The Dark One: Dark Knight (75 page)

     Gaston raised a slow eyebrow, refocusing on
the lord's men. You do not wish for me to enter this fight, do you? Then lay
down your weapons and return to your drink, or I will make it so that you will
never drink nor fight again.

     After a brief, hesitant second, the four
soldiers who had been fighting Gaston’s three knights slowly sheathed their
swords. Looking properly subdued and respectful, they stumbled back to their
table as Gaston’s men took the stairs to see if they could assist Nicolas and
Matts.

     Timidly, the room began to return to
normal.  Fights were not unusual with a roomful of soldiers and no one was
overly ruffled.

     Gaston sat back down, looking at Remington.
“There. Happy now?”

     She blinked at him, a bit overwhelmed by
what she had seen.  She had nearly forgotten the fear she held for him when she
had first seen him, the abject terror of the man and his reputation. Obviously,
she was not the only person who had a healthy respect for Gaston.

     She turned her back to her meal,
befuddled.  He watched her closely, afraid her gay evening was already damaged
beyond repair.

     “What’s the matter, angel?  Are you angry?”

     She shook her head.  “Nay….I am not.” What
was she feeling, anyway?  Confusion, surprise, and a new respect for Gaston? 
She wasn’t sure. Light-hearted moments before, she felt somewhat subdued.

     The innkeeper was still standing behind
them. “Thank you, my lord. I shall always consider your intervention a great
favor.”

     “Do not,” Gaston said; the tone he had used
with Remington vanished in favor of an icy one. “I did it so as not to upset
my... wife. She does not like fighting.”

     De Tormo, in his trencher, lifted an
eyebrow but said nothing. He was afraid if he did that Gaston would cut his
head off.

     The innkeeper was not put off by Gaston’s
insult and his jovial mood was returning. “A room for you and your wife, then?
No charge.”

     Gaston looked at Remington, who looked at
the priest. De Tormo felt their gazes but did not look up. Instead, he shrugged
faintly.

     “I accept,” Gaston replied quietly, his
eyes still on Remington. She deserved a bed to sleep on, not the cold ground.
She deserved anything and everything his reputation could obtain.

     De Tormo coughed loudly, quickly drinking
from his tankard. As the innkeeper strode away, Gaston put his hand on
Remington's knee under the table. “Eat up, angel. You have had a long day.”

     She forced herself to eat at first, but
quickly realized she was famished. The beef was excellent, the vegetables
tasty, and she stuffed herself silly. With her appetite returned, so did her
mood.

     She ate and watched, watched and ate,
paying little attention to what she was doing so that ale dripped on her dress.
Gaston smiled and wiped it away, relieved to see she was brightening again.
Nicolas and Matts, as well as the other knights, returned to the table a short
time later and resumed their meals with gusto.

     De Tormo excused himself, retreating to his
recently commandeered room with pleasure. Traveling with the Dark Knight had
its advantages, he thought. Of course, he should have been troubled that he was
allowing such adultery to go on in his presence, but it was more than carnal
lust. Much, much more, and he did not believe God would fault him overly. God
had, after all, created man and woman to love one another.

     He retreated up the stairs, forcing his
disturbing thoughts down.  He could not prevent de Russe from sleeping with
Lady Stoneley, and he would not try.  Adultery was such an ugly word.

     Remington enjoyed her meal, talking in
between bites, pointing at groups of soldiers and demanding to know their seat.
She would make snide comments about the serving wenches, especially the ones
who served their table.  Gaston, amused, drank warmed cider and listened to her
rattle on.  He’d imbibed quite enough for the night and did not want to muddle
his senses.

     Nicolas found himself the object of
attention from a particularly busty brunette wench, pretty enough, but
Remington was shooting silent daggers at him every time he made necessary
conversation with the girl. He would flush and stammer though his request or
question, glad when the girl swished away. He did not want to rile Remington,
especially in light of their conversation earlier that day.

     But the woman seemed intent on luring him
for the night. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, he let Matts take over the
conversation and kept his head buried in his trencher. He had no desire to take
the woman to bed, curvaceous as she might be, and did not want to encourage
her. He had his own woman at home.

     The wench was talking to Matts, laughing
loudly with him and the other three knights. Gaston ignored her completely,
focused on the room and on Remington, while Nicolas wished she would simply go
away. Remington continued to eat, fuming, and watched the girl.

     Finally, she'd had enough. Her sisters'
jokes and mischievous ways had apparently sunk in more than she realized,
because she discreetly began to pile a load of food on her spoon with the sole
purpose of flicking it at the wench. Keeping her eyes on the woman, she turned
the spoon and took aim.

     The food when sailing, smacking the girl on
the neck. She screeched, jumping back from the table and wiping the mess from
her skin. Her accusing eyes flew to Remington.

     She smiled sweetly, licking some of the goo
from her finger. “I am terribly sorry, sweetheart. How clumsy of me.”

     The girl had better sense than to say
anything at all, considering the woman sat next to the Dark One himself.
Without a word, she scampered away and Remington smirked victoriously. Gaston
slanted her a glance.

     “Ah, the ghost of Rory strikes again,” he
said softly. “Really, Remi. I thought you to have better manners than that.”

     “I do, of course,” she said crisply. “But I
found that woman extremely offensive. I am sorry, Sir Matts, if I chased away
your quarry.”

     The blond knight with the soft brown eyes
smiled faintly. “You did me a favor, I am sure, my lady.”

     The evening went on and the occupants of
the room proceeded to get disgustingly drunk, all with the exception of Gaston
and his men. He refused to allow his men to drink so much that they were
reeling of their senses, and they passed their time with pleasant conversation.
Remington snuggled up against Gaston, listening to his knights recount stories
of valor and she was properly enthralled.

