Dennis’ gray eyes were piercing. “Why did you seek me out if you did not intend that I should go rescue my wife?” he asked. “Christ, you went to London to track me down, only to find me and then expect that I would not confront the man who has instigated my wife’s abduction? What in the hell did you expect I would do, Clive?”
Clive did not have an instant answer. Of course he had expected Dennis to do exactly as he was planning. “I thought… perhaps you would seek the king’s help in this matter against his brother,” he said after a moment.
Dennis’ jaw ticked as he stared at Clive. “Then you were wrong.”
“D’Vant, I hate to bring this up,” St. Maur said, as he was still seated by the hearth several feet away from the ruckus that was going on, “but the earl is correct; you are indeed pledged to the crown. I cannot let you leave, not even for the sake of your wife. You have many fine men who can take care of her, I am sure. But you cannot go.”
Dennis did not even think; in a blink of an eye his sword was drawn and he plowed between Clive and Riston as if they were no bigger than children. As the knights fell back, Dennis swooped upon St. Maur, his weapon leveled at the man’s neck. Payn St. Maur had no time at all to react; it was all he could do to throw his hands up to protect himself.
“D’Vant!” he gasped. “Do not!”
Dennis’ hot breath was an inch from St. Maur’s eye, his angry face all the frightened man could see. “I am going to rescue my wife,” he snarled. “If you say one more word of denial, I shall gut you where you sit.”
“But…!”
“Tell me ‘no’ again and die with the word upon your lips.”
St. Maur could feel the cold blade digging into his neck and he had no doubt that d’Vant meant every word he said. “I say it not for me, d’Vant, but for Henry. He will not take kindly to your desertion.”
Dennis glared at him a moment longer before withdrawing his sword. St. Maur rubbed his neck and glared back.
“I never said I was deserting,” Dennis said. “I am merely taking a brief leave. I intend to fulfill my obligation to the king.”
St. Maur wasn’t going to debate the fine line between desertion and leave. To do so would be to question Dennis’ honor, and that would only mean a disastrous end. Still massaging his nearly-severed neck, he turned away from Dennis, in embarrassment and anger.
“Do what you will, then,” he said. “I will not stop you. But if your whereabouts are demanded, I will disavow all knowledge of your leave. Is that clear?”
Dennis sheathed his weapon and once again moved for the door. He did not care about St. Maur’s threats or misgivings. All that mattered was that he get to his wife as quickly as he possibly could. Every second was of the essence.
“Riston, you will stay here as my gesture of goodwill that I shall return,” he told the men following him. “Clive, you will also remain behind. Charlotte, you ride with me.”
Clive chewed his lip, trying to mask his disappointment. Charlotte looked at him with wide eyes but said nothing, a gesture Dennis was too preoccupied to notice. His thoughts were already at Launceston, confronting the earl and daring the man to refuse him anything at all. Never had he felt so much anxiety and thought perhaps he wasn’t masking it very well. But there was no reason to mask it; they all knew how he felt.
The bailey of Abergavenny was a muddy, cold thing. St. Maur’s army still waited in the countryside beyond, ready to move on to their next destination. Overhead, dark clouds began to gather and Dennis could smell a storm approaching as he mounted Bucephalus. Charlotte mounted her own weary steed beside him and barked orders to the St. Austell men congregated in the ward. Slowly, they mobilized, but their exhaustion was evident.
“The men are spent, Dennis,” she said, knowing the words would be futile. “We have marched all the way from London in five days. Can we not rest at least a few hours?”
Above his apprehension, Dennis knew that an extended rest was in order for his men. But he himself was fresh and quite determined to move ahead.
“If you must,” he said quietly. “But it is my intention to ride to Launceston immediately. You may catch up to me if you are so able.”
“We can’t catch up to you at the pace you’ll set, and well you know it,” she shot back. “Why are you so determined to ride to your death? Do you think that, in any way, will help Ryan? Christ, you are as stubborn as she is!”
