Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T his time of the year, Wales was a place soaked in perpetual gray. The land was gray, the sky gray, even the water. It was cloudy for days on end, making travel cold and miserable.

It took Garren and Derica nearly a week to make it to the border of England and Wales, the desolate area of the southern marches. They watched the landscape move from flat, fertile farming soil to rocky, hilly land that seemed to be the distinguishing characteristic of this part of the country. Still, there were moments when the sun broke through the cloud cover and produced spectacular yellow beams that fingered the slumbering landscape. In those moments, it was beautiful, and Derica would make Garren stop the horse to observe the precious moment.

For a woman who had spent her entire life given any luxury she could possibly want, Derica had traveled incredibly well with hardly a comfort. There were times when she would want to walk because her backside ached, but Garren never heard a compliant other than that. She was, however, constantly cold and many were a time when her icy fingers would snake inside his tunic to seek warmth against his skin. He would grunt and make faces, but she would giggle and tell him to quiet. Such was the price he had to pay for her company.

Quiet wasn't a word she knew much of herself. Although it wasn't annoying in the least, she talked constantly as the charger lumbered over the landscape. While Garren listened with interest, Derica would prattle on about her life back at Framlingham, the day her brothers accidentally killed her dog in a drunken brawl, or the time when her entire family went to a tourney in Saxmundham and another knight, not knowing that she was a de Rosa, had asked for her favor as she sat in the lists. Garren grinned as she relayed how the entire clan cornered the knight and his pages in the knight's tent, collapsed the tent, and then proceeded to beat everyone caught within the folds of material with the tent stakes they had ripped up from the earth.

He came to learn quite a bit about the woman he married in the two weeks that it took them to travel into Dyfed. He found her to be more of a delight than he could have imagined. He knew that she desperately wanted to learn how to read Latin. He also learned that she loved to draw sketches of castles; not simply to produce artwork, but of how to build them. They would sit by the fire at sundown and he would watch her sketch in the dirt. He had to admit that she had some brilliant ideas.

Garren had never been much of a conversationalist, or so he thought. Whereas he believed he had been doing most of the listening, it seemed that he had done some talking, too. He spoke of his father, a short man with bad eyes who had doted on his only son. Derica heard about the young page who had missed his pet goat when he had gone to foster. She heard a few antics that had involved Fergus, but Garren would become sad upon remembering the friend who had sacrificed himself and Derica would change the subject in a well-meaning way. It had been, after all, her family who had murdered Fergus. She hoped that the event would never cast a shadow over her and Garren, even though Garren had never so much as uttered a word to that effect.

Carreg-wen was the home of Fergus' birth, the village on the outskirts of Cilgarren. Garren and Derica had spent the night in the woods a few miles out, making love before the fire and talking well into the night. When dawn broke, they made their way through the mist and fog into the small town. It was an unspectacular place. Garren had made up his mind to seek out Fergus' father not only to inform him of his son's fate, but also to seek his aid in locating the castle. A few inquiries in town pointed the direction to a small cottage at the north-western end of the berg.

The rain was falling harder. Water formed in puddles all around the small, mud-brick dwelling. A heavy thatched roof dripped rain onto the ground as Garren walked up to the warped door and rapped on the splintering wood with his great gloved fist. Derica sat astride the charger, her lips unnaturally bright in the freezing weather, trying not to let Garren see that her teeth were chattering. He glanced at her when he received no immediate answer, winked, and rapped on the door again. He almost pounded on the head of the man who swiftly opened it.

Garren took a step back, noting the shock in the man's eyes. "Emyl de Edwin?" he asked.

The man had Fergus' eyes. They were bright blue and suspicious. "Who asks for him?"

"Fear not, my lord," Garren said. "I mean you no harm. I am a friend of Fergus'."

The man looked slightly less suspicious. "If you are looking for my son, I do not know where he is. He could be in France, or perhaps the Holy Land. If he owes you money, be assured that I have none to pay his debts. If I had, do you think I would be living here?"

