It did not help matters that he dressed entirely in black. There was no other color as far as he was concerned. Men who wore colors were undeserving of male parts. He was disgusted with knights who were intent on gaily decorating themselves in brilliant hues; they might as well have turned in their spurs and donned a dress. Even his banner, a massive bird of prey clutching a lion in one claw and a mighty sword in the other, was entirely in black, gray, and white. But that’s what Gaston’s life was– it was either black, or it was white. There was no in between.
Which was why he betrayed his king. Oh, he knew well the implications of his actions. But he had gone with his inner senses and turned on a man who had killed his nephews to gain the throne, an unscrupulous monster of a man who would stopat nothing to rule England. Gaston had served his predecessor and brother, Edward IV, for many years. When Richard assumed the throne, by murder, Gaston had sworn fealty. He convinced himself that family politics were none of his business and that he was only a warrior.
Richard depended on the man tremendously, and was expecting victory at the battle of Bosworth until Gaston had had enough of the man and turned on him; he had convinced others to turn on him, too. When Richard had threatened Gaston and a very close friend of Gaston’s, Matthew Wellesbourne, it had been the last nail in the coffin. Tides were turned and England was destined for a new king.
He had been labeled a traitor, the very worst of humankind to walk the earth. But Henry Tudor loved him and Gaston had had his reasons for doing what he had done. There was no one to answer to but himself, although his pride had taken a beating. Everyone knew of the Dark Knight, the premier Knight of the Garter who had defended Edward and then Richard. But when he brought about the fall of Richard, the term Dark Knight took on a whole different meaning.
The sky above was as dark as he was as he rode north-northwest toward the mighty fortress that was Mt. Holyoak. He had heard tale that Guy Stoneley had built it with the particular desire to have the most fortified, most impenetrable fortress in all of England and by many accounts, he had succeeded.
The fact of which pleased Gaston immensely. Aye, he had a fortress already– Clearwell Castle sat near the Welsh Marches north of Gloucester, nestled in the soft desolate hills. A hellish place, it could be, bleak and cold most of the time, which is why he left his wife there. He hoped that mayhap she would become so sick of the place that she would leave him forever so he would be free of the bitch. He did not care where she went, so long asshe left their son. He’d kill her with his bare hands if she took Trenton away from him.
Henry had ordered Gaston to secure Mt. Holyoak, and secure he would. But he would also claim it as his own and make his own life there, far from his wife. He would send for Trenton and together they would live in peace and happiness. At thirty-seven years, he was coming to the point in his life where he was thinking on retiring from his profession. After all, he had been a knight for seventeen years now and had etched out an indelible reputation. There was no more need to put fear into the hearts of England at the mere sound of his name; he had accomplished all that he had set out to do.
Gaston looked forward to retaining Mt. Holyoak. If it even lived up to half of what he had heard, then it would indeed be a pleasure to assume command. With Henry on the throne and the country more or less calming, he would concentrate on training men for Henry’s royal army and settling down to a life of relative non-violence, he hoped. Henry expected Gaston to maintain a tight hand in Yorkshire, and maintain he would. He sincerely hoped the Yorkists were intelligent enough not to try something stupid, for he was weary of fighting. A definite change for the Dark One.
“How much longer?” the knight by his side asked.
Gaston emerged from his train of thought. “Half a day,” he replied. “We should be there come nightfall.”
Sir Arik Helgeson, as blond and blue-eyed as Gaston was dark, nodded with satisfaction. “I am anxious to see this place. It promises to be as mighty as Camelot.”
Gaston and Arik rode alone at the front of a six hundred-man column. They had sent three scouts ahead two days ago and were growing impatient, as the men were slow to return. They were hungry for news of the area, the climate of the people who were so recently defeated by the Tudor. Gaston hadhis soldiers marching with blades in hand and his knights were riding with their shields slung over their left knees, ready for any unexpected action. They were, after all, in enemy territory.
“Lord Stoneley modeled Mt. Holyoak after Roman defenses,” Arik mumbled, fussing with the latch on his heavy helmet. Of the latest style, it was still new and uncomfortable. “The man was damn proud of the place, even if he was an idiot. He shall not be pleased to learn of your possession.”
