Chapter Five #3
The eastern sky was starting to turn shades of pink and purple, signaling the coming of the dawn, as Bastian and his party rode into the protected courtyard of West Court.
He gave particular notice to those thorny vines, as he remembered being caught by their barbs as a child many a time.
The vines were a great place to play at times, thick and shielding as they were.
They seemed even thicker than the last time he saw them.
The courtyard of the manor home was rather large, containing a row of stables off to the far right, downstream and downwind from the house, as well as trade shacks right next to the stables.
There was a small corral for team horses, and then between the house and the stables to the west of the house stood the walled-in kitchen yard. Already, he could hear the roosters.
Bastian’s affectionate gaze moved back to the house even as grooms and a few de Russe soldiers came to meet them.
The house had so many memories for him, one of the few pleasures he had left in life, and he found himself looking forward to seeing his father.
He saw his father so infrequently that it seemed every successive time, his father grew smaller and weaker.
He didn’t like to see that, so part of him was apprehensive of what he would find.
He dismounted his charger and strapped a muzzle on the horse before the grooms took it away.
Without a hind glance to his new wife or his knights, he charged forward, reaching the stone steps of the entryway with the big de Russe coat of arms overhead.
He was back now, in his element and in his world, and he felt better than he had in months.
West Court seemed to feed him, regenerate him, and he took a deep breath of the air.
It smelled like foliage and the river, and even of earth. It smelled of home.
The heavy front door swung open and he found himself faced with Worthington again. The young knight was sleepy but alert as he grinned at his cousin.
“I thought you had forgotten us, old man,” Worthington said. “You woke the entire house when you rode through the gates just now.”
Bastian cocked a dark eyebrow, loosening up one of his gloves. “It was not intentional, I assure you,” he said. “We have ridden all night from Bella Court. Great Bleeding Christ, I had to get out of the place. It was like being in Purgatory with its endless debauchery and gilded walls.”
Worthington laughed. “I have heard such things about it,” he said. “I have also heard that men disappear inside the place and are never seen again.”
Bastian nodded somewhat ironically. “I would believe that,” he said, pulling the glove free from his hand. “But we are here now and require food and rest, in that order. I have brought de Lara and le Bec with me, and I have also brought my wife and her lady.”
Worthington’s smile vanished and his eyes bugged. “Your wife?” he repeated. “Is that why Gloucester summoned you? To force you to marry the woman of his choice the very moment you set foot back in England?”
Bastian lifted his eyebrows wearily. “That is exactly why he summoned me,” he said, a hint of disgust in his voice. “Additionally, I am told to make my visit with Father swift because they want me in London immediately. It would seem that young Henry cannot get along without me.”
Worthington nodded but he was distracted by the activity in the bailey. Even though the sun was threatening to rise, it was still rather dark in the early morning hours even with the few torches that were burning in the courtyard. Bastian saw what his cousin was doing and he turned around.
Lucas was nearly upon him but Gannon was back with the women, directing the servants to take their possession inside.
Bastian’s gaze settled on the small figures of the women, both of them rather petite in stature.
He’d hardly paid any attention to his wife since the moment they were married and even as he looked at her, approaching on the arm of her brother, he didn’t give her much regard.
He turned back around and looked at his cousin.
“Put my wife and her lady in a chamber together,” he said. “The knights can bunk in one of the garconnières if any are available for their use.”
Worthington nodded but he was still distracted by the approach of Lady de Russe. “There should be plenty of room for your knights,” he said. “I am more interested in meeting your wife.”
Bastian didn’t say a word. He was loosening the second glove when Gannon and Gisella appeared on the steps. Bastian didn’t look up from his glove as he spoke.
“This is Lady Gisella le Bec de Russe,” he told Worthington. “She will be given all due courtesy as my wife.”
Worthington couldn’t take his eyes off the striking woman with the bright blue eyes. She appeared pale and rather exhausted, but there was no mistaking her blatant beauty. He bowed slightly, a show of respect.
“My lady,” he said. “I am Sir Worthington de Russe and it is an honor to have you here at West Court. The family will be very glad to meet you.”
