Antonius made a sort of a longing sigh and Gaston banked the urge to shoot him a hard glance. Instead, he broke rank with his knights and moved forward to take a bolt of material that Remington was trying to handle. He put it in the wagon and turned around, his hands on his hips.
“Anything else?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm.
She raised a stubborn eyebrow. “Could be, my lord. I shall know when I see it.”
He wanted to swat her on the backside playfully but dared not touch her. Instead, they progressed down the street again, mayhap a bit more comfortable with each other. The more time passed, the easier it was to forget about her crying jag.
At mid-afternoon a parade passed down the street, loud women and even louder men dressed in wild costumes and brightly painted. They were singing and dancing and Dane thought it all great fun as they passed by and threw bits of ribbon to the crowd. He caught a ribbon to go with his dirty candy, mightily pleased.
The parade passed and the crowd disbanded, moving along their way. Remington had Dane by the hand and was walking forward with her sisters as the men paced leisurely behind them, followed by the wagon. From the rear, they heard the weighty fall of hoof beats and the jingle of armor.
“I thought it was you,” came a voice, very low and unfriendly. “You have a lot of courage to show your face in Yorkshire, de Russe.”
Gaston turned around calmly. Four massive knights astride huge, scarred chargers stood beside the wagon. Several men-at-arms were following the knights, all as ruthless-looking and hardened as the knight sounded.
Gaston recognized the man and felt his adrenalin flow. He wanted Remington and her sisters the hell away from them, for he was more than certain that contact with this knight would result in no good.
“The battles are over and we have a new king and a united England,” Gaston replied steadily. “I can go anywhere I damn well please, as can you, le Tourneaux.”
The knight sat haughtily atop his charger, his gaze moving to the wagon full of fabric. He unsheathed his broadsword and stabbed a bolt, tearing it as he tried to hold it aloft to get a look at it.
“What are you doing? Shopping?” he asked distastefully.
Gaston moved closer to the wagon. Remington, fearful of the unfriendly knight, was hardly aware that Patrick had discreetly herded the women into a group and had placed his big body between them and the unsavory soldiers. Gaston’s men-at-arms had taken up defensive stances as well, and Antonius and Roald stood calmly by the horses hitched to the wagon, their gazes never leaving Gaston.
Gaston pulled the material off of the sword and tucked it secure around the bolt. “My lady is,” he said. “Is there something you wanted in particular, le Tourneaux, or are you simply trying to make a nuisance of yourself? If it is the latter, you have achieved your goal and may be on your way.”
“What do you mean ‘your’ lady?” The knight raised his visor, his face leathered and hard. “Your wife is in Chepstow, as I recall.”
Gaston’s jaw ticked. “I was referring to the woman whose keep I now occupy.”
The knight leaned forward, resting on the pommel of his saddle. “I had heard wind that Henry sent you north to keep rein on Yorkshire. A proper reward for betraying Richard, eh? Every man has his price, I suppose; even you.”
Gaston’s expression was controlled. “Be gone with you, Eugene. I have no time for your nonsense today.”
“’Tis no nonsense I give you,” le Tourneaux retorted. “Yet what I would truly like to give you is my broadsword through your gut, you traitorous bastard.”
A twinkle came to Gaston’s eyes. “You may try, of course, but be forewarned I will not be an easy target for you.”
“To hell with you,” le Tourneaux hissed through yellow teeth. “You who betrayed all that Richard stood for, you filthy whoreson.”
“Do not call him that!” Dane charged forward, his little face red with anger. Remington gasped as Patrick tried to catch him, but the knight was too slow. Gaston, however, was fast enough and wound his thick arm around the boy as he raced by.
Le Tourneaux snorted with amusement. “And who is this? One of your knights?”
Dane kicked against Gaston. “I shall kill you,” he yelled at the knight. “You can’t talk to Sir Gaston like that! He is the greatest knight who has ever lived!”
Le Tourneaux guffawed loudly, as did his men. Gaston did nothing more than whisper in Dane’s ear. Angrily, the little boy turned and went obediently back to his mother. Le Tourneaux’s eyes fell on Remington as she clutched Dane to her.
“Ah, a fine woman, de Russe,” he said, drinking his fill of Remington. “A reward from Henry, no doubt. Aye, I shall wager you were well rewarded for being akin to Judas.”
Gaston shifted on his big legs and Remington saw Roald and Antonius flinch, waiting for the signal that would unleash them. But Gaston made no provocative action.
“Out of my sight, le Tourneaux,” he rumbled. “If you linger you risk my wrath.”
Le Tourneaux may have hated Gaston, but he was no fool; he knew the Dark Knight meant what he said and he had already provoked him to the limit. But he couldn’t leave without one last leer at Remington.
“If you get bored of the Dark One, seek me out,” he said, already spurring his charger into a walk. “I shall show you what a real man can do.”
