Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

"I thought I should inform you. I doubted He is had the opportunity yet."

William Marshal sat at his great desk, listening to the words. Many times over the years he had heard news, good or bad, from this exact spot. Tonight, the news was not encouraging. He felt disappointment deep in his gut.

The old man sighed, scratching the chin with a day's growth of white stubble. He tried to remain calm. He should have seen this coming, and in a sense he had. He had tried to discourage a man who had never known the joys of love from exploring the temptation of it. He thought he'd been firm enough, candid enough. But apparently his words had been in vain. Of all the men in the world to succumb to insubordination, he never thought he would live to see the day it would be Garren le Mon.

"So he married her." It was more of a statement.

"Aye, my lord."

"Against Bertram's wishes?"

"Aye."

The scratching of the stubble turned into rubbing the forehead. "Do you know where he and his bride have gone?"

Next to the desk, Hoyt de Rosa shook his head. "Nay," he mumbled. "Last I saw, they were leaving the inn at Kettering. I did not ask where they were going, and he did not offer. The point is that you should know that my brothers were informed that Garren is a spy. His cover was destroyed and he was lucky to have escaped Framlingham with his life."

"But he married your niece without her father's permission."

"He did. But that was secondary to my brothers discovering his true identity."

"Somehow I believe the two are related. Is it possible that he told her of his true identity and she told her father?"

"Not at all, my lord," Hoyt insisted. "I can assure you that Derica knew nothing of his mission. In defense of Garren, I will say this; he accomplished what he set forth to do. He posed as a suitor for Derica. He performed superbly. The only complication, which was not his fault, was that my brothers were told that he was a spy. His only choice was to flee. They would have killed him had he not."

"Then who told them he was an agent?"

"A spy for Prince John, a man I have seen at Framlingham on more than one occasion. He apparently recognized Garren and told my brother of his suspicions."

"Why was the man at Framlingham?"

"Informing my brother of all I just told you. Garren's recognition was incidental."

The Marshal absorbed the words. It was a true accounting of what had happened, more than likely. But the fact remained that his most prized agent was missing.

"Garren, Garren," the Marshal muttered regretfully. After a moment, he shook his head, trying to shake off the shock of it. "Very well: I shall accept your explanation for now. But I must speak with Garren. Unless he has fled from the service of the king completely, I expect him to show himself and explain his actions. If there was ever a time I need Garren, it is now."

"Aye, my lord."

"For it seems now that we have a greater problem."

"We do."

"Several thousand Teutonic and Irish mercenaries at Nottingham and Bolton."

"Aye."

"And two thousand more French due next week."

"That is true."

"And you said you told Garren this?"

"I did."

The Marshal shook his head faintly. "I cannot believe he would abandon Richard in his hour of need."

"You know his character better than I."

"I thought I did," William murmured. He gazed across the room, to the lancet window where the cold night swirled beyond. "But a woman has been known to do strange things to a man's sense of duty."

Hoyt couldn't argue. He'd seen the looks between Garren and Derica, but he was afraid to voice his opinion. He could only pray that Garren would do what was right.

*

"Garren?"

Garren looked up from the small piece of vellum he was writing on. Derica was smiling back at him, a large bundle of vegetation in her arms. Before he could answer her, she shook her head at him.

"You did not hear a word I said," she set the bundle down on the table, next to his writing. "I asked if you would move aside so that I may set this down."

He smiled, rather sheepishly, and moved the vellum well clear of her burden. "I am sorry. I was writing to my sister."

Derica knew that. Over the past week, they had worked hard to settle in to Cilgarren and she could not fault her husband a bit of quiet time. Offa and his nephew had become gracious hosts, working alongside Garren and Emyl to make the great hall livable for the lady's sake. The table had been restored and everyone had a dark corner of the room to sleep in. Garren had eventually told them of their reasons for being there; it was only fair should the de Rosas show up. Instead of being upset by it, Offa had seemed strangely excited as if he would once again be provided the chance to prove himself a warrior.

