William didn’t say anymore. He knew he should not be doing this, but he couldn’t stand to see her so unhappy. He pulled her to unsteady feet and half-carried her from the room. She was so exhausted that by the time they entered the corridor, he swept her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way back to the apartments. By the time they reached the warm, lavish chambers, she was asleep against him. She was exhausted, and so was he.
Leaving Avalyn with her very sympathetic aunt and oblivious cousins, William made excuses and went about his duties. One duty in particular.
*
“St. Alban,” Brogan said steadily. “What are you doing at my mother’s shop in the dead of night?”
The old man was in no mood for games or pleasantries. “Trouble, Brogan. Very big trouble. Where have you been?”
Brogan’s gaze moved between his stricken mother and the old man. “Out,” he said. “What trouble has happened?”
His mother sudden burst into sobs. “Ach sind, Brogan, die soldaten nachdem sie!”
Brogan looked at her. “What soldiers?”
“De Neville’s men,” St. Alban’s face was grim. “Brogan, what have you done? Where is Lady Avalyn?”
Brogan remained characteristically calm. He could see that he and Avalyn’s evening had not gone unnoticed and fear began to take hold in his belly. He suddenly very much wished he had not left her at the Tower.
“You will start from the beginning and tell me why you are here,” he said to St. Alban. “But first, I must get my daughter into bed.”
Mama Stark’s sobs instantly lessened in favor of blatant shock. Her big blue eyes widened to the point of bursting when Brogan shifted the bundle in his arms and a sleeping little face came into view. Tears forgotten altogether, Mama Starke raced to him, nearly bowling him over in her haste.
“Brogan, what is this?” she demanded, though not unhappily. “Was haben sie?”
Brogan gazed down at the child, a smile on his lips. What he said was loud enough for St. Alban to hear. “This is Lake du Brant d’Aurilliac. She is my daughter and Avalyn’s daughter. We plan to be wed tonight.”
St. Alban closed his eyes in sorrow, shaking his head and turning away as Mama Starke ignored the implications of that statement other than the fact that Brogan now had a daughter. Several hours of abject terror, caused by St. Alban’s appearance and explanation, were now vanished. She reached out a fat hand and touched the pale little cheek.
“Oh, Brogan, she is so lovely,” Mama became choked with emotion. “But I do not understand; how is she your daughter? You do not have a daughter. And she belongs to Lady Avalyn, too?”
Brogan shifted the baby and placed her in his mother’s arms. The old woman began to weep silently at the sweet presence of the baby and Brogan put his massive hand on her shoulder. “We found her starving in the streets,” he explained softly. “The other children were making her beg for coin and then beating her when she did not get any. Avalyn has decided to adopt her as our daughter.”
Mama Starke’s sobs grew. “Oh, mein liebling kleines baby,” she murmured. “Poor little thing. She is so tiny and helpless.”
“She is tiny, but she is anything but helpless,” he told her. “I am proud to call her my own and I would ask that you tend her until Avalyn and I return for her.”
Mama Starke tore her gaze away from the child. “You are leaving?” she fearfully looked at St. Alban. “But the soldiers are looking for you!”
Brogan looked at St. Alban also. The old man had seated himself back in the chair at the front of the shop, staring out of the front window. Brogan wasn’t sure he wanted to hear all of it but knew he had no choice. He patted his mother on the shoulder.
“Take her upstairs and put her to bed,” he commanded softly. “She is your baby now, too. Take great care of her.”
Mama Starke didn’t need to be told twice. She kissed the sleeping child on the cheek and carried her up the narrow steps to the second-floor chamber. Only when she was out of earshot did Brogan approach his old friend. He pulled up a three-legged stool from beside the hearth and sat, his big body tense.
“Now you will tell me everything,” he growled.
St. Alban sighed heavily; he looked far older than Brogan remembered. The old man shifted in the squeaky chair and looked up at him. “What is the meaning of that child?”
