Creston was staring at his cup. “Very well,” he said after a moment. “Her father was an ally of my father’s. Mary St. Albans was young and beautiful and her mother was stupid enough to bring her to London, to court, in fact. She did not escape the king’s notice, and rather than have his daughter deflowered by a monarch, her father sent Mary to France, into hiding. The last I heard, she had married a warlord and had several children.”
St. Denis waggled his eyebrows in understanding. “I see,” he said. “But given how John was, I am certain it was for the best. You could not have protected her had you married her, Creston. He would have demanded your wife.”
Creston looked at him. “Why do you think I came to Blackchurch?”
St. Denis’ brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Creston regarded his wine for a moment. “Did your son never tell you how he brought me to Blackchurch?”
St. Denis shrugged. “Only that you saved his life in London,” he said. “Why? Is there more to it?”
“A little,” Creston admitted. Then he sighed heavily. “Fourteen years ago. It seems like forever.”
“What happened?”
“Gerard found me in the seediest tavern in London, drowning my sorrows in a pitcher of the strongest wine I could buy.”
“Why?”
Creston shrugged. “Because I knew Mary’s father intended to send her to France to escape the king, only I thought I knewbetter,” he said, his expression dull with the painful memory. “I convinced Mary to run away with me. We were going to be married and I planned to serve somewhere in France or Aragon. I had enough friends that I could find a position, but Mary’s mother found out about our plans and told her father. When I went to collect Mary, her father was waiting for me to tell me that she was already gone. Worse still, he threatened to tell John if I ever spoke a word of the situation, so my hands were tied. But I ended up walking away as it was. I could not serve a king who had ruined my chance at happiness.”
St. Denis understood now. Truthfully, Creston had never struck him as a man with any secrets, but perhaps every man was entitled to at least one.
“I’m sorry, lad,” he said quietly. “That is an unhappy tale.”
Creston simply nodded, still looking at his wine. “I always thought I would marry a woman I was fond of,” he said. “Marriage, to me, is something very special and sacred. I’ve seen other men fall in love with their wives and I’d always hoped to do the same, but I want to do it with a woman of my choosing. Not of my brother’s choosing.”
St. Denis couldn’t disagree with him. “It is always better for us to marry women of our choosing,” he said. “But you waited too long for yours. Your brother has the right to command you to marry, especially in the case of an alliance. You cannot refuse if he presses his rights.”
That only depressed Creston. “And he will,” he said. “He seems to think this is a brilliant match, although how he could know that, I do not know. He does not know the woman, either.”
St. Denis took a drink of his wine. “I am certain he is thinking about the earldom you will inherit,” he said. “He’s not wrong in that respect, Creston. Itisa great match. You will reap enormous benefits from this.”
Creston just sat there, looking at his cup, pondering an aspect of his life that he’d never liked to ponder. Not since the day Mary had been sent away.
“There’s something else,” he muttered.
“What?”
Creston sighed faintly. “Mary was pregnant when her father sent her away,” he said. “That is why I was so determined to marry her. I do not know what happened to my child, if her husband accepted him or if he was sent away somewhere. That haunts me, my lord, more than you can imagine.”
St. Denis lifted his eyebrows in sympathy. “Having sons of my own, I can most definitely imagine,” he said quietly. “When I lost Gerard, something inside me died. Your children take a piece of you when they go, even if you’ve never met the child. Somewhere, there is a piece of you out in the world, a lad, or a lass, you do not know. You can only hope they are happy and healthy, but you do not know for certain. I can understand how that must haunt you.”
Creston could only nod. St. Gerard was killed a few years earlier, something that had affected them all. Now, he was so incredibly depressed that all he wanted to do was get drunk somewhere. Not at The Black Cock, the tavern in the village just outside of Blackchurch, but maybe back at his cottage, where he knew he had stashes of wine all over the house. He had a bit of a problem drinking too much, something he kept hidden from his friends.
But in drink, there was solace.
He needed it.
“Well,” he finally said, “now you know everything. I came to tell you what my brother has done, so I suppose I have little choice but to accept the betrothal.”
“I would agree with that.”
“I also want to tell you that I have no intention of leaving Blackchurch.”
St. Denis was relieved to hear that. “Will you bring your bride back here?” he said. “There are other wives who would make her feel welcome.”
Creston frowned. “Iam not even sure I want to make her feel welcome,” he said, but realized how cruel that sounded and he eased a little. “I simply do not know, my lord. If she wants to return with me, she may. But if she wishes to remain wherever she happens to be living now, I will not argue with her. She can do what she likes.”
