Baron of Blackwood

by Tamara Leigh

  “My pilgrimage is done, and so I come home. To this.” He threw his arms wide, the palm of one heavenward, the stump of the other no higher than the horizon, then he settled his eyes on his brother’s sword.

  Though now the reported sighting of Serle was verified, proving he was not recently returned to Blackwood, Griffin decided to hold close the knowledge that carried the scent of Foucault. “’Twas not a five-year pilgrimage to which you were sentenced,” he probed. “Tell, what took you so long to show yourself at Mathe?”

  Serle shrugged again. “I liked France and Spain. And I had not anything to return to, had I?”

  “And yet now you do. What has changed?”

  “The king’s decree. I heard our feuding families were to make peace through marriage. Hence, opportunity.”

  “For?”

  “Constance.” Her name was said with such reverence Griffin pitied him for loving so long the one denied him. Remembering that lady, who had been granted temporary leave of the convent to attend her brother’s marriage to Thomasin, and the discovery she was not much more agreeable than in years past, Griffin said, “Are you aware Bayard Boursier and Lady Constance have made peace, that the Baron of Godsmere has appealed to Church and king to see her released from the convent?”

  Serle’s eyes widened and face slackened, making him appear almost a youth. “And?”

  “Thus far, the Church is unmoved and the king unwilling to prod them.”

  The hard edges returned to his face. “Then ’tis good I returned.”

  “You think to bring Constance out?”

  “Not I,” Serle pitched his voice low to prevent those on the walls and those beyond Griffin from hearing, “but there is one—or another—who can do it for me.”

  Griffin felt his stomach turn as if on a spit above a well-fed fire. He did not want to believe what his brother alluded to, but there it was. And he allowed understanding to show on his face.

  Serle nudged his horse forward.

  The ring of chain mail announcing Blackwood’s knights and men-at-arms prepared to defend their lord, Griffin commanded, “Halt, Serle!”

  His brother reined in and moved his gaze to the sword on his belt. “Do I not come with empty hands—er, hand?”

  “And, ’twould seem, as a traitor to your family,” Griffin growled.

  Serle glanced at the men who formed a wall twenty feet behind their lord. Keeping his voice low, he said, “As you have learned, ’tis difficult to find the Judas lurking amidst the loyal.”

  He referred to Sir Otto.

  “Thus, ’tis better we speak in private, meaning it is time you welcome the prodigal with…” Serle raised his eyebrows. “…if not open arms, an open gate.”

  “Do not let him in!” Quintin hissed.

  Serle flicked his eyes toward the wood. “The longer you delay, the greater their suspicion. Thus, if you wish them to believe I play the game by their rules, you must let me in, Brother.”

  Griffin looked to Rollo. “Remain with your lady,” he said and raised a hand to command the men at his back and upon the wall to hold.

  “Nay, Griffin!”

  Ignoring Quintin’s plea, he returned his sword to its scabbard, walked his destrier forward, and drew rein when the muzzle of his horse was a hand’s width from that of his brother’s mount.

  Loud enough for Quintin and Rollo to hear, but not others, he said, “You think I would knowingly allow a betrayer within my walls?”

  Hurt moved Serle’s face, but a tight-lipped smile pushed that emotion aside. “You know me as such only because I allow it.”

  In that he was wrong, but better he believe it.

  “And there is more you must know, if you wish my aid.”

  Though the plan was mostly laid to put down the brigands, there was room for error, as Griffin had warned Quintin. What aid might his brother give to lessen the possibility of failure? And what price paid for it? “How came you to make a pact with the devil, Serle?”

  “’Twas out of necessity. But no more will I speak of it until you give the appearance of welcoming me home.”

  Griffin stared at him.

  “Their rules, Brother.”

  Griffin inclined his head. “Providing you understand that once you are inside Mathe, you will be no better than a prisoner.”

  Above the sound of Quintin’s gasp, Serle said, “So be it.”

