Baron of Blackwood

by Tamara Leigh

  Serle looked to the chair before the brazier. “May I? The day has been long.”

  Griffin inclined his head.

  Once Serle was settled, he said, “The brigands have promised to deliver Constance to me and allow us to go free.”

  “Which you wish above all, so why reveal the bargain made with the devil?”

  “If I fail them, and I know it possible in setting myself against you, Constance dies next.”

  A powerful reason. “So I am to believe you would risk the woman you love to side with me?”

  “As told, I played my part well. Thus, the brigands believe my ill feelings toward father and you are cause enough for me to betray my own. But I have learned the way the world turns, and I do not doubt that, regardless of how well I serve those who avenge the Foucaults, Constance and I will remain as vulnerable to their revenge as the rest of you.”

  Griffin saw truth in his brother’s words, that his only hope was to band with the three families to defeat the brigands, even if he did not truly believe it himself and played both sides to the best end possible.

  “I know what you want, Serle. Now speak.”

  His brother sat forward. “I would make the same bargain with you—Constance freed of the convent and both of us bound for the continent with enough coin to keep us well for a year. Promise me that, and I shall mislead the brigands however you wish.”

  There was merit in what he proposed, but only a fool would readily agree. Griffin looked at Quintin and Rollo. His wife was stiff with disapproval, the man-at-arms lax with uncertainty as if he could make little sense of what was spoken around him.

  “What say you?” Serle pressed.

  “Where do the brigands encamp?”

  “They do not stay in one place long—constantly moving across the three baronies and even upon those that border, including Orlinde. Twice we were there.”

  “Once inside Mathe, how were you to communicate with the brigands?”

  “By way of the farmer from Cross who daily supplies the kitchen with vegetables.”

  “He supports their cause?”

  “Not knowingly, methinks. Whilst he is inside with the cook, I am to check for missives attached to his cart’s underside and affix my own in answer to theirs, as well as reveal anything of import.”

  It did not sound as if the farmer was an accomplice, but he would be watched. “Tell me about Sir Otto.”

  Serle smiled small. “You wish me to verify or disavow his death.”

  “I do.”

  “You will give me what I ask?”

  “I have not decided.”

  “Then why should I tell you?”

  “To prove your worth. A bargain is no bargain unless the buyer knows he shall gain something of value.”

  Serle went silent so long that Griffin said, “We are done.”

  “Nay!” The younger De Arell thrust out of the chair. “Sir Otto lives.”

  As thought. “How does he live?”

  “What mean you?”

  “I understood he was severely injured during his escape from the king’s men.”

  Serle shook his head. “Certes, he is hurting, but ’tis from punishment for failing to kill your daughter and her husband.”

  Recalling what Verdun had told—that Otto had revealed to Thomasin numerous scars upon his arm that represented his failures, Griffin asked, “Who dealt the punishment?”

  “The one who leads the brigands.”

  “Who?”

  “I know not. I have spoken with him, but never has he shown his face. What I do know is that he is cruel. He enjoys inflicting pain—methinks nearly as much on Sir Otto as he did on me.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  His brother unfastened his belt and lifted his tunic.

  “Dear Lord,” Quintin gasped.

  Serle gave a sharp laugh. “And you thought your scar terrible, my lady. Granted, mine are only skin deep, but…” He tucked the hem of his tunic between chin and chest to free his one hand, which he then drew up over numerous welts covering his abdomen and chest. All were livid, especially those more recently carved into his flesh. “Sixty-six cuts, one for every day of captivity, including this day.” He tapped a cut near his collarbone. It yet bled, though the dark of his tunic had hidden the seepage.

  Griffin’s stomach was not easily turned, but it rolled. Though there was much about Serle to dislike, he did not deserve what had been done him. However, there was a perverse good in it. It allowed Griffin to better understand and tolerate his brother’s behavior.

  “And here”—Serle turned his back to them—“is where it began. Sixteen cuts that, I am told, form the word traitor.”

