Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T he battle had been in full swing since first light. Even now, with hues of dusk streaming across the sky, men were fighting as if they were fresh, their screams of pain filling the air along with the sounds of metal against metal. The grounds surrounding Lincoln Castle were pooled with battle gore and the smell of death rang heavy in the air.

Garren was one of those who had been fighting since dawn, as had Hoyt de Rosa. Hoyt had been at his side from nearly the onset, joining Garren's command at William's orders. Garren hadn't been surprised to see him; in fact, he had been glad. It was an odd connection to his wife that comforted him, though he secretly wondered if William had sent him to make sure Garren lived up to his agreement. To be fighting alongside a de Rosa rather than against one seemed natural to him and they worked well together.

A rather large band of John's supporters had fled to Lincoln Castle and he had been ordered to take one thousand men to lay siege to the castle. Lincoln Castle wasn't even one of those held by John; it was the property of a loyalist, now held hostage by the Prince's supporters. It had an immense motte and thick walls, and Garren's men had been given a rough time trying to breach the defenses.

Having brought two trebuchets with them, they had taken to flinging flaming pots of expensive tar over the walls, hoping to burn the inhabitants out. Nothing beyond that had a hope of succeeding until they could penetrate the walls.

It was a strategy that had eventually worked. The portcullis had lifted to allow a screaming band of burning people out, and the hand-to-hand combat had been fierce for several hours. Garren lost count of the men he'd killed, though one of them had given him a nasty nick on his thigh. He didn't even remember how it happened, only that it had. The barber surgeon traveling with the army had cauterized it before it could bleed overly and he was back to the battle with hardly a step missed.

When the sun sat low and squat on the horizon, the battle began to lag. Garren and Hoyt wandered through the pockets of fighting while more socially ranking warriors invaded the interior of the castle to claim it for Richard once again. Garren's job was to make sure the major fighting was quelled and to discourage any further rebellion. He did so with exhaustive efficiency and demanded surrender from those still resisting. With Hoyt's assistance, he placed them under arrest and segregated the officers from the men into prisoner groups.

It was a long process that drug well on into the evening, and Garren had been grateful for Hoyt's presence. The man had been a fierce warrior, one of the best he'd ever seen. His respect for the man grew and a bond intensified.

The skirmish had truthfully taken less time than he had originally thought, mostly because the rebel force had been poorly supplied and poorly organized. True to form, Garren had come at them like a hammer and had quashed them soundly. He was the first one into battle, and the last one to leave. It had always been his mode of operation, something that continually endeared him to his men. He never expected them to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself.

It was after midnight when he sent Hoyt off to sleep. The old man was so exhausted he could barely stand. Garren lingered on the battlefield with the last few prisoners before returning to his own tent. The castle was quiet, the prisoners finally secured, and the squire that traveled with him had lit the fire in his tent and had food and drink waiting for him. Garren sat heavily on a sturdy stool, allowing himself a sweet moment to feel his exhaustion. The squire came back into the tent with a great piece of meat, some part of the cow that had been cooked to blackness. Garren wasn't particularly hungry, but he took it anyway. The squire, a young man to be knighted the next year, hovered before him.

"Will there be anything else, my lord?" he asked.

Garren set the beef down; he couldn't stomach it at the moment. He took his cup of wine instead. "Perhaps some water to wash my hands with," he took a long drink. "Where are my commanders?"

"Lord Payn and Lord Barnard have not yet returned from battle, my lord," the lad replied. "I have heard rumor that they have fallen."

Payn de Cantelupe and Barnard de Warrenne were young nobles from two of the more powerful families on the Welsh Marches. They had brought four hundred men-at-arms with them, men that would now fall to Garren's command if what the squire said was true. It would make his presence more critical than ever and his chances of returning home soon dwindle. Garren took another gulp of wine, pondering the information.

"Do we have any further news from Newark Castle?"

"Not since last eve, my lord. As far as we know, there is heavy fighting in and around the castle. They are expecting us as soon as this unpleasantness at Lincoln is finished."