Gaston tightened the reins on his destrier, feeling the animal tensing beneath him. “Stoneley is one of the more repulsive men I have ever come across and is exactly where he belongs, in the tower. I wonder where those goddamn scouts are.”
Arik shrugged. “Who knows? Probably having their fill of inns and wenches.”
Gaston grunted dangerously. “If they are, then they will lose what is most dear to them and I can promise they will have no need for wenches anymore.”
Arik laughed softly. Gaston did not. He was serious. Several feet behind them rode Gaston’s knight corps; all thirty-five of them. Even though they were trusted, seasoned knights, they were not allowed to ride with their liege. Even Gaston’s two cousins, one of whom had seen eight years of service with him, were not allowed to ride with him. Only Sir Arik, descended from Vikings, was allowed the privilege.
Gaston was very careful with the manner in which he treated his men. He would fight with them, counsel them, respect them, but he would not eat with them and rarely socialized. He believed that his distance and cool demeanor forced the men to continually strive for perfection; if he were to be too chummy or warm, they might become lazy or complacent in the knowledge that they had the Dark One’s approval.
He was not beyond a word of encouragement and his men had his undivided attention in a war conference, but he wasnot their friend. He was their liege, and he was a firm believer in maintaining the distance. Through the entire campaign with Henry his philosophy had not failed him and his men were the best trained in all of England.
Arik rode alongside his liege, enjoying the countryside. He was as fine a warrior as had ever brandished a sword. He had the good fortune of having squired with the Dark Knight and the two had become fast friends at the very young age of eight. Gaston had one other friend, Matthew Wellesbourne, but Matthew and Arik were the only men he had ever allowed himself to get close to. Even his cousins, Patrick and Nicolas, were not truly his friends. They were his cousins and entitled as such to the privileges thereof, but he would not allow himself to become deeply involved with them. Only Patrick, his eldest cousin at twenty-nine, came remotely close to being a friend.
There was another young knight, a close friend of Patrick’s that endeared himself to Gaston once by blocking an arrow meant for his liege. The young Italian reminded Gaston of the Roman statues in Bath, superbly muscled and leanly beautiful. The women went mad for Sir Antonius Flavius and Gaston could see why; he was probably the most beautiful man he had ever seen, in the masculine sense of the word, and had a heart like a lion. Gaston could hold intelligent conversations with Antonius, but he would never talk about himself to the young knight. To speak of himself would be entirely too personal.
The column of soldiers passed through the fertile lands of Yorkshire, through the towns of Sheffield and Leeds. The lands were softly rolling, extremely lush, and Gaston was quite fond of the landscape. Even when he had been fighting in it, he liked it.
“What is the name of the town to the west of Mt. Holyoak?” Arik cut into his thoughts.
“Boroughbridge,” Gaston answered. “Mt. Holyoak is a mere four miles to the east in the Vale of York.”
“Good,” Arik grunted. “The sooner we establish our presence in Yorkshire, the better. Moving in the open makes me feel vulnerable.”
Gaston glanced around, the gentle hills and clusters of trees. “This delightful topography makes you vulnerable? Arik, you twitter like a jittery old woman. There is nothing in those trees but birds.”
Arik snorted in disagreement but said nothing. He would still be glad when they reached the protective structure of the fortress.
Eventually, the structure of Mt. Holyoke was sighted on the horizon. It was a massive fortress perched atop a rocky and slender hill, but it was different from the usual fortresses with miles of curtain walls and a keep somewhere in the middle of it. Mt. Holyoak was surrounded by the curtain wall, that was true, but the keep embraced within its innards was so large it looked as if it took up most of the interior space of the castle. More than that, the dark gray structure rose at least four stories, the turrets in the corners soaring at least six or more. Other than the White Tower, Gaston had never seen such a large keep. In fact, he was fairly awed by it. It was the biggest thing he had ever seen. He stared at the sight in disbelief before flipping up the visor of his helm so he could get a better look. Next to him, Arik let out a hissing sigh.
“My God,” he breathed. “Have you ever seen such a sight?”
“Never,” Gaston concurred. “Look at how the natural slope of the hill has been sheared off to make it impossible to scale. It must be a hundred foot drop from the top of the wall to the moat below.”
