The Dark One: Dark Knight (79 page)

     Gaston shook his head. “I am afraid it is
something only I can do,” he said. “But I swear I will send for you if I need
you. When can we see you again?”

     “As soon as you can make it to
Wellesbourne,” Matthew’s smile was back. “I am anxious for you to see my
daughter and Alix will drive me mad with questions about Lady Remington, so I
would encourage you to come as quickly as possible.”

     “We will,” Gaston’s gaze was warm on the
man. “It was good to see you, Matt.”

     Matthew reached out and took his hand
again, snorting at the expression on Gaston’s face. “What on earth is the
matter with you?” he asked. “I have never seen you so… emotional.”

     Gaston gave him a half-grin. “I am not
entirely sure,” he said, dipping his head in Remington’s direction, “but I am
sure it has everything to do with her.”

     Matthew turned to Remington and grasped her
by the arms.  It took her a moment to realize that he was only holding her with
his right hand because his left was missing. It was a startling realization
because she had never heard that the White Lord was missing his hand.  As she
pondered that mystery, Matthew leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

     “Whatever magic you have over him,” he said
as he pulled away, “I approve.”

     Remington smiled bashfully. “I look forward
to meeting your Alix,” she said. “I am sure we will have many happy
conversations together.”

     Matthew smiled warmly at her. “I am sure
you shall,” he said, turning to Gaston. “Promise you will call me if you need
me.”

     Gaston nodded. “I swear it.”

     With a final smile, and a hand to Gaston’s
shoulder, Matthew continued on to the livery behind Braidwood to collect his
horse as Gaston took Remington back into the house. Martin had devoured nearly
the entire plate of marzipan, turning expectantly when they reentered the
reception room.

     “Ah. Are you well, my lady?” he asked. “You
ran out of here so quickly that I worried for your health.”

     She felt Gaston squeeze her faintly and
managed a weak smile. “You will forgive me, my lord. Sometimes this child
announces itself at the most inopportune times.”

     “Of course.” Martin said. “Another de Russe
heir. By the way, Gaston, how fares your son? I have not seen him in years.”

     “Trenton is well,” Gaston was calm again,
reaching for the goblet his uncle offered him. “He and Remington's son are
fostering at Mt. Holyoak.”

     Martin raised his eyebrows at Remington.
“So you have a son, as well? Then there is no doubt that this child you carry
will also be male.”

     Nicolas entered the room, his helm removed
and his dark hair kinky with perspiration. Martin smiled warmly at his son.
“Nicolas, I am terribly pleased to see you. But where is Patrick?”

     “At Mt. Holyoak, training Gaston's troops,”
he replied.

     Martin nodded. “You will relay my greetings
to him.” He eyed his son a moment. “How have you been, Nicolas? I have not
heard from you in a year.”

     “I have been well,” Nicolas replied,
picking over the remainder of the marzipan. “So has Patrick. Gaston has all but
put us in charge of his new keep and we have been extremely busy.”

     Martin nodded with satisfaction, very proud
of his two sons. His only regret was that he was too old to fight with them
anymore, for he missed them terribly. Being in London, far away from his sons,
he was often lonely.

     Nicolas popped a piece of candy into his
mouth, not looking at his father. “But I do have news for you. I am getting
married, and come spring, you will be a grandfather.”

     Remington nearly fell out of her chair. Her
eyes bulged and she looked at Gaston; he too, was astonished.

     Martin leapt from his chair. “A
grandfather?” he repeated, delighted. “Holy Mary, lad, you do not know how long
I have waited to hear you say that! I could never get a decent betrothal for
you, being my second son. Everyone wanted Patrick, but not you,” he clapped his
hands together, oblivious to the insult he had just dealt his son. “Who is this
lucky lass?”

     Nicolas was red around the ears. “Lady
Remington's sister, Lady Skye Halsey.”

     Martin looked at Remington. “How thrilling!
She must be a beauty, then, like her sister. How large is her dowry?”

