The Dark One: Dark Knight (98 page)

     “You mean a whore?” she smiled ironically.
“I do not care, Father, truly I do not. But I will keep silent.”

     He lifted his eyebrows sympathetically; she
and Gaston loved each other so that it was unfair to brand her as a kept woman.
It simply wasn't the case. “Speaking of which, how are the little ones?”

     Her face brightened. “Fat and happy. They
are looking more like Gaston every day. And Adeliza is already cutting a
tooth.”

     “Is that so?” de Tormo smiled. “Well, I
must be sure not to stick my finger in her mouth lest I get bitten. Gaston
misses them dreadfully, you know. They are all he speaks of.”

     She smiled sadly as the priest stood up,
wiping his hands on his robe. She suddenly caught a heady whiff of body odor
and fought the urge to pinch her nose, rising along with him.

     “Now that we have eaten, I find myself
exceedingly fatigued,” he said. “I think I shall sleep until sup.”

     She nodded. “Aye, a nap and a bath will do
you wonders.”

     “A bath?” he eyed her and snorted. “Water
is my enemy. It dries the skin and reveals parts of our bodies that are better
left unseen... well, to those of us who are celibate, baths are a danger.”

     She raised her eyebrows timidly, thinking
his philosophy most disgusting but trying not to show it. “Then you never
bathe?”

     “Never.” he insisted. “A gateway to sin for
men and women of the cloister.”

    
Oh, lord
, she groaned inwardly.
“Well, then, take your nap and I shall see you at supper. I have a few things
to attend to now.”

     She preceded the priest from the solar,
calling to Oleg. The old man appeared out of the woodwork, greeting de Tormo
and taking him away to his rooms.

     Remington watched them go, still smelling
de Tormo, and giggling with distaste as she thought of his hygiene habits. The
man must have been a pig in a previous life.

***

     The clerical quarters of Westminster were
lavish, gaudy surroundings. Gaston stood by the long, narrow windows, gazing
out over the gardens absently. Henry sat near the center of the room in a silk
chair, 20-foot ceilings soaring above his head.

     The whole room smelled heavily of incense;
Gaston wasn't sure of what type. But it was heady and old-smelling and, in
fact, intimidating. Gaston was sure the scent was psychologically placed. It
reminded one that they were in the most omnipotent house of worship in the
civilized world, outside of St. Peter's Cathedral.

     “Do you know why we have been summoned?”
Gaston finally turned from the window.

     Henry lounged comfortably, appearing almost
bored. “I do not. I suppose they must have come to some snappish conclusion and
intend to deliver it to us personally.”

     Gaston stomach's plunged. His palms were
sweaty. “They'll not permit the annulment. The law of the church will outweigh
all of the compelling testimony given. God above all, including the laws of
mercy and love.”

     Henry shushed him, knowing there were ears
everywhere. Gaston knew it, too, but he did not care. “Have faith, Gaston. You
cannot know what conclusion they have come to.”

     Gaston turned back to the window, his jaw
ticking with agitation. After a moment, he shook his head. “I have known all
along what their answer would be, but I had hoped…aye, I have prayed that they
would reconsider given the extreme circumstances.”

     Henry contemplated the rings on his hand.
“Have faith, Gaston.”

     Christopher Urswick stood in the shadows,
listening. Gaston was right, he knew. The church had gathered them together to
deliver what de Russe suspected. An annulment was impossible with both spouses
still living, and a divorce was completely out of the question. This had been a
futile endeavor from the inception, but Henry had gone along because of what
Gaston meant to him and he felt he had to put forth the effort.

     Urswick pitied the Dark Knight, and the
lady. To love each other so terribly, but to be forever denied matrimony was
tragic at best.

     On the far end of the room, a huge carved
oak door swung open with a groan. Three men spilled forth, all dressed in
lavish garments, all various ages. The tall young man that stopped just inside
the door passed an eye at Gaston; he met Peter Courtenay’s eyes steadily.
Courtenay lowered his gaze hesitantly and took up station against the wall,
silent and out of the way.

     Archbishop Thomas Bourchier sat with a
grunt behind his elaborate cherry wood desk, dark with stain and time. His aged
face was thin and pale, belying the man's power. He almost appeared docile and
dense. Behind him, a young, dark-haired man stood stoically. John of Imola was
the apostolic delegate, a man with a direct line to Pope Innocent. He was very
young for a man in his position, but he was extremely bright and wise, which he
had more than proven during the weeks of testimony.

     Bourchier gazed at Gaston standing over by
the thin windows. Somewhere in the cathedral, the monk's choir was rehearsing
the sweet strains of haunting music floated faintly on the air. Gaston merely
gazed back unemotionally.

     Bourchier cleared his throat. “Thank you
for coming.”

     “Get on with it, Thomas,” Henry said,
almost unkindly.

     Bourchier's eyes flicked to the monarch as
Christopher came out of the shadows to stand behind his king. Gaston remained
by the windows.

     “Very well,” the archbishop said with a
matched tone. “As you know, divorce is forbidden by the church. Annulments are
granted only in extreme cases with the provision of severe circumstances. The
papal board has heard the testimony on behalf of Lady Remington Stoneley and I
must be honest when I say that the collective board feels that the basis of the
annulment request is weak. Unless Lady Stoneley herself can provide more
substantial evidence, your request will be rejected.”

     Gaston moved away from the wall. “You are
telling me, in essence, that the testimony of five reputable barons, all
stating to the effect that Guy Stoneley was an evil, cruel barbarian, is
insufficient? My God, what kind of evidence is it that you require?
Irreversible damage to Lady Stoneley, or her family?”

