Chapter Twenty-Five #3
She could sense his fear; as if he needed something new added to his substantial problems. “I did not mean it like that. It was a normal birth, my love, but to every woman, birth is difficult. The only true problem was Guy, because afterward, he….”
“I know,” he said quickly; he did not want to hear the brutal details again. It made him sick. He stroked her cheek. “I have two sons, Remi. I would cherish a daughter. And I would take a third son.”
She smiled, warmed that he referred to Dane as his son. The horror of her impending departure shoved into the recesses of her mind, she hugged him fiercely. Were she to dwell on it any longer than a moment or two, her hysteria would overtake her and she did not want to burden him further.
“We had better return to Braidwood to secure some your belongings,” he said finally. “And I am sure Uncle Martin will want to bid you farewell. I’m told he has grown quite fond of you.”
She sat on the chair to pull on her hose and slippers, securing the silk garters as he watched. “I wonder what I should pack, considering I have no idea where they will be taking me.”
“Warm clothes, love,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on her a moment before retrieving his armor. Remington watched, impressed, as he donned all of it unaided and quite efficiently.
“Clothes that stretch,” she stood up, trying to keep the mood light. “You should have seen me when I was pregnant with Dane. I was as round as a pumpkin.” She put her arms out in front of her in a plump circle.
He smiled weakly, latching the top portion of his cuirass breastplate. “I look forward to it, madam.”
She tried to maintain her smile, but the tone of his voice set her heart to lurching. Her vow to remain brave was slipping rapidly, like water through her fingers. Her chest tightened painfully and she had to look away, else she knew the tears would start. We must comply with the church’s demands.
She pretended to look out the window, but her attention was turned to him as he secured the last of his armor. He concentrated on his task until, sans helm, he was in full protection. Only then did he face her, his eyes riveted to her elegant back.
“Let us depart,” he said, his voice husky. “We must return in time to sup with Henry and Elizabeth, and he eats precisely at eight o’clock.”
With a deep breath for strength, she turned abruptly and marched to the door. Gaston was close behind her, opening the door so that she might pass into the corridor.
Without another word, he took her tender hand into his massive glove and they proceeded to the courtyard of the Tower.
*
Uncle Martin was not pleased. In fact, he ranted and raged as Remington tried to pack, accusing Gaston of lacking backbone where the church was concerned.
Remington did not say a word as Gaston’s uncle berated him in front of her, pretending to be interested in her task.
But she wanted to slug Martin in the mouth.
Gaston remained cool. He eyed Remington from time to time, knowing how his uncle’s words must be upsetting her, but she had yet to give any sign that she was even paying attention to them.
Even though he wanted to remain with her while she packed two large traveling bags, his more pressing concern was to remove his uncle from her earshot.
Pleading thirst, Gaston retreated to the solar downstairs with Martin in tow. The older man had yet to run out of fuel on the subject at hand, but Gaston had had enough.
“Cease,” he hissed, holding his hand up sharply. “I have heard enough of your prattle, Uncle. I must do as I must, and I apologize if it does not meet with your approval.”
Martin closed his mouth, but only for a moment. “Leave her here with me, Gaston. Tell the bloody church that she has run away, that you do not know where she is. If they send her away, you shall never find her. There are abbeys and convents all over this bloody country.”
Gaston’s jaw ticked as he studied his goblet of wine. “Henry will not allow that to happen. I shall find out where they have taken her, have no fear.”
Martin sat heavily in a chair, his huge, fattened body settling. “She shall be alone, Gaston. Without protection. Why not send Nicolas with her? Surely they will allow her one escort?”
“I doubt it. Nicolas is my cousin. Her escorts will be Courtenay’s men, I suspect. He seems to have taken a sincere interest in our plight. I will trust his men.”
“You give your trust too easily,” his uncle snorted softly.
“You would trust the life of the woman you love and your child’s life to unknowns? Pah!”
Gaston’s head came up sharply. “I have no choice. If I send any of my men, it will appear as if I am trying to maintain my control over her. Do not you see? Guy has suggested that Remington is being forced to seek an annulment against her will; if I insist on sending one of my knights with her, it will only reinforce Guy’s accusation.
I must separate myself from her as ordered, Uncle. ”
Martin saw the logic, but hated it all the more. However, as Gaston spoke, a seed of an idea planted itself in Martin’s mind and took root. The more Gaston spoke, the more the seed was nurtured.
“You have Henry’s support, for all the good it is doing you,” Martin mumbled after a moment. “The man is king. You would hope he would have more influence over the church than he is exhibiting.”
“You know that Henry’s relations with the church are strained at the moment for various reasons,” Gaston reminded him.
“He is trying to eradicate ecclesiastical sanctuary for all priests who have committed crimes against man, as well as trying to lessen the church’s governing influence in England.
My problems, such as they are, could not have come at a worse time. ”
Martin snorted. “And you had the audacity to suggest donating Warminster to the church. Really, Gaston.”
Gaston shrugged. “I may as well accept the dukedom and donate it myself. I suspect Stoneley will ask for Mt. Holyoak back as one of his terms, which only leaves me with Clearwell for leverage.”
