Beast: Great Bloodlines Converge (40 page)

Bastian came around the bed, sitting heavily on the mattress beside his father. He reached out, touching the man’s hands as tears of grief poured down his cheeks. His father was clearly dead, and had been for some time, his eyes sunken, and from the smell of the room it was obvious that he should be buried immediately. But Bastian squeezed Braxton’s hands, struggling not to openly weep.

“I knew that I was going to have to bury him someday,” he whispered tightly. “But I find that I am wholly unprepared for such a thing. I miss him already.”

Gisella was still looking at her lap, holding back sobs of grief and pain. Bastian reached out his free hand and grasped the small hands she had folded in her lap.

“What happened?” he asked her hoarsely. “We received word that Braidwood was assaulted and my father killed. Who killed him?”

The question hit Gisella wrong in so many ways.
Who killed him?
The question was ridiculous to her and her grief overwhelmed her common sense. She was a woman who was usually quite careful about what she said, but at this moment, her heart was being ripped apart and she had no way to stop it.
Who killed him?

“Men overran Braidwood three nights ago,” she said, looking at his hands as they held hers. “They killed all four gatehouse guards and broke into the house. Your father heard the alarm and shoved Sparrow and I into a secret room in the dressing room. Did you know that room was there?”

Bastian was still looking at his father’s face, struggling to process her words. “Aye, I know about it,” he said. “He put you there to keep you safe.”

Gisella’s emotions were beginning to surge. “I realize that,” she said through clenched teeth. “He would not join us, however. He remained in this chamber and because the secret room has holes in it, we could see and hear everything, Bastian. Everything. Men were destroying and ransacking Braidwood all around us and as Sparrow and I watched, a man burst into your father’s room. Your father had his sword, prepared to protect himself, but the intruder didn’t engage him. He simply asked your father if he was Bastian de Russe’s father. Your father confirmed that he was.”

Bastian tore his gaze off of his father’s face and looked at her with a mixture of great curiosity and great dread. “He mentioned me by name?” he asked. “Who was this intruder?”

Gisella still wouldn’t look at him. “I could hear what they were saying,” she told him. “The intruder told your father that he would not hurt him provided that he give him some information. It would seem that the men who broke into Braidwood were looking for a relic you took from the Maid of Orleans’ funeral pyre.”

Horror began to creep into Bastian’s expression no matter how hard he tried to keep it away. “He asked for information on a relic?” he clarified. “Those were his exact words?”

Gisella nodded. Then, she burst into tears and stood up from the chair, ripping her hands from Bastian’s grasp. She couldn’t even look at the man.

“He said that an English soldier saw you take something from the Maid’s pyre before her remains were thrown into the river,” she sobbed. “He came for the relic, Bastian, a relic your father knew about because he told the man you had it. Braxton told the intruder that he would give him the relic because he feared that if you were found with it, you would be tried for treason. He made a deal with the man, telling him that he would find it and give it to him. He also told the man that it was her heart you took and kept with you.”

Bastian’s mind was muddled with grief and dismay. He could hardly believe what he was hearing but, on the other hand, he wasn’t entirely surprised. Gloucester knew about the relic, having heard about it from a priest at Winchester. It was inevitable that the rumor would get around but he was genuinely surprised that men would break into Braidwood based on a rumor. How did they know where he was? How did they even know he would have the relic with him? It was shocking information, shaking him to the bone.

As he mulled over the revelation, something else came to mind. As he watched his wife sob, he began to feel like the biggest failure in the entire world. He had failed to protect his father and he had failed to protect his wife from what he had done. Now, she knew, and she was in as much danger as he was in should the truth of this relic be widely known. He was devastated.

“So the man killed him when he did not produce it?” he asked softly.

Gisella exploded. “Nay!” she shouted at him. “He never touched your father! Your father died after the man left, presumably overwhelmed with the excitement of the night. You know his health was not good. Those men breaking in, men who called themselves Armagnacs, distressed your father so much that his heart gave out. You asked who has killed your father –
you
did it, Bastian. You did it by taking that woman’s heart and carrying it with you. Now you have killed us with your lies, lies that the Maid was no more to you than a captive. Only a man in love would carry the heart of his beloved with him, and I was a fool because I loved you and I believed you when you told me that you were not the Maid’s lover. This entire marriage, everything it is, is based on lies and I hate you for it, do you hear? I will hate you until I die!”

With that, she ran into the dressing room and slammed the door, bolting it. Bastian bolted up from the bed and ran out into the corridor to get into their bedchamber from that direction but she was faster than he was and bolted that door as well. He pounded on the door and begged her to open it but she ignored him. Bastian didn’t want to break the door down so he simply stood there and pounded, pleading with her to unlock the door.

