by Tamara Leigh
Deciding against donning the carved mask that best hid his decaying face, he lifted the cowl pooled about his shoulders and drew it over his head and forward so its shadow concealed what none were permitted to look upon—none save the accursed physician whom Diot detested as much as he.
The door opened, and Thomasin called, “A blessed Christmas to you, Fiend.”
Flexing the hand that longed for the support of a walking stick, he stepped out from behind the hanging and saw his granddaughter lingered in the doorway. “Get you in here,” he snapped. “I would know what goes below.”
“For that I have come.” She entered and closed the door.
“Quintin Boursier,” he said as she moved toward the stool from which she would deliver the outside world to him. “Is your fool of a father further besotted?”
She sat, drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, and leaned back. “Certes, where his lips cannot venture, his eyes go.” She grinned. “As do Lady Quintin’s—much to your displeasure, I am sure.”
“Much,” he rasped and hated there was no way to remove the temptation of the Boursier woman the same as he had done Thomasin’s mother.
Curse King Edward! he seethed. Curse Edward’s throne! Curse Edward’s kingdom! Curse this world that makes giants into bowing, scraping beings who only appear to be men!
Drawing a great breath that caused his lungs to ache, he forced his weak legs forward until ten feet separated his diseased body from the one who bloomed with good health he wished he could begrudge her as once he had done.
When Diot had settled in, his small paws and nose jutting from beneath the tunic’s hem, Ulric said, “Tell me more, Sin.”
With a vaguely suppressed smile that bespoke satisfaction she possessed something he coveted, she began.
He was decided. Or nearly so.
Griffin grunted. After he and Quintin had hung greenery in the hall four days past and she had returned his kiss with a passion equal to his, the decision had mostly been made in favor of gaining the wife he wanted. Mostly.
The day’s Christmas festivities soon to be put to bed alongside its celebrants, Griffin left Quintin in conversation with his daughter before the hearth and mounted the stairs. It was time to visit the one whose displeasure he had felt earlier in the day when Rhys, Quintin, and he had walked out of doors, allowing Thomasin an opportunity to steal abovestairs.
Griffin’s tread moving from the corridor to the third floor stairs gave rise to low growls, the means by which the dog he had gifted to an unappreciative Ulric years past alerted the old baron to the new baron’s approach. And the little beast, who had long forgotten its gratitude to the one who had rescued the pup following his mother’s rejection, was far from welcoming when Griffin entered his father’s apartment.
Growling more deeply, Diot nipped at the booted ankles of the intruder who swung the door closed.
“I wondered when the much too important Baron of Blackwood would next deign to visit his neglected, infirm sire,” Ulric called in a grating voice from where he sat against the bed’s cushioned headboard. Then he patted his thigh to return the dog to his side.
Diot scuttled away, sprang onto the mattress, and seated himself alongside his master’s knee.
With further accusation, Ulric said, “Sir Mathieu visits me more often than you.”
As Griffin permitted, Blackwood’s senior household knight of nearly three score aged having served the old baron before he had served the new, and surely the nearest Ulric could come to calling another a friend. Not that he would.
Griffin halted at the foot of the bed and peered into the eye holes of the mask his father had surely fit upon being alerted to a visitor. The mask was another ill-received gift, but worn often enough to show it was appreciated—as were the walking sticks Thomasin smuggled abovestairs, though it was rare to catch sight of one.
“A good Christmas Day to you, Ulric.” Griffin inclined his head.
“Good it has not been.” The mask gave his father’s voice a wooden cast.
“A feast of viands was delivered, you saw Rhys, Thomasin visited, and now I am here.”
“Rhys,” Ulric rasped. “Hardly did the boy fill my eyes ere that woman appeared and spoiled all.”
“Her name is Quintin Boursier, and since you will be seeing her often, albeit from a distance, you must needs become accustomed to the sight of her.”
