Valentine (26 page)

“What?” Mary said, her heart stopping for an instant.

“I take it you didn’t find your man,” Father Braund said, his voice heavy with regret. “I’d hoped when I heard the lord was in pursuit . . . But he’s gone north to Benningsgate Castle, the seat of the Earl of Chase.”

“I don’t understand,” Mary said.

“Benningsgate is the home of Constantine Gerard. He’s one of—”

“I know who he is.” Now Mary’s heard pounded with the intensity of a war drum. “When is Lord Felsteppe to return?”

Father Braund shook his head. “The castle is only a half-day’s ride from Beckham Hall. Perhaps as early as the morning.”

Mary tried to figure in her head the distance to Oxley, in the opposite direction from Benningsgate Castle. Beckham Hall lay almost precisely in the middle of the two.

Who would reach Mary first—Valentine or Glayer Felsteppe?

Only a moment ago, it seemed, Mary had wanted nothing more than to seek her own bed and cry for days. But now Valentine’s safe escape from England depended on her vigilance. She must be ready for his arrival, whether before or after Glayer Felsteppe’s own. If she could not secret him away without her betrothed’s knowledge, Valentine could very easily wind up dead.

“I need a maid for a bath,” Mary said to the priest. “Please wake one of your choosing, for her swiftness and aptitude. Tell her she may return to her bed when I have been served. I know you have been ill, but I need you to stay close to me this night, Father Braund. In the chapel below, if you would, and with my papers beneath your very hand.”

“Of course, Lady Mary. But—”

“I did find my man,” Mary clarified. “And if we are not very careful, everything I have done will have been for naught, and I might as well never have left Beckham Hall, for I will be as good as dead, as will be an innocent man.”

 

The blond woman looked at Glayer Felsteppe with a haughtiness that made him itch to wipe the beautiful smirk off her face.

With a blade.

“I don’t know who this Valentine Alesander is,” she said, as if the name were a foul taste on her tongue. “I’ve never met him. The earl never mentioned him. I would not allow an unknown man into my home while my husband was away.”

“I regret to report that I have heard otherwise,” Glayer informed her with a slow smile. Constantine Gerard’s wife was an incomparable beauty—and she clearly enjoyed the riches of her station, if her home and the perfection of her gown and jewels were any indication. She seemed no worse for the wear of not having seen her husband in two years. “Might I be so redundant as to point out that I am standing here?”

“I felt I had no choice, once I heard who you were,” she allowed with a delicate arched brow. It was clear that she thought herself Glayer’s better, a countess addressing the lowly soldier who accused her husband.

“True, true,” Glayer conceded. “And what would you care, really? Your life has not changed since your husband all but killed his own men in Jerusalem. Betrayed the king. Here you are, outfitted as royalty.”

“I care because my son has no father, and my house is now tainted by the accusations against my husband,” the woman spat. “Constantine’s absence has little bearing on my station. Benningsgate is my family home, whether he holds title or no. I told him not to go. But he had an overwhelming desire for one final turn on the battlefield.” Her eyes sparkled, but Glayer was unsure whether it was with sorrowful tears or anger.

“So you feel he is innocent.”

“Constantine may be many things,” Patrice Gerard allowed wryly, “but disloyal is not one of them.” She looked away for a moment, and Glayer found that the tears were sorrowful. He was disappointed. “Now, if that is all, Lord Felsteppe, it is late, and I would retire.”

Glayer felt old, familiar anger bubbling up inside him at the off-hand manner with which she wanted to dismiss him. As if he were nothing but another of her servants.

“Your son,” he began, helping himself to a carafe of wine as if she hadn’t spoken, “how old is he now?”

“That is none of your affair,” Patrice said.

“If I remember correctly, he is called Christian. Rather ironic now, wouldn’t you say?”

She only stared at him, loathing in her eyes. Perhaps he should have taken time to change into a richer costume. Perhaps then she would have spoken to him more kindly, as her equal.

Now she would see before the night’s end that he was not her equal. He was her better.

“Get out,” she said levelly.