"And just what are you saying in your missive?" Derica nodded at the vellum. "Complaining about me, were you?"

He laughed softly. "Absolutely. You are too sweet, too wonderful and too generous for your own good. What a burden you are."

"Then it is your misfortune to have been foolish enough to marry me." She grinned, peeling back the cloth of the bundle she had been carrying. "While you were loafing about, I went hunting. I found wild lentils growing on the slope above the river. Someone must have planted them there some time ago, when this castle was lived-in, because the hill is covered with them. And see what else? Blackberries. Lots of them."

He plucked one out of her pile and popped it in his mouth. "Delicious." Snatching her around the waist, he kissed her cheek. "As are you."

She let him kiss her a few times, affection that quickly grew into passion. As he nibbled her neck, she put her hands on his chest in a half-hearted attempt to stop him.

"Not now, Garren," she muttered. "Someone might come in."

"Let them," he growled, but she somehow found the strength to dislodge him and he sighed with mock frustration. "You are a cold wench."

She ignored him, focusing on the harvest before her. "I am afraid that I am not much of a cook, as you have no doubt discovered. Other than supervising the kitchens, father would never let me learn the craft. He was afraid the knives would cut me or the fire would burn me, or I would somehow get hurt. So all I can do is hunt for food, and not much more. At least I feel as if I am contributing something that way."

Garren put a hand on her shoulder. "No worries, sweetheart. I learned to do for myself at a young age, as you no doubt have discovered."

It was her turn to smile sheepishly. "So you can cook whatever I gather."

"Precisely."

"Will you at least go with me to forage?"

"I think I can spare the time."

They carefully divided up the lentils from the berries before heading out again. It had stopped raining a few days hence, but the ground was still wet and soft, and the moats were filled to brimming. Garren carried the cloth she used to bundle up whatever she gathered, keeping the conversation light as they made their way over to the north tower next to the kitchen. The cooks of Cilgarren had apparently planted their gardens on the steep slope above the river, knowing that it would be relatively safe from invasion from the river below.

Garren had hold of his wife's skirt as she scavenged about, fearful she would lose her footing in the damp soil and plunge into the water far below. But she was quite surefooted, chattering as she collected more lentils and found a few wild turnips. He remained mostly silent, listening to her talk, watching the dull sunlight glisten off of her hair and wondering how he was going to tear himself away from her long enough to conduct his business with the Marshal. No doubt, William was wondering what had become of him by now. Time was not his friend in this matter. As reluctant as he was to leave her, he knew equally as much that he had to.

Emyl took the duty and cooked a nice lentil stew that night. The lentils, turnips and a few old carrots from Offa had made a tasty feast. After sup, Derica dozed by the fire as the men rolled a pair of die across the floor. Garren wasn't much for gambling, but Emyl had insisted and now Garren owned nearly everything his three comrades had.

"Now that you are so wealthy, do you think we could go into the town and buy some flour?" Derica had been listening to her husband win. "I have a fancy for bread."

The men looked up from their game. "I think that could be arranged," Garren said. "But it would be wiser to send Emyl into town. He would be far less noticeable to your family should they happen to be in the area."

Odd how days had passed and she hadn't thought of her fanatical family. But thoughts of them suddenly filled her mind and she was unsettled again. How people who had professed to love her could wish such unhappiness for her by wanting to destroy the man she loved was beyond her comprehension.

"Do you think they've managed to track us here?" she asked.

Garren shrugged. "'Tis hard to say. We're far away from Framlingham, but if they've a true desire to track us, there is no telling how far they'll go. 'Tis best to be safe right now and stay where we are."

"We'll go," David passed a nervous glance at Derica. "If there is any news of visitors in town, we'll discover it."

Garren tried to keep the smile from his lips. Over the past few days, David had shown a noticeable interest in Derica and seemed absolutely terrified by it. Garren could hardly blame him. The young man had spent years in isolation and suddenly there was a beautiful young woman in his midst. Derica wasn't oblivious, but she had been polite about it.

