Chapter 5 – Knights of the Andelin #8
“No. Jinmin, select your replacement. Bram, you’ll take on Tounot’s duties; both of you second support as you need it.
No one here should be irreplaceable,” Remin reminded them, ignoring the pointed glances his men were exchanging.
“If you dropped dead right now, someone should be able to step in for you.”
By the time they had finished planning Tresingale’s defenses, Remin had a momentous headache.
Huber was going to Selgin and Isigne, Ortaire to Meinhem, Rollon was making a semi-suicidal push to Nandre, and Remin was consoling himself by leading the march into the Berlawes.
The most dangerous period would be during his absence, but it took more than a few weeks to organize an invasion.
And only a lunatic would attempt the valley during winter.
After a final congratulatory handshake for Rollon, Remin departed, lengthening his stride as he headed for the stables. He was hoping to leave before anyone tried to catch him—he recognized the wordless communication passing between his knights perfectly well—but Juste was right on his heels.
“My lord. My lord!” Juste shoved the stable door open behind him. “A moment. ”
“What is it?” Remin’s horse was in the first stall, and Remin led the big black stallion out, looping his reins over a nearby hook as he went for his saddle.
“I must ask you to reconsider,” Juste said, getting to the point immediately. “There is no reason for you to go after the devils yourself. Any of us could lead that expedition.”
“I’m going.” He said it with a finality that would hopefully forestall further argument, but none of his knights went down without a fight.
“You are not replaceable,” Juste said sharply. “No one else can be the Duke of Andelin. You are the last of your line. And you’re the only one of us with a wife.”
“Of the four journeys, mine is the safest,” Remin replied, slapping the stallion’s belly.
The horse always held his breath when he was being saddled, to keep his rider from tightening the girth strap.
“I’ll be surrounded by fifty men, and I have no doubt you’ll take every single one of them aside and explain their duty to protect their liege lord before I go. ”
“If you are foolish enough to persist in this, absolutely.”
Remin’s jaw clenched. “Thank you. Your concerns are no—”
“My lord, you have no heir,” Juste interrupted loudly, stepping directly into Remin’s path. “You have failed to secure your House’s succession. You should not go.”
“Then I have a powerful incentive to come back,” Remin said softly, and swung up onto his horse. “I know you mean well, Juste. But I will not change my mind.”
He took the long way home. Sometimes he needed the time to settle himself before he went back to Ophele, when his blood was running hot from training or, like tonight, when he needed time to push things into their proper compartments.
The warhorse wanted to run. It took only the slightest encouragement to get the beast galloping, charging from Eugene Street to the still-nameless lane that led to the market square, and then past the stick-and-string outlines of the empty lots.
It felt good to go fast, to feel the cool evening air slice along his cheeks.
As if he sensed his master’s mood, Remin’s horse snorted, his powerful legs propelling them through the east gate and onto the road outside the walls of Tresingale.
Remin’s personal guards were probably having fits trying to keep up with him, and he was sure Juste and Tounot were conferring at that exact moment to try to figure out how to persuade him to stay home, but he knew he could not be argued on this point.
This had happened during the war, too. Sometimes Remin couldn’t help throwing himself into the place where the fighting was thickest, defying someone, anyone, to try to kill him.
It was the only way he could send other men to their deaths and still live with himself.
If Huber died, then that would be the last of Remin’s friends from his childhood.
There was Tounot, of course; Tounot was his first friend, and most faithful.
But Remin had grown up with Huber. He, Rasiphe, Clement, and Victorin had been pages together.
They had learned together, squabbled and fought and made up again.
Huber had always liked animals, and often as not, that was where they had gone when Remin wanted quiet: to commune with the horses or play with the dogs, uncomplicated creatures who wanted nothing but affection.
He missed that. Nothing had been the same between them since Victorin had died.
But he couldn’t make decisions based on childhood friendships.
Should he feel less guilty if Ortaire died, or Rollon, in the name of all the stars?
If he could have, Remin would have divided himself into three pieces and risked his life three times over on the hard roads he was asking them to travel.
He knew all the arguments Juste would have made, if he had stayed to listen.
And maybe he was a poor sort of nobleman, to neglect both his wife and the duchy he had fought so hard to win.
But no matter how much he argued with himself, he knew he would not give this task to anyone else.
Having deposited the lathered stallion in the stables, Remin tried to push these thoughts to the back of his mind on the way home.
Leonin and Davi stood guard outside the cottage, and he waved a hand, dismissing them for the evening.
Inside, Ophele was in her usual place at the table, working quietly and looking so warm and pretty in her red gown that she made him think of a little bird in her nest.
“Remin,” she said, looking up with a welcoming smile, and Remin went straight to her and knelt beside her, cupping her face in his hands for a kiss .
He forgot everything else at the sight of her.
The only remnant of his disquiet was the sudden, aching need to mate with her, to make a little celestial scion before he went away.
Distantly, he heard her squeak of surprise, her soft, fluting voice questioning as he pulled her from her chair to the bed.
But he understood nothing but his desire, so overwhelming that her dress tore apart like paper in his hands.
The heat was beating in his blood. Stars, she was so soft, she smelled so good. He dragged his face against her body, covering her with his mouth, letting her dazzle all of his senses so he didn’t—he couldn’t— think of anything else. Freeing himself from his breeches, he thrust urgently inside her.
Her hands clutched him. His breath was harsh and rasping in his ears as he pounded himself into her, blind and deaf and blissful.
The feel of her wiped away everything except their union and he was panting when he finished, shuddering as he ground his body into hers.
And as he filled her in great, searing bursts, he prayed with all his might: stars and ancestors, let her conceive.
“What was that about?” Ophele asked softly when it was over and they were lying together, her fingers running lightly through his black hair.
“I wanted you.” Remin felt very limp and peaceful.
“You tore my dress apart,” she whispered back, her golden eyes warm as honey. “Are you all right?”
“It was a hard day,” he admitted.
“Can I help?”
“You already did,” he replied, closing his eyes as her fingers stroked his cheek. It was true. He was basking in his garden, his place of perfect peace.