Garren knew that. He was always expected somewhere, ready for battle at a moment's notice. It was one encounter after another, a never-ending parade of castles, villains, allies and action. Somewhere it had ceased to be a war between Richard and John and become an endless conflict between countrymen. When Garren had led the first charge at Tick Hill Castle, he was foolishly hoping that whatever battles there were would be short-lived, and that he could return to Derica within a few short weeks.

But the weeks had stretched into months. Two months, three weeks, three days, fifteen hours, and an odd number of minutes. He remembered to the last detail. He knew Derica would be frantic, thinking of committing herself to Yaxley Nene Abbey if she hadn't done so already. He felt a great deal of comfort in that, truthfully, for no matter how long the war waged, he knew where to find her, and he knew that she would be safe. He was desperately sorry that she would have to go through so much emotional turmoil in the meanwhile, thinking he was dead when he was very much alive and thinking of her every minute of every day. He longed for her as he had never longed for anything in his life.

But thoughts like that were useless. They simply made him hurt more. Pulling himself from the brink of emotional decline, as he had done so many times over the past several weeks, he drained his cup and reached for a piece of bread.

"We should be finished here tomorrow," he told the squire. "I do not anticipate Lincoln Castle taking any more of our time. We ship the prisoners south and move the army north by midday. Spread the word to whatever commanders I have left. Arrange a meeting in my tent in one hour."

The squire nodded and fled. Garren returned to his meal, emitting a heavy sigh as he forced himself to eat. After two bites, his thoughts turned to his pallet and a short nap before his officers arrived for conference. As he took one last drink from his cup, someone entered his tent.

Expecting the squire, it took Garren longer than usual to recognize Fergus. When recognition dawned, he stared at the man as if he had grown two heads. Fergus, seeing the shock, the suspicion, the anxiety, wasted no time.

"Garren," he muttered, true satisfaction in his voice. "They told me you were here. Thank Almighty God you are alive."

Garren wasn't sure how to react. He didn't know where to begin. But one thing was foremost in his mind; if Fergus was here, then….

"Where is my wife?"

The weary smile faded from Fergus' face. "My father heard about the wars between Richard and John. I knew you would be in the midst of them. I promised your wife that I would find you and make sure that you were safe."

Garren couldn't help but notice that his question hadn't been answered. "Where is she?"

There was no room for pleasantries or idle talk. Garren's expression was taut with anticipation. Fergus had hoped to ease his friend into the predominant reason for his visit, but he could see it would not happen. What he had to say would be the hardest words he ever had to bring forth.

"She is gone," he said quietly.

Garren stood up, his stool toppling over. "Gone? What do you mean?" He suddenly reached out, grabbing Fergus around the neck. "Did the de Rosas capture her?"

Fergus couldn't breathe, and there was no way he could contend against Garren's strength. "If you kill me, you will never know the rest," he gasped, and the grip loosened. "Nay, Garren, her family did not capture her. Please, won't you sit? 'Twould be better for us both if you did."

Garren's grip tightened again. "Damn you, Fergus, if you do not tell me what has happened to my wife, I will kill you where you stand and worry of the consequences later."

He meant every word, Fergus knew that. But he was not making this any easier. "Garren, please," he begged, trying to loosen the hold on his neck. "You must be calm, my friend."

" Fergus! "

Fergus could see there was no alternative than to tell him, quickly. "She knew you had gone to battle with the Marshal. She heard my father and me speaking of the civil wars. I tried to reassure her that it did not necessarily mean your death, but she was greatly distressed. She is easily distressed these days."

"What does that mean?"

Fergus' manner softened. "She carries your son, Garren. The child has turned her into a whirlwind of emotion."

Garren felt as if all of the wind had been knocked from him. A gambit of emotions raced over his features, delight and terror and everything in between.

"She is with child?" he gasped.

"Aye."

"Truly?"

"I would not lie about this, my friend."