  Griffin did not wish to believe his brother capable of murdering one of his own, but with the younger De Arell too bitter and too near the brigands to trust, he took stock of Serle’s weapons. Upon his belt were two daggers and, despite the loss of the arm trained to wield it, a sword. Finding no evidence of concealment beneath thin tunic and hose, Griffin urged his horse alongside the other, put an arm around Serle, and drew him near in what would appear a brotherly embrace.

  “As soon as you are inside my walls, prodigal,” he rasped, “you will tell me of the necessity of playing by the devil’s rules.”

  “As soon as I am inside.”

  Griffin pulled back, shouted to Sir Mathieu to lower the drawbridge, and motioned those behind forward.

  Feeling Quintin’s ire, he was prepared when she reached his side opposite that which his brother sat to await entrance to Mathe. He leaned near. “I am aware you do not like it. Neither do I. But you must trust me.”

  Her chin snapped around, and there was fire in eyes made brighter by tears.

  “I would not let him in did I not believe there is gain in doing so.” He lowered his voice further. “Remember the reason I shall do whatever is necessary to keep you safe. Pray, trust me.”

  As Quintin stared at the man who had said he would never cease to miss her were she lost to him, the drawbridge began to lower. Amid the clatter, her fear, resentment, and hatred began to fray. But only that, her fist against her abdomen reminding her of Serle de Arell’s sin.

  Trust Griffin, she told herself, and when the planked beast thumped to the ground, sending dirt billowing up around them, she said, “After what he did—and what he spoke to me this day—you ask much.”

  “This I know. And I regret so beautiful a day has turned ugly.”

  She jerked her chin. “I hate this, but I shall trust you.”

  No more was spoken as they crossed the drawbridge into the outer bailey where Griffin dismounted and was received by Sir Mathieu, who eyed his lord’s brother as the younger man climbed down from his horse.

  “My lord,” the knight said, “I have sent word to the keep to have your son await you in his chamber.”

  “As I would have it.”

  Then Sir Mathieu had known Griffin would not wish to expose Rhys to the uncle he likely did not remember. Finding some comfort in further proof her husband did not trust his brother, Quintin went easily into his arms when he lifted her down, only to stiffen when Serle stepped near. Blessedly, Rollo inserted himself between his lady and the traitorous De Arell with a heave of his shoulder.

  Serle stumbled back and looked to Griffin. “How long am I to be accorded the appearance of being welcome?” he asked.

  “As long as you give no cause to accord you the reality of being a prisoner. Hence, when we enter the keep, you shall relinquish your weapons.”

  Serle gave a curt nod.

  Lightly grasping Quintin’s arm, Griffin led her from the outer bailey into the inner, accompanied by his brother on his left and Rollo on her right.

  “Our father,” Serle said as they ascended the keep’s steps. “I would see him.”

  “Not whilst you straddle the bloody line between De Arell and Foucault.” Griffin jutted his chin at the shifting curtains high above. “He knows you are returned.”

  And I, Quintin thought, ever discomfited by the old baron’s eyes on her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Upon their entrance into the great hall, Griffin directed the porter to take his guest’s weapons. As they continued forward, servants paused, acknowledging their lord’s return with nods, smiles, and murmu
red words of welcome. Some extended the same to Quintin, surely aware her return evidenced they would soon answer to her as their lady.

  What surprised was that, other than curious glances, Serle went unacknowledged. But she guessed his unkempt beard and thin frame that had once been muscular rendered him unrecognizable. But soon they would know the prodigal had returned.

  As they neared the stairs, a wolfhound slunk off the steps.

  Though Quintin recognized the big dog, she did not expect him to approach her. “Arturo,” she said with more warmth than she ought to feel.

  He gave a low groan and bumped his nose against the back of her hand.

  “He has missed you,” Griffin said.

  “Me?”

  “Aye, surprising considering how you first became acquainted, but he has been annoyingly restless since your departure.”

  Were Serle de Arell not present, she might have smiled. Setting her hand on the dog’s head, she said, “I may have missed him as well.”

