The Dark One: Dark Knight (8 page)

Remington saw how
terrified her son was and went to him, putting her hands protectively on his
shoulders.  “My lord, this is my son, Dane Stoneley. Dane, this is Sir Gaston
de Russe.”

Dane was scared, but not
too terrified to remember his manners and bow respectfully. Gaston planted his
huge feet apart and crossed his arms, his imposing presence filling the air
like the scent of her flowers. 

“How old are you, lad?”
he asked.

“S-seven years,” Dane
replied.

Gaston studied him a
moment.  A year younger than his own son, Trenton, and a sight smaller.  But he
was a well-formed boy with his mother’s eyes and an inquisitive face.

“Where do you foster?”
he inquired.

“Foster?” Dane repeated,
glancing at Remington for support.  “I… I do not know, my lord.”

“You are of the age when
such matters should be decided,” Gaston said, looking to Remington.  “Did your
husband not make arrangements for him?”

Remington shook her
head.  “Nay, my lord, he had more important matters on his mind with Richard’s
wars.”

Gaston pursed his lips
thoughtfully.  “Then I see I shall have to do the man’s duty.”

Remington and Dane
looked at each other curiously.  “You are going to send me away?” Dane asked
confused.

“All well-bred young men
foster by the time they are eight years,” Gaston explained, puzzled that the
boy was so uninformed.  “Do not you want to be a knight?”

“Like you?” Dane asked. 
“Can’t I stay here and learn from you?”

Gaston smiled faintly
and Remington was astonished; she did not believe him capable of such a soft
action. But he was not only smiling, he was demonstrating a good deal of
understanding with her young son and she was doubly surprised. She did not
believe the Dark Knight capable of anything other than fear and death.

“’Tis right that you
should want to learn from me, of course,” he said, eyeing the boy
thoughtfully.  “Very well, then, Dane Stoneley.  I shall consider allowing you
to stay at Mt. Holyoak.”

     Dane beamed, displaying his missing front
teeth.  “I want to fight with a sword and a battle-axe,” he said eagerly, and
then his smile faded.  “But what of my father?  What will he say when he
returns?”

     Gaston looked long at the boy. “He shall
not be returning as far as I know, lad.  I am lord of Mt. Holyoak now.”

     Dane looked puzzled, not at all sorry that
his father would not be coming home.  “Are you my mother’s husband, then?”

     “Nay, lad, I am not,” he answered.

     Dane was sinking further into confusion. 
“But…you are lord, and my mother is lady.  You will not marry her?”

     Gaston shook his head.  “Truth is, Master
Dane, I already have a wife.  She and my son live at my keep far to the south. 
A man can only have one wife, and your mother is already married to your
father.  Now that I am lord, your mother is no longer lady of Mt. Holyoak.”

     Remington felt as if she had been hit in
the pit of the stomach, although she had no idea why.  Was it because he
mentioned that she was no longer lady of Mt. Holyoak?  Was it the realization
of that finally setting in?  She did not stop to think that it was possibly
because he had said he was married. Why should the fact that he was married
bother her?  She cared not what his marital status was.

     Dane absorbed the information, though he
was still terribly confused.  “Then you are to protect us?”

     Gaston nodded once, firmly. Dane tilted his
head thoughtfully.  “Will you protect my mother if my father returns?”

     Gaston’s smoky eyes glittered curiously. 
“Protect her from what?”

     “From my father,” Dane insisted.

     “That is enough, Dane,” Remington added
quietly.

     “Why must I protect her from your father?” 
Gaston ignored Remington.  He wanted to hear what the boy had to say.

     “Because he hurts her,” Dane said
hesitantly.  “I can’t protect her, although I have tried.  He just hits me,
too.”

     Remington turned away, her body shaking
with embarrassment and shame.  Gaston saw her quivering hand move to her head
and he received confirmation of what Arik had suggested on the day they had
arrived. The woman was abused.

