Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

S pring was in full bloom. It was a clear day, if not cold, with great puffy clouds scattered across the sky. The land below was growing green with new sprigs. Norfolk was lovely country in the spring with its gentle fields and relatively flat lands, conducive to the farmers that plowed into the thawed earth. Everywhere there were signs of life, peasants going about their chores, and animals in the field. It was a lovely place to live.

The hulk of Framlingham Castle dominated the landscape, its cold stone facade a strong contrast to the brilliant life surrounding it. It was the only bastion for several miles and the gates remained open for the peasants who conducted business within the walls. And massive walls they were; fourteen enormous towers linked the curtain wall nearly thirty feet in height, creating a huge circle around an equally large inner ward.

Each tower was designed to function autonomously should the castle fall under siege. Two of the towers were particularly large, one on the middle section of the western wall, and one on the east. They were longer, more spacious, and the tower on the western wall harbored a great hall. There were also several outbuildings and stables to house the four hundred men-at-arms needed to maintain the safety and structure of the castle.

Framlingham was the property of the Roger Bigod, second Earl of Norfolk, but the earl chose to live at Norwich Castle to the north rather than in the wilds of Framlingham. He entrusted his castle to Bertram de Rosa, a knight who had served his father, Hugh, for many years. Bertram and his sons were essentially part of the earl's family and the castle belonged more to them that to the earl himself. They took great pride in the place and ran it with power and efficiency.

On the third floor of the larger western tower, a lone young woman sat in her chamber running a brush through long, honey-colored hair. She had been listening to sobs and wails all morning. Had she not known better, she would have suspected the person emitting them to be in some manner of horrible pain or grief. But she knew too well of the dramatics behind them. As the day wore on, it grew annoying and her patience waned.

The young woman sighed, making a face that no one would ever see, expressing her irritation at the screeching. The brush strokes grew more furious as she used her hand to form curls from the strands that cascaded down her back. She scrunched up her pert nose when a particularly loud cry pierced the air, rolling her eyes in disbelief.

In the corner, a serving maiden was sewing on a gown of pale yellow and silver. When another chorus of cries filled the air, she slapped the sewing in her lap.

"I cannot take this any longer," she groaned. Into the air, she thrust the needle. "I would sew his mouth shut, my lady!"

The young woman glanced over her shoulder, an expression somewhere between tolerance and agreement.

"Weddings always affect him so," she sighed heavily. "Especially mine."

The serving maiden's countenance softened. "Forgive, my lady. I did not mean to…."

The woman shook her head. "You did not upset nor offend me, Aglette. Do not worry. I have had months to come to terms with my future and surely time enough to come to terms with whatever angst I may have felt."

"Three months, to be exact, my lady."

The young woman paused in her toilette, gazing at her reflection in the polished pewter mirror before her. A sweet oval face looked back at her, bright green eyes with long dusky lashes. She had been called beautiful since the day she was born, yet the term had no meaning to her. It hadn't for years. Her uncles and brothers and father were biased and she knew it. But there were times when other men had come, a few suitors, and had called her beautiful as well. Still, she wasn't sure if she believed them, though the reflection said otherwise.

She wondered if she would hear the same praise from her new husband. Certainly she was curious about him as well, as she had never even seen him. His father, an old friend of her father's, had initiated the betrothal proposal and she had never once seen hide nor hair of her Intended. All she knew was that he was a knight of independent wealth, newly returned from the Crusades. And they would be wed in one week.

A well-arched brow lifted. "The Lady Derica de Rosa le Mon. Has a rather musical sound to it, does it not?"

"It does, my lady."

"The House of le Mon is an old, distinguished family."

"It 'tis, my lady."

"I shall be a baroness someday."

"Indeed, my lady. Most honorable."

Derica thought she sounded very much like a woman trying to convince herself that everything would be all right. With Aglette echoing everything she said, she realized they were both trying to comfort her. She set the brush down and stood up. Her long day-robe trailed along the cold floor as she went to her maiden to see how her wedding dress was coming along.

"What if he is hideous?"

Aglette looked up from her work. "Who, my lady?"

"My husband… what if he is hideous?"

Aglette could only shrug. "I suppose we shall find out soon enough, my lady."

