Charles, on her other side, was truly distraught. He and Rory had been particularly close and he was having a very difficult time accepting her death. Remington clutched his hand, wishing they would hurry up and start the procession so that they could get on with it. The lingering, the waiting, was painful.
Father de Tormo loitered by the door to the keep, sweating buckets in the humidity. Remington had asked him to conduct the mass since he had given Arik and Rory last rites the night before. He, too, wished the procession would hurry so that he could sooner return to the coolness of the castle.
Just when the delay seemed excessive, Nicolas broke from Skye and made his way to the outer wall. Sir Roald was there, pointing into the distance and conversing with the young knight. Quickly, Nicolas descended the wall and returned to the family.
“Gaston is sighted, my lady,” he said with great relief. “His army is less than an hour away.”
Gaston! Just the sound of his name flooded her with contentment and longing. Her defenses threatened to crumble, knowing that his strength would soon be here to support her, but she fought it.
“We will wait for them,” she whispered.
With the heat of the day increasing, they did exactly that. Remington stood with Dane and Charles, waiting eagerly as the first signs of the approaching army came into view. She could see nothing of the road from where she stood, but she could tell from the activity on the wall that the troops drew near. When a hastily formed honor guard took position on either side of the portcullis, she knew Gaston was at hand.
She glimpsed the top of his head from where she stood before the inner wall obstructed her view. Nicolas had placed Skye in her care to deliver the news to Gaston, and Remington clutched her limp sister to her breast as the incoming army filled the outer bailey. Hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers milled about and the wagons bearing Rory and Arik were nearly swallowed up by the swarming mass.
But she could still see the wagons through the open inner gates, if little else. And she saw very clearly when Gaston approached Arik’s casket.
Her heart lurched to her throat at the sight of him and hot tears stung her eyes. She was so desperate to hold him, to console him as he would console her, that she began to shake. Skye glanced up and saw her sister’s expression before turning her gaze to the outer bailey.
“Oh…Remi, there he is,” she whispered gently. “Go to him, Remi. He needs you.”
She should have stayed where she was, but her heart controlled her legs. Without realizing it, she was walking across the inner bailey and straight for Gaston.
There was a sea of soldiers between her and Gaston, but it did not deter her in the least. She wove around them, moved in between, dodged destriers and wagons. Her eyes, as well as her heart, were focused on the massive knight several feet away. Roald was standing with him.
He did not even see her coming. One minute he was alone, dealing with consuming grief and anger, and the next moment a soft body was caving into him. He knew before he even looked that it was Remington.
His arms went around her, but he dare not show his grief in front of his men. His focus went to Remington and the loss of her sister.
“Angel,” he murmured; he would have liked to have done and said much, much more. “Are you all right? You are unharmed?”
She was pressed against his armor tightly, her eyes closed. “I left before the ambush,” her face came up, her eyes as bright as stars and he dashed away an errant tear with the tip of his glove. “Arik and Rory are dead.”
Her grief, his own, ate at him. He was still reeling with the shock; the reality had yet to sink in. “I know, love, I know.”
She put her hand to her mouth to stop the sobs from coming, sobs building in her throat. Her eyes fell on Arik’s casket. “He had become my friend, too. I’m so sorry for you, Gaston. I know how close you were to him.”
He couldn’t dwell on that, not right now. Later, in private, he would give into his grief, but not here in the midst of his men. He turned to Roald. “Are they ready to go? We should bury them before it grows too hot. Moreover, I am uncomfortable with anyone straying from the compound now. I want to get this funeral over with and close the gates.”
“They’re ready, my lord,” Roald said sharply, his formal demeanor wavering a bit. “We buried Arik with his sword and helm. Even though it is his father’s sword, we thought he would want to be buried with it.”
Pain flashed in Gaston’s eyes a brief second. “Aye, he would. The sword meant a great deal to him.”
The bailey was still chaotic as the incoming troops disbanded and then were put on stand-by. With the ambush, the alert was heightened and even the novice troops were given assignments.
Suddenly, there was a great commotion as Patrick leapt up onto the cart carrying Rory’s casket. Nicolas and Antonius were right behind him, yelling at him to cease. Gaston let go of Remington and bolted onto the wagon, restraining his cousin as he struggled to open the coffin that contained Rory’s body.
Patrick was possessed; he slugged at Gaston, trying to shirk him, but Gaston was firm. Nicolas and Antonius jumped onto the bed of the wagon and grabbed hold of Patrick as Gaston spoke calmly and firmly to the young man. His eyes were wild with grief and disbelief as his friend, his brother and his cousin grappled with him.
Remington stood with her hand to her mouth, shocked at what she was witnessing. She could see Patrick’s horror, his madness, and it tore at her. He was insane with grief.
“I just want to hold her,” he begged Gaston. “Just for a moment. I just want to hold her.”
Gaston had one hand on his arm and the other on his head, as if to comfort him forcibly. “Nay, lad, you cannot. We must bury her.”
Patrick began to plead with Gaston and Remington’s heart was breaking for him. Slowly, she approached the wagon as the men struggled to contain Patrick.
“Let him see her, Gaston,” she said softly.
