Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
Gaston returned to Deverill Castle almost three weeks later.
His new keep outside of Warminster welcomed him with open gates and an honor guard, as befitting the duke.
The small skirmish had been overwhelmingly successful in Henry’s favor, an insignificant battle with two minor barons.
Spofforth had held magnificently, and to Gaston went the victory.
As his army entered the huge bailey in the dark of night, Gaston’s thoughts were already on Remington.
A thousand torches lit the night sky as he dismounted Taran, leaving Antonius and Nicolas in charge of dismantling the army.
He knew de Tormo was inside, waiting for him with Remington’s reaction, and he had to speak with him.
Were the reaction favorable, he would leave for Wells Abbey this night.
The great double doors to the castle were open and the first sight to greet him was Jasmine and Skye, wrapped against the chill of the castle. Their pretty faces were pale and drawn.
“Where is de Tormo?” he demanded, foregoing any greeting.
“Not here,” Jasmine said, extending her hand. There was a rolled, sealed piece of vellum. “This came this morning, Gaston.”
Gaston stared at it a moment before snatching it away, breaking the seal. There were only three words:
Come immediately. De Tormo
Gaston couldn’t help it; his stomach lurched and he crushed the parchment in his fist.
“What is it?” Jasmine demanded. “One of the priest’s men brought it. What does it say?”
He was shaking; sweat was beading on his upper lip. “I have to go.”
Skye was starting to cry and Jasmine dashed forward, grasping Gaston’s arm. “For God’s sake, Gaston, what is it? Has something happened to Remington?”
His voice was quivering when he spoke. “I do not know. I have to go.”
Taran had already been taken away when he reached the bailey.
Panic ruled his brain; he took the nearest mount and set out for Wells Abbey.
Nicolas and Antonius saw him ride off, too far away to yell to him.
Puzzlement was rampant, but they stuck to their orders and continued to dismantle the troops.
Wherever he was going, he did not need them, else he would have summoned their assistance.
Gaston rode like the devil. His mount was a warmblood, not too winded, and took his commands easily. Armor and all, he weighed over four hundred pounds, but the horse handled him well.
The moon above was full and bright, like a great silver plate in the sky.
The landscape around him, softly rolling hills that would be green and fragrant in another month or so, passed by him an eerie gray color.
It served to fit his mood, mindless and bleak.
Looking at the countryside, his terror suddenly took on a shape.
He was afraid to anticipate the reason for de Tormo’s urgent missive.
Were he to imagine the possibilities, he would transform into a quivering lump of flesh, unable to function.
He had to retain his sanity just long enough to discover the reason for the missive.
Only afterward would he determine his reaction.
When he reached Wells Abbey an hour before dawn, his horse collapsed underneath him and died.
*
Loaded with armor and weapons, the war machine known as the Duke of Warminster marched into Wells Abbey. He paused in the dimly lit foyer, raising his faceplate as a gaggle of nuns hovered nearby.
“Where is de Tormo?” he demanded. “Better yet, where is Lady Remington?”
One nun, an older lady with a creased face, approached him and bowed respectfully. “I am Sister Josepha. Who are thou that wouldst invade our sanctuary?”
Above his anxiety, he realized he must look like the devil himself to these women. He tried to calm his brusque manner.
“I am the Duke of Warminster, Gaston de Russe,” he said calmly. “Would you please tell Father de Tormo that I am here? He sent me a missive to come right away.”
The nuns in the corner began to whisper to each other urgently, two of them rushing off in a flurry. Gaston heard two words, Dark One.
Sister Josepha maintained her calm demeanor. “He is expecting thou. I shall send someone to fetch him.”
She called to a young girl hovering nearby to fetch the father and beckoned Gaston to the visitor’s solar.
Being so close to Remington, Gaston’s skin was prickling even as the old nun poured him a drink into a crude wooden cup.
He had not been this close to her in months, and his excitement made his skin hurt.
He did not want the offered beverage, but took it anyway.
“Where is Lady Remington?” he asked again. “I would see her as well.”
The old woman cast an appraising eye at him. “Thou art the husband?”
He blinked and shook his head. “Nay.”
She nodded. “Ah. The lover. The Dark Knight.”
He almost choked on the sour wine. “I intend to be her husband, one day.” He did not know what else to say.
The old nun nodded faintly and Gaston began to feel uncomfortable as well as anxious. What had Remington told these women of the cloister?
