Dallas and Graehm were in the thick of it; Dallas was still on horseback, fighting more fiercely than Braxton had ever seen him. Perhaps it was because now he was fighting for something that belonged to him and there was a measure of anger in his movements. He had a customized broadsword with a serrated edge that could slice a man’s head clean from his body. Braxton saw a few headless corpses around, knowing that Dallas had been hard at work.
Braxton’s men may have been outnumbered, but the de Clare men were clearly suffering. Braxton’s fighting force was well-seasoned and well-trained; hence, they were the better army. De Clare’s band of not-so-skilled men was taking a beating. Braxton personally dispatched several without raising a sweat and his thoughts began to turn to de Clare himself. Leaving Graehm in charge of the skirmish force, he collected Dallas and a few soldiers and fought his way towards the keep. There seemed to be less men the closer they drew to Erith, as the bulk of the army was out on the road.
Braxton and Dallas charged into the dilapidated bailey of Erith and were met with little resistance. On high alert, they dismounted their chargers and made way for the keep. Dallas was slightly in front of Braxton, his sword leveled defensively while Braxton walked with his sword lowered. He was cool but cautious. As soon as they mounted the top step and prepared to enter the keep, a body suddenly came flying out at them.
Dallas struck the figure down in one deadly thrust; it was a purely reflexive move on his part. He had seen the body, seen the weapon, and had responded. Braxton was right on his heels, preparing for an all-out assault of more warriors, but there was none. Lying dead at their feet was a lone boy, no more than Edgar’s age. They heard a cry coming from inside.
“William!” a man screamed, coming to the doorway. His eyes bugged at the youth lying on the top landing. “You killed my son! You killed him!”
Dallas sword was still raised, red with the young man’s blood. “He charged me with a weapon. I had no choice.”
“But he has no armor, no protection,” the older man was coming apart, falling to his knees beside the dead boy. “Could you not see that?”
Dallas was not swayed; his face remained hard. “Then he should not have been using a weapon is he was unprepared to die for his actions. I was defending myself.”
The man dissolved; spittle dripped from his lips as he lingered over the lad. “William,” he wept painfully. “My boy is dead. He’s dead!”
Braxton stepped forward. “Who are you?”
The man seemed not to hear him. He wept with agony over the boy, shaking him in an attempt to rouse him. “William, lad, get up,” he sobbed. “Get up and embrace me.”
Braxton was unmoved. “You will answer my question. Who are you? And who is this boy that attacked us?”
The man’s head snapped up, his eyes mad with grief. “I am Roger de Clare,” he snapped savagely. “And this is my son William that you have murdered.”
Braxton felt the impact of the words, realizing all of the implications they held; he didn’t dare look at Dallas. “I am Braxton de Nerra,” he said evenly. “Your son attacked us. We were defending ourselves.”
“William was defending his holding!” de Clare barked. “You have no right to be here! It belongs to him!”
“It belongs to me, my lord,” Dallas said. “I married the Lady Brooke and the holding is mine. You and your son are trespassing.”
Braxton looked at Dallas, then. He was somewhat surprised with the word ‘trespassing’, true though it might be. Roger, too, focused on the tall young knight, his expression wavering between outrage and agony.
“You are lying,” Roger hissed.
“I have the document and witnesses to prove it.”
Roger struggled to stand. “But William was promised the Lady Brooke’s hand and this holding. You stole it!”
“Who promised it to you?”
“Lady de Montfort, of course.”
“My wife’s grandmother had no authority to do so,” Dallas replied. “This castle belongs to my wife’s mother, the Lady Gray, who pledged both her daughter and the holding to me. It is therefore legally and morally mine. You have no claim. You never did.”
Dallas sounded very matter of fact. Roger stood on unsteady legs, glaring at the young knight. “Lady de Montfort is the lady of this keep, for it was her husband’s holding,” he snarled. “She has every right to broker it.”
