Chapter Twenty-One
The inn was loud and stank of old ale and bodies, but it was warm and lively and Remington was delighted. It was much larger inside that it appeared outwardly, and it seemed as if every possible inch was crammed with people.
Nicolas and the four knights had cleared a table for them to sit at, literally. Six soldiers from Earlingham had been enjoying a pleasant meal when the Dark One’s knights had descended upon them and threw every man from the table.
De Tormo was already seated, enjoying a massive trencher full of meat.
Gaston gripped Remington’s elbow possessively as they crossed the great room, his eyes focused on their destination, yet acutely aware of the looks from the crowd.
Not only were they looking at him, as the Dark Knight, but also at Remington. He could feel the lustful stares.
Remington was thrilled to be in a busy, crowded place. She loved to people-watch and seated herself eagerly beside the priest. Gaston sat heavily on her opposite side, followed by Nicolas and the other knights. No sooner were they seated, than serving wenches were rushing forward with food and ale.
The innkeeper, a fat man with sparse, wild hair, followed the serving women. “’Tis a pleasure serving, the Dark Knight once again,” he looked at Gaston, who did little more than glance up from his food. “We were told of your arrival and I demanded another sheep upon the spit.”
He laughed loudly and Remington couldn’t help but smile at him. The other knights, as well as the priest, ignored him. Then the innkeeper focused on her.
“Ah, you must be the Dark One’s wife,” he moved around Gaston and took her hand. “Only Sir Gaston could warrant such a beauty. What a pleasure, my….”
Gaston’s hand shot out, yanking Remington’s soft hand out of the fat, greasy one. The innkeeper looked surprised and took a step back, suddenly terrified that he had overstepped himself. Gaston finished chewing before he turned to the man.
“You will not touch her,” he said, his voice low. He studied the man a moment, coldly. “Father de Tormo requests your best room for the night. See to it.”
The innkeeper stammered. “But…but, my lord, that room is taken by Baron Marchant’s son. He is already asleep. But I have another room that….”
“Rouse him. Move him. I care not what you do with him. Father de Tormo wants his room.”
“But, my lord, be reasonable,” the fat man pleaded. “One room is a good as the next. As long as there is a soft bed and a soft wenc….oh, sorry, Father.”
Gaston’s eyes were like ice. “Where is the room?”
“To the top of the stairs, last door at the end of the hall,” the innkeeper replied. “But the room right next to it is quite pleasant and….”
Gaston turned to Nicolas and Matts, jerking his head slightly in the direction of the stairs.
Before the innkeeper could finish his sentence, the two knights were up and mounting the stairs.
The proprietor, as well as Remington and de Tormo, watched with open mouths as the knights disappeared down the upper hallway.
Not even a minute passed before they heard a woman scream and a great deal of scuffling.
Remington, her eyes wide, looked at Gaston, who was quite calmly finishing his meal. He acted as if nothing in the world were out of sorts, even though there was a good fight going on upstairs.
From a table across the room, four men jumped up and started to mount the flight of steps to the second level. Gaston eyed his remaining three knights with a silent command and the men were up, intercepting the soldiers before they could assist their lord.
The innkeeper was beside himself, watching a heady fight blossom. “Please, my lord. No fighting. I shall clear the young lord out myself if you will call off your men.”
“Too late,” Gaston drank deeply from his cup.
Remington put a soft hand on his arm. “Gaston, there is no need for fighting. Father de Tormo can take any room.”
Upstairs, swords came together and Remington jumped. Gaston, for the first time, turned to look toward the source of the scuffle with a bored expression.
“Gaston?” she pleaded softly.
He glanced at her, seeing that her very first visit to an inn was close to being ruined.
He, personally, did not care if his men tore the place down around his ears.
It would have been the proprietor’s fault for denying him his request. However, he did not want to upset Remington and purely on that basis, he submitted to her wishes.
Draining his cup, he stood up and the entire roomful of men and women cringed; he was by far the tallest, most massive man in the room and therefore a distinct object of fear.
Moreover, there was not a soul in the place who did not know who he was.
Should he join the melee, there would be several newly dead men.
“Halt,” he roared.
