Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

"H ave I ever asked this of you before, my lord?"

"You have not."

"Then I would hope you would take me seriously when I ask that you reconsider assigning me to this task."

"Of course I take you seriously, Garren. But you have only been at Framlingham one day. How do you know this mission is impossible?"

"You must trust me when I tell you that it is. I know my limitations and I am telling you that I believe this mission will fall into serious jeopardy."

"So you have told me repeatedly. But what you have failed to tell me is why."

Garren sat in William Marshal's solar, gazing at the old man with the yellowed eyes, wondering how he was going to explain this to him. Months in the making and he was running from his assignment like a coward. He'd never run from anything in his life.

Outside, the night was becoming early morning. He'd ridden for hours to get from Framlingham to Chepstow and he was exhausted. But he'd never felt so strongly about anything in his life, so much so that he was willing to yank William Marshal from bed and beg him to reconsider the task at hand.

"Suffice it to say that, for various reasons, it is not something I can do," he muttered. "There are too many factors…."

"Rubbish," the Marshal snapped softly. "Tell me the truth. What has you spooked like a skittish mare?"

Garren looked at him, wondering if he should tell him the truth, but knowing in the same breath that he would sound like a complete idiot. Still, the Marshal deserved to know. Garren was the best agent he had and had served flawlessly up until this point. He knew he could confide in William but was reluctant to do so. With the truth came admission.

"Send someone to infiltrate the servants," he said. "I need support on this task. I fear that my attention may not always be where it should and I need assistance that I can depend on should I be indisposed."

William studied him a moment, a wise man with many years of living and loving behind him. He suspected he knew what the problem was. "Is it your bride?"

"Aye."

"You have expressed reservation about this betrothal from the beginning. What is it that still disturbs you?"

Garren took a deep breath, staring into the fire, trying to think of the right words. They came to him in pieces. "I am not sure. There's something about her…."

"Is she unpleasant?"

"Nay."

"Fat? Lazy?"

"Nay."

"Then what?"

Garren was hesitant. "From the onset, I feared the woman would be a distraction," he said quietly. "I have never been comfortable with women, you know that, and I saw the entire marriage element as unnecessary to this mission. I could have infiltrated the House of de Rosa another way, for instance, as a bachelor knight searching for a house to pledge my fealty."

The Marshal nodded patiently. "You suggested that, as I recall."

"I did. But you were convinced the marriage aspect was the most convenient and secure."

"It still is." He threw up his hands. "Garren, where is this leading? I do not understand what the problem is."

Garren sat a moment, trying to piece together his thoughts. He finally stood up and began to pace. "Derica de Rosa is no ordinary woman," he said softly. "If I were the marrying kind, she is someone I would choose to marry."

"And that is a bad thing?"

"Aye," Garren whispered. "I have known the woman all of a day and already she haunts me."

"In what way?"

"In a way that makes me feel as if I cannot breathe every time I look at her."

The Marshal was silent, contemplating what Garren has so haltingly told him. "Then I think I understand," he said quietly. "At first you feared being married to a woman you hate. Now you fear being married to a woman who takes your breath away and you fear that your loyalties will be torn."

"Something like that."

"I am sure this is a foolish question, but do you think you could grow to love her?"

Garren looked sick. "Christ, I don't know," he hissed. "All I know is that the very moment I lay eyes on her, one set of fears was replaced by another and with as much attraction as I feel towards her, I am afraid that I cannot guarantee the sanctity of this mission. If she is a distraction to me now, God only knows how I will feel about her a week, a month or a year from now."

William fell silent as the long moments ticked away. "I am not sure how we can break this betrothal, Garren."

"Therein lies the confusion," he said, agitated. "I don't want to break it, for all of the wrong reasons. But I also do not believe I can perform to the best of my abilities, which will greatly compromise me and the success of this task. Yet, I am sworn to the king and to my vows as his servant. Never, in all of my years of service, have I faced a situation like this and I find it bewildering."

