by Tamara Leigh
“Enough!” Griffin and Bayard said in unison, and if not that Quintin was under discussion, Griffin would have been impressed by how unconcerned Verdun seemed though he roused two warriors whom he might triumph over individually, but not collectively.
“Hear me,” he continued. “It has only to appear as if he might gain his prize. And more desirable that prize will be if it is believed the marriage between De Arell and Boursier has yet to take place.”
“Lady Quintin and I are to wed publicly as soon as Father Crispin is well enough to perform the ceremony,” Griffin said. Which could be within the next few days, the priest having made it to the hall for supper last eve. Though he had partaken of little, there had been color in his face, and he had conversed with those on either side of him during the half hour before Rollo assisted him abovestairs.
“I say you wait,” Verdun said. “If we are to end the Foucault threat, we must set the trap with the appearance of that which will cause Simon Foucault to risk the snap of iron teeth.”
Though Griffin longed to end the conversation, Boursier’s brooding curbed his tongue and fists. Quintin would not be the bait, but perhaps this was the starting point of the plan to bring Simon Foucault to justice.
“I am listening, Verdun, but only that.” He looked to the Baron of Godsmere. “Boursier?”
“Speak, Verdun.”
“First, what do we know of Simon Foucault?”
Boursier settled back in his chair. “He was born to Baron Denis Foucault around 1280, meaning he is now over fifty years aged, the same as Sir Francis. He received his knight’s training in France and, upon earning his spurs, was called home to administer Kilbourne in preparation for the day he would gain his father’s title.” The Baron of Godsmere raised his eyebrows. “But he refused, citing my father was capable of administering the barony as he had done for Denis Foucault, and would continue to do once Simon gained his inheritance.”
Griffin nodded. “After his father died while taking up arms against the earl from whom he held Kilbourne, still Simon did not come. What is not known is the reason. Believing all was lost, his inheritance divided between our families, did he decide to remain in service to his French lord? Or did the skirmish he is said to have died in occur ere he could cross the channel and attempt to take back the barony?”
“The latter,” Verdun said. “And I wager, ’twas in that skirmish he was burned.” He looked to Griffin. “Recall Thomasin’s exchange with Sir Francis after our wedding when she said she could not imagine how one survived the agony that had befallen him. For that, methinks Otto was ordered to murder my wife and me by way of fire.”
As when Griffin had received tidings of what had happened in the lord’s solar at Castle Kelling, he felt a burn in his belly of the sort that only vengeance might cool—and which threatened to make him regret much in thinking little.
“Simon Foucault’s ruined face allowed him to return to England bearing another man’s name,” Boursier said. “Now let us speak of what we know of Sir Francis Cartier. When he arrived in England, he brought his lover with him—Aude, whom most know as Agatha—and either in France or here, she birthed Otto.”
“Who was raised to believe he was the hope of the Foucaults,” Verdun said, “and trained up under the eye of King Edward II, who likely knew who fathered Otto.”
Griffin’s anger stirred more violently. He had trusted the knight the old king had sent to serve upon the barony of Blackwood years past. He should have been wary, but a score of years had passed since the De Arells, Boursiers, and Verduns had made an enemy of that king by revealing to the barons united against him that Baron Denis Foucault served as Edward II’s spy. Aye, the king had to have known the baseborn Otto was a Foucault.
“But when Edward II’s queen forced him off his throne,” Verdun continued, “seating their son on it with the aid of her lover, Mortimer, and making Edward III their puppet, Sir Francis would have had to look elsewhere for favor. Thus, he aided the young king in wresting power from his mother and slaying Mortimer.”
“And he has made good use of Edward III’s favor in plotting to bring about our ends,” Griffin said and looked to Boursier. “You know Edward III better than we. Do you think he is aware of Cartier’s true identity?”
The Baron of Godsmere rose and returned to the window. “I do not believe our present king knows his esteemed mercenary is Simon Foucault. Not only would Sir Francis have no cause to confide in him, but because of who Edward III has become since he cast off his mother’s fetters. He wants what is best for England, even if he must threaten his nobles into submission, as he did in forcing our families to unite. He is hardly perfect, but he is determined he will not make the mistakes that cost his father the throne. And Sir Francis is such a mistake, one that could threaten Edward’s rule.”
“So how do we turn that to our advantage?” Verdun asked.
“Bait,” Griffin said, “but not my wife.”
Boursier narrowed his gaze. “De Arell?”
Griffin knew his smile was crooked, and he let it be. “’Tis something my father suggested, which I shall enlarge upon now we better know Simon Foucault.”
Quintin caught her breath—just as Thomasin had done when Quintin had revealed to her she had long been wed to her father, just as Quintin and Elianor had done when Thomasin had revealed the tidings of Sir Otto’s supposed death.
A hand to her mouth lest a sound of distress slipped past the door that granted access to the solar on the other side of Adderstone’s hidden passages, she stared into the darkness.
She knew she should not listen in on the barons’ conversation, and for that she had not revealed to Thomasin and Elianor what she intended. Though the former might have joined her, the latter would have protested. Not only was Elianor with child, but it was within the inner walls that Agatha had nearly ended the life of Bayard’s wife. Too, Quintin did not trust Elianor to withhold from her husband his sister’s trespass.