Glayer took a large drink directly from the container and then smacked his lips with a sigh. Resting the carafe on his hip, he took a slow turn about the large drawing room, admiring the rich tapestries and furnishings.

“Any man would be a fool to leave a home such as Benningsgate,” he said aloud while paying particular attention to a tall metal urn, bearing the Chase coat of arms. He tossed Patrice a smile over his shoulder. “And such a beautiful wife.”

Her face showed no appreciation for his compliments, and Glayer felt his rage building, although he made very sure to keep it hidden.

“I think,” he said slowly, pensively, as he completed his circuit of the room to stand before Patrice Gerard, “that perhaps Constantine
has
been here. That perhaps you are even now harboring his friend, Alesander, somewhere within Benningsgate Castle.”

Patrice huffed a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

Glayer raised his eyebrows. “Is it? Who’s to say? Certainly your servants would not betray you.” He turned on his heel suddenly and addressed his soldiers, standing guard at the room’s entrance. “Find the boy. Bring him here.”

“No!” Patrice shouted. “You do not have my permission to enter my home nor to touch my son.”

Glayer nodded to his soldiers. “Wait outside the doors with him until I tell you to bring him in. If any of the servants interfere, kill them.”

The heretofore reserved lady flew at him then, her claws out. Glayer caught her by her wrists with a sharp jerk, and he felt and heard her left one snap in his grip. She cried out and her knees buckled. He tossed her away to let her crumple to the floor and then he squatted down on his haunches next to her.

Patrice Gerard looked up at him, and now her eyes were wide with pain and fear. But still her haughtiness prevailed. “The king shall hear of this,” she vowed.

“He shall indeed. And so you had better tell me true, Lady Patrice,” Glayer said almost kindly. “Have you had any word from your husband or his cohorts? Any messages? Visits?”

“No!” she screamed up at him, the cords of her delicate neck standing out. “No, no, no! I already told you—”

He gave her the back of his hand for her impertinence. It took him several long breaths to regain his control. “Well, that is too bad. Yes. Too bad indeed. For I have on good authority that Valentine Alesander has managed to make his way here in order to help an English lady. And as Adrian Hailsworth is not married, and Roman Berg is of Norse heritage, that lady can only be—” he reached out to stroke a finger down the side of her swelling face—“you.” She pulled away with a wince. “He is hidden somewhere in the castle, is he not?”

“No!” she insisted, but now her indignation had deteriorated into fear. At last, she would respect him. “I swear to you, I’ve not heard from Constantine or any of them since the message he sent from Chastellet at the beginning of the siege. And that I already showed you.”

Glayer clicked his tongue and looked askance at her.

“Please,” Patrice Gerard continued. “Only think for a moment—I have no reason to shelter any of them. Constantine’s return now would only be to my and Christian’s detriment. I don’t
want
him here.”

Glayer believed her. It was well documented by his sources that the countess had plenty of lovers to entertain her in her husband’s absence. She was wealthy enough in her own right.

But regardless of Lady Patrice’s wishes, if Constantine was to return, all of Benningsgate’s resources were technically his to command.

And that would simply not do. It would not do at all.

“Very well, Lady Patrice,” he said on a sigh, and he rose to tower over her. “I would only ask one more thing of you before I leave your home.”

Patrice Gerard looked up at him with great, watery cow’s eyes, and bloody snot ran down her upper lip. “Anything,” she sniveled.

Glayer’s hands went to his belt. “Take off your gown.”

 

The soldiers clustered around the door to the drawing room moved away at the sound of the woman’s screams for help. They took the little boy, managed by some old manservant, with them. But even standing some distance down the corridor did little to quiet the hellish cries.

Some of the men blanched, but none made a move toward the drawing room doors. The little blond-headed boy seemed confused as to the happenings in his home.

Sometime later, after the screams had ceased, Glayer Felsteppe emerged through the doors, his hands stained a dull red as he tried to wipe them on what looked to be a torn piece of brocade.

“She’s lying,” he said to his soldiers as he came to a halt before them. His hair was damp and there was a smudge of red on his cheek. “We must teach the traitors a lesson; no place is safe for them. No one who aids them will be spared.”

