Chapter 9 #3
Amaury’s own expectations had been vastly exceeded by the sweetness of his wedding night. How could Isabella have shared that with him and not been determined to fight for more?
“I did heed her,” he said, knowing that he had listened to his brothers first.
“But not first,” Thierry noted and Amaury could only nod agreement. She had protested that their match was doomed, but he had not recognized the depth of her conviction in that.
On the other hand, he had been appalled by the way her father had spoken to her. In a way, it was no wonder that she found it so difficult to trust him.
If ever there had been a view Amaury wished to prove wrong, Isabella’s would be it.
He had only to contrive the means of doing as much.
Back at Montvieux, those in the company tended the horses and made some improvements to the camp, as they would be using it for a long while. Amaury became aware of Philip’s silence, which was not common for the boy. When they reached a suitable pause, he beckoned to the boy.
“Walk with me,” he invited and Philip rose immediately to do as much.
Amaury led his squire toward the ruined village, unable to keep from noting how desolate it looked. “You are concerned.”
“I would not challenge your choice, sir.”
“But you have doubts about its merit in one case or another.”
Philip averted his gaze.
“Tell me of them,” Amaury invited. “There is no disrespect in conferring in private over any matter, though I do appreciate that you did not challenge me outright before the others.”
Philip cast a quick sidelong glance at Amaury. “We should not have left her,” he said with heat.
There was no doubt who he meant.
Amaury agreed, though there had been no way to seize his wife with the portcullis barred against them and the bailey full of her father’s men.
“The lady spurned me, as her father demanded.”
The boy shook his head. “You should have heard how they addressed her, sir, as if she were a lowly maid and not a daughter of the house.”
Amaury straightened with interest. “Indeed?”
“Indeed. The gates were not opened quickly to her and I doubt I was the sole one to wonder if they would be opened at all.”
Amaury frowned.
“Then the gatekeeper chastised her, my lord, as if it were inconvenient for him to be roused to do his duty.”
“Surely he would not address his lord’s daughter with such familiarity?”
But Philip nodded. “He did, sir.” Amaury felt his lips thin. “And then, when she said that Denis was killed, he berated her for leaving that man behind.”
“And what was she to do?” Amaury demanded, indignant on his lady’s behalf. “There might yet have been brigands in the vicinity! The lady might have shared her brother’s fate!”
“Aye, sir, so I thought, but it was clear that those at Marnis did not agree. She said you had commanded her to ride on, but it seemed no one knew of your return.”
This made little sense. Edmund dearly loved to be the first to share any tidings. How could that man have restrained himself from confessing to Amaury’s return, much less the nuptials celebrated between Amaury and Isabella?
“But that cannot be,” he protested.
“And yet it was so.” Philip’s frown deepened. “But the worst of it was, sir, that though Fraser and I were shocked that she was addressed in such a manner, your lady wife was not.”
Amaury found this troubling beyond all. “They always speak to her thus,” he murmured beneath his breath, and found himself in violent agreement with his squire.
He should not have left Isabella at Chateau Marnis.
“No one came forward to tend her steed, sir. I could not bear that she should be so insulted and that a horse so in need of care should be ignored, so I offered to do as much. We tended to the mare, my lord, Fraser and I, but had only just finished when you arrived.”
“And that was well done on your part,” Amaury said warmly. “I thank you for such courtesy.”
The boy swallowed. “That is not all, sir.”
“Tell me.”
“The ostler came to us in the stables. I did not know him, of course, but his trade was evident. He did not introduce himself, but began to ask after you, my lord.”
“Me?”
“Aye. He wished to know if it was true that Amaury de Montvieux had returned from crusade, and I assured him that it was. He wished to know if you were hale and whole as yet, and I declared you to be as hale as any man.”
“So they did know of my return,” Amaury mused.
Philip nodded. “He then lowered his voice and asked if you had attacked Denis, and I said you could not have done, for we were all in company together.”
A fulsome ostler, then, though he would not be first such in Amaury’s experience with a fondness for tidings.
“And then, sir, he bade me remind you that Marnis and Montvieux had not always been at odds, and that there were many within the bounds of Marnis gladdened by your return.”
“How curious,” Amaury murmured.
“And there was more. There was the hue and cry from the hall then, with the lord himself bemoaning the death of his son. The ostler listened and his lips thinned. ‘This would be the wrath of God, fallen upon Marnis,’ he said most solemnly. ‘For there has been wickedness and it must be punished. So saith the priests and they speak aright.’ He stopped then, though I waited long moments. When the mare was at ease, I dared to ask what he meant.”
“Aye?”
“He gave me a queer look, sir, and said as you would likely unroot the truth of it soon enough. He said it might be too late for Lady Isabella, though. I was perplexed but he shook his head at me. ‘His scheme to ensure that Amaury de Montvieux was beneath his thumb may have faltered badly.’ And then a boy came from the bailey, and brought tidings to the ostler. They whispered together as we looked on, then the ostler surveyed us, more sober than before.”
