The Dark One: Dark Knight (93 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

February 1487

Somerset, England

Winter this far south
was not such a terrible thing. Remington stood by the hearth, folding freshly
washed laundry, feeling the warmth of the fire against her flesh.

     And there was laundry aplenty, as there
usually was on laundry day. She continued to fold rough woolen underwear; just
like the kind she had been wearing all these months to remind mortals of their
vanity. But with her itching belly, woolen underwear was torture. There were
days when she wore no underwear at all simply because she couldn't bear it.

     Next to her, Martha was folding briskly.
“Keep up the pace, Remington. There is much more to do.”

     Remington smiled at her friend, younger
than she and a ward of the church. Her family had perished some years ago,
leaving young Martha an heiress. Edward had placed her in the care of Prioress
Mary Margaret of Wells Abbey, and the nuns of the abbey had raised her from
birth.

     “Faster, Remi.” Martha urged, pushing a
stray lock of pretty brown hair from her face.

     “I cannot move so fast these days,”
Remington remarked, tossing a folded garment on the pile.

     Martha nodded sympathetically. “How much
longer do you have to go? Seven weeks? You shall never make it.”

     “I hope I do,” Remington patted her hugely
swollen stomach. “I should not like to give birth to a seven-month baby.”

     Martha's blue eyes roved over Remington.
She knew little about her friend, only that she was escaping a bad marriage.
Prioress Mary Margaret knew the whole story, of course, but she was the only
one. No one else seemed to know much about the beautiful pregnant woman.

     Missives came for her all of the time, but
she never read them. She sent them back, unopened, and continued with her new
life. She had traded in all of her beautiful dresses for those of coarse linen
or wool, all of her jewelry for headbands and aprons. Once, a man dressed in
armor from head to toe came to see her, but the prioress sent him away. Someone
said he was Matthew Wellesbourne, the White Lord, but no one had asked
Remington about it. She would not tell them, anyway.

     Missives came from the north of England all
the time. She never read any of them, but she had sent one north. Only one
missive in reply to dozens she must have received. Indeed, lovely Lady
Remington was a mystery.

     Wells Abbey was a small establishment,
gleaning the Somerset countryside and schooling the young peasant children. It
was a peaceful existence, devoted to knowledge and charity. It was a life
completely different from the one Remington had left, and she consumed it
eagerly. Anything to forget Gaston!

     But it was difficult to forget him every
time she felt the child move, which was constantly. Every time she closed her
eyes, she saw his face. There wasn't a night that went by that she did not
dream of his hands on her body, his mouth against hers. And there wasn't a
night that passed that she did not cry softly for the want of him.

     But she had to separate herself from him.
Every day, she repeated their last conversation in her mind and she was torn
between great remorse and great anger. How could he have agreed to surrender
Dane? How could she have been so cruel as to tell him she could not believe him
anymore? Why had she been so brutal to him, saying things she did not mean,
telling him to leave her be? It all came down to one thing; that he had traded
her son like a commodity to gain an annulment. She would not do it, and she
knew Guy would not reconsider his term. She knew exactly what he had meant when
he had said her request would cost her dearly. It had cost her her soul.

     She had taken her anger out on Gaston. He
had walked out and she had not seen him since. All of the missives she had returned
unopened simply because she was afraid to read what had transpired as a result
of her rage. She did not want to read of Gaston's hate for her in writing. She
knew Guy was laughing at the both of them, and she was deeply sorry for Gaston.
He was a proud man and had suffered through so much humiliation in his life,
and she was grieved that she had contributed much to his humiliation.

     The church had been more than happy to
grant her sanctuary. Father de Tormo had selected Wells Abbey because the
prioress was his cousin. But she had severed all contact with de Tormo after
she had arrived at Wells, simply because she knew he would tell Gaston. And she
did not want him to know anything.

     She had no idea what had happened to Uncle
Martin. After her fight with Gaston, he had disappeared and she had not seen
him again. She hoped he was all right, but the fact was that he probably hated
her, too, for being so stubborn and cruel. So did Henry, and everyone else who
had supported Gaston. It made Gaston look like a fool, of course, to rally such
support for no reason and she was miserably embarrassed for them both.

     In the six months she had been at Wells,
she had tried to forget about him. The one missive she had sent to Mt. Holyoak
had been addressed to her son, to let him know what had happened. She wondered
if he had let Gaston read it.

     Tears tightened her throat every time she
thought of Gaston finding another woman to love. With Mari-Elle dead and his
annulment to her most likely complete, there was no reason for him not to marry
again. The thought of him lying with another woman made her insane with grief
and pain. But it would serve as just punishment to her if he had remarried.

     God, she was so confused.

     “Remington?” Came a sharp voice.

     Remington's head came up. Sister Josepha
was standing a few feet away, her cracked face inquisitive. “My goodness,
child, your mind doth leave you.”

     Remington smiled weakly. “'Tis the child,
sister. It saps my brain, I think.”

     The old woman laughed. “I will have to take
your word for it,” she said. “You have a visitor, Remington. In the small
solar.”

     Remington stiffened. “A visitor? Who?”

     “Father de Tormo.”

     She shook her head, turning her nervous
hands back to her laundry. “Send him away, sister. I have nothing to say to
him.”

     Sister Josepha cleared her throat. “He says
he is not leaving until he speaks with you. It is most urgent, he says.”

