Beast: Great Bloodlines Converge (15 page)

“I am ready, my lord,” she said pleasantly. “Thank you for waiting.”

Bastian couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d never seen her properly dressed, or groomed, and he had to admit that, at this moment, she took his breath away. She was an exquisite creature and he was positive his father would think so, too. In fact, he was rather speechless as he looked at her. All he could think to do at that moment was extend his elbow, which she graciously accepted. He began to lead her towards the stairs.

“My father will be pleased,” he finally said. “He is an old man and I do not believe he has left this house for at least a year, probably longer. Visitors are very important to him and you, in particular, are of great interest. He will more than likely wish to discuss your father, so be prepared. He will have many questions.”

Gisella was lingering over the thought of how big his elbow was in her hand. She’d seen her share of men, including her father who was extremely tall, but she’d never seen a man with not only Bastian’s height but also his breadth. It was truly something to behold. Lingering on his size, she had a difficult time concentrating on his statement.

“Fortunately, I am an expert on all things Richmond le Bec,” she said, shaking off her reflection of his bulk. “I would not be surprised if your father knows him. Most older knights do, you know.”

Bastian took her hand off his elbow politely as he preceded her down the stairs. “I met your father, once, a very long time ago,” he said. “Would it be impolite to say that he was old even back then?”

Gisella giggled. “It would not,” she said. “My father was fifty and one years of age when I was born, which makes him sixty years and nine right now. All things considered, he is quite old but still moderately healthy. He says my mother keeps him young and fit.”

Bastian politely took her elbow as they came to the second floor landing and moved to the next flight of steps that would take them to the ground floor.

“I’ve not met your mother,” Bastian said. “Your parents have been married for many years, have they not? I seem to remember hearing that, once.”

Gisella nodded. “My mother is an illegitimate daughter of Henry of Bolingbroke,” she said. “Her mother was a Welsh princess, a cousin to Owen Glyndower. My father was assigned as her protector from the time she was very small and they ended up falling in love when she came of age. My mother had just turned eighteen years when she married my father, who was forty years at the time. She is, therefore, a good deal younger than him. That is why my father says that she keeps him young.”

Bastian struggled not to appear too shocked or too impressed by her admission. “Then you are a granddaughter of a king,” he said. “That makes you related to young King Henry as well as Bedford and Gloucester.”

Gisella nodded. “Didn’t Gloucester tell you that?” she asked. “His father is my grandfather, which makes him my uncle on my mother’s side.”

Bastian couldn’t help the look of both surprise and exasperation. “He did not tell me any of this.”

By this time, they were at the bottom of the steps, now in the entry of the great manor. The great hall was directly in front of them and, already, the smells of food wafted in the air. But Gisella wasn’t paying attention to the sounds and smells of the morning meal. She was focused on Bastian and their conversation.

“It is true,” she said. “But my father does not particularly like the royal circles so he has raised us modestly. He says he does not like the direction the monarchy is taking right now, but I do not think Gloucester knows that. You probably should not tell him.”

Bastian was still reeling with the fact that he had married a bride of royal blood and was now essentially related to Gloucester, but when he looked down at her after her last sentence, he could see that she was smiling up at him in a playful manner, as if she had let him in on a great family secret. Seeing the impish grin on her face caused the corners of his lips to twitch. He simply couldn’t help it.

“Your father’s opinion is safe with me,” he said. “Mostly because I cannot disagree with him. Shall we go in and greet my father?”

Gisella nodded, her heart fluttering when he collected her hand and tucked it gently into the crook of his elbow. She had no idea what had brought about such a change in the man, from rude one moment to polite the next, but she wasn’t going to question it. She was, in fact, enjoying it more than she cared to admit.

The great hall of West Court was a massive room that ran nearly the length of the house. There were long, thin lancet windows that faced the river, allowing for the wonderful river breeze to infiltrate the hall. The walls were lined with what looked like family crests, made out of pieces of colored wood, and there was elaborate woodwork near the ceiling that was very dark in color. It was polished, or waxed somehow, because the sheen brought out the rich color of the wood.

