She would fight.
Chapter 23
Allen riffled through the pages of the giant tome yet again. Fulton had given him until tomorrow to learn the extensive legal codes of North Britannia. Yet he had still been forced to spend the morning poring over castle accounts with the chief scribe.
He raked his fingers through his hair. Able to endure no more of that book, he allowed himself to take in the lovely scene surrounding him instead. The duchess and Rosalind stitched quietly in the corner of the solar, while Gwendolyn, who had no patience for needlework, stood playing a melancholy—albeit mesmerizing—tune on her pipe.
If only she might play something more cheerful, perhaps he could pull himself out of this gloom. Since Gwendolyn had arrived a week ago, he had not been able to rouse himself from his thunderous mood. The girl drove him near to daft with her very presence.
He tried to focus on the documents before him, but he had stared at them so long that the words merely swayed in front of his eyes. Was it only weeks ago that he had been so fascinated by the procedures of North Britannia?
But he had had no idea that the dukedom had devised such a cumbersome legal code.
Such tedium made him long for the simple life he had enjoyed in Ellsworth.
“Here are my favorite people!” Sir Randel entered the room like a fresh breeze to chase away the thunderclouds.
“Greetings, Sir Randel,” the duchess called with a smile.
Gwendolyn paused from her piping to wave at Randel.
“Do not stop on my account,” Randel said. “I love to hear you play.”
He pulled a chair backward before Allen’s table and straddled it like a horse. “Good grief, Sir Allen, you look as though you will be hanged at sunrise. Whatever could be so bad?”
Allen would not mention his growing love for Gwendolyn, nor his heart sickness at being denied his dreams of battle. Instead he settled on the problem close at hand. “I am required to learn this entire code by tomorrow.”
“Ridiculous! That load of bunk that Fulton has contrived? That man is far too generous with his words.”
Allen smiled at that, for he had been thinking the same thing. “Then what do you suggest?”
“Most of it is common sense and Christian principles. If he asks you a question, base your answers upon those, and you shall do fine.”
Allen flipped a page. “But is it not my duty as future duke to learn them by heart?”
Randel slammed the mammoth book closed and shoved it to the end of the table. “’Tis your duty to let me thrash you at chess.” He slid the neglected board in front of them.
The duchess giggled from her corner. “Do take a break, Sir Allen. The council pushes you too hard. You shall go cross-eyed.”
“You see.” Randel began arranging the pieces. “Even your betrothed agrees.”
“Fine.” Allen set up his own side of the board. “I could use a change of pace.”
As Randel studied the pieces and strategized his first move, Allen did some studying of his own. This congenial fellow would make the perfect husband for Gwendolyn. Much as it pained Allen to admit it, he had no doubt. Somehow, he must help Randel to win the upcoming tournament and secure Gwendolyn’s hand, so that she might stay safe for good.
When Gwendolyn first arrived at Edendale Castle in her injured state, it had wounded Allen like a stake to his heart. She had assured him that her father looked no better and that she had provoked the man, yet he had noted a haunted glint in her eye. He must protect her—from both her father and that abusive Gawain—no matter the cost to his heart.
Randel made his first move, and Allen followed with his own.
He studied Randel’s slender shoulders. Randel’s only chance for beating the brute Gawain was to unseat him in the joust. Allen thought back over the last tournament. If he remembered correctly, Randel had unseated two opponents, but made a tragic error in his third run, which Allen had seized.
Allen paused with his piece in the air. “Sir Randel, have you had much training in the joust?”
Randel grimaced. “Is it so obvious that I have not? My parents wished me to enter the church, but I never desired such a life. Most of the training I received was in secret with Lady Gwendolyn and her brothers.”
Allen nodded. “In that case, you manage quite well. But I think with a few tips and a bit of practice, you could do even better. What say you to forgetting about chess and heading out to the field?”
The duchess cleared her throat and raised her brows.
