The Dark One: Dark Knight (76 page)

     Nicolas refused to look at him. “You shall
not force me into marriage, Gaston. I shall marry when I am damn good and
ready.”

     Gaston came very close to cuffing his
cousin.  He forced himself to take a step back, out of range. “You will do what
is right, or you will not serve me.  Is that clear enough for you? I will not
be shamed by my rutting, irresponsible cousin who had no idea he could get a
woman pregnant by releasing his seed on her thigh.”

     Nicolas was drawn with rage. Gaston watched
his cousin’s reaction, calming somewhat. He took a step closer and lowered his
voice. “I can only pray, for your sake, that Remington does not hear of your
indiscretions. If she comes to me with tears in her eyes, I shall take it out
on your hide.”

     He turned and strode away, calling Matts to
him as he went. Nicolas kept his gaze averted, angered, and ashamed.

     Why couldn't he admit he loved Skye and did
indeed want her for his wife? Was it because he was too unsure of himself,
afraid of tying himself to one woman? He simply did not know; but he knew that
the more Gaston pressured him, the more he would not give in. Nicolas possessed
the supreme de Russe trait; he was a stubborn as an old ox. And he did not like
being told how to deal with his personal life.

     Remington exited the inn shortly after
sunrise, clad in a magnificent dress of aqua-colored satin. It flattered her to
a fault. De Tormo was her escort, along with six papal guards, as they made
their way back to the carriage.

     Nicolas was standing back by the coach, his
gaze guarded as she approached. He fully expected a slap in the face and was
surprised when she greeted him with a radiant smile.

     “Good morn, Nicolas,” she said gaily. “It
promises to be a hot one today.”

     “Good morning, my lady,” he opened the
carriage door, placing her personal satchel inside.

     De Tormo climbed into the rig, but
Remington stood next to Nicolas, observing her surroundings in the daylight. In
truth, she was waiting for Gaston to greet her and she scanned the column
eagerly.

     “Did you sleep well?” Nicolas asked.

     She nodded. “I sleep much better on a bed
than on the ground. Rory was the one who loved sleeping under the stars,
although we did not get many chances for it.”

     Nicolas' gaze lingered on her a moment
longer before looking away. He was vastly relieved that she obviously had not
heard of his tryst, but not because he feared Gaston's wrath. He just did not
want the lady hating him.

     As they stood together, Gaston rounded a
group of soldiers and headed straight for them. Remington's eyes lit up at the
sight of him, and his gaze devoured her in return.

     “My lady looks bright and lovely this
morn,” he said with a soft smile on his lips.

     She dipped her head coyly.  “My thanks.”

     Gaston’s smile faded as he glanced at his
cousin, who took the hint and left them.  Alone, he moved closer to her.

     “Madam, if I had any less self-control, I
would kiss you in full view of the church and my men.”

     She giggled.  “Coward.”

     “Must you berate me so? ‘Tis not cowardice,
but rigid discipline I employ,” he looked over at de Tormo, seated in the
carriage. “What do you plan to do today to occupy your time?”

     She shrugged, brushing a stray lock of hair
from her face. “More cards, I suppose. When will we be arriving in London?”

     “If we leave now, by early afternoon,” he
tapped her gently under the chin. “Let us depart, then. And no gambling with
the priest.”

     “We do not gamble,” she insisted as he took
her elbow.

     “Playing for money would be gambling. We
played for apples.”

     He smirked faintly, helping her into the
carriage. His gaze lingered on her tenderly as she seated herself, turning to
snap orders at his men the moment the door was closed.

     The humidity was already stifling as they
traveled south. The outskirts of the megalopolis of London came into view,
towns that ran into one another until the main body of the city was reached.
Remington forgot about de Tormo as she absorbed the sights and sounds and
smells around her.

     She was entranced with her first visit to
the heart of the Christian empire. She couldn't believe there were so many
people, all of them moving about their business before the day got too hot.
They would stare at her in the carriage just as she stared at them, the
peasants wondering who the beautiful woman was in the papal coach.

     The morning progressed and they drew closer
to Windsor. The Thames ran a quarter mile to the south and Remington could see
the activity on the great river. She wished her sisters could see the sights
she was experiencing and would have enjoyed herself completely had not the
lingering horror been cloying her mind.

     Guy was coming closer. 'Twas of no matter
that her sworn protector and lover was the most powerful knight in the realm.
The fact remained that Guy was still legally her husband, and she was almost
faint with terror every time she thought of seeing him again. Even though she
knew Gaston would do everything in his power to prevent Remington from meeting
with Guy, somehow she knew she would see him anyway.

     Gaston reined Taran next to the coach.
Remington perked up at the sight of him. “How far are we from Windsor?”

     “Not far,” he said. “But my messenger has
returned and informed me that Henry is at the Tower of London. I shall leave
you off at Windsor and then proceed on to the tower.”

     She ran cold and her smile faded. He saw
her reaction, knowing exactly why the color had drained from her face. Guy was
at the tower. But more than that, she was terrified that he was going to leave
her in a strange castle, surrounded by strange people.

     He reined Taran closer to her, his thick
legs in armor brushing up against the carriage. “Do not worry, angel. I won't
be long; just long enough to see Henry and inform him of the purpose of my
visit.”

     Tears were welling in her big eyes and she
tried to blink them away. “Do not leave me at Windsor.  Please take me with
you.”

     “I believe it would be better if I went to
see Henry alone,” he said gently. “I shall leave Nicolas with you to keep you
company.”

     De Tormo had been listening to the
conversation; it was hard not to.  “De Russe, you would be wise not to take her
to the Tower. The further she stays away from her husband, for now, the
better.  And if I were you, I would not even tell Henry where she is. Yet.”