“Dear Lord,” she breathed, “whatever comes of this baiting, let us not lose the men we love.”
She closed her eyes. “I do love Griffin,” she whispered. And there was no pain in acknowledging it, for she was not alone in this. In many ways—determination and perseverance, kindness and consideration, patience and understanding, gentle embraces and sweet caresses—Griffin had first revealed he loved her.
Though she would cherish those words if ever he spoke them, she did not require them. But she would tell them to him, lest being a man he did not understand or acknowledge such wondrously reckless feelings.
She opened her eyes and told herself to listen, that there was more she needed to know so whatever part she played in outing Simon Foucault, she would be prepared. God willing, she would not have to place herself between two warriors, but the prize would do it if it kept Griffin alive for his son and daughter, Bayard for his wife and unborn child, and Magnus for his Thomasin.
Once more, she pressed her ear to the door, but all she heard was the silence of what might have become an empty chamber. Had those within departed?
There. The scrape of chairs and boots across the floor, the sounds of which she used to cover her softer retreat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The public wedding was to be delayed a fortnight, as told in a missive sent to King Edward, in which Bayard had retracted his request to release his sister from marriage, citing she had agreed to do her duty now her grieving was past.
A fortnight. Time enough, Griffin said, to allow Father Crispin to recover more of his health. As Quintin knew, unlike Elianor and Thomasin, though the priest yet suffered, he was not so ill he could not preside over a marriage ceremony.
Unfortunately, whatever plans the barons had settled on, she was uninformed, further discussion of Simon Foucault surely having been conducted the past three days whilst the men were outside the keep. All Griffin, Bayard, and Magnus confided to their wives was that plans were being laid to bring the mercenary and his brigands to ground s
o their children would grow up free of the feuding that had defined their fathers’ rules.
Now as Quintin rode beside her husband upon their return to Castle Mathe, where she would begin settling into her role in advance of speaking vows that would officially acknowledge her as Lady of Blackwood, she sensed they were watched.
Glancing at the black wood that, unlike when first she had ridden on Mathe, was so heavily roofed in leaves it looked as if night were upon it, she reached inside her mantle and touched the Wulfrith dagger Bayard had given into her keeping.
When the castle’s towers were in sight and Griffin had slowed his men, she nudged her horse nearer his. “Methinks we are watched.”
Keeping his gaze forward, he said, “We are. Regardless, our escort is too sizable to draw out those who prefer to lurk in shadows until they can take their prey in the back.”
“You will not tell me your plans?”
He looked to her. “You will know all you need to know when you need to know.”
“But—”
“Quintin, allow me to protect you as is my honor and responsibility.”
Resentment ran through her, but she did not wish to have harsh words with this man she loved—though he did not yet know that was what she felt. If he had come to her chamber since her brother had found them together, she would have declared herself, but he had stayed away as Bayard required. However, once they were inside Castle Mathe…
She frowned. Much depended on Rollo, who accompanied her, resuming the guard he had been tasked with for years—but now only until the Foucault threat was slain. Afterward, he would return to Adderstone, wed Elianor’s maid, and become personal guard to the Lady of Godsmere and her babes as they came into the world.
Babes. Quintin hurt some, but it was not hurt fed by jealousy. Though she would ever wish children born of her own body, there would be nieces and nephews and grandchildren. Her arms would never be truly empty.
I thank You, Lord, she silently praised. You have delivered me from that day.
She looked to the fortress ahead and thought how different it appeared since that winter day she had ridden on it. Then, its white-washed walls had offered little contrast against the ghostly pales of the season. Now Mathe stood beautifully stark amidst the greens and yellows of high summer.
“You are going home,” Griffin said.
She smiled. “When I had to beg and bargain to enter your walls, never would I have believed I would one day call it that.”
“As I would not have, though perhaps I wished it.”
“Verily?”
The turn of his mouth wonderfully crooked, he said, “Hence, my jest that you eagerly delivered yourself to be my bride.”
She tsked. “A lady of shorn hair who brought forces against you, who accused you of things you were innocent of, who said she would rather stick herself with a blade ere offer herself to you.”
“Irksome,” he drawled, “and exciting. For that, I did not turn my back on The Boursier’s impudent sister but came out to look nearer upon such a woman. For that, in the hope she would find me as intriguing—and for the blade at my throat—I made her my prisoner. And now…” He was silent so long she nearly demanded he continue. “Now what I did not know was missing from me I would never cease to long for were it lost. Thus, I will do whatever is required to keep you safe.”
Quintin did not realize how still she had gone until he said low, “Breathe, Wife.”
She did so, and on the exhale said, “You make it sound as if you love me.”
His canted smile spread to the other side. “So I do. But I know no better way to say it.”
Her heart leapt. She had thought to speak love ahead of him, thinking him incapable of expressing such feelings, but he had told it first—just as he had shown it first.
“Certes, no better way,” she agreed, “For you, who think too much.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You would rather I speak three small words? Nay, they do not suffice.”
Strange they should now seem inadequate.
