The Dark One: Dark Knight (66 page)

     In spite of everything, Nicolas did not
hate Rory. He had grown very fond of her in an irritated sort of way, and her
death cut him to the bone. He knew Patrick was madly in love with the fiery
redhead and he could only imagine the grief his brother would be feeling. The
thought made Nicolas even more miserable; he had not only failed Gaston, but
his brother as well. In general, he was hopelessly inadequate as a knight and
anguish flooded him.

     Before him he could see a far greater
problem. Remington, stricken with grief, sat on the cold ground between two
dead bodies. It was up to him to return her to the castle so the bodies could
be prepared for burial on the morrow.

     He wandered up behind her silently, greatly
disturbed to see that she wasn't crying or carrying on. She simply sat, like a
rock, cold, emotionless.

     “My lady,” he began softly. “May I help you
inside? The night grows chill.”

     “Nay,” she answered in a flat, firm tone.

     He gazed down on her a moment. “Lady
Remington, this night air is not good for your health. You are still recovering
from your wound.”

     Remington snapped out of her daze. “Go
away!” She roared at Nicolas, “Go away! I will hear no more talk of the night
and the cold when my sister's only future is to be buried in the cold, cold
earth. Leave me alone!”

     He was stunned; he had never heard her
raise her voice in the least, and especially not in anger. Knowing it was her
grief talking did not make him feel any better.

     “I cannot,” he said gently. “You must come
inside and allow the bodies to be taken away for burial.”

     “No!” She bellowed, turning to look at him
with venomous eyes that startled him. “You shall not take them away, not until
I say. Go away, Nicolas de Russe, before I kill you myself.”

     He felt a tremendous sense of despair. “My
lady....”

     “You hated her, did you not?” Remington
seethed, grabbing both of Rory's hands into her own. “You are glad to be rid of
her.”

     His composure vanished. “That's not true.
We were fond of each other. I was the only knight she considered worthy of her
pranks.”

     “Get out of my sight!” She screamed.
Suddenly, the dam burst and the tears, the agony poured out. She threw herself
atop her sister's stiff corpse and began to cry hysterically.

     Nicolas dashed back the tears as fast as
they came, but it wasn't fast enough. They streamed down his face, coating his
stubbled skin, and dripped off his nose.

     He couldn't let her weep so uncontrollably;
she was already close to fainting from the way she was breathing and he swooped
down on her, gathering her up in his arms. He expected her to fight and claw
and beat at him for all she was worth, but instead, she collapsed against him
and held him tightly.

     “Why, Nicolas, why? Why did this happen?”
she moaned desperately.

     He couldn't speak for a moment; his voice
would have cracked like a child’s. “I do not know. But Gaston will find out and
he will avenge your sister and Arik. I swear it, my lady.”

     She wept pitifully into the crook of his
neck as he carried her into the castle. In their wake, soldiers scurried from
the shadows to tend to the bodies, torches burning brightly in the night air.

***

     The burial detail was ready at dawn. The
humidity was already stifling as the two plain coffins were loaded on carts and
moved into the outer bailey en route to the Stoneley cemetery at the base of
the hill.

     Two funerals in one week was about all
Remington could take, but she forced her emotions down. Skye clutched Nicolas
as they stood in the inner bailey waiting for the procession to organize, but
Jasmine had been too overcome to attend the funeral. As the sun rose higher and
the day grew brighter, Remington stood on the steps of the castle with her arm
around her son, waiting patiently for the detail to move out.

     She went completely against Gaston's
instructions. Dane had slept with her last night and even now she continued to
hold him and cradle him as if he were her son again and not Gaston's pledge.
She needed him, and he needed her, and if Gaston said one negative word, she
would kick him in the teeth. Her emotions were running terribly high, but she
banked them outwardly. She knew she had to put on a strong front for her
family. She would let her emotions run wild when, and only when, Gaston
returned.

     Charles, on her other side, was truly
distraught. He and Rory had been particularly close and he was having a very
difficult time accepting her death. Remington clutched his hand, wishing they
would hurry up and start the procession so that they could get on with it. The
lingering, the waiting, was painful.

     Father de Tormo loitered by the door to the
keep, sweating buckets in the humidity. Remington had asked him to conduct the
mass since he had given Arik and Rory last rites the night before.  He, too,
wished the procession would hurry so that he could sooner return to the
coolness of the castle.

     Just when the delay seemed excessive,
Nicolas broke from Skye and made his way to the outer wall. Sir Roald was
there, pointing into the distance and conversing with the young knight.
Quickly, Nicolas descended the wall and returned to the family.

     “Gaston is sighted, my lady,” he said with
great relief. “His army is less than an hour away.”

     Gaston! Just the sound of his name flooded
her with contentment and longing. Her defenses threatened to crumble, knowing
that his strength would soon be here to support her, but she fought it.

     “We will wait for them,” she whispered.

     With the heat of the day increasing, they
did exactly that. Remington stood with Dane and Charles, waiting eagerly as the
first signs of the approaching army came into view. She could see nothing of
the road from where she stood, but she could tell from the activity on the wall
that the troops drew near. When a hastily formed honor guard took position on
either side of the portcullis, she knew Gaston was at hand.

     She glimpsed the top of his head from where
she stood before the inner wall obstructed her view. Nicolas had placed Skye in
her care to deliver the news to Gaston, and Remington clutched her limp sister
to her breast as the incoming army filled the outer bailey. Hundreds upon
hundreds of soldiers milled about and the wagons bearing Rory and Arik were
nearly swallowed up by the swarming mass.

     But she could still see the wagons through
the open inner gates, if little else. And she saw very clearly when Gaston
approached Arik's casket.

