Chapter Thirty #4
“Are you feeling well, father?”
He shifted in his seat. “The heat bothers me.”
“Me, too.”
They sat in silence a moment before de Tormo twisted a bit, reaching behind him. Remington watched as he pulled forth a roll of vellum and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, examining the scroll with de Tormo’s own seal.
“Just keep it,” de Tormo said, his expression unusually soft.
“Why?” she looked at him, his flushed face.
“Keep it safe,” he repeated. “’Tis only to be used in the case of a dire emergency.”
“Dire emergency? Father, what are you talking about?”
“Just that,” he patted her hand, pushing it toward Remington’s satchel on the floor. “You shall know when that happens. Then you may open the scroll.”
She was greatly puzzled, but put the vellum away as requested. “What is it? A black spell to make the church bow to our wishes?”
He smiled. “If it were only possible.”
He looked away, gazing from the window, but she continued to watch him. He seemed very pensive and distant and Remington was beginning to feel depressed. “What are you thinking? We do not have a chance with this annulment, do we?”
His fat face turned to her, flushed; yet she noticed the pale ring around his lips. And his lips were a very strange color, almost blue. “I truly do not know, Remi. I wish I did.”
“But with your testimony, surely they will be convinced,” she persisted. “If anyone can convince them, you can.”
He shrugged. “I can but try, my lady. And I will, believe me.”
She stared at him a long moment, reading in his eyes everything he could not say. “But it would take a miracle.”
He met her gaze and nodded once, faintly. Patting her hand, he turned back to the window.
Gaston did not stop for supper. The column continued on into the night and Remington took to lighting a small oil lamp for some illumination, breaking out the bread and cheese and wine they had brought along.
Nicolas rode next to the carriage, flipping up his faceplate and opening his mouth like a fish as his wife fed him bits of food.
De Tormo did not eat. He complained that he was too tired and laid his head back against the carriage, closing his eyes to gain some rest. Remington was worried about him and sent Nicolas to fetch Gaston for her.
Gaston returned to the rig, reining Taran on Remington’s side. The horse, even with his armored face and heavy chain bit, nibbled at Remington’s arm with his silk lips and she scratched him affectionately.
“How is the ride?” he inquired, watching her “ruin” his warhorse. How many times had he told her the animal was a war machine, and not a pet?
“Fine,” she lowered her voice, her eyes locking onto his. “I fear Father de Tormo is ill, Gaston. He does not look well.”
Gaston leaned forward a bit so that he could see inside the cab. He raised his faceplate after a moment, as if to get a better look. “What’s wrong with him?”
She glanced over her shoulder at de Tormo. “He seems extremely fatigued and his color is bad.”
“So? ’Tis the heat, Remi. With all of the weight he carries, it is no wonder that….”
“And his appetite is gone,” she cut him off insistently. “Moreover, he gave me a scroll this day and bade me to keep it, only to be opened in case of a dire emergency. He told me that I would know exactly when that occasion would arise.”
Gaston gave de Tormo one last glance before sitting straight. “He would not tell you what the parchment contained?”
“Nay. He only told me to keep it.”
Gaston thought a moment, his gaze raking over the darkened surroundings. “We shall be at Oxford within the hour. I am sure a good night’s sleep will do him good.”
“But what do you think it is?” she leaned forward out of the window, trying to keep her voice down.
He shook his head and lowered his visor. “I do not know. But do as he requests; hold on to it.”
Oxford Castle, seated on a crest above the river, was not as large as Remington would have thought. It was grand, of course, but not nearly as big as Deverill or Mt. Holyoak. Still, the massive outer gates were most impressive as Gaston’s party rode in under a full salute.
There were soldiers everywhere. The nearly full moon offered a good deal of light as the bailey swarmed with activity, but still torches added additional brightness as Remington and her sisters disembarked the carriage.
De Tormo, roused from a heavy sleep, nearly fell to the ground as he stepped from the rig.
John de Vere greeted Remington warmly, a kiss to her cheek as if she were an old friend. Remington was delighted to see him; she had come to like him a great deal. An older woman fell into place beside him and he put his arm around her shoulders.
“Lady Remington, this is my wife, Anne,” he introduced the two.
Remington curtsied deeply. To her surprise, the woman reached out and took her hand gently. “My lady, I have heard much about you. I see now that John did not exaggerate your beauty.” She blushed furiously. “Thank you, Lady de Vere. I am flattered.”
