Oleg shook his head again, mumbling rapidly about something or another and Remington fought off an amused smile at his state. As he brushed past her, she reached out her hand.
“Oleg, about Gaston,” she said. “Do you remember the conversation we had before he came to Mt. Holyoak? Do you remember how apprehensive you were?”
He paused, looked puzzled, and then nodded. “Unfounded, my lady.”
She smiled broadly. “I am glad you have come to realize it. And, by the way, he does not have a tail nor does he sprout wings come nightfall.”
Oleg returned her smile, looking somewhat sheepish. “He’s not an incubus, then? Thank God. I was wondering how I was going to explain to God why I had willingly worked for the devil.”
Remington snickered as he scuffled away. She moved on toward the carved front doors of the castle, so heavy they individually weighed as much as the war horses. They were polished to a high sheen by the servants, servants Gaston had brought from Mt. Holyoak. In fact, except for the skeleton guardhe kept there, the castle was empty of every last servant. They had all been quite happy to come south to serve the new duke.
She smiled to herself, feeling the warm wind caress her face. Beyond the walls of the structure was the village of Warminster. South of that on the horizon, she could see the green line indicating the edge of Warminster Forest, a dense, huge growth that covered most of Gaston’s providence, spilling into Essex. Warminster wasn’t as populated as some providences, but it was lush and rich. She liked it a great deal.
There were times when she missed Yorkshire, the sheep, and the people she had grown up with. But she would not have traded what she had now to return to what she left, not ever. Her new life with Gaston, wife or no, was far more precious than faded memories.
She did miss Dane terribly, however, but she knew Gaston had done what he felt was best for him. Sending he and Trenton to foster with the earl of Oxford had been a brilliant maneuver, a place where Guy could not have physically retrieved Dane if he tried. The earl’s keep was too fortified, and Dane was surrounded by soldiers who knew who he was and would protect him.
She gloated at Guy’s expense; he could spend his entire life trying to regain his son to no avail. Dane was safe. She was safe. Annulment or no annulment, she was home to stay.
There was a good deal of activity on the walls and she shielded her eyes from the bright sun to see what was going on. Deverill Castle had a massive outer wall that was nearly eight feet thick. The bailey had been a massive, oblong-shaped yard that he had divided and even now men were working on an inner, protective wall. Portions of the castle were actually built into the wall, but the rise upon which the castle sat afforded it a great deal of protection.
But it had not been enough protection for Gaston; he had fallen in love with the design of Mt. Holyoak and set teams of men to shearing off the sides of the rise and tunneling out a deep moat, making the fortress extremely inaccessible to invading armies.
A small party of riders entered through the outer gates and Remington recognized Father de Tormo. Happily, she moved out to greet him.
“Father!” she called.
De Tormo brushed the dust on his brown woolen robes, the familiar stench greeting Remington’s nostrils as she closed in on him. He actually smiled. “My lady! How wonderful you look. Why, when I last saw you, you were as round as a cow after birthing the babes. All of the weight has left you.”
She looked down at herself, wearing a lightweight linen surcoat that emphasized her newly small waist, yet her breasts were plump with milk and enticingly large.
“Most of it,” she said, thinking his comment to be undiplomatic, but letting it slide. “Where’s Gaston?”
“Still in London.” De Tormo took her arm and together they walked for the castle. “He sent me to relay his messages to you.”
“Does the church still believe I am at Wells Abbey?” she asked.
He nodded. “Still. Mary Margaret is a party to our lie; Henry’s men visited the abbey two weeks ago and she told them that you were still recovering after your most difficult birth, in isolation. They left and reported back to Henry and Courtenay.”
“But what of the men you brought with you?” she gazed over her shoulder, seeing four soldiers with Canterbury’s tunics.
“Won’t they tell that they have seen me?”
“They do not know you on sight,” de Tormo took her into the castle. “Do not worry overly. I shall make up some excuseshould the question arise. For all they know, I am here to deliver a message to Gaston’s cousin.”
She took him into the solar, ordering wine and food. When the serving girl left, she turned to him.
“What’s going on? Why is he still in London?”
“The annulment proceedings are taking longer than he thought,” he replied. “Henry sent for the men you listed to testify on your behalf; Lord Brimley and his sons, Lord Ripley, Sir Alfred Tarrington from Crigglestone Castle. Ripley even went so far as to declare he would kill Stoneley on sight if he ever saw him again; the man was most convincing.”
“And what of the men presiding over the council? Are they men of good standing?”
De Tormo raised an eyebrow. “You mean the Board of Inquisition? Only the most powerful men in the country, next to Henry, of course. John Morton, bishop of Ely and his brother Robert, the bishop of Worcester; Christopher Urswick, dean of York; Richard Fox, bishop of Exeter; the papal legate John of Imola, and the archbishop himself, Thomas Bourchier. Believe me, Remi, ’tis a mighty papal council.”
She swallowed, feeling rather apprehensive. “Are they receptive? Can you tell?”
De Tormo shrugged. “’Tis difficult to say. But you have a most convincing argument, and they have yet to put me on the stand. I shall persuade them without a doubt that your marriage to Guy must be dissolved.”
