“Are you hungry?” Garren kissed her temple.
Derica yawned, snuggling against him. “Always.”
He kissed her again. “Then let us break our fast and depart. As much as I would love to languish with you all day in bed, I am afraid we cannot spare the time.”
They dressed in warm silence. The lamb’s wool gown was absolutely stunning on Derica’s figure. The nuns had even managed to stir up a pair of warm hose for her, which she gladly put on even though they were a bit too small. She braided her hair, smiling shyly when she caught her husband staring at her. By the time she pulled on her soft slippers and swung the cloak over her shoulders, Garren had everything packed and waiting for her.
There were bodies sleeping in the tavern below, strewn about the floor and tables. It smelled of smoke and urine. Derica wrinkled her nose at the pungent smell as Garren sent a servant to bring about his charger and procured a hunk of bread from the serving woman. He handed the food to his wife, who promptly tore off a piece of the bread and chewed happily. Garren wondered aloud if there would be anything left for him to eat and she shook her head playfully.
It was misty and cold when they stepped outside. Derica pulled the hood of her cloak around her tightly to ward off the chill. The destrier was brought around by the same sleepy lad who had taken him the night before. Garren loaded their bags on the steed and lifted his wife into the saddle. Derica put a piece of bread in his mouth to thank him for his efforts. He gathered the reins and was preparing to lead the horse off when a figure approached through the mist. Neither Derica nor Garren saw until it was too late.
“Derica,” came a familiar voice.
Derica nearly jumped out of her skin. Uncharacteristically startled, Garren made an instinctive move for the broadsword strapped to the front of his saddle.
Hoyt de Rosa emerged from the shrouding fog, covered with a black cloak and looking like the Devil himself. Derica and Garren immediately noticed something different; the flamboyant de Rosa was dressed in armor and not the usual fine silks. He looked as he had before his accident, an enormous knight to be feared and hated. Their anxiety deepened.
Hoyt came to a halt several feet away. Garren put himself and his weapon between the elder de Rosa and his wife, bracing himself for what was surely to come.
“I wish no trouble, my lord,” he said. “But another step and I will be forced to defend myself.”
Hoyt’s gaze moved between his niece and Garren. He shook his head, long with hair that he had not cut in years. Without the rouge and eye makeup, he looked quite masculine.
“Do you have any idea how worried your father is?” he asked Derica. “We have been searching for days.”
Derica was torn between shame and defiance. “How did you find us?”
Hoyt crossed his arms thoughtfully. “ ’Twas not a matter of finding you, but following you.” He looked at Garren. “My brother captured the man you hired to abduct Derica.”
Garren’s heart sank, thinking of his friend Fergus and remorseful that the man’s loyalty had gotten him killed. “Did his death bring you the information you sought?”
“I do not know. I did not interrogate him. While my nephews were intent on inflicting pain, I rode back along his trail and found small footsteps branching off into the forest. There was an abbey over the hill. So I lay in wait and was rewarded, the next day, to see you both ride from the abbey. As I said, it was simply a matter of following you and biding my time.”
“I am not going home, Uncle Hoyt,” Derica wasn’t sure how to address him, but it didn’t seem right calling him Lady Cleo Blossom when he was dressed in armor. “Garren and I were married yesterday. I am his wife and I am staying with him.”
“I suspected as much.”
Garren watched his body language carefully; he was armed, but had yet to unsheathe his sword. It hung at his side. In fact, he’d made no aggressive moments at all.
“If you have come to take her home, you have wasted your time,” Garren said. “You may report back to her father than she is well and happy, and we intend to have a good life together.”
Hoyt shook his head. “I have not come to take her home, nor do I intend to tell my brother anything at the moment.”
“Then what do you want?”
Hoyt was silent a moment, as if contemplating something very deep. “Garren,” he said slowly. “Does the Marshal know what you have done?”
Garren’s guard went up, higher than ever. He was very good at denying his true vocation and used that experience.
“So you still think I am a spy, is that it?”
“Games are not necessary, sir knight. I know that you are sworn to William Marshal and that he sent you to Framlingham to spy on my brother. Did he not tell you that there would be another set of eyes at Framlingham?”
“I do not know what you mean.”
Hoyt smiled ironically. “I thought you would not,” he said. “But do you know this? La lealtà alla morte. Onorare soprattutto.”
Garren stared at him, long and hard. He had no idea how Hoyt de Rosa would know that unless the Marshal had told him. There was a code with the Marshal’s men, something that identified them to one another. Each man had what was termed his ‘phrase’, a specific combination of words that another agent would speak to him to let him know he was an ally. In a startling twist, Hoyt had just spoken Garren’s phrase, and there was only one reply possible.
“Lungo vive il re,” Garren said softly.
“Then you believe me.”
Garren wasn’t sure how to reply. Although he did not lower his sword, his manner was less defensive and more curious. “Why did you not identify yourself earlier?”
“I did not want to give myself away, so to speak,” Hoyt replied. “I am sorry I could not be of help when my brothers’ persecuted you. Had I intervened any more than I did, surely they would have suspected something. I could not risk it.”