The entire room came to a grinding, startled arrest. All eyes turned to him, including the soldiers fighting on the stairs. From back down the upstairs corridor, Nicolas appeared, his sword gripped in his hand. His eyes were questioning on his cousin.
Gaston put his huge hands on his hips, eyeing the combatants. Then he gazed up at Nicolas. “Where is the young lord?”
Nicolas jerked his head. “With Matts. Truly not a problem, my lord.”
Gaston raised a slow eyebrow, refocusing on the lord’s men. “You do not wish for me to enter this fight, do you? Then lay down your weapons and return to your drink, or I will make it so that you will never drink nor fight again.”
After a brief, hesitant second, the four soldiers who had been fighting Gaston’s three knights slowly sheathed their swords. Looking properly subdued and respectful, they stumbled back to their table as Gaston’s men took the stairs to see if they could assist Nicolas and Matts.
Timidly, the room began to return to normal. Fights were not unusual with a roomful of soldiers and no one was overly ruffled.
Gaston sat back down, looking at Remington. “There. Happy now?”
She blinked at him, a bit overwhelmed by what she had seen. She had nearly forgotten the fear she held for him when she had first seen him, the abject terror of the man and his reputation. Obviously, she was not the only person who had a healthy respect for Gaston.
She turned her back to her meal, befuddled. He watched her closely, afraid her gay evening was already damaged beyond repair.
“What’s the matter, angel? Are you angry?”
She shook her head. “Nay….I am not.” What was she feeling, anyway? Confusion, surprise, and a new respect for Gaston? She wasn’t sure. Light-hearted moments before, she felt somewhat subdued.
The innkeeper was still standing behind them. “Thank you, my lord. I shall always consider your intervention a great favor.”
“Do not,” Gaston said; the tone he had used with Remington vanished in favor of an icy one. “I did it so as not to upset my… wife. She does not like fighting.”
De Tormo, in his trencher, lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. He was afraid if he did that Gaston would cut his head off.
The innkeeper was not put off by Gaston’s insult and his jovial mood was returning. “A room for you and your wife, then? No charge.”
Gaston looked at Remington, who looked at the priest. De Tormo felt their gazes but did not look up. Instead, he shrugged faintly.
“I accept,” Gaston replied quietly, his eyes still on Remington. She deserved a bed to sleep on, not the cold ground. She deserved anything and everything his reputation could obtain.
De Tormo coughed loudly, quickly drinking from his tankard. As the innkeeper strode away, Gaston put his hand on Remington’s knee under the table. “Eat up, angel. You have had a long day.”
She forced herself to eat at first, but quickly realized she was famished. The beef was excellent, the vegetables tasty, and she stuffed herself silly. With her appetite returned, so did her mood.
She ate and watched, watched and ate, paying little attention to what she was doing so that ale dripped on her dress.
Gaston smiled and wiped it away, relieved to see she was brightening again.
Nicolas and Matts, as well as the other knights, returned to the table a short time later and resumed their meals with gusto.
De Tormo excused himself, retreating to his recently commandeered room with pleasure.
Traveling with the Dark Knight had its advantages, he thought.
Of course, he should have been troubled that he was allowing such adultery to go on in his presence, but it was more than carnal lust. Much, much more, and he did not believe God would fault him overly.
God had, after all, created man and woman to love one another.
He retreated up the stairs, forcing his disturbing thoughts down. He could not prevent de Russe from sleeping with Lady Stoneley, and he would not try. Adultery was such an ugly word.
Remington enjoyed her meal, talking in between bites, pointing at groups of soldiers and demanding to know their seat.
She would make snide comments about the serving wenches, especially the ones who served their table.
Gaston, amused, drank warmed cider and listened to her rattle on.
He’d imbibed quite enough for the night and did not want to muddle his senses.
Nicolas found himself the object of attention from a particularly busty brunette wench, pretty enough, but Remington was shooting silent daggers at him every time he made necessary conversation with the girl.
He would flush and stammer through his request or question, glad when the girl swished away.
He did not want to rile Remington, especially in light of their conversation earlier that day.
But the woman seemed intent on luring him for the night.
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, he let Matts take over the conversation and kept his head buried in his trencher.
He had no desire to take the woman to bed, curvaceous as she might be, and did not want to encourage her. He had his own woman at home.