     Gaston looked at the priest. “He will
surely find out, considering she will be staying in his residence.”

     The priest shrugged. “If you were truly
wise, my lord, you would not leave her at Windsor at all. You would keep her
with you at all times or you would harbor her somewhere else fox the time
being.”

     “Why?”

     “Think on it, if you were to leave her
alone, even with a knightly escort, Henry could send his men to take her to her
husband behind your back. He is not beyond that, you know. Not for the purpose
of betraying you, but if I cannot convince the papal legate that she should be
given sanctuary until this matter is resolved, Henry will have no choice. If he
does not know where she is, then he cannot send anyone for her, now, can he?”

     Gaston looked at Remington. “Agreed,” he
looked back at de Tormo.  “St. Catherine’s?”

     De Tormo shifted his fat body in the seat.
“I may have spoken hastily on that matter. Henry would find her at St.
Catherine's. Surely you have a manse in London, or at least know men who do?
Men who are willing to do you a favor?”

     “I have my family's manse along the Thames,
but you can observe the home from the Tower,” Gaston replied. “'Tis too close.”

     “Nay,” de Tormo shook his head. “Keep her
there, and keep her out of sight.”

     Gaston glanced at Remington again, who
wasn't looking quite as fearful as she had been. He was pleased that the priest
was looking out for her welfare, and not merely following the rigid moral code
of the church.

     “I…I appreciate your foresight, de Tormo,”
he said after a moment. Thanks, as well as apologies, came difficult for him. 
“We thank you.”

     De Tormo looked at Remington as well, a
saucy smile on his lips. “My loyalties are not to you, de Russe, but to the
lady. I have a fondness for a woman who gambles for apples.”

     She smiled back. Gaston interrupted the
warm moment. “This conversation never took place, then.”

     “Never.  I have had no knowledge where the
lady is,” de Tormo agreed.

     “I did not know you had a manse in London,
Gaston,” Remington said.

     “It belonged to my father.  My uncle,
Nicolas’ father, lives there,” he suddenly groaned softly. “By God, I cannot
believe I am leaving you in Uncle Martin’s care.  If the man does not drive you
daft within a day, I shall be surprised.”

     “I’d rather be with your uncle than in a
castle full of strangers,” Remington said, eyeing him warily. “Why would your
uncle drive me daft?”

     He let out a sound somewhere in between a
choke and a laugh. “He’s, well, he’s a flavorful man.  A character.  Full
of…personality.”

“He is an obnoxious
boor,” de Tormo put in casually, picking at his teeth.

     “You have met my uncle?” Gaston asked
curiously.

     Remington giggled as the priest shook his
head. “Nay, but I can piece your clues together well enough.”

     Gaston raised an eyebrow. “I have used the
same words to describe you.”

     De Tormo looked at him and prepared a sharp
retort, but snorted humorously instead. “Then your uncle must be a saint as
well.”

     Gaston grinned and passed a wink at
Remington before reining Taran away from the carriage and thundering to the
head of the column once more.

     Windsor Castle came into view not a half
hour later.      Remington caught sight of the great tower flying its huge
blue, gray and white standards and her heart lurched into her throat. It was a
massive place of soaring towers and grim gray walls. She was awestruck at
finally seeing the mighty fortress.

     Gaston brought the party in from the north,
passing through the Great Park to the mighty double portcullis opening of the
King's Gate. His standard bearers, six of them, rode in front of him as they
rode the length of the Great Park, plenty of time for him to be recognized by
the sentries on the walls.

     He flicked his eyes upward, glancing at his
standards. They were unmistakable; a black shield with silver lining, and in
the middle was a huge boar's head with exaggerated tusks that thrust upward to
needle-sharp points. A crown encircled the neck of the beast, and its eyes were
silver with a spot of blood red. ‘Twas a most fearsome, impressive banner, and
surely the most recognizable in England.

     The bailey of Windsor was a vast, open
thing. Gaston brought the party around to the front entrance and Remington's
mouth hung open at the sheer size of the castle. Three stories in some parts,
sometimes more, it spread forever, larger than anything she had ever seen.
Three Mt. Holyoak's could fit into one Windsor.

     There were several household troops
assembled, waiting to greet the great Dark One. Gaston turned to Matts,
ordering half of his army housed. The other half, plus Nicolas and

Matts, he would take to London.

     He dismounted Taran, leaving his two
squires to deal with the excited animal as he made his way back to the
carriage.

     Remington's eyes were wide. “I have never
seen such a huge place,” she declared before he could even speak.

     “Too large,” he replied, looking at de
Tormo. “I am dropping off half of my men, to be housed here. I do not want to
go riding into London looking as if I plan to lay siege to the Tower. A small
guard and two knights will serve me better.”

     Remington wasn't listening, to their
conversation; she was watching the people.  Men finely dressed with pointy
shoes and strange, pointy beards pranced about with elaborately dressed ladies
on their arms. She self-consciously looked down at her own dress, thinking the
aqua satin with gold embroider to be quite plain.

     “Remi?” he broke into her thoughts. “Would
you like to get out and look about?”

     She was moving for the door before she
answered him. “Aye, I would. Gaston, why are those men wearing such gaudy
clothing? Who are they?”

     He helped her from the carriage. “Pansies.
They are nothing but noble men who look more like women.”

     She looked strangely at one man, his
privates bulging obscenely. She found it so appalling that she began to laugh
and Gaston passed a glance at the same man, who looked down his nose at the two
of them before going on his way. Gaston shook his head. “Idiot.”