“Are you feeling well, father?”
He shifted in his seat. “The heat bothers me.”
“Me, too.”
They sat in silence a moment before de Tormo twisted a bit, reaching behind him. Remington watched as he pulled forth a roll of vellum and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, examining the scroll with de Tormo’s own seal.
“Just keep it,” de Tormo said, his expression unusually soft.
“Why?” she looked at him, his flushed face.
“Keep it safe,” he repeated. “’Tis only to be used in the case of a dire emergency.”
“Dire emergency? Father, what are you talking about?”
“Just that,” he patted her hand, pushing it toward Remington’s satchel on the floor. “You shall know when that happens. Then you may open the scroll.”
She was greatly puzzled, but put the vellum away as requested. “What is it? A black spell to make the church bow to our wishes?”
He smiled. “If it were only possible.”
He looked away, gazing from the window, but she continued to watch him. He seemed very pensive and distant and Remington was beginning to feel depressed. “What are you thinking? We do not have a chance with this annulment, do we?”
His fat face turned to her, flushed; yet she noticed the pale ring around his lips. And his lips were a very strange color, almost blue. “I truly do not know, Remi. I wish I did.”
“But with your testimony, surely they will be convinced,” she persisted. “If anyone can convince them, you can.”
He shrugged. “I can but try, my lady. And I will, believe me.”
She stared at him a long moment, reading in his eyes everything he could not say. “But it would take a miracle.”
He met her gaze and nodded once, faintly. Patting her hand, he turned back to the window.
Gaston did not stop for supper. The column continued on into the night and Remington took to lighting a small oil lamp for some illumination, breaking out the bread and cheese and wine they had brought along. Nicolas rode next to the carriage, flipping up his faceplate and opening his mouth like a fish as his wife fed him bits of food.
De Tormo did not eat. He complained that he was too tired and laid his head back against the carriage, closing his eyes to gain some rest. Remington was worried about him and sent Nicolas to fetch Gaston for her.
Gaston returned to the rig, reining Taran on Remington’s side. The horse, even with his armored face and heavy chain bit, nibbled at Remington’s arm with his silk lips and she scratched him affectionately.
“How is the ride?” he inquired, watching her “ruin” his warhorse. How many times had he told her the animal was a war machine, and not a pet?
“Fine,” she lowered her voice, her eyes locking onto his. “I fear Father de Tormo is ill, Gaston. He does not look well.”
Gaston leaned forward a bit so that he could see inside the cab. He raised his faceplate after a moment, as if to get a better look. “What’s wrong with him?”
She glanced over her shoulder at de Tormo. “He seems extremely fatigued and his color is bad.”
“So? ’Tis the heat, Remi. With all of the weight he carries, it is no wonder that….”
“And his appetite is gone,” she cut him off insistently. “Moreover, he gave me a scroll this day and bade me to keep it, only to be opened in case of a dire emergency. He told me that I would know exactly when that occasion would arise.”
Gaston gave de Tormo one last glance before sitting straight. “He would not tell you what the parchment contained?”
“Nay. He only told me to keep it.”
Gaston thought a moment, his gaze raking over the darkened surroundings. “We shall be at Oxford within the hour. I am sure a good night’s sleep will do him good.”
