The Dark Knight (50 page)

At a signal from Dante, Faulke and Richard were brought forward, a soldier on either side of them. Another soldier cut their bonds and then both men began to rub their hands and wrists to get the blood moving again. Faulke looked livid, Richard merely looked surly.

He had told them very little, as of yet, only that the king had ordered them brought to this palace to receive his message and documents related to the message.

“Lady Avalene will be in our company this afternoon,” Dante told Faulke and Richard, recalling the incident with Gerhardt. If either man said or did something to insult Avalene, his temper was likely beyond the control he had exercised in the solar. He would give them fair warning. “You will speak to her with the utmost courtesy or I will cut out the tongue that offends her. If either of you manages to touch her, I will cut the skin from the hand that has soiled her and then I will fillet the flesh from the bones. Do you understand me?”

“Aye,” Faulke said in a curt tone. He still looked furious. Richard looked wary. Apparently Richard was more adept at hearing the truth than Faulke, who seemed to dismiss the promises as empty threats. “When do you
intend to tell us why we were brought here? We were to meet at the Ox Head Inn.”

“As I said earlier, you will listen to the king’s message and read the documents he has sent for your signature. There is also someone here who wishes to meet you. At the conclusion of our business, you and your men will be free to leave.”

He did not add that they might not be breathing when they left, if Faulke failed to make the correct decisions. He would keep his promise to Mordecai for as long as possible, but this man was all that prevented him from making Avalene his wife. His death was a price he was willing to pay.

He turned on his heel and made his way into the great hall.

Avalene was nowhere in sight, nor were Oliver and Armand, whom he’d left to guard her. A ribbon of unease unfurled in his belly. She must be in their apartments with his men, or occupied in some other part of the palace for whatever reasons. There was no need to worry, but he could not ignore the chill that ran through him. Isabel and her people were missing as well, but two strangers were seated at one end of the head table. Both were finely dressed, one mostly in shades of blue that accentuated his white hair and blue eyes. The older of the two men had steel-gray hair and wore black and red; Segrave colors. The older man’s dark eyes were fixed on Faulke as they walked forward and Dante knew without being told that this was Faulke’s father, Baron Carreg. His gaze moved to the man in blue and he realized the white hair still bore traces of blond. The blue eyes were the same shade as those he had looked into just this morning when he bid Avalene good-bye. Baron Weston.

Another man stepped out from the shadows of the massive fireplace that dominated the wall behind the head
table. His dark robes had made him almost invisible against the blackened stones of the hearth.

Mordecai.

The magician smiled. Dante’s steps faltered.

“Ah, at last everyone is present.”

“I did not expect to see you here,” Dante managed.

“I am here as the king’s representative,” Mordecai said, his eyes lit with humor. A wooden box that was identical to the one Dante had brought from his audience with the king sat on the table before Mordecai. “Did you really think I would miss this meeting?”

“I suppose I should have known.” Dante rubbed the back of his neck. “Where is Avalene?”

His steward, Reginald, who had been standing to one side of the table with his gaze fixed on the flagstones at his feet, took a step forward. His voice trembled noticeably. “Lady Avalene is in your solar, my lord.” Reginald’s hand swept out to indicate the two barons, while Dante’s racing pulse began to calm. “These men demanded she be brought to the hall. One claims to be her father. I informed them that Lady Avalene is not to receive visitors in your absence.”

“Actually,” Mordecai said, “Baron Weston insisted upon the matter, but your man, Armand, convinced him that it would be healthier for all involved to wait for your arrival. He was most persuasive.”

“He threatened us!” Baron Weston broke in. “He refused to admit our soldiers to the hall and had them taken to some stable yard under guard. Now you haul in Carreg’s son and his cousin as if they are common criminals. Are we
all
prisoners here? What is the meaning of this, Mordecai?”

“Aye,” Dante echoed. “What
is
the meaning of this?”

“Please, everyone, take your seats and I will explain.” Mordecai’s voice was grave, but Dante saw a spark of
humor in his eyes. He was enjoying this little drama. “Perhaps stools could be brought for Lord Faulke and his cousin?”