     He wasn’t surprised.  He knew Stoneley, as
he knew all of Richard’s barons. The man was vile and low, and he felt a
tremendous urge of protectiveness towards Remington and Dane.  The fool baron
had a beautiful family and he abused them. By God, what he would not have given
for a wife and son like Remington and Dane. A wife with unearthly beauty and a
son with his mother’s features, intelligent and curious. Why was Stoneley
blessed with such a beautiful family when he himself had been cursed with a
hellish mistress? It wasn’t fair.

     “He shall not hurt you again, Dane,” Gaston
said quietly. “I promise you that.”

     Remington whirled around, her eyes boring
into Gaston.  “You cannot promise him that, my lord.  ‘Tis not fair to him.”

     “I can and I will,” Gaston said evenly. “He
shall not touch you again.  Either of you.”

     Remington let out a small cry of disbelief,
wiping at her eyes.  “Dane, take my flowers back to the castle,” she told her
son.  “I shall come later.  Go now.”

     Dane, still thinking mightily on the Dark
Knight’s words, did as he was told and disappeared through the bramble.  When
Remington heard the last of his footfalls, she turned to Gaston.

     “How dare you make promises like that,” she
hissed.  “I forbid you to give my son false hope.”

     “’Tis no false hope I give, madam,” he
replied.  “I never make promises I cannot keep.”

     Remington’s face flushed.  “So you intend
to always be at my son’s beck and call to protect him from his father?  It is
simply not possible.  Sir Guy is my husband and has every right to do with us
as he pleases.  The contract of marriage forbids you to interfere.”

     Gaston let out a heavy sigh and leaned
against the tree.  “Mt. Holyoak is my property now.  If I keep you on, you are
technically my property, too.”

     “That is ridiculous,” she snapped softly. 
“I am Guy’s wife, to do with as he pleases. And Dane is his son. You cannot own
us.”

     “Mayhap not,” Gaston said, meeting her
incredible sea-crystal eyes.  “But I can protect you.”

     Remington shook her head and turned away
from him, embittered and confused.  Gaston studied her miraculous hair and the
myriad of colors within, wondering if it were as soft as it looked.

     “Has he always beat you?” he asked quietly.

     Remington thought a moment.  She couldn’t
remember when he had not; there had never been a time during her married life
that she had not lived in daily fear.  She found the question ludicrous. 

     “If you only knew,” she whispered.

     “I want to know,” he said.  “Tell me.”

     She simply couldn’t talk about it.  This
man was a stranger, a feared stranger at that, and she couldn’t bring herself
to tell him her most terrible secrets.

     She took a deep breath and faced him.  “I
would return to the keep now, my lord,” she said with forced bravery.  “I have
gathered enough flowers for the day.”

     He looked back at her, seeing the terrible
vulnerability underneath the beauty.  How could Stoneley abuse something as
tremendously fragile as this woman?  He couldn’t fathom the reasoning and that,
in turn, angered him.

     And then the strangest feeling swept him, a
sort of pity for Lady Remington, yet it was deeper than mere pity.  It was
broader, softer and by far more unsettling.  He did not realize that for the
first time in his life, he was feeling compassion.

     “If that is your wish, angel, we shall
return,” he said. “I am anxious, for God only knows what my cousins have done
to my keep in my absence.”

     Remington blinked.  Had she heard right? 
Had he called her angel?  She was so stunned she couldn’t answer him and he
caught her stare.

     “What is wrong?” he asked, pushing himself
off the tree. 

     She managed to shake her head unsteadily. 
“Nothing, my lord.”

     She moved past him and onto the path,
acutely aware of his massive presence behind her.  Much to her surprise, he did
not mount his destrier but instead chose to walk beside her. She fell silent as
they passed through the thickness of the trees and emerged onto a wider path
used by the peasants. 