"My thanks," Garren said. "But in case there are, make no provocative move. Return to the castle immediately and I shall decide a course of action."

David nodded his dark head. "We'll defend you, have no doubt."

"I don't. Your loyalty is appreciated."

David didn't say any more. He was uncomfortable saying what he had, afraid he'd sounded like a fool. Offa slapped his nephew on the shoulder. "You needn't worry, my lady. Even if they make it to the castle, we know many places to hide and avenues of escape. They'll never get you."

Derica smiled in thanks. "I hope we're not too much of a burden."

"Not at all. David and I crave the excitement."

"But your life was so quiet before we came."

Offa snorted. "It was dull. At least now we have something to look forward to."

"A battle?"

The old man's eyes lit up, memories of glory from long ago filling his mind. "Indeed. Fine adventures of bloody battles!"

Derica looked at her husband and they smiled at each other. After a few more moments of languishing before the fire, she forced herself to stand. "I believe I shall go to bed." She stretched her shapely body. "Good eve to you, my lords."

The men responded politely. David stole a quick glance but just as quickly turned away. Garren excused himself and followed his wife up the narrow steps the led into the minstrel's gallery above the hall. He'd fashioned a large screen out of wood and rushes, hiding them from the view down below. A pallet of more rushes and bedding from Emyl's humble home lay upon the floor, comfortable enough for the two of them. Garren felt bad that he had nothing to offer her other than borrowed goods and the bare minimum of comfort. She deserved so much more. As his wife lay down, he tucked the worn coverlets in around her.

"Someday, we'll have a massive castle and the finest bedding money can buy," he said softly. "You will only touch satins and silks, I swear it."

She smiled. "I have had that. It matters naught if you are not with me to share it."

"So you prefer rushes that scratch and poke?"

"As long as they scratch and poke you, too."

He sat there a moment, gazing down at her, torn between tremendous joy and tremendous sorrow. He could not delay the inevitable; the longer he put it off, the harder it would be.

It was quiet in the gallery. He tucked the covers in tighter around her, trying to think of the correct words, when she interrupted his thoughts.

"I have something to tell you," she said softly.

"You do? What?"

"You're going to be leaving soon."

He lifted an eyebrow. "I am?"

"Aye," she nodded. "You must attend William Marshal. He needs to know all that has gone on at Framlingham during the past few weeks."

"Hmmm," he looked at her with interest. "You are correct, madam. The security of this country is at stake. When must I leave?"

"I would think tomorrow," she said as if issuing orders. "The sooner you leave, the sooner you return."

He nodded, a warm twinkle in his eye. "I cannot tell you how much is pains me that I must go alone. I wish I could take you with me."

"I am safe here," Derica was trying to be brave. "I have Emyl and Offa and David to protect me."

An eyebrow lifted. "Mind that David keeps a respectful distance. I would hate to have to kill him."

"David is afraid of me. I swear that if I winked at him, he'd faint."

"I have spent my life being suspicious of the motives of others. Though he seems harmless enough, I cannot discount his thoughts should I not be here as a thwarting presence."

"I am my own thwarting presence. I have thwarted many an amorous suitor in my time."

He grinned. "But not me."

She returned his smile. "Nay, not you. You were the only man who lowered himself from the roof into my boudoir. With such dedication, how could I discourage you?"

His smile faded as he gazed into her eyes. "Christ, I am going to miss you. I am so sorry that I must leave, even for a short time."

The longing in his voice squeezed her heart, making it difficult to be brave. "How long do you think you shall be away?"

He ran a finger down her cheek, onto her shoulder. "'Tis difficult to say. Perhaps ten days, perhaps twenty."

"Twenty days," she breathed. "Why can I not go with you if you are to be away that long?"

"Because I shall travel much more quickly without you. Furthermore, there are threats on the road I have no desire to expose you to. Bandits and murderers, to name a few. I would rather know you were here, safe, waiting impatiently for me to return."

