Chivalrous (15 page)

The duchess turned to them and swiped her tears, giving them her full attention now. Could they truly do such a thing? Surely it was the perfect solution.

Hemsley shook his head. “While I agree that she would make an excellent ruler, she would quickly be reduced to a pawn of William Marshall and the new king. The regent would claim guardianship over her and force her to marry whomever he favored. We cannot take that risk. Our region would never be the same. No offense to you, Your Grace.”

“None taken.” The striking lady sniffed.

Disappointment washed over Allen. As he observed her, he realized for the first time that she had truly loved her husband. These were actual widow's tears, not merely those of a woman who had lost her ally and access to power. He had never stopped to assess her before. A beautiful lady, perhaps in her early thirties, full of elegance and grace, even in a moment such as this.

“Everything we have worked for would be undermined,” the minister of finance said. “It simply is not an option.” He turned to the duchess. “But do you not have an elder brother, Your Grace? He would also be close in the succession.”

The duchess stood and approached the table. “We rarely speak of it, but he is rather dim-witted. His mind is that of a child. And my younger brother has been off on crusade for years. He could be dead, for all we know.”

“But this older brother . . . ” Hemsley said. “Perhaps with the help of the council . . .”

“No.” The bishop shook his head sadly. “With a weak leader the people could not trust, North Britannia would be ripe for the picking. And if we go further in the line of succession, we shall never get away with bypassing Sir Warner. His father might have been banished, but we have no firm proof he himself has ever acted against North Britannia.”

The bishop sat back down, bowing his tonsured head and looking hopeless.

Allen's stomach churned. He had only just come to this region. Only just begun to rise in favor. He had such faith in this system of justice and equality. It could not fall apart so soon. How he wished he could do something to help, but he felt powerless.

Fulton took a breath so loud, he drew every gaze in the room. Slowly he rose, but then stood silent.

“Lord Fulton?” the bishop prompted the old historian.

“I am hesitant to bring it up, but I can think of no other recourse. Many years ago, late in the reign of Duke Gregory, an advisor to the duke who many thought to be an oracle of God decreed a prophecy over this region.”

A hush overtook the place. Might there yet be hope?

“Please, Lord Fulton, do tell us!” Hemsley cried.

Lord Fulton cleared his throat. “He claimed that someday the dukedom would face great peril and that a man of lowly birth would save them by marrying a duchess and thwarting a deadly foe.”

“I heard tell of this in my youth,” whispered a white-haired council member. “I had nearly forgotten.”

“Duke Christian did not wish for it to cast a pall over the people,” Lord Fulton said. “And so he passed a law forbidding
anyone to speak of it. But I wager that most of the older generation will remember and support it.”

“The Duchess Adela could rule us, and she could be safely married to this man before the king arrives.” Hemsley smiled.

“Who would dare naysay such a prophecy?” Hope lit the face of the bishop and brimmed in Allen's heart as well. “And no one would begrudge only a short period of mourning in this situation.”

“We cannot trust such a
prophecy
,” said one of the dissenters who had supported DeMontfort. “God no longer speaks through rogue prophets like He did in the days of Jeremiah and Isaiah. The church speaks on His behalf, and I have no doubt the pope would support Sir Warner's stronger claim if we but bother to ask.”

“We cannot wait months to pass messages to and fro!” Hemsley grew agitated now.

Allen had already surmised that the devout Christians of North Britannia had little patience with the politics of Rome.

“I agree,” the bishop said. “I can speak for the church in this area, and I say that it is still possible for God to send messages through ordinary men. The Scripture says He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.”

“But can we trust this so-called prophet?” asked the minister of finance. “Did he genuinely speak for God, or was he some sort of pagan sage?”

“Precisely!” Warner's defender shouted.

“I recall that Duke Christian did not trust this source as truly divine,” said the white-haired gentleman. “And we all know that while he strived for Arthurian principles, he did not believe witchcraft nor sorcery had any place in a holy realm.”

“Perhaps we need not question this matter too deeply.” Hemsley entreated them with open palms. “True or not, this prophecy is just what we need to rally the people and save the day.”

“I for one believe it to be true.” The bishop stood again, exuding a confidence and leadership that stirred Allen to the core. “And I have the perfect candidate for our purehearted man of lowly birth.”