“What had he been told?”
“He said the Lord de Marnis decreed that Lady Isabella could not be wed to you if Lord Denis were dead.”
Amaury understood the situation with sudden clarity and cursed his own slowness in seeing the truth.
Gaultier had no heir beyond Denis. Of course!
If Denis was dead, Gaultier would strive to make an alliance, by wedding his daughter to a man who would become Lord de Marnis after him.
But if Isabella was wed already, she could not wed another.
The scheme to ensure that Amaury was beneath the weight of Gaultier’s thumb had shattered with Denis’ death.
With his marriage, Amaury had a claim to Marnis – but Gaultier would undo that.
Who had witnessed the exchange of vows? Himself, Isabella, his squires whose word might be discarded, Denis, who was dead, and Edmund who clearly chose which truths to tell. Thierry, Luc and Lothair were not of this region and might be disregarded as well.
God in Heaven, he should not have left her behind!
He was surprised, in hindsight, that he had been allowed to leave Marnis alive. His demise would have simplified much for Isabella’s father.
Perhaps he was not the sole one thinking slowly. Or perhaps Gaultier had some ethics as yet.
Amaury looked at Philip, who nodded and continued.
“I asked after the Lady de Marnis, my lord, for I assumed there was one, and the ostler said she had filled the churchyard with sons who had failed to thrive. It seemed Lord Denis was the sole one to grow to adulthood. And then he added that Lady de Marnis would likely be sent to the convent along with Lady Isabella, for the lord had no need of a wife too aged to give him another son. ‘Mark my words,’ he said then. ‘There will be a ripe maiden wed to the lord within a fortnight, and he will ride her daily until he gets a son upon her.’ With that, he granted me a look then vanished into the stables.”
“He was garrulous even for a fulsome ostler,” Amaury said, amazed by all he had heard.
“Aye, my lord. I believe he meant for me to tell you every word.”
“Was there a plan for this journey to the convent? Was a specific convent even named?” Amaury had to think that his greatest chance of saving his lady wife from such a fate would be to interrupt such an expedition. He did not have sufficient knights to storm the walls of her father’s keep.
Philip shook his head. “The ostler did mutter something about the lord surely having sufficient kindness in his heart to let his lady wife witness the funeral of her only son. There was laughter, sir, as if others did not share that view.”
Days, then. There were only days to see to Isabella’s retrieval.
“I thank you, Philip,” Amaury said. “Your memory as always is so detailed that I might have been there myself.”
The boy bowed. “I strive to be accurate, my lord.”
“And the result is that I agree with you. We should not have left my lady wife alone at Chateau Marnis.” He dropped a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “But be assured that we will set all to rights with haste. Now I have a question for you.”
“Aye, sir?”
“Consider Montvieux village.”
“It is empty, my lord.” Sadness touched the boy’s features. “They are all gone.”
“And the mill is abandoned, which is as uncommon as the gates being left open to the wind.”
Philip nodded sad agreement. “I fear them lost, my lord.”
“Remember that there are no new graves. And all the village could not be hidden within Marnis.” Amaury said softly and his squire turned his way with surprise. “They fled, but they are not with my brothers. So, my question to you is where they might have gone.”
The boy looked at the village, his gaze darting over the quiet cottages then landing finally on what remained of the mill. “They might follow my father,” he said with care.
Amaury nodded. He had thought much the same.
Stefan, the miller of Montvieux, an affluent and amiable man, had a natural authority in his manner.
He was Philip’s father and had persuaded Amaury to grant the boy a chance to be his squire.
Amaury had never regretted his agreement.
Stefan had lived with his wife and six other children, all younger than Philip, three boys and three girls.
Amaury knew that man would have surrendered his own life to see his family safe.
Better yet, he would have ensured the safety and survival of any who accompanied him.
“My mother has two sisters,” Philip said. “One wedded a man in Marnis village. They would not go there after the Lord de Marnis’ attacks and threats.”
Amaury could only agree. “Your other aunt?”
“She wed a cloth merchant who lives in a village to the south. Sant-André. We passed near it on our route homeward, but I never thought they might be there.”
“And now?”
“I am certain they would go to my uncle. He has many comforts and is both kindly and generous. It is not so far that they could not walk in a week or so, and there is a lesser road that can be taken that one might not be discovered so readily. It would make a fine refuge for the Count de Sant-André is most vigorous in defending those beneath his hand.”
“And an old friend of my father’s, as well,” Amaury agreed. “I would ride to Sant-André in the morning, Philip, and would welcome your companionship.”
“Aye, sir. I can vouch for you with my uncle. We could leave at the dawn.”
“Indeed, we will, the sooner that we might return.”
Amaury had only a few days to retrieve his lady wife, but he had greater chance of success with an army at least upon its way. He could only hope that the count and his father had remained on friendly terms.