Chapter Twenty-Five #4
“I must help Remi,” he set down his goblet.
Martin watched his nephew leave the room, hearing his heavy boots mount the stairs.
Aye, Gaston was virtually helpless. But Martin, being a retired warrior, was not included in this incapacitated state.
He could indeed do something. This was the perfect opportunity for him to prove to Gaston and the world that he was not a useless old man waiting for death. He would prove his worth – again.
Gaston stood in the door way just as Remington was pulling on a pair of slippers.
She had changed surcoats, out of the scarlet brocade and into a surcoat of pale yellow silk that brought out her beauty like nothing else.
It was snug and fit her form incredibly, and she smiled at him as he entered the room.
“I…I did not want to wear the scarlet,” she said softly. “I like the yellow much better. Do you recognize it?”
He nodded faintly, fingering a springy curl. “You wore it the night I fell in love with you. Aside from the green that you buried Rory in, ’tis the surcoat I remember best. It does you justice, madam. Henry will be most envious.”
She blushed. “I do not care what the king thinks. I only care what you think.”
He sat down on the bed next to her, raising his eyebrows. “You know what I think.”
She met his gaze, warm and tender, and a stab of anguish shot through her. She was trying so desperately to be brave, but it was becoming more difficult with each passing moment.
She stood up, moving to secure her bags. She couldn’t look at him anymore. He watched her graceful back, the way the dress flared at the hips, memorizing every line of her. His smile faded and his entire body began to ache with agony. How could he let her go?
Remington was thinking the same thoughts. How could he allow the church to separate them? Anger, borne from grief, bubbled forth against her nature.
“I do not want to go, Gaston,” she murmured. “Why must I?”
“Because we must cooperate, Remi; you know that.”
She pulled at the bag sharply, her emotions unveiling themselves. “I do not want to!” She suddenly snapped. “Why are you letting them do this to us?”
“You know why.”
She spun around, her face filled with sorrow and fury. “No, I do not. I do not understand why you are not fighting them tooth and nail on this, Gaston. Why are you being so bloody cooperative?”
“Calm down, angel. ’Twill do no good to get upset now.”
“I shall get upset if I want to!” she raged.
“’Tis I who will be isolated in some God-forsaken convent for an indeterminate amount of time – not you.
Separated from you, from my family, from my son.
Why aren’t you at Canterbury right now convincing the archbishop what an evil bastard Guy is, and how he would do or say anything to keep us apart? Why?”
He stood up, reaching for her, but she shrank away. She did not want to be comforted at this moment. He sighed heavily when she yanked herself from his grip, his gaze sad.
“You are distraught, angel. Sit down and calm yourself and we shall converse rationally.”
“No. I do not want to sit!” she snapped, feeling the tears beginning. “Tell me why you are not fighting for me!”
He put his hands on his hips, his face tired.
He suddenly looked as if he had aged ten years in the past day.
“I cannot fight, Remi. To fight would only confirm what Guy has said of me. I must do what the church says; I cannot make them bend to my wishes, no matter how badly it pains me. And if this separation does not kill me, I will be surprised.”
Her eyes welled, but she fought off the cascades that threatened.
“If you were to fight, it would only confirm to the church that your feelings for me are sincere.” Her hands suddenly flew to her mouth and her voice turned into a shriek.
“I do not want to be separated from you, not even for a moment! I cannot bear the thought of spending months and months away from you Gaston, I shall go mad!”
He was upon her in a half-second, enveloping her in his massive arms and shielding her from the world. She sobbed harshly, painfully, her agony blooming. ’Twas no matter that she had vowed to remain brave; she couldn’t help herself anymore.
He held her, gripping her with the anguish he felt.
Was she right? Should he be proving himself difficult, fighting like a tiger?
Should he be substantiating rumors of his reputation, that there is more to the Dark Knight than merely a seasoned warrior?
Mayhap if they believed he was truly in league with the devil, then they would give him what he asked for simply to avoid Lucifer’s wrath?
Yet he chased those thoughts away rapidly. He was doing what he believed best, no matter how painful. Fighting the church would only make them angry with him; cooperating would put him in their good graces.
And then his mind clouded with thoughts of Guy Stoneley. Aye, he would see the man on the morrow and be done with these foolish games. He would have his agreement and his terms.
And then he would kill him.