Felsteppe crouched down and looked at the little boy. “Your father is a very bad man, young Christian.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a liar. My father is a hero.”

“Hmm.” Felsteppe smiled indulgently and ruffled the boy’s hair as he stood. “Run along then, and see your mother.”

Christian Gerard and his servant disappeared into the drawing room, and Felsteppe spoke over the boy’s echoing screams. “Bar the doors and set fire to the lot of it. No one escapes. I must away to greet my bride.” And he quit Benningsgate without another glance.

The soldiers did as they were commanded.

V
alentine rode into Beckhamshire on the back of a hay cart, his peasant garb and cap making him invisible in the morning bustle of the village. He saw the keep rising up from the edge of the town, and he looked closely at the windows.

Somewhere inside, Maria waited for him.

No, he corrected himself—Lady Mary Beckham waited. He’d left Maria on the
Dane
yesterday.

He kept a keen watch on the crowd he rolled past, noting that there seemed to be an influx of fighting men, returning from the north. And all seemed focused on Beckham Hall as their destination. Any one of them could be the man Mary was to wed, he supposed.

Tricky, Valentine thought.

He hopped off the hay cart still some distance from the keep and strolled past a market stall, his pace not slowing as he swept up an empty basket to perch on his shoulder.

Further into the village, he meandered in the crowd. His head was down, but his eyes were busy taking in the people, his ears listening for gossip. He swiped an apple from the fruiter’s pile and circled around to the well. Dropping to one knee, he anchored the small fruit between his teeth while he played at reweaving a frayed spot on the side of the basket.

“—Benningsgate—”

“—just returned to Beckham.”

Valentine took the apple from his mouth after a crunching bite and strode past the cluster of gossiping women toward the inn. Benningsgate, Benningsgate . . . where had he heard that name before?

A pair of wealthy-looking young men stood a short distance away from what Valentine assumed were their mounts, which appeared saddled and ready for departure. Valentine passed by the horses on the far side of the men, deftly swiping one of the bags from the saddle of the horse closest to him and tipping it into the basket. He cut directly between the two men, nodding as he went.

“Safe travels.”

They only gave him irritated looks as they stepped away from each other to let peasant Valentine pass into the inn.

Young nobleman Valentine came out of the back of the inn a moment later, his basket abandoned, the bag over his shoulder now containing the peasant clothes. He set off toward Beckham Hall.

As he walked, he noticed the habit of the soldiers of carrying their bags across their backs, and so he looped the strap over his head.

Passing the rear of the bathhouse, he spied a helmet set atop a pile of clothes. He didn’t break stride as he kicked at the helm with the toe of his boot, flipping it into the air. He caught it with one hand and sat it beneath his elbow.

Up the hill toward the guardhouse he went, the sun approaching noon hot on his face. A cloak hung on the end of a rickety gate, its owner busy chatting with the young maiden in the garden beyond the fence. In a blink it was draped over Valentine’s shoulder as if made for him.

He glanced up at the keep, and far above on the third level, within the black square of a window, he saw a figure in a white gown.

He strode into the darkness of the hall, his senses immediately on alert for Mary’s whereabouts. He was in a terrible hurry; Francisco was coming up the coast to Beckhamshire to collect him. Considering his slow journey by cart that morning, Valentine only had a pair of hours at most.

Valentine walked to the far side of the hall as if with purpose. He needed to observe the layout of the room and detect the patterns of the soldiers within, all of whom it seemed had just returned from some military exercise. He placed a boot on a bench at a table, where it appeared a meal had been finished only moments before, the diner having departed. Valentine set the helm near the plate and picked up the nearly empty goblet for a prop just as a fresh cluster of men entered the hall.

“Ah,” he murmured to himself, seeing the red-haired man in the center of the group. The smug smile, the compensatingly long sword on his hip. “I must be in the presence of a general.” He raised the cup as if in salute when the man and his entourage passed by the table.

And then Valentine thought he had made a terrible mistake when the man glanced twice and then stopped, backing up a step to look closely at Valentine.

“My lord?” Valentine queried in his best English.

The rather ugly man continued to study Valentine’s face. “Have we met?” the man demanded. “I can’t seem to remember what you are called, but you look somehow familiar to me.”