  “Then I hope you will not object to him once more watching over you.”

  She glanced at Rollo. “What is one more?”

  Griffin dropped his hand from her. “I will leave you to gain your chamber and await the arrival of your packs.”

  “Nay, I would hear what your brother has to tell.”

  His brow lowered. “Quintin—”

  “In this, you must trust me.”

  “Forgive me, my lady,” Serle said, “but you presume much for one who is not yet a De Arell.”

  “Do I?” she snapped.

  “Aye, Quintin Boursier.”

  She swung her gaze to Griffin. “Is that all I am to you—Quintin Boursier?”

  His darkening eyes told he understood what she left unspoken, the evidence of which nestled between her breasts. “As the lady is soon to take my name,” he begrudged, “she may join us.”

  Serle made a sound of disgust. “She has twisted you around yourself, dare I say the same as that chambermaid you got with child?”

  Feeling his hands begin to fist, Griffin opened them. “You dare not,” he said and strode forward, leaving the others to follow.

  His steward, who had risen from a chair at the far end of the high table, nodded at him. “My lord.”

  “We shall require the use of your quarters,” Griffin said and continued down the corridor.

  He threw open the door and strode into the room that, despite being of good size, was cramped with the tools of the steward’s trade—a table set around with four chairs and upon which ledgers were stacked, a cushioned stool drawn up to a tall writing desk whose top was scattered with quills and ink pots, and two walls of shelves weighted by books and parchment.

  Quintin followed him inside, Arturo on her heels.

  “The misbegotten one as well?” Serle jerked his head at Rollo who entered behind him.

  Almighty, Griffin silently appealed, keep my fists from him. “If ’tis as my betrothed wishes,” he said when Quintin stepped alongside him at the center of the room.

  She raised her eyebrows. “I do wish it.”

  As Rollo closed the door and crossed to stand on the other side of his lady, Serle eyed his brother. “Obviously, ’tis not mere talk that desire for your betrothed makes you vulnerable.”

  Griffin resented that, though he knew it was true. But there was also strength in what he felt for one who gave him more cause to defend well what was his. “I am guessing you learned that from the traitorous knight who tried to kill my daughter.”

  “Your daughter.” Serle twitched a smile. “When I heard you had claimed her, it occurred to me my brother might have become impulsive as ever he accused me of.”

  Griffin stared.

  Serle sighed. “Aye, I heard it from Sir Otto, whom you now know to be a Foucault.”

  To be. Either Griffin’s brother was uninformed about the knight’s death, or he knew it for a lie.

  “Not that he told it to me directly,” Serle said. “I overheard him discussing it with another.” Before Griffin could ask who that other was—likely Sir Francis—his brother continued, “But now I see Lady Quintin and you together, I am thinking ’tis more than desire you feel for her. Most peculiar, since I was also privy to a conversation in which it was told she put a dagger to your throat.”

  “I did,” Quintin said, “and when I put one to yours, you will not fare as well.”

  He narrowed his lids. “I marvel, Lady.”

  “At?”

  “Those who would see Kilbourne restored to generations of Foucaults believe ’tis best done through marriage to you. They think you are the prize at the end of this feud.”

  “And I think you a swine.”

  “Were I, my lady, I would have enlightened the brigands as to what your naked form shall reveal, which would render you no safer than the rest of us.”

  She sucked a breath.

  Serle smiled at Griffin. “As I see no confusion on your brow, I wager you have sampled your betrothed and know of what I speak.”

  In the next instant, he gave a choked cry as Griffin closed the distance between them. Jumping back, he narrowly avoided the hand that sought the neck of his tunic and came up against the door where he splayed his arms and the palm of his one hand. “Calm thyself, Brother. I do not mean to offend.”

  Longing to strike that gaunt face, Griffin held his feet firm to the floor. “Aye, you mean to!”

  Serle turned down his mouth. “Being so long without civilized company, I forget how to conduct myself in the presence of those easily offended.”