The Marshal stood up from his chair, moving his weary body across the floor as he contemplated Garren's situation. As he saw it, there was only one way to deal with it.

"You are my greatest asset," he said. "You have never failed me. Yet I have also never known you to act like an addle-brained schoolboy, which is exactly what you are doing. Is this woman so attractive to you that she could ruin everything you have worked to achieve over the past eighteen years? Is she more important than your king and country? Is she so important that you would let it all slip through your fingers to see John Lackland on the throne, running the country into the ground? In one day, do you give your loyalties to a woman you don't even know simply to sate your lust?"

He was bellowing by the time he finished. Garren remained characteristically cool, yet at the same time, he felt ashamed.

"It is more than that, my lord."

"What more could there be?" he shouted. "By this foolish behavior, you have already compromised your position. Do they, in fact, know where you have gone? Don't you think they will discover that you're missing, run off liked a frightened child?"

"They know I am gone. I told Bertram that I had business to attend to. He did not ask what it was, and I did not offer. All they know is that I shall return sometime in the next couple of days and the wedding is set to take place on the sixth day of this month."

"Of course it will take place," William hissed. "This is what we have worked for these past months. Now, pull your head together; otherwise, we are all dead. Is this clear to you? Stop allowing yourself to be led by your loins and think with that clever mind I know you have. This woman is a tool of your trade and nothing more."

Garren's jaw ticked. "You are correct, of course."

"Indeed I am," William calmed. "Garren, I am not unsympathetic, but this entire conversation is ridiculous. You're a knight in the service of the king. Anything else is secondary, including any personal feelings you may have. While I appreciate that you are communicating these concerns to me, my answer is the same– you have a job to do. Do it, and do it well, and perhaps when this madness is finished, you and Lady Derica may have a chance at some manner of life together. She will be, after all, your wife."

Garren smiled ironically. "How much of a life can we have knowing I married her to betray her and her family? My sole purpose is to destroy everything they believe in."

"You can't seriously expect me to believe that it worries you."

Garren could see that the Marshal was hardening. Perhaps the honesty aspect had been a mistake. He shook his head. "It does not. It was merely an observation." It was time to make the long ride back to Framlingham and he would waste no more time. "Thank you for your attention, my lord. I am sorry to have disrupted your sleep."

"You did not," William replied. "But I will do one thing for you; I will send someone to infiltrate the servants at Framlingham. Perhaps another set of eyes and ears is a prudent move and can be great assistance to you."

Garren wanted to leave. He felt foolish for even coming, but the Marshal lay a hand on his broad shoulder in a rare gesture.

"Do not be ashamed of what you are feeling, Garren," he said quietly. "We have all had moments of lust and fear when it comes to a woman. I know you, and I know what you are capable of. I have nothing but confidence in your abilities to see this through. All of this foolishness about Lady Derica shall pass."

Garren could only smile weakly. He hoped the man was right, but on the other hand, he hoped he wasn't.

*

When she realized he wasn't going to look at her, Derica hung her head and focused on her food. The great hall of Framlingham was lit with tapers as the family and senior soldiers dined on a great pig stuffed with apples and nuts. Garren had arrived an hour or so before the evening meal, much to Derica's delight, but he'd barely said a word to her since his return. He sat next to her on the dais, wine in hand, making tight conversation with Bertram.

No one else would talk to him. They all sat, glaring at him to various degrees. Derica had no idea why, after he had left her chamber, he had become so cold towards her. He had seemed genuinely sincere and friendly during their visit, but in the presence of others, he ignored her.

"Eat, pigeon," came the deep voice beside her, "Your food is growing cold."

Derica glanced up at her uncle, Hoyt, clad in a gown that was lavish and expensive. The rouge on his cheeks was too bright and he smelled of strong perfume. She'd long since gotten over the shock of him thinking he was a woman; in fact, at times, he was very comforting in an odd sort of female way. He was like a great, protective nanny.

"I am not hungry," she pushed her trencher away.

