The Dark One: Dark Knight (87 page)

     She sat on the chair to pull on her hose
and slippers, securing the silk garters as he watched. “I wonder what I should
pack, considering I have no idea where they will be taking me.”

     “Warm clothes, love,” he murmured, his gaze
lingering on her a moment before retrieving his armor. Remington watched,
impressed, as he donned all of it unaided and quite efficiently.

     “Clothes that stretch,” she stood up,
trying to keep the mood light. “You should have seen me when I was pregnant
with Dane. I was as round as a pumpkin.” She put her arms out in front of her
in a plump circle.

     He smiled weakly, latching the top portion
of his cuirass breastplate. “I look forward to it, madam.”

     She tried to maintain her smile, but the
tone of his voice set her heart to lurching. Her vow to remain brave was
slipping rapidly, like water through her fingers. Her chest tightened painfully
and she had to look away, else she knew the tears would start
. We must
comply with the church's demands.

     She pretended to look out the window, but
her attention was turned to him as he secured the last of his armor. He
concentrated on his task until, sans helm, he was in full protection. Only then
did he face her, his eyes riveted to her elegant back.

     “Let us depart,” he said, his voice husky.
“We must return in time to sup with Henry and Elizabeth, and he eats precisely
at eight o'clock.”

     With a deep breath for strength, she turned
abruptly and marched to the door. Gaston was close behind her, opening the door
so that she might pass into the corridor.

     Without another word, he took her tender
hand into his massive glove and they proceeded to the courtyard of the Tower.

***

     Uncle Martin was not pleased. In fact, he
ranted and raged as Remington tried to pack, accusing Gaston of lacking backbone
where the church was concerned. Remington did not say a word as Gaston's uncle
berated him in front of her, pretending to be interested in her task. But she
wanted to slug Martin in the mouth.

     Gaston remained cool. He eyed Remington
from time to time, knowing how his uncle’s words must be upsetting her, but she
had yet to give any sign that she was even paying attention to them. Even
though he wanted to remain with her while she packed two large traveling bags,
his more pressing concern was to remove his uncle from her earshot.

     Pleading thirst, Gaston retreated to the
solar downstairs with Martin in tow. The older man had yet to run out of fuel
on the subject at hand, but Gaston had had enough.

     “Cease,” he hissed, holding his hand up
sharply. “I have heard enough of your prattle, Uncle. I must do as I must, and
I apologize if it does not meet with your approval.”

     Martin closed his mouth, but only for a
moment. “Leave her here with me, Gaston. Tell the bloody church that she had
run away, that you do not know where she is. If they send her away, you shall
never find her. There are abbeys and convents all over this bloody country.”

     Gaston's jaw ticked as he studied his
goblet of wine. “Henry will not allow that to happen. I shall find out where
they have taken her, have no fear.”

     Martin sat heavily in a chair, his huge,
fattened body settling. “She shall be alone, Gaston. Without protection. Why
not send Nicolas with her? Surely they will allow her one escort?”

     “I doubt it. Nicolas is my cousin. Her escorts
will be Courtenay's men, I suspect. He seems to have taken a sincere interest
in our plight. I will trust his men.”

     “You give your trust too easily,” his uncle
snorted softly.

     “You would trust the life of the woman you
love and your child's life to unknowns? Pah!”

     Gaston's head came up sharply. “I have no
choice. If I send any of my men, it will appear as if I am trying to maintain
my control over her. Do not you see? Guy has suggested that Remington is being
forced to seek an annulment against her will; if I insist on sending one of my
knights with her, it will only reinforce Guy's accusation. I must separate
myself from her as ordered, uncle.”

     Martin saw the logic, but hated it all the
more. However, as Gaston spoke, a seed of an idea planted itself in Martin's
mind and took root. The more Gaston spoke, the more the seed was nurtured.

     “You have Henry's support, for all the good
it is doing you,” Martin mumbled after a moment. “The man is king. You would
hope he would have more influence over the church than he is exhibiting.”

     “You know that Henry's relations with the
church are strained at the moment for various reason,” Gaston reminded him. “He
is trying to eradicate ecclesiastical sanctuary for all priests who have
committed crimes against man, as well as trying to lessen the church's
governing influence in England. My problems, such as they are, could not have
come at a worse time.”

     Martin snorted. “And you had the audacity
to suggest donating Warminster to the church. Really, Gaston.”

     Gaston shrugged. “I may as well accept the
dukedom and donate it myself. I suspect Stoneley will ask for Mt. Holyoak back
as one of her terms, which only leaves me with Clearwell for leverage.”

     “Clearwell is a fine fortress, Gaston. Do
not give so little stock in it. The church could turn it into an abbey or
something; they'll find use for her and her wealth.”

     Gaston's heart sank; if he lost everything
to obtain two annulments, what on earth could he offer Remington? He was old,
nearly too old to regain his fortune. He knew that Henry would not allow him to
be a pauper, but he was a proud man. If the king were going to give him money
and lands, then he would be obligated to work for them, which would rule out
any thoughts of living peacefully away from the politics and strife of London.

The men were silent;
Gaston was lost to his depressing thoughts and Martin was concentrating on his
earlier idea. He was too single-minded to think and talk at the same time.

     Gaston was glad his uncle had shut up. His
mind turned to Remington, packing upstairs, and he felt the pangs of separation
already. God help him, he couldn't stand to have her out of his sight for five
minutes much less months. How on earth was he going to survive?