Garren had to smile. He put up his hand to silence the man. "My lord, I come not to collect a debt your son owes me, though I am not surprised you have had experiences like that. Fergus had been known to make a promise or two that he had no intention of keeping."

The man cocked an eyebrow. "Ah, well, I see that you do indeed know my son."

"Well enough not to lend him money, my lord. May we speak?"

"That depends. What about?"

Garren glanced up at the sky. "I would prefer not to discuss business out here in the rain. My wife is freezing and I would hope to gain her some shelter."

The old man's eyes drifted to the charger, to Derica sitting cold and wet in the saddle. "No," he said after a moment. "I don't suppose you have come here to collect any debt with your lady in tow. 'Twould be bad manners. Bring her in by the fire."

The old man stepped back inside the cottage. Garren lifted Derica off the horse, carrying her across the mud and into the cramped, warm quarters. Closing the door behind them, he helped her pull back the soaking cloak. Near the hearth, the old man motioned them over.

"Take the cloak off and give it to me," he held his hands out. "I shall dry it by the fire. Lady, sit here, on the stool. 'Tis warm here."

Derica gratefully took the offered seat. Her hands were blue with cold and she held them up before the flame. The old man laid out the cloak, glancing at Derica with appreciative eyes. She caught his stares and he shrugged sheepishly.

"Forgive, my lady," he said. "'Tis been a long time since I have seen such beauty. I am Emyl de Edwin, and you are welcome in my home."

Garren removed his helm and pulled off his wet gloves. "I can see that you are indeed Fergus' father. The gift of flattery must run in the blood."

Emyl shrugged. "'Tis not flattery, but truth." He looked at the enormous knight. "And you, my lord. Your name?"

"Garren le Mon. And this is my wife, the lady Derica."

A flicker came to Emyl's eye. "Garren," he murmured. "I remember you as a lad. Now I see you as a fine, strong man."

Garren smiled. "And I remember you as a loud man who tried to thump us on the head with the butt of your sword on the occasions when you came to visit your son."

Emyl took Garren's outstretched hand and held it tightly. "You used to run from me."

"I am no fool."

"Did you come to seek vengeance, then?"

"No," Garren snickered. "Though you surely deserve it. I have actually come for another reason."

"Name it, then."

"I would ask that you direct me to Cilgarren Castle."

Emyl's eyebrows lifted. "Cilgarren? That derelict, beautiful old woman?"

"Then you know of it."

"Of course I do. What do you want at that place?"

Garren took a long, slow breath, listening to the rain pound on the walls. "'Tis a long story, my lord, one not worthy of delving into. I would be indebted to you should you tell me the way."

Emyl was either wise enough not to probe. "Very well. Take the road through the town out to the west. When you come to the River Teifi, go south along the bank. Where the ground rises, look to the sky. You will see the castle above you. In fact," he pointed a finger at Garren. "I will take you there myself. In this fog, 'twill be difficult to see. I should not want you to get lost."

"That is not necessary, my lord," Garren assured him. "We can find it, though your offer is appreciated."

"Nonsense," Emyl waved him off. "'Tis the least I can do for Garren le Mon, the boy who once ran from me in terror. I should make up for my bad behavior."

Derica's hands were warming, as was her smile as she listened to the conversation. "You must have been an awesome knight, my lord."

Emyl turned to her. "Indeed, Lady le Mon. I was indeed formidable at one time. But that was before…" he looked slightly uncomfortable. "That was before the ravages of drink and foolishness set upon me. There was a time when I was an honorable knight in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury. My ancestor arrived at Dover with William the Bastard many years back. Once, the de Edwin name meant something."

Derica glanced at Garren, uncertain what to say to a man who had apparently ruined himself. "Perhaps it shall again," she said with soft encouragement. "We plan to live at Cilgarren Castle. Perhaps you could serve Garren and help us make it a fine, strong place."

"Truly, Garren?" Emyl said. "Have you been granted the lands?"

Garren shook his head. "No," he said. "Suffice it to say that the lady and I are in need of finding a safe place for a time. Your son suggested the derelict castle of Cilgarren for this purpose."

