The Dark One: Dark Knight (96 page)

     The physic entered the room, eyeing Gaston.
Gaston caught the man from the corner of his eye and swung around rapidly.

     “You may go back and sit with your wife if
you wish,” he said quietly.

     The brief reprieve of anxiety and fear
Gaston had enjoyed for the past few minutes suddenly returned full-bore,
slamming him like a ton of bricks.

     “How is she?” he asked hoarsely.

     The physic looked tired. “The bleeding is
lessening somewhat, a good sign. But she has still lost a tremendous amount of
blood, my lord. She is very weak.”

     Gaston still clutched Arica. He felt sick
to his stomach, and his head swam.  Managing a weak nod, he moved past the
psychic and back into Remington’s room.

     She was in the same position, only she had
turned her face toward him. In the dim light, the contrast of her dark hair
against her white skin was striking. Even her lips were white. Fighting off
tears yet again, Gaston sank to the floor beside her head.

     He stared at her a long, long time, holding
Arica and watching Remington's ghostly face. He stopped fighting the tears
after a while and simply let them fall. He'd never cried so much in his entire
life.

     “My God, Remi,” he whispered. “Has it come
to this? Will you die before I have a chance to tell you how much I love you
and how sorry I am for what happened?”

     Arica stirred at the sound of his voice and
he rocked her gently. “I have brought Arica. She's beautiful, like her mother,”
he paused, his throat tight as he touched Remington's clammy face with his
right hand. “Oh, please, Remi. Wake up, angel. I need you; the babes need you.
Please do not leave us.”

     A sob bubbled out. And then another. Before
he realized it, he dropped his chin to his chest and sobbed like a child. He
simply couldn't help himself. He couldn't bear to face life without her.

     He cried until there were no tears left.
His face was swollen and pale, his eyes red and puffy. Remington twitched once
in her stupor and his heart jumped, but it was an involuntary movement. He
heard her sigh raggedly and he leaned forward and kissed her sweet lips.

     The day progressed and dread began to fill
him. The physic had told him that she would not survive the day if she did not
begin to show signs of improvement, and his fear mounted. Grief threatened to
overwhelm him, and he wrestled heavily with it.

     Toward noon, he stood up, still clutching
featherweight Arica. He gazed down at his tiny daughter, then stared hard at
her. It took him a moment to realize that sometime that morning, she had passed
away in his arms and he had not even noticed.

     “Oh, God, no….,” he breathed, touching the
little face, looking for any sort of movement. There was none. Grief swept him.
“Oh, God, no!”

     His shout was heard throughout the entire
abbey. De Tormo and the prioress threw open the door to Remington's room, but
he barked them away savagely. They barely had time to back off when he was
kicking the door closed, shaking the entire structure like an earthquake. He
clutched the baby to his chest tightly, finding that he did indeed have more
tears to spare, and wept loudly for his daughter.

     “Gaston?” Came a weak voice. “Gaston?”

     Startled, he looked up to see Remington
focusing on him. Her eyes were huge pools in her white face, and he could see
they were full of concern. “Gaston, do not cry. Come here, my love.”

     It was far too much for him to take; he
came apart. He fell to his knees, crawling the length of the room until he
reached her bed. His sobs were deep and unbridled as he buried his face on
Remington's chest, still holding the babe and feeling Remington's feeble hand
on his head.

     Remington was so weak she could barely
move. She had heard his sobs at a distance until gradually, she had come
around. It did not matter that she was on her deathbed and could barely move;
what mattered was that Gaston was crying and she had to comfort him. She
shushed him softly.

     “Do not cry, my love,” she whispered
thickly.

     “Oh, Remi,” he sobbed. “Do not die, too.”

     “I won't, I promise,” she breathed. “You
came just in time.”

     He choked on an ironic guffaw, raising his
head to look at her. “I was so foolish, angel. I let our argument go on
and....”

     She stilled him with a weak hand. “No more.
'Twas my fault and I am sorry. I never stopped loving you, Gaston. I
said...hateful things. Forgive me.”

     He kissed her eagerly, shakily, still
sobbing. “I love you, Remi. You had every right to be angry with me. Please…oh,
God, please ....” He trailed off again, unable to continue.

     She touched his head as it rested on her
chest. She had not been so dazed that she had not seen the bundle in his arms.
And she understood his words.
Do not die, too.
Her heart was twisting
with grief.

“Arica?” she whispered.

     He struggled to gain control of himself,
lifting his head off her, still clutching the babe fiercely. “She... wasn't
alone, Remi. I held her the entire time. She was here, with us.”

     Remington was too weak to cry, but the
anguish gnawed at her with excruciating force. She closed her eyes, reaching
out a feeble hand to touch the swaddling. “Give her to me.”

     He laid the babe next to her and Remington
put her frail arms about the bundle, holding it close to her bosom. A lone tear
trickled from the sea-crystal eyes. Gaston stood over the two of them, wiping
at his face with the back of his hand, wishing he could make the grief and
sorrow go away. He had never felt so utterly helpless!

“She was too small,”
Remington finally whispered. “Too small.”

     “I know,” he smoothed her forehead with his
trencher-sized hand.

     She stared at the still babe a long while
before turning her head to him, her eyes unnaturally bright against her pale
face. “Are you all right? De Tormo said you went to war again.”

     He was back on his knees, wrapping his arms
about the two of them. “I am fine. I thought of you every minute, every day.
Ever since we fought, I have thought of nothing but you.”

     “You are a duke now,” she whispered. “I am
so proud of you, Gaston.”