"I suppose." Derica's gaze moved from the exquisite gown to the young serving woman she had known her entire life; Aglette's parents had both served the de Rosa household for many years. Derica reached out and stroked the girl's red head before turning away, wandering across the chamber with no true destination in mind.

"Garren le Mon has been fighting in the Holy Land for several years," she said, more to herself than to Aglette. "He could have been injured, or disfigured somehow. Mayhap that is the reason he did not come with his father during the betrothal negotiations. Mayhap… mayhap his father was afraid I would refuse if I saw what his son truly looked like."

Aglette looked up from her fine stitching. "I believe you were told that Sir Garren was not yet returned from Jerusalem during the negotiations. He has only just set foot back on English soil."

"Ah, or so they would have you believe," Derica held up a finger as if correctly surmising the situation. "Or, if he is not disfigured, mayhap he is an ogre. Or a simpleton. Or he has a great pimpled face that frightens young children."

Aglette giggled. "Anything is possible, my lady."

"I shall wager there is something wrong with him. There has to be."

"It matters not now. The contract is done."

Derica's composure took a hit. She was always in control of herself, sometimes unnaturally so. Being a woman, it was expected that she would be an emotional creature. But not Derica. Growing up among men had given her that element.

"Aye," she agreed softly. "It is done."

"Are you afraid?"

Derica thought a moment. Was she? "I am not. But I am apprehensive. And a bit surprised. I truly never thought I would ever wed."

Aglette smiled; she knew the reasons behind that well. "Your new husband will have his hands full with your male kin."

"It 'tis the truth."

They smiled at each other. Perhaps that was why Derica was not frightened of her marriage; any hint of abuse or threat from her new husband, and her brothers and uncles would take care of him directly. There was comfort in the thought. But more than that, she did not have a fearful nature.

Sounds of a commotion wafted up through the lancet window. It was enough to catch their attention. Crowding around the thin slit, Derica and Aglette struggled to catch a glimpse of what was going on; they could see a flurry of activity around the open gate. There was the glint of armor that passed across their line of sight that was just as quickly gone. From the sounds of shouting, the women correctly surmised that the mysterious Garren le Mon had just made an appearance.

From mild apprehension to a case of full-blown panic, Derica moved away from the window, her heart in her throat. The sounds of the wailing, momentarily ignored, was suddenly back with a vengeance. Aglette looked at her mistress, fear in her own eyes. The moment they had waited for had come all too soon.

"I must be strong," Derica struggled to regain her control.

"Aye, my lady," Aglette agreed fervently. "You will be."

"He must know that I am a woman to be respected."

"Aye, my lady."

"Yet I will also be respectful."

"Aye, you will."

Derica stopped pacing and looked at her. "There is only one thing to do."

Aglette blanched. "Saints help us," she whispered. "I am afraid to know what that may be."

*

"You heard me correctly. I would see my bride before we wed."

Bertram de Rosa was looking into the face of a very large, very stubborn man. He could see a bit of his friend in the son's expression, but for the most part, Garren le Mon had a look and feel all his own. Having never met the man before, Bertram wasn't sure what to think. But he certainly sounded like a man who was eager to get a look at his fair English bride after having spent the past two years in the sand and sun with only dark women to view. In that respect, he could hardly blame him.

But he was careful with his reply. In the solar of Framlingham where the castle business was conducted, the only move he made was to pour himself a cup of wine. There was no desk, and only one chair. Bertram usually took it, leaving whomever he was conducting business with to stand and be scrutinized. It worked amazingly well. But he did not take his seat this time. Even with his three sons and two of his three brothers in the solar with him, Bertram wasn't at all sure he would hold the advantage.

"Allow me to introduce your future relations," he said evenly. Moving from his left, he indicated the men standing. "These are my brothers, Alger and Lon. And next to them stand my sons, Daniel, Donat and Dixon."

Garren had stormed into Framlingham as if he were lord and master. He, his father and the Marshal had determined that it would be the only way to give himself a level playing field against the aggressive de Rosas. He was an aggressive man naturally, so the strength he put behind his manner was hardly an act.