"Safe place?" Emyl repeated. "Have you committed a crime, then?"

Garren cast his wife a wink. "Marrying this woman against her father's wishes is crime enough. We need to find safe haven until his anger cools."

Emyl laughed. "I see now. Well, I cannot blame you in the least. Were I younger and prettier, I might have done the same thing." He reached over by the hearth, collecting a large earthenware jug. "A drink, then. Let us toast your criminal activities."

Emyl took a huge swallow, reminding Garren very much of his son. Derica smirked as her husband reluctantly took the container and ingested a long swallow of the bitter, dark liquid.

"Do I get to drink to my own criminal activities, too?" she asked.

Garren cocked an eyebrow at her but dutifully handed her the jug. Derica took a gulp that spilled over her lips. She coughed and laughed at the same time, making a face at the strength of the liquor. Garren, grinning, shook his head at her and took the jug away. Emyl crowed happily.

"Garren, she is wonderful," he took another drink. "Too bad you married her before my son had a fair chance. And where is my prodigal boy these days? Not visiting his father, I can tell you. I haven't seen his swarthy hide in years."

Garren's jovial mood vanished. He didn't dare look at his wife, who was suddenly looking at the fire. He didn't want to tell this lonely old man that his only son had died as a result of Garren's crime. As he struggled to find an answer, Derica spoke.

"The last I saw of him, he was riding to the south of Yaxley Nene Abbey," she said softly. "I do not know where he went, but he was in good health last I saw him."

Garren shot her a strange look, his jaw tense and his eyes narrowed. She turned away from the fire, facing her husband as if daring him to disagree with her. He wouldn't back down and neither would she. After a moment, she looked at Emyl.

"Do you know that your son rescued me from my prison and delivered me to Garren?" she said. "He was brilliant in his plans. Why, had it not been for him, Garren and I would still be separated, longing for one another. 'Tis a horrible thing to love someone you can never be with. Your son saved us from that fate."

Emyl looked pleased and surprised. "Truly, now? My son was noble for once in his life?"

"Verily," Derica said. "He is as clever as a fox and as loyal as a hound. Garren and I are both eternally grateful to him."

Emyl scratched his thinning hair. "Perhaps the lad has become a worthy knight, after all. He wasn't always so, you know."

"How so?" Derica asked.

Garren knew he was foolish not to stop the charade this instant. But Emyl's expression was so that Garren didn't have the heart. He rationalized his lack of truth by telling himself that he did not know for sure that Fergus was dead; Hoyt had never actually seen his body. But the implication was such that the de Rosas had finished him off in their zeal to locate Derica.

Garren listed to Emyl go on about Fergus' shortcomings. His son was rash, young and foolish, to be sure, but he was also strong and virtuous to a point. Drink and gambling were his vices, as were his father's.

Garren finally sat down in an old chair, watching his wife's profile in the firelight as she listened to the old man, noticing the wrinkle in her nose when she laughed. His thoughts soon turned from Fergus to Derica, and his heart began to swell so that he thought it might burst from his chest. Outside, the rain pounded harder, distracting him from his thoughts.

"Derica, sweetheart," he muttered. "We should be on our way. Are you warm and dry enough to continue?"

She nodded, her cheeks rosy from sitting so near the hearth. "I am."

Emyl fingered the cloak, laid out before the flames. "'Tis nearly dry," he stood up. "Give me a moment to gather my things and we'll be off."

Garren could have very well found the castle himself, but he allowed Emyl to feel useful. He was sure the old man didn't get much chance at that. Moreover, he was still feeling guilty about Fergus. In very short time, Emyl was cloaked and carrying one of the biggest swords Garren had ever seen, save his own. As Derica donned her drying cloak, Garren indicated the old man's weapon.

"A fine piece," he said. "Where did you acquire it?"

Emyl held the weapon up for Garren to inspect. "'Twas a gift from my liege, Shrewsbury." He beheld the sword as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. "De Braose was an evil bastard, the most wicked marcher lord on the border. But he rewarded his faithful well. He gave this to me for meritorious service, probably stolen off of a dead Welsh prince."

