“Your uncle is looking for you, my lady,” he said in a deep, unsympathetic voice. “I am to escort you back.”
Avalyn could have done one of two things at that moment; she could refuse, or she could go with him. How she behaved could very well dictate how Brogan behaved as well, for already she could feel him tensing against her. Rather than to create a scene and invite possible bloodshed, she slipped her hand from Brogan’s elbow and moved towards Inglesbatch. She put herself between the men in a calculated move; William would not move for Brogan if she was in the way. There was nothing else, in her opinion, that she could have done at the moment.
“Very well,” she said compliantly, turning to Brogan as if he was an afterthought. “Thank you for the escort, my lord. A very good day to you.”
Inglesbatch bailed of his charger, his blue eyes shooting daggers at Brogan. He took possessive hold of the lady’s arm and, in that instant, it took all of Brogan’s self control not to charge the man. The sudden appearance had been shocking enough, but now that he’d had a moment to let it sink in, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to let the lady go. When William turned his back on him in order to help Avalyn mount, Brogan clenched and unclenched his fists and prepared to charge. But Avalyn caught his gaze over the top of William’s shoulder and she shook her head, a hard snap that begged him not to do anything foolish. Their gazes locked, and he could see that she was as reluctant to go as he was to let her. But another flick of her gaze, which he followed, showed that there were several De Neville knights and soldiers surrounding them.
He knew she was going because she had to. It did not occur to him until later that she left because she was trying to save his life. There was no doubt the de Neville men would have cut him down and called it justice. So Brogan stood there, unmoving, like a massive statue in the middle of the avenue as Inglesbatch mounted behind Avalyn and took off in the direction of the Tower. The surrounding de Neville men, with the green crest emblazoned upon their saddle blankets and tunics, brought up the rear in a thunderous retreat.
As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone, leaving Brogan standing in their dust. It was a disappointing end to a spectacular morning.
CHAPTER FOUR
Seated on a sagging chair that had seen far too much weight put upon it during its lifespan, St. Alban watched his young friend pace around their unspectacular chamber. It was not like Brogan to pace; the man was consummately controlled and usually unflappable. But something had him stirred today, and he was displaying as much passion as St. Alban had seen from him in a very long time. A few brief words from Brogan when he had returned to their apartment gave St Alban an inkling as to what it was.
“You promised me that you were going to stay away from her,” he said casually. “It’s a miracle that Warwick’s men did not cut you down on the spot.”
Brogan’s eyes narrowed. When he was angry, his accent became heavier, making him more difficult to understand. “They were armed. I was not. She got on a knight’s charger and rode away.”
“She had no choice, I am sure,” St. Alban said. “She probably saved your life by doing so.”
Brogan wandered over by the hearth, picking up the poker and toying with it angrily. “Wenn ich eine Waffe gehabt hatte, hätte ich sie alle getötet.”
“In a language I can understand, please.”
“I said, if I’d had a weapon, I would have killed them all.”
“How many were there?”
“A dozen or so.”
St. Alban cocked a bushy eyebrow. “You’re good, Brogan, but you’re not that good. Whatever you could have accomplished by sheer brute strength, those men would have overwhelmed you by sheer number.” He stood up from the chair, his joints creaking with age. “I have told you this since the beginning. She is Warwick. You must stay away from her.”
“I do not want to stay away from her.”
St. Alban knew that. He softened his approach, knowing that he could not bully Brogan into submission. “Then tell me; should you fight so hard just to be with her, what do you intend to do with her? Marry her? Surely you cannot be considering anything so outlandish.”
Brogan’s anger seemed to shift into something of frustration and confusion. He tried to look at his mentor but found he could not meet the man’s gaze. They both knew how foolish he was acting.
“I do not know,” he said. “All I know is that I want to be with her. I want to hear her laughter and listen to her speak. Is that so wrong?”
It wasn’t. St. Alban shuffled towards him, putting a fat hand on his shoulder. “It is not wrong, but she is out of your league, lad. I am most sorry to acknowledge that. You may as well wish for the stars.”