Garren lowered the sword. He glanced at his wife; he wanted to see how she was reacting to all of this. From her expression, it was clear that she was shocked.
“But…,” Derica hardly noticed her husband looking at her. “I do not understand, Uncle Hoyt. Do you mean to say that you serve William Marshal?”
“It would seem so,” Hoyt walked towards them, slowly. “Many years ago, I served John and Richard’s father. When Henry died, my loyalties naturally fell with John because he was Henry’s favorite and, I believed, rightful heir to the throne. But over the years I have come to see what a weak ruler he would be. Already, the man tears this country apart and he is only a prince. What would happen if he were king?”
“You sound like my father,” Garren said quietly.
“Your father is correct,” Hoyt agreed firmly. “At a tournament a few years ago, I came into contact with William Marshal. I knew him from when he served Henry, as we both fought for the king in our prime. After a few hours conversation, I realized I was in complete agreement with him. Richard was our best choice for king. So, with a convenient bump on my head at the very same tournament, suddenly I am crazy and my brothers pay little attention to me. Better to observe for Richard’s cause in such a way and never be suspected.”
Derica’s jaw hung open. “Then the dress, the rouge, was an act? You were spying?”
“Nay; not really. I never completely gave over my support to the Marshal, as my loyalties to my family were stronger than my loyalties to the king. But, as I saw necessary, bits of information made their way to the Marshal for the king’s cause. I walked a fine line between betraying my brothers and helping England. It wasn’t until very recently that I decided to lend full support to Richard. From now on, the Marshal will know everything that I know. I hold back no longer.”
Garren listened to the very clever explanation, but he couldn’t help probing for his own peace of mind. “What finally caused you to lend full support?”
Hoyt looked him in the eye. “Two thousand French mercenaries due on the shores of Norfolk within
the week.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. With the several thousand Teutonic and Irish mercenaries already at Nottingham and Bolton, they’ll create a formidable army for the prince.”
“How do you know this?”
“The same spy who identified you to my brother also reported this. The man is a frequent visitor to Framlingham. When I saw him skulk through the front gates, I knew something was amiss. I heard everything he said.”
“Spy? What spy?”
“His name is Alberic. He has worked for the prince’s cause for several years. He knew you on sight and told my brother of you.”
Garren nodded in understanding as it became clear how Bertram knew of his loyalties. “As I would probably know him on sight as well,” he muttered. “ ’Tis wise to know the face of the enemy even if you do not know his name.”
“Precisely.”
Satisfied with that mystery solved, Garren returned to the subject at hand. “How soon do you estimate that the mercenaries already on English soil will merge with the French?”
“Within four to five weeks.”
Garren was grim. “They will tear England apart.”
“Exactly.”
“Does the Marshal know?”
“No,” Hoyt said. “That is why you must go to him immediately. I must return to Framlingham and resume my place. It is up to you, Garren. You must tell him.”
Garren tore his gaze away from Hoyt long enough to look at his wife. She was ashen with fear.
“I must get my wife to safety first,” he said after a moment. “I will tell the Marshal once she is settled.”
Hoyt could not disagree. “I do not dispute you, especially with my brother on the rampage. I will try to hold him off as best I can, but I cannot promise success.” He looked at his niece and his manner softened. “I will not ask where you are going. I do not want to know. But I do hope that you are truly happy, wherever you may go.”
Tears filled Derica’s eyes. She had always been particularly close to her uncle. Dismounting the charger, she embraced him, drawing strength from the Hoyt of old and not the strange creature he had been over the past few years. Yet she understood his reasons; politics and deep beliefs were strong motivators for men’s loyalties.
“God be with you, Uncle Hoyt,” she murmured. “I pray we meet again, very soon.”
He kissed her forehead. Derica went back to the charger and Garren lifted her up once again. He could see how upset she was and kissed her hand to comfort her. By the time he turned around, Hoyt was disappearing into the mist.
“De Rosa,” he called. “We shall meet again.”
“I am sure we will. If you do not take good care of my niece, it will be sooner than you think.”
Garren could barely see the man’s outline through the sea of white. “There is one last thing, my lord.”
“Speak.”
“The man your nephews captured… he is an old and dear friend. If you could discover what’s become of him, I would be grateful.”
“Consider it done.”
Garren was satisfied. As he adjusted his wife’s cloak and finally gathered the reins, it was Hoyt who called out to him.
“Garren?”
“What?”
There was a lengthy silence. “There is something I should tell you. There are more of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the de Rosa house. There is another who shares our views and is willing to help.”
Garren thought on that. “My advice is caution, my lord. Men such as us do not live long if our trust, even in family members, is given easily.”
“Prudent advice.”
The morning mist swallowed them up as they went their separate ways.
When the soldiers had cleared an all other de Rosas were gone, Donat and Dixon advanced on their captive. Donat balled his fists while Dixon carried a club. Fergus saw them coming and he lowered his head, closing his eyes against what was surely to come.