Garren knew well the marcher lords, past and present. The Marshal was also a marcher lord. They were often the most ruthless men in the kingdom simply because the Welsh border was the most disputed.

Outside, the thunder rolled, and Emyl sheathed his sword. Garren put his helm on, adjusting it on his head so that it did not chaff against his skin. Just as Emyl opened the door of his warm hut, lightning flashed across the sky.

"The weather worsens," he commented. "Are you sure you won't stay here until this passes?"

Garren swept Derica into his arms. "If the castle is as derelict as your son said it was and provides no immediate shelter, then perhaps we shall. But for the moment, I would like to see it. I feel more secure within stone walls." He glanced as his wife. "Should the lady's family be tracking us, I would not want to be caught in a cottage that would be easily burned to the ground. And I would not want to jeopardize you."

Emyl threw up his hood. "Pah," he spat. "They'd have a fight on their hands, I can tell you."

Garren didn't reply. He followed the old man out into the driving rain, placing Derica upon the wet back of the charger. As he mounted up in front of her, Emyl disappeared around the side of the cottage and emerged a short time later astride a small, pale-colored donkey. Garren remembered Fergus' father coming to visit his squiring son, perched on the crest of a mighty red charger. To see him like this, a worn out man on a worn out steed, was disheartening.

They followed Emyl out onto the road that led through the town. They were heading west, into rain that stung with its ferocity. Garren shielded Derica as best he could, providing a huge windbreak from the elements. She huddled behind him, well protected, her cheek against his back as she watched the road pass by. When the charger began its jaunty trot, she had to lift her head otherwise it would bang against Garren's body. The rain fell hard, wetting her already cold nose.

It was slow going in the bad weather. Eventually, they reached a decline in the road. Derica peered around Garren and saw that the road descended to the banks of a river, running full with rainwater. Ahead of them, Emyl directed his donkey off the road and into the thick, grassy mud.

There was so much fog and rain that it was difficult to see for any distance around them. Garren followed Emyl into the sludge, realizing it was not so much a muddy field as a muddy path. The grass, as far as he could tell, was simply overgrown on to it. Ascending the path, he craned his neck back to see what he could through the haze. Gradually, an ominous sight came into view.

Cilgarren Castle loomed like a great ghostly beast on the hill high above them. Garren had seen many castles in his life, and it was clear from the onset that Cilgarren was no ordinary castle; as they mounted the path, he could see how the path cleverly paralleled the structure, making it convenient for defenders to shoot down invading forces.

Men would be picked off like sitting ducks. Massive round towers connected the curtain wall, arrow slits evident in the rounded stone fortifications. The west side of the castle was protected by a steep cliff that disappeared into the river below, while the northern side with the path was protected by a steep, unmanageable slope.

With every muddy step his destrier took, Garren became more impressed with what he was witnessing. It was apparent that this huge gray beast was built by for greatness. In the same breath, he was baffled why it should sit, unused and unwanted, when it could be a major force to be reckoned with.

The path crested at the top of the slippery hill and a large curtain wall stood before them. At first glance, Garren estimated it was easily twenty feet high. There was no telling how thick it was until they came closer. They edged the horses forward and Emyl spoke with reverence.

"I had forgotten the beauty of her," his eyes grazed the structure. "Why the princes abandoned it, I shall never understand. But they say ghosts chased them away."

"Ghosts?" Derica echoed. "What ghosts?"

Emyl gestured at the fortress shrouded in mist. "Legend says that Cilgarren was built by a prince of Dyfed named Owain," he answered. "He built it as his seat of power, given to him by his father, Madog ap Gruffyd. Owain had a wife named Bryndalyn, the most beautiful maiden in the land. One day, shortly after the castle was finished, Owain went off to fight one of the many skirmishes that hamper the Welsh. Men returned from the battle saying that Owain had perished. In her sorrow, Bryndalyn threw herself from the cliff that overlooks the river."