“In the press of time, they serve well,” he said, “but when time slows, there are better ways to say and show it.”
Her wish to declare her own feelings using those small words dwindling, she determined she would also find better words. Until then… “You do know I feel the same?”
He chuckled. “I suspected, but sometimes false hope disguises itself as truth.” He laid a hand over hers that gripped the saddle’s pommel. “Much is owed the meddling King Edward. Indeed, methinks I could forgive him almost anything—even his ignorance of Sir Francis.”
Further hating that fiend for being here in this moment, Quintin asked, “Are you confident your plan will free us of him?”
“As with all things, there is room for error in judgment and calculation, but I believe we will see the last of him, and our lands and people will prosper as has been denied them all these years. And ever you shall be at my side and I at yours.”
“We will grow old together.”
“Very old, my lady.” He jutted his chin at Castle Mathe. “Within those walls, we shall see Rhys become a man worthy of spurs, of lording Blackwood, of a fine woman, and of fathering children. Then we shall be blessed to start again with his children.”
“I thank you.”
“For?”
She turned her hand up into his. “This day. It could not be better.”
Serle.
It was too many years since Griffin had seen his brother, but in the moment it became obvious Quintin recognized him—the younger De Arell’s blue eyes staring out of a darkly tanned and bearded face—it seemed too few years.
Quintin cried out, and as her palfrey sidestepped, thrust a hand inside her mantle to gain the weapon there.
As Griffin’s right hand was filled with his sword, he shifted control of his destrier to his thighs and snatched hold of his wife’s reins with his other hand. “Fear not, Quintin!”
“Fear not?” Her eyes darted to the man who regarded them from atop his own horse. “That is—”
“I know.”
“He is the reason Bayard…” She swallowed loudly. “And I…”
Having brought his horse tight alongside hers, Rollo having done the same on her other side, Griffin released her reins and set a hand on her arm. “I am with you.”
She stilled, but her eyes remained fiercely wide as she looked between the brothers. And Griffin was grateful his resemblance to Serle was mostly of the eyes, his brother being of slighter build and finer features that, in his youth, had made him appear almost pretty. Now he was gaunt.
Griffin had known something was amiss when the drawbridge was not lowered as he and his entourage neared, and he had soon seen the lone rider before his walls. Lest the man was of Foucault, Griffin and his men had drawn weapons as they spurred forward, and Rollo had come alongside Quintin opposite her husband to shield her.
It did not seem necessary, but her fear was real. And understandable. Here was the man she had last seen when his trespass against Bayard Boursier had left brother and sister bleeding, one losing an eye, the other her woman’s gift. And for it, Serle had given his sword arm, as evidenced by his black tunic’s empty right sleeve.
The brothers had not parted on good terms when Serle had recovered sufficiently to set out on the pilgrimage imposed as punishment for his adultery. And from the chill in those blue eyes, Griffin suspected the man Serle had become during his exile was no more amiable than the angry one who had demanded his brother and father find a way to release Constance and him from the consequences of their sins.
Thus, Griffin was not surprised by the bite of his brother’s voice when he said, “’Twould seem I am no longer welcome in my own home.” He jerked his head to indicate the raised drawbridge. “Hours I have sat here, refused entry not only by Sir Mathieu but our father, who sent word he shall await his heir’s determination as to whether or not I may enter.”
Griffin glanced to the gatehouse roof wher
e Sir Mathieu looked down on them.
“And now,” Serle said, “such a cool—rather, absent—greeting from my brother and his…” He shifted his gaze to Quintin. “…betrothed.”
Then he knew of the king’s decree. What else did he know?
“Not that I expect kindness from the lady. After all, did she not bleed as much as I?”
Beneath Griffin’s hand, he felt Quintin tremble, likely more from anger than fear.
Serle shrugged, worked his right shoulder forward and backward. “After all these years, I ought to be accustomed to how light this side of me feels.” He gripped that shoulder with his left hand, slid his palm down the upper arm, cupped the stump of an elbow. “But alas, I am not. And for that, my lady, apology escapes me. But tell, how does your brother—the mighty, one-eyed Boursier—fare?”
As a strangled scream escaped her, Griffin snarled, “That is enough!”
“Is it?” Serle said, then laughed when Quintin thrust a blade past the part in her mantle.
Pointing it at Serle, she said between her teeth, “You vile, cuckolding, worthless—”
It was Rollo who quieted her, gripping her wrist and stilling the Wulfrith dagger twitching in her hand. “’Tis not a God thing, my lady.” His coarse voice was strangely soothing as he gently pried the hilt from her fingers. “Do cuttin’ be needed, I do it for ye.” He nudged her mantle open, returned the dagger to its scabbard, and looked to Serle. “Meanin’ ye best shut yer mouth, knave.”
Serle leaned forward. “Rollo, is it not? Baron Denis Foucault’s misbegotten lump of a son?”
As the rage below came above, Griffin glanced at Quintin. She was pale, a sharp contrast to eyes whose pupils were so large the gold was barely visible. Feeling near murderous that this day, which she had minutes earlier declared could not be better, had become a nightmare, he demanded, “What do you upon Blackwood, Serle?”