“She did not tell me, my lord,” the nun finally said, a twinkle in her dull eyes. “Prioress Mary Margaret confided in me one day, and we prayed for thou both. It would seem that Remington doth not put great stock in God. We felt it our duty.”
Gaston set the cup down with a gentle thud. “Thank you, sister. Your concern is appreciated.”
“There are apparently a great many people concerned for you both,” Sister Josepha said. “Our prayers have been powerful indeed.”
“And how is that?” Gaston asked.
She smiled, a cracked ancient smile. “Thou has come, has thou not? Thou are not so dark, as the name implies. God speaks and thou listens.”
Gaston nodded faintly, not knowing what else to say. His mind was increasingly preoccupied with Remington and de Tormo. He hesitated to ask the old nun where Remington was; she had avoided his question twice.
They heard rapid footfalls coming down the corridor. Gaston smelled de Tormo before he saw him.
“Gaston! Thank God,” he exclaimed quietly. “You are finally here!”
Gaston forgot all about the old nun standing behind him. “What’s wrong?”
De Tormo glanced at the woman behind Gaston; Sister Josepha moved for the door discreetly, but she did not leave entirely.
“It’s Remington, Gaston,” he said quietly. “She entered into labor two days ago and….”
Gaston suddenly grabbed his head in agony. “Dear God, she is dead!”
“Nay, Gaston, she is not,” de Tormo assured him quickly. “But she…she is not well, not at all.”
“Take me to her,” Gaston was begging and de Tormo was struggling to keep the man calm. He put up his hands soothingly.
“Get hold of yourself, my lord, for there is much to tell,” he instructed firmly.
It would not do to have Gaston lose control early on.
“Listen to me completely, if you would. Remington went into labor two days ago and delivered your children this morning. But she lost a great deal of blood in the births, Gaston. Too much blood, and she continues to lose a great deal of blood. A physic from Glastonbury is with her, and I must be completely honest with you when I say that her outlook is grim. The physic believes she will eventually bleed to death.”
Gaston was literally white. His helm came off shakily, his face so white that his lips were gray. The smoky gray eyes were wide.
“Children?”
“Two girls. She named them Adeliza and Arica.”
Gaston let out a ragged sigh, dragging his hands over his face. He could barely speak.
“How are they?”
“Adeliza, the eldest, is well. But the physic says that something is wrong with Arica. He does not expect her to live. I have already given her last rites, and the prioress continues to pray over the babe,” de Tormo was trying to be gentle, but there was simply no easy way to deliver such devastating news. “They are three weeks early, you know.”
Gaston was looking at the floor. When his head came up, his cheeks were streaked with tears. “Take me to her,” he rasped.
De Tormo was shocked at the emotional display from the feared, almighty Dark One. But his heart was breaking for the man, for Remington, and for the children. He was simply thankful for the fact that Gaston had come when he did.
He took Gaston down to the end of the corridor, followed closely by Sister Josepha. At the end of the hall was a narrow staircase. Remington’s door was the first door to the right at the top of the stairs.
There were three or four nuns in the room, each busying themselves with something or another. Gaston paid them no attention; his eyes were instantly riveted to the ashen figure on the bed and his tears flowed even faster.
She was buried under a mound of covers, her damp hair plastered to her pasty face.
Her breathing was shallow and every so often she would twitch.
The head of the bed was lowered dramatically, so much so that her feet were nearly sticking up in the air.
She looked as if death were her shadow, waiting for the fleeting moment to step in and whisk her away.
He was oblivious of everyone else in the room; efficiently, mechanically, he began to unlatch his armor.
Huge, heavy pieces fell on the floor as de Tormo and the elderly nuns struggled to cart them away.
Gaston had eyes only for Remington; when he was completely free of his protective gear, he rolled up the sleeves on his heavy linen shirt and moved to the edge of the bed.
The physic was on the other side of the bed. “You are her husband, my lord?”
Gaston was so choked he could barely speak. He wiped at his tears with the back of his hand. “Aye.”
The physic nodded faintly. “She has lost a good deal of blood, my lord. She continues to bleed and I have been unable to stop it. I have packed her, sewn her, but there has been no relief.”
Gaston sniffed loudly, taking Remington’s hand and holding it to his lips. His eyes never left her. “How much longer can she…will she…?”