     Some of the soldiers in the room were
singing loud, bawdy songs.  One of them had a mandolin and played quite well;
it would have been pleasing had the song not been so obscene. Gaston kept an
ear cocked, making sure they did not get out of hand in Remington’s presence.

     Gaston made it a habit not to socialize
with his soldiers; it had long been his routine. To socialize with his knights
was a limited occurrence, and he made it clear from the onset that he was not
their friend, but their liege. Yet tonight, sitting with Remington, he was
actually far more relaxed and amiable than he had been in a long, long time.
His men were surprised by his mood, yet they knew the lady had everything to do
with it.

     There was not one man at the table that had
served less than five years with Gaston, and they were all acquainted with the
man and his personality. They found it nothing short of astonishing that one
small, lovely lady could exert such power over him. And she was not even aware
of it. They furthermore realized Gaston was a truly likable fellow with a droll
sense of humor, something none but his closest advisors had come to know. They
were aware that Gaston and Arik had the very same sense of humor, explaining a
good deal of the attachment between the two men.

     The singing soldiers were growing louder,
and Remington kept turning around, smiling at their disorderly behavior. She
thought it was comical, while the knights thought it was distasteful.

     A serving wench joined in the singing, an
older, well-used woman with pretty red hair. Suddenly, one of the men grabbed
her and she screamed good-naturedly, but he began to rip off her clothing and
her squeals continued, louder. The soldier hauled her up and threw her roughly
on the nearest table, much to the delight of his comrades, and proceeded to
throw up her skirts. The wench laughed and taunted the soldier about his
manhood.

     Gaston heard the commotion and was up
before Remington realized what was happening. The soldier saw him coming and
backed away, and the woman did a mad scramble off the table. The entire group
of revelers looked at Gaston as if he were the Grim Reaper.

     Gaston stopped and planted his feet, eyeing
the collection of drunks. He did not say a word, merely raised a menacing
eyebrow, before turning around and retreating back to his table.

     The party of drunken soldiers called a
retreat for the night, and the wench disappeared into the kitchen.

     “What was that all about?” Remington asked.

     “I was displeased with their
entertainment,” he mumbled, passing a glance at Nicolas. “Well, my lady, have
you had enough excitement for one evening?”

     She nodded. “In truth, I am fatigued. All
of this food and ale has made me sleepy.”

     “No doubt; you ate as much as I did. Shall
I escort you, then?”

     She rose stiffly, smiling shyly at the
knights and bidding them a good eve. They watched Gaston take her upstairs, their
eyes following her until the two of them disappeared from view.

     Matts let out a slow hiss. “Jesus Christ,
he's sotted. Have you ever seen any man so overwhelmed with a woman before?”

     One of the other knights with a heavy Irish
accent concurred. “He's far gone, lads. I pity Guy Stoneley.”

     “Why in the hell would you pity that
bastard?” Nicolas demanded with a scowl. “He's got what's coming to him, after
what he’s done to the lady and her sisters.  To Skye.”

     “And are you going to marry Lady Skye?” the
Irish knight asked with a faint grin.  “She’s a pretty little thing, just like
a fairy.”

     Nicolas sneered and looked away.  “None of
your damn business, Jacob.”

     “He's touchy, lads. Jacob nodded to the
other knights. “He's as sotted as the Dark One, I'd wager.”

     Nicolas tried to look severe. “One more
word and I shall cut your heart out.”

     The knights laughed softly at Nicolas'
expense. As they were tossing more insults around the table, the busty brunette
sauntered up with a fresh pitcher of ale. “Gentle knights?” she asked,
indicating the pitcher.

     Nicolas watched her fill his tankard. By
damn, if he wasn't going to be forced into marrying Skye. He never actually
slept with her; even though Gaston's explanations as to how conception could
have taken place made sense, how could he be sure? He was too damn young for a
wife.

     He stood up rapidly, grabbing the serving
wench by the arm so hard that she spilled ale on Matts. “With me, woman.”

     She almost dropped the pitcher as she set
it down, rushing to keep pace with Nicolas as he took her from the hall and out
into the night.

     He led her into a thicket of trees not far
from the inn. She was barely to a halt when he was ripping open her bodice, his
mouth clamping down on her tender nipples. She moaned with pleasure, her
experienced hands moving to his breeches.

     On her back, Nicolas drove into her eager
flesh like a rutting bull.
This is how you beget a child, Skye. Not with
that silly petting and teasing you do. How in the hell can you be pregnant?

     Even as he thought it, he was sorry he was
thinking badly of her. Sweet, beautiful Skye!

God, how he wished 'twere she who was under him
now. As he found his release, Skye's name poured from his lips and he wished
with all of his heart that he was back at Mt. Holyoak with her in his arms.

***

     Gaston was up before dawn, as was usual
with him. He ran into Nicolas as the men broke camp, his eyes hot on his
cousin.

     Nicolas was concerned. “What is it?”

     Gaston opened his mouth, and then shut it
as if afraid to speak his mind lest he rant out of control. When he finally did
speak, it was measured. “I will not ask you why you took the serving wench last
night, especially after the conversation we had yesterday. But I will say this;
I will hear no more of your conquests, Nicolas. If you do indeed bed another
woman, then make sure she is discreet. That bitch you bedded last night has
announced to anyone who will listen that you took her, and took her hard.”

     Nicolas lowered his gaze, but he was
irritated as well. “Who I bed is my business, cousin.”

     The veins on Gaston's temples flared
dangerously, but he kept his outward calm. “Aye, it is. But I made a promise to
Remington some time ago that I intend to keep; I promised that I would not
allow my knights to hurt her sisters. I forbid you to abandon Skye now that she
is pregnant with your child, Nicolas. Do you understand me? And I will not hear
that you have bedded anymore wenches.”