Allen detected intelligence and compassion swirling behind the man’s eyes. “I thank you, then. These people will need much assistance and encouragement. But I have a feeling you can handle that.”
Randel nodded. “I can. As I have too many times in the past.” He glanced about the village. “I have seen worse.”
“I only wish we had arrived sooner. We might have routed the whole incident.”
“You did well. But you must make haste. Lord Fulton was in quite a dither when he sent me to find you.”
“Then I bid you farewell.” Allen hurried to his horse and cantered off in the direction of the castle.
What important mission might the duke have for him now? Allen had managed to make himself quite indispensable in a mere fortnight. Before long he just might attain a position that would allow him to offer for Gwendolyn’s hand and protect her from Gawain. Allen rode away from the smoking ruins and into the bright future that stretched ahead.
Shortly after dawn the next morning, an exhausted Allen stared at the council gathered about the large round table.
Bizarre words, impossible words filled the room and swirled around him. The duke. Dead. Murdered in cold blood. Killer roamed free. It was not possible. He could not bring himself to believe it.
Yet the pale faces and shaking hands of the normally robust council members attested to the truth of the matter. As did the duchess weeping quietly in the corner upon the shoulder of her maidservant.
Lord Fulton brought the group to order once again. “I realize we are grieving, but now that we are all here, we must settle the issue of succession quickly. Before matters are taken from our hands.”
“Hold!” Sir Gaillard stood. “There is yet one person who should be consulted. And since no one here is thinking rationally, I have invited the man myself.”
He strode to the door, anger fairly seeping from him, and swung it open.
In swaggered a man perhaps in his forties, of middling size and height with dark hair and a face that some might consider appealing—though Allen found him too charming, and his instincts put him immediately upon his guard.
“I am sorry,” Fulton, the senior advisor of the council said. “I do not believe we have met.”
“Allow me to introduce Sir Warner DeMontfort.” Sir Gaillard led the man to the table. “Or, as we all know should be the case, the new Duke Warner DeMontfort, for the line of succession is quite clear.”
“How dare you show yourself here!” Fulton’s face mottled red, although he was a cerebral sort, and Allen had never seen him so angry before.
“I have come to claim what is rightfully mine. I can hardly do so from outside the borders.” Warner’s lips tipped in a lazy grin, but the council did not seem to be accepting his act.
Several of the knights among the group now stood with their hands to their sword hilts. Allen wondered if he should follow suit, but not understanding the details of the situation, decided to await further instruction.
“I believe I speak for the council when I say we do not see it that way.” Fulton glared at the man. “In fact, we shall be investigating your part in this murder.”
“Do not be ridiculous.” DeMontfort maintained his relaxed demeanor.
“You do not speak for me, Lord Fulton!” Sir Gaillard cried even as DeMontfort spoke.
“Nor me!” Another nobleman rose to his feet.
“Nor me!” A third man crossed his arms over his chest.
“Then let me hasten matters and proceed as I know our dearly departed duke would in this case.” Fulton gripped the table and raised his voice. “Those in favor of considering Warner DeMontfort as successor to the Duke of North Britannia, please raise your right hands.”
Only the three dissenters did so.
“Then we have our answer.”
“But wait,” Warner protested. “You have not given me an opportunity to speak on my own behalf. You call this place a fair and just dukedom. Do not punish me for my father’s sin.”
“You have committed plenty of your own, by my reckoning. All in favor of throwing Warner DeMontfort out of the dukedom immediately and casting him into prison if he attempts to enter again, raise your right hands.” Fulton began to shake, and fire seared from his eyes.
This time every hand except for Sir Gaillard and the other two dissenters, including Allen’s, went into the air. If Fulton felt so passionately on this issue, that was good enough for him.
“If he is leaving, I am leaving with him!” Sir Gaillard shouted.
“With my blessings, for you are now on my list of murder suspects as well. Sir Cedric, Sir Percivale,” Fulton called to the guards by the door, “please see Sir Warner beyond the borders. Sir Gaillard may accompany him if he likes, as he is still a member of this council, although we shall take that matter under reconsideration as well.”
Warner surveyed the room with deadly silence, then huffed and moved toward the door. The guards flanked him on both sides, grasping his arms and leading him out as Sir Gaillard followed in defeat.
The place went wild with grumbling and accusations, but Fulton managed to bring them back into order. “I am glad we are in agreement on this DeMontfort issue, but now we must move forward and plan for the future.”
The man who generally wore the plumed hat, whom Allen now knew to be a merchant named Hemsley, was dressed soberly this day. “We may not have proof that Sir Warner was behind the murder, but he has likely stirred up much of the trouble at the borders. If our suspicions hold true, we do not wish to reward him with the title. Besides which, he is out of touch with our policies and our way of life.”
“But I am afraid the DeMontforts have not been as hearty or fruitful as they have been wise,” Fulton added. The other men grumbled their assent to this sad truth.
“Perhaps we have been rash,” said the black-bearded minister of finance. “I was as angry as anyone that he showed up unannounced, but we have no other prospects. If we do not follow our own laws on this issue, the people will lose trust in us. We must maintain stability in the region above all else.”
