by Tamara Leigh
“Think, Simon. She was besotted with one she could not have. The only way to keep you in her power after pulling you from the fire was to sever your connection to your French lord, allowing all to believe your corpse was one of those pulled from the ashes. And you, poor Simon, were not only indebted to her, but you depended on her to aid in your revenge. You needed her—and the son she gave you. That is far more possible than my father possessing the means to convince a lord across the narrow sea to send one of his men to his death.”
Simon slowly straightened, and as he began to pace the dais upon which the altar was raised, Griffin looked between him and his son who warily watched.
Shortly, Simon returned to Griffin. “And so I took the name Francis Cartier,” he said as if naught had disturbed his reality. “As my reputation grew in France, I became known as the Merciless Mercenary.” He gave a satisfied sigh. “When one has only revenge to live for, a formidable foe they make, and that inspires others to follow. Thus, when I returned to England, I was accompanied by a score of mercenaries, the ever-loyal Aude, and a son.”
Neck strained, pain, fatigue, and blood loss vying to render him senseless, Griffin once more let his head hang between his bound arms that had lost much of the feeling fingertips to armpits.
Opening and closing his hands to restore circulation, he searched for words to move Simon Foucault to resume his torture.
“I made myself and my men indispensable to King Edward II ere his son took the throne from him,” Simon continued, “and in between the tasks set me, I became a scourge to those who called themselves the barons of Godsmere, Emberly, and Blackwood, working ill on these lands to further the feud each time it waned. Much easier that became when Otto was of an age to be fostered and Aude began to move about Kilbourne, calling herself Agatha of Mawbry and securing the position of maid to Constance Verdun.” A chuckle. “And we know how that ended, aye?”
The cuckolding of Bayard Boursier—and worse.
Another back of the hand. “You are not asking questions, De Arell. ’Tis ill of you to make me carry the conversation.”
Conversation, Griffin mused as he raised his chin. “Forgive me.” He winced at the gravel in his voice. “I thought you but wished me to listen to you listen to yourself talk.”
More anger, but Simon laughed it away. “Very well, I will ask a question. For what did the king place Otto in your service? Recall, ’twas not only my father who was betrayed. Your fathers betrayed Edward II by bringing the baronage down upon the Foucaults for remaining loyal to the king. Thus, though that Edward bowed to the baronage’s demands, the longing for revenge against your three families burned. When I revealed myself to him and promised satisfaction, he accepted wardship of my son and saw Otto trained up into a warrior.”
Of course that was how it came to be. And ere the old king lost his crown, he had sent Otto to serve at Castle Mathe.
“Does our young king know you are Simon Foucault?” Griffin asked.
“Good question, De Arell!” Simon patted Griffin’s cheek. “Since Edward III lacks the desire to avenge those who betrayed his father—embraces them, even—I thought it best he remain unaware. You see, our relationship is different from the one his father and I enjoyed. ’Twas not mutual need for revenge that gained me Edward III’s favor, but the aid I gave in securing his throne when Mortimer and his mother sought to keep him their puppet.”
This Griffin knew—that Sir Francis Cartier had earned his place near the third Edward by helping end Mortimer’s power at the end of a rope.
“Next question, De Arell.”
Shamed by limbs that had begun to tremble as if he were chilled, he said, “Was it you who murdered your own sister, Lady Maeve? Who drugged the household of Baron Boursier? Who stole away Lady Elianor and delivered her to Aude for execution?”
“Aye, aye, and aye. Of course, all did not come about as planned, but such one must expect in relying on others. What else would you know?”
More than anything, how to rile him sufficiently to make him finish branding his captive. “Is your son aware it was ever intended Lady Quintin—your niece—would be your bride?”
Simon’s nostrils flared. “He thinks to turn you against me, Otto, in the hope you will put your blade through me.”
“I know what he does,” Otto said dully.
