The Dark One: Dark Knight (6 page)

     “The food is delicious,” Patrick remarked.

     Nicolas, his younger brother by four years,
had a mouthful of mutton.  “This place is full of food and pretty wenches. A
delightful castle.”

     Gaston ignored them both and dug into a
trencher full of roast mutton and carrots.  The gravy was rich and the food
well prepared and he found he was far hungrier than he had thought.  Behind
him, along the wall, the four sisters hovered out of sight, making sure all was
flowing smoothly.

     Remington’s apprehension was fading but her
stomach was still in knots.  She was terribly uncertain about her future, the
future of her family, but too terrified to press the Dark Knight for any more
information.  She would simply have to wait, remain useful and obedient, and
pray he allowed them all to stay.

     Nicolas put his goblet to his mouth,
drinking deeply of his ale.  When he pulled the goblet away, his face was
ringed with a huge black outline the shape of the edge of the goblet.  It
looked like a silly, painted-on smile and he was completely oblivious as he dug
into his turnips.

     Antonius was the first to see it.  The wine
he had been preparing to swallow went flying across the table, spraying Patrick
in the face.  Patrick cursed loudly and demanded an explanation when Antonius
pointed to his brother, too weak with laughter to explain himself.  Patrick
took one look at Nicolas’ face and burst into hysteria.

     “What?” Nicolas asked, food hanging from
his mouth.  “What’s so funny?”

     The other knights saw it and chuckled,
pointing and snorting at Nicolas’ expense.  Only Gaston and Arik were not
laughing.  Arik cocked an eyebrow at Nicolas while Gaston simply went back to
his food.

     “What is the matter?” Nicolas demanded
hotly.

     Patrick, snickering, rubbed at the black
line and pulled his finger away to show his brother the charcoal.  Instantly,
Nicolas was incensed and he shot to his feet.

     “What is this?” he demanded.  “Who did
this?”

     Rory couldn’t stand it.  She started to
laugh, stamping her feet.  “My God, you pompous fool.  Can you not take a
joke?”

     Remington felt a bolt of shock go through
her.  “Rory!”

     Rory was laughing, thinking her joke to be
most funny.  Skye, her mouth open, pressed herself against the wall as if to
fade into it while Jasmine, in total denial, fainted dead away to the floor. 
Remington was beside herself.

     “He looks like an idiot, do not you think?”
Rory said to her sister.

     Remington clamped her agape mouth shut and
rushed to her sister, grabbing her by the arm.  “Damn you, Rory, you are going
to get us all killed.” she hissed.  “Get out of here!”

     “Nay!” Nicolas boomed, cutting off Rory and
Remington’s escape route.  “I shall teach the wench a lesson she shall never
forget.”

     “Please, my lord, I beg not.” Remington
pleaded.  “I promise you this will never happen again.”

     “You shall teach me no lesson, you
saddle-brained oaf,” Rory announced. “I would like to see you try!”

     Nicolas reached for Rory, but the redhead
was too fast for him.  She yanked away from her sister and the knight, moving
out of arm’s distance and bumping Patrick in the process.  Wine sloshed out of
his cup and onto Gaston, who reached out and grasped Rory by the scruff of the
neck.

     The room went silent. The knights froze, as
did Remington.  Jasmine, being helped up by Skye, saw what was happening and
slid to the floor once more.  Remington did not know what to do; she was seized
with panic. God only knew it never helped to plead with her husband when he was
assaulting her sisters, but this man wasn’t her husband.  He was the Dark
Knight. God help them all.

     She could only try to plead her sister’s
case.  If she did not, then Rory was certainly doomed.  She thought mayhap to
prostrate herself at the Dark Knight’s feet but her legs were shaking so she
couldn’t seem to move correctly.  Instinctively, she reached out and covered
the massive hand that held her sister with her own soft, warm hand.

     “Please, my lord, do not be harsh with
her,” she begged softly. “She is young and spirited and unused to the grand presence
of knights. I fear her warped sense of humor overrides her judgment at times.”

