Chapter Twenty #6
Gaston gazed back impassively, watching the honey drip from the blade. “’Twas your misfortune to allow her to get close to your possessions. If I were you, I would check everything rather carefully when we stop this night. Rory was quite thorough in her torment of you.”
Nicolas stared at the dagger, the honey running from it. “I…I would take her over my knee again if she were still alive.”
The corner of Gaston’s mouth twitched. “The first time you punished her had no effect. What makes you think the second time would reform her?” He gathered his reins and Taran danced excitedly.
“Go back to Remi’s carriage, Nicolas. And tell her of her sisters’ haunts from the grave; I think she will enjoy the joke. ”
Nicolas gave his cousin a wry look before turning as ordered, riding back along the column with the dirk held high and away.
The party passed quickly through the trees.
Gaston was very uneasy with the sighting of the smoldering campfires and his sixth sense told him to be alert.
Robbers and bandits were plentiful in the woods of well-traveled roads ready to prey on unsuspecting travelers, but they were not a stupid lot; they stayed away from armies or heavily armed parties.
Yet the deserted camp had been quite large, as large as the group he carried, and he was not so sure that the outlaws would not make some sort of attack.
The attack would be deadly for the bandits.
Not only were they attacking the church, but also they would be taking the offensive against the Dark Knight.
Even though he flew his black and silver standards, mayhap a gutsy outlaw would think it quite a test of his power to take on the Henry’s Dark One.
Remington continued to play cards with de Tormo, winning more than she lost, unaware of the uneasiness about them.
She kept gazing out of the window of the carriage, feeling the sultry moisture off the trees.
The humidity was so thick that even the birds had ceased to sing, finding a cool spot to rest. De Tormo broke out a bladder of cool water and they slaked their thirst.
The column moved on, southward, toward even more unbearable humidity.
Remington’s hair was becoming a mass of kinky curls, wet strands sticking to her damp forehead.
To the right of the carriage rode Nicolas, visor down and shield slung over his left knee.
She knew it was a battle-ready position, but she never imagined they were truly in any danger.
After all, who would be foolish enough to attack the Dark Knight?
They passed out of the dense forest and into the soft rolling hills of England.
The further south they drew, the less forest mass they would see.
Only sweetly sloping rises in the earth, and Remington watched, entranced, as they rode the crest of a hill.
Gazing off across the countryside, she imagined she could see all the way to the sea.
There were farmers about, peasants traversing the road, jumping out of the path to make way for the Dark Knight and his party. The papal colors next to Gaston’s standards made a rightfully impressive sight to all who gazed upon them.
They rode until after dark, when Gaston led them into a small village with a bright inn.
Even in the carriage, Remington could smell roast beef and hear the sounds of merriment inside.
She was smiling with excitement, trying not to hang her head from the carriage like an eager child.
Loud people full of ale and food burst in and out of the inn, laughing and singing and chatting. Remington wanted to be one of them.
De Tormo eyed her, knowing her heart’s wishes, and furthermore knowing the inn was no place for the young lady. But it was out of the elements and she could have a hot meal on a real table, not eat off her lap. Watching her face, he groaned inwardly; he knew her demand before she ever spoke a word.
“I want to go to the inn,” she declared, watching curiously as a soldier and a busty wench came falling out of the door, screaming with drunken laughter. She looked at the priest. “I have never been to an inn.”
De Tormo raised his eyebrows, eyeing the hostel. “I’d hardly call that a reputable establishment. It looks more like a den of iniquity to me.”
Remington watched the soldier and the wench push themselves off the ground and stagger into the night. “They’re simply having fun, de Tormo. It sounds like a lovely place.”
The priest snorted and looked away, knowing that de Russe planned to take her to the tavern.
But even as he thought of a pretty speech to refuse de Russe, his mind wandered to the soft bed within the inn that surely awaited him.
Lord God, he would love to sleep on something other than the ground this night.
He was, after all, not a hearty man and the thought of a feathered mattress ’neath his body soothed him like a sexual favor.
How could he deny the two of them what he so desperately sought? After all, if de Russe was paying….
A knight appeared at the carriage, a man Remington recognized but did not know his name. He focused soft brown eyes on her. “My lady, Sir Gaston is seeing to the settling of his men and will be with you shortly,” he said. “He asks that you remain in the carriage until such time.”
Remington nodded, glancing at de Tormo as the knight bowed away. “He must think I am going to forget myself and go bounding into the inn.”