Valentine gave a slow blink and bowed his head slightly, giving the impression of deference, but really his mind was whirring frantically. “John, my lord,” he said, rounding out the vowels of his accent. “John Miller. I . . . ah . . . served with you last eventide.”

The red-haired man frowned. “At Benningsgate?”

Valentine inclined his head again but said nothing.

“Hmm. That’s probably it. I was rather preoccupied.” The general pointed a gauntleted finger at Valentine. “Good work, there, Miller. Carry on.”

Valentine bowed and then lifted the cup to his mouth again, watching the general as he left his men at the bottom of a hidden-away stairwell on the side of the hall. The redhead went up the steps alone.

He lowered the cup slowly. Had Valentine just come face-to-face with Mary’s future husband?

Thick, hot jealousy filled him so that the wooden cup in his hand cracked. He set it down on the table when he felt the remnants of the cool liquid flow over his fingers, then wiped his hand on his cloak.

“You there—John Miller,” a man called, and Valentine looked up to see three of the men who had accompanied the general approaching his table. The boldest one addressed him. “I don’t recall seeing you last night at Benningsgate.”

Valentine shrugged. “Neither did I see you.”

One of the other men said in an aside, “I think I saw him. He was in the castle with the general.”

The leader blanched. “You were inside?”

“I serve where I am commanded.”

The man looked about nervously and then leaned slightly over the table toward Valentine. “Is it true? Did he really let the woman and the boy burn?”

Valentine tried to look aloof, but inside his guts roiled. “I know not what you mean.”

“Oh, come on,” the soldier pressed. “It will be out soon enough, any matter. So tell us then—did Lord Felsteppe really order Gerard’s wife and boy to die in that fire?”

A rushing sound filled Valentine’s head, like the roar of a shell held to the ear. “Lord . . . Felsteppe?”

“Pardon me,
General
Felsteppe,” the soldier said with a roll of his eyes.

“What—” Valentine broke off, cleared his throat, swallowed—“what do you think?”

“A right bastard thing to do is what I think,” the man spat, standing upright once more. “You’re awfully cold about it yourself, aren’t you?” The soldier shook his head in disgust and started backing away, his friends going with him. “I’ve seen a bit of bloodshed, but to kill a woman and a little lad. Well, Lady Mary’d best be certain she doesn’t anger her new husband, s’all. Good luck with your conscience, Miller.”

Valentine had never before in his life fainted. Never come close, even. But in that moment, having heard that Constantine’s wife and son had been murdered only hours earlier by none other than Glayer Felsteppe, who had just walked past Valentine and was now somewhere above . . .

With Valentine’s Maria.

Valentine’s jaw clenched. His vision wavered with angry tears. His entire body shook with such rage that he wondered that he didn’t explode.

Valentine reached down into his boot to check that his dagger was still there, and then he looked toward the stairwell where Glayer Felsteppe had disappeared.

The man was armed. The entirety of the keep, as well as the village, was crawling with soldiers under Felsteppe’s command. To venture up those stairs was tantamount to committing suicide.

But Maria was up there with him at this very moment, with the man who had murdered Constantine’s family. Constantine, who had trusted Valentine enough to follow him to Melk. Constantine, who had welcomed a notorious loner into the group of Chastellet’s survivors as if Valentine belonged with them all the while.

And then Valentine realized he
did
belong there.

Constantine, Adrian, Roman—they were his friends, his brothers. They had been damned as one to the other, and the only way they would ever put things to rights was together. Valentine would not let his friend learn of the terrible fate of his wife and son through some cryptic message sent to Victor.

Valentine might now be a penniless reprobate with no home, no title, no wealth. Indeed, his only relative of any means was a pirate. But he was not without honor, and it was a priceless thing he would not lose this day to a maggot called Glayer Felsteppe.

Valentine left all his borrowed things save the cape he still wore beside the cracked and leaking cup on the table and walked boldly to the little alcove in the only guise he thought fitting: as himself. The stairwell was clear to the daylight above. Valentine gave a quick glance around before stepping onto the bottom riser and pulling the door closed quietly behind him. He engaged all the bolts and then reached down to withdraw his dagger from his boot.