He scrutinized each man indicated in turn; Alger was missing an eye, a battle scarred warrior. Lon was also apparently seasoned, shorter than his brothers, with a challenging manner. The three brothers stood next to one another; Daniel was tall, slender, and held no animosity in his expression, whereas Donat and Dixon seemed quite hostile. The middle son was bulky, wearing a mail suit and, very strangely, no shoes. The last son, a little man, stared at Garren as if he was going to throw knives at him at any moment.

Garren glared at all of them before turning back to Bertram.

"I have been months out of England, my lord," he said. "I would see this woman my father has chosen for me."

So the man wasn't much for pleasantries. Bertram remained cool; he'd dealt with amorous suitors before. "You will go through the formalities with me first, as her father. It is my right and duty to inspect you as my daughter's future husband."

Alger walked up and stood next to Bertram in mute support. He looked like a brigand with his missing eye and dirty appearance.

"You will respect the House of de Rosa, le Mon," he growled. "We have no patience for your demands."

Garren's jaw ticked. "Since when is a man's right considered a demand? Have I been from England so long that all propriety is ignored?"

Alger bristled but Bertram stopped him. "We are not ignoring your demands, Sir Garren. But do we not have a right to question my daughter's future husband? Would you not expect that formality were it your daughter?"

Bertram wasn't being particularly obstinate; he was simply asking a question. Garren thought perhaps it was time he softened his stance a bit and allowed the man to have a look at him. But he had no doubt that any of them would think twice before challenging him in any way. With a faint nod of his head, he then accepted a cup of wine that Bertram extended. Alger stood there and grumbled until Bertram silenced him.

"Sir Garren," Bertram began. "Please tell us of your adventures in the Holy Land. You are the first crusader we have seen in many months. What news is there?"

Garren did not drink the wine; he simply held it in his hand. It was a nominal insult, accepting the wine but not drinking it, suggesting it was sub-standard or that there could possibly be poisoned laced in it. In any case, it was to further stress that he was no one to be manipulated or trifled with.

"The news is that the men grow weary of fighting," he said. "One out of every two Englishmen die from either illness or hunger, and the sands are littered with more knights dead from disease than from Saladin's arrows."

"What does the king have to say about the condition of his men?" Daniel's deep voice came from behind. "Surely the king would be concerned for the men who have followed him on his quest?"

Garren looked at the young, dark-eyed man. "Richard spends his nights in his tent with his lovers. He cares little for those who have sworn service to him. It is a dirty, bloody undertaking and I am more than glad to be free of it." He turned back to Bertram. "If there are no more questions, I would see my bride."

Bertram stared at him. Then, he snorted ironically. "Not like your father, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Andrew is the congenial sort."

"As I am not. And I am not happy with the fact that I return from the Levant a committed man."

"You have never been so fortunate," Lon, the youngest uncle, spoke up. "Every man in England would kill for the chance to become Derica's husband. Had you not been off killing infidels and bedding pagan whores, you might show more manners with civilized people."

Garren cast him a long glance. "Are you suggesting that I am uncivilized?"

There was great threat in his tone. Lon smiled thinly. "I suggest nothing of the sort. I say it plainly."

Garren had been forced to leave his weapons at the door. But that did not prevent a great arm from shooting out, grasping Lon around the neck. Everyone leapt to aid him, but Bertram's shout stopped the onslaught.

"Enough," he roared. "Le Mon, you will release him immediately. I forbid you to show such disrespect in my house. One infraction is forgivable, but do it again and I shall throw you in the vault myself. Is that understood?"

Garren's gaze moved to Bertram. He still held Lon in his massive grip. Ever so slowly, he released the smaller man, but the implication was obvious. It was a pack of wolves against one Alpha male, and there would be a war if all sides did not quickly come to terms.

"I do not disrespect the House of de Rosa, my lord," he said. "But if you expect such reverence from me, I would expect the same from you. I will not be called uncivilized by men who stay in England, clinging to her shores as a child clings to his mother's skirts."

Every man in the room flared except for Bertram and his eldest son. "Do you call us cowards?" Donat bellowed.

Garren didn't back down. "You are either cowardly or too brainless to serve your country when needed, so I will hear no more talk of my being uncivilized. We all make choices in life, only to be judged by God and not by others."

