by Tamara Leigh
“Love but for love’s sake,” he murmured. “Aye, Wife, I will show you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Castle Mathe brimmed, the impossible of a year past made possible now the king’s decree was honored in its entirety. And four days hence, it would become official when the Baron of Blackwood publicly wed the sister of the Baron of Godsmere following six days of celebration.
God willing, on that day there would be more to celebrate than a marriage—namely, a funeral, the feud that had plagued the three families for a quarter of a century buried so deep it would be as unknown to future generations of De Arells, Boursiers, and Verduns as it was now known to their forebears.
But much depended on the hunt. That of the day past had borne no fruit other than a bounty of venison from the deer brought to ground by those who had made themselves bait.
Bait, Griffin reflected as he stared at the one who impaled him on the hook of information and misinformation fed to Simon Foucault the past ten days by way of the farmer’s cart. And on that hook with him was Boursier and Verdun.
Serle had mostly stayed out of sight since the arrival of the barons of Godsmere and Emberly two days past. And he was wise to do so. Though Griffin’s brother-in-law was reasonable enough to acknowledge the prodigal’s aid could be of benefit in ending the Foucault revenge, the scent of blood was on the air when the two men were within sight of each other. And the scent swelled in Quintin’s presence.
Another also noticeably scarce belowstairs these past days was Quintin’s maid, Nanne, and it was well she was, for one had only to look upon her in Verdun’s presence to know her feelings for him—and pain over what he felt for Thomasin. As for her son, Eamon, that affection Verdun did return. But whatever the tale there, Griffin was fairly convinced his daughter’s husband had not sired the boy.
“Show me,” Griffin said and held out a hand, into which Serle placed an intentionally small and dirty scrap of parchment.
On the morrow, it read, pheasant hunting past the village of Lorria. Departing two hours ere noon.
It was written as instructed, as were all of Serle’s messages to the brigands, none of which had received an answer—and still no instruction to let the enemy into Mathe.
Previous messages sent by Serle had included assurances the families believed that if the Foucault threat had not died with Sir Otto, it was greatly weakened and would soon gasp its last; tidings Ulric was near enough death that the king’s decree was to be fulfilled without further delay so the old baron might know peace upon the land ere passing; and word the wedding celebration that had delivered the Boursiers and Verduns to Blackwood would culminate in Father Crispin wedding De Arell to Boursier. To lessen the possibility of an assault en route, that last had not been revealed until the day the two barons set out for the barony of Blackwood.
“’Twill do?” Serle asked.
Griffin looked up from the parchment that would provide the brigands with another opportunity to attack the hunting party on the morrow if they did not take the bait offered this day—boar hunting far enough beyond the village of Cross to ensure the inhabitants were not at risk, but not so far it made the trap difficult to spring. A trap which Serle, at best, suspected.
“Aye,” Griffin said, “’twill suffice.” He jutted his chin for his brother to depart the solar, then motioned for Sir Mathieu to ensure the message was affixed to the farmer’s cart and to bear witness had a message been left there for Serle.
When both men exited, Griffin crossed to the window and, as he waited for Serle and Sir Mathieu to appear in the bailey below, looked beyond the castle walls to the peaks of dozens of tents erected on the land before Mathe to lodge the sizable entourage that had accompanied Boursier and Verdun.
Mostly, the knights and men-at-arms were trusted by their lords, but lest another Sir Otto prowled amongst them, their great number had provided a reasonable excuse to keep them from entering Mathe—and a deterrent to the brigands who stood little chance of getting past warriors even were Serle able to open a portal to them.
Griffin moved his gaze farther out across the land. Men, who were not of the brigands, were hidden in the wood beyond the village of Cross where the hunt would take place this day. Under cover of dark on the night past, the wood watch—a half dozen warriors each from the three barons—had departed Mathe and now lay in wait should the brigands take the bait. If Griffin, Bayard, and Magnus remained on the hook, those of the wood watch would return this eve to be replaced by others who would set a new trap for the morrow’s hunt.