Everything and everyone he’d ever fought to save before had been so that they could be set free. Today, he would fight for those he wished to hold close to him.

 

Mary had been waiting the whole of the night for Valentine, but he had yet to make an appearance. Neither had Glayer Felsteppe. So after she’d had her bath and dressed for the coming battle in the simple ivory and rose gown that was to have been her wedding costume, she turned the chair in her hall toward the stairs and waited.

Then she heard footsteps on the stairs, clomping, bold, clumsy—and she knew it was not Valentine even before she saw Glayer Felsteppe’s head emerge.

He stopped at the top of the stairs when he saw her, his hands at his sides, giving her an indulgent smile, as one might give a person of limited mental facilities.

“Lady Mary,” he said, pulling off his gauntlets and tucking them in his belt. “How my eyes thrill at the sight of your gentle person.”

“My lord,” she replied, her teeth feeling as though they might crack with the pressure on her jaw.

He stood there a moment longer, and then held his arms out from his sides. “Will you not greet your husband after he has been so long away?”

Mary forced herself to rise from the chair and met him in the middle of the floor, holding out her hands reluctantly for him to clasp. Glayer Felsteppe leaned in and kissed her temple, then came away to look at her from head to toe. His eyes searched her face.

“You look . . . different, somehow, from my memory,” he said with a puzzled smile.

“Much has happened since last we met,” she allowed.

His eyebrows knitted together. “Indeed. I was sorry to hear of the sickness at Beckham. Thanks be to God that you were spared. Would that I had been free to hie to your side. You will forgive me of course for not coming to you straightaway upon my arrival—there was a rather ugly matter to attend to.”

Mary’s stomach turned. “So I’ve been informed.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I ordered my belongings deposited in your chamber,” he said with a sly smile and reached out to touch her bottom lip with his thumb. It took all of Mary’s self-control not to slap his hand away. “We are to be married soon. I see no reason to forestall our acquaintance.”

She gave him a tight smile. “I would not risk your reputation as an honorable man. I had my own things moved to my nurse’s old chamber. It is only right that you sleep in the master’s apartment.”

This earned her a wide smile. “Well, as you wish, I suppose.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Are you certain you’re well? You seem . . . rather subdued.”

“I’ve been awaiting a visit from a friend,” she said. “I’m only preoccupied.”

“Well, your friend is here now, I daresay,” he said, drawing her into his arms. Mary felt the woodenness of her own posture. “I do vow, you are thrice as beautiful as when I left you.”

“Surely you would say the same to a serving wench,” she said, unable to help herself.

Glayer Felsteppe laughed. “I promise to the bottom of my heart that my thoughts have been filled with you alone in my absence. My bed has been a lonely one.”

Liar,
Mary thought, before giving him a smile. “As lonely as mine, I’m sure.”

His smile faltered for only an instant. “Certainly.”

Mary thought she heard the cacophony echoing up from the hall below quiet, as if the door at the bottom of the stairs had been closed, but Glayer Felsteppe seemed not to notice.

“My lord,” she said loudly, hoping her voice would carry. “I am sure you want to refresh yourself after such distressing duties. I will call for your bath if you leave me alone here in the hall and retire to your chamber above.”

Glayer Felsteppe’s eyebrows wrinkled together and he drew his head back with a perplexed smile. “No need to shout, Lady Mary.”

“Yes, no need to shout,” came the smooth voice from behind Lord Felsteppe, who turned with an annoyed expression as Valentine arrived in the hall. He was dressed in a fine tunic and leggings, a black velvet cape hanging over his shoulders. His dagger was in his hand. “I want him to be very aware of my presence.”

Felsteppe frowned. “Miller?”

“Miller?” Mary repeated, her heart leaping into her throat as she pulled away from the redheaded man.

“Maria,” Valentine murmured.

“Who’s Maria?” Felsteppe asked. “Mary?”

“Valentine.” Mary smiled.

“Valentine?” Glayer repeated.

“Felsteppe,” Valentine growled, then raised his dagger higher.