Lon rubbed his neck, grumbling, but was wise enough to move out of Garren's striking range. The others in the room grumbled and bickered to each other, deeply insulted, deeply angered. Bertram, however, seemed to be focused on something deeper in Garren's meaning.

"You mentioned the service of your country rather than your king," he said after a moment. "An interesting choice of words, Sir Garren, that you would rather serve your country's needs over those of your king."

"England is my king, my lord."

"And that is where your loyalties lay?"

Garren knew that question had to come at some point; he was simply surprised it had come so quickly. He smiled, without humor. "I returned to England to get away from the politics that threatened to pervert all of the good that the Holy Crusade is trying to accomplish. Yet I see I cannot escape it."

"Politics are like life, Sir Garren. One cannot escape either."

Garren took a step at that moment by drinking his wine. It was a signal, very cleverly, to his host that some level of communication and comfort was being established. It was a ploy he had developed during his years of service for the king, when a gesture or word could determine the course of his undertaking. He was well adept at such things.

"Agreed, my lord," he replied. "And also like life, Politics can make a man wish he was never born. Sometimes it is better to simply walk away."

It was more brilliant strategy to direct the conversation as Garren had intended. Though he would not come out directly and swear he had no political affiliation, a hint in this regard was enough for the moment. Still, Bertram was shrewd; Garren could see it in his eyes. The man was no fool.

"Sometimes you cannot walk away," Bertram said quietly.

"Sometimes you must."

Bertram acknowledged the statement by slightly lifting his cup in Garren's direction. Perhaps the old man was being particularly congenial because Garren was the son of his old friend. Or perhaps he genuinely agreed with him. In any case, he didn't seem quite as aggressive as Garren had been led to believe. But, then again, it was only their first meeting.

"Then I see that you do have much of your father in you," Bertram said. "He would rather stay out of the political climate than risk himself. There is no shame in that, of course. Sometimes it is more than prudent. But I would have thought a knight like you to be fiercely loyal to the king."

Before Garren could reply, the door to the solar creaked open and a woman burst forth. Apparently oblivious to the fact that there was a roomful of men around her, she planted herself squarely in front of Garren.

The men didn't react initially, but Garren was momentarily taken aback; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she was glaring at him. He could see, faintly, that she resembled Bertram, for they both had the same pale green eyes. She had her father's expression, too; an appraising sort of look that one had when inspecting a side of beef.

The woman put her hands on her hips, looked up and down the length of Garren, and then turned to Bertram.

"Sir Garren, I presume?" she asked.

Bertram looked at the woman with little patience, yet with the same expression, appeared resigned to her behavior. He sighed heavily. "Sir Garren le Mon, may I present my daughter, the Lady Derica Isabela Fernanda Elspeth de Rosa."

Derica turned back to Garren. Her expression hadn't wavered one way or the other. "Welcome to Framlingham, Sir Garren."

"Thank you, my lady."

A tense silence followed as Garren and Derica sized one another up. "Sir Garren and I were just discussing business," Bertram said. "Perhaps it is best if you leave us, my dear."

Derica, predictably, ignored her father. "Sir Garren," she said. "I understand that you have just returned from the Holy Land."

The woman had the manners of a raging bull, but he almost didn't care. She was positively delightful to look at and at that moment, Garren knew he was in a huge amount of trouble. A mediocre or even ugly woman would have been far easier for him to deal with objectively.

"Aye, my lady," he said evenly.

"Tell me about it."

"What do you wish to know?"

Derica cocked a well-shaped brow. "Well… the women, for instance. I hear they act like a pack of wild animals."

"No worse than a daughter barging into her father's solar uninvited."

Garren heard a few titters, though he could not be sure where they came from. He thought perhaps the brothers. Derica, however, simply cocked her head. A challenging smile creased her lips. "I am welcome anywhere in my father's house, invited or not."

Garren smiled back. They simply smiled at one another, like hungry wolves, a standoff that made Garren want to laugh out loud. She was amazingly audacious. He looked at Bertram.

"Do you raise your daughter to behave so, my lord?" he asked. His gaze disapprovingly returned to Derica. "No wonder she has had no husband yet."

Before Derica could verbalize her outrage, Bertram spoke. "She knows how to behave, I assure you. At the moment, she chooses not to."