  It did.

  Serle released the tunic and came back around. “Unsightly, aye? But as he said, such is the price of dirt.”

  Griffin felt his blood course faster. He knew the one who had done this to his brother was Simon Foucault who now called himself Sir Francis Cartier, but those words—the same spoken to Thomasin at her wedding when the mercenary had mocked that marriage to her enemy was the price of dirt—enraged him.

  “So now a question for you,” Serle said. “Do you know who leads the brigands?”

  Griffin wished he trusted him enough to reveal what was no longer suspicion so if it was true Serle was unaware of the identity of his tormentor, he might find some comfort in knowing how near the man was to justice.

  “Since we know Simon Foucault and his lover, Agatha of Mawbry, are dead,” Griffin said, watching his brother closely, “the leader is likely an obscure relation.”

  “You are certain Simon Foucault is dead?”

  The question gave credence to his brother’s ignorance of the identity of the brigands’ leader, but not enough that Griffin would take him into his confidence. “His death was reported twenty-five years past, and Sir Otto confirmed it when he was captured at Castle Kelling.”

  “That does not mean ’tis true.”

  Griffin inclined his head. “It does not, but methinks ’tis another we search for.” And in a manner it was, he mused—Simon Foucault in the guise of Sir Francis.

  “Now that my worth is proved,” Serle said, “you will have Constance delivered inside the safety of Mathe’s walls?”

  That last so surprised that Griffin nearly did not think before speaking. “Do I bargain with you, Serle, ’twill not include bringing your lover here. For the sake of my betrothed”—he glanced at Quintin—“but also lest the brigands learn of Constance’s removal from the convent and their suspicions render useless your ability to mislead them.”

  “But they could take her from there.”

  “’Tis possible, but methinks unlikely. Thus, on this I will not be moved.”

  Serle’s single hand opened and closed, then he said, “Very well. But once the brigands are defeated, aye?”

  “I will think on it.”

  “Think on it?” Serle spat.

  “Aye, little brother, something I oft advised you to do. And in the absence of thought, you lost an arm.”

  Serle’s jaw trembled. “When will you give answer?”

  Griffin glanced at Quintin. Though the anger she had exuded before the baring of his brother’s scars had returned, it was not as evident. “This eve you will know my decision.”

  “Until then?”

  “Until then and thereafter, you will be under watch.”

  “Until I gain your trust.”

  Griffin did not answer.

  “Ah,” Serle snarled, “you do not think I will.”

  Griffin looked to the big man-at-arms. “I would have you remain here with my brother whilst I escort Lady Quintin to her chamber.”

  Rollo looked to his lady.

  “As my brother told,” she said, “I am safe in Baron de Arell’s company.”

  “Then I will keep watch, my lord.”

  Griffin held out a hand, and Quintin took it. Followed by Arturo, neither spoke until they entered the hall.

  “
Methinks you will accept his terms,” she said with distaste.

  “I shall.”

  “And risk incurring the wrath of king and Church by stealing Lady Constance from the convent.”

  “If it must be done, I will find a way to do it that will make it difficult—even impossible—to see my hand in it.” He moved his grip to her elbow as they ascended the stairs. “Of more immediate concern is the possibility my brother plays both sides. Thus, those set to follow him will do so discreetly lest Sir Otto is not the only one the brigands have inside Castle Mathe.”

  He led her down the corridor and, halting before the door to the chamber that had been his daughter’s, noted Arturo continued to the stairs that led to Ulric’s apartment where he would watch over Quintin. “I think you will find Thomasin’s chamber better suited to a lady than Sir Mathieu’s,” he said.

  “I thank you.” She started to turn away.

  “I apologize for what my brother said, Quintin. Though I care for him, he is much changed from the one alongside whom I grew into a man.”

  Her jaw shifted. “I would not wish to love as he has loved. Indeed, what he and Constance share make love seem more a disease than a blessing.”

