“But Patrizia had nothing to do with money. Why did you kill her, too?”
“She knew too much. It was necessary.”
“How could she know too much? She did not even know you!”
An expression of genuine remorse clouded Miguel’s face. “Indeed, she knew me. And she was going to tell you who I was.”
It wasn’t making any sense to Ryan. “How in the world would she know you?”
He seemed to soften, to reflect. When he spoke, the words were choked. “Because… because she was my daughter.”
Ryan could hardly grasp the concept. “Your daughter?” she gasped. “But… you must be mistaken?”
“No mistake, I assure you.”
“She told me her father was dead!”
Miguel snorted softly. “I am sure she wished that I was. Nonetheless, it was the first time I’d seen her in four years. Knowing how she hates me, I could not risk her ruining my plans. I had to do what was necessary.”
“By killing her?”
“Unfortunately.”
Ryan was shaking with the overwhelming prospects facing her. It all seemed so surreal, yet she knew very well that her fears and emotions were tangible. A man who would kill his own daughter must be a horrible man indeed! She knew everything she’d ever heard about the Pirate Miguel had been undeniably true, his evil and brutality far outreaching any rumors.
It was a struggle to stay focused. “Then I hope your troubles are worth it,” she muttered. “Is Uncle Richard paying you well for all of this?”
A flicker of surprised appeared in Miguel’s deep brown eyes. “Then you know of the earl. I should have suspected. You seem an intelligent creature.”
Ryan crawled off the bed, weak and shaken to the core. “I know that I cannot believe a man I have loved like a father has betrayed me.”
“The first rule of life is to trust no one, not even those closest to you.”
Ryan moved woodenly to the nearest window. Pushing aside the dank oilcloth, she gazed over the misty Welsh landscape. It was gloomy and depressing, just like the emotions in her heart. “What are you gaining from all of this?”
“This castle, for one thing. And half the profits from St. Austell harbor.”
She looked at him. “St. Austell belongs to my husband.”
He moved toward her, his eyes riveted to her pale, lovely face. His movements were graceful, like a stalking panther, and Ryan fought the urge to back away from him. “After he is dead, it will belong to the earl. You, this castle, and half of the profits from St. Austell harbor are my payment for killing your husband.”
If Ryan thought she could not be more horrified by anything else he said, she was wrong. Her knees buckled and she fell back against the wall as Miguel reached out to steady her. Shrieking, she fell away from him, struggling to keep her balance and her wits.
“God, no,” she gasped. “Why… why would you do this?”
Miguel was unemotional. “It is necessary, m’lady. But you shall forget about your husband soon enough when I ply you with the best garments and perfumes and gems the world has to offer. We shall travel to Venice, dine in Nice, and honeymoon in Rome. Dennis d’Vant shall be but a distant memory, I promise you.”
Ryan slapped her hands over her ears and turned away from him. Losing her balance, she fell to her knees. “No!” she cried. “No, I won’t hear you! Leave me alone!”
Miguel was torn between wanting to stay, if only to further explain his position, and respecting her wishes. He thought perhaps that she needed time to come to terms with her future and wisely left her to herself. Hearing the door close, Ryan sobbed and sobbed until there were no more tears left. Her father was gone, Patrizia was gone, and she was sick to her soul of death. She wasn’t going to lose Dennis, not while she still had life in her body. He was somewhere in Wales and she was going to find him. She had to escape or die trying.
She began tying bed linens together. Miguel discovered her plan just as she was about to lower herself from the third story window and promptly locked her in the vault.
*
Has it only been six weeks? It feels like six months, Dennis thought to himself as he watched the last of Henry’s troops ride from the bailey of Abergavenny. Lord Hastings, an old, round man with a sagging jaw, stood beside him as the foot soldiers filtered through the gates of the massive castle.
“I shall be sorry to lose you, Dennis,” Lord Hastings said. He was known throughout the province as the “good lord” of Abergavenny. “I have enjoyed your company tremendously over the past days. Are you sure I cannot convince you to stay?”