Dennis’ head jerked to his sister, lightning flashing in the stormy gray eyes. “I would not have to ride at all if you had only done as I asked and protected my wife.”
He might as well have struck her; no one, save Dennis, felt Ryan’s loss more than she. Charlotte stared at him a long, cold moment. “If you hadn’t left in the middle of the night like a coward, none of this would have happened.”
She meant to hurt him as he had hurt her. They were petty children casting blame, and the air between them could not have been more hostile. Dennis could have quite easily taken her head off, but it was not in his nature to react violently with his sister. It was, however, extremely difficult for him to hold his tongue. Knowing it would be better to keep silent lest he verbally harpoon her, he dug his spurs into Bucephalus’ sides and drove his excited steed through the great gate of Abergavenny Castle.
Charlotte watched him go, blinking back the tears. “Damnation,” she hissed. Then she called after him. “Dennis, I am sorry. I did not mean….”
She trailed off as Bucephalus’ great hindquarters disappeared from view. Exhausted, emotionally spent, Charlotte knew that the only place for her was at her brother’s side. If he was going to die at the hands of the Earl of Cornwall, then it was her duty to be by his side, come what may. She turned to the men assembling slowly behind her.
“I ride with Dennis,” she snapped. “Rest until the noon meal, then proceed to Launceston with all haste. Send a man to St. Austell to tell them what has happened and to send reinforcements on to Launceston. We may need all of the support we can muster.”
The sergeant in charge of the men nodded to her orders and began barking commands, even as she turned for the gate. The very last sight Charlotte remembered was of Clive, standing pale and strong, watching her as she thundered beneath the portcullis. She wished she could have muttered a few parting words to him, but there wasn’t time. Her brother was on a mission to kill himself and there was no time, however short and sweet, to waste.
Clive and Riston stood on the steps of the keep, listening to the last of few echoes of Charlotte’s determined ride, as she cleared the gatehouse. Their expressions were nothing short of grim, for they, better than anyone knew the odds of seeing Dennis alive again.
“Christ,” Riston hissed. “How did this all become so complicated?”
Clive was chewing his lip furiously. He grunted and turned away from Riston. “I do not care what Dennis says. I am riding with them.”
He stepped off the stair and into the muddy ward below. Riston watched him go; he, in fact, would have liked to have gone, too, but it was more important that he stay with St. Maur. He waited until Clive thundered from the stables on his charger before calling out to him.
“De Camville!” he shouted.
Clive reined his steed to a nervous halt; he was dressed to the hilt in armor and weapons and it was apparent he was ready to do substantial battle. Riston had known the man for eleven years and he knew he had never seen him look so formidable, nor so determined.
“My suggestion would be discretion,” Riston said seriously. “Dennis does not want you with him. He will refuse your aid. You must stay to the shadows.”
Clive’s eyes were bright behind his lowered visor. “That will not be easy. Dennis has the hearing of a bat. He will suspect he is being followed, and further suspect it is either you or I.”
Riston nodded. “More than likely. But he may be so preoccupied with confronting the earl that his attention may be diverted and you can follow unnoticed.”
“I shall do my best.”<
br />
Clive spurred his charger forward. Riston watched him go, gradually aware that St. Maur and Hastings were standing over his shoulder doing the same. It was a strangely tense group, with the anticipation of what was to come hanging heavy in the air. Riston looked at both men, the confidence in his bright blue eyes belying the utter dread he was feeling.
“There is no man on earth who can best Dennis d’Vant,” he said. “Woe to the earl for his treachery.”
Hastings shook his head. “Strange predicament. Fighting for the king, yet battling the king’s brother. And Richard and Henry are not even at odds. Very, very strange.”
“Greed creates strange enemies and alliances, m’lord.”
Hastings could hardly disagree. St. Maur, his neck still red from Dennis’ assault, trudged off into the muddy bailey. He did not have much to say about it, like the others, but in truth he was nearly as concerned as they were. Still, he had pressing matters at hand.
“We are due at Cydwilly, de Titouan.”