“The only thing I must needs do is think on a way around the king’s decree so you are not made to waste your life on a Boursier.”
“There is no way around it.” Certes, none he wished to find, Griffin mused. “Accept it and let it burden you no further.”
“Accept! ’Twas ill enough when it was your misbegotten daughter who must wed one of them, but now it falls to you…” Ulric grunted, and Griffin inwardly grimaced that in this father and son sounded much alike. “Blessedly, much can happen ere you wed, especially now it is possible King Edward will reverse his decree.”
Despite his diseased body, Ulric’s mind remained shrewd. He knew Lady Elianor’s impersonation of Thomasin, among the many things Griffin’s daughter had surely shared with him, had caused Baron Boursier to miss the appointed day by which he must lawfully wed. What he did not know was that, regardless of the king’s acceptance of Boursier’s marriage, regardless of who would be awarded the baronies of Godsmere and Emberly should they be forfeited, the decree meant to bind the De Arells and Boursiers would likely be honored. And soon.
His father leaned forward. “You have something in mind.”
Usually more heedful of his expressions in Ulric’s presence, Griffin rebuked himself.
After a long, considering silence, his father said, “But methinks, not what I have in mind after what I witnessed between that Boursier woman and you.”
Griffin raised his eyebrows.
“Spare me the arrogant smile, boy!”
Ulric’s attempt to reduce his son from a man who had well-earned his spurs to a youth playing at swords did not anger as it once had, but it irked enough that though Griffin’s smile had not been intentional, there was intent in allowing it to linger. “Alas, neither does Lady Quintin like my smile.” Rather, not in the beginning, he silently amended. “She also thinks it arrogant.”
Ulric jerked. “Unlike that termagant’s brother, the son of Ulric de Arell has more right to be arrogant than most.”
Griffin was not surprised his father took offense, and it tempted him to laughter. But he contained it, certain it would land them in no good place.
More silence, during which Griffin guessed that if not for the mask, he would glimpse on his father’s face realization followed by dismay. Then Ulric cleared his throat. “Tell me what you are thinking so I might give counsel.”
“I do not seek advice, Ulric. Though the king will be displeased Boursier was not wed by the appointed day, the circumstances of the delay give him good cause to be lenient—with the Boursiers if not the Verduns. Thus, I believe the decree will stand, I shall wed Lady Quintin, and she will be mother to Rhys and the sons and daughters made of our union.”
His father’s gloved, misshapen hands convulsed at his sides, causing Diot to move onto his master’s lap. Cupping a hand around the dog’s chest, Ulric slowly worked his fingers into its fur. “That is the only good of her—that she is no slight, frail thing like Johanna.” He grunted. “A pity your wife proved such a poor breeder.”
Griffin tensed.
Diot growled.
As if unaware of what he roused in his son, Ulric mused, “Or perhaps ’tis not such a good thing the Boursier woman is of good childbearing size.”
Then he contemplated the same end for Quintin that had taken Johanna from her husband and their son. Meaning here they were again, Ulric never content to let be what Griffin also struggled to let be.
Though he often excused his father’s words and behavior by telling himself they made the old baron feel alive amidst his slow death, Ulric went too far—just as he
had done when he had sent Alice from Blackwood…when he had suggested his sixteen-year-old son’s lover had run off with a man-at-arms…when he had not disclosed the chambermaid was with child…when he had denied Griffin knowledge of his daughter for fourteen years and Thomasin had suffered for it.
“Nay, not a good thing,” Ulric said with finality. “De Arell blood is strong, but tainted by Boursier blood—”
“Enough!”
Ulric startled so hard his head struck the headboard. And Diot sped to the foot of the bed and loosed teeth-baring growls and sharp barks upon the one he believed was the aggressor.
The ache in Griffin’s hands evidencing how much they longed to pound flesh and bone, he said, “We are done,” and crossed the room.