     “Gaston,” Henry admonished quietly, turning
back to the archbishop. “I suspected that this would be the church's reaction
from the beginning, and I am not surprised. If sworn testimony will not bring
Lady Stoneley her annulment, then you may name your price. I am willing to pay
what you ask on Gaston's behalf.”

     Bourchier's eyes widened briefly. “An
annulment cannot be bought, my lord.”

     “Ha.” Henry snorted softly. “Anything can
be bought within the church, Thomas, and you cannot pretend otherwise. What is
it that you will demand? Well?”

     John of Imola stepped forward, his
almost-babyish face concerned. “Annulments are not to be bought and sold as a
commodity. You are speaking of dissolving what God has created.”

     “God did not create this marriage,” Gaston
rumbled. “This is the devil's doing, and he continues to delight in the torment
of an innocent woman and her sisters.”

     “That is your opinion, my lord,” the legate
responded pointedly. “You see what you will, considering you are in love with
the woman. Even as it stands, you are breaking the tenth commandment with your
lust for her, and I suspect you have already broken the fourth.”

     Gaston did not flinch, but the vein in his
temple throbbed faintly. “We are not here to speak of what I have or have not
done. We are speaking of Lady Stoneley.”

     “Will she be able to enlighten us further
on this matter?” Bourchier asked, drawing Gaston's hostile attention away from
the legate. “Or will it be a waste of time for all concerned?”

     Gaston looked at the archbishop, feeling a
lie coming forth, demanding to be released. A lie Remington started, a lie that
de Tormo threatened to use when all else failed. Gaston could see that
Remington's annulment was slipping through his fingers, and he prayed that God
would forgive him for lying to a man of the cloth, and furthermore not punish
him by having his story backfire in his face.

     “It will not be a waste of time, for she
will testify to a distasteful fact that not even the barons knew of,” he said
quietly. “Guy Stoneley worships the devil. I have seen his sanctuary for
myself; a pentagram decorates the wall, and skin-bound books line the shelves.
His worship of Satan explains his deviant actions and bloodlust towards his
family.”

     Bourchier and John looked at each other,
then back to Gaston. “Do you have proof of this?”

     “Father de Tormo saw the sanctuary himself.
He will testify to that fact.”

     Peter Courtenay moved from his spot along
the wall. “Are you sure, Gaston?”

     “Aye,” Gaston nodded, having difficulty
looking his friend in the eye. “Pentagrams, potions and other strange medicaments.
He is a student of Satan.”

     Everyone was looking at Gaston. “Why did
you not bring this up before?” Henry wanted to know.

     “Because I was trying to spare at least
some of Lady Remington's dignity,” he replied, somewhat honestly. “My God, her
life is already displayed for scrutiny by the church, her reputation, every
horribly thing her husband has ever inflicted on her. The beatings, the rapes,
impregnating her sister... I thought to spare at least some of her feelings. I
care not for myself, of course; there is nothing about me and my personal life
that all of you do not already know, but this woman has been laid open to
strangers.”

     “My lord, is what you say is true, then it
changes things considerably,” Bourchier said seriously. “If he is a disciple of
Lucifer, then we cannot allow the lady to be exposed to the dark forces. John
and I must return to the board with this information.”

     Gaston felt a surge of hope, and a bit of
guilt. “I shall return to Wells Abbey and return the lady to London for her testimony.
Father de Tormo, too.”

     Bourchier stood up, nodding. “By all means.
I would hear more of this shocking revelation.”

     Gaston watched the men a moment. “You
realize that Stoneley will deny this.”

     “Of course he will.” Bourchier said
strongly. “To admit to it would mean instant death. However, if it is
determined that he does indeed worship Satan, I will recommend that he be
burned at the stake.”

     Gaston wasn't sorry to hear that. He
watched the three holy men exit the room, the soft hum of conversation
following them. When the room was deserted, Henry rose from his silk chair.

     “Bravo, Gaston,” he said softly. “A
brilliant story. But can you truly prove it?”

     “Without a doubt,” Gaston looked at his
king. “And it was not a story. I really did witness the tower room with evil
paraphernalia.”
Aye, paraphernalia of a curious young boy!

     Henry shook his head. “Disgusting. I pity
Lady Stoneley more than ever, and I wonder if I should not send a priest to
bless the entire White Tower. Stoneley has probably cursed it.”

     Gaston’s lips flickered with a smile as he
followed his monarch and the dean of York from the room.

***

     Nearly a week later, Gaston made an
appearance. Riding alone in front of fifty men-at-arms and six knights,
Remington caught sight of him from their bedchamber window.

     With a shriek of delight, she raced to her
polished silver mirror and took quick stock of her looks, her hair and surcoat.
She was so excited that she was making happy little grunts as she smoothed
everything, combed and finally perfumed. He was finally here.

     She made a mad dash for the door to the
chamber, only to stop abruptly. Hand on the latch, her gaze wandered back to
the massive oak bed against the wall. A thought crossed her mind and she smiled
wickedly.   Her hand left the latch, and the door remained closed.

     Gaston rode into the newly created outer
bailey, fairly broiling in his armor in the early July weather. Nicolas and
Antonius were there to greet him, but he ignored their salutations as he
dismounted.

     “Where's Remi?”

     “I do not know,” Nicolas replied, weaving
out of the way as Taran tried to take a bite out of his arm. “She was up in the
nursery last I saw her.”

     Gaston stripped off his gauntlets absently,
searching the compound for the familiar figure. He was disappointed and
surprised that she had not come out to greet him.

     Antonius was attempting to relay something
of importance to Gaston, but he wasn't listening. Instead, he strolled across
the outer bailey, through the opening of his nearly completed inner wall, and
on to the castle.

     De Tormo almost crashed into him at the
door leading into the castle. The fat man reeled back, his hand over his chest.