The Dark One: Dark Knight (102 page)

     When they were gone, she turned to him,
still smiling.

     “Now, you see? You look wonderful in white.
I think I shall make you several more of the same.”

     He shrugged; resistance was futile. If she
thought he looked handsome in white, then he would humor her. He leaned over
and pecked her cheek. “I will wear white. But I will not wear pink, or blue, or
green, or yellow, or any other pastel color. I do not care if you make the
tunic with your own hands or not; I shall burn it before I wear it.”

     She giggled as he pulled on his boots.
“Agreed, my love.”

     He took her hand and led her from the room.
“Now I am going to ruin this lovely tunic by putting my armor on.”

     “I expected as much. But thank you for
wearing it anyway.”

     They paused in the corridor and he kissed
her sweetly. “And I thank you for thinking enough of me to make it. I shall
always cherish it.”

     They gazed lovingly at each other a moment,
warm silence between them. A door opened down the hall, the door to the
nursery, and they both turned to see Eudora exiting into the corridor with a
bucket in hand. Remington sighed.

     “I suppose we had better go and say our
good-byes to Arica and Adeliza,” she already felt her throat constricting with
emotion.

     He put his arm around her shoulders,
pulling her down the hall. “They'll hardly miss us, I assure you. As long as they
are fed and warm and dry, they'll never notice our absence.”

     “What a terrible thing to say!” she
exclaimed, and he laughed.

     “A mere jest, angel. Please do not dissolve
into hysterics.”

     She slapped at him playfully, between
outrage and giggles. “Gaston, you are most inconsiderate and cold. Would you
prefer that I not miss them at all?”

     “Of course not,” he squeezed her gently,
letting her pass first through the nursery door.

     It wasn't Remington who cried as she told
her babes good-bye. It was Gaston. But his tears were short lived. As he
cradled Arica in his massive arms, Nicolas came bolting in through the nursery
door.

     “Gaston,” he said urgently. “A small army
approaches.”

     Gaston carefully set Arica back in her crib
before turning to his excited cousin. “Colors?”

     “Yours.” Nicolas smiled with delight.
“Patrick approaches.”

     “Patrick?” Remington repeated happily,
Gaston was already moving for the door. “Did he send word ahead of his arrival
that I was unaware of?”

     “Nay,” Nicolas shook his head.

     Remington hastily lowered Adeliza into her
crib. “Can I come, Gaston? Please?”

     He shrugged. “You are chatelaine, are you
not? ‘Tis your duty to greet guests to Deverill.”

     Remington preceded the men from the room,
but not before she sent several serving wenches scurrying with orders. Gaston
observed with approval the manner in which she dictated command, firmly,
calmly, and pleasantly. She was obeyed because she treated the servants like
people, not like animals, and was always rewarded with swift action and
loyalty.

     It constantly amazed him that a woman who
was treated like an animal for nearly half her life was so patient and kind. As
if all she had ever been dealt in her life was the same.

     She smiled up at him as they made their way
to the bailey, and he smiled back, still engrossed in his thoughts. This was
the same woman who had reared back from him like a crazed creature, who had
bore secrets too horrible to believe.

     It was incredible how she had blossomed,
how they both had blossomed in each other's company. She craved affection,
touching, as did he. Away from Guy and Mari-Elle, they had both been allowed to
taste the true meaning of love.

     His soft feelings faded as he thought of
what was coming. All testimonies had been given on Remington’s ' a behalf, and
still the church was staunch in their stance. Resorting to lies seemed to be
the only way to obtain what was so desperately wanted for the both of them, as
much as Gaston loathed doing it. Skye, Jasmine, and Remington herself were the
secret weapons in this fight. If they could convince the papal council of Guy's
evilness, then there was no way the annulment could not be granted.

     But what if it wasn't? A persistent little
voice pushed, taunted, and irritated him. What then? Gaston thought seriously a
moment.
What
then?

     …If Guy were not proven a devil worshiper,
he would remain a prisoner of the crown for the rest of his life. He had not
given his consent for the annulment, in spite of nearly being beaten to death;
therefore, there were no provisions to be made for him. The papal hearings were
moving ahead on the basis of Gaston and Henry's insistence that Guy was an
unfit husband and an immoral, cruel barbarian. Guy continued to cry foul,
insisting that Remington was a reward for Gaston's service to his king, and
that she was furthermore being forced against her will. She was a victim of
Henry's power game.

     Guy was still insisting that he loved her.

     Gaston's blood began to boil again, as it
did every time he thought of Guy's pathetic pleas. He wondered seriously why
the man was so eager to hold onto her. Mayhap he truly did believe he loved
her, as much as the vile man could love anything at all.

     Thank God that Dane was safe, at Oxford. He
could not be used as a pawn anymore by his father, considering no one but
Gaston, Henry and John de Vere knew where the boy was. When Guy asked, he was
simply told Dane was fostering. Period. Certainly the church did not like the
idea that a father was not being allowed knowledge of his son's whereabouts,
but Henry was firm with them. The problems were between the father and the
mother, and the boy was not to be involved in any way. When the circumstances
allowed, his whereabouts would become common knowledge.

     They entered into the nearly completed
inner bailey, the sky overhead a brilliant blue. Gaston could see that the
outer gates were beginning to swing open for his cousin, and he could see his
threatening black and silver banners flying in the distance. Removing himself
from his train of thought, he clasped Remington’s hand and moved forward to
greet his cousin.

     Patrick rode ahead of the column of forty
men, astride a great brown destrier. Remington noticed he was riding alone,
like Gaston. He came to a halt, cuffing his horse when it tossed its head
irritably.

     “Greetings, my lord,” Patrick dismounted,
raising his faceplate.

     Gaston nodded faintly. “To what do I owe
the honor of your visit?”