"And she is well?"

Fergus was careful with his reply. "The child made her full of health, if that is what you mean. Otherwise, she drove us all mad with her raging and crying and smiles. We never knew what to expect from her." He watched Garren's eyes positively light with the news, a brief respite of joy from the horror that was about to follow. "When she found out about your whereabouts, she was upset, of course, but we did not believe overly so. We had seen her in a worse state. But… Garren, as closely as we can deduce, she must have thrown herself into the river in her grief. I swear that we never believed she would be capable of such a thing. The last we saw of her, she was standing on the hill overlooking the river, the hill where the wild lentils grow. You know the one. One moment she was there, the next she was gone."

Garren stared at him. It was an expression Fergus had never seen before. All of the color drained from Garren's face and Fergus found himself helping the man to sit so that he would not collapse. For the all-powerful Garren le Mon to collapse like a weakling was unthinkable. But Fergus could see the man cracking, right before his eyes.

"Perhaps she may have even slipped," Fergus tried to soften the blow now that the hammer had fallen. "She was close to the edge, as she always is, and we found tracks in the soft earth that had dragging movement to them. She was probably gone hours by the time we realized she was missing and we searched for days, Garren. I swear to you, we didn't sleep for several days or nights for search of her. We left no stone unturned."

Garren closed his eyes, falling forward to rest his head in his hands. "God, tell me this is a nightmare."

"I wish I could."

"You didn't find her?"

"Nay, my friend, we did not."

"No blood or… body?"

"We found nothing, Garren. She is simply," he shrugged helplessly, "gone."

Garren's head remained in his hands for several long moments. When he finally lifted his face, there were tears in his eyes.

"Just like Bryndalyn," he muttered. "Oh… God, tell me she didn't do what that woman did…."

A light of recognition came to Fergus' eye. "You know of Bryndalyn and Owain?" He knew the story, too, and horror suddenly swept him. "Just like the tale. Bryndalyn threw herself into the river when.…"

A look from Garren made the words die in his throat. "Your father told us about it when we first went to Cilgarren," Garren mumbled. "She was so saddened by it, but I never imagined she would follow in the shadow of the legend. It never occurred to me that my not returning immediately would… Christ, that story was in her mind, ever lingering, planting the seed of despair that made her go mad when I did not come back as I would sworn to. How long has she been missing?"

"It has been nearly three weeks," Fergus said. "I looked for her as long as I dared before riding to Chepstow. They told me of the battles north and I came searching for you."

Garren's teeth abruptly clenched. "I know of your mission. The Marshal told me. Fergus, I swear to Almighty God, if you have done something to her and are trying to throw me off your scent, I shall…."

Fergus shook his head emphatically. "Do you truly believe I could harm a hair on her beautiful head? Garren, you are closer to me than a brother. 'Tis true, years ago, the Marshal asked that I watch you, and as a fearful lad, I did as I was told. But as we grew older and our friendship blossomed, I put the Marshal's priorities behind yours. I would never betray you, not even for our country. I do not blame you if you never trust me again, but I assure you, my loyalty is and always has been with you. Haven't I proven that time and time again?" He could see that he wasn't making much of an impact. "If I truly wanted to harm her, I could have done it on that chaotic odyssey from Framlingham to the abbey. I could have easily turned her back over to her family, but I didn't. Does that not account for anything?"

Garren couldn't decide whether to kill him at that point or not. He decided against it, mostly because what Fergus said made sense. "Then why didn't you ever tell me who you were?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

There was a tense silence as Garren pondered the obvious. He probably shouldn't have trusted Fergus, but years of experience and instinct took hold and the bond that had been established ages ago could not be broken. However, all of that was secondary to what had happened to Derica. Garren stood up, struggling to gain control; there was only one thought on his mind and he would kill Fergus if he tried to stop him. If Fergus were sincerely committed to their friendship, now would be the supreme test of that bond.

"I must go and search for her," Garren said.

