Tender is the Knight (32 page)

The bailey of Abergavenny was a muddy, cold thing. St. Maur’s army still waited in the countryside beyond, ready to move on to their next destination.  Overhead, dark clouds began to gather and
Dennis could smell a storm approaching as he mounted Bucephalus.  Charlotte mounted her own weary steed beside him and barked orders to the St. Austell men congregated in the ward.  Slowly, they mobilized, but their exhaustion was evident.

“The men are spent,
Dennis,” she said, knowing the words would be futile. “We have marched all the way from London in five days. Can we not rest at least a few hours?”

Above his apprehension,
Dennis knew that an extended rest was in order for his men. But he himself was fresh and quite determined to move ahead.

“If you must,” he said quietly. “But it is my intention to ride to Launceston immediately. You may catch up to me if you are so able.”

“We can’t catch up to you at the pace you will set and well you know it,” she shot back. “Why are you so determined to ride to your death? Do you think that, in any way, will help Ryan? Christ, you are as stubborn as she is!”

Dennis
’ head jerked to his sister, lightning flashing in the stormy gray eyes. “I would not have to ride at all if you had only done as I asked and protected my wife.”

He might as well have struck her; no one, save
Dennis, felt Ryan’s loss more than she. Charlotte stared at him a long, cold moment. “If you hadn’t left in the middle of the night like a coward, none of this would have happened.”

She meant to hurt him as he had hurt her.  They were petty children casting blame, and the air between them could not have been more hostile. 
Dennis could have quite easily taken her head off, but it was not in his nature to react violently with his sister.  It was, however, extremely difficult for him to hold his tongue. Knowing it would be better to keep silent lest he verbally harpoon her, he dug his spurs into Bucephalus’ sides and drove his excited steed through the great gate of Abergavenny Castle.

Charlotte watched him go, blinking back the tears. “Damnation,” she hissed. Then she called after him. “
Dennis, I am sorry. I did not mean….”

She trailed off as Bucephalus’ great hindquarters disappeared from view.  Exhausted, emotionally spent, Charlotte knew that the only place for her was at her brother’s side.  If he was going to die at the hands of the
Earl of Cornwall, then it was her duty to be by his side, come what may. She turned to the men assembling slowly behind her.

“I ride with
Dennis,” she snapped. “Rest until the noon meal, then proceed to Launceston with all haste. Send a man to St. Austell to tell them what has happened and to send reinforcements on to Launceston. We may need all of the support we can muster.”

The sergeant in charge of the men nodded to her orders and began barking commands even as she turned for the gate.  The very last sight Charlotte remembered was of Clive, standing pale and strong, watching her as she thundered beneath the portcullis.  She wished she could have muttered a few parting words to him, but there wasn’t time. Her brother was on a mission to kill himself and there was no time, however short and sweet, to waste.

Clive and Riston stood on the steps of the keep, listening to the last of few echos of Charlotte’s determined ride as she cleared the gatehouse.  Their expressions were nothing short of grim, for they better than anyone knew the odds of seeing Dennis alive again.

“Christ,” Riston hissed. “How did this all become so complicated?”

Clive was chewing his lip furiously. He grunted and turned away from Riston. “I do not care what Dennis says. I am riding with them.”

He stepped off the stair and into the muddy ward below.  Riston watched him go; he, in fact, would have liked to have gone, too, but it was more important that he stay with St. Maur. He waited until Clive thundered from the stables on his charger before calling out to him. 

“De Camville!” he shouted.

Clive reined his steed to a nervous halt; he was dressed to the hilt in armor and weapons and it was apparent he was ready to do substantial battle. Riston had known the man for eleven years and he knew he had never seen him look so formidable, nor so determined.

“My suggestion would be discretion,” Riston said seriously. “Dennis does not want you with him. He will refuse your aid. You must stay to the shadows.”

Clive’s eyes were bright behind his lowered visor. “That will not be easy.
Dennis has the hearing of a bat. He will suspect he is being followed, and further suspect it is either you or I.”

Riston nodded. “More than likely. But he may be so preoccupied with confronting the earl that his attention may be diverted and you can follow unnoticed.”

“I shall do my best.”

Clive spurred his charger forward. Riston watched him go, gradually aware that St. Maur and Hastings were standing over his shoulder doing the same.  It was a strangely tense group, anticipation of what was to come hanging heavy in the air.  Riston looked at both men, the confidence in his bright blue eyes belying the utter dread he was feeling. 

“There is no man on earth who can best Dennis d’ Vant,” he said. “Woe to the earl for his treachery.”

Hastings shook his head.
“Strange predicament. Fighting for the king, yet battling the king’s brother.  And Richard and Henry are not even at odds. Very, very strange.”

“Greed creates strange enemies and alliances, m’lord.”

Hastings could hardly disagree. St. Maur, his neck still red from Dennis’ assault, trudged off into the muddy bailey.  He did not have much to say about it, like the others, but in truth he was nearly as concerned as they were. Still, he had pressing matters at hand.

“We are due at
Cydwilly, De Titouan.”

Riston moved in behind him. “Payn,” he said carefully. “It will take St. Austell troops some time to reach Launceston and protect
Dennis.”

“I cannot be concerned with that.”

Riston’s inherently sly character emerged to its fullest. “But St. Austell is now garrisoned for the king. The kings troops are stationed there.”

“And?”

“And you also command the king’s troops. What difference would it make if the troops from St. Austell or your own support Dennis?”

St. Maur came to a dead stop. He looked at Riston as if the man had gone mad. “Are you suggesting we follow
d’ Vant to Cornwall to…?”

“Support him, aye,” Riston finished for him.
“Why in the hell not? He ended your siege within three weeks of his arrival. I should think you’d be willing to repay the favor.”