“You heard me. The lady and I have claimed her as our daughter. We plan to wed this night.”
St. Alban looked sick. “Do you have an idea how badly you have complicated things? You don’t need the added burden of a starving child to tend. And a wedding is out of the question.”
“My future plans are not your concern. Tell me what has happened.”
St. Alban lifted an eyebrow with a tinge of irony; what hadn’t happened this night? “De Neville’s knight came to me this evening looking for you. It would seem that Richard and Lady Avalyn’s fiancé were out scouring the town for the two of you and he wanted to know where you had gone so that he could find the lady before her enraged uncle did.”
Brogan gazed steadily at him. “And so they did not find us.”
“Brogan, did you even know the lady was betrothed?”
“I did, but it is an unwelcome one. She does not want it.”
St. Alban shook his head wearily. “It does not matter what she wants; the fact remains that she is contracted to another. You have no right to focus your attentions on her.”
Brogan’s jaw ticked. “I love her.”
“But she belongs to someone else!”
St. Alban was growing agitated. Not wanting to get into a verbal altercation with him, Brogan shifted the subject slightly. “Where are de Neville’s men now?”
He shrugged weakly. “Not being able to locate you or the lady, they have gone back to the Tower to wait. You cannot return to the barracks; they are waiting for you there, too. Where is the lady?”
“She has returned to her apartment.”
“Then they have her.”
Brogan stood up so swiftly that the stool toppled. “I must go and…”
“Nay,” St. Alban grabbed him before he could move away. “If you go to the Tower, they’ll kill you. Brogan, no matter how strong you are, they will overwhelm you by sheer numbers. I beg you; for your sake as well as the lady’s, do not go back to the Tower. You’ll be walking into your death if you do. Is that what you want?”
Brogan glared ferociously at the old man, but in the same breath, knew he spoke the truth. But he could not just stand by and do nothing, which was what St. Alban was asking him to do. Confused, furious, his big body began to twitch. That which he feared was coming to pass and he could see his entire life crumbling again before his eyes. But he fought it: this time, he would not give in so easily. He would fight.
“No,” he rumbled. “But I cannot stand by while they punish her. Is that what they are going to do? Punish her for being with me?”
St. Alban lifted his puffy shoulders. “I do not know,” he said truthfully. “The knight that came to me – Inglesbatch – seemed to be more sympathetic to the lady’s plight than spurred with the overwhelming need to see her punished. He convinced me to help him find the two of you so that he could intervene on the lady’s behalf. But we could not find you, no matter where we looked. So we returned to the Tower, and I came here alone, hoping to find you.”
Brogan’s face was taut with emotion, thinking on Avalyn at the mercy of her uncle. “You did not tell Inglesbatch of my mother’s shop?”
“Nay,” St. Alban shook his head slowly. “There was still a part of me that did not trust the man. He is, after all, de Neville’s knight.”
Brogan’s guard slipped just a little more. He sighed heavily and dropped his head, raking his fingers through his dark gold curls. After several painful moments, his head came up again. The dark blue eyes were dull with pain, sorrow.
“What do I do?” he murmured. “Tell me what to do.”
St. Alban felt the pangs of gri
ef from the man. Brogan had known so much heartache that the latest turn of events were as unexpected as they were unfair. He hated being so blunt with him, but it was necessary.
“Stay out of sight,” he advised him in a low voice. “Let me return to the Tower and see if I can find out what has happened. But you must stay well hidden. If de Neville’s men catch you, your life is forfeit. Do you understand me?”
Brogan nodded, dully. The deep blue eyes were dim with sorrow. “Why… wenn alle gut ist…”
“In a language I can understand, please.”
“I said, why, when all is well…,” Brogan shook his head, staring at the floor. “Why is God so determined to see me miserable? What have I ever done to deserve such special punishment?”
St. Alban put a meaty hand on the man’s shoulder. “You aim too high,” he hissed. “She is not meant for mortal man. You may as well have wished for the moon and stars as to set your sights on Avalyn du Brant.”