There were several feasting tables in the hall, eight in total, and each one seated up to eight people. The tables were long, heavy, and well-used, but only three of these tables were in use at the moment and there were several people seated at them, eating their share of the morning meal. Smells came from these tables, laden with food as they were, and dogs hovered beneath them, waiting for the scraps.

Bastian led Gisella over to the corner of the room where the meal was going on, crossing the floor that was made from pieces of gray slate and, oddly enough, swept clean. No rushes, no straw to absorb the droppings of diners – it was literally swept clean and that was very unusual. They passed by a stone hearth that five big men could have easily fit into. It was sectioned off with a fire burning in one corner and another corner that had an iron table on it and iron arms that were built into the wall of the fireback. One arm held an iron pot full of something bubbling and there was still another iron pot on the iron table that was steaming. It was a very functional hearth and the servants milled around it, bringing forth the steaming pots to the diners.

Gisella found it all quite interesting as Bastian took her over to a table tucked near the corner. As she approached, a big man with a head of silver hair and a silver and black beard rose. As she drew near, he opened his arms to her.

“This must be Lady Gisella,” the man said, putting his ham-sized hands on her shoulders and kissing her loudly on each cheek. When he released her, he was smiling broadly. “Bas, you did not fully impress upon me just how beautiful your new wife truly was. All of the angels in Heaven surely must be jealous of her.”

Bastian smiled faintly at his overly-dramatic father. “I told you she was exquisite,” he said, turning his attention to Gisella. “My lady, this is my father, Sir Braxton de Russe.”

Gisella had assumed that even before the introduction and dipped into a polite curtsey. “My lord,” she greeted. “It is a delight and an honor to meet you.”

The rest of the family was crowding around now; Uncle Aramis, Braxton’s older brother, and Worthington, too. Two women, over at the other table, rose to join them. As Gisella stood there, it seemed as if the entire de Russe clan was gathering around her. Bastian began pointing people out.

“Standing next to my father is my Uncle Aramis, Duke of Warminster, and his son, Worthington,” he said, moving from one person to the next. “Worthington is a troublemaker, however, so avoid him at all costs. The lady standing next to Worth is his mother, the Lady Cynthia, and the lady next to her is my aunt, Beatrice. My father has three brothers and Beatrice is married to the youngest, Hugh. They have two sons, Brant and Martin, and I’ve not seen Martin in years, not since he stole a horse from me and I threatened to cut off his… well, I threatened to cut off something very valuable to him so we shall leave it at that.”

The relatives tittered and Beatrice, a thin woman with dark eyes, reached out a hand to gently take Gisella’s.

“Martin did
not
steal the horse, Bas,” she said, although her gaze was focused on Gisella. She was a handsome woman with smoke-colored eyes. “Sweet Saints, you are a lovely girl. We had no idea Bas had taken a wife. Welcome to the family, my dear.”

Gisella smiled at the woman. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, looking around at the friendly faces. “It is such an honor to meet you all. I do hope we shall all become great friends.”

“Your father is Richmond le Bec,” Braxton said, more for the benefit of his brothers and sisters so they would know that Bastian had married well. “I knew Richmond a very long time ago. Pray, sit and tell me how your father has been. I am eager to know.”

Bastian pulled out a bench so Gisella could sit, being elbowed out of the way by both aunts as they seated themselves on either side of her. Beatrice still held on to Gisella’s hand as Cynthia inspected her lovely surcoat and commented on it. Bastian found himself standing over next to Worthington as the older members of the de Russe family virtually encircled Gisella in their quest to know the young woman. They were eager, and friendly, but Bastian actually felt a bit put-off that he was not allowed to sit next to his new wife. He’d rather enjoyed their brief conversation on the stairs, the first civil conversation they’d shared, and he realized he was eager to continue it. But the conversation between them would have to wait as his aunts, uncles, and father closed in on Gisella and demanded her attention.