Dallas shook his head. “The castle was Lady Gray’s dowry upon her marriage to Garber Serroux. It was her husband’s to do with as he pleased. Having used the keep to pay a gambling debt to Baron Wenvoe, Sir Braxton then purchased the rights to Erith from the old baron. Technically, it is Sir Braxton’s holding. But he returned it to the Serroux family and it became my holding when I married Brooke. Is any of this clear to you yet, my lord? Understand that Erith was never yours. Lady Constance had no right.”
Roger began to shake. With clawed hands, he reached out towards Dallas, his mind filled with madness. “I will kill you!”
Dallas deftly side-stepped the old man, who tripped over his son’s supine body and tumbled forward. Because Dallas was not there to prevent his fall, he plunged over the side of the landing and to the bailey two stories below. Shocked, Dallas and Braxton could do nothing more than watch the man crash on his head. He was dead upon impact.
They stood atop the landing, staring at the body below them. After long moments of silent dread, Braxton looked at Dallas.
“I fear,” he said quietly, “that we are in for a good deal of trouble.”
*
“None of this would have happened had it not been for you,” Gray’s voice was icy. “I want you out. I do not care where you go, but I order you from Erith. I never want to see you again.”
Constance sat in her fine bedchamber, facing the window. She refused to look at her daughter, who was visible upset. After the events of the last several hours, the tension between mother and daughter was at splitting capacity. But Constance chose to ignore it.
“I will not leave and you cannot force me,” she said firmly.
“I will have Braxton bodily remove you, Mother,” Gray was in no mood for her mother’s arrogance. “You have schemed your last scheme. Now see what you have done to us with your treachery and selfishness. De Clare’s brother will return and destroy us, and it is all your doing.”
The old woman turned to her, eyes flashing. “You will not speak to me like that. I will not tolerate your insolence.”
“Your behavior dictates mine. You are to be treated accordingly.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Gray’s amber eyes blinked slowly, with exhaustion. It was slightly after the nooning meal in a day that had seen far too many shocking events in it already. But it was about to see one more.
“It means that you are treacherous, deceitful and horrid. It means that I am embarrassed to call you my mother. It means that after this day, you will be dead to me.”
Constance’s thin face tightened; she approached her daughter with fury in her manner. “You impudent girl. What gives you the right to judge me? I was doing what I had to do in order to preserve this family. You would see us die away without lifting a finger. You are weak; weak! I am ashamed I birthed such a creature!”
Gray watched her mother’s features as she spoke; the old woman believed everything she said. She simply didn’t understand. In the world of the Northumberland Grays, what she had done was perfectly acceptable behavior and Gray knew there was no use in continuing the conversation.
“You have one hour to pack,” she said, moving for the door. “If you pack nothing, you take nothing. But mark my words, Mother; you shall be removed from this place and I do not want to see you again. Is that clear?”
Constance was quivering with rage. “You cannot banish me. This is my home. I forbid it.”
Gray wasn’t going to get into a verbal altercation with her mother any more than she already was. She’d made her position clear. When she put her hand
on the latch to open the door, she was hit in the ear with something hard and heavy. Stunned, she put her hand to her head, drawing away blood. At her feet lay the iron candle holder that had done the damage. She looked to her mother in horror.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded.
Constance would not cower. She lifted her chin defiantly in a gesture that was very reminiscent of her sometimes-rebellious granddaughter. “You are an evil child, Gray. You deserve to be punished for every evil thing you have ever done to me. Have you no respect for your mother? How dare you order me from my own keep. And you are raising Brooke to be just like you. She is as evil and disobedient as you are. If given the chance, I would take her from you and raise her as she should be raised.”
Gray’s horrified expression turned to one of threat. “And just how should that be?”
Constance’s eyes blazed with a deeper madness. “Like me.”
Gray’s control snapped; she had always kept her composure with her mother, no matter how the woman had behaved. She was her mother, after all. But in that statement, every thread of respect vanished. The woman was vicious and evil. If she would harm her daughter, then there was no knowing what she would do to someone else. Gray could not allow her to get her hands on Brooke. She simply couldn’t take it any longer and momentary insanity filled her.