She knew he was right, but that didn't help the tugging in her chest. When he pulled her up and took her in his arms, it only increased the ache. Derica held him tightly, afraid to let him go.

"Promise you will return," she whispered.

His fingers were in her hair, his mouth against her forehead. "I swear it."

She kissed him once, twice. "Do you realize that since we were reunited at the abbey, we have never been apart? It will be strange not waking up to you every morning. It has become a part of me, like breathing."

"I know," he said. "But after this temporary separation, I shall never leave you again. Ever."

She was quiet a moment. "But what if William Marshal insists you continue in his service?"

"I have been in his service for many years. I have dedicated my entire life to the king. It is time that I dedicate myself to my own life now and he will have to understand that."

"What if he doesn't'?"

"He has no choice."

She sighed, hearing his determination. But she also knew that he had a strong sense of duty to Richard. A man who would chose to be a spy for the king would have nothing else. She wondered if his love for her would outweigh his sense of duty if he were pressured to make a choice.

"Whatever happens, my love," she ran her fingers through his hair. "This night belongs to us."

He couldn't think of a reply other than to make love to her.

*

The next morning dawned dismal. Rain was coming down in sheets, creating a blurry white landscape. Emyl had loaded Garren's charger and had it waiting outside the outer wall. Both bridges were still in a state of disrepair and the horse could not be brought any closer.

A fire burned in the crumbling hearth in the great hall, sending smoke to the ceiling and escaping from gaps in the roof. Garren and Derica had eaten a cozy meal near the fire, greedily soaking up the last few moments they would have together until he returned. They kept the conversation positive, talking of trivial things, unwilling to face the fact that time was drawing short.

Derica was in control of her emotions until Emyl came with Garren's armor and began helping him dress. She sat atop the old table, huddled in the woolens that the nuns had given her as she watched her husband transform from a strong, sweet man into a terrifying vision of a knight. She well remembered the first time she ever saw him, in her father's solar. Although he had worn his armor, he had not been allowed his weapons inside the castle; even so, he had been an impressive sight. Having lived in a household full of knights, she had long gotten over being impressed by a bold man in a steel suit. But watching Garren as he adjusted his breastplate, she felt giddy and warm as she hadn't felt in years.

Garren noticed her watching him and his eyes twinkled. "Why do you look so?"

She blinked at him, puzzled. "How do I look?"

"Like you are day dreaming."

She grinned. "I am, in a way. Tell me something; why is it that you do not have horns jutting from the armor on your shoulders? Uncle Hoyt used to."

He snorted. "Because I do not need them. Men with spikes on their armor aren't merely looking to defend or attack honorably; they are seeking to maim and destroy."

"Then you say that Uncle Hoyt is dishonorable?"

"I say nothing of the sort. I simply mean that he has them because, I would imagine, he derives a good deal of pleasure at men being terrified by the mere sight of them. 'Tis a good intimidation tactic, mentally unsettling an enemy before the battle has even begun. What sane man would not fear a knight with spikes all over his armor?"

She thought on that a moment. "Father's helm has a horn that comes out of the center of his forehead, like a Unicorn."

Garren merely wriggled his eyebrows, in approval or disapproval she could not tell. When Emyl finished struggling with a strap that finally decided to latch, Garren stepped away and shook himself slightly, like a dog shaking its hide. The armor clinked and settled on his big body.

"Your weapon and helm are with the charger," Emyl said.

Garren nodded at him, then looked at his wife. She was smiling at him, but it was forced. Emyl, sensing the farewell to come, excused himself and left them alone.

The silence was expectant. Derica struggled to keep the smile on her face. "It is time, I see."

"Aye," he agreed. "Will you walk with me to the door?"

She slipped off the table and slid her hand into his enormous one. Together, they walked to the open door where the rain pounded outside. Derica was about to walk outside but he held her back.

