Martin closed his mouth, but only for a moment. “Leave her here with me, Gaston. Tell the bloody church that she has run away, that you do not know where she is. If they send her away,you shall never find her. There are abbeys and convents all over this bloody country.”
Gaston’s jaw ticked as he studied his goblet of wine. “Henry will not allow that to happen. I shall find out where they have taken her, have no fear.”
Martin sat heavily in a chair, his huge, fattened body settling. “She shall be alone, Gaston. Without protection. Why not send Nicolas with her? Surely they will allow her one escort?”
“I doubt it. Nicolas is my cousin. Her escorts will be Courtenay’s men, I suspect. He seems to have taken a sincere interest in our plight. I will trust his men.”
“You give your trust too easily,” his uncle snorted softly.
“You would trust the life of the woman you love and your child’s life to unknowns? Pah!”
Gaston’s head came up sharply. “I have no choice. If I send any of my men, it will appear as if I am trying to maintain my control over her. Do not you see? Guy has suggested that Remington is being forced to seek an annulment against her will; if I insist on sending one of my knights with her, it will only reinforce Guy’s accusation. I must separate myself from her as ordered, Uncle.”
Martin saw the logic, but hated it all the more. However, as Gaston spoke, a seed of an idea planted itself in Martin’s mind and took root. The more Gaston spoke, the more the seed was nurtured.
“You have Henry’s support, for all the good it is doing you,” Martin mumbled after a moment. “The man is king. You would hope he would have more influence over the church than he is exhibiting.”
“You know that Henry’s relations with the church are strained at the moment for various reasons,” Gaston reminded him. “He is trying to eradicate ecclesiastical sanctuary for all priests who have committed crimes against man, as well astrying to lessen the church’s governing influence in England. My problems, such as they are, could not have come at a worse time.”
Martin snorted. “And you had the audacity to suggest donating Warminster to the church. Really, Gaston.”
Gaston shrugged. “I may as well accept the dukedom and donate it myself. I suspect Stoneley will ask for Mt. Holyoak back as one of his terms, which only leaves me with Clearwell for leverage.”
“Clearwell is a fine fortress, Gaston. Do not give so little stock in it. The church could turn it into an abbey or something; they’ll find use for her and her wealth.”
Gaston’s heart sank; if he lost everything to obtain two annulments, what on earth could he offer Remington? He was old, nearly too old to regain his fortune. He knew that Henry would not allow him to be a pauper, but he was a proud man. If the king were going to give him money and lands, then he would be obligated to work for them, which would rule out any thoughts of living peacefully away from the politics and strife of London.
The men were silent; Gaston was lost to his depressing thoughts and Martin was concentrating on his earlier idea. He was too single-minded to think and talk at the same time.
Gaston was glad his uncle had shut up. His mind turned to Remington, packing upstairs, and he felt the pangs of separation already. God help him, he couldn’t stand to have her out of his sight for five minutes much less months. How on earth was he going to survive?
“I must help Remi,” he set down his goblet.
Martin watched his nephew leave the room, hearing his heavy boots mount the stairs. Aye, Gaston was virtually helpless. But Martin, being a retired warrior, was not included in this incapacitated state. He could indeed do something. This was theperfect opportunity for him to prove to Gaston and the world that he was not a useless old man waiting for death. He would prove his worth– again.
Gaston stood in the door way just as Remington was pulling on a pair of slippers. She had changed surcoats, out of the scarlet brocade and into a surcoat of pale yellow silk that brought out her beauty like nothing else. It was snug and fit her form incredibly, and she smiled at him as he entered the room.
“I…I did not want to wear the scarlet,” she said softly. “I like the yellow much better. Do you recognize it?”
He nodded faintly, fingering a springy curl. “You wore it the night I fell in love with you. Aside from the green that you buried Rory in, ’tis the surcoat I remember best. It does you justice, madam. Henry will be most envious.”
She blushed. “I do not care what the king thinks. I only care what you think.”
He sat down on the bed next to her, raising his eyebrows. “Youknowwhat I think.”
She met his gaze, warm and tender, and a stab of anguish shot through her. She was trying so desperately to be brave, but it was becoming more difficult with each passing moment.
She stood up, moving to secure her bags. She couldn’t look at him anymore. He watched her graceful back, the way the dress flared at the hips, memorizing every line of her. His smile faded and his entire body began to ache with agony. How could he let her go?
Remington was thinking the same thoughts. How could he allow the church to separate them? Anger, borne from grief, bubbled forth against her nature.
“I do not want to go, Gaston,” she murmured. “Why must I?”
“Because we must cooperate, Remi; you know that.”
She pulled at the bag sharply, her emotions unveiling themselves. “I do not want to!” She suddenly snapped. “Why are you letting them do this to us?”
“You know why.”