“Now, about your father,” Braxton said as a servant placed a bowl of something warm and steaming in front of him. “How is the man? The last I saw him was during the wars in Wales. I served with Henry Percy, you know. Has he ever mentioned Hotspur?”

Gisella nodded as people began putting food and drink in front of her. “Aye, he has,” she said, eyeing a very large trencher with eggs in a yellow sauce. “Father has many war stories he tells. The strange thing is that every time he tells them, the number of enemy warriors increases as do the odds of his survival against them. Last I heard, my father faced off against the entire country of Wales single-handedly.”

Braxton and Aramis laughed. “That is how I remember it, also,” Braxton said, looking at Aramis. “Only it was not le Bec who faced the Welsh alone but
me
.”

Aramis waved him off. “You were far too young,” he told him. “You were strong, that is true, but you were as dumb as a post. You still are. You could not possibly have held off the Welsh on strength alone.”

Braxton scowled at his brother as Gisella interrupted. “Good sirs, I am afraid the only person who can hold such a claim against the Welsh is my father,” she said. “I would not want to dispute him on the fact. He can still use a sword quite ably.”

Braxton’s attention turned from his brother and he began shoveling great spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth, getting it on his beard. “As I recall, Richmond le Bec was badly wounded in the same battle that killed Hotspur,” he said. “That was at least twenty-five years ago.”

Gisella nodded. “That is true,” she said. “He was terribly wounded. My mother said she thought he was going to die but he did not. He recovered, although the old wound pains him sometimes. Papa said he had to live because he wanted to see his son grow up. Mama was pregnant with my eldest brother, Stephan, the same year that Papa was injured, followed by my brother, Gannon, a few years later, and then my sister, Emma. I am the youngest.”

Braxton was still shoveling porridge into his mouth. “War is difficult on the women and children,” he agreed. “My father, Trenton, only inherited the dukedom of Exeter because his older brother, Aramis, was killed in battle. He left behind a wife and two daughters.”

Gisella picked at a piece of bread because Beatrice had carefully buttered it for her. “I see,” she said, cocking her head thoughtfully. “But you said he inherited the Dukedom of Exeter? Did I understand incorrectly that your brother was the Duke of Warminster?”

Braxton’s mouth was full so Bastian, standing on the outskirts of the group and feeling left out of the conversation, spoke.

“My Uncle Aramis inherited the dukedom of Exeter from his father, Trenton, who was the second son of the great Brandt de Russe,” he said. “Last year, Uncle Aramis refused Bedford’s request for more men and money for the war in France and Bedford stripped him of the Exeter dukedom and gave it over to the Holland family. But Gloucester took pity on Uncle Aramis and granted him the Dukedom of Warminster instead. Uncle Aramis, you were never clear on
why
you received Warminster. You merely said it was for your loyalty to the crown. What did you do for Gloucester?”

Aramis lifted a dark eyebrow. “What do you think?” he said. “I had your aunt contact Lady Gloucester and offer to donate money for the completion of Bella Court, which Gloucester was struggling with at the time. I also gifted them with a barge that transports them down river to London. It was enough for Gloucester to show his great thanks with the Warminster dukedom with a further agreement that I pay a stipend to Gloucester on the proceeds from the wool and limestone mining industry within my realm. It is an excellent business deal, I assure you. Even by sharing the proceeds, the revenue will make our family very wealthy for generations to come.”

Bastian grinned at his uncle, who had a very sharp mind for numbers and business, but his attention returned to Gisella. “Now you know the truth,” he said. “I come from a family of mercenaries and political players. Do not tell anyone that my uncle bought himself a dukedom.”

It was an unexpected attempt at humor, something Gisella hadn’t seen from Bastian. In fact, she was surprised by it, thinking that the man had been so cold and callous that surely he had no sense of humor. But he was smiling at her now and she instinctively smiled in return.