     Remington ran cold. Skye did not have a
dowry; none of her sisters did. She opened her mouth to stammer out an answer
when Gaston interrupted her. “One thousand gold marks. Nicolas will be well
set-up.”

     Nicolas passed a shocked glance at Gaston,
who met his gaze steadily. Remington reached up and grasped his hand, and they
clung together tightly. It did not surprise her that Gaston would provide
Skye's dowry, and she was tremendously grateful to him. He constantly amazed
her with the new ways he demonstrated his love for her.

     “Delightful! Nicolas, you will be a wealthy
man.” Martin was ecstatic. “I look forward to meeting my daughter, and my
future grandson. You must bring them both here after the babe is born. Better
yet, I shall travel to Mt. Holyoak.”

     “I shall bring them here,” Nicolas mumbled
firmly, then spoke louder to his father. “Skye would enjoy the trip.”

     Remington's emotions had exhausted her.
From the depths of despair to the pinnacle of joy, she found she was fairly
spent. As Martin and Nicolas and, occasionally, Gaston, prattled on. She could
only sit in silence, holding Gaston's hand, listening to his deep voice now and
again.

     There were at the manse over an hour before
Gaston decided it was time for him to seek Henry. The supper hour was drawing
near and he knew the king would be at the Tower, preparing for his meal, free
of meetings and audiences. He motioned to Nicolas to vacate the room and he
pulled Remington to her feet.

     “I shall be but a moment, uncle,” he said.

     He took Remington into a small room off of
the main hall, a musty little closet. But it was private.

     “I must go seek Henry, angel,” he
whispered, taking her head between his great hands. “He will most likely keep
me all night; mayhap even for the next few days. But I will return as quickly
as I can.”

     Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but
he could see her lip quivering. “I am frightened, Gaston. What if he...?”

     He cut her off with a bruising kiss; the
pain of their separation was cutting him much deeper than he could control. He
released his kiss and she gasped, wrapping his arms around her supple body
fiercely.

     “Be brave,” he repeated. “No matter what,
we will overcome. I swear it on my oath as a knight.”

     She could only nod, too numb at the moment
for tears. He smiled gently at her and kissed her again before leading her out
into the foyer. Martin was waiting, holding Gaston’s helm and gauntlets.

     Gaston latched his helm and pulled on his
gloves. “Take good care of her, uncle. I shall return when I am able.”

     Martin took Remington's elbow gently as if
afraid she would try and follow Gaston out the door. “I shall treat her as if
she were my own daughter. Better. I might even take her into London and treat
her to a play.”

     Gaston eyed his uncle. “I would prefer that
she not leave the manse, but I know how persuasive she can be,” his gaze fell
on Remington. “Behave yourself.”

     In spite of her breaking heart, she frowned
at him. “Do you truly feel it necessary to say that?”

     Martin guffawed. “All women must be told to
behave. Control is not a God-given gift in a female as it is in a male.”

     Gaston smiled at Remington's outrage. “Nay,
I do not feel it necessary, but I say it for my peace of mind. My uncle is a
weak man when it comes to feminine wiles.”

     He threw open the door. Beyond, Remington
could see de Tormo sitting in the carriage, waiting impatiently and she
wondered why Gaston had not invited the priest in. But she was glad he had not;
mayhap Gaston had an inkling as to what his uncle was going to say and it was
best that de Tormo did not hear his darkest shame.

     The cold steel from a gauntlet brushed her
cheek and she looked up into Gaston's smoky eyes. He was smiling at her, and
she forced herself to smile back.

     “That's a good lass,” he whispered. Without
another word, he ducked through the doorway and marched out to his men.

     Remington stood in the doorway long after
the column of men had moved on. The sun set lower, and she still stood. Martin
stood behind her, feeling a good deal of pity for her. Finally, he gently
pulled her out of the doorjamb and closed the door.

