*
Gaston returned toDeverill Castle almost three weeks later. His new keep outside of Warminster welcomed him with open gates and an honor guard, as befitting the duke. The small skirmish had been overwhelmingly successful in Henry’s favor, an insignificant battle with two minor barons. Spofforth had held magnificently, and to Gaston went the victory.
As his army entered the huge bailey in the dark of night, Gaston’s thoughts were already on Remington. A thousand torches lit the night sky as he dismounted Taran, leaving Antonius and Nicolas in charge of dismantling the army. Heknew de Tormo was inside, waiting for him with Remington’s reaction, and he had to speak with him. Were the reaction favorable, he would leave for Wells Abbey this night.
The great double doors to the castle were open and the first sight to greet him was Jasmine and Skye, wrapped against the chill of the castle. Their pretty faces were pale and drawn.
“Where is de Tormo?” he demanded, foregoing any greeting.
“Not here,” Jasmine said, extending her hand. There was a rolled, sealed piece of vellum. “This came this morning, Gaston.”
Gaston stared at it a moment before snatching it away, breaking the seal. There were only three words:
Come immediately. De Tormo
Gaston couldn’t help it; his stomach lurched and he crushed the parchment in his fist.
“What is it?” Jasmine demanded. “One of the priest’s men brought it. What does it say?”
He was shaking; sweat was beading on his upper lip. “I have to go.”
Skye was starting to cry and Jasmine dashed forward, grasping Gaston’s arm. “For God’s sake, Gaston, what is it? Has something happened to Remington?”
His voice was quivering when he spoke. “I do not know. I have to go.”
Taran had already been taken away when he reached the bailey. Panic ruled his brain; he took the nearest mount and set out for Wells Abbey. Nicolas and Antonius saw him ride off, too far away to yell to him. Puzzlement was rampant, but they stuck to their orders and continued to dismantle the troops. Wherever he was going, he did not need them, else he would have summoned their assistance.
Gaston rode like the devil. His mount was a warmblood, not too winded, and took his commands easily. Armor and all, heweighed over four hundred pounds, but the horse handled him well.
The moon above was full and bright, like a great silver plate in the sky. The landscape around him, softly rolling hills that would be green and fragrant in another month or so, passed by him an eerie gray color. It served to fit his mood, mindless and bleak. Looking at the countryside, his terror suddenly took on a shape.
He was afraid to anticipate the reason for de Tormo’s urgent missive. Were he to imagine the possibilities, he would transform into a quivering lump of flesh, unable to function. He had to retain his sanity just long enough to discover the reason for the missive. Only afterward would he determine his reaction.
When he reached Wells Abbey an hour before dawn, his horse collapsed underneath him and died.
*
Loaded with armorand weapons, the war machine known as the Duke of Warminster marched into Wells Abbey. He paused in the dimly lit foyer, raising his faceplate as a gaggle of nuns hovered nearby.
“Where is de Tormo?” he demanded. “Better yet, where is Lady Remington?”
One nun, an older lady with a creased face, approached him and bowed respectfully. “I am Sister Josepha. Who are thou that wouldst invade our sanctuary?”
Above his anxiety, he realized he must look like the devil himself to these women. He tried to calm his brusque manner.
“I am the Duke of Warminster, Gaston de Russe,” he said calmly. “Would you please tell Father de Tormo that I am here? He sent me a missive to come right away.”
The nuns in the corner began to whisper to each other urgently, two of them rushing off in a flurry. Gaston heard two words,Dark One.
Sister Josepha maintained her calm demeanor. “He is expecting thou. I shall send someone to fetch him.”
She called to a young girl hovering nearby to fetch the father and beckoned Gaston to the visitor’s solar. Being so close to Remington, Gaston’s skin was prickling even as the old nun poured him a drink into a crude wooden cup. He had not been this close to her in months, and his excitement made his skin hurt. He did not want the offered beverage, but took it anyway.
“Where is Lady Remington?” he asked again. “I would see her as well.”
The old woman cast an appraising eye at him. “Thou art the husband?”
He blinked and shook his head. “Nay.”