His apathy sickened, especially as it further tempted Griffin to that same place of powerlessness. “Regardless, I speak true.” He peered sidelong at the young man. “Just as I do in telling what a disappointment you are, Otto, and how shamed I was to learn the truth of one I esteemed as being among my most capable and worthy knights—so much I trusted you to keep my daughter safe in her wanderings.”
“Hence, the fool you are,” Simon said.
One too many regrets, Griffin silently conceded. “I did feel the fool, but less now that I understand how I fell prey—how I did not see the coward behind the face of Sir Otto of Castle Mathe.” Gathering breath, he momentarily closed his eyes.
“Enlighten us!” Simon hissed.
Griffin lifted his lids, and as his vision slowly returned to focus, longed for a spoonful of even the most brackish water. “It has all to do with the one who leads,” he rasped. “Whilst Otto followed my direction, he rose to what was expected of him, exhibiting courage and good sense that masked who you made him to be—a frightened, deceitful little boy who went against his conscience and God to keep his father from hurting him.”
Simon snatched Griffin’s hair and wrenched his face up. But whatever punishment he meant to deliver was stayed by a shout outside the church doors.
“Foucault!”
Simon thrust Griffin’s head down with such force, his captive’s chin struck the kneeler’s upper shelf. “Boursier!”
“I have word Ulric de Arell and Father Crispin ride from Mathe.”
Distantly grateful for the moisture provided by his bitten tongue, Griffin bellowed, “Nay!” and wrenched at his bindings. “Do not—”
A fist slammed into the back of his injured shoulder, impaling him on pain so sharp darkness opened its great maw.
As he struggled to remain conscious, Simon called back, “Then De Arell’s suffering ends soon.”
“Yours will not,” Boursier answered. “Many a blade out here is parched for want of your flesh and that of your son.”
“All the better,” Simon answered. “More of you to kill.”
Silence. But what more was to be told? Griffin mused. If whatever The Boursier and Verdun planned to thwart the Foucaults failed, his father and the man of God would die alongside him.
Nay! he rejected the comfort of apathy. Think much. Regret little.
But he could hardly think anymore.
Then pray, another voice entreated. Pray much, Griffin.
Body quaking, he silently called on the Lord, Keep me right of mind that I might smite those evil of mind.
The black before his eyes graying, he drew forth a psalm. Let the wicked fall into their own nets, whilst that I withal escape.
“Otto,” Simon said, “look again.”
Griffin lifted his head and watched the knight heave his body off the pew with the effort of one twice his weight and cross to the nearest shutters. He put his face to the center seam, then moved to the other shutters before returning to his father. “They keep their distance. Their numbers appear the same.”
Griffin dropped his chin, and as he stared at the floor spattered with blood, felt consciousness slacken. But he could not afford to go into the dark. Did he, when next he came around, Ulric and Father Crispin might be here. Then it would be too late.
Opening his eyes wide, he once more set his mind to gaining Otto’s blade to the back.
“Twenty-five years,” he rasped, “and this is how it ends for you, Foucault. Failure. The death of a warrior you can best only by taking him from behind and binding him. The death of an old man who is already far along the path leading out of this life. The death of a sickly priest.�
� Forcing laughter, the pressure of which nearly made him shout, he looked up. “You are less worthy of Kilbourne than your traitorous father.”
Candlelight revealed the flush rising up Simon’s neck.
Lest the anger once more slipped away, Griffin continued, “On and on you drone as if your tale will end in some great victory of which you are deserving. But we all know it ends here in disgrace. And that is justice. Not only for our families but your father.”
Simon blinked rapidly, doubtless trying to make sense of what was said.
Griffin smiled and tasted blood as his split lip protested its stretching. “You were, after all, the first to betray him, Simon. I was young, but I remember a visit to Castle Adderstone with my father on the day his liege received your answer to his summons to return home and begin learning the responsibilities of lording the barony.”
Simon took a step backward.
“Your father raged over your refusal and suggestion Archard Boursier continue to serve Kilbourne in your absence as would also be expected of him once you assumed the title. And then Denis Foucault wept to have sired so traitorous a son. More, I wager, than you have wept to have made Otto on Aude.”
