Epilogue #2
“Apologies,” Creston said, giving his wife a remorseful look. “Do you want me to break it up?”
Ophelia shook her head wearily. “Nay,” she said. “They will eventually give up and move on. But this is constant, Cres. I do not know how I am going to have the time to deal with them once this child is born.”
She put her hand on her rather large belly and Creston put his hand over hers, pulling her against him and kissing her somewhat passionately. There was always passion between them—even more so when she was pregnant, because he found nothing more arousing than a woman pregnant with his child.
“Mayhap this babe will be an easy one,” he murmured against her mouth, her cheek. “One can always hope.”
Ophelia gave in to his warmth, his power. The man she could not live without. “Mayhap,” she whispered. “But I was thinking that I should find a nurse to help me. I’ve done it all on my own with five children, but with one more, I could use the help.”
He kissed her cheek one last time and looked at her. “If that is your wish, then we shall find one,” he said. “But you will be losing Gar soon. He will be fostering here year-round, so that is one fewer child to manage.”
She nodded, turning back to the food she was preparing. “I do not know what Keaton and Preston will do without him,” she said. “They want to do what Gar does, all of the time. They will be lost without him.”
“True.”
Violet suddenly screamed, loudly, and Creston turned for the common room to see what was amiss. Once more, Shepton had the horse and was running around as she chased him. Then she tripped and began to wail.
Creston just shook his head.
“And this has been going on all day?” he asked incredulously.
“Aye,” Ophelia said. “For Christ’s sake, have another wooden horse made for Shep so we can have some peace around here.”
Creston chuckled, but nodded. He went to pick Violet up, comforting her over her beastly little brother. As he cuddled her and soothed her, Ophelia called out from the kitchen.
“Will you help them wash their hands?” she asked. “Supper will be soon.”
That comment reminded him about his gatehouse visitor. “I will when I return,” he said. “I have business at the gatehouse. I’ll return shortly.”
“Be quick about it,” Ophelia said. “Everything is ready.”
He kissed Violet on the cheek and set her to her feet, swiftly heading out of the cottage. He could hear the yelling starting up again and almost turned back, but thought better of it. He’d only be a few minutes, just to see what this visitor wanted of him.
As he was a member of the Septum Port Alliance, it could be anything.
Business for the Earl of Sidbury took many forms. It wasn’t just that he was a trainer at Blackchurch.
As the leader of the Septum Port Alliance, the hereditary seat for the Earl of Sidbury as a founding member, he’d had to catch up very quickly on port business those years ago.
Fortunately, he’d taken to it easily, but it was one of the most difficult group of responsibilities he’d ever encountered, not the least of which had to do with the pirates who liked to ravage the ports.
That was where it became interesting.
Because of his connections to Blackchurch, Triton’s Hellions and the Demons of the Sea now gave a wide berth to all of the ports connected with the alliance, but in order to do so, they were paid an annual tribute.
All of the port lords had readily agreed to that simply to avoid the raids and destruction that could be so costly.
Medusa’s Disciples was another group that avoided Sidmouth, but they had been known to harass some of the others.
The biggest problem was a group known as Kraken’s Horde, an Irish faction, whom none of the port lords had had any luck in formalizing an agreement with.
Creston had been trying for about ten years, but so far, there had been no progress.
As a result, he’d doubled the army at Axen Castle and built two stone garrisons down by the beach to ward off any raids.
But he had a secret weapon.
Given that Sidmouth was a port city, it saw its share of ships from all over the known world.
About five years ago, he’d been given the opportunity to purchase something called a “sleeve”—it was an iron tube, essentially, that could be mounted to a wall.
Using a rare powder from the east called serpentine, or fire medicine, one could ignite the powder and fire a projectile, usually a smooth iron ball, straight into a ship and damage it.
Even though it was terribly unpredictable in its accuracy, the truth was that if it hit its mark, it could be very destructive.
Creston was the only one in all of England who had such a thing, so ever since he acquired it, any pirate faction had avoided Sidmouth like the plague.
Creston was proud of himself for it.
Naturally, men had been trying to replicate the sleeve or buy it from him ever since.