Riston moved in behind him. “Payn,” he said carefully. “It will take St. Austell troops some time to reach Launceston and protect Dennis.”
“I cannot be concerned with that.”
Riston’s inherently sly character emerged to its fullest. “But St. Austell is now garrisoned for the king. The king’s troops are stationed there.”
“And?”
“And you also command the king’s troops. What difference would it make if the troops from St. Austell or your own support Dennis?”
St. Maur came to a dead stop. He looked at Riston as if the man had gone mad. “Are you suggesting we follow d’Vant to Cornwall to…?”
“Support him, aye,” Riston finished for him. “Why in the hell not? He ended your siege within three weeks of his arrival. I should think you’d be willing to repay the favor.”
It was meant to make St. Maur feel guilty, which did not go unnoticed. They both knew that Riston was right. St. Maur growled, turned away, and continued his march across the bailey with Riston in close pursuit.
“You are insane,” St. Maur snarled at him. “We are due at Cydwilly, not Cornwall.”
“The sooner you help Dennis, the sooner he will return to your command.”
“I am not going to lay siege to Launceston.”
“And the Earl of Cornwall would be foolish to launch an offensive against his brother’s troops. Can’t you see the beauty of this? A show of force is all Dennis needs to regain his wife without any bloodshed.” He quickened his pace and ended up nearly blocking St. Maur’s path. “The earl will think that Dennis has brought the entire crown to support him. He’d be a fool not to release Lady d’Vant!”
St. Maur threw up his hands and walked around him. “You are a damn annoying gnat, de Titouan!”
“And I intend to buzz until you comply.”
“I shall swat you first!”
Riston grinned and kept following.
*
Day, night, night, day… they all seemed to blend into one another. Ryan’s entire world was a dark, musty thing revolving around the dark, musty innards of Usk. She had tried to keep track of the days by scratching lines on the wall of the vault, but she only had eight days marked and she knew she had been held captive longer than that. It seemed like an eternity.
Miguel sat with her every day, for hours on end, but she would not talk to him. He had brought her all the comforts he could possibly supply; a great bed, clothes, linens, even a great basin in which she could bathe. He even had servants tending her day and night. But the one luxury he would not supply was her freedom, or even a room with a window. He was convinced that the only place for her was the vault, for she was wily enough that any small window would give her an opportunity for escape. He did not trust her as far as he could throw her, and he’d be damned if he was about to let her slip from his fingers; not when he was becoming so fond of her.
And this fondness was the reason he had not yet sent word to Dennis d’Vant that his wife was being held captive; all that talk of bringing Dennis to him had faded. He pretended at times he had never even uttered those words, for the truth was now that he did not care if he killed d’Vant or not. He simply wanted Ryan, to get to know her, to warm her to him. D’Vant’s murder would be a distraction and a burden, and contrary to his resolute character, he realized that his motivations were changing. He wanted Ryan all for himself with no diversions, distractions, or otherwise.
But Ryan certainly wasn’t fond of him. She had come to cringe at the sound of his voice, or gag at the smell of his musk. She could hear him approaching from a distance, his bootfalls echoing against the algae-covered walls of her prison, and in every instance she felt furious and ill at the same time. She had virtually stopped eating because her stomach was churning so much that she almost always vomited her meals up, and she had lost a substantial amount of weight as a result. Her luscious amber hair was dull, and the golden-brown eyes perpetually sad. It wasn’t so much that she was languishing as a result of her imprisonment; it was the fact that Dennis, wherever he was, had a madman plotting his death.
She slept constantly too. Miguel had put a large copper brazier in the corner of her cell, which gave off a good deal of heat to stave off the damp moisture, but still her lungs had been constantly congested and her health was deteriorating. Miguel knew this; she was as pale as a ghost and lacking any energy. It was now a perpetual struggle for him not to give in to her condition and allow her the light and comfort of the keep.