     A bolt of fear suddenly shot through her.
What if something had happened to Gaston? She would have never known. She
refused all missives, and there was one sent not three weeks ago that she sent
back, unopened. She had not even looked at the seal. What if...?

     Suddenly, she had to know. Panic flowed
through her veins as she raced past Sister Josepha and into the narrow corridor
that linked with the small visitor's solar.

     Father de Tormo was shocked when she
barreled in through the doorway, her face flushed and looking more beautiful
than he had ever seen her. Her enormous belly protruded under the folds of her
surcoat and he found himself staring at the newest part of her.

     “My God. Remington,” he exclaimed. “So you
are alive.”

     “Is Gaston all right?” she fired at him.

     He blinked at the nearly shouted question.
“Yes, of course. He…”

     She threw up her hands. “No more. I do not
want to hear about him. As long as he is well, I have quenched my fear. Be on
your way, Father. I have chores to do.”

     She moved swiftly for the door, but he
reached out and grabbed her. She started to protest, but he sat her heavily on
a chair and gripped her arms. “Not so fast, lady. I have come a very long way
to see you and you are going to listen. No one has been able to communicate
with you for six months.”

     She twisted against him. She did not want
to hear anything. She wanted to live in complete ignorance, far away from
Gaston and the troubles of her world.

     “You cannot hide here, you know,” he said
as if he were reading her mind. “You must deal with your problems, Remi. They
will not go away!”

     She stopped her struggles, refusing to look
at him. “I am...I am not hiding.”

     “Then what do you call it?” de Tormo
refuted gently. “I sent you here because I thought it would clear your head,
but instead, you have become a hermit. This is not what I intended.”

     She could feel the tears starting and she
fought against them. “I am happy here, father. I like it. I never want to
leave.”

     “Not even to marry Gaston?”

     Her head snapped up sharply and she
suddenly realized she was talking to someone who had recently seen Gaston. But
she couldn't get past the confusion, the agony of her grief. “No.”

     “You do not love him anymore?”

     The tears started; she couldn't help it.
“More than life, Father. More than anything. But I cannot abandon my son for
the love of a man.”

     De Tormo sighed. “You are still angry about
that?”

     “Why shouldn't I be?” she demanded. “He was
willing to….”

     “He was only doing what he thought was
best, what he thought you would want,” when she started to protest, he put up
his hand. “He assumed you had faith in him that all would work out in the end.
He thought you trusted him.”

     “I do!” she snapped, and then hung her head
miserably. “I did. Oh, I do. My God, Father, I am so confused I do not know
anything anymore.”

     De Tormo sat down opposite her. “And you
hope to clear your mind wearing woolen drawers and working dawn until dusk? Has
it helped?”

     She shook her head, wiping at the silent
tears. “No.”

     “Do you want to return to London?”

     “No!” she exclaimed, standing up. Her
movements were agitated. “I... I am trying to forget about Gaston, and I cannot
do that in London.”

     “Trying to forget about him? Why in the
bloody hell would you want to do that?”

     She stopped pacing, only stood there
hanging her head. “You said you still love him,” de Tormo reminded her.

     “But he surely does not love me, not after
all of the heartache and trouble I have caused him,” she said quietly.  “It’s
better this way, Father. I am away from Guy, and away from Gaston. No more
trouble.”

     “Gaston is devastated, Remington,” de Tormo
said softly.

     Her head came up, her eyes red-rimmed. “Did
he send you here?”

     “No,” the priest confessed. “I came of my
own accord. He's a prideful, stubborn man. He shall not come begging.”

     She stiffened. “And I shall not grovel at
his feet. Why are you here, then?”

     “To try and talk some sense into you,” de
Tormo said. “He's not the same man, Remi. He's bitter and distant and... so
cold. He never smiles anymore. When you left, you took his heart with you.”

     She thought on that a moment, rubbing at
her belly when the babe kicked firmly. “Does he hate me?”

     De Tormo shook his head. “Never.”

     “What about Guy? The annulments?”

     “His annulment with Mari-Elle was complete
in October,” de Tormo answered. “Guy remains in the Tower, still recovering
from his wounds.”

     She looked at him curiously. “Wounds? What
wounds?”

     “The wounds Gaston dealt him the night you
were taken from the Tower,” de Tormo explained. “Did not Gaston tell you? He
nearly killed Guy wringing forth the man's terms for consent.”

     She shook her head, surprised. “Nay, he
never told me. He beat him up?”

     “Pounded him within an inch of his life,”
de Tormo replied. He thrashed Nicolas when the young knight tried to stop him.
It was an ugly scene.”

     Remington dropped her head. Gaston had not
told her any of that, only that Guy had agreed to consent. What was it he had
said? That Guy would have done anything to drive a wedge between them, and that
he knew Dane would be the wedge? Her mind began to swirl, realizing that Guy
had probably thrown the terms regarding Dane in at the last minute. Gaston had
physically hurt him, and Guy would retaliate by hurting Gaston far deeper. Dear
God…Guy knew her so well that he knew how she would react to such a suggestion.
Gaston, so desperate and unbalanced because of her removal, had agreed.

     She began to shake. She had played right
into Guy's hands...again.

     “My dear God,” she whispered, sinking
against the wall. “What is it that I have done?”