“But she loves me, too. She wants to marry me. What we feel, we feel together.”
St. Alban pursed his lips, knowing it was futile to argue with the man. There was no dissuading such strong emotion. “Be that as it may, it has gotten both of you into trouble.” He stood up, unsteadily, feeling his fatigue. But he felt useful, something he’d not felt in years. He had a mission, as dangerous as any he had ever faced in his youth, and he was eager to accomplish the task. “As for me, I will return to the Tower and see what I can discover. Perhaps I can contact Inglesbatch and he will be able to tell me something.”
Brogan stood up beside him, his expression full of angst and trepidation. “You will send word when you know something?”
The old man nodded, moving for the door. “When I know, I will send word to you.” He suddenly paused with his hand on the iron latch. “Do not leave this shop, Brogan. I implore you. Be patient and I will send word.”
Brogan’s jaw flexed. Though he knew the old man was correct, still, his instinct was to go charging into the Beauchamp Tower in search of Avalyn. It was near impossible for him to remain inactive.
“I will wait for news,” he finally agreed.
With a lingering glance, St. Alban quit the bread shop and disappeared into the night. Brogan stood there, watching him fade into the darkness, feeling more desolation than he had ever imagined possible. Somewhere, a night bird sang and he glanced into the dark sky, wondering if it was a bad omen. The door closed softly and he locked it. There was nothing left to do now but wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fat orange cat meowed loudly as its weary master came lumbering into the cold chamber. It was barely dawn as St. Alban closed the door behind him and went to the kindling box for a few sticks of wood. Tossing off his cloak, he went to the old fireplace and pushed the iron pot and arm out of the way so that he could start a blaze. The flint in his cold fingers sparked once, twice, before finally catching hold. In little time, there was a small warm glow in the soot-covered hearth and the old man continued to kneel before the fire, warming his hands and plotting his next move. The entire walk back to the Tower from the bread shop, he’d though of nothing else. When the cat rubbed against him demandingly, he scratched the fuzzy ears with affection.
“Well, my fat little friend,” he said to the animal. “Now he’s gone and done it. It seems our friend has a dilemma on his hands.”
“What dilemma is that?”
The voice came from the dimness. Startled, St. Alban held himself in check admirably as he turned to the source. Old knight reflexes had him remain cool even in the face of a threat. Inglesbatch sat in the shadows, in the chair so often used by Brogan. His round blue eyes were shadowed and his cheeks were unkempt with stubble. The man looked like he’d seen an active night.
“My lord,” St. Alban said steadily. “I did not see you when I came in.”
“I know,” William replied. “I meant that you should not.”
The old man stood up and brushed the soot off his hands. With effort, he moved to the nearest chair and lowered his bulk. When he faced Inglesbatch, it was with an expression that suggested he expected the worst. He braced himself.
“To what do I own the honor of your visit, my lord?” he said with more hospitality than he felt.
William shifted in the chair. “I come bearing a message for d’Aurilliac. I assume that you have seen him.” St. Alban hesitated to answer and William put up a calming hand. “Have no fear; I’m not here to cause trouble. I simply come with a message from my lady. I would prefer to deliver it to d’Aurilliac in person.”
St. Alban wasn’t sure if he should trust him or not. “Is she well?”
“Well enough,” William replied. “Considering she spent half the night being interrogated by her uncle and her intended’s captain. It was not pleasant.”
St. Alban tensed. “They did not injure her, did they?”
William paused just long enough to make St. Alban think that he was not telling the entire truth. “Nay,” William said. “But she is understandably exhausted and frightened. Which is why she sent me with a message for d’Aurilliac.”
“What is the message?”
“Are you offering to relay it, or do you simply wish to know?”
“Both.”
“An honest answer, my lord. And to that I will repeat that the lady asked me to give d’Aurilliac the message personally.”
St. Alban sighed. He was attempting to remain congenial, cooperative, but he did not want to give anything away.
