For the second time in as many minutes, Elizabeth looked startled by his actions, even more startled when he politely fastened the front ties of the cloak. Weston didn’t meet her eye until he finished tying off the ends and when he looked at her, a strange thing happened.
Suddenly, he was four years old again, sitting on his mother’s lap, enjoying her warm hugs and gentle voice. He had visions of her feeding him cakes with raisins and nuts, and singing softly to him when he was ill with fever. Staring into her deep blue eyes, he remembered how much he had loved her. If he thought hard on it, he still loved her. She was his mother. But he was still deeply, deeply hurt and confused. It created a massive conflict within him.
He dropped his hands from her neck, went to her open chamber door, and slammed it shut. The entire building rattled with the force of the door shutting as Weston emitted something of a frustrated roar. Terrified, Elizabeth moved away from him, stumbling against the wall as she watched him pace in circles like a caged animal. The helm came off, clattering to the floor, as he wandered around, working his enormous hands and grumbling to himself. He finally kicked at the door and rammed an enormous fist into a table next to the door. The table collapsed and Elizabeth shrieked, fearful that he was going to kill her where she stood. She gasped and trembled, watching her son pace.
Finally, Weston settled himself unsteadily into the nearest chair. He just sat there, twitching and grinding his jaw. When he finally looked up at his mother, his dark blue eyes were filled with turmoil.
“Why?” he finally hissed. “Why were you so happy when my father killed himself?”
Elizabeth stared at him with wide eyes, struggling to keep her composure. It was the first time in twenty-six years that Weston had addressed her regarding Marston’s death. In fact, it was nearly the first time in all those years he had addressed her at all. She took his question extremely seriously.
“I was not happy when Marston killed himself, Weston,” she said quietly.
His features tightened. “Do not lie to me,” he hissed. “I saw your expression. You smiled when I told you what he had done.”
Elizabeth struggled to stay calm. “I do not believe that I did,” she insisted softly. “In shock, people can do a great many things that they do not remember. But believe me when I tell you that I was not happy for your father’s death, not at all. It was a shattering and terrible blow. My biggest regret is that you and Sutton happened across his body first. If I could have protected you from that blow, please believe that I would have.”
Weston’s tight features eased somewhat, but not entirely. He was still boiling over with emotion. He averted his gaze, running his hand through his cropped blond hair, fighting to discern just one thought out of the hundreds that were rolling through his mind.
“You shamed him,” he finally muttered. “You shamed him by carrying on with his father. How could you do such a thing? Explain this to me so that I understand.”
Elizabeth, oddly, was calming quite a bit. She had dreamed of this day for years, the day when Weston would ask her what truly happened and she would have the opportunity to vindicate herself. She had planned what she would say. But now, given her earlier conversation with Amalie, she changed her tactics. She wanted to explain it to her son in terms he could understand. She knew she would only have one chance to do it and she wanted to do it right.
“I would be happy to and I thank you for giving me the opportunity,” she said softly. “But before I explain, may I ask you a question?”
He rolled his eyes, his jaw ticking. Then he waved a careless hand at her. “If you must.”
Elizabeth chose her words carefully. “Your wife is a gracious and lovely woman,” she said quietly. “I am so happy you have met her. It is obvious that she loves you a great deal. Surely you must love her as well; I can see it plainly.”
He just sat there, grinding his jaw, realizing her question was more of a statement of fact. He lifted his eyebrows at her.
“Are you asking me if I love my wife?”
“I am.”
He ground his teeth so hard that he ended up biting his lip. “I do not see where that is any of your affair.”
“Please,” Elizabeth begged softly. “I am trying to explain things to you and it would help if I could present you with something relatable.”
His brow furrowed. “Relatable?”
“Do you love your wife?”
He nearly exploded but managed, somehow, to dig deep and keep his calm. “I do,” he said through clenched teeth. “I love her more than anything on this earth. Why do you ask?”
Elizabeth drew in a long, thoughtful breath and planted herself on a small stool near the table with the shattered glass figures. Her dark blue eyes gazed at her son imploringly.
“Please do me the courtesy of hearing me out before passing judgment,” she said softly. “If, at the end of my explanation, you decide that you still must hate me, then I will not protest. In fact, I will leave Netherghyll and you will never hear from me again. Is that fair?”
He looked at her, some confusion on his face. He wanted to agree with her but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. “Go on.”
Elizabeth quickly thought of the best way to explain what she must because she could tell that Weston did not have the patience for anything long or drawn out. She had to be concise and to the point or else she would lose his attention. She squared her shoulders and began.
“Do you remember my father, Weston? Your grandfather, Hugh de Busli?” she asked softly.
Weston nodded faintly but he did not speak. He was looking at her almost as earnestly as she was looking at him and Elizabeth continued.