"Not outside, sweetheart," he said. "I shall take my leave of you here, where it is dry."

She looked at him, those enormous green eyes bright with emotion. He smiled at her, memorizing every last line of her sweet face. He committed it to memory, to keep him warm on the long cold nights to come. He ran a delicate finger along her jawline, touching the honey-colored hair that tickled her face. He couldn't discern any other emotion at the moment other than deep, agonizing longing.

"I hope to make good time, but this weather is a bit of an obstacle," he realized he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. "If all goes well, I should be in Chepstow in three or four days. I plan to meet with William, explain the situation, and beg my leave. Hopefully he will be gracious about it, but if not, 'tis of no matter. I shall try to make my stay at Chepstow no longer than a day. With luck, I shall return in a week, mayhap ten days."

She nodded. "Then we shall look for you then. What happens if it takes longer? Will you send word?"

He shook his head. "I don't dare. I cannot be certain that the de Rosa's aren't lingering somewhere around Chepstow, thinking that perhaps I may take you there. I doubt they would move on me if you are not at my side. The object is to find you, and if they kill me, they will eliminate all hope. I cannot take the chance that a messenger would be followed."

"And lead them right to me," she murmured.

"Exactly."

She digested that. "They will try to get you somehow. My father is very clever."

"I know," Garren gazed up at the gray sky. "For that very fact, I wonder if he will not go to Chateroy to abduct my father. He may anticipate a hostage-for-hostage exchange."

"Your father for me?"

"Something like that. I cannot rule out any possibility."

Derica fell silent. She traced the lines of his armor, running her fingers over his breastplate, simply to keep her hands busy. "Garren, what happens if you do not return?"

He looked at her. "I swore to you that I would."

She met his gaze. "But you cannot guarantee it. Certainly, I am not asking you to because I know that you cannot. But if you do not return in a month or two or three, what should I do?"

He sighed, heavily, realizing she was more willing to face the reality of it than he was. "You're not going to like my answer."

"What is it?"

"Have Emyl take you back to Framlingham."

She stiffened. "I will not."

He tightened his grip before she could pull away. "Listen to me, sweetheart. 'Tis the safest place for you, and I want you safe and well-cared for. Your father is after me, not you. He'll forgive you should you return. 'Tis the most logical solution."

Her brow was furrowed like an angry child. "I will not go home. There is nothing for me there. They'll simply try to marry me off again and won't have any part of it, do you hear? I won't marry ever, again."

"Then what would you suggest?"

"That I go to the abbey with your sister."

He had to admit that her answer pleased him, but he was positive that it was because he was being selfish. "You have a right to be happy in life should I not be at your side. I want you to be happy. Do you think you would truly be happy in the cloister?"

"I do not know. But I believe I would be happier there than married to some pompous fool whose only ambition is to be politically linked to the de Rosa name." She stopped struggling, gazing deeply into his eyes. "Garren, do you think if I returned home that I would be a desirable marriage prospect? Of course not. My father would more than likely sell me to an arrogant French mercenary who can pay for the de Rosa name. Marrying me into a decent family was lost the moment I fled Framlingham. Is that the kind of life you would hope for me?"

She had turned it around on him admirably. He knew the political game of noble marriages as well as or better than she did, and knew she spoke the truth. His heart sank to think of what would become of her should he not return.

"Nay," he said quietly. "And I suppose I should be more pragmatic than I have been. Truly, my intention is to return to you. It is my only thought. But if by chance the fates are against us, then you should know your next move. If I do not return within six weeks, then go to Yaxley Nene and stay with my sister until you have decided what you wish to do. No one can touch you there, especially your family. If you wish to devote yourself to the cloister, then so be it. But if you wish to return to your family, then I shall support your decision."

"You're sure that is what you wish me to do?"

"I believe it is a sound plan."