Clutching Gannon’s arm, Gisella dipped into a polite curtsey. “Thank you.”
Bastian pulled the second glove off and pushed past his cousin, into the house. “Where is my father?” he asked.
Worthington called after him. “In his usual room.”
Bastian heard his cousin’s reply as he headed into the entry of the manor house and took the flight of stairs to his left.
They were big stone steps with carved wood bannisters, and he remembered once as a child getting his head stuck between two of the carved balustrades.
His father had actually been forced to remove one of them so Bastian could get his head out and the replaced balustrade had never been the same.
These days, it leaned slightly as a testament to Bastian’s childhood follies.
Such fond memories in this house invaded his thoughts as Bastian made his way to one of the chambers on the second floor.
It was very dark on this level and very quiet, as people were still sleeping in the dawn hour.
Bastian hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the house until he set foot in it.
He felt like he was home again and when he reached his father’s door, he opened it without even knocking.
The room was nearly pitch-black and the heavy oilcloths were covering the windows.
Embers glowed in the sooty hearth, just enough to ward off the chill, and the room smelled of urine.
In the darkness, Bastian headed to the bed, his hands reaching down to feel for his father.
The moment he located the warm body, however, he felt the tip of a very sharp weapon against his torso, poking through the gaps in the armor he wore.
“One more move and I will shove this through your belly,” came the threat.
Bastian snorted. “Good morning to you, too, Father,” he said. “No wonder you have no friends if this is any indication of your standard greeting.”
Sir Braxton de Nerra de Russe gasped at the sound of his son’s voice. “Bastian?” he whispered in awe. “Is it truly you?”
Bastian was grinning in the darkness as he put a very big hand on Braxton’s head, leaning over to kiss the man on the forehead.
“It is truly me,” he said, fumbling away from the bed until he came across a taper on the table next to the bed.
“Were you expecting someone else? A lover, mayhap? Father, I am shocked at such a thing. Do you really have a lover?”
He was teasing his father as only he could do. Anyone else would see Braxton’s fists flying. Even now, Braxton struggled to sit up in bed as Bastian moved to light the taper in the embers of the hearth.
“Cease your prattle, you foolish man,” he said, grunting as he moved because any movement these days was a great exertion for him. “Of course I do not have a lover. What on earth would I do with her?”
Bastian lit the taper, standing up and moving to the candleholder next to the bed to light a few more half-burned tapers in a candelabra.
“Surely you have not forgotten what to do with a woman,” he said.
“I realize you are old and fairly decrepit, but she could do all of the work. You would simply need to tell her what you need.”
Braxton finally made it into a sitting position. “Bah,” he scoffed. “All I need is my son and nothing more.”
Bastian put a pillow behind his father’s back so the man could sit comfortably. “You have him, then,” he said, “at least for a time. Gloucester has plans for me but I told him I needed to see you first.”
Braxton gazed up at his eldest. After a moment, he held out his hand to him and Bastian took it, holding it tightly.
“It is good to see you,” Braxton said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “It has been a very long time.”
Bastian nodded, squeezing his hand. “Too long,” he agreed. “I am sorry I was unable to come home sooner. Bedford keeps me occupied in France and I have little time to spare.”
Braxton sighed knowingly. “Pull up a chair and sit,” he said. “I must speak with you. I want to know how you have been.”
Still holding his father’s hand, Bastian reached out and pulled a padded oak chair over to the bed and planted his bulk in it.
“I have been well enough,” he said, the levity fading from his voice.
“There has been much happening in France but I will not bore you with the details. Suffice it to say I have been very busy.”
Braxton’s blue eyes were intense. “Bore me with the details,” he rumbled. “What has kept you so wrapped up in that foolish endeavor? And what is this I hear about you and the Maid of Orleans?”
Bastian’s good humor was gone. “Great Bleeding Christ, not you, too,” he muttered. “What have you heard?”
Braxton squeezed his son’s hand tightly. “Gloucester was here last week,” he said. “He told us a great deal, actually. He said that she bewitched you. Is this true, Bas? Did you let that evil woman take hold of you?”