Weston gave him a bow from the neck. “That it has.”
Henry grinned magnanimously. “I received the writ saying you were wed and have come post haste to meet your lovely new bride,” he confessed. “God’s teeth, I thought never to see this day!”
Weston lifted a brow. “In truth, it may never have come but for your behest, though you need only have asked and I would have brought her to you, Your Majesty.”
Henry shrugged. “No need for such formalities after all these years, FitzStephen. Anyway, I had need of time away and have brought with me a guest besides.”
It was only then that Weston noticed the heavyset man, well into his older years, standing behind his king. Hair that was golden blond had receded until there was but a patch on either side of his head and a fringe of gold covered his chubby neck behind.
Henry waved the man forward. “This, my friend, is Baron Geoffrey Grey... grandsire to your ladywife.”
The man seemed uncertain of his welcome and despite Henry’s introduction, stood with eyes downcast.
Weston’s brow furrowed, studying the man. “I was unaware she had family other than a sister—who I’m aggrieved to say has passed less than a sennight ago.” He eyed Henry meaningfully, letting him know there was more to be told—later, once they were alone—and added, “There is a half brother as well.”
Grey’s gaze lifted in surprise. “A son?”
“Aye, it seems so, Sir Grey.”
“Acknowledged by Gilbert?”
“Not directly,” Weston said. “But when you consider the fact that he was the son of a common woman, taught the skills of a knight by Lontaine himself, you are led to believe Gilbert at least knew of him. And when you see the lad you will know immediately that he bears Gilbert’s blood.”
“Alas,” Grey said. “He would not bear my blood.” He sighed despondently. “Although I am an auld man and I have made many mistakes. If I can make amends that it is my greatest wish. I would meet him as well.”
Weston nodded. “I am certain your granddaughter will welcome you with open arms.”
Grey’s eyes glistened a bit. “Alas, she is now my only heir,” he revealed. “I welcome you as my new son.”
“Then you are welcome,” Weston said sincerely and hoped Chrestien would be as pleased as he was in her behalf.
* * *
During the commotion of settling the King’s men, Chrestien took the opportunity to sneak in a quick ride with Lightning—to clear her head.
It was not easy to put aside her bitterness over her father’s death and King Henry was—right or wrong—the man she held responsible.
As Weston’s wife, she would never disgrace him, but she knew she must the find the strength of will to embrace Henry or there would never be peace between them. Of a certain, she knew her father would never wish her discontent in her own home and despite his loyalty to the Duke, he would have put his animosity aside in order to smooth the way for her. Had he not already done so once for the sake of her mother?
Her grandsire had begrudged her mother a love match with her father and the instant her mother died, her grandsire had demanded the return of her dowry. Her father had complied at once, relinquishing all that he requested—for the sake of what was right and true.
That was what drove her now—the very same thing that had driven her father when he’d embraced Aubert, and Adelaine when she had accepted Aleth as her husband despite that she had barely known him. It was the right thing to do.
She had already prepared her father’s chamber for King Henry and she had ordered the preparation of a meal that should make her husband proud.
All that was left to do now was to set her mind right, and once it was and she had ridden her fill, she started back to the keep, hoping to return before her husband noticed she was gone.
The sun was setting and the meadow looked bleak and sad. Where once these parklands had offered her peace and strength, she had not found it today, despite the communion with her dear gelding. Today, she knew instinctively that the only peace and strength she would find lay there, within the walls of Lontaine, in the arms of a man she had once wanted so desperately to despise.
Reining in her mount, she stared at the fortress her father had once used to shield his daughters from the world at large—walls that he had kept immaculately. But not even those walls could keep the world at bay now that her father was gone.
It was time to embrace her fate, whatever and wherever it took her, and she realized she could bear anything with Weston at her side.
Butterflies erupted in her belly as she spied an approaching rider and thinking it was Weston, she braced herself to receive the brunt of his anger for leaving the castle walls without telling him.
Though as he neared, she realized it wasn’t Weston at all, and she thought at first that perhaps he had discovered her absence and sent someone to retrieve her.
This was a strange man clad in a rich blue tunic and mantle, carrying, of all things, a potted rose. His look was familiar, though had he not been carrying the rose, she might have been frightened. But the miniature rose, along with his resemblance to Aleth, gave his identity away. At once, she recalled him from her first visit to Lontaine. A smile came to her instantly, acknowledging his heartfelt gift, for despite that Adelaine was gone, he had kept his promise to her.
“I bring good tidings and a belated gift,” the man said with a smile.
“Dear Rolfe, you have my gratitude,” she told him. “Though I plan to put the rose upon Adelaine’s grave when I may.”
“I thought to do that myself,” he returned, “but in the end decided that honor belongs to ye, my lady.”
She peered about, searching for his men, searching for Aleth perhaps, but it seemed he had come alone. Chrestien wondered if he had come along with Henry and his men. Her brow furrowed. “Did you arrive with Henry perhaps?”
He shook his head, smiling as he neared. Once he was beside her, he handed her the rose, turning to look in the direction of Lontaine where the sun was setting behind the high tower.