     “It means nothing,” he whispered back,
pressing his face to her shoulder. “You mean everything. You and our children.”

     “How is Adeliza?” she asked.

     “Fine,” he replied, a bit of hope in his
voice. “She's a loud little magpie. Screams like a banshee.”

     Remington smiled weakly. “I know. I heard
her.”

     He did not want to talk anymore for the
moment. He only wanted to hold the two of them, feeling Remington's life in his
arms. He could do nothing more for Arica, and he felt the loss to his bones.

     Suddenly, they both heard a weak cry. At
the same time, they turned to the swaddled bundle in Remington's arms, only to
see the tiny little mouth open again and cry like a kitten.

     “Dear God....” Gaston breathed.

     “She's not dead, Gaston!” Remington
declared with as much excitement as she could muster. Weak, shaking hands began
unwrapping the swaddling. “Look. She's moving!”

     He was dumbfounded, watching as Remington
unbound the child, revealing stick-thin arms and legs, wriggling about.

     “She wasn't breathing, Remi, I swear it,”
he said helplessly. “She did not move when I touched her.”

     Remington stared at the tiny baby flailing
about on the bed beside her. “Thank God! Look at her; she's moving!”

     He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He
would have sworn on his mother's grave that the babe was dead. But the tiny,
skinny body before him was not dead in the least.

     “I thought you did not believe in God,” he
leaned forward on her, reaching out a finger and touching the babe. His finger
was bigger than one tiny arm.

     “I do when I look at her, when I look at
you,” she whispered, fatigue and weakness overtaking her. “Wrap her up, please.
I cannot.”

     Concern surged through him. “What's wrong,
Remi? Are you feeling worse?”

     “Just... tired,” she breathed.

     He wrapped the babe up as best he could,
knowing it was nothing like the experienced swaddling of the nuns. He picked
the infant up, clutching her to his chest and saying a silent prayer of thanks.
Mayhap God would hear him, just this once.

     De Tormo and the prioress were hovering
near the door when Gaston opened it. Their faces were glazed with concern and
apprehension.

     Gaston smiled weakly, handing the babe over
to the prioress. “She is unhappy. Mayhap she is hungry.”

     The woman accepted the child, confused but
focused on the infant. “Is... is everything all right? You cried out and....”

     Gaston put up a hand to stop her words.
“Everything is fine. I think Remington could use some nourishment, too.”

     De Tormo watched the nun walk away, turning
back to Gaston. “She's not dead? We thought that when you yelled, she had
passed away.”

     Gaston was feeling his great fatigue and
sagged against the doorjamb. But there was a faint smile on his face. “Nay,
priest, she is not dead. In fact, we have had a most wonderful conversation.”

     De Tormo was amazed. He peered around
Gaston, into the dim room where Remington still lay with her feet pointed
skyward. He thought she was asleep until she raised a weak hand to him in
acknowledgement.

     “God be praised,” de Tormo whispered,
crossing himself. Sister Baptista has come through once again.”

     Gaston pushed himself off the jamb. “I
would be alone with her now, but I want to baptize both girls before dusk.”

     De Tormo nodded. “I already baptized Arica
after she was born, but Adeliza has not yet been christened.”

     “She will be before the sun sets,” Gaston
said, his voice scratchy from ail of the crying he had done. As de Tormo walked
away, Gaston suddenly reached out and stopped him.  “You know, I truly hated
you when we first met, priest. How is it that you have become such a part of
Remington and I?”

     De Tormo cracked a smile. “I am not such an
arrogant, pushy little bastard after all, am I?”

     Gaston grinned, hearing his own words
reflected. “You have your moments. I will be forever grateful for bringing me
to my senses. I owe you a great deal.”

     De Tormo actually looked humble. “I am a
romantic at heart, I suppose,” he eyed Gaston warily. “But since you have
declared your thanks, mayhap you will not be angry when I tell you that I took
the liberty of giving Arica a middle name when I christened her.”

     “You did? What?”

     “Why, Christine, of course. Arica Christine
de Russe,” de Tormo snorted. “We must honor the man who made her life possible,
mustn't we?”

     Gaston returned the snicker. “Then I
suppose we should throw Henry's name in there somewhere, as well.”

     De Tormo sobered seriously. “What of the
annulment now? Yours is complete - what about hers?”

     Gaston sighed heavily. “I shall send word
to Henry tomorrow. We begin proceedings all over again.”

     De Tormo glanced at Remington. “What
about...?”

     Gaston shook his head. “Not to worry. Dane
will not be part of the terms, I can guarantee you that.”

     The men went their separate ways, de Tormo
to the chapel, and Gaston back into the bedchamber with Remington.

     Outside, the day was bright and green and
heavenly, unusual for mid-March.

CHAPER TWENTY SEVEN

July, 1487

     “I can't stand this squalling.” Nicolas put
his hands to his ears to block out the wailing babies.

     “Then go away,” Skye snapped.

     Remington laughed at the young father. “It
is your son doing most of the yelling, Nicolas. Notice that the girls are
quiet.”

     Nicolas scowled. “Naturally, my son is the
loudest and strongest. Isn't he, sweet ling?”

     Skye thrust her chin up and looked away;
they had been quarreling since the morning about something nonsensical. Remington
and Jasmine smiled at each other as they tended their respective brood in the
large nursery. Gaston had had the massive bedchamber redone to accommodate the
babies and their nurses, although the nurses were rarely alone with the
children. As was uncommon in noble houses, the mothers wished to do most of the
work.