Hoyt put it back in front of her. "You must eat. You must maintain your strength for… for…."

He suddenly burst into loud tears, clapping a wisp of a handkerchief over his mouth to muffle the cries. All conversation at the table stopped and they looked at Hoyt, carrying on pitifully.

Bertram wasn't particularly tolerant of the brother who dressed in the gowns of a queen. "Lady," he gruffed wearily. "You will not distract us with your wailing. Leave us."

Hoyt cast him a pathetic glance and continued to sob. "How can you be so cold?" he sobbed. "Your only daughter will be married on the morrow. Do you show no compassion to her plight?"

Bertram sighed heavily. "'Tis only your theatrics that intimate it 'twill be something horrible and fiendish. Marriage is an event of satisfaction and progression."

"There is no satisfaction in marrying a stranger," Hoyt insisted. "To allow this… this man access to your daughter in the Biblical sense is barbaric. You have protected her with your life since the day she was born only to turn her over to someone we do not know? I find your callousness shocking."

"I will not discuss this with you."

Hoyt continued to weep and put his arm around Derica protectively. Garren watched it all carefully, noting the size of the lady's hand, suggesting what his first instincts told him that this was no lady at all. Suspicion filled his mind; he wondered seriously what game he was playing. He didn't like the implications at all.

"And you, Sir Garren?" Donat entered the conversation from across the table. "Do you find it barbaric to wed a woman you do not know, someone who obviously has no interest or need for you?"

Garren was cool. "I have no need or interest, either, but I will attend my duty. The barbaric nature of the deal has no bearing on my personal feelings for the matter."

Donat and his brothers were working up a righteous flare. "Derica deserves better than the likes of you," Donat hissed. "At least we do not have an ancestor that surrendered like a coward to William the Bastard. Suppose cowardice runs in your blood, eh?"

"Would you like to find out?"

"Indeed!"

"Sit down, Donat," Bertram bellowed. "There will be no fighting on the eve of your sister's wedding."

The table was growing unruly. Hoyt's weeping grew louder. Donat's green eyes blazed at his father. "'Tis not fighting, Father. Call it a test of worthiness."

"He is worthy else I would not have agreed to a contract."

It was apparent that Donat was surprised not to have his father's support. "You agreed to the contract based on your friendship with his father. As le Mon clearly stated, he is nothing like his father. Doesn't Derica at least deserve to know what kind of man she will be forced to spend her life with?"

Bertram wouldn't dignify the challenge to his authority as head of the House. His gaze was steady on his middle son. "Take your seat, Donat. We will speak of this no further."

Donat wouldn't give up without a fight. He thrust a hand at Derica. "But look at her; she is clearly miserable. She clearly despises this man."

Derica's head came up sharply. "You do not speak for me, Donat de Rosa," she snapped. Realizing what she had just said, her cheeks flamed as she looked at the surprised faces around her. "That is… I mean to say that…!" She suddenly bolted to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. "I think you are all horrid. Each and every one of you."

She tripped over Hoyt in her attempt to flee the table, knocking his wimple into the subtlety in front of him. The tumbling wimple also managed to clip a chalice, which tipped over and splashed red wine onto Donat's linen tunic. Donat, trying to evade the spilling liquid, leapt up and knocked Dixon across the side of the head with his forearm. Dixon, outraged, threw a punch into Donat's face that sent the brother tumbling. In seconds, a full-scale fight erupted at the head table. It seemed that the de Rosas needed little provocation to leap into battle, with others or just with themselves.

Garren pushed himself back, away from the flying fists. The only family member not fighting was the eldest brother Daniel, and he immediately excused himself. Meanwhile, Derica was tangled in Hoyt's skirts and Garren reached over, unwrapping the material from her ankle. Before she stumbled further in her haste to leave the table, he grasped her hand to steady her, but she jerked her arm away.

"I do not require your assistance," she hissed.