     Gaston looked into the crystal-clear eyes,
the sweet face, and realized that he was actually listening to her.  He’d never
listened to a woman in his life.  And her hand… by God, he could feel the
warmth of it all the way up to his shoulder.  And the softness, like the finest
silk, caressed him although she had not so much as moved her hand in that
manner.  Her touch was beseeching, imploring. 

     He was going to throw the little redheaded
vixen in the vault and throw away the key.  How he dealt with troublemakers
would reflect greatly on how he was perceived, especially with this first
offense.  But with the lady’s soft pleading, he reconsidered and was shocked at
himself for doing so.

     “Nicolas,” he said, his eyes moving to his
cousin. “Do what you will with her. Yet I would see no blood, bruises, or
broken bones on her person. Do you comprehend me?”

     Nicolas was unhappy with the command but
had better sense than to voice it.  He closed his outraged mouth and grabbed
Rory by the hair.  She began to screech and kick, swinging her fists and making
contact with his abdomen.  Nicolas grunted, grabbing one of her arms and
twisting it behind her back to control her, but not before Rory bit him and
almost took off his finger.

     “You bloody little witch!” Nicolas roared.
“That damn well hurt!”

     “Let go of me, you brute.” Rory spat. “Let
go of me and I shall give you a fair fight.”

     The entire population of the hall was
greatly entertained by the spectacle, laughing and encouraging Nicolas with
bawdy comments. They lifted their tankards in respect of a good battle and
turned back to their food as the shouting faded from the room.

     Remington was horrified.  She was still
focused on the archway hearing the faint yells of her sister and sickened to
the bone. It occurred to her that the practical joke on Nicolas might not have
been random. Terrified of what her sister was capable of, she raced to the end
of the long table where Gaston and his knights were sitting and thrust herself
forward in the space that Nicolas had occupied.

     “Forgive me, my lords,” she said quickly,
checking under bowls, shaking out napkins and generally disrupting their meal.
Yet instead of being perturbed, they watched her curiously.  Especially Gaston.

     “What are you doing?” he asked over the rim
of the goblet.

     She paused, suddenly aware of a host of
faces looking at her. Her cheeks flushed pink.

     “I…Rory is fond of practical jokes, as you
can see,” she offered apologetically. “I was making sure that no more of you
good men fell victim to her havoc.”

     Arik snorted and wiped his mouth with a
crimson napkin. There was a huge red streak across his face and Patrick and
Antonius erupted into fits of laughter. Arik knew something humiliating had
happened and looked at Gaston.

     “What now?” he asked.

     Gaston wasn’t smiling, although he wanted
to.  “Someone has put red color in your napkin, I believe. The liquid you just
mopped from your mouth activated it.”

     Arik closed his eyes a moment, silently
beseeching the gods for strength and patience.  “Am I to assume I look as if I
am wearing rouge on my lips?”

     “Aye,” Gaston took a healthy sip from his
cup.

     Remington was looking at the knight as if
she expected him to draw his sword at any moment and run her through. Anger at
her sister and complete terror were running neck and neck.

     “My lord,” she croaked.  “I am so terribly
sorry.  I shall punish Rory severely for her transgressions. Pray forgive, my
lord.”

     Arik looked at her, picking up his napkin
to wipe his mouth and then suddenly remembering the dye in it. He tossed it to
the floor and ripped Antonius’ napkin from his hand, daintily dabbing at his
lips.

     “Nay, madam, I am sure that will not be
necessary,” he said steadily. “If I know Nicolas, and I do, your sister will
have punishment enough.”

     Remington’s eyes widened with fright but
she said nothing.  Her gaze shifted once again to the archway her sister had
disappeared through, wondering what was transpiring. Was he raping her, or
worse?  She tore her gaze away, moving to Jasmine and Skye plastered against
the wall by the hearth. Quickly, she moved to them.

     “Get out of here,” she whispered.  “Go find
out where that knight has taken Rory.”

