He shook his head at her disregard for his title. “Saucy wench.”
*
Since Gaston hadalready made all of the necessary preparations for their trip to London, only a few scattered duties remained. He took Patrick with him as he went on his rounds.
“And make sure the men move on to hand-to-hand combat by early next week,” Gaston told him as they moved upon the inner wall. Down below were nearly a thousand recruits, listening to Antonius lecturing them on the great art of sword-to-shield warfare. “They’ve completed their shield work and ’tis time to move on. I have left a schedule to be followed precisely in the solar. With my absence, you are their trainer now.”
“I will not fail, my lord,” Patrick replied.
Gaston slanted his cousin a glance, but his face was emotionless. Since Rory’s murder, Patrick had been the consummate warrior. He breathed, ate and slept his profession and had kept a distance from Remington and her sisters. Gaston knew he was hurting, but he was at a loss as to what to say to him. He had never been very good with expressing personal emotion.
“I will expect weekly updates sent to my manse in London,” he continued after a moment. “I do not know how long I will be in London and wish to be kept abreast of the progress at home.”
“Aye,” Patrick nodded as they paused on the wall, gazing down at the troops. “How long has it been since you have returned to Braidwood?”
Gaston inhaled thoughtfully. “Not since the last we were there together,” he replied. “Shall I give your father a message?”
Patrick’s father was Gaston’s father’s first cousin; their mothers had been sisters. Sir Martin de Russe was a large, loud man who had given up fighting a long time ago. He preferred to stay in London at the de Russe manse, enjoying his wine collection and the ladies.
“Nay,” Patrick shook his head. “No message. And for God’s sake, do not tell him I have command of Mt. Holyoak. He shall insist on coming out of retirement and riding up here to assist me. The last thing I need is my father hanging over my shoulder.”
Gaston’s mouth twisted wryly. “He was the very best when he was young, Patrick. My father and your father were invincible.”
“That was a long time ago. I heard rumor once that the enemy would turn and run at the sight of my father simply because they were afraid to be captured by the most obnoxious man in England,” he snickered softly, looking at his cousin. “At least Uncle Brant’s reputation was based on his skills and not his mouth.”
Gaston returned the grin. “Brant de Russe was a terror. I oft admired him for his restraint with Martin. My father must have had the patience of Job not to run his cousin through at times.”
“Do you remember your father, Gaston? I remember very little of him; I must have been five or six when he died,” Patrick asked, pondering his childhood memories.
Gaston shrugged. “I remember mostly images, feelings. I remember he was the biggest, most powerful man I had ever seen and I wanted desperately to be like him. It’s my mother I remember best. God, the woman loved me.”
“Adeliza de Russe,” Patrick murmured in thought. “I do not remember her at all, although my father said she was the mostbeautiful woman he had ever seen. Even more beautiful than my mother.”
“Your mother was a saint,” Gaston said flatly. He was growing depressed on the subject of his father and mother. He remembered his conversation with Arik, trying to explain why he had never allowed himself friends during his life, trying to explain how his parent’s death had affected him. It never occurred to him that he was afraid to allow friendship into his life because he was a man of deep, deep emotion. All he knew was that friendship, and love, had hurt him terribly. ’Twas mayhap the reason he was so deeply involved with Remington; he had let his guard down for her and it would kill him to lose her.
“Patrick, I would ask one more thing of you before I leave. Watch out for Dane and Trenton, if you would. Both of them are likely to feel a bit lost for a while, in lieu of recent events.”
Patrick nodded seriously. “I shall keep my eye on them. Truthfully, Dane seems very strong and Trenton most eager. I think they’ll do fine.”
“Arik thought so,” Gaston suddenly felt a stab of pain through his heart at the mention of his friend. The conversation ended, he silently dismissed himself from his cousin and took the ladder from the wall.
Patrick hung over the top of the wall. “Are you taking Nicolas with you?”
“Aye,” Gaston nodded. “I am also taking four other knights, although I have yet to choose. The rest will remain with you.”
Satisfied, Patrick watched his cousin as he went to brief his knight corps on his plans. With the recruits occupied, Gaston had called the meeting in the troop house.
Patrick knew Gaston was shaken with Arik’s death. Hell, he himself had difficultly believing what had happened. Which was why he occupied himself constantly; if he had a moment tothink, grief ate at him like a cancer. But Gaston, as always, was dealing with the fact admirably.
Patrick squared his shoulders; he was in charge of Mt. Holyoak now and pleased with the opportunity. He would not fail his liege or his king, but he prayed secretly that Botmore would be stupid enough to try something while Gaston was away. He wanted a chance at the man; just one chance would be all he would need.
For Rory.
Gaston took no longer than necessary to explain his departure to his knights. Seasoned men that he trusted implicitly, he selected four knights to accompany him and sent the rest on their way. Issuing instructions to the four, they began immediate preparations for their trip to London.
The day was progressing and he made his way back to Remington, taking extra time to study his fortress and trying to remember anything he might have forgotten to deal with. As he was making his way to the inner bailey, a sentry shout on the outer wall halted him.
Incoming riders. Gaston quickly mounted the outer wall, standing beside Roald as the man scanned the horizon.