Garren allowed himself to look at her for the first time since arriving back at Framlingham. He'd spend the past several hours attempting desperately not to think of her, much less look at her. Now, in the midst of a melee, he could think or see nothing else.

"My apologies," he said. "I did not want you to fall and hurt yourself."

Derica glared at him, gathering her skirts. Before she could reply, they were both startled by Hoyt's flying fist, sending his younger brother Lon to the floor when the man spilled more wine on him in his attempt to stop his nephews from fighting. Hoyt had an enormous hand and an enormous punch, and in spite of Derica's declaration of no assistance needed, Garren took firm hold of her and half carried her, half pulled her, off the dais.

The table was in a nasty uproar. Garren took Derica to the small alcove directly behind the table, shielding her from the violence. He watched the fight a moment before shaking his head with disapproval.

"Are they always like this?" he asked.

Derica tried to stay focused on her need to get away from Garren, but she found that she couldn't. She didn't want to admit that she simply liked being around him, but she did. After a moment's struggle, she resigned herself, feeling like a fool.

"Aye," she muttered. "The de Rosas tend to be a riotous bunch. You may as well know that events like this are not unusual for us."

Garren had a good grip on her, just in case bodies came flying in their direction and he needed to move her, quickly, to a safer haven. His eyes were sharp at the fighting going on, in particular, watching Hoyt clobber a nephew and brother to the point of unconsciousness. With the wimple off, there was no longer a question of the overly-made up creature being a man. He was colossal, with deadly fists.

A chair crashed against the wall near them, splintering. Above it all, Bertram was shouting for the disturbance to cease. No one was listening, however, and the punches continued to fly.

"I think we should leave," Garren began to look around for an escape route. "I do not like the shift in winds."

Derica shrugged. "This will calm soon enough, once they've blown off their anger."

He spied an opening at the far end of the hall. "Perhaps. But I will not risk the potential for your injury." He put both arms around her, shielding her with his massive body as they moved from the alcove. "The sooner we get out of here, the better."

Derica permitted him to drag her along the wall until they reached the exit. It led into the servant's passage that skirted the hall and led to the entrance of the larger tower. It was a cold night, with the stars bright above, and Garren took her down the wooden steps into the ward. At the base of the stairs, however, Derica removed herself from his protective grasp.

"I do not believe I am in any danger now," she said crisply. "In fact, I believe I can make it back into the hall and up to my chamber without any horrors befalling me. But I thank you for your concern."

Garren didn't know what to say. Her manner was abrupt and he knew it was because of his behavior. Warm one minute, cold the next. He wished he could explain the reasons for his actions, but he truthfully wasn't sure he fully understood them himself. He just looked at her and Derica began to suspect he was never going to reply. Gathered her skirts, she turned to the stairs. Garren continued to stare after her, her name on the tip of his tongue, knowing he should let her go but unable to.

"Derica," he called softly.

She paused, her manner stiff. "What is it?"

What is it? Garren felt a strange pressure in his chest, tight, as if he couldn't breathe. He couldn't be truthful and tell her what it was. He felt himself weakening again and wondered, if this time, there would be no point of return.

"I am sorry if I have been rude to you," he said.

"I am sure I do not know what you mean, Sir Garren. Good eve to you."

She turned up the stairs again but he stopped her. When she turned this time, he appeared a few steps below her. He had mounted the stairs and she had never heard him. The expression on his face was surprisingly unguarded.

"You must understand something," his voice was low. "How I behave with you privately and how I behave with you in front of your family are two different matters altogether."

She almost did not want to be drawn into this line of conversation, so deep was her insult and confusion. But a large part of her needed to know why he had been so nice to her then had changed as abruptly as day to night.

"Why?" she demanded softly.

"Because if they see that I am kind to you, interested even, then it will suggest weakness. And right now, your family is putting me to a test of strength. I must not fail that test. Can you comprehend that, in any manner?"

She did, somewhat. Her father and uncles and brothers were a group marred by male shortcomings. Another male into the fold only fueled their fires. Garren was doing what he had to do in order not to be trampled by them.