That had him wondering if the visitor in the gatehouse was yet another man attempting to buy what he had, perhaps a knight sent from a rich lord, wanting to know what his price was.
The truth was that he had no price and, already, Kristian’s cogs on Lake Cocytus carried four sleeves that had been made by Blackchurch smithies.
Blackchurch had what so many others wanted, and if it weren’t so difficult to make what the serpentine required, they might even have more.
Such was progress in the military world.
Creston’s mind was on his valuable sleeve as he entered the gatehouse.
The commander in charge pointed him to the guard room, and he entered the large, somewhat comfortable room built into the gatehouse itself.
There were a couple of guards there, and a big knight standing near the hearth.
The guards pointed to the knight before vacating the area, and Creston approached the man.
“I am de Royans,” he said. “You wish to see me?”
The man turned to him. He was young, slightly taller than Creston, with long blond hair and blue eyes. When their gazes met, the knight just stared at him for a moment before breaking down into a weak smile.
“I do,” he said. “My name is Theo de Betheny. You would not recognize that name, I do not think, but I serve the Comte d’Anjou.”
Creston nodded in understanding. “Louis’ youngest son,” he said. “You serve in France?”
“I was raised there, my lord.”
“Charles is still quite young, as I recall.”
De Betheny nodded. “He is, my lord,” he said. “He has seen seven years.”
Creston grunted. “I have a seven-year-old son,” he said. “I cannot imagine a boy that age having such a great responsibility, even with regents.”
De Betheny agreed with him. “Much is expected of royal children, I suppose,” he said. “My role is in commanding the comte’s household. I am in command of his military force and bodyguards. Though it is small, it is important.”
Creston couldn’t help but feel as if he’d met this young knight before. There was something familiar about him. “I see,” he said. “And what, may I ask, have you come to speak with me about? Does this have to do with Sidmouth?”
The knight shook his head. “Nay, my lord.”
“Then what is your business?”
“I’ve not come on business,” de Betheny said. “I’ve come on an errand of a rather personal nature. I told the gate guard why, but I do not suppose you recognize the name?”
“What name?”
“Mary.”
“Who is Mary?”
“My mother.”
Creston wasn’t making the connection at that point. He was about to ask the knight’s business yet again when a light went on in his mind. Mary. Of course, he’d known that name from long ago. Very long ago. So long ago he’d buried that memory.
Suddenly, the memory wasn’t so buried.
“Mary,” he repeated softly. “Mary…”
As he looked at the knight, he began to realize why he looked so familiar. His breathing quickened as memories of lovely Mary from his youth came tumbling down on him—all of the pain and longing that he’d ever felt, the fear, the concern for the child she carried that he would never see.
Realization swept over him like a wave.
Now he knew why the knight had come to see him.
“She was sent away when her father discovered our plans to be married,” he finally said. “I am assuming that is the Mary you are referring to.”
The knight nodded slowly. “It is, my lord,” he said quietly. “Mary St. Albans.”
Creston felt as if he’d been physically struck.
It was confirmation of his suspicions, something he was wholly unprepared for.
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what the knight expected from him, but as he looked at that tall young man, all he could feel was surprise and gratitude.
Great gratitude that his son had been born and was now a man with responsibility in the French court.
God, what a prideful thing that was to hear.
His son had survived.
He had also thrived.
Slowly, Creston lowered himself down into the nearest chair.
“If you’ve come to berate me for not marrying your mother, then you should know that I very much wanted to,” he said.
“I knew she carried you and I was desperate to marry her. Your grandfather, however, had other plans. After Mary was sent away, I tried to locate her, but I was met with walls at every turn. Someone finally had the decency to tell me that she had married a French lord, so I stopped looking. After that, there was no point. But I will say that her loss drove me out of the English royal court. Blackchurch found me around that time and I have been here ever since.”
Theo found another chair, sitting across from Creston and simply staring at the man.
“My mother told me about my origins,” he said.
“She did not tell me until I came of age and she would not tell me your name at first. She would only say that I was conceived in love with a man who was not her husband, before she ever met my father. And I do call Raul de Betheny my father, because he was. He was a good man.”