Dante motioned toward Reginald and the stools soon appeared, and then he walked around the table to take his own seat. Unlike those of his guests, his chair had a backrest and arms. He leaned back and pretended to make himself comfortable, crossing his legs by propping one ankle across his knee and folding his hands across his stomach. Baron Weston’s cold glare followed him the entire time, his hands fisted so tightly atop the table that his knuckles were bone white. He was fairly certain Avalene’s father wished to strangle him. Not that he blamed the man. If he had a daughter and was forced to sit at the same table with the man who had ruined her … Aye, Weston was showing remarkable restraint.

Then again, perhaps Weston did not yet know the role he played in Avalene’s abduction or realize that she shared his bed. Thank God, Armand had made certain she remained in the solar. He did not want her to see her father’s reaction when he learned the truth, if he did not know already. He returned Weston’s furious glare with a cool gaze and watched the man actually bare his teeth at him. Oh, Weston knew, all right.

“King Edward thought it best if all parties involved in these proceedings gathered to make certain there were no misunderstandings,” Mordecai said, when everyone had taken their seats. He removed several scrolls from the box that bore massive seals and were bound with elaborate ribbons, and then carefully spread them on the table. “There are three betrothal contracts before me. The first is Faulke’s betrothal contract to Avalene. Baron Weston has already struck his name from the contract. Faulke, once you renounce your claim to Avalene and strike your name, the contract will be broken.”

“I will not do it,” Faulke declared. “The king must approve or deny my betrothal to Avalene de Forshay. Either way, the other Marcher barons will hear of what was done here.”

“The king offers you another choice,” Carreg said, his voice a deeper, harsher version of his son’s. “I have negotiated in your name with the king for a betrothal more advantageous than your betrothal to Avalene de Forshay.”

“More advantageous to the Segraves, or to you?” Faulke demanded. “What price have you put upon my honor this time? What could possibly be more advantageous than a marriage to Avalene de Forshay?”

“Watch your tongue,” Carreg warned. “You will have an earldom from this, you ungrateful wretch, and more wealth than you know what to do with.”

Faulke’s eyes widened and his gaze moved to Mordecai.

“ ’Tis true,” Mordecai said, as he pushed one of the scrolls toward Faulke. “Actually, you will gain four titles; the earldom of Malden being the most important, as well as Lord of Helmsford, Sildon, and Thurock. The castles, manors, and lands entailed to the titles are listed in the contract, along with the annual income from the properties. Your father has reviewed the detailed reports of each holding and has pronounced himself satisfied with the settlements. However, you should also read the contract to make certain you agree to the terms.”

Faulke looked as if he had swallowed a frog. The whites of his eyes showed all around, and his mouth hung open in an expression that might have been comical in other circumstances.

“We shall be men of great consequence,” his father informed him. “We shall have the standing and resources to make life either easy or difficult for the king. The terms of this betrothal are more than you could ever hope to acquire through a marriage to Weston’s daughter.”

“Who is the bride?” Faulke managed.

“The king’s own daughter!” Carreg declared, smiling now. There was a calculating glint of greed in the old man’s eyes. “Your wife shall be Isabel of Ascalon, the widow of some Frankish prince, but she is yet young and healthy, well able to provide you with heirs.”

Faulke took a moment to digest that astonishing news, then his eyes narrowed. “How many children does she have?”

“None so far.” Carreg waved away that detail. “Her husband suffered mumps or measles or some such disease in his youth and could not even sire a bastard. You must look at the number of children her mother bore. Sixteen, in all, near thirty years of fertility! Her married sisters are fruitful as well. You have already proven your virility and I have every confidence that you will have an heir from Isabel within a year.”

“You had best read the contract,” Mordecai told him. “Or do you need someone to read the documents for you?”

Richard leaned in to whisper something in his cousin’s ear. Faulke scowled and then began to read through each parchment. The contract was several pages long and included much more detail than Avalene’s betrothal contract. They would all be waiting quite a while before Faulke would finish reading. Dante signaled to Reginald to bring more wine and refreshments, and then settled back to wait.

