Suddenly, he felt extremely fortunate.
“I like Ripley,” he said quietly, moving to her. “He seems to be an honorable man.”
Her eyes widened. She had expected him to rage at the very least. “You do? He is a kind man, Gaston. I like him, but I could not go with him and leave my sisters. And it would not have been fair to him; I could have never loved him.”
“But you love me,” he smiled gently, stroking her cheek.
She returned his smile. “I would do anything for you.”
He frowned slightly, though still smiling. “That, madam, is my line.”
She giggled as he kissed her, tenderly. “Dress for dinner now. I shall see you in the hall.”
Her gaze lingered on the door even after he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The party toLondon was up and moving before daybreak. Remington, still half-asleep, sat atop her palfrey as the column departed Mt. Holyoak. The morning was heavy with moisture, though bright, and the day promised to be sultry. Wrapped in a durable silk cloak, she was alternately chilled from the temperature and sweating from the humidity.
She was surrounded by knights and soldiers but she was so sleepy that it took her nearly an hour before she realized Gaston was not riding near her. He was at the head of the column, riding alone aboard Taran.
As she perked up, she passed glances at the knights who rode around her, but she could see nothing through their lowered visors. Four men-at-arms flanked her, holding aloft a great canopy to keep the dew and sun off her. The men were very silent, and very imposing. She felt very alone.
De Tormo rode to the rear of Gaston’s soldiers, so she did not even have anyone to talk to. Around her, the day was coming alive and she soon found that she had no desire to talk to anyone at the moment; it would have spoiled her view of the morning.
The Vale of York was a wonderful, beauteous dell. Green and fragrant, they passed through fields of sheep that belonged to Mt. Holyoak and rode through a stretch of land Remington had not seen in years. Off to the east was Halsey Manor, the manse in which she had been born, and she found herself missing it terribly. Just a glimpse would have made her happy, but the army continued on and carried her to the west of York on their trek south.
The morning progressed and the day warmed, and she removed her cloak with the help of one of the silent knights. She did not even realize it was Nicolas until he responded to her thanks.
“Nicolas,” she said softly. “Why did you not tell me ’twas you?”
He flipped up his visor, eyeing Gaston. “Because Gaston does not like to hear talking within the ranks. He says it is a distraction.”
She looked at Gaston, too, riding far ahead of them. “Why does he ride alone?”
Nicolas shrugged. “Because he chooses to. He has always ridden alone, with the exception of Arik. Only Arik was allowed to ride with him on occasion.”
Remington’s heart tugged at the mention of the fallen comrade. “Where will we stop for the night?”
“Gaston would like to make it well south of Leeds,” Nicolas lowered his visor.
She knew Leeds to be a half-day’s ride from Mt. Holyoak and knew they were in for a long, long ride. Too bad, too; her bottom was already sore simply because she did very little riding.
The ride was long and by the time Gaston called a halt mid-afternoon, Remington swore she had become part of the horse. Her legs were so stiff she could barely move until Nicolas helped her from the animal. Gaston, long since dismounted, marchedback through the column and Remington watched in awe, as men parted for him like the Red Sea. He did not say a word; he did not have to.
De Tormo, coming up from the rear of the procession, reached Remington the exact same time as Gaston did. The two men eyed each other.
“Return to your people, de Tormo,” Gaston said. “I will see to the lady’s comfort.”
De Tormo lowered his voice. “My lord, I cannot allow you to be seen with the lady unescorted. Within the walls of Mt. Holyoak is one thing, but in the presence of the church and outsiders, it is quite another.”
A small blue vein in Gaston’s temple throbbed. “I have not yet placed her in the wardship of the church.”
De Tormo was not being obstinate, a remarkable event. He seemed truly concerned for proper appearances. “’Tis not your duty to, my lord. As an emissary of the church, I have already placed her in sanctuary until this matter can be ironed out. ’Tis well within my rights, my lord, since you truly have no power over the lady.”
“She is my vassal.”
“She is your enemy’s wife and, therefore, entitled to the protection of the church,” the priest answered. “As soon as we reach London, I will place her in Saint Catherine’s Convent until the annulment can be obtained. Until then, I am her guardian.”