Brogan just stood there, staring into the flame. “I have had everything that I love taken from me.”
It was the first thing Brogan had ever said to that regard. St. Alban knew how hard it was for the man to voice his feelings. It had been a horrible three months for them both. His sympathy for the man, for the situation, deepened.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I am glad this lady has brought a spark back to your life. But just like an angel, she’s not meant to stay. She belongs elsewhere. Now that your spark has been rekindled, seek someone suitable to share it with.”
“You mean someone who is not Warwick.”
“I mean that they will kill you if you continue to pursue her, Brogan. I have no desire to bury you. And I’m fairly certain that your death would destroy your mother.”
Brogan’s anger faded with that simple statement. He knew it would destroy his mother, also. He set the poker aside and wandered over to a big wooden chair, the only chair in the room that was able to hold his massive weight. As Brogan lowered himself onto the seat, St. Alban’s fat orange cat rubbed against his leg, purring madly, and he reached down to pet the furry beast. All the while, his mind was tumbling with thought and angst.
“She saved my life,” he finally said.
St. Alban’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He gave the cat one last pet. “Just that. The night I was on the bridge… I had decided not to live any longer. I did not want to. But she stopped me from completing the task of selbstmord. She saved my life, even though she thinks that I saved hers.”
The old man’s eyes closed briefly, painfully. He had suspected something of that nature that night when Brogan had wandered off. His depression over his son had gotten worse and worse. No one could help him or ease his pain, though St. Alban had tried. To hear it from his lips, however, made it a shocking admission.
“Brogan,” he went to his young friend. “You must never try anything like that ever again. Suicide is not the answer, lad. You will never see your son again if you do that. There are special places in hell reserved for those who would reject God’s gift of life. You know this.”
Brogan shook his head, clumsily. “It does not matter. It could be no worse pain than I am feeling right now.”
St. Alban stood in front of him, now kneeled down beside him. “But don’t you see? God was speaking to you last night. The fortuitous appearance of Lady Avalyn simply proves that. God was telling you not to despair. Good things will come back to you, Brogan. You must have faith.”
Brogan looked at him, the deep blue eyes full of anguish. “He brought me a lady I can never have.”
“He brought you a lady that showed you that you can, and will, feel happiness again.”
“But I want her.”
“She is out of your reach.”
The exchange was softly, urgently spoken, words overlapping. Then they gazed at each other in some bizarre standoff. Brogan finally stood up and went for the door, leaving St. Alban and the cat confused in the wake of such a rapid departure.
“Where are you going?” St. Alban demanded.
Brogan grabbed the iron latch on the door so hard that he partially dislodged it. Realizing his frustration had translated into unnatural strength, he rattled the broken latch a couple of times.
>
“I am going for a walk,” he rumbled.
The door flew back on its hinges and he disappeared into the dim corridor beyond. As quickly as his tired old body would allow, St. Alban stood up and hobbled to the open door. The cat scooted under the bed.
“Stay away from the river!” he shouted down the hall.
The only reply that came back was an unintelligible grunt.
*
Strangely, neither her aunt nor uncle had said anything to her about being with d’Aurilliac. From the moment Inglesbatch escorted her back to the apartments, Anne and Richard had been oddly silent on the matter. They spoke of the feast that night, of the duke’s enormous holdings, a minor skirmish in France, and little else. The lack of condemnation for her actions had translated into a very odd afternoon.
Avalyn sat most of the afternoon in the bed chamber she shared with her cousins, listening to the girls rattle on about the feast that night. Isobel, the lovelier of the two, literally took hours to plan her wardrobe. As Avalyn tried to concentrate on the needlepoint framed on an elegant loom, she alternately paid attention to the butterfly she was sewing and to Isobel’s fussing. Petite and curvaceous, with brown eyes and brown hair, Isobel looked a great deal like her mother, whereas Anne, a little taller and very thin, had the reddish hair of their father.