"What of the Marshal? Surely he will not…."

Garren cast him a glare so deadly that Fergus swallowed the remainder of his words.

"This is where William Marshal and I come to an end," Garren growled. "I was foolish and weak to have let it come this far, but I did. I am going to find my wife and not all of the armies in England can stop me."

"But.…"

"You are either with me or against me, Fergus. If you are against me, I will kill you where you stand."

"I am with you, of course. What can I do?"

Garren had a clear picture of what must happen. "We will go to the battlefield," he said in a low voice. "We will find a body; anybody that is near my size. If it is recognizable, then we will make it so that it cannot be identified. Onto this corpse will go my armor, my clothing, my weapon…."

Fergus' eyes gleamed. "We will make it as though you were killed in battle."

"This man will be me. To the Marshal, I shall be dead."

"And then you can search for Derica without fear of reprisal."

"As much as I do not relish defacing a man who has given his life in battle, there are times when sacrifice is necessary. He will have died for two just causes this night."

Garren and Fergus blended into the night, like wraiths, completing their gruesome work with silence and efficiency. By morning, they were far from the battlefield as word of Garren le Mon's death spread like wildfire. When Hoyt de Rosa awoke to the news, he wept.

*

She didn't know how long she had been awake. She realized she was staring at the ceiling, a dense mixture of rushes and straw, woven tightly to create a barrier against the elements. When she tried to move, her entire body ached as if she had been pummeled. It was her groan of pain that stirred the others.

"Are ye awake?'

It was a soft female voice. Derica blinked her eyes, rolling her head with much effort to find herself gazing into a pair of pale blue eyes. She blinked again, disoriented, wondering why her head hurt so much.

"Who… where am I?" she rasped.

The woman smiled, reaching for a wooden pitcher. She poured something into a cup. "Here," she helped Derica lift her head. "Drink."

It was water, cool and clear. Derica took a sip, then gulped until she almost choked. When the coughing died down, she saw that the woman's face had been joined by two smaller ones. Derica gazed into children's eyes.

"Hello," she said softly.

The children, a boy and girl perhaps three and four years, respectively, giggled and did not reply. They were dark-eyed, dark haired little ones. They looked at their mother, who continued to smile.

"How do ye feel?" the woman asked.

Derica thought a moment. "I am not sure," she finally said. "What happened? Where am I?"

"Ye are in my house," the woman replied. "We found you."

"Found me?"

The woman nodded. "Aye. On the river bank. Ye were nearly dead when we came upon ye. How did ye get there?"

Derica tried to recall. "I do not remember." She put her hand to her head, wincing when she brushed the large lump on her forehead. "How long was I unconscious?"

"A few days," the woman replied. "Do ye remember where ye came from?"

"I… not really. A castle, I think."

"Ye're a lady, then."

"I… I do not know."

"I am sure ye are, by the look of ye. But ye canna remember what castle ye came from?"

"Nay."

The woman didn't ask any more questions. Derica's mind was shrouded in a foggy mist; it was alarming to realize that, until this very moment, she couldn't recall much of anything. Her memories were an enormous blur for the moment.

"Where is this place?" she looked around the small, neat hut. "What village is this?"

"It is called Rhos-hill," the woman said. "Do ye recognize the place?"

"Nay," Derica shook her head. "What is your name?"

"Mair," she said. "My children, Sian and Aneirin."

Derica smiled weakly at the children, who were still hiding behind their mother. It was apparent that Mair was waiting for Derica to introduce herself. A wisp of a name sprang to mind, familiar yet not. It hung there, like an unvoiced thought. Derica spoke it, not even sure if it was true.

"Bryndalyn," she whispered. "I… I think that is my name. But I am not… sure. I cannot seem to recall much of anything at the moment."

Mair put a sympathetic hand on her forehead. "Do not be troubled," she said. "Sleep, now. There will be time later for recollection."