Derica's mouth was open in sorrow. "Poor lady," she murmured. "If Garren were not to return to me, I…."

She trailed off, unable to continue. As Garren reached around to pat her hand, Emyl shook his head sadly.

"Aye, my lady, but the truth was that Owain did not die. He returned, quite sound, only to find his lady dead. 'Tis said he went mad, locking himself in a room with her body. He neither ate, nor slept, but kept himself in with her corpse. Eventually, he died of a broken heart." The old man looked at her. "But God punishes those who take their own lives, as Bryndalyn and Owain did. So the two of them spend eternity searching the rooms of this place for each other, never in the same place at the same time. On still nights, one can hear them calling for each other. They come so close, but are ever damned to be just a breath away."

"So they can never be together, ever?"

"So it is said."

Derica looked as if she was about to cry. "That is the most awful story I have ever heard."

Garren held her hand, smiling faintly at the old man's story and at his wife's gullibility. The mood was growing heady and he had no intention of letting it get the better of them.

"Are you willing to face the ghosts to get out of this rain?" he teased. "Boo!"

She frowned at his attempt to startle her. "How can you make jokes about this? 'Tis a horrible tale, Garren. Tragic."

"I am sorry," he kissed her hand and spurred his charger towards the entrance. "You're right, It is tragic. I believe I shall go off and cry myself ill right now."

She couldn't see his expression, smirking at her, but she could feel his humorous snorts against her body. "Stop laughing at me. How would you like it if we were separated like that, through all eternity?"

"I wouldn't. Tell me if you plan on doing something foolish like that, will you?"

"I don't think I shall tell you anything. I think I shall go back to Framlingham and leave you alone with your bad sense of humor."

"As you wish, my lady."

He turned the horse around and she squealed, laughing as he reined the horse in a couple of tight circles. Finally, they were heading back for the gate and she smacked him, lightly, on the shoulder.

"Stop fooling, Garren," she said. "If anything of what Emyl says is true, then this is a revered place. We should be respectful."

Emyl had watched the interaction, smiling at their antics. Garren was a serious knight, he knew, and put no stock in ghost stories as his lady apparently did. Emyl didn't know if the legends were true or not himself, but one thing was apparent; no one had lived in this massive place for years. There had to be a reason.

There was an enormous ditch surrounding the outer curtain wall. It was wide across and partially filled with muddy rainwater. Garren surveyed the trench and could see that, at some time, there had been a bridge over it. He could see remains of it floating in the muck. There was no way the horses could cross, so he dismounted and stood at the edge of the ditch, trying to figure out the best way to cross. Emyl came to stand beside him and together, they mulled over the problem.

The gatehouse and wall were directly on the other side. Garren couldn't think of anything else but to climb down into the ditch and see how deep it was. He took off his helm and began to remove his armor.

"What are you doing?" Derica asked.

He unlatched his breastplate. Emyl took it from him and he began to unfasten the protection around his shoulders.

"I am going to find out just how deep this trench is," he told her. "If It is too deep, I shall sink to the bottom with all of this armor on."

Derica climbed off of the charger. She went to stand next to her husband, eyeing the trench, eyeing him as he removed every last scrap of protection. The rain soaked the woolen tunic he wore and water dripped off of his face. She wiped a drop from the end of his nose, smiling timidly when he looked at her. Garren gave her a quick kiss before lowering himself into the ditch.

"Be careful," she admonished him. "There may be spikes in there that you cannot see."

He almost slipped on the sides, warily regaining his balance. "I shall be careful."

"Don't fall!"

"I won't."

Derica winced and twisted her fingers as he slid down the muddy side and into the water. He stopped sinking when he was up to his knees. Surprised but cautious, he took a few more steps across the ditch.

"It looks like this is all there is of it," he announced. "Still, we can't get the horses across. The sides are too steep."

Derica immediately began to descend into the ditch. "I am coming with you."

He slugged back across the water. "Wait, sweetheart, don't get your feet wet."