With the most difficult of subjects decided upon, Garren's impending departure began to weigh heavily enough that she could hardly breathe. Derica always believed she was the strongest of women, but suddenly, she didn't want to be strong. She wanted to be weak. Resting her forehead against his armor, she cried silent tears of longing. The warm droplets fell on his protection, little salty rivers running their course. Garren stroked her hair, silently, feeling her pain and then some.

"The longer I delay, the more difficult this will become," he murmured.

She sniffled, struggling to regain her composure. "I know. 'Tis best you go, now, before I cling to you like a great anchor and you have to drag me across the yard."

It was humor in a moment of agony. Garren kissed her deeply, tasting her tears. Abruptly, he broke away, leaving her standing in the doorway as he marched across the muddy inner ward. He didn't dare look back, fearful that he would retrace his steps back to her and be unable to break away a second time. He got half way across the yard when two figures emerging from the crumbling gatehouse caught his attention. Garren's pace slowed as he assessed the forms; one was Emyl, but it took him a moment to recognize the second. When he did, he froze dead in his tracks.

"Fergus!"

*

The hearth smoked and spit embers into the dark room. Fergus didn't care if he did catch a few red-hot particles on his skin, so long as he was warm again. It seemed like it had been ages since he had last been warm and fed, or safe for that matter. But the great hall of Cilgarren had a massive, protective quality that soothed him after his harried adventure.

"For once, the blows did not come from someone with a grudge against me." He was trying to be glib. "At any rate, not a gambling grudge. The de Rosas certainly had another grudge, especially when I wouldn't tell them where Derica was."

Derica sat at the crumbling table, wincing as she thought of her family imparting the bruises and welts on Fergus' face.

"Oh, Fergus, I am so sorry," she said. "They've always been as such. Ruffians in every sense of the word. Did they break any bones?"

He shook his head. "No one can crack this skull, my lady. Many have tried. It would take better men that the de Rosas to break my bones."

Garren stood next to his friend, his great arms crossed. He analyzed every movement, every word, thinking there was far more to the story than what Fergus was saying. It was just a feeling he had, knowing his friend as well as he did. But the sheer fact that the man was alive was a miracle, and a welcome one. Still, there was something very odd about him, something Garren couldn't quite figure out.

"But they didn't follow you," Garren said. "You're sure of it?"

"I would stake my life on it."

Garren didn't question him further. That was all he really cared about at the moment, and there would be time for more detail later. He slapped his friend on the back. "I, for one, am amazed to see you. We thought for certain the de Rosas had devoured you."

Fergus stood from the fire, a weak smile on his lips. "Not hardly, though they tried." He rubbed the stubble on his face. "Although I would like nothing better than to tell more stories of my persecution, I would truly like a bit of food and perhaps some sleep. It has been a long few days."

Derica leapt up, rushing around for the leftovers from their morning meal. David and Offa helped her gather the items while Emyl sat at the old table, his old eyes drinking in the sight of his only son.

"'Tis been a long time, lad," he said. "A long time indeed."

Fergus was genuinely glad to see his father. "I am a bad son, I know. I stay away for years and only come to you when I want something."

Emyl shrugged. "If that is all I can have of you, I shall accept it. At least you acknowledge what a rotten lad you are."

Fergus grinned as Derica placed some cold stew and berries before him. He shoved food in his mouth and continued. "I directed Garren to Cilgarren, you know. It is the safest place for him." He eyed his friend. "But now I see he is leaving, after all this trouble I have been through. Where are you going, pray?"

Garren had spent many years of his adult life avoiding that question from Fergus. He was quick to make a believable excuse. "I am afraid the de Rosas may go after my father. I intend to go home and scout the situation for myself."

"And if they have?"

"I shall deal with that situation if and when I come upon it."

Fergus shoved another bite in his mouth. "Let me finish this feast and I shall go with you."

"How?" Garren asked. "You have been on the move for weeks, Fergus. You're so weary with fatigue and lack of food that you can hardly stand. You need to rest and regain your strength. I have enough to worry about without wondering if you are going to drop dead any moment."