“My father and Marston’s father, Heston, both served King Henry and were great friends,” she explained quietly. “My father brought me to Netherghyll to enter into a contract of marriage between Heston’s son, Marston, and me. When the terms of the contract were settled, I remained behind at Netherghyll to wait for Marston’s return from London where he was serving the king. If you recall, Heston had long been widowed. Heston was kind, compassionate, humorous and generous. It was just the two of us waiting for Marston’s return and as the days passed and I came to know Heston, I also came to realize that I loved him. It was not a difficult thing to do. And Heston, having been a very lonely man for quite some time, fell in love with me as well. He simply couldn’t help it.”
By this time, Weston wasn’t looking quite so belligerent. In fact, he looked rather sympathetic. “So it started back then.”
Elizabeth nodded. “It did,” she admitted. “But it was all quite proper, I assure you. Heston did not compromise me. He was desperately torn, of course, loving the woman meant for his son, but sometimes, the heart is stronger than the mind. There are emotions that one simply cannot overcome no matter how right or wrong they are.”
Weston understood, and was reasonably sympathetic, but he would not let on, at least not yet. “What happened when my father returned to marry you?” he asked quietly.
Elizabeth smiled sadly. “How would you feel if you had to watch Amalie marry another man? That is what Heston suffered through. Your father returned from London simply because he had been ordered to; he had no use for a wife. He did not want me. But he was forced to marry me so he did, as Heston stood by and watched, knowing that his son did not want to marry. Do you have any idea of the pain Heston must have endured?”
By this time, Weston was feeling much more compassion and far less frustration. He could feel his fury abating but it was still a struggle; it had been something he’d held on to most of his life. It was difficult to let go. But in truth, because he loved his wife so, he understood exactly what his mother was saying. He was starting to see the situation from an entirely different angle At that point, his hard stance started to slip away.
“So my grandfather watched the woman he loved marry his son,” he clarified quietly.
Elizabeth nodded faintly. “He remained stoic and calm throughout the c
eremony,” she said softly as she reflected back on the painful memories. “He played the part of the proud father at the wedding feast as Marston drank himself into oblivion. When it came time to consummate the marriage, Heston had to practically carry Marston to our wedding bed because he was so drunk. And he left me with his drunken son, who was so angry that he had been forced to marry that he beat me soundly on our wedding night. He was quite… brutal.”
Weston stared at her, seeing a huge parallel between his mother and Amalie. Their first intimate experience with men had been a harsh, cruel thing. But as the shock of his parents’ marriage began to settle, as reality loomed, he could feel more turmoil within him.
“My father was not a brutal man,” he insisted. “I have many fond memories of him. Never once did I fear him and never once was he cruel.”
Elizabeth nodded patiently. “Marston was not, by nature, a brutal man,” she agreed. “But it was different when he was drinking. He became someone else, someone horrible. And he was extremely resistant to being married and took his drunken frustrations out on me. The next morning, he awoke sober with no memory of what he had done other than a battered wife, and went on about his business as if nothing had happened. Heston, however, found me bruised and bleeding, tended me, and wept over what had happened. It was terrible for us both. But he could do nothing more. He could not avenge me. I was another man’s wife.”
Weston gazed steadily at his mother, absorbing her explanation, reconciling himself to it. It was information he had never heard before, shocking and deeply troubling. He kept seeing Amalie after Sorrell got through with her, bruised and bleeding, with no one other than servants to tend her. It tore his guts out to think on it. His jaw began to tick as he averted his gaze, unsure if he wanted to hear the rest of it. But he had come this far; he had to see it through.
“Continue, please,” he asked quietly.
Elizabeth took herself back to those days of anguish, sorrow and hope. “After that night, it was apparent that Marston wanted nothing to do with me,” she said softly. “I was a wife in name only. He made no attempt to carry out his husbandly duties. He returned to London immediately after the wedding where he continued his tasks as a knight to the king and where he also kept many mistresses. Being married was not going to stop him from continuing his rutting ways. I began to hear rumors, of course, but there was nothing I could do about them. I was told that your father has at least three bastards, although I never saw the children personally. Heston did, however; he paid sums of money to support the children on Marston’s behalf.”
Weston’s gaze was guarded, laced with sorrow as he looked at her again. He was coming to see that, from her perspective, Marston de Royans wasn’t perhaps such a great and noble man after all. It was a sickening realization.
“What happened between you and my grandfather during this time?” he asked quietly.
Elizabeth shrugged faintly, looking to her hands. “Heston and I were deeply in love so I did not particularly care about Marston’s behavior,” she said honestly. “Marston was not an evil man, Weston; he simply did not want a wife. But Heston did. So Heston and I continued on at Netherghyll, loving each other deeply and being very happy together. A year and a half after Marston and I were married, you were born.”
Weston’s guarded gaze washed with shock. He stared at his mother, wide-eyed, rising from the chair with his jaw hanging slack. The realization of her words slammed into him until he could hardly keep his balance.
“But you said…,” he regrouped and started again. “You said that my father left for London after you were married. How can he be…?”
“Because Heston is your father, Weston,” she said softly, watching the anguish roil through his enormous body. “Marston is not.”
Weston was so shocked he could hardly speak. He stared at the woman, his dark blue eyes wide with astonishment.