He carefully took her in his arms and carried her to the other side. Derica deftly climbed to the top of the bank with a strategic shove from her husband. Emyl, his hands full of swords, slid down the muddy incline and trudged across the water as Garren hoisted himself out on the opposite side. Lowering a helping hand, he pulled the old man out of the ditch and took his weapon.

The great gatehouse loomed overhead. Derica stood there a moment, inspecting it, wondering if she could hear Bryndalyn and Owain calling to each other. Garren whispered a ghostly moan in her ear to tease her and she made a face at him. He took her hand as they crossed under the half-raised portcullis.

Inside the curtain wall was a massive outer bailey. The ground was muddy and uneven, and there were no outer buildings. But there was another, taller, curtain wall several hundred feet away. There were also three massive towers they could see set within the wall. Most of all, another ditch lay between them and the inner wall.

"Another trench," Derica observed. "They were certainly obsessed with entrenching this place, were they not?"

Garren cocked an eyebrow. "When an enemy is laying siege, one is grateful for all of the protection a castle can provide."

"You saw the walls around Framlingham. They are enormous. But since I have lived there, we have never truly seen a siege."

"But you would be grateful for them in such an event, I can tell you from experience."

They had crossed the outer bailey and now stood looking down into the deep, stone-lined ditch. It was wider than the first ditch, filled with water and debris. Garren glanced over to his far left and could see, almost butted against the outer curtain wall, a drawbridge crossing over the ditch and leading into another gatehouse. They made their way over to the bridge and gingerly walked across the wet, rotting wood. Garren inspected the chains that fastened it and they were old and rusting. He wasn't comfortable with the bridge and made sure Derica was quickly off it.

The passage beneath the second portcullis was long and damp. It smelled of rot. When they emerged on the other side, it was into a smaller inner bailey where the true scope of Cilgarren came to light. There were four massive towers including the gatehouse, all of them at least three stories into the sky. To Garren's right stood several buildings; a great hall, perhaps a chapel, and then kitchens off to the left of the larger structures. Over by the north tower was another building, possibly the stables. There was also a kiln.

"Amazing," he breathed.

"What do you mean?" Derica asked.

He was at a loss where to begin. "This place is a massive, fully-functioning fortress that has been abandoned. Why, in God's name, would someone just abandon this?"

Derica didn't have an answer. The place was indeed large and intricate. She let go of his hand and pulled her cloak more tightly around her, wandering through the bailey and inspecting the towers from a distance. While Garren kept an eye on her, she went to the long, low building that held the great hall and peered into the open door.

It was dark inside, but there was enough weak light that she could see a few broken stools, a table that was missing a couple of legs, and other debris scattered inside. The hall itself was good sized with a massive stone hearth. She took a step inside the door, smelling the dampness and mold. It was eerie.

She thought of Bryndalyn and Owain. Perhaps they sat at this table once, long ago, and toasted their happiness. Perhaps they had enjoyed the fire in the hearth or danced across the floor to lively minstrel music. She could almost hear their laughter if she listened hard enough. Derica wasn't quite sure why the tale of the pair sat so heavily on her mind except for the fact that, for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to truly love someone and she could never imagine losing that love. Bryndalyn did not survive the loss and she doubted she would, either. There would be nothing to live for.

A low, desolate sound suddenly pierced her thoughts, howling eerily through the musty air. It echoed off the walls, lifting the rafters with its mournful sound. Startled, Derica bolted from the room and into her husband's line of sight. Though Garren's expression was unreadable, he had heard the sound, too, and unsheathed his weapon in a deliberate motion.

"Derica," he said calmly. "Come to me, sweetheart."

Another wail filled the air and Derica didn't need to be told twice; she darted back over to Garren, panting with fright.

"Garren, what is it?" she gasped. "Ghosts?"

He shook his head, his eyes riveted to the structures around him. "I am sure nothing so unearthly," he said evenly. "Stay close."

He handed her the charger's reins and paced into the center of the ward. Emyl also had his weapon wielded, the old man as calm as Garren was. Once a knight, always a knight, no matter how long it had been since he'd last whiffed the scent of battle. Both men were acutely vigilant as they visually inspected their surroundings for the origins of the noise.