     Her heart lurched to her throat at the
sight of him and hot tears stung her eyes. She was so desperate to hold him, to
console him as he would console her, that she began to shake. Skye glanced up
and saw her sister's expression before turning her gaze to the outer bailey.

     “Oh…Remi, there he is,” she whispered
gently. “Go to him, Remi. He needs you.”

     She should have stayed where she was, but
her heart controlled her legs. Without realizing it, she was walking across the
inner bailey and straight for Gaston.

     There was a sea of soldiers between her and
Gaston, but it did not deter her in the least. She wove around them, moved in
between, dodged destriers and wagons. Her eyes, as well as her heart, were
focused on the massive knight several feet away. Roald was standing with him.

     He did not even see her coming. One minute
he was alone, dealing with consuming grief and anger, and the next moment a
soft body was caving into him. He knew before he even looked that it was
Remington.

His arms went around
her, but he dare not show his grief in front of his men. His focus went to
Remington and the loss of her sister.

     “Angel,” he murmured; he would have liked
to have done and said much, much more. “Are you all right? You are unharmed?”

     She was pressed against his armor tightly, her
eyes closed.  “I left before the ambush,” her face came up, her eyes as bright
as stars and he dashed away an errant tear with the tip of his glove. “Arik and
Rory are dead.”

     Her grief, his own, ate at him. He was
still reeling with the shock; the reality had yet to sink in. “I know, love, I
know.”

     She put her hand to her mouth to stop the
sobs from coming, sobs building in her throat. Her eyes fell on Arik's casket.
“He had become my friend, too. I 'm so sorry for you, Gaston. I know how close
you were to him.”

     He couldn't dwell on that, not right now.
Later, in private, he would give into his grief, but not here in the midst of
his men.  He turned to Roald. “Are they ready to go? We should bury them before
it grows too hot. Moreover, I am uncomfortable with anyone straying from the
compound now. I want to get this funeral over with and close the gates.”

     “They're ready, my lord,” Roald said
sharply, his formal demeanor wavering a bit. “We buried Arik with his sword and
helm. Even though it is his father's sword, we thought he would want to be
buried with it.”

     Pain flashed in Gaston's eyes a brief
second. “Aye, he would. The sword meant a great deal to him.”

     The bailey was still chaotic as the
incoming troops disbanded and then were put on stand-by. With the ambush, the
alert was heightened and even the novice troops were given assignments.

     Suddenly, there was a great commotion as
Patrick leapt up onto the cart carrying Rory's casket. Nicolas and Antonius
were right behind him, yelling at him to cease. Gaston let go of Remington and
bolted onto the wagon, restraining his cousin as he struggled to open the
coffin that contained Rory's body.

     Patrick was possessed; he slugged at
Gaston, trying to shirk him, but Gaston was firm. Nicolas and Antonius jumped
onto the bed of the wagon and grabbed hold of Patrick as Gaston spoke calmly
and firmly to the young man. His eyes were wild with grief and disbelief as his
friend, his brother and his cousin grappled with him.

     Remington stood with her hand to her mouth,
shocked at what she was witnessing. She could see Patrick's horror, his
madness, and it tore at her. He was insane with grief.

     “I just want to hold her,” he begged
Gaston. “Just for a moment. I just want to hold her.”

     Gaston had one hand on his arm and the
other on his head, as if to comfort him forcibly. “Nay, lad, you cannot. We
must bury her.”

     Patrick began to plead with Gaston and
Remington's heart was breaking for him. Slowly, she approached the wagon as the
men struggled to contain Patrick.

     “Let him see her, Gaston,” she said softly.

     They all stopped somewhat, gazing down on
her. She looked at Patrick, a gentle expression on her lovely features. “Let
him hold her one last time. He never got to say good-bye.”

     Gaston's gaze lingered on her a brief
moment before he released his cousin. Nicolas and Antonius let go, allowing
Patrick to dislodge the lid of the casket. Gaston gazed at Rory's still body a
moment, dressed in the emerald green dress Remington had worn the first time he
ever saw her.

     Rory looked sweet and peaceful and he slid
down from the wagon bed and took Remington into his arms. To hell with
appearance, if his men were foolish enough not to realize he was in love with
her, they would know it now.

     Nicolas was fighting off tears as Patrick
lifted Rory from the casket and spoke to her as if she could answer him.
Remington sobbed softly, turning away at the sight of her sister cradled in the
knight's arms. She did not realize that the entire outer bailey had come to a
halt, everyone watching as Patrick said his good-byes to Rory. Deep, tangible
sadness filled the air.

     Even Gaston was struggling with his
feelings; he couldn't watch. He held Remington as she fought to regain control
of her emotions, stroking her head and feeling his own anguish like a knife.
Now and again he would glance at Arik's coffin, feeling the loss as deeply as
if the man were a brother.

***

     The funeral was brief. As soon as Father de
Tormo finished the benediction, Gaston ordered the caskets buried and a full
retreat into Mt. Holyoak. He vowed this would be the last funeral Remington
would attend for some time to come; she looked so pale and fragile that it
frightened him.

     Once inside the keep with the bridge raised
and the portcullis down, he felt a bit better. After settling Remington, he
established himself in the solar to interrogate Nicolas about the attack.

     “Did you see who is was?” he asked his
cousin.

     Nicolas had not changed his clothing or
taken off his armor since the attack had happened the day before. He had not
slept, either, and he was ashen with fatigue.

     “It was Botmore, I am sure,” he said
quietly. “I recognized the colors; they were the same colors that Botmore's son
was wearing when Arik killed him.”