  Griffin pulled her close. “What we share will be a blessing.”

  He felt her soften a moment before she once more stiffened. “I pray so.” She stepped out of his arms and reached for the door.

  “Father!”

  Griffin was not surprised by Rhys’s appearance, having caught the whisper of hinges. Hoping his son would behave appropriately, having informed Rhys that when he returned to Mathe it would be with the woman who was to be his mother, he looked across his shoulder.

  Rhys’s wide smile eased as he moved his gaze from his father to Quintin, but it remained genuine enough. He halted alongside his father. “I am pleased you have returned, Lady Quintin. Now you are to wed my father?”

  Her face gentled. “I am.”

  “You would have me call you Mother?”

  “Only if you wish it.”

  “I will think on it.”

  Griffin nearly laughed to hear his son speak the same words recently spoken to Serle.

  “You will let me know what you decide?” Quintin asked.

  “I will, my lady.”

  She glanced at Griffin. “I will leave you to the things of men.”

  Telling himself they would speak more later, whether she came to him in the night or he to her, he inclined his head.

  When her chamber door closed, Rhys said, “’Twas acceptable, was it not—telling her I would think on what I shall call her?”

  “Aye, you were honest but kind.” Though it seemed natural to swing his son into his arms and embrace him—even after so short a parting—he resisted. Now eight years aged, Rhys was increasingly resistant to such displays of affection, but that was expected of a boy aspiring to manhood.

  Setting a hand on his shoulder, Griffin said, “I have missed you.”

  “As I have missed you!” He smiled broadly. “You must come to the training yard and watch me tilt at the quintain.”

  “Must I?” Griffin teased.

  “Aye, on the day past, I made a dozen passes ere it knocked me out of the saddle.”

  “A dozen? You do not exaggerate?”

  Rhys’s nose twitched. “Ten. I vow!”

  “Most accomplished. I have business to attend to, then you will show me—”

  Rhys groaned.

  Griffin chuckled. “You are right. My son first, then business. Don your gear and meet me in the hall.”

  The boy hastened back inside his chamber, and Griffin descended to the hall to make quick work of setting a guard on Serle and discovering if the woman who was to be his wife’s maid had arrived at Mathe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  She had thought herself stronger than this.

  Quelling the impulse to rock herself where she sat on the edge of the bed with an arm squeezed around her middle, Quintin wondered that after all these years she could be so affected. Since the night she had revealed to Griffin what Bayard’s blade had done, she had not felt as broken as she had before telling him. But seeing Serle again, and then his taunting…

  God forgive her, she had hated the knave. And yet, much of the black had drained out of that emotion when he had revealed his scars. She did not like him, but she felt for him.

  She pulled up her skirts and stared at her own scar. “I do not wish to feel for him,” she whispered. “He deserves every scar. He—”

  She thrust her skirt down. “I know he does not deserve them, Lord. I know.” Serle had sinned, but he had not meant for his sin to harm her, certainly could not have known she would provide an easy meal for keen blades. And she must not forget Agatha’s influence—that Serle and Constance were also victims of those who sought revenge against the families.

  Though it would be nearly as impossible to forgive them as it would be to forgive Sir Otto, perhaps eventually that which scraped at her soul would retract its claws. But not now with the recent loss of her child.

  A knock sounded, and she stood. “Enter!”

  The door opened, and a lovely woman stood on the threshold. “My lady.” She dipped her head. “I am Nanne, sent by your husband to be yer—”

  “Mother,” a voice inserted itself, though the one it belonged to remained out of sight.

  The woman looked across her shoulder. “Hold, son.”

  “How long?”

  Nanne returned her gaze to Quintin. “Forgive me, my lady. My son is not accustomed to being among nobility. But he will learn.”

  “His name?”

  “Eamon, my lady. A good boy.”

  “Eamon,” Quintin called, “let me see you.”

  His head came around the door—a large head that looked all the larger for the slight body that followed. Halting alongside his mother, he peered at Quintin from beneath long lashes.