     Gaston’s booted steps were heavy beside
her, like great stones crashing to earth in rhythm.  She stole a glance from
the corner of her eye and watched his powerful gait, thinking the size of his
hands to be bigger than her head.  A heady sense of pleasure filled her to
think this man had pledged to protect her against her husband, although she did
not believe it for a minute.

     She was so intently studying the size of
his hands that she failed to realize the destrier was plodding along behind
them without benefit of a lead, following Gaston like an obedient dog.  When
she finally did become aware of the fact, she was impressed.

     “Your horse is well trained, my lord,” she
said softly.

     He grunted.  “Taran is my other self.  We
have been together for many years.”

     “Taran?  I like that name.” She turned to
look at the destrier, whose head was as long as her torso.  “He seems docile
enough now.”

     Gaston glanced back at the horse.  “Taran
is Welsh for ‘thunder.’  And I assure you, my lady, his mood is temporary.  He
seems to be quite interested in you.”

     She looked at the horse more fully, his
rich charcoal-gray color and black, intelligent eyes. “He is beautiful.” 
Before Gaston could stop her, she reached out to stroke the animal’s muzzle.

     Gaston tried to shout for her to halt her
actions, but the words did not come fast enough.  As soon as she stroked the
silky fur, he had visions of Taran biting off her hand and he reached out to
pull her away.  But, to his amazement, the horse did not make a move against
her.  In fact, he seemed to enjoy it.

     Astonished, Gaston watched her as she fell
back a pace to walk beside the horse, speaking in a sweet, soft voice and
stroking his face.  Taran’s lids half-closed with blissful attention.

     “By God’s Bloody Rood,” Gaston muttered. 
Then, he actually snorted in amusement and Remington looked up. 

     “He is a sweet animal, my lord,” she said. 
“Is he always this calm?”

     Gaston shook his head.  “Nay, madam, that
horse had been the scourge of many an enemy.  In fact, I would say he has
killed almost as many men as I have.”

     They came to a halt.  Remington put her
hands on the horse’s head and lay her cheek against his nose, laughing when
Taran’s big tongue licked at her.  Gaston was so astonished he put his hand to
his face in disbelief.

     “He is as gentle as a lamb,” Remington
declared.  “I choose to disbelieve your slanderous statements against this
animal, my lord.  He is not a killer.”

     A shadow of a smile creased Gaston’s lips. 
Taran had never even been that affectionate with him at the best of times and
he was, frankly, flabbergasted.

     “I assure you, madam, he is indeed
formidable,” he said helplessly.

     Remington smiled at him, a smile that hit
him like a bolt of lightning.  His reaction was so sharp that it was almost
painful, but in the same breath he couldn’t ever remember seeing a more
beautiful smile.  His knees actually felt shaky and he cursed himself for his
foolishness. Women were a nuisance, a bother, self-centered bitches with no
purpose on earth other than to give a man pleasure and breed more males.  Mari-Elle
was living proof that a female was a useless, vile creature and he stuck firmly
by his beliefs.

     … Then why did he feel like a giddy squire?

     He cleared his throat quietly and resumed
walking. Remington continued beside him, a few feet away, and it took him a
moment to realize that Taran was walking behind her. Not him, his master and
keeper, but
her. 
A stranger.

     He mounted Taran at the bottom of the hill
and cuffed the horse when he struggled against him.  Remington continued to
walk and he reined his dancing horse slightly behind her, following her up the
hill.  Irritated with his horse’s behavior, he did not even see Remington enter
the castle as he halted his snorting beast to an unsteady halt.

     There were several men there to greet him,
his squire rushing to take hold of the animal and almost getting his hand
nipped off in the process.  Gaston dismounted and snapped harshly at the horse
as Patrick and Nicolas strode up. 

     “Well?” he demanded of his cousins. “Give
me a report.”

     “All is well, my lord,” Patrick replied. 
“Nothing unusual to report.”

     Gaston removed his mail gloves, letting his
gaze rove the walls of the inner bailey.  “The men looked well-positioned and
the keep appears in order.”