“Aglette is not a servant. She is my friend, and loyal to the death.”
“My apologies, then. But I could not make that assumption.”
She wondered if she should believe him or not. “So what you are telling me, in essence, is that in public you cannot show me any kindness so long as my family is around? Only when we are alone, is that it?”
“While your family still gnashes their teeth every time they see me, I am not sure there is any other alternative.”
“Are you so concerned they would think you weak that you would rather have me think you a cad?”
“No,” he shook his head slowly. “But I pray you understand my reasoning.”
“But those things you said in the hall, how you have no need or interest in marrying me. Is that true?”
“No.”
“Then you do have interest?”
“Can you not see it in my face, even now?”
She could, but she was terrified of this man she did not know, yet was enormously attracted to. He had the power to bend her emotions like grass in the wind.
“I see a man who says one thing, yet demonstrates another,” she said after a moment. “I think you make excuses to soothe me. I shall not be made a fool of.”
He sighed, feeling like he was losing a battle. This one involved feeling and he hadn’t a sword big enough to fight it.
“I understand your reservation. What would convince you that I am a man of my word?”
She looked at him, thoughtfully. “Would you consider yourself a strong man, Sir Garren?”
“Stronger than most, I suppose.”
“Then if you are so strong, what should it matter what my family thinks? If you are so strong, their opinion should mean nothing to you. You can stand on your strength alone.”
He gazed at her a long moment. Then, he smiled. “Wiser words were never spoken, my lady.”
“Perhaps. But will you heed them?”
“I can see that it will cost me your respect not to. And your respect means more to me than theirs.”
She was surprised. “It does?”
“It does.”
His expression made her feel giddy. They stood there on the sturdy wooden steps, gazing at each other, feeling a tide of new emotion sweep through them. Garren knew it was unhealthy for him, but he couldn’t help it. It was far easier to give in than to resist. Perhaps he should just learn to work with his traitorous emotions so that they did not interfere in his thought process. He had always been the adaptable sort. With that thought, he let go of his fear and simply enjoyed something he’d never felt before in his life.
It was a bold move to reach out and take her hand. It was even bolder to place a tender kiss on the inside of her wrist. He could feel her hand tremble and it pleased him tremendously. He wanted so badly to kiss her lips, but he wouldn’t dare. Her soft hand in his calloused one, for the moment, was enough.
“There you are!”
The roar came from the entrance to the larger tower. Startled, Derica and Garren looked up to see Alger and Lon standing in the doorway, swords in hand. One-eyed Alger leapt onto the steps, pulling Derica away from Garren.
“So you take her out here with lustful intentions,” he growled. “I shall teach you some manners, le Mon. Women in the Holy Land may respond like dogs in heat, but civilized English women do not.”
Alger was armed, but Garren remained cool. “I am without my sword. If you would allow me to collect it, I would be happy to teach you a lesson of my own.”
A weapon came flying at him, courtesy of Lon. Garren deftly caught it, noting it was nothing the size or strength of his own sword. Alger didn’t permit him to take a breath before he was flying at him, sword wielded high.
Garren easily deflected the blow, but he was at a disadvantage. He was half way up the wooden stairs and to lose his balance would cause him to tumble several steps. So he descended carefully, unable to take the offense against Alger as the man pounded him mercilessly. But once they were on the level ground of the ward, the tides turned.
“Uncle Alger,” Derica begged. “Please stop this. You’re being foolish.”
Alger growled and grunted, once landing blows, now deflecting them. He ignored his niece, who pulled away from Lon and scampered down the steps.
“Stop this, I say!” she hissed. “You’re going to be injured!”
“The only one who is going to be injured is…,” he grunted, warding off a strong blow aimed at his head, “… your intended. Any man who attempts to sully your honor gets the same.”
“He didn’t attempt to sully my honor,” Derica insisted. “He was a perfect knight. In fact, he is the one who removed me from the hall so your boyish games would not injure me.”
“You mean that he removed you from the hall to take advantage of you,” Lon said behind her. “He is had his way with whores in the Holy Land and now he wants to have his way with you.”
Somehow the thought of Garren being intimate with dark-skinned women didn’t sit well with Derica. In fact, the thought of him with any woman didn’t sit well with her. She watched Garren toy with her uncle, convinced he could kill the older man if he wanted to.
“Tell them you were not trying to have your way with me or they’ll nip at your heels like dogs for the rest of your life,” she told him.
Garren distracted Alger with a thrust while managing to get his foot in behind the man. Alger tripped and fell heavily, and his sword went into the mud.
“Gladly,” he said, hardly winded. “I was not trying to have my way with your niece. I was simply talking to her.”
Alger was furious and humiliated. “You are a liar. We saw you touch her.”
“Her hand,” Garren lowered his sword. “You saw me touch her hand. Harmless, I assure you. And if I wanted to ravage her, do you think I would do it out here in the bailey for everyone to see? I would have taken her somewhere where no one could find us.”