  “Welcome, Eamon,” she said. “How many years are you?”

  “Seven, m’lady.”

  A year younger than Rhys. Quintin returned her regard to Nanne. “You said my husband sent you?”

  “Aye, I am to be yer maid—unless you do not approve.”

  Quintin blinked. “Why would I not?”

  The woman’s compressed lips eased. “I thank ye, my lady.” She laid a hand on her son’s shoulder. “As Eamon is still young, and I am not ready to give him in service that would take him long from my side, Baron de Arell assured me he may also serve ye.”

  Quintin had no idea how she would make use of the boy. Indeed, so accustomed was she to tending her own needs, she was not sure how she would occupy his mother’s time. “Of course I will not separate you, though I fear you will become bored, Eamon.”

  He shrugged.

  “The baron’s son is not much older. Mayhap you could pass time with him.”

  “Ah nay, my lady,” Nanne said. “My son must learn his place.”

  Though Quintin was well aware of the distinction between noble and commoner, she did not like it. But for now she would leave it be. “You come from a nearby village? Cross?”

  “We are from the barony of Orlinde, my lady.”

  Quintin frowned. “That is a long way to come—beyond Emberly, aye?”

  “’Tis,” Eamon said. “Baron Verdun sent us here.”

  “He did?” Surprise raised Quintin’s pitch.

  “Aye, he is my friend.”

  She looked closer at the boy. If he was the result of an indiscretion of Thomasin’s husband, it was not apparent in his features.

  “I am a widow, my lady,” Nanne said. “My boy’s father has passed.”

  Embarrassed to be easily read, Quintin said, “I am sorry for your loss.” Though she sensed there was something more to it, she had no right to Nanne’s secrets. “I am mostly accustomed to doing for myself, but as the wife of the Baron of Blackwood—once I am that—I shall surely require more aid.”

  “For that, the baron believes we are
a good fit. I have never served as a lady’s maid and will require patience.”

  “Then we shall learn together.” Quintin raised her eyebrows at the boy. “And when you are not doing for me, Eamon, perhaps we can attend to your education.”

  He groaned.

  Nanne smiled. “Baron Verdun would like that. He takes an interest in my son.”

  “I care not for learning,” Eamon muttered.

  “Eamon!” Nanne chided.

  “Well, I do not. I would rather my fingers blackened by the oil and ash of a bladesmith than the ink of one who is always at letters and numbers.”

  “Forgive him, my lady.”

  Quintin raised a hand. “Better honest than falsely proper. And all the more reason your son could prove a good companion to Rhys de Arell. Neither does he care for letters and numbers.”

  “That could invite trouble, my lady.”

  She was probably right. But Quintin understood enough about boys to know they needed other boys to grow into worthy men. And during her winter stay at Mathe, she had noted that, outside of training at arms, Rhys spent much of his time in his sister’s company. Now that Thomasin was gone, he must be lonely.

  “It could invite trouble, Nanne, but that does not mean ’twill be of detriment.”

  Irritation flickered across the woman’s face, then uncertainty.

  “’Tis only a thought,” Quintin said.

  “I thank ye, my lady.” The woman smoothed her skirt. “Now how may I serve?”

  “It was a long ride to Mathe. Would you arrange for a bath?”

  “Of course. And I shall scrub your back and wash your hair. ’Tis as a lady’s maid would do, aye?”

  “’Tis.”

  Nanne ushered Eamon out of the chamber, and as she closed the door behind her, the boy’s voice slipped through. “I like her. Do you?”

  “I hope I shall.”

  Hope, Quintin mused as the door fit in its frame. So much possibility in that word. Unfortunately, also disappointment.

  Keeping her arm and fist from her middle that offered little hope a child would flourish there, she ignored the appeal of the bed and crossed to the window to stare out across her new home.

  And pray that the plans of Griffin, Bayard, and Magnus would set all aright.