She rushed to her mother and grabbed the woman by the hair. Gray was taller and stronger than her mother and used that to her advantage; as tears streamed down her face, she yanked the screaming woman to the door and threw it open.
The entire keep suddenly came alive to the screaming of Constance and the cursing of Gray. Gray pulled her mother down the narrow spiral stairs, almost tripping but managing to keep her balance. She was mad with grief, with fury, as she continued to pull the woman down the second flight of stairs to the main living level.
Servants came rushing out to see what the matter was, dumbfounded to see Gray towing her mother brutally by the hair. But no one moved to intercede; they all knew that Lady Constance had punishment coming to her. For the years of harassment and cruelty to her daughter, for the evils she had sewn during that time. In fact, there wasn’t one witness that did not approve of what they saw. They saw justice.
Gray was sobbing and cursing as she pulled her mother outside. She yanked the woman down the first two steps but Constance grabbed hold of the banister, holding herself firm. Gray took hold of a bird-like arm and gave another pull, managing to move the woman another two steps down the flight. But Constance took hold of the railing with another hand, holding fast as Gray pulled. There was much screaming going on, and some blood. It was the screaming that attracted Braxton.
On the outer wall with Dallas, he had been consulting with his men as to the fastest and most complete way to reinforce the crumbled sections before Gloucester undoubtedly came down around their ears. De Clare’s army had left a few hours before with their dead liege and his dead son as somber cargo and Braxton had no doubt that they would return in force to avenge the deaths. He wanted to be ready. But the screaming distracted him, especially when one of his soldiers, with a better vantage point, told him what was transpiring.
He bolted off the wall with Dallas close behind. By the time they reached the keep, they could see Gray with a vicious grip on Constance. Shocked, Braxton ran the breadth of the bailey towards the stairs, watching his wife practically yank her mother’s hair from her scalp. As he approached the steps, Brooke suddenly emerged from the keep and began screaming. Her crying granddaughter was enough of a distraction that Constance lost her grip on the rail, tumbling back into Gray. Gray lost her balance. Before Braxton could reach them, he watched with horror as his wife and mother-in-law tumbled down the newly repaired steps.
They landed in a heap about the time Braxton got to them. He felt to his knees, shoving the old woman off of his wife.
“Gray, sweetheart,” Braxton’s voice was shaking as he tried to assess any visible injuries. “Are you hurt? Speak to me, sweet; where do you hurt?”
Gray was staring up at the sky, her expression void. She swallowed hard, her eyes slowly blinking. “Braxton?” she whispered feebly.
“I am here, sweet,” he moved so she could see him, his face very close to hers. “Where are you hurt?”
She swallowed again and closed her eyes. “My mother,” she murmured. “Remove her from Erith. Remove her before I kill her.”
He cast a glance at the disheveled, and unharmed, old woman now in Dallas’ grasp. “I will,” his told her, his eyes finding Dallas. “Go and get a physic. Hurry!”
Dallas pulled Constance with him as he stood up. His attention found Graehm, having just run upon the group. “Find a physic,” he ordered sharply. “Ride to Milnthorpe or Leven. Go!”
Graehm bolted off in the direction he had just come. By this time, Brooke was at the bottom of the steps, weeping loudly at the sight of her mother lying on the ground. Dallas shoved the old woman at a couple of soldiers for safe keeping and went to his wife. He put his arms around her as they both gazed down at Gray.
“Mama?” Brooke wept, trying to move closer but being prevented by Dallas. “Mama, are you all right?”
Gray lay there, breathing heavily and not moving. Braxton realized he was as close to tears as he had ever been in his life. He touched her face, her arms, not wanting to move her but wanting to do something. He felt so helpless.
“Gray,” he murmured, bending down to kiss her forehead. “Can you tell me where you hurt? Please, sweetheart. Where do you hurt?”
