Chapter Eighteen #2
Dane and Trenton were official pages now and not allowed to join the diners.
Instead, they lingered in the recesses of the hall with a half dozen other pledges and hovered to do the biddings of the knights.
Remington tried hard not to focus on her son, but it was exceedingly difficult since they were both serving the knights.
Gaston had asked her not to speak to him at all, which she thought was ridiculous, but she did as she was asked, even when they bumped into one another.
Dane did not say a word. He rushed away as if he had bumped into nothing more than a chair and Remington’s heart broke in two. Biting back tears, she grabbed a pitcher of watered ale and moved to Gaston’s table to replenish the drinks.
Gaston had seen the exchange and was pleased that both Remington and Dane were doing as they were told.
But he could tell the moment he looked at her face that she was close to crying and he felt for her.
When she moved to top his drink, he gently took the pitcher from her and sat her down on the bench next to him.
“You did well, angel,” he said for her ears only. “’Twill become easier with time.”
Her lips twitched and she blinked, fat tears splattering onto her cheeks that he quickly wiped away. Within the privacy of the head table, he was not uncomfortable touching her harmlessly.
“He will think I have forgotten him,” she sobbed quietly.
He smiled sympathetically. “Nay, he will not. He knows that he is a trainee, and therefore no longer entitled to the courtesy once enjoyed as the young master of the keep. He realizes his place, love. Do not worry that he will resent you for treating him as you should.”
She put her hand to her face and sobbed softly. He chuckled and pulled her head into the crook of his neck. Arik, on the other side of her, gazed back with sympathetic amusement.
“’Tis difficult to cut the cord at seven years of age,” he remarked. “Dane is a fine student, my lady. You will be very proud of him one day.”
She sobbed softly. “I hate you both.”
Both men laughed heartily. Gaston kept her cradled against him as he finished what was left in his cup. Jasmine, placing a fresh plate of bread on the table, looked stricken when she saw Remington crying in Gaston’s arms.
“What’s wrong with her?” she demanded.
“Motherhood,” Arik commented.
Jasmine’s eyes widened. Gaston caught the look and knew that she was in on their secret. His dark expression instantly quelled any further words from Jasmine and the sister quickly vacated the table.
Remington, meanwhile, stopped her tears and discovered she had a terrible headache. She pulled away from Gaston and composed herself.
“With your permission, my lord, I shall retire for the night,” she sniffed.
He peered closely at her. “Are you feeling well?”
“My head aches,” she said truthfully, and then fixed him in the eye. “A lack of sleep.”
He cleared his throat in a startled, reflexive gesture. “As you wish, my lady. I shall see you later.”
She rose from the bench, murmuring something to Rory before continuing the length of the room.
Gaston turned casually to watch her retreat, aware that every man in the room was watching her glorious form.
Once, the realization would have made him insane with jealously.
But he was so secure with their relationship that he found himself bristling with pride.
She’s mine, lads!
Remington was almost clear of the room when a figure rose from one of the tables and blocked her exit.
Gaston was up and moving when he realized the envoy was attempting to detain her again, and he would not allow the man to deal her another tongue-lashing.
Everything that needed to be said had been said not an hour before, between himself and the priest. He had yet to inform Remington of the outcome of that meeting.
“De Tormo, the lady was retiring for the night,” he said as he came upon them. “You will not detain her.”
The priest turned and looked at him, his eyes narrowed. “Retiring alone? A rare occurrence, I am told.”
Remington swallowed hard, looking at Gaston. His face was like stone, impassive and unreadable as always. After several uncomfortable moments, he advanced another step on the priest. He smiled, but it was a dangerous gesture.
“I am not in the habit of murdering priests, even fat obnoxious ones, but I can readily change my practice,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“If I were to kill you now, are you assured of spending eternity in heaven? You see, I have nothing to lose, for my soul is already damned. Is your afterlife as guaranteed?”
The priest blanched. “You would not dare and risk the wrath of the church!”
Gaston cocked a lazy, confident eyebrow. “And I, priest, know a few things about you. ’Tis most hypocritical for an ordained priest to take a serving wench to his bed, a serving wench that can be easily bought with a few coins. I wonder how the diocese would look upon that?”
The priest stiffened and his eyes widened. “I have done no such thing.”