Dennis smiled wearily; true, he was very tired from weeks of a siege that ended successfully. True to his plan, the Welsh had been driven from their holes and forced to flee into the countryside. It had taken eight days to accomplish this, but now it was done and Abergavenny was once again secured for England. Dennis felt a sense of accomplishment, but he also felt restless with the entire situation. With every day that passed, his determination that he was wasting his time grew. He had gotten himself into a winless war and was desperate more than ever to go home to his wife.
“Nay, m’lord, I have my own home to return to and a wife that I miss,” he said. “But I thank you for the offer.”
Hastings snorted and slapped him on the back. “I had to try, of course. A man with your brilliance and perseverance doesn’t come along every day.”
Dennis was modest. “You flatter me, m’lord. It did not take brilliance or perseverance to vanquish the Welsh, but fortune, I think. St. Maur had been trying for months; perhaps the time was simply right.”
That wasn’t the truth and they both knew it. St. Maur had been terribly complacent, and Dennis had led the siege day and night until the Welsh were chased off like unruly children. He had been fearless and strong, and St. Maur had been embarrassed, threatened, and pleased; all at the same time. But neither man mentioned the awkwardness, merely the end result.
“They were probably as sick of us as we were of them,” Hastings rolled his eyes and wriggled his bushy white brows. “It will be some time before they return.”
St. Maur thundered past Dennis and Lord Hastings, passing both men a pleasant wave of the hand. Riston was already outside the fortress with the troops, waiting for the order to move out. The time had come for departure and as Dennis headed for his charger, the old man followed.
“Where do you go now?” he asked.
Bucephalus greeted Dennis and snapped at the old earl. “Far to the north, I am told. A castle by the name of Cydwilly.”
“Ah,” Hastings nodded. “Patrick de Chaworth’s fortress. He’s in trouble?”
“Apparently,” Dennis said, mounting his steed. He adjusted his stirrups and glanced up at the cloudy gray sky. “It would appear that the Welsh are busy all over the country. For my part, I would prefer to go home. I do not need the honor and glory of this nonsense.”
The earl could sense disillusionment. “You are weary of this, Dennis? You have only been fighting less than a month.”
Dennis lifted a dark blond brow. “It might as well be a year.”
The earl nodded his head. “In days of old, I had a fighting man’s fancy. But there comes a time when you must give it up because warfare is no longer the force that drives you. Perhaps that time has come for you, Dennis.”
“I am only thirty-one years old,” Dennis’ gray eyes twinkled. “I have got another ten years left in me.”
“Thirty-one!” the earl exclaimed. “I was retired with ten children by that age.”
Dennis grinned and gathered his reins. “I hope to also achieve both soon. I pray this will be my last campaign.”
The earl grunted. “I will light a candle for you in the hope that your prayer is answered.”
Bucephalus began to dance with excitement and Dennis smartly saluted the earl. “It has been an honor to know you, m’lord. God be with you.”
“And with you,” the earl smiled.
; Dennis spurred his charger forward, thundering across the great wide bailey of Abergavenny. The huge gatehouse loomed ahead, the structure that had proved so difficult for the Welsh to breach. Dennis emerged on the opposite side where the army waited when Riston fast approached him.
“Dennis!” he shouted, drawing his snorting charger to a halt. “A small escort has been sighted approaching from the southeast.”
Dennis did not know what the concern was about. “And?”
Riston’s deep blue eyes were unnaturally bright within his pale face. “And they bear the colors of St. Austell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What do you mean that St. Austell is garrisoned for the crown?” Richard, Earl of Cornwall, could feel the blood rushing to his head. “How can this be? St. Austell belongs to the House of d’Vant, and the d’Vants hate the crown!”
The soldier bearing the shocking news had served the earl for a very long time. He was older, with sparse gray hair and missing teeth, but he had a reputation of loyalty and fearlessness. The earl had no reason to doubt the man’s claim, making his shock more difficult to control.