It was well into the third week of her captivity. As was his usual habit, Miguel rose before sunrise and personally supervised the preparation of Ryan’s breakfast. Porridge, honey, bread, and milk was the usual fare, but more often than not she did not touch it. Dutifully, he carried it down to the dark vault of Usk with the aid of a serving woman. The woman opened the grate leading to Ryan’s cell, returning the key to Miguel as his familiar bootfalls echoed against the old dirty walls. Ryan was asleep when he reached her, rolled up in a coverlet stuffed with goose feathers. She sniffled and coughed as Miguel gently roused her. When the golden-brown eyes lolled open and she saw that it was him, her frigidity was immediate.
“Good morning, mija,” he said pleasantly. “I have brought your meal.”
Her reply was to roll away from him. Miguel’s warm expression wavered and he sent the servant woman away. Slowly, he sat on the small cushioned stool he had brought down from the bedchamber himself. Glancing around her dank, terrible prison, he could hardly blame her mood.
“No smile for me today?” he said softly. “Pity. I have not seen you smile since… well, since the first day I met you. I miss that smile very much.”
Ryan was very much awake, staring at the wall of the vault in front of her. As usual, she refused to answer him. Unless he was prepared to release her and apologize for ever threatening to kill her husband, she had absolutely nothing to say. Miguel knew this; he slithered off the stool and onto his knees, slowly approaching the bed. Her silence, through the weeks, was very much coming to bother him.
“Ryan, I know you are ill and upset,” he said. “But you must understand that I mean you no harm. When all of this is over, you will see that my only concern was indeed of you.”
Facing the wall, Ryan rolled her eyes. “Liar!” her mind screamed. She wanted very badly to retort, but her oath of silence prevented it. He would stop talking, eventually, and leave her alone. To respond to him would undoubtedly invite a long, bitter conversation and she simply wasn’t in the mood.
Miguel knew her thoughts, at least in general. He knelt beside the bed, his big hand hovering just above her shoulder. Gently, his hand brushed her. “Please, mija, if you would only…”
Ryan leapt as if she had been stabbed. She pulled away from him violently, her face flushed and her long hair askew. Stumbling off the bed, she put as much distance as she could between her and Miguel.
“Do not touch me,” she hissed. “Do not ever touch me again!”
M
iguel stood up, watching her truly sorrowful eyes. “I am sorry, mija, truly,” he said. “I only meant to give comfort.”
“How can you possibly give me any comfort?” Ryan screeched. “You have kept me locked up like a prisoner in a moldering vault as if I have done something to warrant this!”
“It is for your own safety, I assure you.”
“That’s madness!”
“It is not,” Miguel was careful with his words. “Wales is a wild country, m’lady. Were you to escape, as you seem so determined to do, you would only come to harm. The woods and roads are full of bandits and murderers who would think nothing of slitting your pretty little throat.”
Ryan coughed miserably before replying. “So you keep me locked up like a common criminal,” she said hoarsely. “And this is supposed to protect me?”
“If you are so determined to escape, it is.”
She gazed steadily at him. “And if I promise not to escape?”
He smiled sadly. “I would not believe you,” he watched her expression darken and held up a finger, “unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you would permit me to be by your side day… and night.”
Ryan blanched. “And night?” she repeated. Then, she actually laughed. “Not if I lived one thousand years would I allow you into my bed.”
Miguel’s self-confidence took a direct blow and his temper, usually controlled, flared. “If I was merely interested in bedding you, I could have easily done so by now,” he snapped. “I do not need your permission, mija. What I have asked is to merely guarantee your security and nothing more.”
Ryan stared at him, with several different thoughts rolling about in her head. She would do anything to be free of him, anything to escape, but if he were watching her constantly, it would make such a feat next to impossible. She had to do something to get out of this place or it would surely kill her.
Days and weeks had passed, and she had remained uncharacteristically inactive. She had already tried to coerce the serving woman into helping her escape, but the woman had fled in terror every time Ryan spoke of it. There was no window she could crawl from and no hole to slither out of. The only way in, or out, of her cell was through the great metal grate at the end of her cell. And the one person who controlled that key was Miguel.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 153