     “And then what?” Jasmine whined. “We can do
nothing against him.”

     “Shush.” Remington hissed sharply, glancing
over her shoulder towards the Dark Knight to make sure he had not overheard.
“Just do as I say. Go find Rory.”

     Like blond wispy fairies, Jasmine and Skye
slipped from the room, leaving Remington and the servants to deal with the
hoard of men rapidly drinking themselves happy. Remington was glad to be rid of
them for that latter fact, as well. She did not want her sisters to fall victim
to drunken soldiers.

     The meal progressed to empty trenchers and
a good deal of loud, wet belching.  Remington continued to stand in the corner
and direct servants, making sure goblets were kept full.  Oleg emerged from the
kitchens and stood silent watch with her, fully aware of what had happened with
Rory.  He, too, was concerned for the spirited sister but did not voice his
concerns. It would only upset Remington.

     As the evening rolled toward midnight and
the knights had taken to singing and games to entertain themselves, Remington
decided it was time for her to retire. She’d had enough of men in armor and
merriment in their fashion.  She was weary to the bone and worried for her
sister, and only wished to vacate the hall to see to her own needs. Leaving
Oleg in charge, she moved quietly to the Dark Knight’s table.

     As she came closer she was aware of her
twisting stomach, anxiety for the mountainous man.  She was positive that after
this evening he would banish them all with good riddance, and she furthermore
did not blame him.  But she prayed, just the same, that he would be merciful.

     “My lord,” she curtsied by his chair.  “I
would ask your permission to retire for the eve.”

     He glanced disinterestedly at her.  “The
night is young, madam.  Are you not planning on eating?”

     “Nay, my lord,” she said.  “This meal was
meant for you and your knights to enjoy, without intrusion of the people of Mt.
Holyoak.  If I may bid you good-night, then.”

     He studied her manner, extremely careful
and respectful.  She had the look about her like a frightened doe, which most
people did when confronted with the Dark Knight. He was used to it, immune to
it, but for some reason, he did not want her to look at him like that… look at
him as if he were going to tear her arms from her sockets.

     “Very well,” he flicked his wrist. “Retire,
lady of Mt. Holyoak.”

     The knights watched her back out, far more
respectful than most women.  It was subservient to the point of over-reactive.

     “She is a beauty,” Antonius observed when
she was gone.  “I know Sir Guy Stoneley.  He is an evil bastard on the best of
days and I certainly did not expect that he would have such a beautiful
creature for a wife.”

     Arik stared at the empty doorway a moment
longer, before looking back to his goblet of water.  “See how she acts,
Antonius?  That woman has known nothing but fear her entire life.”

     Antonius shook his head and returned to his
drink.  “Were she mine, she would know nothing but pleasure and happiness.  Ah,
what a damn pity.”

     “Nay, the pity is that she must deal with
that wild sister,” Patrick said. “We shall have to watch that red-head.  If she
is bold enough to play tricks on our first night here, there is no telling what
more she is capable of.”

     “Sleep lightly, lads,” Gaston rumbled,
watching the dance of the fire over the rim of his cup.  “She shall not be
sated until she has humiliated every one of us.”

     “Damnable Yorkist,” Patrick said lowly. “I
shall have her head if she tries anything with me.”

     “She’s not a Yorkist, she’s a pretty young
girl,” Arik said, his lips and face still red.  “I would bet money that she
would not care if this house was loyal to the prince of Persia. Nay, what she
does, she does for revenge on the male sex.”

     Patrick looked at him and smiled broadly.
“I cannot take you seriously, man, when your lips are as red as a court
whore’s.”

     Arik lifted an eyebrow and put his drink to
his lips. “Beware, lad, or I shall kiss you fully.”

     Antonius sat back in his chair with a sigh,
mesmerized by the flames and feeling his fatigue.  “I wonder what it would be
like to kiss Lady Stoneley,” he said. “After all, with her husband in the White
Tower, she must be fairly lonely.”