Derica would not be left out of the conversation. "I am not in any way insolent. It is my right to inspect the man who would be my husband, is it not?"

"It is not," Bertram said flatly. "Leave us now. We will send for you when the time is correct."

"I will not be discarded, Father. I have every right to inspect Sir Garren just as you are."

"Later, Derica. Do as I say."

"I will not. I have every right to…."

Bertram took her by the shoulders and turned her back towards the door. Before they reached it, however, a large figure in flowing silks and perfume appeared and threw massive arms around Derica. The largest woman Garren had ever seen held Derica, weeping hysterically.

"My darling, my sweetling," the woman wept in a deep, husky voice. "I told you not to come down here. Your fate will come soon enough; you do not have to hasten it."

Garren looked at the woman; he could hardly believe it was Derica's mother. She had a huge wimple on with miles of sheer fabric, flowing all about her like waterfalls of color. She also wore an appalling amount of rouge on her lips in an attempt to make herself more attractive. But no amount of color could disguise the obvious. As Garren looked more closely, he swore he saw stubble on the fat cheeks.

"Remove her," Bertram waved his hands at the pair. "Both of you, leave us."

The huge woman wept and wept. Derica removed herself gently from the embrace and in turn, embraced the woman. She cast a long glance at Garren; he would never forget the look in her eyes. He didn't know why the expression affected him so, but it did. Her eyes seemed to reach out and grab him. Quickly, thankfully, she left the room and he could refocus on the task before him. Still, the Marshal's words echoed in his head.

I hear Derica de Rosa is a beautiful woman.

God help him, he had been right. The stakes of the game grew.

*

It had been, in fact, one of the longest afternoons of his life. Bertram de Rosa, having been the more congenial out of the group of de Rosa men, had turned into something of a barracuda when his daughter had left the room. It was as if, suddenly, a taper had been lit in his mind and he pounded Garren with questions for several hours. Politics, religion, and education– no subject escaped him. It was if he suddenly had to know everything about the man, immediately. By the time the sun set, Garren was exhausted. Sup was a few hours off, but he fully expected the interrogation to resume at mealtime. At the moment, he was grateful for the intermission.

It was the first time he is been at Framlingham and discovered it to be an enormous place. The wall walk seemed to go on forever. He had made his way up onto the battlements, watching the last of the sun, the dancing colors across the deepening sky. It was peaceful and he welcomed it. Now and again a sentry would pass him and hardly give him a glance.

A chill breeze was kicking up. Garren leaned back against the stone, his big arms crossed and his brow furrowed in thought. The Lady Derica de Rosa, he repeated over and over in his mind. He pondered the long honey-colored hair, silken-looking with its loose curls. He thought about her great green eyes, huge things that stared back at him as if they could read into his soul. He mulled over the shape of her face, the way her lips curved into the shape of a rosebud. He even liked the contours of her nose. She was rather tall for a woman, and rather robust, with delicious curves. Not that she was heavy by any means, but she wasn't a frail little thing, either. She was quite tasty in his opinion. The Marshal hadn't lied in the least.

A gust of cold wind came up, whistling past his ears. He was standing near the northeast tower when he heard something that didn't sound at all like the wind. There was someone lingering in the shadows of the tower, just inside the top of the stairs. He didn't flinch or try to see who it was; he simply stood there and waited. Whoever it was would make themselves known soon enough. His dagger, well concealed, was within easy reach.

Another gust of wind arose and he caught the distinct scent of flowers. He didn't know which kind because he wasn't very good at that sort of thing. But the scent alone told him who was lying in wait for him.

"You know," he said casually, "if your father finds you out here with me, without an escort, we would both be in for a good deal of trouble."

There was no immediate reply. After a moment, he heard soft footfalls coming towards him. Very leisurely, he turned his head to see Derica emerging into the moonlight. She looked beautiful, dressed in a burgundy surcoat and a matching heavy cloak. Garren wasn't sure if he should smile at her or just look at her. He settled for just looking at her.

Derica gazed back. She wasn't sure what to say to him, or why she had even followed him for that matter. The only reason she could manage to pinpoint was curiosity. Pure, wild curiosity.