Allen pushed away from the table. “I know. The council will not like it. I am sick near to death of the council.”
“They might lock you up in the dungeon for safekeeping.” She smiled.
“Let them try.” Allen put a hand to his hilt.
“Yes, let them try.” Sir Randel mirrored his stance with a wink. “Allen is going to teach me to win my ladylove. Let no man stand in our way.”
Gwendolyn stuttered upon her pipe. She dropped it from her mouth and blushed prettily. “Thank you, Sir Allen. That is very kind of you.”
Allen’s heartbeat sped in that annoying way it always did at the sound of her voice. Her smile seemed to reach across the room and stroke his cheek, sending tingles through him that he must again ignore. Allen turned his gaze to the floor before he lost his wits entirely. “I wish only to see you happy, my lady.”
“You have been fairly warned,” the duchess said. “Do not expect me to deliver victuals to the dungeon.”
Allen smiled wryly her way. “They might lock me up, but never fear—they will see their prize bull well fed.” The expectations of the council wrapped around his neck like a noose. He must escape this solar and make his way outdoors at once.
Just as he and Randel turned to leave, a servant appeared in the doorway.
“Sir Allen, an important missive has come for you.”
“For me?” Allen asked. Although he would be a duke soon, he was no one of any real consequence yet and had never before received a missive in his life.
“Yes, sir, it is addressed directly to you, and requires an immediate response.”
Allen took the curious piece of paper from the servant. He did not recognize the seal, so he broke it and scanned down the page looking for a name. The letter was signed by Timothy Grey.
Only then did he realize that he had not even thought to thank the servant. Had he truly grown so entitled already? Wonderful! Just what he needed to make this day perfect.
Although, as he summoned his memories of Timothy Grey—dragging in their wake the surrounding ones of Merry Ellison—he realized that all vestiges of her hold over him had finally been broken. Now if he could only reach such a stage with Gwendolyn.
Although his eyes ached from so much reading this day, he forced himself to give the missive due attention.
My Dear Friend Sir Allen of Ellsworth,
It is my sad duty to inform you that Merry Ellison has been kidnapped by a brute to the north named Sir Warner DeMontfort. But allow me to go back for the sake of explanation.
Merry’s title and lands were recently returned to her, thus significantly changing her status. She is now the wealthiest heiress in the land. Despite my new favor at court, the regent deemed me an unfit mate for her and promised her to the powerful Earl of Weathersby instead. While I understood his reasoning in not giving her to a lesser son of a baron such as myself, I am sure you will realize how heartbroken this left both of us.
Then matters changed yet again. This DeMontfort fellow, who is said to be after the dukedom in your own North Britannia, sent a contingency of troops who kidnapped Merry. We believe he intends to force a marriage, and thereby claim Merry’s title and lands for himself.
I assumed William Marshall would be livid, but he is acquainted with this DeMontfort. While a bit disgruntled at having his hand forced in the matter, he did not deem the situation worthy of sending troops for a rescue.
Thankfully, the young king spoke up on my behalf,
and here is where the matter now stands: if I can muster my own troops and rescue Merry, she shall be mine. I realize it must pain you to read this, but I know you would want to help her.
I, together with the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest and some of my uncle’s men, are rushing to DeMontfort’s holdings with all the speed we can manage. Time will not allow me to stop by my father’s home for more support, and even if I sent word, they would never arrive in time. In fact, I can only hope this missive will reach you before it is too late. We must save her before any marriage is official, or matters will become far more complicated.
And so, my friend, I must implore you. Gather whatever troops you can and meet me for this rescue. I hope to arrive in the village of Bixby on the 29th day of this month October.
Please, if you cannot bring yourself to do this for me, then do it for Merry. Her future and her happiness depend upon it. And I daresay the future of North Britannia might as well.