Derica didn't particularly want to sleep, but she remained on her pallet. When she shifted to get more comfortable, sharp pains echoed through her lower torso. She gasped softly, putting her hand against her lower abdomen to rub away the pain. Mair saw what she was doing.

"I am sorry," she murmured. "The child did not survive."

Though Derica could remember little else, she had remembered the child. She touched her belly, feeling it soft where once she had known it to be rounded and firm. Tears instantly sprang to her eyes.

"No," she whispered. "Please… no."

Mair stroked her forehead again. "'Twas a blessing, my lady."

Derica sniffled. "Why would you say that?"

"I meant no harm. When we found ye, I would think that someone had beat you and thrown you in the river. Mayhap your husband. Any man that would beat his pregnant wife… 'tis a blessing, I say, not to bring a child into a world such as that."

Derica's tears were fading in lieu of her shock. "Why would you think someone has beaten me?"

"Because you are bruised all over your body. Someone thrashed you soundly, I would say. Do you not recall any of this?"

She didn't. But within the mists of her mind, she couldn't honestly recall if anyone had taken a hand to her, ever. Bits and pieces of a large castle and men who loved her came to mind, but she couldn't recall the names. Just faces. She closed her eyes and silent tears fell again.

"There, there," Mair said softly. "Sleep now, sweetheart. All will be well again."

When she turned away to prepare some manner of sleeping drink for Derica, the little boy with the black hair and dark eyes moved in to be a closer look. He had a sweet little face, his striking eyes gazing curiously at Derica. A tiny hand lifted and he resumed stroking Derica's head where his mother had left off. Derica sobbed deeply at the gentleness of his gesture, the longing for her own son that she would never know.

*

He was too old to be attending battle, but he was doing so nonetheless. The Marshal had never missed a battle; he was an old soldier, and they knew little else. If there was war waging, most especially his war, his presence was required.

Newark Castle was a small structure in a strategic location. William had arrived a few days ago to await word on the fate of Lincoln Castle and plot his next move. Two days ago had seen him receive word of victory in one breath and the loss of Garren le Mon in the next.

He had wept privately at the news, though he refused to feel guilt. Garren was a warrior and the vocation went hand in hand with death. Garren had known what his fate could be the first day he drew a sword. He had lived longer than most. Still, his passing had been a horrible blow, both personally and professionally.

Hoyt de Rosa had joined William at Newark. The man had abandoned his family and had joined Richard's cause in full. He had arrived a few months ago, pledging his service with a sudden strong loyalty that the Marshal was suspicious of, but that suspicion was lifted when he saw Hoyt in battle. The man was ferocious. The elder de Rosa had fought with Garren, and had been there when Garren had fallen. It had been Hoyt who had brought Garren's body to the Marshal. One look at the face and skull disfigured by a morning star, and William had ordered the body interred in the chapel at Newark with full honors.

William felt tremendous guilt for the state of their relationship when Garren had passed. It had been strained, though in William's estimation that could not have been helped. Still, he would have liked to have known that Garren harbored no permanent ill will. William had hoped that the marcher lordship of Buckton would have eased any hardship. The lordship came with two castles and a large chunk of land, something Garren deserved. Now that he was no longer in the land of the living to accept it, William could think of nothing else but granting it posthumously to his wife. Perhaps by making amends to Garren's widow, it would right things between them in the next life.

That was his guilt talking. He hated feeling the strange stirrings of indecision and regret. Hoyt had been at his side constantly since his return and the two of them had sparred with their philosophies on life and death. Even tonight, they shared a blood-red wine and discussed a variety of critical subjects, and the important subject, Lady le Mon's future.

"I never asked Garren where she was," Hoyt muttered, staring at the liquid in his cup. "In all of the months I fought at his side, I never asked. I did not want to know, as I thought it was best considering the circumstances. But you must know."

"Of course I do," William would not mention the entire ugly incident with Fergus and blackmailing Garren into service. "She is well taken care of at the moment, I assure you."

Hoyt glanced at him. "Then I will ask you. Where is she?"

"Wales."

