Chapter Twenty-Two #3
They were at the manse over an hour before Gaston decided it was time for him to seek Henry.
The supper hour was drawing near and he knew the king would be at the Tower, preparing for his meal, free of meetings and audiences.
He motioned to Nicolas to vacate the room and he pulled Remington to her feet.
“I shall be but a moment, uncle,” he said.
He took Remington into a small room off of the main hall, a musty little closet. But it was private.
“I must go seek Henry, angel,” he whispered, taking her head between his great hands. “He will most likely keep me all night; mayhap even for the next few days. But I will return as quickly as I can.”
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but he could see her lip quivering. “I am frightened, Gaston. What if he…?”
He cut her off with a bruising kiss; the pain of their separation was cutting him much deeper than he could control. He released his kiss and she gasped, wrapping his arms around her supple body fiercely.
“Be brave,” he repeated. “No matter what, we will overcome. I swear it on my oath as a knight.”
She could only nod, too numb at the moment for tears. He smiled gently at her and kissed her again before leading her out into the foyer. Martin was waiting, holding Gaston’s helm and gauntlets.
Gaston latched his helm and pulled on his gloves. “Take good care of her, uncle. I shall return when I am able.”
Martin took Remington’s elbow gently as if afraid she would try and follow Gaston out the door. “I shall treat her as if she were my own daughter. Better. I might even take her into London and treat her to a play.”
Gaston eyed his uncle. “I would prefer that she not leave the manse, but I know how persuasive she can be,” his gaze fell on Remington. “Behave yourself.”
In spite of her breaking heart, she frowned at him. “Do you truly feel it necessary to say that?”
Martin guffawed. “All women must be told to behave. Control is not a God-given gift in a female as it is in a male.”
Gaston smiled at Remington’s outrage. “Nay, I do not feel it necessary, but I say it for my peace of mind. My uncle is a weak man when it comes to feminine wiles.”
He threw open the door. Beyond, Remington could see de Tormo sitting in the carriage, waiting impatiently and she wondered why Gaston had not invited the priest in.
But she was glad he had not; mayhap Gaston had an inkling as to what his uncle was going to say and it was best that de Tormo did not hear his darkest shame.
The cold steel from a gauntlet brushed her cheek and she looked up into Gaston’s smoky eyes. He was smiling at her, and she forced herself to smile back.
“That’s a good lass,” he whispered. Without another word, he ducked through the doorway and marched out to his men.
Remington stood in the doorway long after the column of men had moved on. The sun set lower, and she still stood. Martin stood behind her, feeling a good deal of pity for her. Finally, he gently pulled her out of the doorjamb and closed the door.
“My cook has roasted a lamb for supper, my lady,” he said pleasantly, leading her back into the solar. “Do you like lamb?”
In spite of her daze, she found the question silly and she laughed. “I am from Yorkshire, my lord. There is naught much else there but sheep.”
“God’s blood,” he exclaimed. “Then we shall have no more mutton while you are staying with me. You must be sick of it.”
“I assure you, I do indeed like it. It will remind me of home.”
“Good, then,” Martin replied with a snort. “I was having terrible visions of the next few months with nary a sheep in sight. I can only take so much fowl, and beef is expensive.”
They smiled at each other, and Martin escorted her into the dining hall.
*
Gaston was welcomed to the Tower by an astonishing array of household troops. Having been notified earlier in the day of his arrival, they had been waiting since noon for him to appear. Just before sundown, he rode the narrow passageway from the Middle Tower and the Byward Tower, into the bailey.
Henry was in the royal apartments, demanding Gaston to him by way of his chamberlain, John Stewart. Leaving his men in the bailey, including his knights, Gaston took de Tormo with him.
Henry was still dressing for dinner when Gaston was announced. As soon as the king caught sight of his Dark Knight, he forgot all about the heavy pendant his servant was trying to hang about his neck. Tall, with a rounded stomach and reddish hair, Henry VII rose to his feet.
“Gaston!” he exclaimed. “How good to see you.”
Gaston bowed a deep, practiced bow for his king; de Tormo was still in the hall. “My lord, ’tis good to see you again as well. I trust you have been well.”
“Indeed,” Henry looked over his most fearsome knight as one would inspect a prize bull. “My God, de Russe, have you gained even more mass? I do not remember you quite this large.”
Gaston’s lips twitched. “Nay, my lord, no more mass. I am as you see.”