Your servant and friend,
Timothy Grey
Allen gripped tight to the missive with both hands. Realizing he had not taken a breath in several paragraphs, he drew a sharp one into his lungs. But the air did little to steady him nor to dull the ache in his stomach.
He stumbled backward into his chair.
“Sir Allen, what is it? Please tell us,” Sir Randel said.
But Allen was still attempting to sort the words out in his own head. Merry kidnapped. In the clutches of that villain Warner DeMontfort. She had meant the world to him during their time in the forest. He yet loved her as a sister. Such could not be her fate.
The occupants of the room all looked as confused as Gwen felt. The Duchess Adela should have been the natural person to comfort her espoused husband over this clearly tragic news, but she only shrugged her shoulders as if the moment were too private to interfere.
Gwen took the initiative, for she could not bear to watch him suffer alone. She placed her wooden pipe on the table beside the abandoned chessboard and laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “Please, allow me to read it, Sir Allen.”
He nodded dumbly and handed the letter to her.
She scanned through the missive, and her heart clutched. “His good friend, Merry Ellison, has been kidnapped. He has told me of her on many occasions.”
“I have heard his stories as well,” the duchess said. “How horrible.”
“It gets worse.” Gwen swallowed down a thick lump in her throat. How she hated to continue. “She has been kidnapped by Warner DeMontfort.” She went on to explain Merry’s new status and Warner’s evil plot. “This affects all of us. We must send troops at once.”
“I will go with you!” Randel clapped a hand over Allen’s forearm.
How Gwen’s heart bled for this woman. How she commiserated with her horrible plight. She wished to jump on a horse and go save Merry herself.
The duchess stood and moved to the window. She stared out it a moment before speaking. “We cannot make this decision alone. As you said, Lady Gwendolyn, it affects all of us. The council will meet on the morrow. They must decide what course we will take.”
That seemed to wake Allen from his stupor. He leapt to his feet. “But they will not permit me to fight for my dear friend. I must leave, now! If the council wishes to send reinforcements, they are welcome.”
The duchess turned to Allen with a regal stare that would put even the fiercest warrior in his place. “We still have a day to make this decision. You will do nothing rash. You are soon to be a duke, and it is time for you to start thinking like a duke.”
Allen deflated like an empty wineskin. Gwen ached for him. She understood his plight—to be denied one’s dreams and passions. Why not just bury him in the grave? Yet she suspected Allen would do the honorable thing, even if it killed him. Just as he had chosen to deny his heart concerning her.
“Please, Sir Allen, do not be so dejected.” The duchess gazed at something a far way in the distance. “You will survive this, just as I have survived years of being denied the opportunity to lead a campaign to the Holy Land. Someday, they say, when I have produced an heir.”
The duchess’s words caught Gwen’s attention, despite the gravity of the moment. “A campaign? Like that of Eleanor of Aquitaine?”
“Yes, only more successful, I hope. My cousin Honoria and I have dreamed of taking a troop of women on crusade our whole lives. We could inspire and support the soldiers. Work as healers. Serve as an added line of defense during warfare. Though it might surprise some, I have quite a mind for battle plans. Perhaps I could even find my long-lost brother. But alas, it shall never be. Not with our current council.” The duchess lowered her head.
“But this injustice is right in our own backyard.” Randel stood firm behind Allen in a show of support. “We must save Merry Ellison. And Allen must be involved. Allow me to speak to the council on his behalf. They cannot deny him such a basic right, such a fundamental drive. A man must fight for those he loves.”
“Do not concern yourself with this, Sir Randel.” The duchess pinned her regal stare on him.
Randel bristled for a moment, but then conceded with a bow.
Dear sweet Randel.
Allen might deny Gwen. Might deny his own heart, yet it seemed some gracious deity in heaven would not see Gwen abandoned. The future was such a mutable and astonishing thing. Good, strong, reliable Randel. The gentlest knight in the realm. If she could not marry Allen, then she must pray with all her strength that somehow she might wed Randel.