Tears ran down his face, unbridled, unrestrained, and dripped off his chin as he begged Gisella to let him in. God, he had to talk to her, to explain the way of things. Perhaps he should have been truthful with her from the beginning but he had rationalized it away by telling himself that if she did not know about the relic, then she would not be in any danger because of it. But he could see that he had been wrong, dead wrong.

Bastian had no idea how long he had been pounding when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Sparrow standing there. She was weeping, too. Bastian looked at the woman, the friend of his wife, and his voice cracked when he spoke.

“What do I do?” he asked. “I cannot lose her as well. Tell me what to do.”

Sparrow wiped her eyes. “She loves you, Bastian,” she whispered. “Hearing that you kept the Maid’s heart… she feels betrayed. I think she thought that you loved her, too, yet she had to find out you carry another woman’s heart with you.”

Bastian closed his eyes, leaning his head against the chamber door as his lower lip trembled. He was exhausted and devastated in so many ways.

“I do love her,” he whispered. “I cannot remember when I have not loved her. I was going to tell her when I came back from Wallingford… now I find that I am too late. She will not believe me now.”

Sparrow moved for him, reaching out to touch the man’s arm. He grasped her hand, holding it, and a sob escaped his lips. As Sparrow watched, he collapsed against the door, sank to his buttocks, and wept openly. The events of the day, of the moment, were too much for him to take. Sparrow crouched down beside him, her hand on his dark head.

“She will believe you,” she insisted. “You must give her time. But you must tell her the truth of your feelings for the Maid. Why do you carry the woman’s heart with you?”

He sobbed, his voice cracking. “Because she asked me to,” he wept. “She asked me to bury something of her at Winchester Cathedral because St. Michael told her to. I told her that I could not do it, that I’d feel like a traitor to England. But when I saw that her heart survived the burning, I decided to do it because she was my friend. I did not love her as a man loves a woman. Never did I feel that kind of emotion towards her. What I felt was pity and compassion, and that turned into a friendship that I will never forget. She was a strong woman, someone I greatly admired, but I have only loved one woman in my life as a man loves a woman, as a husband loves a wife, and that woman is Gisella.”

He hung his head, tears dripping off his face and onto his leather breeches. Sparrow stroked his dark hair, distressed at the man’s utter agony. She knelt beside him for a few minutes, holding his hand and stroking his hair while he expended his grief. It was stunning, truly, to see the mighty Beast reduced to tears. She never imagined he was capable of such a thing. Consummately professional and utterly deadly, Bastian de Russe was having the weakest moment of his life and the only person who could truly comfort him was on the other side of a locked door, wallowing in her own pathetic sorrow. They were both awash in anguish, as far apart as they could possibly be.

“Bastian,” Sparrow finally said. “I will speak to her, I swear it. I will tell her that she must at least hear your explanation on things. Meanwhile, we must bury your father. Collins has made arrangements so go and speak with him now. I will take care of Gisella.”

The sobs had died down and now all Bastian could feel was emptiness. Bone-numbing, desolate emptiness. He didn’t want to move from the door but Sparrow was correct. They had to bury his father. His father needed to be his priority today and then he would think about Gisella afterwards. Right now, he had a son’s duty to fulfill. Exhausted, drained, he picked himself up off the floor and staggered to his feet.

He started to walk away but realized he was still holding on to Sparrow’s hand. He paused, looked at the woman’s hand, and then looked at her face. Lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it gently, he let it go.

“Whatever you can do on my behalf, you have my eternal gratitude,” he whispered. “I must take care of my father now.”

Sparrow simply nodded, watching the man as he lumbered back down the hall where Andrew Wellesbourne was standing at the top of the stairs. She could see that Wellesbourne looked greatly concerned at Bastian, but the man waved him off. He had no more time for sympathy and especially sympathy from one of his friends. In his life and in his work, he preferred for his friends and family to think of him as invincible. He was the Beast, after all. There was no man greater in all of England.

But even beasts had masters. Bastian’s master happened to be a lovely woman with black hair and a wicked sense of humor. He was devastated to think that their budding love, something so precious and fragile, might never know a full bloom.

He wondered if his loyalty to the Maid was worth all of the heartache it had caused.
You will be rewarded for your kindness to me
, she had told him. He was coming to think she had meant Gisella. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he was to be punished for his role in her death, after all.

Perhaps everything he had known or had hoped for was crumbling.