  “There are lessons for that,” Griffin said, then pivoted and strode back to Quintin.

  “Worry not, milady,” Rollo said, “I kill ’em brigands do they try to harm ye.” He jabbed a finger toward Serle. “That ’un, too.”

  Griffin saw the struggle on his brother’s face—that he knew he should let the big man’s threat pass—but Serle thrust off the door. “Do you remember the water, Rollo?”

  The expanse of flesh between the man-at-arms’ eyebrows pinched. “Water?”

  “Aye, yet more overheard—a question as to whether or not you are capable of recalling how cold and deep runs the river near the cottage where you were born. Alas, ’twas concluded your brain is too addled.”

  Rollo’s frown grew larger.

  “What about the boot upon your back?” Serle tilted his head to the side. “And—I am only guessing—mud in your mouth?”

  The big man’s eyes bulged. “Tried to kill me.”

  Serle nodded. “How ever did he fail?”

  Feeling Quintin’s rage, Griffin struggled to keep control of his own. “Who was it, Rollo?” he asked, though he would be surprised were it one other than Simon Foucault, whose attempt to end his illegitimate brother’s life was likely responsible for Rollo’s simple-mindedness.

  The man-at-arms grimaced. “Don’ know who held me under. I was a wee lad.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Near choked on mud.”

  “Still you taste it?” Serle said.

  “Miscreant!” Quintin cried, and Griffin once more lunged forward.

  This time, he thrust his brother up against the door. “I have no more patience for your cruelties and petty games. You entered these walls with a plan. Now reveal them else return to your brigands and tell them you failed.”

  The fear on Serle’s face was genuine, and had good cause to be. Griffin was on an edge with a sheer drop, the only other time he had come this close to thrashing Serle being when he had discovered his brother had not accepted Constance Verdun was another man’s wife. Had Griffin bruised and bloodied him with fists rather than words, preventing him from rising from his bed for days, Serle would not have been able to keep his fateful rendezvous with Constance Boursier. And Quintin—

  He snatched his thoughts away from what could not be undone and, seeing Serle gasp for breath, released him and stepped back only enough to allow his brother to stand away from the door. But Serle remained pressed to it, breathing d
eep as he held his gaze to Griffin as if to look away would provoke another attack.

  “Tell me,” Griffin said, “beginning with when you first became acquainted with the Foucault brigands.”

  Serle swallowed loudly. “Upon my return to Blackwood two months past, they captured me two leagues from Mathe. Though I gave the name of another, they knew me and determined to kill me—slowly, painfully, and with much humiliation.” He ground his teeth. “They would have ended me, but I played my part well—and easily since I hardly played.”

  “Your part?”

  “The same as the brigands play. I felt and still feel the anger that bade me curse my brother and father for refusing Constance and me aid in fleeing the Church’s punishment. And so the brigands think to use the divide between my family and me. Though I am not wholly trusted, if I gain them what I have promised, they will give me what they have promised.”

  “What have you promised?”

  “To be their eyes and ears within Mathe the same as Sir Otto was and…” He drew a deep breath. “…when instructed, let them in.”

  Griffin clamped his hands closed. Better fists, he thought, than a hilt. “You would betray your nephew…brother…father?”

  “Father,” Serle drew out the word. “At first I thought it strange his death was sought ahead of yours, but vengeance goes deep—all the way back to the roots of our families’ betrayal of their liege.”

  And for it, the brigands would risk entering Mathe’s walls, Griffin reflected. But that must be avoided to keep safe those harbored during the wedding celebration to come. “Our father,” he said, “the last living betrayer of Denis Foucault.”

  Serle shook his head. “There is also Father Crispin.”

  It was true, though when De Arell, Boursier, and Verdun had united against Foucault, the priest had been but a stable boy. “You would betray,” Griffin said, “fully aware that betrayal would mean the death of your family and a holy man?”

  “Loyalty does not flow only one direction, Brother. You must give to get.”

  “Thus, the question of what you would have me give.”