Archangel (40 page)

Isabella seemed to perk up, forgetting about the act of remorse she always put on for the priests. She did the same thing every time she went to confession, thinking they would never notice. But they did.

“Is this true?” she asked.

“It is, as long as you are both truly sorry. Who have you sinned with?”

She appeared timid again, looking around the confessional booth to make sure the door wasn’t open and no one could hear her.  She leaned towards the screen that separated her from the priest.

“Armand de Foix,” she whispered.

Jonas sat upright. That wasn’t the name he was expecting.  A look of supreme confusion crossed his featured and he struggled not to let his confusion show in his words.

“Who is this man?”

She was pressed against the screen. “A man sent by my father,” she hissed. “He is a mercenary. I was overcome with desire but I am truly sorry. What is my penance for my sin?”

Jonas was off-balance now.  The conversation was not going as expected.  “Only de Foix?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there no one else you have sinned with?”

Against the screen, Isabella’s features creased with an angry pout. “There is no one else! Why would you ask such terrible things of me?”

Jonas could see that she was verging on a tantrum and quickly moved to stop it.  It would not due to infuriate the young queen, for a myriad of reasons, mostly because he liked his head and neck just where they were.

“You must do one hundred Hail Marys and pray at the grave of St. Edmund for your penance,” he said quickly. “Mention de Foix’s name in your prayers and he will be forgiven as well. Go with God, my lady.”

Isabella was quickly soothed, crossing herself quickly before leaving the confessional booth.  Jonas sat there, watching the flickers of light through the screen, hearing her speak with her women as she wandered from the church.

He left the confessional when she quit the church.  There was much on his mind, much that de Lohr needed to know.  Making his way to his quarters deep in the bowels of the cathedral, he collected his heavy cloak and his purse.  He had to get to Bellham Place and he was sure he was going to have to pay someone to take him there.

The stakes of the situation had changed.

Chapter Twenty Three

Bellham Place was very big. 

Romney discovered this as he made his way down the master staircase, a big thing made out of stone. It was cold on his bare feet. He was supposed to be in bed but he had something he had to do. He was looking for the baron and the earl that Gart had spoke of, men that were trying to help them.  He wanted to tell them something.

But Bellham was a big place with scary shadows on the walls.  Romney paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking around.  He spied two big rooms that were dark and spooky. There were ghosts in there, real ghosts this time.  He could hear people moving around but he wasn’t sure where the sounds were coming from. 

Over to his right, tucked back in a small corridor, there was a door with light emitting from around it.  He thought maybe there were people there.  Summoning his courage, he came off the steps and heading in that direction.

He stood outside the door, listening to the voices inside. They were considerably softer than they had been earlier and he could hear that they were male voices. Perhaps they were the men he was looking for.  Timidly, he knocked on the door.  He had to do it three times before someone opened the panel.

A muscular blond man appeared.  He peered into the darkness over Romney’s head, looking for an adult, but was shocked when he noticed the child standing in the doorway at his feet.   His brow furrowed as he gazed down at the boy, though not unkindly.

“Greetings,” he said rather pleasantly. “Who are you?”

Romney swallowed away his nervousness. “My name is Romney de Moyon,” he said. “My… my mother and I came here this afternoon.”

A faint smile crossed David’s lips as he stood back, ushering the boy inside the room.

“Master Romney,” he acknowledged. “Please come in. Do not stand out there in the darkness.”

Romney entered the room, his eyes wide with apprehension, noticing a very large man standing over by the softly glowing hearth.  That man didn’t seem unkind, either. But he did look curious. Romney swallowed again, knowing he should probably speak since he had interrupted these men in conference.

“I…,” he swallowed again and almost choked. “I wanted to speak with the baron and the earl.”

Christopher came away from the hearth, his focus on the nice-looking young man in clothes that were far too big for him.

“You have found us,” he said. “I am Christopher de Lohr and this is my brother, David. How may be we be of service, Master Romney?”

Romney’s mouth popped open as he gazed between the two big men. “Are you really the Earl of Hereford?”

Christopher nodded, his sky-blue eyes twinkling in the dim light. “I am,” he replied. “How can I help you?”

Romney was suddenly nervous and excited. He had never met someone so important.  He began to shift around on his cold feet.

“Gart said…,” he pointed upstairs. “He said that you were trying to help us so we would not have to go to my father.”

Christopher’s smile faded as he glanced at his brother. “We are discussing many options regarding Gart and your father, young Romney. I would not worry about it if I were you.”

Romney sensed the earl wasn’t as urgent on the matter as he was. Realizing that fed his bravery because he wanted the earl to know just how important this was to him. This was his life.

“I wanted to tell you not to send my mother and me to my father,” he said sincerely. “My father… he is very mean. He hits my mother until she cannot walk. He makes her bleed and then my brothers and me must tend her because he will not let anyone else help her.  Sometimes we cannot help her very much but we try.”