“Griffin!” Ulric called as the door was flung open. “I should not have…”
Without looking around, Griffin said, “Nay, you should not have.” And leaving his father to the regrets due him, he was all the more determined to gain the one whose loss would leave him with regrets.
On the morrow, then.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He had decided. She knew it the moment she lifted her lids on a morn that was so cloaked in dark it required every flicker of candlelight Griffin brought within to give shape to her chamber.
Filling her eyes with the man who halted near her bed, she whispered, “When?”
He smiled. “Now.”
She pushed up on her elbows. “I am flattered you are so eager to deliver your tidings, but my patience could have stretched until the rising of the sun.”
He stepped nearer, and as he set the candle on the bedside table, she noted he was fully clothed. “But my patience cannot await the rising of the sun, my lady,” he said, and she noted the emphasis he placed on that one word. “As soon as you are dressed, we shall be on our way.”
“Where?”
“As there is no priest at Mathe, we shall ride to the chapel outside the village of Cross. There a priest awaits us.”
“But…” She shook her head. “Arrangements have been made?”
“Aye.”
Quintin sat up, and as the coverlet pooled around her waist, saw his eyes move down her thinly-clad torso and was struck that if they did wed this day, this night she would be bared to him. And that thought so warmed her, she felt lightheaded. But the next thought so chilled her, she trembled. Were there enough light, he would see the scar. Were there not, he might feel it, though its ridge had smoothed over the years. Thus, Griffin would know their union could prove childless.
Tell him now, spoke the voice that knew truth was best served very warm.
It was, of course, too late for that, but were it not served until this eve, it would come to him deathly cold.
Tell him, else he might hate you for always.
Hate me for what his brother wrought? she bitterly countered.
Tell him.
She clenched handfuls of the coverlet. What if he decides against wedding me? Of no use will I be in preventing Godsmere from being stolen from the Boursiers.
“Is this not what you want, Quintin?”
She groped for words to explain her silence. Blessedly, an excuse was at hand. “I am but surprised that after keeping me waiting so long, of a sudden you deliver your answer. An answer you knew well enough in advance that a priest awaits us.”
“There was much to consider—and yet to consider. But we will speak of it during the ride.”
In the dark of pre-dawn, as if imperative they be away from Castle Mathe ere the sun shone.
Suspicious, she asked, “Sir Victor?”
“He shall not accompany us.”
She looked to the door and saw Griffin had not left it open as in the past. And with good reason. “You think to wed me in secret.”
He inclined his head. “As ’tis proper we not wed until word is received the king accepts your brother’s delay in fulfilling the decree, it would not do to further stir Edward’s displeasure. Do we, he might set himself against all three families.”
Quintin tossed back the covers and dropped her feet to the floor. Assuring herself that receiving him in naught but her chemise was no less proper than all the improprieties thus far defining their relationship, she stood. “Lest you forget, the reason I proposed we wed sooner rather than later was to give further credence to my brother’s marriage. If the king remains uninformed we have spoken vows, ’tis of no benefit to Bayard.”
Once again, his eyes traveled down her, making her more aware of her thin chemise. “Very well,” he said, “we will do this here.” He retrieved the robe from the foot of the bed, handed it to her, and lowered into the nearby chair.
When the garment was snugged about her, Quintin perched on the edge of the bed. “Pray, explain.”
“I believe the king will rule fairly, that consummation of your brother’s marriage to Lady Elianor and testimony provided by Father Crispin and me are sufficient to ensure Godsmere and Emberly are not forfeited. And that it will then fall to the two of us to join our houses.”
She frowned. “If you are so confident, why wed me now ere the king makes his determination?”
Candlelight flickering across his disturbed brow, he said, “You told I think too much and, certes, on this I have. Thus, I would be guilty of hubris did I not acknowledge the possibility I err—that the king shall decide against your brother.”
“But if Bayard is dispossessed, a marriage between De Arell and Boursier will not be necessary.”