“Cease, else I will cut out your tongue!”
“And his prized ring he sent as surety he was ready to pass Kilbourne to you… How he lamented bestowing it on one so lacking honor.”
Was Simon panting? Aye, and there could be little feeling in hands clenched so tight they were white.
“And further you betrayed by not returning the ring with your refusal to leave France.” Griffin channeled his pain into a heavy frown. “The same ring you years later sent to your sister to prove you lived to force her to aid Aude and you under threat of harm to her daughter.”
“Be silent!”
Fighting the longing to comply, he said, “And so the greatest traitor of all broke faith with himself, the discovery of that ring by Bayard Boursier and his wife revealing the part you forced Lady Maeve to play to keep her daughter safe.”
Simon lunged, and the fingers that tore into Griffin’s bleeding flesh made the chapel reverberate with his shout and once more moved the gray of lowering day into the black of night. As he was dragged into it, he almost hoped this was death lest he awaken to find his father and the priest dead alongside him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“I am one promise you will not have to keep,” Thomasin said low, chin trembling with emotion that evidenced she understood enough of the conversation she had overheard to know her father’s life could be forfeit. “And Lady Elianor”—she glanced at the one who stood at the stairs—“is a promise you will not have to make.”
Hand on the door she had quickly closed upon identifying who stood outside the old baron’s apartment, Quintin whispered, “I shall go to my husband.”
“And we shall accompany you.” Thomasin nodded toward the stairs, and Quintin and Arturo followed her and Lady Elianor to the second floor corridor.
Thomasin turned to Quintin. “We came to the chapel to pray, and finding the door ajar, heard Sir Mathieu tell the priest of the brigands’ defeat and that our husbands’ men have surrounded the church where the Foucaults hold my father.”
“You know the boon your grandfather asked of Father Crispin?”
“Aye, thus we came abovestairs to learn more.”
“And discovered I was in your grandfather’s apartment.”
The young woman raised her eyebrows. “Most unexpected.”
“I was not there by invitation,” Quintin said lest Thomasin was hurt that Ulric had confided in a Boursier over his granddaughter. “When Sir Mathieu entered the hall, I sensed something amiss and followed.”
“’Tis true my sire lives? That my grandfather and Father Crispin must trade their lives for his?”
“Those are Simon Foucault’s terms.”
“And Sir Otto’s.”
“He is the side of his father.”
“If we are to join those departing Mathe,” Lady Elianor said, “we must act now.”
Quintin glanced at her sister-in-law’s belly. “Certes, my brother would have you remain at Mathe.”
“Aye, just as your husband and Lady Thomasin’s would have you remain. But as the brigands are defeated, my babe and I are less at risk than when we journeyed from Godsmere to Blackwood.”
Quintin could not argue that, though still Bayard would disapprove.
“We do this together, Lady Quintin,” she said. “And we begin with Rollo.”
The big man’s eyes found them the moment they came off the stairs, and as he strode forward, Quintin was relieved to see Rhys and Eamon disappear down the kitchen corridor. She told Rollo what needed to be done, the tasks set him possible only because Sir Mathieu would be occupied with removing the old baron from the keep without alerting his grandson to the situation.
Rollo was disturbed by the request, but his cooperation was gained by her assurance and Lady Elianor’s that he would be at their side to protect them.
Their departure came together so efficiently Quintin marveled as she often did over the man-at-arms’ wit in matters relating to his duty to protect those in his charge. Thus, Elianor, Thomasin, and she—less Arturo, whom she managed to lock in the solar—appeared in the outer bailey with half a dozen each of Godsmere and Emberly knights.
As a murmur moved among those amassed to ride from Mathe, Sir Mathieu turned from having aided the cloaked and hooded Ulric de Arell onto a horse between those of Father Crispin and, surprisingly, Serle.
“My lady, none of you should be here.” Sir Mathieu looked to his lord’s daughter. “You know your father would not like it, Lady Thomasin.”