The wail came again. Garren turned, hearing it come from the north tower, or so he thought. He motioned to Emyl to flank him as he made his way to the entrance of the tower. Derica huddled against the charger out of fear and warmth, watching her husband with anxious eyes. It took her a moment to realize that Garren had not put his armor back on after removing it to cross the first trench. Not wanting to call out to him and distract him, she could only watch and pray that whatever situation he was about to face did not injure him.

Her first indication that all was not well was when the charger suddenly started. Derica would have fallen to the ground had hands not grabbed her. Trouble was, they were not her husband's hands. A scream erupted from her throat.

Garren swung around in time to see someone grabbing his wife. He took a step in her direction when a body suddenly came flying at him, a man dressed in dirty rags that blended in with the gray sheets of rain. The man had a weapon and Garren brought his sword up instinctively, deflecting a heavy blow. He was involved in his own fight, terrified for his wife, furious at the inconvenience of having to battle for his life. He was about to shout for Emyl when he saw that the old man, too, had been set upon.

Derica was howling, swinging fists and kicking feet. A fine lady though she might be, having grown up with three older brothers had taught her something about self-defense. She was desperately trying to find eyes to gouge her fingers into. When that failed, she took to kicking furiously at the knees of her attacker. One foot made contact with a kneecap and the man released a growling yelp. It was enough of a break for Derica to swing around and kick him, as hard as she could, in the lower abdomen.

The man fell into the mud and Derica scattered like a frightened chicken. She was terrified her attacker was going to rise up and come after her again, so she grabbed the first heavy rock she could find and raced back over to the man wallowing in the muck. She smacked him on the head and stopped his squirming.

With her assailant subdued, she took a look around her; a glance to Garren saw him in serious combat with a man nearly as tall as he was, yet infinitely more slender. Emyl seemed to have the more immediate problem, grunting and groaning as he battled for his life. Derica couldn't stand by idly; she lifted the rock and made her way over towards Emyl. Careful not to get in the way or take the chance that the enemy would turn on her, she hung back, clutching the rock, until Emyl's opponent turned his back on her. With a cry, she hurled the rock and hit the man on the nape of the neck. It was enough of a blow to cause him to fall down, whereupon Emyl finished him.

The sight of the blood made Derica nauseous. In spite of her warring family, she'd never seen a man killed before. Emyl went to her, trying to take her someplace safe, away from the fighting, but she would not leave Garren. She and Emyl watched with trepidation as Garren launched a powerful enough blow to dislodge his opponent's sword completely. When the man tried to retrieve his weapon, Garren shoved the tip of his razor-sharp blade at the man's neck.

"The game is ended," he growled. "Leave the sword and I shall be merciful. Attempt to reclaim it and my mercy is at an end."

The man slowly lifted his hands to show his submission. Garren gazed into deep brown eyes and a handsome face. The man was young, but he had handled the sword well. He took his eyes off of Garren long enough to look at his dead companion in the mud.

"Did you have to kill him?" he whispered.

Garren responded. "What did you expect? You were trying to kill us. It was necessary to defend ourselves."

The man dropped his hands and made his way over to his companion. His movements were slow with defeat. Emyl and Derica moved to stand with Garren as the three of them observed the man in the rags. He fell to one knee, putting his hand on the wet corpse.

"He was just a lad," the man muttered. "A child."

"A child who was trying to kill me," Emyl didn't feel guilty in the least. "If you were that worried over his health, you should not have allowed him to attack us."

"We were protecting ourselves," the man in rags suddenly boomed. The dark eyes flashed. "'Tis you who invade our home."

Derica looked at her husband with big eyes. Garren's expression was neutral, though he could feel her stare. "You live here? On whose authority?"

The man in rags stared at him for a moment. "On my own. No one has lived here in decades; there was no reason why we should not."

The man that Derica had smashed over the head suddenly groaned and sat up. He shook his head as if waking up from a deep, ugly sleep. Garren heard the noise and glanced over at him.