Allen glanced about the room.

“God has brought him to us just in time. He himself recently shared with us that he sensed the Lord guiding him to North Britannia,” the bishop continued. “I nominate Sir Allen of Ellsworth.”

Allen's mouth gaped. Surely he had not heard correctly, but all eyes in the room focused upon him. Even the duchess stared his way, appearing as shocked as he was. Might the Lord have led him here for such a time as this?

“What say you, Your Grace?” Lord Fulton asked.

The duchess gulped. “It is much to process, but you know I would do anything to maintain this region as my beloved husband wished it to be.”

“Sir Allen?” Fulton, along with every other person in the room, turned to him.

So much anticipation and expectation surged Allen's way. So much pressure. What of his beloved Gwendolyn? But perhaps this was God's way of saving him from a woman who did not share his devotion.

And had he not just a moment earlier wished there was some way, any way, he might help? This might be the very reason God had called him to this place.

That now-familiar sensation—which he was certain could not be pride—welled within him. They needed him. He alone could save the day. He could protect this grand dukedom and every person who dwelled within it. Oh how he had dreamed of a moment like this his entire lowly life.

Again he looked at the duchess. A stately, godly woman.
Older than him, of course, yet still beautiful by any man's standards. How could he ever dream of a greater honor than taking her to wife to sustain the well-being of North Britannia?

As he could think of only one answer, he need not even pause and pray. “I will do anything in my power to protect this dukedom.”

He pushed aside thoughts of Gwendolyn as the council members gathered round to congratulate him yet again.

Him.

Allen of Ellsworth, born a peasant, now the savior of North Britannia.

On the ninth day of Gwen's confinement, a tap sounded upon the door of her chamber. Although Mother had lightened her restrictions, Father had bid her to keep Gwen locked up until he returned and could assess her attitude.

Mother peeked her pretty face around the doorframe. “Is this a good time to talk?”

Gwen waved to the chair next to where she sat in the streaming sunlight of her open window with her pup Angel curled by her feet. “I have nothing but time at my disposal, at least until Father comes home.”

“Where is Rosalind?” Mother glanced about the room.

“Still determined to get a stubborn berry stain out of that ridiculous pink concoction you made me wear to the feast.”

“Ridiculous?” Mother sat with a huff. “I love that gown. You looked like a fairy princess.”

“I looked like an overripe rose, especially the way I fairly dripped from that bodice. Truly, Mother, whatever were you thinking?”

Mother held up her hands in surrender and laughed along
with Gwen. “Fine. You need not wear it again if you feel that strongly. Throw it in the rubbish heap.”

“I need not wear anything so fancy ever again if I do not leave this chamber.”

“Well . . . ” Mother picked at her own burgundy gown now. “On that issue I have both good and bad news to share with you.”

Gwen stilled her mother's fidgeting hands with a soft touch. “Tell me straightaway, Mother. There is no use in mincing words.” She had spent the last nine days as a prisoner. Her father planned to marry her to a brute. What news could possibly be worse than that?

“The good news is that Father has returned and soon you will be free to roam the castle.” Her smile faltered.

“But . . . ” Gwen prompted.

Mother took a bracing breath. “But I am afraid a tragedy has struck our region. Duke Justus has been murdered—God rest his soul. The duke's outcast cousin, Warner DeMontfort, is the primary suspect, but he has not claimed responsibility, and no one seems to know for certain.”

Gwen struggled to decode the words her mother had just spoken. Duke Justus? Murdered? “It cannot be. Everybody loved him so.”

“Not everyone, I am afraid.” The silent tears gathering in her mother's eyes convinced Gwen more than words ever could.

“Dear God, no!” Gwen felt as if a swift kick had struck her ribs, as if all the breath had been sucked out of her. It was too awful to be true, but when she looked again into her mother's eyes, she realized that she must accept the situation.

The kind, fair, cheerful ruler she had conversed with less than two weeks ago was gone. “What of the dukedom? What of the duchess? Whatever shall we all do?” How Gwen wished she could hunt down this evildoer and protect the region.

Mother's hands took to fidgeting again, as she wrung them together. “A plan has been proposed, and once you have adjusted to the idea, I think you of all people might approve.”