“Avie,” Isobel’s tone could sound as if she was whining at times. “What do you think? The dark blue or the aubergène?”
Over at the wardrobe, Anne snorted. “It is a normal shade of purple.”
Isobel’s dark eyes flashed at her sister. “Aubergène!”
Avalyn grinned as she put another yellow stitch on the butterfly. “I like the purple.”
Isobel’s nostrils flared. “Aubergène!” she corrected her cousin and sister imperiously. But her manner softened as she picked the surcoat up and examined herself in the mirror of polished bronze. “It is rather comely, isn’t it? Fit for a duchess?”
Avalyn paused at her loom. “Most definitely. You are very beautiful in it.”
Isobel smiled at her reflection and finally at her cousin before going on a rampage and yelling for servants. Even though it was several hours yet until the feast, she was convinced it was never too early to begin dressing. Avalyn and Anne exchanged amused glances and went about their tasks, watching as Isobel had fits and seizures because something wasn’t exactly to her liking. It was pure entertainment.
Serving women brought rosewater and heating irons and other beauty implements for Isobel. The lady had very long, straight brown hair that did not hold a curl very well and she would howl when her hair fell straight after so much work. Eventually, they were able to force her hair to hold a curl and she was quite pleased with the results so long as she didn’t touch it. Touching it was grounds for immediate collapse of the hair. She was ready for the feast long before anyone else.
Anne was the next to dress, in yellow brocade, while Avalyn finished shortly thereafter. She was dressed in a dark green satin with a softer green wool surcoat, the color which set off her magnificent eyes. Her hair was pulled away from her face with a green-painted comb, and a belt of rough uncut green stones with gold links hung around her slender waist. As much as her cousins tried to fancy themselves, they could not complete with Avalyn. No woman could. She was, in a word, breathtaking.
When the dressing was complete and the girls gathered in the lavish sitting room to await escort, Richard and Anne appeared from their own bedchamber. The great double-doors from their bedchamber opened outward into the sitting room, and they appeared resplendent in their finery and jewels. Nothing but the best for the De Nevilles, as Richard wore a very heavily embroidered tunic over the finest woolen hose. A heavy chinked belt hung about his waist and a beautiful bejeweled dagger hung from that. He looked every inch the sixteenth Earl of Warwick, the latest in a long line of Warwick nobles. Anne, beside him, wore the latest fabric from Italy, a divinely soft and luxurious material called velvet. It was new to England and only the very rich had access to the spectacular bolts form across the channel. Anne’s surcoat was extremely heavy, in a rich burgundy red, and she was sure to be the envy of every woman at the feast.
There were servants in the sitting room lighting fat white tapers that cast the opulent room in a golden glow. The sun had nearly set and night cloaked the land, entertaining shadows from the half moon. As two ladies in waiting helped Anne with her equally heavy cloak, several maids brought forth cloaks for the girls. Isobel fussed with her hair as the maid tried to strategically position the collar of her cloak, while young Anne simply slung hers over her shoulder.
Avalyn settled her green brocade cloak over her shoulders, tying the strips of fabric at her neck to keep it secure. All the while, she kept her gaze on her aunt and uncle, wondering when they were going to explode at her for disobeying them. But they pretended as if nothing in the world was wrong. Uncle Richard even took Avalyn’s hand upon his arm and escorted her from the apartment. Inglesbatch and his men were out in the hall, an escort already formed. Though William politely greeted her, she deliberately ignored him.
The Martin Tower was not far from where they were residing. The grounds of the Tower could be a confusing maze of halls and rooms, so it was fortunate they did not have to travel far. As their party approached, Avalyn saw the warm glow from the windows of the downstairs hall, inviting them in. Already she could hear the laughter and the clink of cups and pitchers as the drink flowed freely. When they finally crossed a small courtyard and entered the hall from the outside, they were met with the warmth and fragrance of a grand banquet already in progress.