"Tell him to be still," he commanded quietly. "Any provocative movement and he shall meet the same fate as your companion."

The man in the rags eyed his disoriented comrade, but he could see that provocative action would be the last thing to occur. He looked at Garren, more closely than before.

"You are a knight," he stated.

Garren cocked an eyebrow. "And as such, you will answer my questions or face the consequences. Tell me your name."

The man in rags sighed deeply, with resignation. His hand came to rest protectively on the head of his dead friend.

"David," he whispered.

"Who is the dead man?"

"My brother, Guy."

Garren heard his wife gasp softly, but he didn't look at her. "And the man over there?"

"My uncle."

"Does he have a name?"

"Offa."

"Offa," Emyl repeated, looking closely at the man covered in mud. "Offa van Vert?"

The round, dirty man grunted. "The same."

Emyl's mouth popped open. Then he threw up his hands. "I should run you through, you idiot. Why in God's name would you attack me?"

Offa blinked his eyes, trying to rid himself of his double vision. "Emyl?"

Emyl sneered. "Dim wit! Of course it is me. Can you not see that through those bloodshot eyes?"

"I cannot see anything at the moment," Offa shook his head again. "The lady was true in her aim."

"Emyl," Garren cut into the conversation. "Who are these people?"

Emyl looked ill, as if a horrible situation had suddenly been made clear to him. "Offa van Vert was a knight, Garren. He served Cadell ap Gryffud. We grew up together, in this region. I simply haven't seen him in years." He glared at the muddy knight. "I thought you'd died, you old goat. What are you doing here?"

Offa struggled to one knee. "The Welsh rebellion hasn't much room for an aged knight. My youth is gone and so is my money. I knew of this place, too. My nephews and I have lived here for three years."

Emyl looked at Garren; he didn't know what more he could say. The entire circumstance was sickening. Garren stood there a long while, watching David grieve over his brother. Finally, he sheathed his sword.

"Your brother did not have to die," he said quietly. "You should have determined my motives before attacking us."

David wiped his eyes. "My delay might have given you the upper hand had you been intent on killing us."

"Are you a knight?"

"No."

By now, Offa was on his feet and walking unsteadily towards his nephews. "My sister married a common man. There was no opportunity for the boys to foster in a proper house. I have schooled them the best I can."

Garren took a few steps, retrieved David's old sword, and extended it to the man.

"You have done an admirable job," he said. "I am impressed with David's skill and strength."

Offa knelt beside his other nephew, putting a tender hand on the lad's head. "Guy will never know his potential," he whispered ironically. "He could have been great."

Garren glanced at his wife, seeing the sorrowful expression on her face. He was feeling guilty when he knew he should not. "An unfortunate happening." He came as close to an apology as he could.

"Unfortunate indeed," Offa stroked the dark hair. "It was my fault. I am a foolish old man. Foolish and stupid. The boys fought against me in their training and I most always allowed them to win, giving them a sense of confidence. It was Guy's undoing."

Emyl sighed heavily, making his way to the man he had once known. His gaze moved between the dead lad and the uncle.

"You did as you felt best, even as you moved to defend your home," he tried to comfort him. "You did not know our intentions were peaceful. But Garren is correct; you could have determined them first. 'Twould be best to teach David that lesson today. A costly lesson though it might be."

Offa nodded his head silently. Emyl stood over him, knowing there was nothing more he could say. Observing the scene, Derica slipped her wet hand into her husband's.

"We should help him bury his nephew," she said softly.

Garren gazed down at her, her sweet face pinched pink with cold and wet. She did not understand the warring ways, the event that one did not usually bury his enemy, but he knew this was a different case. In spite of himself, he was beginning to feel very guilty about the whole thing. The Garren of old never knew the meaning of the word.

"As you wish, my lady," he said softly.

He helped Offa and David dig the grave. By the time the sun settled, the rain had let up somewhat. Still, it was the end of a very long day, and a very long trip. As he fell asleep beside his wife later that night in the shadows of the old great hall, he felt a sense of peace for the first time in days. But he knew that would be short-lived.