All of the humor was gone from Christopher’s features.  He sighed heavily and crouched down in front of the boy, seriously studying the young features.  He could see nothing but truth and honesty there.

“That is very brave of you to help your mother,” he said softly. “But you must understand that your mother and father are married. No one can interfere with that, not even me.”

Romney began to feel a sense of fear, fearful that all would not be well as Gart said it would be.  He had to make the man understand.

“One time, my father pushed my mother down the stairs because he was angry,” his eyes started to tear up and he wiped them away furiously with the back of his hand. “She had a baby in her belly and the baby died. I remember that my mother almost died, too, until my father let a physic come and tend her.  My mother… I love my mother. She kisses us and gives us treats, and plays games with us. She takes care of us.”

Christopher gazed steadily at the boy, his heart just about breaking. The lad was struggling so hard to be brave but his fear, his tears, had the better of him.   He put a big hand on the boy’s shoulder as he stood up.

“Come over here and sit down, Master Romney,” he led the boy over to the hearth where a little chair sat. It was Christina’s chair, painted pink, but Romney didn’t notice in the dim of the room.  Christopher sat in the bigger chair opposite the boy, focused on his distressed young face. “It sounds as if your mother is a wonderful woman.”

Romney’s lower lip was trembling as he continued to angrily wipe away tears. “She is always afraid when my father is home,” he said. “When he goes away, she is happy again.  When Gart came to stay with us, she was happy every day. Gart makes her happy. He is nice to her and buys her nice things, and she… she is not afraid any more.  Gart takes care of all of us and he loves us. We love him. That is why I do not want to go back to my father. Please do not make us.”

The last sentence was spoken with a sob.  The young boy lost his battle against tears and he hung his head, weeping softly.  Christopher watched the lowered head a moment before lifting his gaze to his brother.

David stood a few feet away, his features taut with sympathy.  He looked as if he was about to cry himself.  Christopher put a gentle hand on the boy’s lowered head as he stood up and went to his brother.

“Did you send this child in here to try and convince me?” he hissed at his brother.

David rolled his eyes. “Do you truly think I would be so treacherous?”

Christopher pursed his lips irritably at his brother for a moment before looking back to the child.  Romney was wiping his face and struggling to stop his tears.  Christopher sighed heavily.

“Surely I cannot return the boy and his mother to Buckland now,” he whispered. “To hear of the situation from the child’s perspective is true and clear.”

Romney turned around, hearing the whispers. He focused on the two men. “My father says that the Queen is his special friend,” he said, wiping at his nose. “Maybe the Queen will want him so he will forget about us.  Then we can be with Gart and we will be happy again.”

Christopher and David passed long glances at each other. “It is not that simple, lad,” Christopher said. “We cannot….”

Romney jumped up from the stool, interrupting him. “But my father says he only keeps my mother because she is beautiful and has given him fine sons,” he said insistently. “When he tires of her, he will kill her and find another wife. I have heard him say so!”

Christopher went to the boy, gently forcing him back down on the little chair as he sat opposite him. “Romney, I understand your concern,” he said gently. “But the fact remains that your father and mother are married. No one can destroy that marriage no matter how terrible your father is.”

Romney’s brow furrowed as he thought on that, laboring furiously for an answer to all of this.  “My father will kill my mother if you take us to him. I do not want my mother to die!”

Christopher patted the boy sympathetically on the arm. “Your father is not going to kill your mother any time soon,” he assured him. “You and your mother are going to stay here as my guests for a time.”

“How long?” Romney wanted to know.

Christopher shrugged. “Until we can figure out a solution to the situation.”

Romney felt a little better, but not much. At least he knew they weren’t going to turn them over to his father tomorrow. There was still time.  As he sat in brooding silence, Christopher stood up and went to the small service door in the corner of the solar.  Opening it, he instructed the servant sleeping in the alcove to bring the boy some warmed milk.  Closing the door softly, he went back over to his brother.

“Now what?” he demanded in a whisper. “Since I cannot return the boy and his mother to Buckland, what do you suggest?”

David puffed out his cheeks, looking thoughtful.  “It would solve our problem if Buckland went to France and got himself killed fighting Isabella’s war,” he muttered, half in jest. “Gart could marry Lady de Moyon and we would not have to agonize over this any longer.”

Christopher rubbed wearily at his eyes. “Perhaps I should hire an archer myself simply to be done with it.  From what you have told me, Buckland has completely lost his mind.”

David had to agree. “Who would enter my home and try to slug me in the mouth? De Moyon is an idiot.”

Christopher fought off a grin. “I would have liked to have seen you knock his teeth out.”

David looked at him with a smirk. “It was purely in self defense, I assure you.”