Chapter Nineteen #2
Gaston shrugged. “I remember mostly images, feelings. I remember he was the biggest, most powerful man I had ever seen and I wanted desperately to be like him. It’s my mother I remember best. God, the woman loved me.”
“Adeliza de Russe,” Patrick murmured in thought. “I do not remember her at all, although my father said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even more beautiful than my mother.”
“Your mother was a saint,” Gaston said flatly.
He was growing depressed on the subject of his father and mother.
He remembered his conversation with Arik, trying to explain why he had never allowed himself friends during his life, trying to explain how his parent’s death had affected him.
It never occurred to him that he was afraid to allow friendship into his life because he was a man of deep, deep emotion.
All he knew was that friendship, and love, had hurt him terribly.
’Twas mayhap the reason he was so deeply involved with Remington; he had let his guard down for her and it would kill him to lose her.
“Patrick, I would ask one more thing of you before I leave. Watch out for Dane and Trenton, if you would. Both of them are likely to feel a bit lost for a while, in lieu of recent events.”
Patrick nodded seriously. “I shall keep my eye on them. Truthfully, Dane seems very strong and Trenton most eager. I think they’ll do fine.”
“Arik thought so,” Gaston suddenly felt a stab of pain through his heart at the mention of his friend. The conversation ended, he silently dismissed himself from his cousin and took the ladder from the wall.
Patrick hung over the top of the wall. “Are you taking Nicolas with you?”
“Aye,” Gaston nodded. “I am also taking four other knights, although I have yet to choose. The rest will remain with you.”
Satisfied, Patrick watched his cousin as he went to brief his knight corps on his plans. With the recruits occupied, Gaston had called the meeting in the troop house.
Patrick knew Gaston was shaken with Arik’s death. Hell, he himself had difficultly believing what had happened. Which was why he occupied himself constantly; if he had a moment to think, grief ate at him like a cancer. But Gaston, as always, was dealing with the fact admirably.
Patrick squared his shoulders; he was in charge of Mt.
Holyoak now and pleased with the opportunity.
He would not fail his liege or his king, but he prayed secretly that Botmore would be stupid enough to try something while Gaston was away.
He wanted a chance at the man; just one chance would be all he would need.
For Rory.
Gaston took no longer than necessary to explain his departure to his knights. Seasoned men that he trusted implicitly, he selected four knights to accompany him and sent the rest on their way. Issuing instructions to the four, they began immediate preparations for their trip to London.
The day was progressing and he made his way back to Remington, taking extra time to study his fortress and trying to remember anything he might have forgotten to deal with. As he was making his way to the inner bailey, a sentry shout on the outer wall halted him.
Incoming riders. Gaston quickly mounted the outer wall, standing beside Roald as the man scanned the horizon.
“They’re flying yellow and gray standards, my lord,” he lowered his spyglass. “Not Botmore.”
“Yellow and gray,” Gaston repeated. “I am expecting no one and am not familiar with those colors. I wonder who it is?”
One of the men on the wall was an old soldier of Stoneley’s, an aged warrior who had served Guy and his father. He cleared his throat loudly.
“If I may, my lord de Russe,” his old voice cracked, well aware that the men-at-arms were forbidden to speak to Gaston.
“’Tis Lord Ripley, of Ripley Castle. His keep is west of Scotton Woods.”
Gaston looked at the old man. “Enlighten me. Where is Scotton Woods?”
“North and west of Knaresborough,” the soldier replied.
Seeing that he had not been reprimanded for speaking out of turn, he added: “He and Lord Stoneley held little love for each other, but Lord Ripley and Lord Botmore are allies. Ripley Castle is a massive keep, nearly as large as Mt. Holyoak. ’Tis even larger than Crayke. ”
Gaston raised a faint eyebrow, watching the small dots in the distance grow larger. He digested the information from the old soldier. “Lower the drawbridge, but keep the portcullis down. I want two companies of archers on the outer wall aimed at the incoming party.”
Roald nodded sharply and began issuing quick orders. Gaston leapt to the ladder and took two rungs before pausing a moment.
“You there, soldier,” he said to the old man. “What is your name?”
The old man almost choked on his own tongue. “Martin, my lord. Martin Sals.”
Gaston almost smiled at the name; had not he just been speaking of a “Martin”? Instead, he looked at Roald. “Reward him for his information, Roald. Anything he desires.”
He descended the ladder, leaving the old man astonished.