The woman’s eyes were warm on her. Anne de Vere was in her late thirties, a very handsome woman. Remington liked her.
“Allow me to introduce my sisters,” Remington indicated her two siblings standing next to her. “This is Lady Jasmine Flavio, and Lady Skye de Russe.”
Lady de Vere greeted them pleasantly, but returned her attention back to Remington. “We have a late meal prepared in the morning room for you and your family. If you would follow me, please.”
Remington nodded, searching over her shoulder for Gaston. He was several feet away, talking to the earl, and caught her glance. With a faint smile and a nod, he encouraged her to go along.
She felt a little lost that he was not to accompany her into a house full of strangers, but did as she was told. Gathering her sisters and taking de Tormo by the arm, she followed the countess into the elegant castle.
The “morning room” was simply a glorified name for a large solar.
Richly appointed, as was the rest of the castle, Remington took a small plate of food and studied the artwork as Lady Anne and Father de Tormo kept up a running conversation.
Jasmine and Skye ate like pigs, eating as if they had not eaten all day.
Rich custard pies covered a damask-covered table, breads of cinnamon and currants, almond-and-sugar pastes molded and colored into a variety of shapes.
Jellied raisin puddings were decorated with lovely flowers and a half of a pig sat dead in the middle, smelling deliciously.
It was an impressive spread, which did not go to waste on the two younger sisters.
Remington delicately nibbled on a marzipan pastry as she intently observed a particularly fine painting, a lovely scene of flowers painted on bone-white linen. The watercolors were striking.
“Do you like it?” Anne came up behind her, smiling.
Remington nodded. “It’s lovely. Did you paint it, my lady?”
“My daughter did,” the smile faded from Anne’s face as gazed at the painting. “Alicia painted it the year before she died.”
Remington was saddened. “She had a tremendous talent, indeed. I am sorry to hear of your loss.”
Anne gazed at the painting a moment longer before tearing her eyes away, smiling brightly at Remington. “’Twas God’s will, my lady. She died in childbirth, although she was no more than a child herself. I lost my darling at seventeen.”
Remington was doubly saddened, glancing over her shoulder at her remaining sisters. “We suffered a similar loss last year. Our sixteen year old sister was killed in an ambush.”
Anne put her hand on Remington’s arm. “Then we both know what it is like to lose one so vibrant and sweet,” gently pulling Remington with her, the two of them walked back toward the food-laden table. “I understand you recently bore twin daughters. How very wonderful.”
Remington smiled. “I miss them already.”
Anne smiled sympathetically. “Well, I have an idea as to how to ease your ache.”
She tinkled a little silver bell on the table and instantly there were servants whisking through the open door, laden with trays of more food for the table. Remington glanced disinterestedly at them and almost turned away until she caught sight of a smaller servant bringing up the rear.
A very familiar figure!
Dane Stoneley caught sight of his mother the very same instant that she recognized him.
They both froze, unsure of what to say or how to act.
Gaston had always been all too clear about protocol.
Remington’s eyes were huge on her son; he had filled out, grown up, and was nearly as tall as Skye.
She felt hot tears filling her eyes, but she refused to give in to them, at least not until she greeted her son properly.
Anne gave her a nudge. “Well? Do you recognize your fine young man?”
She could only manage a nod, her throat too tight to speak. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Anne could see her dilemma and motioned to Dane. “Put the food down, Dane. And then you will retreat to my solar.”
Dane snapped out of his trance, doing as he was told. He set the tray down carefully and bolted from the room. Remington stood, dazed.
“My solar is across the hall,” Anne said softly. “I shall tell Gaston where you are when he arrives.”
Remington looked at the woman, a million words of thanks rushing to her lips, but all she could squeeze out were two. “Thank you.”
Dane was waiting stiffly in the solar. Remington shut the door softly behind her, turning to face the son she had not seen in nearly a year.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hello, mother.”
She smiled. He did, too. She was shocked to see that his missing front teeth had grown in, as had several more new permanent teeth. He almost did not look like the same boy and she felt herself crumbling.
“I have missed you terribly.”
“You have?” he swallowed. “Mother, I….are you and Sir Gaston married yet?”
“Not yet,” she said softly, emotions tightening her throat. “But soon, hopefully. We are traveling to London right now to finish the proceedings.”