The bishop stood. “I say the duchess is the obvious choice. As the duke’s third cousin and a DeMontfort in her own right, she is from the family next in line for the title after Sir Warner, and the people already adore her. His family has been vanquished for many decades. No one will trust him. But the duchess has shown strength, wisdom, and dedication during her time in power. She is the one we need to keep North Britannia strong.”
The duchess turned to them and swiped her tears, giving them her full attention now. Could they truly do such a thing? Surely it was the perfect solution.
Hemsley shook his head. “While I agree that she would make an excellent ruler, she would quickly be reduced to a pawn of William Marshall and the new king. The regent would claim guardianship over her and force her to marry whomever he favored. We cannot take that risk. Our region would never be the same. No offense to you, Your Grace.”
“None taken.” The striking lady sniffed.
Disappointment washed over Allen. As he observed her, he realized for the first time that she had truly loved her husband. These were actual widow’s tears, not merely those of a woman who had lost her ally and access to power. He had never stopped to assess her before. A beautiful lady, perhaps in her early thirties, full of elegance and grace, even in a moment such as this.
“Everything we have worked for would be undermined,” the minister of finance said. “It simply is not an option.” He turned to the duchess. “But do you not have an elder brother, Your Grace? He would also be close in the succession.”
The duchess stood and approached the table. “We rarely speak of it, but he is rather dim-witted. His mind is that of a child. And my younger brother has been off on crusade for years. He could be dead, for all we know.”
“But this older brother . . . ” Hemsley said. “Perhaps with the help of the council . . .”
“No.” The bishop shook his head sadly. “With a w
eak leader the people could not trust, North Britannia would be ripe for the picking. And if we go further in the line of succession, we shall never get away with bypassing Sir Warner. His father might have been banished, but we have no firm proof he himself has ever acted against North Britannia.”
The bishop sat back down, bowing his tonsured head and looking hopeless.
Allen’s stomach churned. He had only just come to this region. Only just begun to rise in favor. He had such faith in this system of justice and equality. It could not fall apart so soon. How he wished he could do something to help, but he felt powerless.
Fulton took a breath so loud, he drew every gaze in the room. Slowly he rose, but then stood silent.
“Lord Fulton?” the bishop prompted the old historian.
“I am hesitant to bring it up, but I can think of no other recourse. Many years ago, late in the reign of Duke Gregory, an advisor to the duke who many thought to be an oracle of God decreed a prophecy over this region.”
A hush overtook the place. Might there yet be hope?
“Please, Lord Fulton, do tell us!” Hemsley cried.
Lord Fulton cleared his throat. “He claimed that someday the dukedom would face great peril and that a man of lowly birth would save them by marrying a duchess and thwarting a deadly foe.”
“I heard tell of this in my youth,” whispered a white-haired council member. “I had nearly forgotten.”
“Duke Christian did not wish for it to cast a pall over the people,” Lord Fulton said. “And so he passed a law forbidding anyone to speak of it. But I wager that most of the older generation will remember and support it.”
“The Duchess Adela could rule us, and she could be safely married to this man before the king arrives.” Hemsley smiled.
“Who would dare naysay such a prophecy?” Hope lit the face of the bishop and brimmed in Allen’s heart as well. “And no one would begrudge only a short period of mourning in this situation.”
“We cannot trust such a prophecy,” said one of the dissenters who had supported DeMontfort. “God no longer speaks through rogue prophets like He did in the days of Jeremiah and Isaiah. The church speaks on His behalf, and I have no doubt the pope would support Sir Warner’s stronger claim if we but bother to ask.”
“We cannot wait months to pass messages to and fro!” Hemsley grew agitated now.
Allen had already surmised that the devout Christians of North Britannia had little patience with the politics of Rome.
“I agree,” the bishop said. “I can speak for the church in this area, and I say that it is still possible for God to send messages through ordinary men. The Scripture says He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.”
“But can we trust this so-called prophet?” asked the minister of finance. “Did he genuinely speak for God, or was he some sort of pagan sage?”
“Precisely!” Warner’s defender shouted.
“I recall that Duke Christian did not trust this source as truly divine,” said the white-haired gentleman. “And we all know that while he strived for Arthurian principles, he did not believe witchcraft nor sorcery had any place in a holy realm.”
“Perhaps we need not question this matter too deeply.” Hemsley entreated them with open palms. “True or not, this prophecy is just what we need to rally the people and save the day.”
“I for one believe it to be true.” The bishop stood again, exuding a confidence and leadership that stirred Allen to the core. “And I have the perfect candidate for our purehearted man of lowly birth.”
Allen glanced about the room.
“God has brought him to us just in time. He himself recently shared with us that he sensed the Lord guiding him to North Britannia,” the bishop continued. “I nominate Sir Allen of Ellsworth.”
Allen’s mouth gaped. Surely he had not heard correctly, but all eyes in the room focused upon him. Even the duchess stared his way, appearing as shocked as he was. Might the Lord have led him here for such a time as this?
“What say you, Your Grace?” Lord Fulton asked.
The duchess gulped. “It is much to process, but you know I would do anything to maintain this region as my beloved husband wished it to be.”