Soft music played. Servants took their cloaks and whisked them away. Richard dropped Avalyn’s hand and went to his wife, and the two of them lowered their voices and wandered into the crowd beyond. Anne followed her parents while Isobel hung back with Avalyn, wrapping her hands around her cousin’s arm and leaning in close.
“Look, Avie,” she whispered. “When I marry the Duke, all of this shall be mine. Is that not exciting?”
Avalyn smiled at her very materialistic cousin. “Of course, my angel,” she said. “But… are you truly happy about this? After all, the Duke is… well, he’s old. And I’ve heard he can be unpleasant. Does that not concern you?”
“Of course not. He can be whatever he pleases so long as he gives me money to spend and doesn’t expect too much.”
Avalyn lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Isobel wrinkled her nose. “You know… wifely things. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
Apparently, her cousin had a rather twisted view of marriage. “It does not matter how you feel. He is your husband and may do as he pleases.”
Isobel just snorted. “Perhaps I will get pregnant on our wedding night and he will leave me alone thereafter.”
An idiotic plan, Avalyn thought, but she didn’t say anything. She looked around the room, noting the rich and powerful therein. Slender tapers burned bright in the faces of the gathered nobles, most of them men, but some of them women. A few husbands and wives sat about. Her gaze fell on a particularly amorous couple.
“But what of love?” Avalyn asked softly, her eyes lingering on the distant pair. “Do you not hope to love him some day?”
Isobel looked at her as if she was mad. “I will not love him. Perhaps I will take a lover over time, but he shan’t know about it.”
Avalyn looked sharply at her. “A lover?” she shook her head. “Why on earth are you marrying him, Issi?”
Isobel turned her nose up. “There is more value to money and power than love, Avie. You know that better than any of us.”
Avalyn fell silent. Aye, she’d known that up until last night. She’d never thought of loving a man in her life until she met Brogan. Not that she loved him; at least, she didn’t think so. But he made her feel differently than anyone ever had. He was kind and warm and powerful, and his deep blue eyes made her heart leap crazily. She was coming to understand that, perhaps, things s
uch as love and romance could be possible. She honestly never thought she was capable of such thoughts because she’d never had anyone stir them in her.
The family took their seats at one of the three massively long tables that lined the dining hall. The Duke of Clarence sat several chairs away, surrounded by his favorites, and his small brown eyes focused on De Neville’s girls. She recognized the man on his right, Thomas Howard, the Earl of Norfolk, but she only vaguely recognized the man on his left. It took her a moment to realize it was Sir Charles Aubrey, a land-wealthy baron from Merseyside. She had seen him before at different gatherings, a young man who looked far older than his years due to his poor diet and fat belly. She had caught him staring at her several times, but she made a point not to react. She didn’t like the way he stared at her and she did not want to encourage him.
The servants brought wine, filling everyone’s chalices to overflowing. After a good deal of liquor and conversation, the food was finally brought forth and had all of the earmarks of a lavish party: painted peasant, almond-milk puddings with raisins and raspberries, almond paste subtleties, boiled vegetables, and a variety of white breads. It was a feast of uncommon proportions.
When the breads were brought around, Avalyn thought of Brogan’s mother. Compared to what she made, these loaves were tasteless and dull. But she ate what she could, not having much of an appetite. Isobel, however, was stuffing herself silly and young Anne would eat only the puddings. Avalyn sat between the two of them, eventually just nursing her wine and wondering how she was going to break free from this pack. She wondered if Brogan would even be there to meet her after her rude departure that afternoon. She couldn’t imagine that he would not be, but he may have decided she was too much trouble. De Nevilles usually were.
Even if he was not waiting, she still planned to leave. She really did want to see an entertainment, though it would be considerably less enjoyable without Brogan to share it with. More wine was brought out, and even more food, this time in the form of pastries. Everyone was loud, eating happily and laughing. Avalyn’s gaze scanned the room, as was habit with her; she liked to see who was around, who was friend and perhaps who was foe. Uncle Richard had instilled that particular trait in her. From what she could see around the well-lit, warm room, everyone was a friend. She recognized most.
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