It was meant to make St. Maur feel guilty and did not go unnoticed; they both knew that Riston was right.  St. Maur growled, turned away, and continued his march across the bailey with Riston in close pursuit.

“You are insane,” St. Maur snarled at him. “We are due at Cydwilly, not Cornwall.”

“The sooner you help
Dennis, the sooner he will return to your command.”

“
I am
not
going to lay siege to Launceston.”

“And the
Earl of Cornwall would be foolish to launch an offensive against his brother’s troops. Can’t you see the beauty of this? A show of force is all Dennis needs to regain his wife without any bloodshed.”  He quickened his pace and ended up nearly blocking St. Maur’s path. “The earl will think that Dennis has brought the entire crown to support him. He’d be a fool not to release Lady d’ Vant!”

St. Maur threw up his hands and walked around him. “
You are a damn annoying gnat, De Titouan!”

“And I intend to buzz until you comply.”

“I shall swat you first!”

Riston grinned and kept following.

***

Day, night, night, day… they all seemed to blend into one another.
Ryan’s entire world was a dark, musty thing revolving around the dark, musty innards of Usk. She had tried to keep track of the days by scratching lines on the wall of the vault, but she only had eight days marked and she knew she had been held captive longer than that.  It seemed like an eternity.

Miguel sat with her every day, for hours on end, but she
would not talk to him. He had brought her all the comforts he could possibly supply; a great bed, clothes, linens, even a great basin in which she could bathe. He even had servants tending her day and night. But the one luxury he would not supply was her freedom, or even a room with a window. He was convinced that the only place for her was the vault, for she was wily enough that any small window would give her an opportunity for escape.  He did not trust her as far as he could throw her and he’d be damned if he was about to let her slip from his fingers, not when he was becoming so fond of her.

And this fondness was the reason he had not yet sent word to
Dennis d’ Vant that his wife was being held captive; all that talk of bringing Dennis to him had faded. He pretended at times he had never even uttered those words, for the truth was now that he did not care if he killed d’ Vant or not. He simply wanted Ryan, to get to know her, to warm her to him. D’ Vant’s murder would be a distraction and a burden, and, contrary to his resolute character, he realized that his motivations were changing.  He wanted Ryan all for himself, no diversions, distractions, or otherwise.

But
Ryan certainly wasn’t fond of him. She had come to cringe at the sound of his voice, or gag at the smell of his musk.  She could hear him approaching from a distance, his bootfalls echoing against the algae-covered walls of her prison, and in every instance she felt furious and ill at the same time.  She had virtually stopped eating because her stomach was churning so that she almost always vomited her meals up, and she had lost a substantial amount of weight as a result. Her luscious amber hair was dull, and the golden-brown eyes perpetually sad. It wasn’t so much that she was languishing as a result of her imprisonment; it was the fact that Dennis, wherever he was, had a madman plotting his death.

She slept constantly too.  Miguel had put a large copper brazier in the corner of her cell, which gave off a good deal of heat to stave off the damp moisture, but still her lungs had been constantly congested and her health was deteriorating. Miguel knew this; she was as pale as a ghost and lacking any energy. It was now a perpetual struggle for him not to give in to her condition and allow her the light and comfort of the keep.

It was well into the third week of her captivity.  As was his usual habit, Miguel rose before sunrise and personally supervised the preparation of Ryan’s breakfast.  Porridge, honey, bread and milk was the usual fare, but more often than not she did not touch it.  Dutifully, he carried it down to the dark vault of Usk with the aid of a serving woman.  The woman opened the grate leading to Ryan’s cell, returning the key to Miguel as his familiar bootfalls echoed against the old dirty walls. Ryan was asleep when he reached her, rolled up in a coverlet stuffed with goose feathers. She sniffled and coughed as Miguel gently roused her.  When the golden brown eyes lolled open and she saw that it was him, her frigidity was immediate.

“Good morning,
mija
,” he said pleasantly.  “I have brought your meal.”

Her reply was to roll away from him.  Miguel’s warm expression wavered and he sent the servant woman away.  Slowly, he sat on the small cushioned stool he had brought down from the bedchamber himself. Glancing around her dank, terrible prison, he could hardly blame her mood.

“No smile for me today?” he said softly. “Pity. I have not seen you smile since… well, since the first day I met you. I miss that smile very much.”

Ryan
was very much awake, staring at the wall of the vault in front of her.  As usual, she refused to answer him. Unless he was prepared to release her and apologize for ever threatening to kill her husband, she had absolutely nothing to say. Miguel knew this; he slithered off the stool and onto his knees, slowly approaching the bed. Her silence, through the weeks, was very much coming to bother him.

“
Ryan, I know you are ill and upset,” he said. “But you must understand that I mean you no harm. When all of this is over, you will see that my only concern was indeed of you.”

Facing the wall,
Ryan rolled her eyes.
Liar!
her mind screamed.  She wanted very badly to retort, but her oath of silence prevented it. He would stop talking, eventually, and leave her alone. To respond to him would undoubtedly invite a long, bitter conversation and she simply wasn’t in the mood.

Miguel knew her thoughts, at least in general. He knelt beside the bed, his big hand hovering just above her shoulder.  Gently, his hand brushed her. “Please,
mija
, if you would only…”

Ryan
leapt as if she had been stabbed. She pulled away from him violently, her face flushed and her long hair askew. Stumbling off the bed, she put as much distance as she could between her and Miguel.

“
Do not touch me,” she hissed. “Do not ever touch me again!”

Miguel stood up, watching her truly sorrowful eyes. “
I am sorry,
mija
, truly,” he said. “I only meant to give comfort.”