Chapter 24
The following day as Allen concluded reading his letter from Timothy, members of the council shifted about in their chairs surrounding the huge round table. Not one offered him direct eye contact.
But he had rehearsed his arguments again and again and would not be thwarted. He rolled the crinkling parchment.
Then an echoing silence filled the place.
Finally, Lord Fulton spoke. “No, Sir Allen. Although I have compassion for your situation, it is not possible.”
Allen had known he would not easily gain the council’s permission, but he had not anticipated being dismissed summarily.
“Now on to the matter of . . .”
Before Fulton could move to the next subject, Allen rallied himself. “Hold, Lord Fulton. On which issue would you so quickly deny me? Sending troops to rescue Merry, or allowing me to go myself?”
“Both. As we have discussed, you and this city must be protected at all costs right now. We cannot spare troops for superfluous missions.”
Hot indignation flowed through Allen’s veins. “Superfluous! Warner DeMontfort wishes to steal Merry Ellison’s power and wealth to come against us. This is at the very core of what we fight. I am a member of this council too. Soon I will be your leader, and at the very least I demand a full debate on this issue!”
By the end of his impassioned speech his pulse pounded in his ears and his breath had grown quick, but he managed to stand firm rather than thump the table—or better yet kick it—as a part of him wished to.
The duchess calmed him with the lightest touch to his arm. “I agree with Sir Allen. We cannot brush this aside.”
The bishop stood and cleared his throat. “And I agree with Lord Fulton. At this time nothing matters more than seeing the prophecy fulfilled. People are calling you the One True Heir of Arthur. All their hope, all their faith is tied to you.”
The bishop’s words reverberated through Allen, causing him to waver. They had placed their faith and hope in him, lowborn Allen of Ellsworth. Pride crested within his chest, a towering wave that might toss him from his purpose, but he shoved it down.
This Arthur nonsense had gotten out of hand. “The people of North Britannia should put their faith in God, not in a single man. I never claimed to be Arthur’s heir.”
The bishop folded his hands over his abdomen. “North Britannia will settle for no one but you, and DeMontfort is a fool if he thinks kidnapping an heiress will change that.”
“But if Wi
lliam Marshall supports his bid, that could ruin everything.” Allen raked his fingers into his hair. He must make them see reason. “We should put our efforts into proving DeMontfort a murderer and thwarting his plots.”
“No evidence has been found,” said Hemsley, bedecked this day in an outfit that would put a rainbow to shame. “We must stay our course. Once the prophecy is fulfilled, all will be well.”
“You do not understand.” Tears pricked at Allen’s eyes now, but he would not suffer these pompous fools to see him cry. “This woman is like a sister to me. Would you allow your sister, your daughter to remain in such jeopardy?”
“I am sorry, Sir Allen. I do understand your desire to protect your friend.” Hemsley fiddled with his striped hat and turned his gaze down to the table.
“I will require only enough guards to travel safely, and we shall rely on cunning, not might, to rescue her.”
Fulton shook his head. “It is not possible.”
Allen had only one more strategy to try. “’Tis not right that you place your hope in me. The Duchess Adela is the one the people trust. She is the one with the experience to lead. You said the king would respect our current legal decisions, so make a law allowing her to rule alone and choose her own husband.”
At that pandemonium broke out. Several men shouted at once. Words like nonsense, fool, and upstart flew about the room.
The bishop lifted his hands and hollered, “Silence.”
They settled and took their seats once again.
“Let us not disparage our soon-to-be leader,” the bishop said. “He is young, he is new to our ways, and his heart is broken for his friend. But Sir Allen, the matter is closed. If and when Warner DeMontfort attacks, we shall be prepared. But we have the assurance of the prophecy that all will be well.”
Allen scanned the table for any supporter, for a single sympathetic glance. Only the duchess smiled at him with compassion. By a slight dip of her head, she gestured for him to sit.
Chivalrous Page 21