Her hurt was easing. "But you were…," she tried to find the right words. "In front of Aglette, you acted as if I had done something to offend you. Only the evening before, you had been warm and kind in my chamber, yet when I saw you in the bailey, you were…."

He put his hand up to silence her. "I know," he said softly. "But your servant could also be a witness for your family. Were they to ask her, she could say that she saw me demonstrate kindness toward you, something that could, again, be perceived as weakness. I want nothing to be used against me."

"Aglette is not a servant. She is my friend, and loyal to the death."

"My apologies, then. But I could not make that assumption."

She wondered if she should believe him or not. "So what you are telling me, in essence, is that in public you cannot show me any kindness so long as my family is around? Only when we are alone, is that it?"

"While your family still gnashes their teeth every time they see me, I am not sure there is any other alternative."

"Are you so concerned they would think you weak that you would rather have me think you a cad?"

"No," he shook his head slowly. "But I pray you understand my reasoning."

"But those things you said in the hall, how you have no need or interest in marrying me. Is that true?"

"No."

"Then you do have interest?"

"Can you not see it in my face, even now?"

She could, but she was terrified of this man she did not know, yet was enormously attracted to. He had the power to bend her emotions like grass in the wind.

"I see a man who says one thing, yet demonstrates another," she said after a moment. "I think you make excuses to soothe me. I shall not be made a fool of."

He sighed, feeling like he was losing a battle. This one involved feeling and he hadn't a sword big enough to fight it.

"I understand your reservation. What would convince you that I am a man of my word?"

She looked at him, thoughtfully. "Would you consider yourself a strong man, Sir Garren?"

"Stronger than most, I suppose."

"Then if you are so strong, what should it matter what my family thinks? If you are so strong, their opinion should mean nothing to you. You can stand on your strength alone."

He gazed at her a long moment. Then, he smiled. "Wiser words were never spoken, my lady."

"Perhaps. But will you heed them?"

"I can see that it will cost me your respect not to. And your respect means more to me than theirs."

She was surprised. "It does?"

"It does."

His expression made her feel giddy. They stood there on the sturdy wooden steps, gazing at each other, feeling a tide of new emotion sweep through them. Garren knew it was unhealthy for him, but he couldn't help it. It was far easier to give in than to resist. Perhaps he should just learn to work with his traitorous emotions so that they did not interfere in his thought process. He had always been the adaptable sort. With that thought, he let go of his fear and simply enjoyed something he'd never felt before in his life.

It was a bold move to reach out and take her hand. It was even bolder to place a tender kiss on the inside of her wrist. He could feel her hand tremble and it pleased him tremendously. He wanted so badly to kiss her lips, but he wouldn't dare. Her soft hand in his calloused one, for the moment, was enough.

"There you are!"

The roar came from the entrance to the larger tower. Startled, Derica and Garren looked up to see Alger and Lon standing in the doorway, swords in hand. One-eyed Alger leapt onto the steps, pulling Derica away from Garren.

"So you take her out here with lustful intentions," he growled. "I shall teach you some manners, le Mon. Women in the Holy Land may respond like dogs in heat, but civilized English women do not."

Alger was armed, but Garren remained cool. "I am without my sword. If you would allow me to collect it, I would be happy to teach you a lesson of my own."

A weapon came flying at him, courtesy of Lon. Garren deftly caught it, noting it was nothing the size or strength of his own sword. Alger didn't permit him to take a breath before he was flying at him, sword wielded high.

Garren easily deflected the blow, but he was at a disadvantage. He was half way up the wooden stairs and to lose his balance would cause him to tumble several steps. So he descended carefully, unable to take the offense against Alger as the man pounded him mercilessly. But once they were on the level ground of the ward, the tides turned.

"Uncle Alger," Derica begged. "Please stop this. You're being foolish."

Alger growled and grunted, once landing blows, now deflecting them. He ignored his niece, who pulled away from Lon and scampered down the steps.