Sitting forward, he clasped his hands between his knees. “Not necessary, but what I want. As much, methinks, as you want it.”
She nearly denied it, but it would be a terrible lie.
His jaw shifted. “There is something else I would have.”
Fully awake now, mind working backward and forward, she narrowed her eyes. “Godsmere and Emberly by way of marriage to one of Foucault blood.”
“If they are forfeited.”
She drew a sharp breath. “You would make me a piece on your game board.”
Griffin pushed out of the chair, lowered to his haunches, and caught up her hands. “I would make you my wife, ensuring your place and your mother’s.”
Even if her womb remained empty as feared? “What if the king does not award you the baronies? If he gives them to another?”
“For that, we quietly wed this day—so he cannot also give you to another. Then I shall risk Edward’s displeasure to make it known you are mine.”
He seemed so sincere, and yet…
She dropped her chin as anger, fear, and longing wet her eyes and made her wonder at having never been as susceptible to tears as she had become since entering Castle Mathe.
Griffin lifted her face. “What does it tell you that it would be of less detriment to the De Arells were I to wait on wedding you?” At her silence, he answered, “That I want you enough to weather a king’s wrath. Nay, I will not foolishly announce we speak vows this day, but if needs be to ensure I do not lose you, it will be revealed we are wed.”
She pressed her lips inward. He wanted her, but he also wanted more children. Were Bayard denied and the baronies awarded to one other than Griffin, would her husband stay her side once his desire was slaked? The marriage being made in secret, he could disavow it altogether.
Nay. When first she came here, she would have believed that of him, but not this day. He might come to regret wedding her regardless of what the king decided about Godsmere and Emberly, but all the days of their lives they would pass as man and wife.
“Who will bear witness?” she asked.
“Sir Mathieu.”
She liked the knight, though Griffin had revealed the man had served Ulric de Arell before him and remained in contact with the old baron. “You think he will hold close our marriage, even from your father?”
“Until told otherwise.”
She forced a smile. “Then I ought to dress.”
Relief smoothing the lines of his face, he drew her to her feet and
lightly kissed her. “No regrets, Quintin.”
“None,” she agreed and sent to the heavens, Lord, make it so.
A simple ceremony, and yet Quintin thought it could not have been lovelier had it been properly public. As if the earth paused in its turning to bear witness to the man and woman standing outside the church doors, peace had girded all.
The only things to disturb that beautiful still as she had stood beside Griffin were low-spoken vows meant to entwine two lives into a single stronger strand, birdsong, the scuttling of small animals over frozen ground, the nickering of horses, and the sun sifting its dawning light through trees that were less dense near the village of Cross than those around Castle Mathe.
Despite disquiet over wedding in secret and the chill air that caused her to hold her fur-lined mantle close, Quintin had been warmed by the hand holding hers and the broad fingers sliding the ring into place. Then Griffin’s lips lingering so long on hers that, forgetting to breathe, she gasped loudly when he lifted his head. As his mouth went aslant, she had pushed to her toes and kissed him again. He had chuckled, as had Sir Mathieu and the priest.
The nuptial mass that followed inside the chapel had been fittingly solemn, and then it was done.
Now as Quintin rode at a leisurely pace beside Griffin beneath a sun whose position told it was past the nooning hour, she looked at the ring on her gloved hand—somewhat ashamedly for how often it captured her regard. Not because it was beautiful, but because of what it symbolized. And her wonder that she should care.
She was the fourth De Arell bride to wear it—after Griffin’s grandmother, his mother, and his departed wife, Johanna. The gold band was set with three stones, the amethyst signifying piety and martyrdom, the beryl purification, and the red jasper love. It was that last she looked longest upon and over which she chided herself for being fanciful. It was not at all like Quintin Boursier. Of course, now she was Quintin de Arell.
But love? That was hardly possible, though perhaps she would grow into it.
“You seem to like my ring on your hand as much as I,” Griffin said.