“Our men on patrol spied a party heading south to St. Austell bearin’ the colors of Henry, m’lord,” he said respectfully. “When we asked them where they was goin’, we were told St. Austell was now a garrison for the king.”
Richard was pale. He sat a few moments, digesting the words and the stunning implications. “But what of Dennis d’Vant?”
The old soldier shook his head. “I dunno, m’lord. Perhaps he’s dead.”
It was a stupid suggestion. Dennis wasn’t dead; would not Miguel have come to collect his reward in that case? “He’s not dead, not yet,” the earl growled. “But something else has happened. Why on earth would my brother garrison St. Austell?”
Again, the old soldier shook his head. “I dunno, m’lord,” he repeated. “But it is a sizable force.”
Richard looked at him. “How large?”
“I’d say one hundred or more.” In truth, the soldier could not count, but he had heard another man use the figure. “But there’s somethin’ else, m’lord.”
“Christ… what?”
“Siege engines,” the soldier said. “They brought two of ’em.”
Great catapults that could hurl massive rocks at his walls and tear him to pieces. Richard’s visions of annexing St. Austell were rapidly dissolving and he felt a true sense of anxiety.
“De Bretagne and de Lohr have been at St. Austell for over three weeks now,” he mumbled. “Surely they must know something.”
“Do we send for ’em, m’lord?”
Richard sat, deliberating the myriad of possibilities. Were de Bretagne and de Lohr in on the garrisoning of St. Austell? Had they somehow turned against their liege? Thomas had, Richard knew that for sure. He was more loyal to his daughter than to the earl, and Richard had to resign himself to that fact. But de Lohr… he could not imagine the man a traitor. He was too loyal to his oath. And he had sworn to rid the earl of the threat of Sir Thomas de Bretagne. But then again, promises from the king himself could be rather appealing to a bachelor knight.
The tension in his chest was rising; there was treachery afoot against him, he could feel it in his bones. Rapidly, he stood up, pacing around the room in a wild fashion.
“Take an escort and ride to St. Austell,” he instructed. “But not too many men; too many men will look like a war party. We want to appear peaceful and non-threatening. Assess all you can and demand the presence of de Lohr. Not de Bretagne, mind you, but de Lohr. When privacy permits, tell him that I demand he return to Launceston immediately. Is this clear?”
The old soldier nodded his head. “Aye, m’lord.”
Richard waved an impatient hand at him. “Go, then. And do not return without de Lohr.” He sat heavily at his great desk and drew a quill. After a moment of nervous deliberation, he carefully began to write.
“My dear brother,” he said slowly, his words keeping pace with his scribing. Pausing a moment, he collected his thoughts. Suddenly, a slow smile spread across his face as his eyes glittered wickedly. He knew, as always, what needed to be done. His brother was interested in one thing, and one thing only, and Richard intended to cater to that interest. Whatever Dennis d’Vant had managed to arrange, Richard could rearrange by a flick of his quill.
“If you would like a sizable donation to your Welsh cause, as you have indicated, withdraw your troops from St. Austell and the riches you have asked for shall be yours…”
*
The gray of his eyes were full of rolling thunderclouds, threatening to spit lightning at any moment. No man, or woman for that matter, had any desire to be in the line of fire.
Dennis was struggling to keep his emotions in check, like he had never struggled in his life. The last time he had let his fury get the better of him, he had exploded and chipped the feasting table. This time, there was no telling what would happen if he let himself go. He did not even want to guess.
“Forgive me, Dennis,” Charlotte said. She was pale and dirty and lacking her usual belligerent manner. “As soon as we had found out what she had done, we did our best to find her. But, as we told you, we only found Patrizia, and she was…”
“You have told me,” Dennis growled. He sat in the corner of the room like a great brooding bear. “I shall not hear the story again.”
They were in Hastings’ fine solar, a small room within the great gatehouse of Abergavenny. The earl was there, as lord of the house, as were St. Maur, Clive, Riston, and of course, Charlotte. It was a tense, anxious little group in the face of the news Charlotte and Clive had just delivered. The fire in the hearth crackled softy as the mood of the room churned unsteadily.
