The Dark One: Dark Knight (32 page)

     He did not reply for a moment.  His
displeasure was obvious, like a slap in the face.  “And I am surprised to see
you.  We have much to discuss, wife.”

     She smiled prettily and lowered her
lashes.  “As my lord pleases. I am at your disposal.  Would you take your seat
now, my lord, and be served?”

     He moved past her briskly, ignoring her
soundly as he took his seat.  Mari-Elle sat next to him, making sure to brush
his leg with her knee. He did not react, instead, drinking deeply from his
tankard.  He always drank too much when he was around her.

     Servants began flowing from the kitchens,
bringing out trenchers for the men.  There were suddenly several serving
wenches at the head of the table where Gaston sat, all setting food in front of
the knights.  The wench serving Gaston set his plate down carefully and fully
brushed her breasts against his arm as she pulled back.  Annoyed, he shot her
an icy look and was shocked to see Remington wink back at him.

     His eyes rapidly went to every serving
wench at the table; Skye and Jasmine, dressed as servants, were assisting the
knights. Rory smiled boldly at him. It took him a second to realize his mouth
had popped open and he quickly shut it.

     Arik met his eyes questioningly but he
ignored the look; he was trying to figure out what the devil the women of Mt.
Holyoak were doing dressed in coarse linen serving clothes, wooden clogs and
leather girdles.

     He was so stunned he almost forgot about
his food.  Mechanically, he dug into his plate, eyeing Remington and her
sisters as they served his men.

     “Where is my food?” Mari-Elle demanded
imperiously; she was the only one that had not been served. “You – wench!”

     Rory was closest.  She swung around so fast
she hit Mari-Elle on the side of the head with the pitcher of wine she was
holding.  The woman teetered, her wimple knocked askew.

     “You stupid…!” She suddenly remembered
Gaston sitting next to her.  If she were going to convince the man that she was
a changed woman, then she would have to start acting like it. She calmed
herself and straightened her wimple. “You seem to have forgotten my food.”

     Rory lifted her eyebrows in feigned
horror.  “My heavens! Sorry, chicklet, I shall get it right away.”

     She skittered away and Gaston found himself
biting off huge guffaws that promised to fill the room.  Across the table,
Patrick’s red face was staring into his lap and Nicolas had his napkin over his
mouth, chewing slowly but laughing silently like a fool.  Antonius coughed
heavily and pretended to drop his knife to the floor.

     Gaston was shocked at what was apparently
going on.  Shocked and angered that Remington and her sisters had disobeyed
him, but mightily amused at what promised to take place. He knew he should stop
it, but he was frankly curious at Mari-Elle’s reaction to Rory’s brassiness. He
decided to allow Remington and her sisters to continue their charade, if for
nothing more than to be fortunate enough to gaze at Remington.  He missed her
already.

     Gaston’s knights recognized her but no one
said a word.  Whatever she was doing was her own business, yet a few wondered
if Lady de Russe had ordered her to serve as a common servant.  Obviously Sir
Gaston wasn’t upset in the least, so wise men that they were, they made no
comment.

     Remington came up on Gaston’s arm.  “More wine, my
lord?”

     He gazed up at her, trying desperately not
to show any emotion. “Aye.”

     He raised his goblet and she lowered the
pitcher and they bumped.  The collision wasn’t hard, but suddenly the pitcher
was flying backwards and nearly the entire contents spilled itself on
Mari-Elle’s lap.

     Mari-Elle jumped to her feet with shock and
Remington let the pitcher fall.

     “Oh, my lady, I am so sorry.” she gasped
with a good deal of overacting.  “I am ever so clumsy, my lady, please forgive
me.”

     Gaston watched, baffled, as Remington
grabbed the rag on her dress and began wiping the wine off his wife’s fine
surcoat.  He could see that every swipe of the rag left a black streak and
Mari-Elle looked down at herself, horrified.

     “Look at what you are doing,” she
screeched.  “Stop this instant!”

     Remington dropped the rag in mock horror at
what she had done.  “My lady, a thousand apologies.  Please.”