It was then Chrestien spied the scar upon his cheek. It lay just below the high cheekbone and was pink and newly healed.
Aubert’s words came to her suddenly, ringing in her ears: ’Twas a nasty gash ye gave him, Chrestien—just below the eye. Another inch and ye would have plucked out his black eye.
She looked into his eyes. They were black.
“It was you,” she said with sudden comprehension.
Clearly, he understood what she was saying, for a wicked smile turned the corners of his mouth and without warning, he reached out to snatch her from her mount. The pot of roses fell from her grasp, crashing to the ground.
* * *
The great hall was filled to overflowing with the king’s company. There were more men about than it seemed possible for the moderate-sized hall to accommodate.
Weston eyed the circular staircase, hoping to see Chrestien emerge from the arched entrance. He knew she was no longer in her father’s chamber, because when he took Henry to it to show him where his quarters would be, he was surprised to find it impeccable and prepared with fresh rushes and new wood in the brazier. It was a gesture he didn’t mistake and appreciated beyond measure. He knew how difficult it must be to accept Henry into her good graces despite the enmity she must feel for him.
He’d thought to go up to her chamber and announce her grandsire’s arrival, but decided against it. She would still be angry, if he knew Chrestien—and he fancied he did. And he did not wish to subject her grandsire to an unseemly quarrel. Nay, it was better to give her time to calm herself and then reason with her later. But an hour had gone by without an appearance from her and Weston knew she must have heard the clamor below by now.
“Will my granddaughter be down soon? I am anxious to see her,” Grey asked.
“We didn’t come all this way just to see your pretty face,” Henry jested.
Michel laughed heartily, and Weston chuckled, motion
ing for Aubert to come up from the lower tables. “I was thinking the same. But never fear, I shall have her brother fetch her straightaway. ’Tis about time you met the lad.”
“Excellent,” Grey said, his eyes widening at Aubert’s approach. “Good God! He is indeed Gilbert’s son,” he said as Aubert stepped upon the dais.
Weston smiled knowingly. “Aubert, this man to my left is Chrestien’s grandsire, Baron Grey.”
Though surprise lit his eyes, Aubert acknowledged the older man with a smile and a tip of his head.
“We have much to speak about,” Grey interjected.
“I would have you fetch Chrestien,” Weston said, then drew Aubert closer and whispered for his ears alone, “Please tell her privately about her grandsire—that he has come. And tell her that, if she will but smile through this evening, I shall owe her her heart’s desire.”
“Do you mean to bribe her?” Michel teased, overhearing.
Weston frowned at his good friend. “We’ll not use that word, but aye, do it, Aubert.”
Aubert nodded, and made his way through the tangle of tables. As Weston watched him retreat, he dared to hope Chrestien would submit to this one request. His thoughts drifted to his wife as he’d left her in the morn.
He had not seen her since their argument and this moment, he craved her face more than he did his next breath. Impossible to have guessed how much she would come to mean to him and he knew in his heart that he would find a way to do all within his power to please her—unfortunately, that didn’t include keeping their guests out of her father’s chamber.
He winced as he recalled her anger, but it was followed quickly by a smile, for despite her fury, she had comported herself as a lady should, preparing her father’s room for their guest. For that, he would reward her generously… and he knew precisely how to please her… while pleasing himself in the meantime. He couldn’t wait to taste the nectar of her sweet body.
Henry’s voice broke into his reverie. “I can see you are quite contented, my friend. Do you thank me now, or will you be stubborn as ever and deny that you are pleased?”
“He will be stubborn, of course, Your Majesty,” Michel said, goading Weston, even in the presence of their king.
Weston took a swig of ale before answering, letting the curiosity fester. “Sorry to disappoint, but I will not be stubborn,” he imparted, eyeing Michel. Now that they were all face-to-face, he would know the truth. “But tell me, Your Majesty... what prompted you to command such an edict?”
Henry’s eyes twinkled. “Alas, as much as I know you would like to blame Michel, it was his idea originally.” He waved a hand at Baron Grey. “The man has no heirs. That is, no sons, and his eldest daughter died years ago in childbirth—her lord husband is a lily-livered coward.”
The baron sighed, and continued, “Alas, my second daughter perished of a wasting illness… and my third is pledged to the Church. I have been cursed, but the fault is my own.” His eyes fell into the goblet he held and he drained his cup, seemingly unable to continue.
Henry gave Weston a knowing look. “Chrestien’s mother was his fourth child, and until now… it seemed there would be no one to hold his title.”
“I am dying,” the old man said without preamble. “My days are marked.”
“I am sorry,” Weston offered.
“Do not be.” Grey set his goblet down and indicated for a servant to refill it. “I deserve all that I have been plagued with. The truth is I never acknowledged Elizabeth’s daughters,” he admitted with marked regret. “I never forgave Gilbert for her death. She was my favorite, you see. I let her marry de Lontaine because... well, because whatever my Elizabeth would ask of me, I could not deny her. And once she was gone from this life, I could not bear to be reminded of her.”