     “My cook has roasted a lamb for supper, my
lady,” he said pleasantly, leading her back into the solar. “Do you like lamb?”

     In spite of her daze, she found the
question silly and she laughed. “I am from Yorkshire, my lord. There is naught
much else there but sheep.”

     “God's blood.” he exclaimed. “Then we shall
have no more mutton while you are staying with me. You must be sick of it.”

     “I assure you, I do indeed like it. It will
remind me of home.”

     “Good, then,” Martin replied with a snort.
“I was having terrible visions of the next few months with nary a sheep in
sight. I can only take so much fowl, and beef is expensive.”

     They smiled at each other, and Martin
escorted her into the dining hall.

***

     Gaston was welcomed to the Tower by an
astonishing array of household troops. Having been notified earlier in the day
of his arrival, they had been waiting since noon for him to appear. Just before
sundown, he rode the narrow passageway from the Middle Tower and the Byward
Tower, into the bailey.

     Henry was in the royal apartments,
demanding Gaston to him by way of his chamberlain, John Stewart. Leaving his
men in the bailey, including his knights, Gaston took de Tormo with him.

     Henry was still dressing for dinner when
Gaston was announced. As soon as the king caught sight of his Dark Knight, he
forgot all about the heavy pendant his servant was trying to hang about his
neck. Tall, with a rounded stomach and reddish hair, Henry VII rose to his
feet.

     “Gaston!” he exclaimed. “How good to see
you.”

     Gaston bowed a deep, practiced bow for his
king; de Tormo was still in the hall. “My lord, 'tis good to see you again as
well. I trust you have been well.”

     “Indeed,” Henry looked over his most
fearsome knight as one would inspect a prize bull. “My God, de Russe, have you
gained even more mass? I do not remember you quite this large.”

     Gaston's lips twitched. “Nay, my lord, no
more mass. I am as you see.”

     Inspection complete and excitement rapidly
faded, Henry resumed his seat and his servants finished primping him. “I take it
you brought Lady Stoneley here from Mt. Holyoak,” he said.

“'Twas an excellent excuse for a visit to
London, I must say. How is Yorkshire faring?”

     “Cooperative for the most part,” Gaston
replied honestly. He would tell Henry what he wanted to hear before delving
into the real reason why he was in London. “Except for a renegade baron, I have
had little trouble.”

     “Renegade baron? Who?”

     “Lord Botmore of Knaresborough. I had to
kill his son and in retaliation, he struck down Arik.”

     “Helgeson?” Henry looked surprised. “I am
sorry for you, then. He was a fine knight. And this Botmore; I have not heard
of him. A lesser baron?”

     “Aye,” Gaston replied. “He fought with
Richard, I am told. I do not remember him serving the king, nor his brother.”

     Henry seemed to ponder the statement
another moment before moving on. He was an extremely intelligent king with more
brains that brawn. He did not need to have any brawn when he had knights like
Gaston to do his fighting for him.

     “I am pleased, then, to hear that Yorkshire
is stabilizing,” he said after a moment. “I had my doubts, you know, even
though I have Yorkist blood. England considers me Lancastrian.”

     “They consider you Welsh Tudor,” Gaston
said. “May I ask how Elizabeth and Arthur are?”

     “Well and good,” Henry put his arms up as
fancy cuffs were secured to his tunic sleeves. “Arthur will make a fine, strong
king one day. He is a brilliant boy.”

     Gaston watched as the kings many retainers
finished dressing the man. Even though supper would be a small, informal occasion,
Henry always insisted on dressing the part. He was, after all the king.

     “We are supping with Peter Courtenay
tonight,” Henry rose on his long, skinny legs as a crimson mantle was placed on
his shoulders. “And my Uncle Jasper, of course. A small dinner party. I am sure
I will have more questions of you, but for now, I am content. You obviously
believe that Yorkshire is contained by your manner, and I will trust you on
that matter.”