Alger struggled up from the mud, glowering. It was enough of a distraction to allow Lon to race down the steps and leap onto Garren’s back. Derica shrieked, unwisely entering the melee by trying to pull Lon off of Garren. Garren had no idea she was behind him until he brought his sword up in an attempt to dislodge Lon and ended up striking Derica instead.
She cried out, the upper portion of her right arm sliced by the weapon. The men forgot their battle, their eyes wide at the sight of her blood.
Garren was the first one to Derica’s side. “Let me have a look,” he took her arm gently. “Come on… that’s a good girl. Let me see what I have done to you.”
There were tears in her eyes, making their way down her cheeks as he peeled the tatters of her sleeve away. The wound hurt tremendously and she wasn’t very good at hiding it. “I am sorry, Garren.”
Garren’s expression was warm and reassuring as he examined the injury. “Sorry for what?” he asked gently. “I am the one who struck you, therefore, I am the one who is sorrier than words can express.”
“But I got in the way….”
“You were attempting to help me. That is noble and courageous, and I am indebted to you.”
Lon had bolted off, screaming that Derica had been mortally injured. Alger remained, trying to gain a look at the injury.
“It is a decent cut,” he said. “Better to take her inside to clean it.”
Garren agreed; it was a long nick and somewhat deep. It was going to need a few stitches. He swept Derica into his arms and carried her into the tower. By this time, the place was in a panic and there were several anxious faces to greet them. Garren ignored the worry, more concerned with tending Derica than answering foolish questions. He snapped orders to the servants and sent them running for healing supplies, ignoring Derica’s family as they tried to stop him and inspect her injury for themselves.
“What happened?” Bertram demanded. “How was she struck by your sword, le Mon? Give me answers, I say!”
Garren growled at him. “She was trying to save me from
your foolish brothers. If you have anyone to admonish, better spend your breath on them. Were it not for their stupidity, none of us would be in the position we now find ourselves in.”
Bertram cast Lon a long look. Alger refused to look at him at all, appearing more concerned with his niece. Garren shoved past Bertram and the others, mounting the steps to the upper floor; he would have been angry about the blockade were he not more concerned about Derica’s mental state at this moment. She was pale and weepy, trying to be brave. He doubted she could have handled a confrontation of any kind.
Once in her chamber, he laid her upon the bed. The menfolk were crowding in behind them and once she was out of his arms, he was more forceful about chasing them back. Aglette squeezed in through the door, bearing water and witch-hazel.
“I will see to my daughter, le Mon,” Bertram insisted. “You will not stop me.”
Garren was not to be trifled with. “I have no time to waste with you, so I will make this clear. Derica does not need a gaggle of men hanging over her right now and I can guarantee that I have treated more battle wounds than you have seen in your lifetime. Leave her to me and trust that she will be properly cared for.”
Bertram glared at him. “She is my daughter. You have no right to touch her, in any fashion, more than I.”
“She is my wife, in the eyes of law if not yet in the eyes of God. But that, too, shall be reckoned two days hence.” He planted a big hand squarely on Bertram’s chest and pushed the man back, through the chamber door. “Be gone. I shall send word when she is well enough for visitors.”
He slammed the door and bolted it before Bertram could respond. Ignoring the raving on the opposite side of the door, he returned his focus to Derica.
She was sitting up in her bed, pale, but the tears had subsided. Garren smiled gently as he approached, all but shoving Aglette aside and taking the stool from her. He peeled away the remaining material as Derica sucked in her breath, pained by his touch.
“I am sorry,” he murmured. “I know it hurts.”
She shook her head, biting her lip and looking away from the blood that stained her gown. “Not much, it doesn’t.”
He knew she was lying but he would not contradict her. He inspected the wound more closely, seeing bits of material in it. He had to clean it out quickly and sew it up.
“Derica,” he said softly. “I need to clean the wound and put a few stitches in it. Be brave just a while longer and we’ll be done with this foolishness. Are you with me?”
Derica had tended wounds before like this, on her brothers and uncles. She knew they healing sometimes hurt worse than the injury, but she nodded to his question.
“Aye,” she whispered. “Hurry and get it over with.”
Up until this moment, Garren had ignored his guilt at having done this to her, however accidental. Now he was seized with remorse. Tending her wound was going to hurt him far more than it would hurt her.
“I brought this, my lord,” Aglette shoved a bottle at him. “If we get her drunk on wine, she’ll not feel a thing.”
Garren knew that wasn’t quite the truth, but he took the bottle from her anyway. “My thanks,” he held it up to Derica. “It might help, my lady.”
Derica took a few large gulps, as if the faster and more she drank, the less the shock and pain. It was strong and tart. Garren watched her take another gulp before moving in on the wound. He would have liked to have taken the time until she was properly fortified, but there was no time to waste.
Some of the material was imbedded deep. Garren used a long pair of tweezers that Aglette had brought to pull out the bits and pieces, listening to Derica gasp and then finally sob softly in pain. More than once, he put his hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing, apologizing for the pain he was causing her. Derica would only nod her head to acknowledge him.