     Mari-Elle was fully preparing to swat the
unfortunate serving girl but she caught Gaston’s critical look over the top of
the wench’s head and reconsidered.  Though it was far more difficult this time
around, she forced down her anger.

     “I am sure it will wash,” she said through
clenched teeth.

     Remington bowed and scraped herself away
from the table, backing up several feet until she was well clear of them. 
Then, as Gaston watched, she straightened regally and smiled the most devious
smile he could ever remember seeing.  He was torn between wanting to take her
over his knee and wanting to applaud her bravado.  In spite of his conflict, he
was growing increasingly curious about Mari-Elle’s behavior.  The woman he had
married would have been whipping the hide from the servants by now.

     As he was dwelling on Mari-Elle’s change of
character, Rory barged forward, a full trencher in her hands. Carefully, she
sat it down in front of Mari-Elle.

     “There you are, chicklet,” she said
happily. “Enjoy!”

     Gaston looked at the food on the trencher
and just knew there was something wrong with it.  He passed a glance at Arik
and the two of them quickly looked back to their food.  Whatever the woman got,
she deserved worse and they were not about to put a stop to it.  Yet.  The show
was far too amusing.

     Mari-Elle began to eat and they held their
breath.  But nothing happened and she continued eating, smiling at Gaston now
and again.  He ignored her, acutely aware of Remington replenishing wine at the
next table and stealing a glance at her here and there.  At the far end of the
table, Rory was laughing loudly with several of the knights and then suddenly
cuffed one on the side of the head.

     “That wench is….unusual,” Mari-Elle commented. 
“Are all of the servants here as cheeky as she is?”

     Gaston did not answer; Arik replied when he
saw that he wasn’t going to.  “For the most part, they are a loyal lot, my
lady.”

     Mari-Elle turned her nose up and resumed
her meal. “Thank God I brought my own people with me.  We shall soon have Mt.
Holyoak running smoothly.”

     Gaston looked at her, then.  “Your
conclusion is based upon the assumption that I will allow you to remain at
Holyoak and is, therefore, faulty.  As it is, the fortress and its house run
quite sufficiently for my taste and your interference is neither needed nor
wanted.”

     Remington was at the next table and
listening to the conversation closely.  A knight held up his tankard and she
obliged with her pitcher of wine.

     Mari-Elle blanched.  “I am not welcome in
my husband’s fortress?”

     Gaston had sincerely hoped to avoid this
until later when they were in private, but he had spoken rashly in reaction to
her suggestion that Mt. Holyoak was
their
fortress.  It was his, and
Remington’s.

     “We will discuss this later, madam,” he
said coldly.

     Trenton bowed his head over his food, his
appetite gone.  So his father was a cold bastard just like his mother said,
only…today they had spent over an hour together and his father had been very
kind to him.  He wanted his father’s love so much, but he was deeply confused. 
Why did his father hate his mother so?

     Stung, Mari-Elle returned to her food,
knowing her task ahead would not be an easy one.  She would have to be more
clever than Gaston, a monumental chore.

     Remington moved to Gaston’s table once
more, topping Arik’s and Patrick’s cups.  She moved around to Mari-Elle.

     “More wine, my lady?” she asked pleasantly.

     Mari-Elle nodded shortly and watched the
wine fill her cup.  Then, much to Gaston’s concern, she turned to Remington and
scrutinized her closely.

     “You are rather pretty for a common serving
wench,” she said cattily.  “Are you, mayhap of a higher station?”

     Remington blinked at the question, the
statement.  “Nay, my lady.  I am what you see.”

     Mari-Elle raised an eyebrow.  “I am sure
you have not gone unnoticed by the knights,” she said.  “Tell me then, girl. 
You served the former lord, did you not?”

     “Aye, my lady,” she had in more ways than
one.

     ‘And is the climate of the household still
attuned to Richard?”

     Remington actually found that her dander
was rising with the woman’s haughty tone.  She had been quite docile until this
moment.  “We are loyal to Sir Gaston, my lady.”