He moved quickly to the troop house and proceeded to don several pieces of armor, cursing himself because he had left the majority of his armor in his bedchamber.
Sending one of his squires off at a run to retrieve the pieces, he managed to cover himself quite completely with the help of his remaining squire and a tunic of mail.
The mail tunics were nearly obsolete in lieu of full plate armor, but it was all he had at the moment.
Patrick and Antonius met him at the portcullis as the approaching army reached the base of the hill. Four men broke off from the main body and began a slow ascent to the drawbridge.
“Who are they?” Antonius asked, in full battle armor.
Gaston crossed his thick arms, watching the approach with narrowed eyes. “I was told they are flying Lord Ripley’s colors.”
“Did you send a missive to him for a meet?” Patrick asked.
“Aye, I did, but he has not responded as of yet,” Gaston eyed the four riders. “Apparently, this is his response.”
The four horsemen came to a halt at the end of the dirt path, just shy of the drawbridge. The destriers snorted and danced, tossing their heads about as the humans astride them scrutinized the occupants of Mt. Holyoak through the closed portcullis.
“My lord de Russe?” one of the men addressed Gaston.
Something inside Gaston’s head recognized the voice, but he could not place it. “Who asks?”
The knight flipped up his visor. “Sir Hubert Doyle, my lord. I saw you in Ripon a few weeks ago.”
Gaston felt a bit more comfortable, but he was still properly leery. “Who are you serving, Doyle?”
“Sir Alex Ripley, my lord,” Hubert replied, indicating the man next to him.
Gaston watched as the man raised his visor, meeting Gaston with curious eyes. He was older, his eyebrows graying. “My lord de Russe,” he said formally. “I have come in answer to your writ. It would seem we have much to discuss.”
Gaston uncrossed his arms and approached the portcullis.
“You have caught me at an unfortunate time, my lord. I am due in London as we speak,” he waved his hand and the portcullis went up; he saw no danger at all.
The four horsemen were not even armed with swords.
“Have your men set camp at the base of the hill. I will give you what time I can.”
Hubert, Sir Alex and another man dismounted while the fourth man turned and descended the hill. The hooves of the destriers made hollow sounds as they clopped across the drawbridge.
“We were told of Sir Arik’s untimely accident,” Hubert said as he reached Gaston. “Boroughbridge can speak of nothing else. And I understand one of the ladies was killed as well.”
Gaston nodded slowly. “An ambush by Lord Botmore.”
Sir Alex cleared his throat, eyeing Hubert. “Ever since Derek was killed, Keith can speak of nothing but revenge. He thought to convince Brimley to band with him on an assault against Mt. Holyoak because Catherine Brimley was betrothed to Derek, but Brimley refused.”
“I know,” Gaston said flatly. “I helped Lord Brimley fight off Botmore’s anger and the baron informed me as much.”
Sir Alex looked decidedly uncomfortable. “He has come to me as well, my lord. He is trying to band the whole of Yorkshire against you.”
Gaston fixed Sir Alex with an open gaze and crossed his arms again. “And?”
“And I refused him, naturally,” Ripley replied. “He seems more driven to destroy you personally than to rebel against Henry’s rule.”
Squires from Ripley’s army returned with the fourth knight and took the horses from the warriors. Ordering the bridge raised just high enough that no one could ride in or out, Gaston motioned the men inside.
Remington was waiting for them in the solar. Gaston was mildly surprised to see her until he saw that she had set out refreshments for he and his guests. As always, the perfect chatelaine, and his heart warmed.
“Lady Stoneley,” Lord Ripley greeted her warmly. “May I say that you are blossoming outside of your husband’s presence.”
She swept her lashes against her cheek coyly. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again, my lord. I was unaware of your visit to us this day.”
“I sent no word ahead,” Ripley replied, his eyes full of Remington. There was a good reason he had not sent word ahead, but she did not need to know that.
Remington smiled and respectfully backed her way out of the room, her eyes lingering on Gaston overlong. He gave her a faint smile and closed the door behind her.
Ripley poured himself a huge goblet of wine as if he were in his own home, not a mere guest. “Thank God for Guy’s imprisonment,” he mumbled, his eyes lingering on the door again as if to see Remington. “She was… so unfortunate.”
Gaston detected a trace of longing, or wistfulness, ’twhich he could not be sure and jealousy coursed up his spine at the man’s manners toward Remington.