The Agents of William Marshal Volume II: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

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

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

  “It does, my lady.”

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

  “It ’tis, my lady.”

  “I shall be a baroness someday.”

  “Indeed, my lady. Most honorable.”

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

  “What if he is hideous?”

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

  “My husband… what if he is hideous?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Aglette giggled. “Anything is possible, my lady.”

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

  “It matters not now. The contract is done.”

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

  “Aye,” she agreed softly. “It is done.”

  “Are you afraid?”

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

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

  “It ’tis the truth.”

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

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

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

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

  “Aye, my lady,” Aglette agreed fervently. “You will be.”

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

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “Yet I will also be respectful.”

  “Aye, you will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What do you mean?”

  “Andrew is the congenial sort.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “England is my king, my lord.”

  “And that is where your loyalties lay?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Sometimes you cannot walk away,” Bertram said quietly.

  “Sometimes you must.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Sir Garren, I presume?” she asked.

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

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

  “Thank you, my lady.”

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

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

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

  “Aye, my lady,” he said evenly.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “What do you wish to know?”

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

  “No worse than a daughter barging into her father’s solar uninvited.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Later, Derica. Do as I say.”

  “I will not. I have every right to….”

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

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

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

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

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