“Elizabeth was quite beautiful,” Henry interjected. “I cannot wait to see her daughter. In any case… Baron Grey needed a strong hand to protect his lands... and, well, you were as yet unwed. ’Twas destiny at hand,” he avowed. “For your letter arrived as the good baron and I were determining the girl’s future and the fate of his lands.”
“I have many regrets, FitzStephen. For one, would that I had come sooner,” Grey lamented. “For I wish I could have known Adelaine as well.” His eyes grew melancholy. “But what is done, is done, and I’d make it up to Chrestien... for all that I have done—and all that I have not done.”
Aubert appeared at Weston’s side then, without Chrestien and Weston immediately assumed she’d denied his request.
But Aubert’s grim expression told him there was more to the story. “She is gone,” he said, with a worried catch to his voice even before he reached the dais.
“What do you mean gone?” Weston repeated incredulously.
Aubert shook his head. “Not there, my lord. I was told she was seen leaving the castle more than two hours past.”
Weston launched from his seat. “I swear to God! I will have someone’s arse for not telling me sooner!” He shot out the door, retrieved his mount from the stable and stopped only long enough to question the gatekeeper. “Since my lady was a child, she has ridden out daily to visit the villein and to ride her gelding,” the gatekeeper said. “I did not believe there was aught amiss, my lord.”
“You'd best pray she finds herself well,” he told the man. The look on his face was full of fear, but Weston felt his own fear rise up from the pit of his belly.
Today was different, he sensed. Knowing they were expecting guests, she should have returned long before now. He did not believe she was so belligerent as to leave him to entertain their guests alone, no matter how she felt about the king.
The sky was darkening and the wind turned bitter. At heart he realized that it made little sense that she would plan a sumptuous meal and set Henry’s chamber to rights then miss the evening meal simply to spite him.
Something was wrong.
With a feeling of dread, Weston rode from the gates as though the devil himself were at his heels, taking the lead and leaving all in his wake as he rode.
The meadow was devoid of life. The parklands seemed forsaken beyond the glow of Lontaine's torches. A chill had entered the night air and the sky had darkened to violet against the horizon.
To his dismay, he found Lightning untethered by a small copse of trees, wandering alone. She would never leave him, he knew.
And then his heart stopped when he spied the red puddle on the ground a few yards away. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was not blood, but a rose.
Aubert reined in beside him, his face pale. “My lord… Chrestien would never abandon her horse.” He stared at the rose petals. “She’s in danger. I sense it.”
Henry, Michel, and Baron Grey surrounded him as the breeze picked up, causing the tiny petals to swirl into the breeze. As Weston stood there, watching their bright color stir from the colorless ground, he knew fear for the first time in his life.
* * *
The room was dark, lit only by a sliver of moonlight shining through a tiny tower window. But the silvery light fell well away from Chrestien, leaving her seated in the shadows and illuminating naught but a bare section of wall.
There was little she could see to help her determine her whereabouts. It was night, she knew, but that was all she could discern. But how long had she been here? She could not recall. Rolfe had cuffed her upon the head and then had carried her to some place she did not know. This was certainly not Lontaine, nor was it Montagneaux. And clearly, he had not been sent by Weston.
Instinctively, she tried to move her hand to soothe her aching head and it was then she realized her hands were bound with heavy rope. The coarseness of it bit into her benumbed flesh when she pulled at it and she resigned herself to the wait as she attempted to calm the melee in her head.
She concentrated on what she did know: She was lying upon a dirty bed in a dark room somewhere she didn’t recognize. It was night. Weston should by now have realized she was gone and he would be searching for her. Even if he
r absence from Lontaine did not sound alarm, they would find her mount and know she would never leave her cherished gelding. At least Aubert would know. And the villein would tell them that she had not visited them, for her mood had been too sour to afflict it upon the innocents.
How much time had passed?
Her belly grumbled fiercely in protest, although she could not say she was hungry in the least. In truth, she felt sick to her stomach and afraid for her life.
Mayhap Rolfe had not killed Adelaine with his bare hands, but he had certainly intended them harm—as he had the first time—and no one suspected him. But why? What had she done to him? Naught that she could discern. And Adelaine had spoken well of him, so he could have had no quarrel with her gentle sister.
The answers all eluded her.
But it wasn’t long before her captor made his appearance.
The door creaked in warning and Chrestien closed her eyes and prayed.
His footsteps were heavy. The sound echoed cruelly in her ears. When they stopped so near, she knew he was looking down upon her. Bright light danced beyond her closed lids. A rush of air fled past her cheek as something soft fluttered onto the bed.
Sweet Jesu, she prayed. Give me strength!
Somehow, despite her fear, she managed to peer through her lids just enough to see him hazily, but the slight flitter of her lashes gave her away, even in the grim shadows.
“So we’ve come back to the living, have we?” Rolfe’s voice was a sneer, and when she opened her eyes, she could see him clearly by the light of the pitch torch he held in his hand. The light brought swirls of color before her weary eyes.
“I thought I’d killed ye,” he said simply, without a trace of emotion. In fact, he sounded much as though he thought her more trouble than she was worth. “I’ve brought ye a change of clothing... there on the bed.” He indicated a pile of cloth that lay beside her.
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