“You will forgive me, Sir William, if I am reluctant to reveal Brogan’s whereabouts,” he said quietly. “You are, after all, de Neville’s knight. You could simply be using tactics to locate Brogan and I will not knowingly contribute to his capture.”
William’s blue eyes glimmered in the firelight. “Understood. But you must trust me when I tell you that I am only to deliver the message to d’Aurilliac, not to capture him. The deal the lady made with her uncle negates the need for capture.”
St. Alban didn’t like the sound of that at all. His flabby body tensed with consternation. “What does that mean?”
William’s expression lost some of its hardness. “Take me to d’Aurilliac. There is much he should know.”
St. Alban almost refused again. But there was something in William’s manner that suggested his request was sincere. Still, he would not be so foolish. “I will take you and you alone. We will not be followed or accompanied.”
“You have my oath.”
Being an honorable knight himself, St. Alban believed him. To date, Inglesbatch had been truthful and open. St. Alban had no reason to doubt him, other than he was sworn to de Neville.
“Where does your loyalty truly lie, Sir William?” he could not help himself from asking in a strangely pleading tone. “You should be blindly loyal to de Neville, yet you demonstrate your loyalty to his rebellious niece over all.”
William’s expression wavered slightly. “I am sworn to Richard de Neville, Earl of Warwick. I would defend the man to the death.”
“I was not attempting to insult your allegiance, Sir William. But if de Neville is intent on separating the lady and Brogan, you have made it clear that the lady has your sympathies. Or… do you seek to gain her trust only to betray her?”
William’s expression slackened further. “Of course not,” he said quietly. “Lady Avalyn and I have known each other for many years. She has always been extremely kind to me. I do not like seeing her so upset and I do not like the situation she has found herself in. I would help her, if only to deliver a message to someone she has already endured a great deal for.”
St. Alban watched the man’s features, the way his lips moved when he spoke of her. He didn’t know why he hadn’t sensed it earlier; the man was in love with her. There was no other explanation. For a man like Inglesbatch to have risen in the ranks of The Kingmaker, his abilities were beyond question. He had to be a strong, cunning man. But it was evident that even though his loyalty was with de Neville, h
is heart was with the niece. It made for an interesting situation. And strangely, it made St. Alban trust him.
“William,” St. Alban lowered his voice, acquiring a tone of familiarity. “There are things you should know before you proceed. I am not entirely sure how this situation veered so far out of control, but the lady and Brogan were indeed together tonight. Though they did nothing immoral or questionable that I was able to determine, they did pledge their love to one another and agree to marry.”
William didn’t flinch, though his stomach lurched. He let out a sigh, running his fingers through his dark, somewhat messy, hair. “But they have only just met. How can they…?”
St. Alban put up a hand. “Love is a strange thing. Sometimes it takes minutes, sometimes it takes years. With Brogan and the lady, the attraction was instant. But there is more.”
William’s eyebrows lifted. “What more could there be?”
“They adopted an orphan. A little girl, absolutely beautiful. They plan to marry and raise her as their own.”
William just stared at him. His choice was to either explode like a father or sink like a jilted lover. For a long, heavy moment, the revelation hung between them. After a moment, William simply hung his head.
“A family,” he murmured. Then his head came up, an ironic smile on his lips. “So Avie finally has her family.”
“What do you mean?”
“Precisely that,” William sighed heavily. “She lost her parents at a very young age, and in spite of living with her aunt and uncle, she always felt as if she lacked a true family. Now… now she is apparently trying to make one with d’Aurilliac.”
St. Alban didn’t reply for a moment. In faith, he was he wasn’t sure what to say. But what eventually came out was the truth. “Brogan lost his wife to childbirth eleven years ago. Then, three months ago, his young son was killed. The man has not been the same since. The night he met the lady, he was contemplating taking his own life because the pain was just too great. Lady Avalyn saved his life, William. Perhaps he has saved hers a little bit as well.”
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