"Stop this, I say!" she hissed. "You're going to be injured!"

"The only one who is going to be injured is…," he grunted, warding off a strong blow aimed at his head, "…your intended. Any man who attempts to sully your honor gets the same."

"He didn't attempt to sully my honor," Derica insisted. "He was a perfect knight. In fact, he is the one who removed me from the hall so your boyish games would not injure me."

"You mean that he removed you from the hall to take advantage of you," Lon said behind her. "He is had his way with whores in the Holy Land and now he wants to have his way with you."

Somehow the thought of Garren being intimate with dark-skinned women didn't sit well with Derica. In fact, the thought of him with any woman didn't sit well with her. She watched Garren toy with her uncle, convinced he could kill the older man if he wanted to.

"Tell them you were not trying to have your way with me or they'll nip at your heels like dogs for the rest of your life," she told him.

Garren distracted Alger with a thrust while managing to get his foot in behind the man. Alger tripped and fell heavily, and his sword went into the mud.

"Gladly," he said, hardly winded. "I was not trying to have my way with your niece. I was simply talking to her."

Alger was furious and humiliated. "You are a liar. We saw you touch her."

"Her hand," Garren lowered his sword. "You saw me touch her hand. Harmless, I assure you. And if I wanted to ravage her, do you think I would do it out here in the bailey for everyone to see? I would have taken her somewhere where no one could find us."

Alger struggled up from the mud, glowering. It was enough of a distraction to allow Lon to race down the steps and leap onto Garren's back. Derica shrieked, unwisely entering the melee by trying to pull Lon off of Garren. Garren had no idea she was behind him until he brought his sword up in an attempt to dislodge Lon and ended up striking Derica instead.

She cried out, the upper portion of her right arm sliced by the weapon. The men forgot their battle, their eyes wide at the sight of her blood.

Garren was the first one to Derica's side. "Let me have a look," he took her arm gently. "Come on… that's a good girl. Let me see what I have done to you."

There were tears in her eyes, making their way down her cheeks as he peeled the tatters of her sleeve away. The wound hurt tremendously and she wasn't very good at hiding it. "I am sorry, Garren."

Garren's expression was warm and reassuring as he examined the injury. "Sorry for what?" he asked gently. "I am the one who struck you, therefore, I am the one who is sorrier than words can express."

"But I got in the way…."

"You were attempting to help me. That is noble and courageous, and I am indebted to you."

Lon had bolted off, screaming that Derica had been mortally injured. Alger remained, trying to gain a look at the injury.

"It is a decent cut," he said. "Better to take her inside to clean it."

Garren agreed; it was a long nick and somewhat deep. It was going to need a few stitches. He swept Derica into his arms and carried her into the tower. By this time, the place was in a panic and there were several anxious faces to greet them. Garren ignored the worry, more concerned with tending Derica than answering foolish questions. He snapped orders to the servants and sent them running for healing supplies, ignoring Derica's family as they tried to stop him and inspect her injury for themselves.

"What happened?" Bertram demanded. "How was she struck by your sword, le Mon? Give me answers, I say!"

Garren growled at him. "She was trying to save me from your foolish brothers. If you have anyone to admonish, better spend your breath on them. Were it not for their stupidity, none of us would be in the position we now find ourselves in."

Bertram cast Lon a long look. Alger refused to look at him at all, appearing more concerned with his niece. Garren shoved past Bertram and the others, mounting the steps to the upper floor; he would have been angry about the blockade were he not more concerned about Derica's mental state at this moment. She was pale and weepy, trying to be brave. He doubted she could have handled a confrontation of any kind.

Once in her chamber, he laid her upon the bed. The menfolk were crowding in behind them and once she was out of his arms, he was more forceful about chasing them back. Aglette squeezed in through the door, bearing water and witch-hazel.

"I will see to my daughter, le Mon," Bertram insisted. "You will not stop me."