After an agonizing eternity, Garren was finally ready to stitch the wound. He set his tweezers down, apologized again to Derica, and poured some of the ale on the wound to cleanse it. She emitted a piercing shriek and abruptly fell silent. Garren hurriedly put five neat stitches in her soft skin.
“It is over,” he said quietly, taking a strip of clean linen from Aglette to bind Derica’s arm. “Your bravery astounds me, my lady. I have seen battle hardened knights handle pain not a morsel as well as you did.”
Derica was beyond the crying stage. Lying back on the pillows as Garren expertly wrapped her arm, she didn’t respond. The wine had taken its toll and she hovered in fitful unconsciousness.
Garren took longer than he had to tying off the binding. His gaze moved between Derica’s white face and his work. When he was done wrapping the arm, he kissed it softly. His guilt was overtaking him completely and he was deeply sorry for her agony.
“Sleep well, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You have earned it.”
He collected the basin and linen next to the bed, preparing to leave her in peace. But Derica’s weak voice stopped him.
“Do not go,” she whispered.
He handed the bloody rags to Aglette. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Please stay.”
Her face was the color of the linen upon which she rested. Garren sat back down next to her.
“I will not leave you,” he murmured.
“Promise?”
“On my oath. I will never leave you.”
Her eyes opened and her head lolled in his direction. Garren smiled at her as their eyes met. Derica’s only response was to open her hand, slowly, and lift it with great difficulty. Garren saw the gesture meant for him and he quickly took her hand, holding it tightly. With that, Derica closed her eyes once more and sleep claimed her.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I am in no mood for foolery. My daughter has been injured this night and my patience is at an end.”
“I assure you, I bring no foolery, my lord. Fourteen hundred men have landed at the mouth of the Welland River. Nottingham is a two day’s ride from there. Can you imagine such a force for our cause, my lord?”
A man dressed in shabby clothes and a patched eye sat near the hearth, warming himself. The bugs that found a home in his garments and against his skin were jumping off of him due to the searing heat. Bertram watched small, black things fall onto his stone floor. He moved his foot when a dark dot with legs moved too close.
“You’re sure?” Bertram asked.
The man nodded. “I have eyes everywhere, my lord. I trust their word.”
Bertram digested the information. The man was a spy, someone who had worked for the prince’s cause for several years. He looked and acted like a mad peasant, making him the perfect spy. He could go almost anywhere and glean whatever knowledge he could. His network was laced with relatives and other unscrupulous acquaintances on the prince’s payroll. More often than not, the information they provided was startlingly accurate and Bertram was well aware of the fact.
Which was why he considered the man’s statements carefully. “Teutonic mercenaries,” he muttered. “Fat, evil, well paid murderers.”
“Moving for Nottingham Castle.”
“Then it is up to the Earl of Nottingham to amass them until the prince is prepared to move. Any news of the Irish mercenaries?”
The dirty man shook his head. “I have not heard, my lord. The hope is to move them through Liverpool, far to the north and away from Richard’s ever-present eyes. Their destination is Bolton Castle and the prince’s supporter there.”
Bertram knew that, but the Irish mercenaries were not his concern. Neither were the Teutonic. His direct concern was a mass of French mercenaries due to arrive at Great Yarmouth sometime before the month was out. Weather was unusually turbulent this spring, making crossing the channel difficult. Time frames for the prince’s paid armies had been sorely distorted by it, making future plans difficult to calculate.
Bertram stood up, clasping his hands behind his back. In the shadows, Lon and Alger listened intently; they were the only family members allowed to witness the exc
hange. They had known when they saw the spy ride into the ward earlier that evening that something was afoot. Alberic always brought with him information, bugs, gossip and intrigue.
“So we wait,” Bertram said slowly. “The Irish at Bolton, the Teutonic in Nottingham, and the French at Framlingham. Other castles will house more mercenaries when the time comes and when we slip the noose around England’s midsection, we will divide Richard’s country. If all proceeds as it should, John should have the throne by Christmas.”
“Nothing except Richard’s armies,” Lon rumbled. “You speak as if his supporters sleep while we amass. You know as well as I do that if we have spies, then so does he.”
“I have been in the prince’s service since the days he rebelled against his father,” Alberic scratched his cheek where an insect bit at him. “There is an entire community of those who secretly serve the prince and his brother. We are as shadows, flitting between sunrise and sunset, ghosts that appear and then disappear just as quickly. We are fleeting figments of the imaginations, as deadly as a viper if one draws too close. Sometimes I believe our task is more difficult than the knights who fight with weapons and fire.”
“I cannot disagree,” Bertram said. He watched more bugs leap onto his floor. “If there is nothing else, then I say you should leave. ’Tis unwise for you to remain here for any length of time.”
Alberic stood up, stiffly, feeling his age this night. It was cold outside, threatening rain, but he dare not ask for shelter from de Rosa. They both well understood his role, and he was clearly not a guest. Slipping from the solar without another word, he made his way out of the tower and into the bailey. The gates were still open, even in the night, and his worn mule was tethered outside the walls. As he hurried across the ward, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, something caught his attention over by the western tower.
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