“Take the bait,” Griffin muttered, tensing in anticipation of the battle cry that would roar from his chest, the swing of his sword, and the shouts of pain amidst bloodletting that, God willing, would leave all three barons living and at peace.
He lowered his gaze and saw Serle depart the keep and move toward the kitchen’s side entrance where the farmer’s cart was being unloaded. At a discreet distance, Sir Mathieu followed. Then came Rhys and Eamon. The two were hardly friends, but there was grudging interest on Rhys’s part toward the younger boy who, despite his mother’s corrections, was disinclined to consider himself inferior to a nobleman’s son.
Though Griffin’s father strongly disapproved of what he witnessed of their relationship from his window, Quintin encouraged the boys to spend time together and Griffin, having satisfied himself the two argued and wrestled well together, let it be. Not only did he like Nanne’s boy, but he hoped his wife’s interest in Eamon and developing relationship with Rhys would ease her longing for children of her own body.
Remembering their nights together before the arrival of her brother at Mathe, Griffin was stirred at the prospect he would soon have her in his bed again, and they would resume the joy of teaching each other love but for love’s sake.
Feeling a smile, he awaited the appearance of the one who, like Sir Mathieu, was instructed to keep a discreet watch over another, in this instance, Rhys. And there the man was, trailing the boys.
Griffin grunted. He hated that he could not allow his son to move freely about his own home, but soon the threat would be past.
“Take the bait,” he growled.
“You,” a soft voice said.
He turned and found Quintin in the space between door and frame. Silently cursing himself for lowered defenses that prevented him from hearing the door open, feeling the change in the air, and catching her scent as a warrior must to remain worthy of being that, he stared at her. And recalled the one word she had spoken that fit the fear in her eyes.
Though he had felt the disquiet of Thomasin and Lady Elianor since their arrival at Castle Mathe, both aware their husbands’ plan to end the brigands could spill over into the wedding celebration, he felt Quintin’s more deeply. Amidst others, she smiled and laughed and seemed to enjoy their company, but she was more watchful of the three barons, and often Griffin suspected she listened more to their conversation than that of her stepdaughter and sister-in-law.
“I know you are the bait,” she said. “What I do not know is how you shall escape Simon Foucault ere he swallows you whole. Tell me you can.” Her eyes brightened. “Promise you will.”
Griffin strode forward and drew her into his arms. “I know ’tis futile to ask you not to worry,” he spoke into the hair atop her head. “Thus, the only assurance I can offer is that never have I had as great a cause to be victorious than now you are with me.”
She lifted her face. “I am glad, but ’tis not enough.”
“It is all I have to give. As the brigands must be destroyed, I will do what is necessary to protect those I love and those whose well-being I am responsible for—as will your brother and my daughter’s husband.”
“This day?”
“Whenever they come for us. But be it this day or another, we are prepared.”
“How?”
“Trust me.” He touched his mouth to hers. When she did not respond, he said, “You are angry with me?”
“Nay—frustrated. An
d frightened you will risk more than is necessary.”
“Trust me, Quintin.”
She jerked her chin, but he was not certain it was in agreement. After some moments, she said, “I wanted to be with you last eve. Had you been alone, I would have come.”
Griffin would not have turned her away, even at the risk of once more rousing her brother’s displeasure. But like Sir Mathieu, Rhys had been displaced to accommodate the barons of Godsmere and Emberly—thus, consigned to a pallet beside his father’s bed until the night of the day Griffin publicly wed Quintin.
“Four days,” he said, “and ever your place shall be here with me.” He loosened his hold and stepped back. “Your brother and Verdun will soon be ready to depart.”
“This day boar?”
He inclined his head.
“I shall pray for good hunting.” She drew a deep breath. “And more.”