“What do you mean, ‘me of all people'?” A dark dread spiraled about Gwen and coalesced to drive a hole through the pit of her stomach. Surely this could not get worse.

“You see, there was a prophecy delivered many years ago during the reign of the old duke, Gregory DeMontfort. It said that someday the dukedom would face great peril, and a man of lowly birth would thwart a deadly foe.”

Hope struck bright in Gwen's heart. “Allen?”

“Yes. But there is more. The prophecy claimed he would marry a duchess and thwart a deadly foe. It has been decided that if Allen of Ellsworth marries the Duchess Adela, the dukedom will be saved and all will be well.”

Gwen's mind shattered as she digested these last words. Her hope snuffed away as quickly as it had flamed. As her mother continued speaking, Gwen felt as though she listened from beneath a pool of thick, murky liquid.

“The plan has given the people much hope. They have rallied around Allen and the duchess in a way I would never have believed possible. The common folk are aiding in guarding the region until the wedding a month hence.”

“Wedding. A month hence.” Gwen feared she might choke on the awful words. But as she pushed them out, anger welled within her. “But it is just a foolish old prophecy! Who believes such nonsense?”

“I suppose if anyone would, it would be the people of North Britannia. Not only have we been taught to believe in a God who is alive and active in the issues of men, but we have put great stock in those Arthurian legends as well.”

“But do the leaders believe? Does the duchess?” The room
spun around Gwen. She still could not accept that it was true. “Does Allen?”

“I cannot say, darling.” Mother took Gwen's hands, and Gwen clung to them as if they alone could pull her from the depths of that pool that drew her ever deeper and deeper. “True or not, the people believe it. And as hard as I know this will be for you, you must accept it. You cannot stand in the way of destiny.”

Tears slipped down Gwen's cheeks, but she dared not swipe at the warm trails, for if she let go of Mother's hands, she feared she might slip into a dark abyss and never escape. “But I love him!”

She had not quite realized it until she spoke the words, but they rang true deep in her heart.

“Love comes in many forms. You barely know this man, and you shall find love again.”

“Never!” Gwen spat the word. “Not with that awful Gawain.”

“Not with Gawain. But with someone. Perhaps with Randel Penigree. I saw him speaking with your father at the banquet, and he walked away quite disappointed. I felt sure he requested to court you.”

“But he is so . . . so . . . Randel! How could I ever get past those big feet and that gangly neck?”

Mother patted Gwen's cheek. “He outgrew those years ago, silly girl. He is quite nice to look at now. Not as handsome as Sir Allen, perhaps, but kind and considerate. Keep in mind that he knows of your dalliance with swords and lances, yet shows interest anyway. He would treat you well, and you could build love together.”

Gwen had no words left. Her last hope had been dashed as a ship against the rocks. She gathered Angel into her arms and rocked back and forth in her chair, attempting to hold back tears that would do her no good.

Warner picked up the earthenware goblet, turned it over for inspection, then flung it against the stone wall of his small castle fortress with a crash. Satisfaction filled him as the goblet smashed into fragments and rained across the floor, but the sensation lasted only a moment.

His plan should have worked. He had justice—not to mention a goodly number of North Britannian nobles and his own army of backers—on his side. Even now he should be riding through the dukedom to declare it his own. But matters had gone completely awry.

Sir Gaillard had been right. They should have garnered more support before making their move, particularly in the council. He still could not fathom that they had turned him away so coldly. With such utter humiliation. Now more than ever he wished he had the region's top military leader on his side, but perhaps Lord Barnes would yet come around. One way or another they would pay for this. Every last one of them.

Just this morning he had received the incredulous report that the duchess was to marry that lowborn Allen of Ellsworth. The people were all caught in the frenzy of some old prophecy, and no one seemed to have given Warner's right to the title more than a passing thought.

He wished that he could have five minutes alone with that fellow Allen. He would gladly wrap his hands around the usurper's neck and finish him off for good. But it seemed the army of North Britannia had strengthened its watch about both the borders and the city. Even the peasant folk were rising up to help during this vulnerable time before the noble wedding.

Unfathomable!

And so Warner had finally done what he should have done
months ago, though the decision rankled at his conscience—he had summoned Morgaine.