Gaston crossed his arms. “And I say that I can find at least a half dozen women that will swear on the bible that you have. Mayhap more. Women that will accompany Lady Stoneley to London, ready to testify if called upon by the papal counsel.”
The veins in de Tormo’s neck bulged. “How…how dare you threaten a man of God! And you, a knight, sworn to uphold the church? You should be cowering at my feet, de Russe, not threatening blackmail!”
Gaston moved closer, his eyes glittering like deadly precious stones. “’Tis no threat, de Tormo. I never threaten. But I do promise. You will go down in flames, I swear it!”
De Tormo was having difficulty catching his breath. Remington, her eyes wide, alternately watched the priest and Gaston. She was having difficulty grasping what Gaston was saying, but the priest had no trouble at all. He knew.
De Tormo was no fool. He could read his death in the knight’s eyes and it scared the hell out of him.
De Russe wanted something, and he wanted it badly enough to threaten to kill a man of the cloth.
This threat went beyond that fact that de Tormo had heard of his relationship with Lady Stoneley; nay, this went deeper.
He was intelligent enough to know that and savvy enough to respond.
“Then what is it you would have of me?” the priest choked out. “My oath of silence? What?”
Gaston backed off slightly. “In the solar. I do not conduct business in the open.”
The priest bowed away, flicking an uncertain glance in Remington’s direction. She watched him slink away, and Gaston put his hand on her arm in a reassuring gesture as he attempted to follow.
“Wait,” Remington put her hand on him. “May I come?”
He looked hesitant. “This is business, angel. Go on to bed and I shall seek you later.”
“I would like to come,” she said, a request and not a demand. “I assume that what will be said will directly affect me?”
He gazed back at her, swallowed by her intelligent eyes.
Aye, she was smart with a head for business.
He had seen it. This was no empty-headed chit, but a magnificent, brilliant woman, the mother of his future child, his future wife.
He respected her astute mind more than he had ever respected almost anyone, including Henry.
“Very well,” he relented softly. “But I will do the talking, madam. Understood?”
“Of course, Gaston,” she looked surprised that he would even say such a thing. “Did the priest really take a serving wench to his bed?”
Gaston pulled her into the dim foyer as they headed for the solar. “No. But it is amazing what money can buy.”
Her eyes widened. “But why do you do this? Why are you worried that he knows of us?”
He sighed. “Listen when I speak to him, angel, and you will understand then.”
He opened the door and ushered her into the solar. De Tormo was sitting in the hide-covered chair next to the hearth, looking distinctly apprehensive. He did not look up when Gaston and Remington entered the room.
Gaston closed the door and went right to the point. “I have a proposition for you, priest.”
The man turned, then. “I suspected as much. What is it? How am I to perjure myself, my lord?”
Gaston actually sat opposite the priest, unusual that he would sit in the presence of anyone. He never sat when conducting business, but he did this time. He wanted to be, somehow, less threatening. He wanted information, and he wanted help, and he did not want to beat the man into agreement.
“Undoubtedly you have heard the rumors regarding Lady Stoneley and myself,” he began quietly. “To deny them would be futile, I fear. It is because of this that I must seek your counsel.”
The priest still looked apprehensive, but a sort of weariness had set in as well. “Speak, then.”
Gaston was truly annoyed by the man’s haughty attitude, but he admired it as well. If this man could stand up to him this well, imagine how he could stand up to his superiors. Gaston, in spite of the fact that he did not like this priest, wanted him on his side. Any way he could have him.
“I will come to the point,” Gaston said. “I wish to marry Lady Stoneley. What is involved in obtaining an annulment?”
The priest looked shocked. His eyes widened and he looked to Remington a moment before turning back to Gaston. “An annulment? On what grounds?”
“Cruelty,” Gaston said shortly. “Guy Stoneley has beat and raped his wife and her sisters for nine years.”
The priest shook his head slowly. “Not sufficient. A man’s wife is his chattel, as you know. He can do as he wishes without interference from the church.”
Gaston pursed his lips into a hard, flat line. “But he still must adhere to the moral code of the church, in which he took his vows.”
De Tormo considered the argument. Then, he shook his head again. “Too vague, de Russe. Now, were he to worship the devil and force her to participate, it would be another matter. But you cannot base an annulment on simple discipline.”