Inspection complete and excitement rapidly faded, Henry resumed his seat and his servants finished primping him. “I take it you brought Lady Stoneley here from Mt. Holyoak,” he said.
“’Twas an excellent excuse for a visit to London, I must say. How is Yorkshire faring?”
“Cooperative for the most part,” Gaston replied honestly. He would tell Henry what he wanted to hear before delving into the real reason why he was in London. “Except for a renegade baron, I have had little trouble.”
“Renegade baron? Who?”
“Lord Botmore of Knaresborough. I had to kill his son and in retaliation, he struck down Arik.”
“Helgeson?” Henry looked surprised. “I am sorry for you, then. He was a fine knight. And this Botmore; I have not heard of him. A lesser baron?”
“Aye,” Gaston replied. “He fought with Richard, I am told. I do not remember him serving the king, nor his brother.”
Henry seemed to ponder the statement another moment before moving on. He was an extremely intelligent king with more brains that brawn. He did not need to have any brawn when he had knights like Gaston to do his fighting for him.
“I am pleased, then, to hear that Yorkshire is stabilizing,” he said after a moment. “I had my doubts, you know, even though I have Yorkist blood. England considers me Lancastrian.”
“They consider you Welsh Tudor,” Gaston said. “May I ask how Elizabeth and Arthur are?”
“Well and good,” Henry put his arms up as fancy cuffs were secured to his tunic sleeves. “Arthur will make a fine, strong king one day. He is a brilliant boy.”
Gaston watched as the king’s many retainers finished dressing the man. Even though supper would be a small, informal occasion, Henry always insisted on dressing the part. He was, after all, the king.
“We are supping with Peter Courtenay tonight,” Henry rose on his long, skinny legs as a crimson mantle was placed on his shoulders.
“And my Uncle Jasper, of course. A small dinner party. I am sure I will have more questions of you, but for now, I am content. You obviously believe that Yorkshire is contained by your manner, and I will trust you on that matter.”
Gaston knew he would have to broach the subject now, while they were still in private.
He found he was actually nervous doing so, not because he feared his king, but because it had never been easy for him to verbalize.
He cleared his throat quietly and removed his helm.
“My lord, might I have a private word with you before we sup?”
“Of course,” Henry waved at him. Servants and attendants scampered from his presence. “What is it, de Russe? You have reconsidered the dukedom?”
Gaston smiled ironically. “Nay, my lord, not at the moment. What I wish to speak of is far more serious.”
“I see. How serious?”
Gaston took a deep breath, forming his thoughts. “I remember after Stoke, my lord, you told me that whatever I wished would be mine. Anything. You offered me two dukedoms and an earldom to compensate me for my loyalties, but I refused. Do you recall why I refused?”
“Because you have no ambition,” Henry said flatly. “You angered me, Gaston. I wanted to reward you properly, yet you would not allow me.”
Gaston fixed his king in the eye. “You may reward me properly now, my lord. I would have a request of you.”
Henry’s eyebrows rose. “Is this so? Tell me.”
Gaston set his helm down on an ornate cherry wood table. The gauntlets slowly came off. “A woman, my lord. I want a woman.”
Henry was astonished. “A woman? By God, de Russe! You want a woman? Be so kind as to inform me of this woman whom you would accept above a dukedom?”
“Guy Stoneley’s wife.”
Henry stared at Gaston as if he had not heard correctly. Or, mayhap, he was waiting for more of an explanation. None was forthcoming. After a moment, he settled himself into an overstuffed chair with a weary, long sigh.
Gaston watched his king closely; from his expression, he knew he was not pleased.
“Gaston…,” he shook his head mournfully, resting his forehead on his hand and rubbing at the building pressure. “Not you. This cannot happen to you. Why would you want Stoneley’s wife?”
“Because I love her,” Gaston said truthfully.
“Mari-Elle is dead, and I plan to marry the woman. What I would ask of you, my lord, is to grant me permission, and then help me seek the needed annulments. I need Stoneley’s cooperation in this matter, as you know.
As I need the church’s and they will not give it freely. ”
Henry looked as if a rock had just struck him right between the eyes; he grimaced. “You love her? Dear God, Gaston, since when does love have to do with anything? I do not love my wife.”
Gaston felt as if he was being reprimanded, but he would not lose control of the conversation.
He meant to have what he wanted. “I did not go to Mt. Holyoak for any other reason than to serve you, my lord. Have I not served you with complete devotion? Have I not suffered personal costs for your loyalty?”