     “I must help Remi,” he set down his goblet.

     Martin watched his nephew leave the room,
hearing his heavy boots mount the stairs. Aye, Gaston was virtually helpless.
But Martin, being a retired warrior, was not included in this incapacitated
state. He could indeed do something. This was the perfect opportunity for him
to prove to Gaston and the world that he was not a useless old man waiting for
death. He would prove his worth - again.

     Gaston stood in the door way just as
Remington was pulling on a pair of slippers. She had changed surcoats, out of the
scarlet brocade and into a surcoat of pale yellow silk that brought out her
beauty like nothing else. It was snug and fit her form incredibly, and she
smiled at him as he entered the room.

     “I...I did not want to wear the scarlet,”
she said softly. “I like the yellow much better. Do you recognize it?”

     He nodded faintly, fingering a springy
curl. “You wore it the night I fell in love with you. Aside from the green that
you buried Rory in, 'tis the surcoat I remember best. It does you justice,
madam. Henry will be most envious.”

     She blushed. “I do not care what the king
thinks. I only care what you think.”

     He sat down on the bed next to her, raising
his eyebrows. “You
know
what I think.”

     She met his gaze, warm and tender, and a
stab of anguish shot through her. She was trying so desperately to be brave,
but it was becoming more difficult with each passing moment.

     She stood up, moving to secure her bags.
She couldn't look at him anymore. He watched her graceful back, the way the
dress flared at the hips, memorizing every line of her. His smile faded and his
entire body began to ache with agony. How could he let her go?

     Remington was thinking the same thoughts.
How could he allow the church to separate them? Anger, borne from grief,
bubbled forth against her nature.

     “I do not want to go, Gaston,” she
murmured. “Why must I?”

     “Because we must cooperate, Remi; you know
that.”

     She pulled at the bag sharply, her emotions
unveiling themselves. “I do not want to!” She suddenly snapped. “Why are you
letting them do this to us?”

     “You know why.”

     She spun around, her face filled with
sorrow and fury. “No, I do not. I do not understand why you are not fighting
them tooth and nail on this, Gaston. Why are you being so bloody cooperative?”

     “Calm down, angel. ‘Twill do no good to get
upset now.”

     “I shall get upset if I want to!” She
raged. “'Tis I who will be isolated in some God-forsaken convent for an
indeterminate amount of time - not you.  Separated from you, from my family,
from my son. Why aren’t you at Canterbury right now convincing the archbishop
what an evil bastard Guy is, and how he would do or say anything to keep us
apart?
Why
?”

     He stood up, reaching for her, but she
shrank away. She did not want to be comforted at this moment. He sighed heavily
when she yanked herself from his grip, his gaze sad.

     “You are distraught, angel. Sit down and
calm yourself and we shall converse rationally.”

     “No. I do not want to sit!” She snapped,
feeling the tears beginning. “Tell me why you are not fighting for me!”

     He put his hands on his hips, his face
tired. He suddenly looked as if he had aged ten years in the past day. “I
cannot fight, Remi. To fight would only confirm what Guy has said of me. I must
do what the church says; I cannot make them bend to my wishes, no matter how
badly it pains me. And if this separation does not kill me, I will be
surprised.”

     Her eyes welled, but she fought off the
cascades that threatened. “If you were to fight, it would only confirm to the
church that your feelings for me are sincere.” Her hands suddenly flew to her
mouth and her voice turned into a shriek. “I do not want to be separated from
you, not even for a moment! I cannot bear the thought of spending months and
months away from you Gaston, I shall go mad!”

     He was upon her in a half-second,
enveloping her in his massive arms and shielding her from the world. She sobbed
harshly, painfully, her agony blooming. ‘Twas no matter that she had vowed to
remain brave; she couldn't help herself anymore.

     He held her, gripping her with the anguish
he felt. Was she right? Should he be proving himself difficult, fighting like a
tiger? Should he be substantiating rumors of his reputation, that there is more
to the Dark Knight than merely a seasoned warrior? Mayhap if they believed he
was truly in league with the devil, that they would give him what he asked for
simply to avoid Lucifer's wrath?

     Yet he chased those thoughts away rapidly.
He was doing what he believed best, no matter how painful. Fighting the church
would only make them angry with him; cooperating would put him in their good
graces.

     And then his mind clouded with thoughts of
Guy Stoneley. Aye, he would see the man on the morrow and be done with these
foolish games. He would have his agreement and his terms.

     And then he would kill him.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

     Henry was seated in the dining hall in the
Queen's house, well into his third goblet of wine. His wife and his mother had
yet to arrive, as Gaston was similarly late. But he was not angered; it was,
after all, a small sup and he was in no hurry.

     Christopher Urswick, Dean of York, entered
the hall clad in his traditional broadcloth robes, as indicative of his
ecclesiastical station. He and Henry had been together since well before Henry
had been crowned king of England, and the two men shared a close bond. Among
other duties, Christopher had been chaplain of Henry's troops.

     A slight man with a balding head in spite
of his young years, Christopher seated himself next to his king and turned down
the offer of wine, opting for flavored water instead.

     “I shall be damn glad to leave this place,”
Henry murmured.  “I prefer my Windsor to the Tower.”

     Christopher smiled faintly. “I rather like
it here. There is much history.”

     “You like it because I keep my prisoners
here and you feel important counseling their souls,” the king eyed the dean a
long moment as a servant lit the hearth. “What do you think of all of this with
de Russe?”