His gaze went often to the door that led to his apartments. He would give almost anything to leave the hall and go to Avalene, just to reassure himself that she was all right. She had to be worried. However, he had no wish to give Faulke any reason to refuse the betrothal to Isabel. Avalene’s beauty was enough to tempt any man. Given the terms of Isabel’s betrothal, having Avalene
within sight could sway Faulke’s decision in the wrong direction. The patience that always came to him so naturally was now forced into place.

He knew the exact moment Faulke came to the thornier terms of the contract. His fist slammed onto the table, making both barons flinch in surprise.

“This is outrageous!” He stood up and swept the pages of the contract to the floor, and then leaned across the table toward Dante. “There is my answer. Our business is concluded. Honor your bargain and allow my men and I to leave, and release my betrothed to me.”

Dante took a sip of his wine and watched Faulke flex his fists. “Regardless of your answer, you will leave here without Avalene. You will never see her again. If you refuse the king’s daughter, you will have no bride, and you will have no reason to blame Edward for your circumstances. Indeed, I would imagine the insult to his highness will reap its own rewards.”

Faulke opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again. His brows smoothed from a scowl to a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

“You could not capture Avalene and force a marriage, so you intended to use Edward’s refusal to approve your betrothal to Avalene as an excuse to return to Wales and incite rebellion. However, if you refuse the betrothal to Isabel, Edward
will
approve your betrothal to Avalene.”

“Fine,” he said, with a sharp nod. “She will go with us, as I said.”

Dante shook his head and gave him the type of look that a parent would bestow upon a child who had disappointed him. “Did I not make clear what would happen if you touched her?”

Faulke merely folded his arms across his chest and glared. “If Edward tries to keep her from me, the barons
will see this injustice just as clearly as the injustice of a refusal.”

“Edward will have nothing to do with keeping her from you.”

Understanding dawned on Faulke’s face. “You cannot keep her.” He glanced at Baron Weston, but turned to Mordecai. “He cannot keep her. The king must order him to release her to my care. Despite whatever coercion the king used upon my father and hers, she is still my betrothed!”

Mordecai lifted his shoulders. “I do not think an order or the king’s involvement would make much difference. The dispute is between you and Dante.”

“He is on English soil, subject to—”

Dante cut him off. “If you refuse to renounce Avalene, all you will have of her is a scrap of parchment that says she is your betrothed. You will never have a bride.”

“That is unacceptable!” Faulke was now breathing hard. “I will not allow it.”

“I will not allow any man to lay claim to what is mine,” Dante said. “There is only one course of action that will assure you live long enough to create an heir. Renounce your claim to Avalene and pursue the much more favorable match with Isabel of Ascalon.”

“I have known Dante many years,” Mordecai added. “He does not make idle threats.”

Faulke pursed his lips and lowered his furious gaze to the parchment that lay scattered on the flagstones.

“Think of your people,” Richard said to Faulke. “Think what the wealth of an earldom will mean to them.”

For the first time all afternoon, Faulke looked thoughtful. He turned again to his father. “Is Isabel sickly? Is she prone to illness?”

Carreg cleared his throat. “I have only seen the lady
from a distance at court, but I have it on the best authority that she is healthy as a horse.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Faulke demanded of his father. “You have not even met the woman, and yet you would risk everything, our lands, our titles,
everything
, on the health and fertility of a childless widow?”

“I have every faith that you can manage to keep the woman alive, at least until she gives you a few heirs,” his father argued. “Aye, ’tis a gamble, but look what we will gain! Nothing worth having is easy or without risk.”

“You realize that you would have to give up your own title upon my marriage,” Faulke pointed out. “All of our titles are relinquished to the king and then given back in his daughter’s name. Even so, I will merely be a caretaker of all this importance and wealth for the miracle heir who must also be as healthy and long-lived as his mother, else we are all made paupers. The risk is too high. Avalene de Forshay is—”

“Avalene is nothing to you,” Dante interjected. He studied the beds of his fingernails. “I grow tired of hearing her name upon your lips.”