“Still, we ride with you,” Quintin said and was pleased to see Rollo exit the stables, followed by grooms who led the horses required to enlarge the entourage.
Sir Mathieu’s brow lowered. “Your betrothed would have you remain at Mathe.”
“I know he would be pleased by your determination to keep safe those dear to him, but until your lord weds me before all, I am my brother’s charge. And since The Boursier is not here, with the aid of his men I assume responsibility for my well-being.”
Something gathered in the silence that drew Quintin’s gaze to Ulric de Arell, and as she stared at him, it struck her this must be the first time in years he had been outside the keep.
“You lied, Quintin Boursier!” his voice shot from his masked and hooded countenance. “You gave your word you would not tell Thomasin.”
His granddaughter stepped forward. In her hand was the walking stick she had retrieved from his apartment, and over which she had cried upon discovering the dozens she had fashioned for him over the years, having believed he had tossed them on the fire. Now she smiled up at him. “I am at fault,” she said. “Your Sin was up to no good as usual, listening in on others. I vow, Lady Quintin did not reveal your plans.”
He pondered that, then said, “You shall not ride with us.”
Her smile lowered. “I am sorry, but this I shall do.” She glanced at those of Emberly whom Rollo had called to her side. “And of course, so shall Lady Elianor. Now let us delay no longer. My father—your son—awaits us.”
His hesitation made Sir Mathieu say, “My lord, do not allow this.”
The old baron grunted. “What of Rhys, Thomasin?”
“He knows not—is in the kitchen answering his hunger.”
“My lord!” Sir Mathieu protested again.
Ulric raised a crooked hand. “If the husbands of these ladies wished them confined, they should have seen them locked in their chambers. ’Tis not for me to do.”
Quintin laid a hand on Sir Mathieu’s arm. “You have done all that can be expected. Now you must ensure the Baron of Blackwood’s heir remains safe.”
His nostrils flared, but he said, “Pray, my lady, be of good care that you not further injure my lord by sentencing him to longing without end.”
“I shall and, God willing, your lord and I will r
eturn to Mathe together.”
He looked to Thomasin. “And you as well, my lady.” He pivoted.
As he strode opposite, Quintin crossed to the priest. “I wish you would not do this,” she said.
“And I wish you would remain at Mathe. Thus, we are both—all of us—in God’s hands.”
She inclined her head, and when he jutted his chin toward the old baron, she saw Thomasin raise the walking stick to Ulric. “I know my gifts offend, Grandfather, but this once would you not make use of one—if not to lean upon, to slam upside Simon Foucault’s head?”
Though Ulric’s expression was unseen, it was in his voice that sounded as if squeezed through a reed. “I shall.” He accepted the stick. “Now mount up, Granddaughter.”
Night had begun to extend its dark fingers across Blackwood when the Baron of Godsmere and a handful of his men rode from the torchlit church to meet the approaching party.
Despite the lighter shadows that was all that remained of day, Quintin knew the moment her brother sighted the women who rode at the center of the escort. Shouting something, he urged his destrier to greater speed.
The Blackwood knight given charge of the escort signaled a halt and, moments later, Bayard drew rein. “The reason these ladies accompany you must needs wait,” he said as he moved his gaze from his wife and sister to his men, “but when this ill business is done, I shall have an answer.”
He urged his horse near Ulric, whose hood had fallen to his shoulders during the ride.
“Baron de Arell,” Bayard acknowledged the masked older man.
“How fares my son?”
“It has been quiet this past half hour, but I will not insult your good sense with the lie ’tis no cause for worry.” He glanced at the physician. “God willing, ’tis but a sign your son has found temporary relief.”
Senselessness only, Quintin determinedly named her husband’s silence.
“How are we to do this?” Father Crispin asked where he sat his horse alongside Ulric’s.
Bayard’s scope of vision limited by the loss of an eye, he turned his head slightly to answer. “With every appearance of compliance, my friend.”
