Remington screamed louder when Nicolas plopped his helmet back on his head, smashing the eggs further. “It is not funny,” Nicolas shot back, then eyed Gaston quickly, adding: “My lady.”
She opened her mouth to apologize but was seized with hysterical giggles again and weakly grasped Gaston for support. Nicolas looked absolutely ridiculous.
“I am sorry, Sir Nicolas, truly,” she sputtered. “How do you know Rory did it?”
“Who else?” Nicolas asked loudly. “She is sorely tempting fate, my lady, for one of these days I shall do more than welt her bottom.”
Remington’s laughter diminished. “Like what? She can fight as well as you can, my lord. I would not want to challenge her in a fight.”
Gaston interrupted his cousin’s anger. “Go clean yourself up, I said. Get out of here,” his manner was curt and Nicolas obeyed grudgingly. He watched his cousin move out across the inner bailey a moment before turning to Remington. “Do you know where your sister might be?”
Remington’s laughter was gone at his expression. “I…nay, I do not. Surely you are not going to punish her?”
His eyes turned back to her, like hard steel. “She obviously did not listen to you when you told her no more pranks. Mayhap she will listen to me.”
Remington’s eyes widened. “What are you going to do to her?”
“That is not of your affair, madam. Kindly tell me where to find Lady Rory,” he was cold and professional.
A creeping fear filled her. “I told you I do not know where she is. But if I did, I would not tell you.”
His gaze flickered at the defiance. “I shall find her myself, then. Return inside, Lady Stoneley.”
She met his hard gaze with a cold look of her own, turning on her heel and marching into the coolness of the structure.
Gaston did not move a moment, listening to her boot falls fade. He suspected she would turn the castle inside out until she found her sister and he slowly eased himself after her, taking refuge in the solar for the time being.
He would not have to lift a finger to find Lady Rory. Her sister would do the work for him.
*
The noon hourapproached and Remington had not done what she was supposed to do. Irritated, Gaston donned all of his armor and went back out into the heat of the day to involve himself in the final aspects of the team house and sub-level repairs. Moreover, he was expecting Lord Brimley of Crayke Castle and he wanted to be alerted to the man’s approach.
Arik and Antonius had the soldiers working like slaves, knowing that Gaston wanted the improvements completed before the week was out. Nicolas and Patrick were supervising below ground level with a few other senior knights, while the rest of his knight corps had prepared the castle for Lord Brimley’s arrival. It was a chaotic organization at its very best.
As expected, Lord Brimley and a force of about one hundred men were sighted on the horizon in the early afternoon. Shouts abounded on the wall as Gaston and Arik moved to secure a view for themselves. High on the wall, they could indeed see the approach. In fact, Mt. Holyoak was so strategically placed that nearly every spot on the wall had an unimpeded 300-degree view; the only portion blocked being the point where the castle itself stood. On a clear day, Gaston mused that one could see all the way to Flanders.
With Arik, Antonius and Patrick by his side, Gaston moved to greet the baron.
Lord Brimley was an older man with white hair and a well-manicured white moustache. His sons, Walter and Clive, were average-looking men of good intelligence who fought for Richard. Gaston knew of the men vaguely but little beyond that.
Lord Brimley and his sons left their small army encamped at the foot of the rise and rode alone to the drawbridge. Gaston stood in the middle of the outer bailey, his arms folded across his chest, as they rode into the keep. He was the first man to speak.
“Lord Brimley, I presume?” he asked in a deep baritone.
Brimley wore armor but no helmet; his hair was perfectly combed. His sons, too, wore no helms and eyed the Dark Knight with veiled contempt.
“You are correct, sir,” Brimley replied, his manner stiff but not hostile.
“I am Sir Gaston de Russe,” Gaston said formally. “’Twas I who requested your presence on behalf of our illustrious king, Henry. We have much to discuss, my lord, if you would kindly dismount.”
Squires were hovering in the shadows waiting to take the horses as the three men warily dismounted. Lord Brimley’s eyes scanned the interior of the keep.
“Might I ask what has been done with Lord Guy’s family?” he asked.
“They are here, my lord, safe,” Gaston replied. He was an excellent judge of character and sensed no hostility from the man, merely caution. He seemed to have a noble face and carried himself well.
Brimley cleared his throat, removing his leather gloves. “Are they part of the bargain, sir?”