     Mari-Elle gave Remington one last arrogant
look and returned to her wine.  “We shall see.  Where is your mistress, then? 
I ordered her to attend this meal.”

     Gaston raised a black brow.  “You do not
give orders here, madam.  You receive them.  I specifically ordered Lady
Remington to remain in her rooms until your departure.  You will not, nor do
you need to, see her.”

     “Lady Remington?” Mari-Elle repeated. 
“What kind of name is that?”

     “French, I believe, my lady,” Remington was
starting to flush around her cheeks.

     Mari-Elle glared at Remington.  “I did not
ask your opinion, girl.  Leave us.”

     Remington swept away, her jaw clenching and
her face red.  She brushed past Skye and Rory near the kitchen door. 

     “Bitch,” she hissed.  “No wonder Gaston
hates her.”

     “Look at the boy, Remi,” Skye whispered. 
“He looks terribly uncomfortable.”

     Remington gazed at Trenton, a smaller
version of his mighty father.  “Poor thing,” she murmured, and then looked
pointedly at Rory.  “Whatever you put in her food, I hope it makes her so
miserable she wants to die.”

     Rory grinned.  “Oh, I can guarantee that
she will be feeling quite awful in an hour or so.  Charles gave me a root that
will make her food run right through her.  She shall be in the privy all
night.”

     Jasmine joined the little group, setting
her wine pitcher down.  “Charles and Dane have surely finished sabotaging her
room by now,” she whispered.  “Just wait until Lady Mari-Elle retires for the
night.  God help her.”

     Remington had a delightful mental picture
of what lay in store for Lady de Russe.  It never occurred to her that Gaston
might become angry over what they had done; she thought she was helping him.

     “Remember; we deny all knowledge.” she
whispered urgently.  “Unless Gaston plans to put us to the whip, we continue to
deny everything.  And you, Rory; the suspicion will be on you and you must not
give in.  We know how you like to confess your sins.”

     “What if Lady Mari-Elle puts us to the
whip?” Skye asked, fear shadowing her face.

     “Gaston won’t let her,” Remington said
confidently.  “See how he ignores her?  I promise you, the woman is as good as
gone.”

     “Is it time for our song yet?” Jasmine
asked eagerly, picking up her lyre from its perch on the wall.

     Remington passed a sly glance at Mari-Elle,
studying the woman’s sharp profile.  “Oh, yes.”

     Remington couldn’t sing a note.  In fact,
the only sister who could remotely sing was Jasmine, and she couldn’t sing if
she were playing her lyre because she lacked the coordination.  But they had a
special song in mind for Lady Mari-Elle, composed by Rory no less, and they
would sing it or die trying.  Anything to welcome the new mistress of Mt.
Holyoak.

     Quietly, they took their places by the huge
hearth and Remington stood forward, clearing her throat loudly until the room
eventually quieted.  Gaston saw her standing bravely in front of the room,
wondering what in the hell she was doing.  He slanted a concerned glance at
Arik, who merely lifted his eyebrows.  The meal was growing more interesting,
and more puzzling, by the moment.  Something told him to put a stop to it, but
morbid inquisitiveness won over.

     “Good knights and honored guest,” Remington
began; she had a most delightful speaking voice.  “In honor of our arrived
mistress, we have commissioned a special song.  With your permission, my lord
Gaston?”

     Gaston nodded slightly, his eyes glittering
at her.  A roomful of people was watching them and he carefully banked his
reaction.

     Remington resumed her spot between Rory and
Skye.  Jasmine began stroking the lyre beautifully, the rich chords filling the
hall.  The men relaxed, settled back, and waited for what was sure to be a most
delightful song.  They were positive nothing else could come from such a lovely
woman.

     They were wrong.

     Which was why they were startled when the
chords suddenly stopped and all four women dug into the song with the fragility
of waves crashing onto jagged rocks.  The first word, a roaring “Oh.” sounded
like four drunken tavern wenches lifting their tankards in tribute to a fine
man gone by.