He longed to think himself a better and more traditional Christian than his progressive cousin, Justus, notwithstanding the fact that he had recently committed murder—

No, not murder. Warfare. Punishment! He sought to convince himself, despite the echo of slick blood he yet felt dripping down his palms.

Was he not the one who scrupulously followed the rule of the king in England and the pope in Rome? While Warner knew that the black arts were not permitted, there came a time when a man had no choice but to seize every resource at his disposal.

If he had consulted his half sister, Morgaine, from the start, surely he would have seen this coming. He might have dispatched with the despicable Allen before the trouble started. Had not even Justus's precious King Arthur consulted with enchantresses and sorcerers? The next time Warner rode into North Britannia, he would not do so blindly.

At that moment Morgaine swept into his chamber with that same haunting quiet that always seemed to trail in her wake, as if the stone floor retreated to let her pass. Were he to engage his imagination, he could almost picture wisps of fog spreading from the bottom of her jet-black gown.

Her dark hair bound tight in braids and stacked upon her head in a serpentine manner shone brightly in the firelight and added to the eerie impression. She rarely left her reclusive tower room, and he hardly recalled the last time they had spoken.

“Finally,” was all the greeting Warner offered his younger and less-legitimate sibling. At their widowed mother's request, he had allowed Morgaine to continue residing in his home despite her wayward interests. Helping him now was the least she could do. “Did you bring the supplies?”

“No proper hello for your sister? Perhaps a kiss?” Her voice rang low and hypnotic as always. She followed the statement with a wicked laugh and a flick of her wrist that showed she desired no such niceties from him. “Of course I did. Why else would I have left my sanctuary?”

Morgaine pulled out a basin from beneath her arm, where it had been concealed by her long billowing sleeves. “Just have your man bring us some fresh water.”

Warner waved his trusted manservant away. “Will it take long?”

Her yellowish-green cat eyes caught the reflection of the torch upon the wall and burned like fire. “That is hard to say. The future is a fickle mistress. And like the water in which we shall view it, it is always shifting and swirling. 'Tis not set in stone, as some might think.”

“But you shall be able to advise me?” In desperation, Warner clutched the edge of the table where she set the basin.

“I shall do my best.”

Warner studied his sister as she removed a satchel from her waist and opened it, sniffing the contents. An odd herbal scent wafted toward him. Better than the toads and spiders he had feared. She put a finger in the satchel and stirred the contents about, while he held back a nervous chuckle.

The servant returned with a pitcher of water and poured it into the basin, as Morgaine indicated. Warner dismissed the man, for he did not want the innocent servant to be held culpable for what they were about to do. The man sighed with relief as he hurried out the door and clicked it closed behind him.

Morgaine tossed a handful of herbs into the water. Then she approached Warner and reached for him, running her fingers sensuously through his hair. He felt drawn into her hypnotic eyes and sensed her evil presence wrapping about him like a snake. But he could not back down now.

A memory of Saul in the Bible consorting with the witch of Endor flashed through his mind. Matters had not gone well with Saul from that time forward. But following the church's commands had gotten Warner nowhere so far. He had to give this less-orthodox course of action a try.

With a swift jerk, Morgaine plucked a single dark hair from Warner's head.

As he rubbed his stinging scalp, she dropped it into the basin with the herbs. Then she stirred the concoction with her finger as she had done to the herbs in the satchel. With her thick, raspy voice she mumbled words he did not understand in some ancient tongue, and that dark presence in the room increased tenfold. It threatened to choke him and nearly snuffed out the torch before it fanned back to life.

“What do you see?” He pushed the words through his tight throat in a whisper.

“All is not lost. There is yet a chance.”

His throat seemed to unclench at that. Surely he was being silly, and it was only his own fear, not some evil presence, holding him bound.

Morgaine continued to study the water, her glowing, all-seeing eyes taking her to some different sphere. “Right now you have little land, no power, and no title of consequence. You are a man dispossessed. There is a way to acquire all this and more, but it shall take daring and courage, the likes of which I do not think you have.”

“Did I not dispose of the duke? Yet you doubt me.”

“That is what sisters are for.” She cackled and peered yet deeper into the basin. “I see a woman, alone, with power and land. You must seize her. Marry her, and claim them for yourself. If you can accomplish this, I believe you will stand a chance of claiming North Britannia.”