His body was taut with expectation. But he found it strange when he heard a dull thump, followed by a grunt, and it did not come from him. Opening an eye, he saw one of the de Rosa brother’s on the ground. The man was unconscious. Puzzled, Fergus opened both eyes and looked up.
Donat rubbed his knuckles, glancing down at his brother. When he saw that Fergus was looking at him, he shook his head.
“Hated to do that,” he said. “But he was about to bash your brains in. Are you badly injured?”
Fergus didn’t know what to say. “W-what?”
“I asked if you are badly injured. I tried not to be too harsh, but for appearance sake, I had to do a nominal amount of damage.”
Fergus’ puzzlement grew by leaps and bounds. He looked at Dixon, sleeping forcibly upon the grass. “What is happening? Why is your brother on the ground?”
Donat replied as he untied the ropes that bound Fergus to the tree. “I had to do that. He meant you great harm.”
“And you didn’t?” Fergus jerked his hands free, stepping away from Donat as he rubbed his wrists. “Just what in the hell is going on here? You pounded me for the better part of a day and now you knock your brother cold when…?”
Donat put his hands up in a supplicating gesture. “I know you do not understand any of this, but let me explain. I am not against you, man. I am with you. What I did, I had to do for the sake of my family. It wasn’t anything personal against you.”
Fergus was about to explode. “What you did?” he clapped a hand to his forehead. “Perhaps you’d better start from the beginning. Why did you just release me?”
“Because you took my sister to be with le Mon.”
Fergus sneered. “Eh?”
“Le Mon and my sister. You took her to be with him, did you not? I had to pretend to beat you in order that my father and uncles wouldn’t have a go at you. Then you’d be in a world of pain right now, my friend. I had to put on a show.”
“What on earth for?”
“Because my father wants to see this country torn apart by a greedy bastard of a prince. Le Mon serves the one man who can save this country. I believe in that cause.”
“What cause?”
“William Marshal, of course. The same man you serve.”
A glimmer came to Fergus’ eye. “I serve Longton, not Richard.”
“There is no need for secrecy. I know that le Mon serves the king’s inner circle. I would assume you do the same.” When Fergus didn’t react, he held up his hands. “I even know the phrase. La lealtà alla morte. Onorare soprattutto. It is le Mon’s phrase, is it not?”
“I do not know what you speak of.”
Donat shrugged his shoulders. “As you wish,” he said. “But I must know where my sister and le Mon are so I can keep my family away from them. They’ll search to the ends of the earth for her.”
Fergus cocked an eyebrow. “Is this some clever ploy? To trick me into believing you are my ally when, in truth, it is simply another tactic to force me to reveal all that I know? I am not as stupid as I apparently look.”
“Nor am I,” Donat said. “Sir knight, I realize this situation appears morbidly strange. But you must believe me when I tell you that the beating you took, at my hands, was purely an act for the benefit of my family. I was protecting you, if you will believe it. But they are off now, searching for my sister and preparing to lay siege to le Mon’s castle. If le Mon and my sister are heading there, then they must be warned. Do you not understand?”
He was imploring him, but Fergus had seen some great actors in his time and was not taken in. Still, there was something urgent about the man’s manner.
“I will believe you if you let me go,” Fergus responded, confident that his request would be met by a refusal.
“Is that they only way?”
“It is.”
“Go, then,” Donat replied. “I will not follow, and I will do my best to keep the others off your trail. But, for God’s Holy sake, if you know where le Mon is,
you must tell him what is happening. He must be warned. Use his phrase and he will know that you speak the truth.”
Fergus stared at him. The circumstance was as strange as any he had ever encountered and he did not trust the man in the least. But he was not about to contest his freedom. With his eyes still on Donat, he made his way to the trees where a destrier was tethered. Confiscating the horse, he tore off through the bramble, heading in haste for the road.
Donat watched him go, hoping the knight was loyal enough to le Mon to warn him but wondering in the same breath if he had just made a foolish mistake.
“Pour Richard de Dieu et Roi,” he whispered softly.
Donat picked up the club that his brother had held and promptly smacked himself in the nose. When Dixon eventually regained his wits, he found his older brother unconscious on the ground and the prisoner escaped.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
This time of the year, Wales was a place soaked in perpetual gray. The land was gray, the sky gray, even the water. It was cloudy for days on end, making travel cold and miserable.
It took Garren and Derica nearly a week to make it to the border of England and Wales, the desolate area of the southern marches. They watched the landscape move from flat, fertile farming soil to rocky, hilly land that seemed to be the distinguishing characteristic of this part of the country. Still, there were moments when the sun broke through the cloud cover and produced spectacular yellow beams that fingered the slumbering landscape. In those moments, it was beautiful, and Derica would make Garren stop the horse to observe the precious moment.
For a woman who had spent her entire life given any luxury she could possibly want, Derica had traveled incredibly well with hardly a comfort. There were times when she would want to walk because her backside ached, but Garren never heard a compliant other than that. She was, however, constantly cold and many were a time when her icy fingers would snake inside his tunic to seek warmth against his skin. He would grunt and make faces, but she would giggle and tell him to quiet. Such was the price he had to pay for her company.
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