“Clearwell is a fine fortress, Gaston. Do not give so little stock in it. The church could turn it into an abbey or something; they’ll find use for her and her wealth.”
Gaston’s heart sank; if he lost everything to obtain two annulments, what on earth could he offer Remington?
He was old, nearly too old to regain his fortune.
He knew that Henry would not allow him to be a pauper, but he was a proud man.
If the king were going to give him money and lands, then he would be obligated to work for them, which would rule out any thoughts of living peacefully away from the politics and strife of London.
The men were silent; Gaston was lost to his depressing thoughts and Martin was concentrating on his earlier idea. He was too single-minded to think and talk at the same time.
Gaston was glad his uncle had shut up. His mind turned to Remington, packing upstairs, and he felt the pangs of separation already. God help him, he couldn’t stand to have her out of his sight for five minutes much less months. How on earth was he going to survive?
“I must help Remi,” he set down his goblet.
Martin watched his nephew leave the room, hearing his heavy boots mount the stairs.
Aye, Gaston was virtually helpless. But Martin, being a retired warrior, was not included in this incapacitated state.
He could indeed do something. This was the perfect opportunity for him to prove to Gaston and the world that he was not a useless old man waiting for death. He would prove his worth – again.
Gaston stood in the door way just as Remington was pulling on a pair of slippers.
She had changed surcoats, out of the scarlet brocade and into a surcoat of pale yellow silk that brought out her beauty like nothing else.
It was snug and fit her form incredibly, and she smiled at him as he entered the room.
“I…I did not want to wear the scarlet,” she said softly. “I like the yellow much better. Do you recognize it?”
He nodded faintly, fingering a springy curl. “You wore it the night I fell in love with you. Aside from the green that you buried Rory in, ’tis the surcoat I remember best. It does you justice, madam. Henry will be most envious.”
She blushed. “I do not care what the king thinks. I only care what you think.”
He sat down on the bed next to her, raising his eyebrows. “You know what I think.”
She met his gaze, warm and tender, and a stab of anguish shot through her. She was trying so desperately to be brave, but it was becoming more difficult with each passing moment.
She stood up, moving to secure her bags. She couldn’t look at him anymore. He watched her graceful back, the way the dress flared at the hips, memorizing every line of her. His smile faded and his entire body began to ache with agony. How could he let her go?
Remington was thinking the same thoughts. How could he allow the church to separate them? Anger, borne from grief, bubbled forth against her nature.
“I do not want to go, Gaston,” she murmured. “Why must I?”
“Because we must cooperate, Remi; you know that.”
She pulled at the bag sharply, her emotions unveiling themselves. “I do not want to!” She suddenly snapped. “Why are you letting them do this to us?”
“You know why.”
She spun around, her face filled with sorrow and fury. “No, I do not. I do not understand why you are not fighting them tooth and nail on this, Gaston. Why are you being so bloody cooperative?”
“Calm down, angel. ’Twill do no good to get upset now.”
“I shall get upset if I want to!” she raged.
“’Tis I who will be isolated in some God-forsaken convent for an indeterminate amount of time – not you.
Separated from you, from my family, from my son.
Why aren’t you at Canterbury right now convincing the archbishop what an evil bastard Guy is, and how he would do or say anything to keep us apart? Why?”
He stood up, reaching for her, but she shrank away. She did not want to be comforted at this moment. He sighed heavily when she yanked herself from his grip, his gaze sad.
“You are distraught, angel. Sit down and calm yourself and we shall converse rationally.”
“No. I do not want to sit!” she snapped, feeling the tears beginning. “Tell me why you are not fighting for me!”
He put his hands on his hips, his face tired.
He suddenly looked as if he had aged ten years in the past day.
“I cannot fight, Remi. To fight would only confirm what Guy has said of me. I must do what the church says; I cannot make them bend to my wishes, no matter how badly it pains me. And if this separation does not kill me, I will be surprised.”
Her eyes welled, but she fought off the cascades that threatened.
“If you were to fight, it would only confirm to the church that your feelings for me are sincere.” Her hands suddenly flew to her mouth and her voice turned into a shriek.
“I do not want to be separated from you, not even for a moment! I cannot bear the thought of spending months and months away from you Gaston, I shall go mad!”
He was upon her in a half-second, enveloping her in his massive arms and shielding her from the world. She sobbed harshly, painfully, her agony blooming. ’Twas no matter that she had vowed to remain brave; she couldn’t help herself anymore.
He held her, gripping her with the anguish he felt.
Was she right? Should he be proving himself difficult, fighting like a tiger?
Should he be substantiating rumors of his reputation, that there is more to the Dark Knight than merely a seasoned warrior?
Mayhap if they believed he was truly in league with the devil, then they would give him what he asked for simply to avoid Lucifer’s wrath?
Yet he chased those thoughts away rapidly. He was doing what he believed best, no matter how painful. Fighting the church would only make them angry with him; cooperating would put him in their good graces.
And then his mind clouded with thoughts of Guy Stoneley. Aye, he would see the man on the morrow and be done with these foolish games. He would have his agreement and his terms.
And then he would kill him.