He brushed his fingers down her cheek. “I love you, Quintin,” he spoke the three small words that, as told, served well when there was little time to linger over feelings.
“I still search for the right words that will be as memorable for you as yours are for me,” she said low. “But know my heart is yours.”
“I know, and I carry it with me this day as I have every day since you entrusted it to me.” He sighed. “And now I am nearly late.” He stepped around her and into the corridor, assured himself Arturo was where he ought to be, and strode to the stairs.
It was time to try again to sink a hook in Simon Foucault’s mouth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Diot was displeased, the expression of which Quintin had grown fairly accustomed to, the resulting din an indication the little beast was agitated by a visitor abovestairs. At times, the dog issued deep-throated growls, other times yips, sometimes both. But Quintin had only before heard such vicious barks when she had tried to breach Ulric de Arell’s sanctuary.
And Diot was not the only one unsettled. Shortly after the little dog had begun its protestations, Arturo’s growls had sounded, evidencing he had moved from the base of the stairs to the chapel door behind which his charge prayed.
Knees aching from the hour spent on them since the hunting party’s departure, Quintin rose from the altar where Father Crispin had lit several candles for her beseechings for the safety of Griffin, Bayard, and Magnus. She glanced at the door of the small chamber to the right of the altar where, doubtless, the priest once more rested. He was in better health, the sickness that had feasted on him having lost much of its appetite, though it yet demanded daily feedings. Thus, Quintin continued to pray for Crispin’s full recovery.
Upon reaching the chapel door, the sound of another opening made her look around.
“You do not intend to go abovestairs, do you, my lady?” Father Crispin said in a voice that cracked with the effort to be heard above the dogs’ commotion.
“Verily, I did not think that far ahead, but something is amiss. The little one sounds as if he could murder, and Arturo is roused.”
“Thus”—the priest moved forward at a speed that evidenced he should have remained abed—“your brother and Baron de Arell would wish you to remain here whilst I summon men-at-arms to investigate.”
“Aye,” she begrudged and nearly turned back, but it struck her the little dog’s distress might be in response to the old baron turning ill or taking a fall.
“I will go for them,” she said and, before he could protest, opened the door and slipped into the corridor alongside Arturo, whose fur bristled where he stood facing the stairs.
Quintin had not lied. She had meant to summon Rollo and others from the hall, but a shout sounded from the apartment, the little dog’s bark grew more savage, and the wolfhound lurched forward a step before peering across his shoulder at her.
Rather than go right, Quintin went left, and though she sensed Arturo’s uncertainty in permitting her that path, he advanced just ahead of her.
When she was on the steps, skirts high, she recalled when last she had ascended them in the hope of reaching the apartment before being intercepted by the one she had believed was her enemy.
Dear Lord, she sent up another prayer as the little dog continued its rant, keep the man I love safe.
As she followed Arturo onto the landing, she heard another shout that caused the wolfhound to bound forward and scrabble at the door. His din nearly drowning out the other dog’s, Quintin reached around him and tried the handle. It was not locked, and a moment later Arturo leapt ahead of her into the chamber.
Quintin caught her breath at the enormity of the dim room, startled over the blur of fur that shot from the far end toward her. Fortunately for the little dog, he made it beneath the bed before Arturo reached him.
While he barked and the big dog growled and paced the bed’s perimeter, Quintin looked to the far wall forsaken by the old baron’s dog. Amid the shadows stood a figure clothed in a long, pale tunic.
“Get out!” a muffled voice called.
Certain this was Griffin’s father, she said, “Are you well? I heard—”
“Out! And take that filthy beast with you!”
She glanced at Arturo. Assured he could not reach the little dog, she strode forward. As she moved past the bed, she took in the chamber’s opulence. Ceiling-to-floor hangings partitioned the room, patterned rugs covered much of the floor, and the furniture—bed, chairs, chests, tables—was massive and intricately carved.