“I am sorry,” Charlotte repeated quietly. “I just wanted you to know that…”
“I know everything I need to,” Dennis said. “You and Clive have inadequately protected my wife and now she is in the hands of Miguel the Pirate.”
“But Dennis,” she implored, “the only way we could have prevented this was to have kept Ryan under guard day and night; never leaving her side. Is that what you wanted? A wife who is treated like a prisoner?”
“She is a prisoner now, isn’t she?”
Charlotte’s pale face flushed. “We did our best. I am sorry it wasn’t good enough.”
“It is the earl’s doing, Dennis,” Clive interjected; he, too, was fearful of what would happen should Dennis lose his control and from the man’s expression, he was already hanging by a thread. He did not need Charlotte antagonizing him. “If there is anyone to blame, it is him.”
He was not the only person to blame and they all knew it. All of them, to some degree, had had a hand in Ryan’s situation, including and especially Ryan herself. Powerful emotions roiled through Dennis’ chest as he thought on his last days with his wife, listening to her plead with him and resisting the urge to give in. He thought he had done rather well by leaving in the night so he would not have to hear her implorations, as much as that departure had hurt him. But his headstrong, stubborn wife had set out on her own to find him and now was in the hands of the enemy. Every time Dennis thought about Ryan at Miguel’s mercy, his anguish threatened to overwhelm him completely.
“The earl,” he grumbled. Then, he snorted ironically. “’Twould seem that my coming to Wales was a waste of time. I am now at the mercy of the Earl of Cornwall more than I ever was.”
It was the truth no one could deny. “What are you going to do?” Charlotte asked warily.
Dennis was silent a moment, pondering. His calm façade was a front for the wild turbulence he was feeling. “Patrizia did not know where Miguel planned to take her?”
“No,” Charlotte shook her head. She wasn’t about to mention the fact that Patrizia was Miguel’s daughter; she suspected the information would not be well received. “But if I were a pirate, would not I take her to my ship?”
“The Gemini?” Dennis said; it was easier for him to stay in contr
ol if he could think his way through this. “It’s possible. But you must remember that, according to Patrizia, he was very much land-bound and on foot. From where you found Patrizia, it would take him well over a day to reach any ports. And where to dock the Gemini? It’s a very recognizable vessel. I doubt it would be sitting out in the open somewhere, waiting, in any of the south-facing ports. All of the secluded coves are to the north, too far away.”
“Then you are suggesting he took her somewhere else?” Clive was very interested.
“My guess would be that he took her back to Launceston. Either way, the earl will know where she is.”
Before Clive could reply, Dennis suddenly rose from his chair, so quickly that everyone in the room started. The earl was the first one to speak.
“Dennis, where are you going?” he demanded.
Dennis was heading for the solar door. “Launceston.”
Clive and Charlotte were running after him. Riston wasn’t far behind them. “What are you going to do, simply march into Launceston and demand your wife returned?” Riston’s tone was mingled with frustration and panic. “He will kill you, Dennis, you know that!”
“That’s most likely what he’s wanted all along. I invite him to try.”
“But what about Henry?” Hastings asked. “You are pledged to Wales. You can’t leave!”
Dennis stopped at the door, so swiftly that the entourage trailing him nearly crashed into him. His expression was as close to fury as any of them had ever seen it.
“I am going to Cornwall to secure my wife,” his voice was charged with emotion. “If one of you attempts to stop me, I have no conscience in the matter of running you through. No one, and nothing, shall keep me from Ryan, not God, nor king, nor the damn Earl of Cornwall. Is this in any way unclear?”
He meant every word. Charlotte backed off, but Clive and Riston were still dangerously close to his striking range. “But to go marching into the jaws of the lion simply isn’t wise, Dennis,” Clive said as calmly as he could. “Surely there must be a better way to go about this.”
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 152
