He leaned over while one of the boys pulled a padded woolen shirt over his head. He already wore leather breeches and boots, and another squire helped him into a leather vest and pulled it snug to protect against the chafing of the armor.
His shortened hauberk went on next, followed by his breastplate, plate armor for his arms, and his leg armor. The squires worked quickly, silently, as they had done this for their lord many a time and were quite adept at it. Gaston simply stood still with his arms outstretched as they worked, his mind focusing on the battle ahead.
This was what he had been sent to Yorkshire for, to keep the peace. He had been hopeful from the first that he would not have to forcibly crush the resistance, but the Yorkists were a die-hard lot and this war had been going on for many, many years. It would take many more years to ease the tensions.
In little time he was in full battle armor, all gleaming steel and black leather. The squires left him quickly, racing from the room with his various weapons gripped in their hands, taking them to the bailey where they would be secured to Taran. Gaston preferred to keep all of his war implements with him in his chamber so that he knew exactly where they were should they be needed. Weapons that were kept close were less easily sabotaged or stolen.
His huge boots echoed loudly in the hall as he made his way to Remington’s room, mulling over in his mind what he was going to say to her. Good-bye did not seem quite sufficient, yet he was embarrassed to make a huge emotional display. He hoped the words would simply come to him as he crossed through the threshold with the destroyed door.
Remington was sitting up in bed in a clean robe. Her hair was still damp, evidence that someone had washed it clean for her, and she faced him expectantly, her eyes instantly widening.
“I heard you come down the hall,” she said, eyeing his armor. “What’s the matter?”
He would have liked nothing better than to take her in his arms, but the bulky armor and her wound made that feat difficult. He moved to the end of the bed, extending his massive gauntlet to her and she instantly grasped it with her good hand.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “One of Henry’s vassals has requested assistance with a few unruly barons.”
Her face fell. “A war?”
He smiled faintly. “Nothing of the sort, angel. A skirmish. A fistfight, most likely. Mayhap if I yell loud enough I can force them to behave without a sword drawn; who knows? I doubt I shall be gone long enough for you to miss me.”
“I miss you already,” she said sadly, pulling gently on his hand. “I wish you did not have to go, my love. I am afraid for you.”
His smile broadened. “Fear not for me, my lady. Fear for those fools who have dared provoke my wrath. All of the north knows that the Dark Knight is constable, and anyone who knowingly inflames my anger is stupid.”
Her gaze lingered on him. She knew it was silly for her to make a fuss, for the man had been fighting wars for years and had survived whole. Yet her heart ached to know that he was leaving her, even for a little while.
“What of Mari-Elle?” she asked softly. “She must be buried in this heat.”
He sighed. “I know that. If I do not return by the morning of the second day of my departure, then you have my permission to bury her.”
She nodded somberly. He tapped her gently under the chin. “How are you feeling? Better?”
“I was until you told me of your imminent departure,” she said, depressed.
He bent over, armor and all, and raised her hand to his lips. His mouth was warm and soft and wild chills shot up her arm as he kissed first the back, and then the palm of her hand tenderly.
“Be of good cheer, my lady,” he said softly. “Know that I will return to you as soon as I am able.”
His manner was relaxed and confident, helping her to feel more confident, too. Timidly, she brushed the breastplate of his armor with the tips of her fingers. “You look as you did the very first time I saw you. You were the most terrifying sight I had ever beheld.”
“And now?”
She smiled, brightening her pale face. “You are the most wonderful, powerful, and magnificent sight I have ever beheld.”
He straightened, latching his helm to the lip of his breastplate. “Compliments for me? Am I not still terrifying?”
“Not to me, my love,” she whispered.
He could feel the emotions raging from her, mingling with his own and making his chest tighten. Gently, he touched her cheek with a gloved finger, wishing he could do much, much more.
“I shall return,” he said, his voice hoarse. By God, if he did not miss her already.
Remington heard his footsteps fade down the hall. Even though he had been unconcerned about the entire situation, fear still clutched her. The fact that she had just smiled at him not moments before did not prevent hot tears from filling her eyes as she stared into the space of her chamber.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mari-Elle had tobe buried at Mt. Holyoak. The heat at early August was oppressive and the body had begun to deteriorate terribly. Just after sunrise on the second day after Gaston’s departure, Lady de Russe was buried in the small grove of oaks where generations of Guy’s family had been buried. Located on the edges near a large oak, it was a peaceful enough spot.
