Gaston cut her off. “Out, Mari-Elle, or I will remove you myself. Lady Remington, you will retreat as well. I will hear no hollering to spoil my appetite.”
Mari-Elle spun on her heel, already moving to do his bidding, but Remington stared at him in shocked silence. He took his seat and refused to look at her.
“I meant it, Remi,” he said softly. “I will seek you later.”
Humiliated and stunned, she took several calming breaths before replying. “Do not bother, my lord.”
He drained half his goblet of wine, his eyes moving up to her as she turned away from him.
He watched the straight back, the luscious hair, knowing she did not understand his reasons for punishing her, but he had to show who was in control.
Additionally, it would not do at all to show favorites in front of everyone.
Mari-Elle was halfway across the room when she suddenly stopped and swayed. Clutching at her stomach, she let out a piercing cry and sank gracefully to the floor in a dead faint.
The entire company of knights were on their feet, looking curiously at the crumpled woman as Arik and Patrick went over to her. Gaston, knowing this to be more of his wife’s melodramatics, drained his cup before rising. Damn woman was a bloody pain in the ass!
Remington paused at the entrance to the kitchen, watching as Gaston crossed the floor to his wife. He stood a moment over her, his hands on his hips impatiently as he listened to Arik’s assessment. Then, reluctantly, he swooped down and took her in his arms.
The last glimpse Remington caught of Gaston was as he left the hall with Mari-Elle in his arms, her rich ruby dress flowing about him.
Jealousy shot through her like a spear and she clenched her jaw painfully to keep the tears from coming.
No one would see how hurt she was, especially Rory and Jasmine when they passed her an inquisitive glance.
Without a word, she disappeared from the hall.
Mari-Elle had regained consciousness by the time he reached her rooms. Her physician, a thin man with sparse gray hair, was summoned and took special care with his examination while Gaston waited with little tolerance.
It made him all the more peevish that his wife’s ladies were tittering in the corner, paying more attention to him than to their mistress.
“Well?” Gaston demanded.
The physician straightened, digging into his bag. “It is her stomach, my lord. Ever since her arrival, she has been most sensitive.”
In other words, the crushed apricot seeds had upset her system more than intended. Gaston sighed. “And?”
“And I believe I must tend your wife in private, my lord,” the man said. “There are certain things I must do to her and….”
Gaston put up a silencing hand, “I understand.”
The physician kicked the ladies out, too, and when the room was vacant, he lifted his eyebrows at Mari-Elle. “There is something you are not telling me. Have you been bleeding?”
Mari-Elle, looking pale, shook her head. “Nay, I have not. This child is making me exceedingly ill.”
The physician shook his head. “My lady, I have taken care of a good many pregnant women, and your womb does not feel as if there is life within.”
“And I have actually borne a child and know exactly what pregnancy feels like,” she snapped back. “Do not tell me that I am not with child, physician. I have all of the symptoms.”
He crossed his arms. “Do your breasts ache?”
“Aye.”
“And your menses have stopped?”
“Aye, nearly three months now,”
“And do you feel weak and ill?”
“All of the time,” Mari-Elle insisted. “Why are we repeating what we already know?”
He sighed and moved toward her again, poising his hands over her belly. “May I?”
She grunted with annoyance. “Very well. But be quick about it.”
He prodded and probed, pushed and jabbed until Mari-Elle was near to exploding. Finally, he straightened again.
“It does not feel right to me,” he said. “Your womb should be hard, but it is soft for the most part except in one area. Only there is it firm, and the firmness is too high.”
“Too high? What do you mean?” Mari-Elle felt her own stomach.
He shook his head. “I am not sure, my lady, but I believe something is wrong. Very wrong. Was your fainting spell tonight for real or simply for your husband’s benefit?”
She looked puzzled, perhaps a bit cornered. “It was real enough at first, but I felt fine by the time Gaston brought me back to my room.”
The physician scrambled about in his bag. “I shall give you something to help you sleep this night.”
“Fine,” Mari-Elle said irritably. “And you will send Gaston to me.”
“And if he asks me what is wrong?” the physician wanted to know.
“Tell him it is a private female ailment,” she snipped. “We have been over this before.”
He did not answer as he stirred a bit of white powder into a cup of wine. “Drink this.”
She did and made a face at the bitterness. Settling herself back on the pillows, she nodded to her surgeon. “Now, Dooley, you will send my husband to me.”
The old man rose, bag in hand, and opened the door.
His gaze lingered on his mistress a moment, a sense of doom filling him.
There were a couple of possibilities for her condition, both fatal, but he would not tell her that.
She was a demanding, spoiled bitch and he had little like for her, but she paid him well for his services and he enjoyed the money.
Besides, if it were either of the two possibilities he suspected, there was nothing he could do and he did not want to alarm her needlessly.
The first potentiality for her condition was indeed a pregnancy that had planted itself too high in her womb.
If that were the case, she would rupture and bleed to death within a few weeks at most. The second was a cancerous tumor growing within her, and her life expectancy might not be much longer than with the first possibility.
Dooley knew for certain he would be searching for a new mistress before too long.
*
Gaston went to seek out Remington. Her family was still down in the dining hall, save Charles, and the lad was probably up in his tower room. He was glad that the wing was deserted as he rapped softly on her door.
Remington heard him, but she was angry and jealous and refused to answer. He knew she was in the room.
“Remi, open the door,” he said softly.
Still she did not answer, lying on her bed in a heated rage.
How dare he punish her, send her away like a naughty child, and then presume to act as if nothing had happened.
And carrying Mari-Elle from the hall had simply added fuel to her fire; if he hated his wife as he said he did, then why did not he let someone else take her to her room?
He rapped again. “I know you are in there. Open the damn door or I shall break it down.”
She rolled over on her side stubbornly. She would not answer him. In fact, he would be lucky if she ever spoke to him again.
There was a loud slam that shook the very walls of the castle and her door popped and snapped and then exploded into kindling.
Splinters of wood shot across the room and sprayed her where she lay upon the bed.
Remington cringed but she did not move; she knew Gaston had been true to his word and had destroyed the door.
And she trusted him enough to know that the door was the only thing he would tear apart.
He stood just inside the archway, his hands on his hips as he glowered at her. He had not even raised a sweat busting the old door. Frustrated, he kicked a large piece of wood away and went directly to her wine decanter.