Fergus pointed his stew-covered knife at him. "I have been worse than this. Hell, Garren, you have been worse than this and still rode fifty miles into battle. I have seen you myself." He turned back to his food. "It is settled. I ride with you."

Garren didn't refute him right away. To do so would to have looked suspicious, but he clearly didn't want Fergus coming with him. He needed a plan. Straddling the old bench, he sat, hearing it groan under his weight. A gloved hand scratched his forehead.

"Fergus," he said quietly. "I need you here."

Fergus' mouth was full. "Why?"

Garren glanced over at Offa and David, talking softly by the smoking hearth. "Do you see that dark haired man?"

Fergus glanced in David's direction. "That young whelp you introduced me to? The one who has been living here?"

"Aye."

"What about him?"

"He is fond of Derica. Too fond, if you get my meaning."

Fergus' eyebrows rose. Then he laughed. "Idiot. His life shall not be a long one."

"He is the nephew of an old friend of your father's. I should hate to have to kill him were he to press his intentions on my wife while I am away. As it stands, only your father stands between my wife and a potential problem. But with you here, there is no doubt that David would be in way over his head were he to attempt something. It would give me more peace of mind than you know."

Fergus swallowed the last of his food. "So, once again, you expect me to play nursemaid to your wife."

"I ask you, my friend."

"You do not want my sword at your side?"

"I want your sword here, in my stead."

Fergus sighed heavily, wiping at a smear of food on his chin. "Very well. If that is your wish."

Garren smiled. "Many thanks."

"But you owe me."

"The usual?"

Fergus nodded firmly. "A hog's head of ale, deliverable upon your return."

Garren stood up and reseated his helm. Derica had been standing a respectful distance away, allowing the men sometime between the two of them, and Garren extended a hand to her. It would be their second painful farewell of the day.

Fergus watched them walk from the hall, Garren's arm protectively around Derica's shoulders. He rose from the table, told his father he was going to find shelter for his weary horse, and went out into the yard. His movements didn't seem so weary anymore. He casually melted into the shadow of a wall, watching Garren and Derica take their leave of each other. When Derica finally went back into the hall, wiping her eyes, Fergus followed Garren into the old gatehouse.

"So I finally get you all to myself."

They were sheltered from the elements in the dank passage. Garren stopped walking and turned around. "So it seems." He moved back towards Fergus. "I assume you have information for my ears only."

"What makes you say that?"

"I just do. I know you, Fergus. There's something else."

"Perhaps," Fergus regarded him. "I have a question for you."

"Ask it."

"Where are you really going, Garren?"

It was more a statement than a question. Garren answered evenly-. "What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly that. You're not going back to Chateroy, are you?"

"I said I was. What makes you think otherwise?"

Fergus' pale blue eyes glittered. "Something that one of the de Rosas said to me."

"And that was?"

"That perhaps you are going to see William Marshal."

Inwardly, Garren flinched. "William Marshal? Why would I want to see him?"

"As a member of his inner circle. As a man who is loyal to Richard in the most sworn sense."

Garren snorted. "So they told you I was a spy, did they? They accused me of that to my face."

"You do seem to wander a bit, Garren. It would explain a great many things about you."

Garren rolled his eyes. "Not you, too," he growled. "Fergus, listen to me. The de Rosas think that everyone is somehow involved with William Marshal, especially the man who eloped with their only female kin."

"He seemed terribly certain. He said to tell you that he was on your side, and he wanted me to warn you against returning to Chateroy."

Garren grew serious. "The de Rosas are waiting for me there."

"They're going to raze it. They are probably laying siege as we speak. I did not want to say anything in front of your wife for fear of upsetting her."

"That was wise," Garren said. "And you say it has been at least a week since you saw the de Rosas?"

"Aye," Fergus replied. "They've already had time to amass and reach Chateroy by now."

Garren fell silent, mulling over his options. Fergus watched him closely. "What are you going to do now?"

"I must defend my father's house, of course."

"By yourself?"