Despite the divide between father and son, Griffin honored the one who had sired him by ensuring his shrunken world was beyond comfortable.
When Quintin reached the center of the chamber, her eyes parted the shadows where Ulric de Arell held his back to her. Arms splayed, his gloved hands gripped between them what appeared to be a stick.
“Pray, what do you?” Quintin said loud to be heard above Arturo and his prey.
The old baron’s head snapped around, and she halted at the sight of his eerie, expressionless face—a mask, worn to hide the ravages of leprosy. “Accursed Boursier!”
She was not surprised he knew who she was, having often sensed him watching her from his window.
“Leave!” he commanded.
Fairly certain he was well in spite of the clamor, wondering if he might be mad, she started to turn away, but another entreated, “Nay, Lady. Stay!”
Though she could not see who spoke, Ulric de Arell’s voluminous tunic spread like a curtain and arms raised to the sides, Serle was on the other side of his father.
Almost wishing she could be as unmoved by the plight of a De Arell as before she had known Griffin, Thomasin, and Rhys, Quintin continued forward. And alongside her came Arturo.
“You trespass, Boursier!”
She did not break stride until she stood ten feet to the left of the old baron and saw Serle was pinned to the wall by a stick pressed to his chest, his one hand gripping its center as if for fear it would gain his throat.
“Stupid girl,” Ulric de Arell snarled. “Know you not I am leprous?”
She stared into the mask’s eye holes that did not let in enough light to show the glitter of life behind it. “Aye. What I do not know is for what you attack your son.”
He grunted, and she noted Griffin had likely learned from him that means of expressing himself. “What I do not know,” he said, “is why you concern yourself over this one after what he did to your brother—deserved though ’twas.”
Ignoring that last, she looked to Serle and saw pleading in his face. “For the sake of the De Arells, Boursiers, and Verduns I care,” she said. “You must know Serle aids in misleading the brigands.” At least, she prayed he did.
Ulric turned his immovable face to his son. “’Tis as he would have us believe. But this milksop stole abovestairs though I told I would not receive him. And for what? Not to be reunited with his sire, but to pry from one he believed vulnerable to death the plan to put the brigands in their graves. A betrayer!”
“Nay!” Serle shook his head. “I would know the pl
an, but not that I might do my family harm. I but seek reassurance Griffin moves against the brigands this day.”
“What concerns you about this day that did not concern you about the day past?”
Serle’s eyes darted to Quintin, then back to his father. “Providing the brigands are brought to ground this day, Constance will be safe.”
“Ever Constance!”
“Aye, and ever it shall be. And that is why I came to you.” Serle momentarily closed his eyes. “I have received instructions to let the brigands into Castle Mathe this eve.”
“You lie! ’Twas reported this day is no different from the others—again no missive left for you.”
“The message was there, not upon parchment but written in charcoal on the beam to which I affix the missives Griffin instructs me to write.”
Ulric shoved the stick harder against Serle’s chest. “If ’tis so, why did you not reveal it to your brother?”
“As he is ever telling me to do, I had to think—”
“What was there to think about?”
“How to ensure Constance’s safety without letting in the brigands. And my word I give that never would I open Mathe to them!”
Ulric burned as he peered past the mask at the one he almost wished were not of his loins. Certes, what he did wish was that he had kept his word to his dying wife that their second son would be given to the Church so ever there would be one praying for the De Arells. But Ulric had believed two warrior sons were more impressive and valuable should one not reach adulthood. And both had proved worthy of being trained into the class of men that fights. Until Serle sacrificed all for a woman.
“Had Griffin done as I asked,” that one continued, “had he delivered Constance here to keep her out of the hands of the brigands, she would not be of concern, but he refused.”
“As well he should!” Despite the ache in his crippled hands, Ulric pushed harder against Serle’s chest and was surprised when his son pushed back—so forcefully Ulric stumbled sideways. If not for the stick, whose end he slammed against the floor, he would have collapsed.