“My… my grandfather is in reality my father?” he repeated, his tone a hoarse whisper.
Elizabeth nodded. “He is Sutton’s father as well,” she said quietly. “No matter what you think of me or Heston, please know that you were conceived in love. Heston and I loved each other very much and we loved you as well. That is more than can be said for any child Marston fathered, or any child that he and I might have had together. If you love your wife as you say you do, then surely you can understand that love is greater than contracts or perception or shame. Love is the strongest thing of all.”
Weston stared at her. He struggled to accept the truth but in the same breath, he understood what she meant completely. He had loved Amalie so much that he had married her even though she had been pregnant with another man’s child. He could see his mother and grandfather, or more correctly, his father loving each other in spite of the complicated situation.
He couldn’t even imagine the strength Heston had that allowed him to remain composed when the woman he loved married another man. It was a terrible story yet one that was oddly inspirational. He began to feel weak and ill as the sorrow pent up from all those years of hatred began to drain out of him. He began to feel so incredibly sorry for his mother and what she had been through. If even half of what she told him was true, it was a sorrowful tale indeed.
Weston turned and walked away; he could no longer look at Elizabeth’s pale and lovely features. He put his hands on his face, wiping the sweat off his upper lip as if to wipe away the turmoil he was feeling. But there was still one thing he had to know.
“Marston knew that Sutton and I were not his sons,” he finally said, his voice weak and deep. “How did he react?”
Elizabeth sighed faintly. “Strangely enough, it seemed to settle him down a great deal,” she said honestly. “He returned from London and remained, barricading himself in his chamber and drinking his days away. It was as if he wasn’t sure what to do or how to react. He could see how much Heston and I loved one another and he told Heston once that he wished he had been a better man. When you and Sutton grew older, Marston would emerge from his chamber and play with you. Do you remember? That little sword I gave Colton?”
Weston nodded, turning to look at his mother with tears in his eyes. The memories were too much for him to take.
“I remember,” he whispered. “He used to let me win. He would fall on the ground and writhe around dramatically.”
Elizabeth saw the tears in his eyes and she stood up, making her way towards him.
“He loved you, Weston,” she whispered. “He loved Sutton, too. I think… I think looking at you two made him think of the life he had lived and the things he had done wrong. I think he was trying to make up for the evils he had committed against me, against our marriage, by being a friend to you and your brother. But Marston was a man in great turmoil and the drink only made it worse. He was a man in utter pain, always, of a life gone wrong by his wrong choices.”
Weston blinked and tears streamed down his face. “Why did you not help him?”
She put a small hand on his enormous arm, feeling the bulk and power of her son within her grip.
“How?” she asked softly. “By assuming my role as his wife? Heston was my husband in spite of the fact that we were not legally married. We were as much married in our hearts as any legally married couple; more perhaps. I would not leave Heston, the only man I had ever loved, not even for the man legally my husband. Perhaps it is selfish, but I would not do it. And Marston never asked. I think he knew as well as I did that he was incapable of being a good husband. He had far too many demons working against him to accomplish this.”
Weston looked at his mother, tears dripping off his chin. “You will tell me honestly,” he whispered, “what drove the man to kill himself.”
Elizabeth shrugged faintly, her hand gently caressing his big arm.
“I do not know,” she replied. “But I do know that he was very drunk when he threw himself upon his sword. Drink always turned him into something terrible and unrecognizable. Perhaps all of his demons finally caught up with him an
d he could find no other way to end his anguish. I remember when you told me what he had done; I remember thinking that Marston was finally free. Finally without pain or anguish. For Marston, the pain was over and he was finally free from whatever horrors plagued him during his time on earth. In that respect, I was happy for him.”
Weston’s dark blue gaze grew intense. “Perhaps you do not remember smiling when I told you of his death, but I will swear to the day I die that you did.”
She averted her gaze as she remembered that particularly dark day. “If I did, it was only because I was happy that he was finally free. It certainly was not because I was glad for his death.”
Weston didn’t say anymore. The entire conversation had been more than he could absorb and as much as he wanted to linger on it, digest it, his family was waiting for him in the bailey and he had a tournament to attend. Muddled, he moved away from his mother and picked up his helm, plopping it on his head.
Then he turned to her, observing the very small woman he resembled a great deal. He just stared at her a moment, unable to voice what he was thinking. In truth, he didn’t know what he was thinking. But he did know one thing; Amalie had been right. Perhaps he had been wrong all along.
Silently, he held his elbow out to his mother. Elizabeth stared at the armored appendage for a moment before carefully, and very gratefully, slipping her hand into the crook. Without another word between them, Weston led his mother down to the bailey.
Chapter Nineteen
The weather was mild this late in October, the air cool but not too cold, and the sky was cluttered with puffy white clouds.
Weston and Sutton rode at the head of the column from Netherghyll along with thirty men at arms spread out from the front to the rear. The carriage, driven by Owyn and containing Amalie, Elizabeth, Esma and the children, was well-protected tucked in the middle of the group while Heath and John, bellowing for the men to keep pace, rode to the rear.
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