Gray’s eyes lolled open, the magnificent amber orbs glazed with shock. She took a deep breath and shifted slightly, her right leg coming up to bend at the knee. Then she moved again; her arms and torso flexed. She lifted her hands to Braxton and he grasped them tightly.
“I… I think I am all right,” she whispered. “Just… stunned. Help me to sit up, please.”
Braxton was shaking like a leaf. He helped her to sit, very carefully, making sure to support her back as she tried to catch her balance. She blinked, putting a hand to her head. Braxton was deeply relieved to see that she was at least able to sit.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
She put her hand to the bloodied side of her head. “A little weak, but I believe I am all right.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
Braxton was so relieved that he nearly collapsed with it. But her bloodied head had his attention and he fingered her silken blond hair, looking for the wound.
“You have hurt your head,” he said. “The physic may need to put a few stitches in your scalp.”
Gray shook her head. “The fall did not do that,” she said quietly. “My mother did.”
Braxton’s gaze flew to the old woman, now trapped between two seasoned soldiers. His nostrils flared, indicative of his level of emotion, and the blue-green eyes blazed.
“She hurt you?” he asked his wife.
Gray looked over at her mother; she was finished protecting the woman. “Aye.”
“Is that why you were fighting with her?”
“I was bodily removing her from Erith. She did not want to go.”
Braxton stood up and snapped his fingers at the soldiers, who immediately grabbed Constance and began dragging her across the bailey. The old woman began to scream again, howling an unearthly sound. Brooke’s loud crying resumed as she watched her grandmother’s removal.
“Where is she going?” she begged. “What are you doing with her?”
Gray was attempting to stand with Braxton’s strong assistance. “She is banished from Erith,” Gray told her daughter as firmly as she could manage. “Because of her, we are facing more peril that we can possibly fend off. Everything horrible that has happened is a direct result of her actions. I will tolerate her no longer, Brooke. I will not allow her to continue to harm us. To harm you.”
Brooke was weeping softly against Dallas’ chest. He was trying his best to comfort her. Gray was ste
adier now, leaning heavily against Braxton. Slowly, the two of them began to walk back to the steps that had almost claimed Gray’s life. They passed close to Brooke and Dallas as they did so, one glance at her mother propelled Brooke from Dallas’ arms and into Gray’s. She wept dramatically against her mother as Braxton support them both.
Dallas met his father-in-law’s gaze over the two blond heads. “What do we do with Lady Constance?”
Braxton was very close to giving a brutal order but he kept himself in check. He had more important things to contend with.
“Give her a few coins and have her escorted into Milnthorpe. Pay for a few days of lodging for her. But beyond that, she gets nothing. My patience with her is at an end for what she has done. Tell her that I will throw her in the vault if she ever shows her face here again.”
Dallas was pleased with the order but did not show it. Leaving his wife clinging to her mother, he went to give the command that would send Constance from Erith forever.
Or so he hoped.
Up in Gray’s poorly furnished chamber, Braxton inspected her from head to toe for any injuries related to the fall. She had perked up a great deal, now seemingly just exhausted more than anything else. Satisfied that she was moderately intact, Braxton proceeded to put three neat stitches in her ear. Since Gray was feeling better, he called off the hunt for a local physic and decided to take care of her himself. Brooke sat with Gray the entire time; she even helped the Braxton when the man put the small stitches in her mother’s skin, a big step for the normally squeamish young lady. When the stitches were in, he gave her a brewed willow bark potion for her throbbing headache.
“Are you hungry, Mama?” Brooke asked as she put away the bowl that Braxton had used. “The cook made some wonderful bread with the last of Braxton’s white flour.”
Gray was lying on her small, sparse bed and immediately tried to rise. “I will attend the meal downstairs. No need to cater to me, for I am well enough.”
Braxton sat on a stool next to the bed, eyeing his wife as she tried to stand. “The physic said you should rest,” he told her. “Perhaps you and I could take our meal in our chamber tonight.”