     Patrick took a few steps closer. “Merely
progress reports on your men at Clearwell,” his blue-green eyes drifted to Remington.
“Greetings, my lady. You look well.”

     She smiled, although she thought she could
detect a bit of coldness in Patrick's voice. Not at all like the gentle Patrick
she had come to know. “Thank you. How have you been?”

     “Well,” he turned away from her and back to
Gaston. “You look as if you are mobilizing, I am at your disposal.”

     “We are preparing to leave for London,”
Gaston detected the indifference to Remington, as well, and was puzzled. “I do
not know how long we will be there, but I would welcome your support.”

     “London?” Patrick's eyebrows drew together.
“What goes on there?”

     Gaston raised his eyebrows in a helpless
gesture. “What does not go on there? We are still in the midst of seeking an
annulment for Remington and we are taking Jasmine and Skye with us for
testimony.”

     Patrick's eyes drifted to her again. “I
heard of the twins. I suppose I should congratulate you both.”

     The tone was icy. Remington was shocked and
she took a step back from him, lowering her gaze. Gaston stiffened.

     “No need,” he said steadily. “You are
tired, cousin. Retreat to the castle and I shall seek you later.”

     Patrick removed a gauntlet. “I shall sleep
in the knight's quarters, Gaston. No need to house me in the castle.”

     Gaston's eyes narrowed at his cousin. This
man in front of him was not the Patrick he knew. He went beyond the
pleasantries, the overtures. “What's the matter with you? Since when are you so
distant and cold?”

     Patrick fixed him in the eye. “I do not
know what you mean. Surely this is what you expect of me, cousin. Seeing as I
am only fit to train your men at Clearwell, and not reside in the duke's
residence.”

     Gaston was surprised. “What in the hell are
you talking about? You are training my men because you are the best man for the
task, Patrick. How could you possibly think it was because I did not want you
with me?”

     Patrick refused to look at him, fussing
with the other gauntlet. “I shall not delve into the subject with you here in
the open. We shall discuss it later, if you like.”

     “We shall discuss it now. Explain your
words to me, Patrick. And explain your callous tone to Remington.”

     “You mean your whore?” Patrick wasn’t fast
enough to duck the blow that caught him in the jaw, a blow so hard that his
helm was half-ripped from his head. He landed on the ground heavily, spitting
out teeth and blood.

     Nicolas and Antonius rushed forward, but
not to stop Gaston. They were there to protect Remington.

     Gaston loomed over his cousin, bending over
the man as he struggled to push himself up. “You will apologize now or I will
deal you a far more serious blow.”

     Patrick sat up, his hand to his mouth. When
he looked up, there were tears in his eyes and Gaston was torn between great
remorse and his still-peaked anger. He knew they were not tears of pain. Puzzlement
won out.

     “Patrick?” he whispered questioningly,
almost demandingly.

     Patrick rubbed his jaw, wiping at the blood
and saliva coursing over his chin. “I'm sorry….I did not mean it. “ His voice
was barely a whisper.

     Gaston reached down and picked him up,
putting his arm around his shoulders in an extremely rare gesture of affection.
“Why, Patrick? What's wrong with you?”

     Patrick’s whole face was leaking some sort
of fluid, tears, spittle, blood, and mucus. He wiped at everything. “Lost, I
guess. Banished to Clearwell, I was feeling lost and rejected. I came here
today because I did not want to stay there anymore and I was hoping you would
allow me to remain with you,” he glanced over at Remington, seeing the tears in
her eyes. “I am so sorry, Remi. I did not mean it. I have not seen you since
Rory died and….I look into your eyes now and I see her. I was feeling the pain
all over again and I guess I lashed out. Forgive me.”

     She went to him and kissed his swollen jaw,
blood and spit and all. Patrick let out a sob as she patted his cheek sweetly,
hugging him. “Everyone has a lady but me. I am sorry, Remi. I...I have spent
the better part of a year feeling sorry for myself and hating the world.”

     He sounded like a little boy lost.
Remington took firm hold of his arm and pulled him with her, into the castle.

     Gaston accompanied them. Inside, he
bellowed for hot water and linens and sent a servant scurrying for Rastus. As
Gaston followed closely, Remington took Patrick into the small solar and set
him down. She tried to remove his helm, but it was so badly bent from Gaston's
blow that Gaston had to literally tear it free from the breastplate.

     A bearded, haggled Patrick faced them and
they were shocked at his appearance. Be had let his gorgeous curly black hair
grow untamed, giving him a wild appearance. His face was black-bearded,
unkempt. Remington slanted a concerned glance at Gaston as she ordered Patrick
to open his mouth so she could see the extent of the damage.

     Gaston watched his cousin respond painfully
to Remington's request, distressed to see his state. He had not seen Patrick in
over six months and was shocked at the transformation.

     He had sent Patrick to Clearwell to get
away from the memories of Rory. He did not imagine that Patrick would sink further
and further into despair, letting his mind run wild with crazy thoughts. After
nearly a year, Patrick was still grieving for the wild redhead that had made
Nicolas' life so miserable.

     For the first time in his life, Gaston
regretted a decision he had made. He should have not sent Patrick to be alone
at Clearwell. Had he but known....

     “You are missing two teeth,” Remington
said, peering into Patrick's mouth. “On the bottom. And I can see pieces of a
third tooth still in the socket.”

     She winced as he spit more blood on her
clean floors, knowing from experience how much a blow to the face hurt. Patrick
could barely move his jaw.

     A serving wench came in bearing hot water,
linens and witch hazel, and a bottle of alcohol. Remington moved to pick up the
linen, but Gaston was shoving the bottle of wine at Patrick.

     “Take a drink. Do not swallow, but swirl it
around in your mouth and spit it into the basin. The second drink you may
swallow.”