"My father has two hundred men at arms. It is a sizable force."

"Against the de Rosa thousand?" Fergus shook his head. "That's madness, Garren. Chateroy will fall if it hasn't already. And if you go back there now, they'll kill you. What about your wife?"

Garren's eyes turned in the direction of the great hall, as if he could see her through all of the stones that separated them. "I must deal with the consequences my actions have brought upon my family," he said softly. "She understands that."

"She'll understand everything until you get yourself killed, and then she'll go mad," Fergus said. "Trust me, my friend, when it comes to women. They never mean what they say."

"So what do you suggest?"

"Do you have anyone with an army you can call upon for support?"

Garren wouldn't be sucked into that line of conversation again, and he wondered seriously why Fergus was trying to probe him. Knowing Fergus, it was purely nosiness.

"Let me think… I could call on my father, I suppose."

"Oh… right."

Garren didn't like being toyed with, especially not by Fergus. He cocked an eyebrow at him, his manner sarcastic. "I suppose you could ask Longton for help, but being allied with John, I don't suppose he'd respond."

"Not bloody likely."

"Any other suggestions?"

"Sorry, not at the moment."

The thought of Chateroy under siege was growing increasingly disturbing. Garren suddenly felt a strong sense of urgency. He turned from Fergus.

"I must go and see what they've done to my father."

"Garren," Fergus took a step after him. "I wish you wouldn't. It is a trap."

"Be that as it may, my father would not be in trouble were it not for me."

Fergus watched him until he was nearly out of the gatehouse. "Garren, there's something else. Another message from the de Rosa brother that saved my hide. He said that if I speak it, you will know the truth."

"What?"

"I am sorry, my friend. So sorry."

Garren came to a halt. "For what? Fergus, I don't have time for this."

It was odd how the expression on Fergus' face had changed. Garren had never seen such a look, something between wisdom and sorrow. It was an expression that cut through Garren like a knife.

"For this," he whispered. "La lealtà alla morte. Onorare soprattutto."

The sledgehammer hit. Garren was confused and suspicious. Had Fergus been an agent for William, Garren would have known long ago. Or perhaps he wouldn't; there were those in service that even Garren didn't know about. Something wasn't right and his guts churned with dread. It occurred to him that the probing Fergus had been doing was for a definitive reason, an overshadowing motive that Garren was slowly coming to understand. Something told him not to respond.

"What does that mean?"

"Your phrase, my friend."

"The last I recall, I don't speak Italian."

"You are obligated to respond."

"Fergus, what are you talking about?"

Fergus gazed at him without saying a word. Then, he smiled weakly. "Nothing," he said. "Forget about it. In fact, it is best you do not respond."

"Why not?"

"Because… well, because 'tis best, that's all. I do not want to know that you know what I know."

Garren could have done of two things at that moment; he could have continued his ignorant charade, or he could have let his guard down. He had known Fergus far too well and long to let it go.

"What in the hell are you talking about, Fergus?" he rumbled.

Fergus shrugged weakly. "Nothing, my friend. Nothing at all. 'Tis simply… stay away from Chepstow, and stay away from Chateroy. Stay here, with your wife. 'Tis the best place for you."

Garren felt as if he were walking the edge of a cliff, unwilling to look down, but being inexplicably drawn towards the danger. "I cannot stay here," he said, wanting off the subject, unbalanced by the entire conversation. "My only concern, beyond my father, is that Derica is protected in my absence."

Fergus nodded. "I will protect her with my life. You know that."

"I know that," Garren said. "But it shan't be for long. I shall return as soon as I can."

"Christ, I hope not," Fergus muttered.

"What's that you say?"

"Nothing," Fergus said quickly. "And if you do not return, Garren? What then?"

Garren forgot about the past few moments of conversation, Fergus' oddly murmured words. He looked at Fergus as his oldest, closest friend. "Then I will trust you to take care of her, for all time. Will you do this for me?"

"Without question."

Garren left without another word.