"It is a big country."

"Cilgarren Castle. Near Pembroke."

"I must stand by my opinion, William. She should return to Framlingham."

"And I must stand by mine. She will be granted the titles and lands that were intended for Garren. That is suitable to his legacy. Should she return to Framlingham, the de Rosas will erase all memories of him from your niece's mind. That is an unacceptable end for such a man."

Hoyt couldn't completely disagree. "So you intend to grant her the lordship of Knighton?"

William's answer was to summon a messenger to the borrowed solar. The young, skinny lad was barely a man, but William had used him before. He was cunning and rode like the wind. Standing at the waist-high writing table, he authored two missives by himself in the flickering candlelight. He carefully sanded the ink, blew it away, rolled and sealed both missives. The messenger watched anxiously as William handed over one parchment.

"You will find your way to Pembroke Castle," he instructed. "Do you know it?"

The lad nodded. "Aye, my lord."

"Then go there with all haste. Find Keller de Poyer, the knight in charge of the garrison. He is an older man, with brown hair last I knew, and arms the size of battering rams. Give him this first missive." William handed the boy a second rolled parchment. "And give him this one as well. Tell him it is for Lady le Mon. Is this, in any way, unclear?"

"Nay, my lord."

"It is of the utmost importance that you deliver these safely to him."

"I will, my lord."

"Be gone, then."

The lad fled. William wandered to the lancet window, watching the bailey below as the young man leapt onto his long-legged horse and thundered through the gates. When the rider was out of view, William gazed into the misty night, struggling to release his guilt now that the deed was complete. He did not look at Hoyt, still seated by the empty bottle of claret.

"This does not ease the loss of Garren, to be sure, but it will ease the situation with time," William said.

"How do you mean?"

"I have provided well for the widow in two ways; titles and lands will be hers, making her a very wealthy woman. The second provision is to give her an attractive dowry to make my orders to de Poyer more palatable."

"Why should they be palatable to de Poyer?"

William believed he was doing the best thing for all concerned, but he had to remind himself that Hoyt was the Widow le Mon's uncle and, understandably, very fond of her. He needed to be diplomatic.

"I have known Keller for years, as had Garren," the Marshal replied. "In fact, they fought together on many campaigns and are of the same warrior fabric; powerful, cunning, and resourceful, though Keller does not have nearly the intelligence that Garren had. He is a large man with more strength than brains, but his nature is good and he is obedient to a fault. He will do as he was told, no matter what the order."

An inkling of suspicion came to Hoyt's mind as to the nature of the request. "And that would be?"

William looked at him. "The protection of a strong husband is necessary to a widowed woman, especially Garren's widow."

Hoyt knew instantly what was coming. "And you have asked de Poyer to marry her."

"Garren would want her well taken care of."

Hoyt stared at him, dumbfounded. "Christ, William," he hissed. "Garren is hardly cold in his grave and you have already married off his wife."

"I do not see the quandary in that."

Hoyt put down his empty glass, remembering the day that Garren and Derica met. He remembered the subsequent days that saw a magical attraction between them to the day when Garren ended up in the vault. What his niece and the knight had went beyond simple attraction. There was genuine emotion involved, so strong that it eclipsed the sun.

"There is no possible way I can explain this to you, but I shall make an attempt," Hoyt said. "Garren and Derica's feelings for one another go beyond something that you and I can understand. It transcends time and sentiment, like the first, best love that ever touched the darkness of this earth. My niece was fortunate enough to experience something that few mortals do. You can't just push that aside with titles and another husband."

"I am not attempting to," William stressed. "But you cannot deny that Garren would want his wife well taken care of."

"Of course not."

"And she will be, I promise."

"She should go home to her family."

"She will not. My gift to Garren is to see that she sustains his legacy and doesn't end up back in that den of vipers."

Hoyt didn't argue further with him. He knew it was fruitless. But after William finally retired for the night, he summoned a messenger of his own and sent the man east to Framlingham.