“I hate him,” Dane said simply. “Why is it acceptable for you to kill him and not me?”
Gaston thought a moment. How could he answer the question? He could give the boy a myriad of empty reasons, moral ones, but somehow none of them applied in this situation. How could he tell Dane it wasn’t right that he should want to kill his father?
“Because I am not his son,” he said lamely, knowing it was no reason at all. “No matter what has happened, a son should not kill his father. I know that my explanation does not make sense now, but someday it will. You will not like to grow old knowing that you killed your father in your youth. It will sit heavy on your soul.”
Dane did not understand, but he did not press. He had confidence that Gaston would regain his mother.
“I know you do not believe in my dreams as my mother does, but… well, I remember having a dream about my father trying to kill my mother just after you came to Mt. Holyoak,” Dane said quietly. “It was right before I dreamt about your death, but it turned out Sir Arik died instead. Whenever my dreams come true, I do not dream about them anymore. But I still dream about my father and mother sometimes.”
Gaston led the boys into the inner bailey. He paused a moment, facing Dane’s solemn face. “What happens in your dream?”
Dane hung his head. “I am not exactly sure. My mother is afraid, and she’s screaming. And I see blood. I can see swords, mayhap two or three,” he looked to Gaston again, puzzled. “I am not exactly sure what it means. It’s never very clear.”
Gaston put his hand back on the lad’s shoulder, pondering the statement. He did not believe in dreams, but he knew Remington did. And Dane’s dream of death did come true, although it wasn’t Gaston’s death he foresaw. Ah, well, he attributed it all to a young man’s imagination.
He squeezed Trenton’s shoulder gently. “And you, young master? May I ask why you are here on this foolhardy mission?”
“Because you might need help,” Trenton said simply.
Gaston raised an eyebrow at the quick, simple answer. He could only imagine the panic de Vere was feeling at the moment, having misplaced the Duke of Warminster’s two sons.
Hand on each boy, the three of them took the stairs into the castle. Cool, damp musty air met with their nostrils and Dane seemed particularly content. Gaston took them into the grand dining hall and sat them down, ordering hot food and ale. As the boys ate, he stood over them with hands on his hips. The more he thought of them riding all the way north by themselves, the more angry and frightened he became.
“I ought to take you both over my knee,” he said. “The earl must be having fits with you two missing.”
“We had to come,” Dane insisted, mouth full of mutton. “You are going to fight my father, and someone had to protect my mother while you were occupied. And Trenton wanted to assist you in your fight, and….”
Gaston put up a silencing hand. “Enough, Dane. Finish your food and then you may finish your words,” he shook his head,propping a massive boot atop the bench next to Trenton and leaning on his knee. “I suppose I should commend you for your bravery. ’Twas an astounding bit of luck that you reached me unscathed.”
“We hid in the trees and stole food from peasants,” Trenton said, rather proudly. “We even stole a rabbit on a spit from a traveling merchant. He fell asleep and Dane snagged his dinner.”
The boys giggled as Gaston frowned, although his expression bordered on amusement. He shook his head. “Thieves. My God, your mother will have fits.”
Dane shook his head. “Aunt Rory was worse. She used to steal from the men-at-arms. Once, she stole a pair of little silver balls in a silk pouch. We never did figure out what the balls were for, but they rolled rather nicely.”
Gaston’s eyes widened and he cleared his throat, choking off a guffaw. He’d seen such balls, although he’d never personally used them on a woman. Tale had it that they were from the continent, far beyond the Teutonic countries, even beyond India.
He took his leg off the bench, watching the boys drain their cups. He found his gaze drawn to Dane.
“Tell me, Dane. Did your father have any close friends in Yorkshire? I mean particularly close?”
Dane thought. “Douglass Archibald of Spofforth was a friend of my father’s. And Lord Botmore. Lord Brimley and his sons used to visit sometimes, as did Lord Tarrington. But that was all.”
Gaston knew of those men and planned to contact them. He pondered his options as his sons finished the last of their food and drink, wondering where in the hell to begin this most monumental search. Truth was, he wanted to search every castle and manor house personally, but he knew the impossibility ofsuch a feat, which was why he wanted Nicolas and a good portion of his knights to assist him. With enough manpower, he could cover all of North Yorkshire and his chances of finding Remington would be positive.
The stab of pain sliced at him again, the familiar cut he was coming to associate with her disappearance. With each cut, he felt his determination double, triple. He would find her and he would kill Stoneley, and he would furthermore kill whoever assisted Guy in his dastardly deed. His fury was beyond anything he had ever felt before. More hatred than he thought possible.
The Dark One’s wrath would know no mercy.
He ordered an older serving woman to see to Dane and Trenton’s comfort as he wandered back to the solar. Charles had awoken from his slumber and was finishing the final touches on the missive to Nicolas. Gaston read the missive with satisfaction; Charles was a well-learned young man and Gaston suspected he would make a better scholar than knight, no matter how badly he wanted to fight. As frail and thin as he was, Gaston made a mental note to discourage the further pursuit of warrior arts.
The sun rose and riders were prepared to deliver the three missives. Gaston himself saw to the readying of the messengers, lecturing each man on the importance of what he was to carry. Charles sealed the missives in sheepskin pouches to protect them, carrying them out into the dusty bailey, smelling of manure and urine and dirt in the rising temperature. Already late June, the heat of the summer was beginning to announce itself loudly.
A sentry on the wall let out a call of an approaching rider. Gaston instinctively stiffened, thinking Stoneley was indeed closing in on Mt. Holyoak and he was wildly gleeful with the surprise that awaited the man. But the soldiers on the wall indicated only one rider, and his heart sank a little. If it were indeed Stoneley, then he was sans Remington.
And he would only be without her if she were de….he broke out in a cold sweat.
The rider was bearing Ingilsby yellow and gray. Gaston called for the portcullis to raise and greeted the rider just inside the entry.