Garren was not to be trifled with. "I have no time to waste with you, so I will make this clear. Derica does not need a gaggle of men hanging over her right now and I can guarantee that I have treated more battle wounds than you have seen in your lifetime. Leave her to me and trust that she will be properly cared for."

Bertram glared at him. "She is my daughter. You have no right to touch her, in any fashion, more than I."

"She is my wife, in the eyes of law if not yet in the eyes of God. But that, too, shall be reckoned two days hence." He planted a big hand squarely on Bertram's chest and pushed the man back, through the chamber door. "Be gone. I shall send word when she is well enough for visitors."

He slammed the door and bolted it before Bertram could respond. Ignoring the raving on the opposite side of the door, he returned his focus to Derica.

She was sitting up in her bed, pale, but the tears had subsided. Garren smiled gently as he approached, all but shoving Aglette aside and taking the stool from her. He peeled away the remaining material as Derica sucked in her breath, pained by his touch.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I know it hurts."

She shook her head, biting her lip and looking away from the blood that stained her gown. "Not much, it doesn't."

He knew she was lying but he would not contradict her. He inspected the wound more closely, seeing bits of material in it. He had to clean it out quickly and sew it up.

"Derica," he said softly. "I need to clean the wound and put a few stitches in it. Be brave just a while longer and we'll be done with this foolishness. Are you with me?"

Derica had tended wounds before like this, on her brothers and uncles. She knew they healing sometimes hurt worse than the injury, but she nodded to his question.

"Aye," she whispered. "Hurry and get it over with."

Up until this moment, Garren had ignored his guilt at having done this to her, however accidental. Now he was seized with remorse. Tending her wound was going to hurt him far more than it would hurt her.

"I brought this, my lord," Aglette shoved a bottle at him. "If we get her drunk on wine, she'll not feel a thing."

Garren knew that wasn't quite the truth, but he took the bottle from her anyway. "My thanks," he held it up to Derica. "It might help, my lady."

Derica took a few large gulps, as if the faster and more she drank, the less the shock and pain. It was strong and tart. Garren watched her take another gulp before moving in on the wound. He would have liked to have taken the time until she was properly fortified, but there was no time to waste.

Some of the material was imbedded deep. Garren used a long pair of tweezers that Aglette had brought to pull out the bits and pieces, listening to Derica gasp and then finally sob softly in pain. More than once, he put his hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing, apologizing for the pain he was causing her. Derica would only nod her head to acknowledge him.

After an agonizing eternity, Garren was finally ready to stitch the wound. He set his tweezers down, apologized again to Derica, and poured some of the ale on the wound to cleanse it. She emitted a piercing shriek and abruptly fell silent. Garren hurriedly put five neat stitches in her soft skin.

"It is over," he said quietly, taking a strip of clean linen from Aglette to bind Derica's arm. "Your bravery astounds me, my lady. I have seen battle hardened knights handle pain not a morsel as well as you did."

Derica was beyond the crying stage. Lying back on the pillows as Garren expertly wrapped her arm, she didn't respond. The wine had taken its toll and she hovered in fitful unconsciousness.

Garren took longer than he had to tying off the binding. His gaze moved between Derica's white face and his work. When he was done wrapping the arm, he kissed it softly. His guilt was overtaking him completely and he was deeply sorry for her agony.

"Sleep well, sweetheart," he murmured. "You have earned it."

He collected the basin and linen next to the bed, preparing to leave her in peace. But Derica's weak voice stopped him.

"Do not go," she whispered.

He handed the bloody rags to Aglette. "I thought you were asleep."

"Please stay."

Her face was the color of the linen upon which she rested. Garren sat back down next to her.

"I will not leave you," he murmured.

"Promise?"

"On my oath. I will never leave you."

Her eyes opened and her head lolled in his direction. Garren smiled at her as their eyes met. Derica's only response was to open her hand, slowly, and lift it with great difficulty. Garren saw the gesture meant for him and he quickly took her hand, holding it tightly. With that, Derica closed her eyes once more and sleep claimed her.