He wasn't as she had expected or imagined. Garren was taller, taller than any of her uncles or brothers, and his shoulders were enormously wide. He had sand-colored hair with a hint of copper in it, cut close to his head. His eyes were clear blue, she had noticed, and his jaw was very square. It gave him a rather brave appearance, she thought. She could believe that he spent so much time in the Holy Land, fighting the infidels. Surely those dark-skinned natives must have been afraid of him.

He wasn't deformed, maimed or pimple-faced, as once suggested. He was, in truth, a large and quite handsome man, and therein laid her curiosity. The moment she had set eyes on him, everything she had feared had taken flight and now she found herself with an entirely new set of fears. The fear of attraction.

They gazed at each other in the ghostly gray light, each appraising the other. It seemed that all they had done in the two times they had met one another is stare at each other in an attempt to satisfy the insatiable interest about the person they were going to spend the rest of their lives with. It was a hunger that grew by the moment.

"Well?" Garren finally said.

Derica seemed to snap out of whatever silly trance she found herself in. She'd never in her life experienced anything so strange. "What do you mean?" she asked.

He wriggled his eyebrows. "About your father. If he finds you here, he'll berate us both."

She acted as if she hadn't heard the question. "Why is it you have never married?"

Garren couldn't help it; he laughed softly, his straight white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "I must say, you are direct."

Derica realized she sounded like an idiot and her cheeks grew hot. Trying to recover, she leaned back against the wall a few feet from him, trying to act as casually as he was.

"I simply meant that you're obviously old. Why is it you have never married?"

Garren laughed harder. "Old, am I? How old do you think I am?"

"Thirty years, at least."

He was greatly amused. "Thank you for the compliment, but I am nothing of the sort."

"Oh. How old are you, then?"

"Thirty-one years."

Her jaw dropped, just as quickly shut. "Good Heavens. I had no idea…."

"That I was as old as God himself, eh?"

She shrugged; he grinned. Garren turned back to the night sky, noting that the wind was picking up.

"It is getting rather cold," he said. "Mayhap you should return to your chamber."

"You did not answer my question."

"What is that?"

"Why have you not married?"

"I have never had the time or the inclination. Had my father not set up this betrothal, I would not have considered it."

"Why not?"

"I just told you. I have never had the time nor…."

Derica looked at him, then. "You mean to say that you have never met a woman you have wanted to marry? Not even in all of your travels?"

It was Garren's turn to shrug. "I have met a few interesting women in my lifetime. But it would have been unfair to marry any one of them and then leave her while I go about my vocation."

He could see the thoughts racing through her mind. "Then you are telling me that you plan to give up your vocation? That you are ready to stay in one place? Is that why you have agreed to our betrothal?"

He could sense something behind her questions, something he couldn't quite single out. "I agreed because my father went to a lot of trouble to secure this marriage for the future of my family lineage," he said carefully. "At some point, I will need to produce an heir to carry on the le Mon name."

It wasn't the answer she was looking for. "So that's all I am? A breeding cow?"

"I wouldn't put it quite that way."

Derica wasn't quite sure what she had been driving out, but the breeding stock line hadn't been it. She felt insignificant the way he described his views on the marriage. Pushing herself off the wall, she headed back toward the tower and the stairs. Garren called after her.

"Lady Derica?"

She didn't answer. With every step, she felt more and more distress and had no idea why. Garren called out to her again and she whirled on him just as she reached the steps.

"I am not breeding stock, Garren le Mon," she nearly shouted at him. "If all you wanted was a brood mare, you should have had your father select someone else. I am not interested."

She had a lot of fire, Garren would admit. He moved away from the wall and walked towards her, slowly, watching her body language. He was a man who had made a living from watching the twitches of others and he could tell just how furious she was, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

"Isn't that what marriage is, my lady?" he asked. "To perpetuate the family lines, to strengthen allies? If there is something else involved, then I am ignorant of it."

Derica felt as though she had been slapped. She didn't understand why she suddenly felt so hopeless. He had entirely logical views of their marriage. She wasn't sure what her views were at all.

"As am I."

Garren watched her fade down the steps, into the darkness of the tower. He knew that somehow he had offended her, but wasn't sure how. Still, he wished he knew her well enough to ask for her forgiveness for whatever it was that he had said. At this moment, he felt the distinct twinge of regret for something he didn't fully understand.