“Sir Allen?” Fulton, along with every other person in the room, turned to him.
So much anticipation and expectation surged Allen’s way. So much pressure. What of his beloved Gwendolyn? But perhaps this was God’s way of saving him from a woman who did not share his devotion.
And had he not just a moment earlier wished there was some way, any way, he might help? This might be the very reason God had called him to this place.
That now-familiar sensation—which he was certain could not be pride—welled within him. They needed him. He alone could save the day. He could protect this grand dukedom and every person who dwelled within it. Oh how he had dreamed of a moment like this his entire lowly life.
Again he looked at the duchess. A stately, godly woman. Older than him, of course, yet still beautiful by any man’s standards. How could he ever dream of a greater honor than taking her to wife to sustain the well-being of North Britannia?
As he could think of only one answer, he need not even pause and pray. “I will do anything in my power to protect this dukedom.”
He pushed aside thoughts of Gwendolyn as the council members gathered round to congratulate him yet again.
Him.
Allen of Ellsworth, born a peasant, now the savior of North Britannia.
Chapter 16
On the ninth day of Gwen’s confinement, a tap sounded upon the door of her chamber. Although Mother had lightened her restrictions, Father had bid her to keep Gwen locked up until he returned and could assess her attitude.
Mother peeked her pretty face around the doorframe. “Is this a good time to talk?”
Gwen waved to the chair next to where she sat in the streaming sunlight of her open window with her pup Angel curled by her feet. “I have nothing but time at my disposal, at least until Father comes home.”
“Where is Rosalind?” Mother glanced about the room.
“Still determined to get a stubborn berry stain out of that ridiculous pink concoction you made me wear to the feast.”
“Ridiculous?” Mother sat with a huff. “I love that gown. You looked like a fairy princess.”
“I looked like an overripe rose, especially the way I fairly dripped from that bodice. Truly, Mother, whatever were you thinking?”
Mother held up her hands in surrender and laughed along with Gwen. “Fine. You need not wear it again if you feel that strongly. Throw it in the rubbish heap.”
“I need not wear anything so fancy ever again if I do not leave this chamber.”
“Well . . . ” Mother picked at her own burgundy gown now. “On that issue I have both good and bad news to share with you.”
Gwen stilled her mother’s fidgeting hands with a soft touch. “Tell me straightaway, Mother. There is no use in mincing words.” She had spent the last nine days as a prisoner. Her father planned to marry her to a brute. What news could possibly be worse than that?
“The good news is that Father has returned and soon you will be free to roam the castle.” Her smile faltered.
“But . . . ” Gwen prompted.
Mother took a bracing breath. “But I am afraid a tragedy has struck our region. Duke Justus has been murdered—God rest his soul. The duke’s outcast cousin, Warner DeMontfort, is the primary suspect, but he has not claimed responsibility, and no one seems to know for certain.”
Gwen struggled to decode the words her mother had just spoken. Duke Justus? Murdered? “It cannot be. Everybody loved him so.”
“Not everyone, I am afraid.” The silent tears gathering in her mother’s eyes convinced Gwen more than words ever could.
“Dear God, no!” Gwen felt as if a swift kick had struck her ribs, as if all the breath had been sucked out of her. It was too awful to be true, but when she looked again into her mother’s eyes,
she realized that she must accept the situation.
The kind, fair, cheerful ruler she had conversed with less than two weeks ago was gone. “What of the dukedom? What of the duchess? Whatever shall we all do?” How Gwen wished she could hunt down this evildoer and protect the region.
Mother’s hands took to fidgeting again, as she wrung them together. “A plan has been proposed, and once you have adjusted to the idea, I think you of all people might approve.”
“What do you mean, ‘me of all people’?” A dark dread spiraled about Gwen and coalesced to drive a hole through the pit of her stomach. Surely this could not get worse.
“You see, there was a prophecy delivered many years ago during the reign of the old duke, Gregory DeMontfort. It said that someday the dukedom would face great peril, and a man of lowly birth would thwart a deadly foe.”
Hope struck bright in Gwen’s heart. “Allen?”
“Yes. But there is more. The prophecy claimed he would marry a duchess and thwart a deadly foe. It has been decided that if Allen of Ellsworth marries the Duchess Adela, the dukedom will be saved and all will be well.”
Gwen’s mind shattered as she digested these last words. Her hope snuffed away as quickly as it had flamed. As her mother continued speaking, Gwen felt as though she listened from beneath a pool of thick, murky liquid.
“The plan has given the people much hope. They have rallied around Allen and the duchess in a way I would never have believed possible. The common folk are aiding in guarding the region until the wedding a month hence.”
“Wedding. A month hence.” Gwen feared she might choke on the awful words. But as she pushed them out, anger welled within her. “But it is just a foolish old prophecy! Who believes such nonsense?”
“I suppose if anyone would, it would be the people of North Britannia. Not only have we been taught to believe in a God who is alive and active in the issues of men, but we have put great stock in those Arthurian legends as well.”
“But do the leaders believe? Does the duchess?” The room spun around Gwen. She still could not accept that it was true. “Does Allen?”
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