“So they can never be together, ever?”
“So it is said.”
Derica looked as if she was about to cry. “That is the most awful story I have ever heard.”
Garren held her hand, smiling faintly at the old man’s story and at his wife’s gullibility. The mood was growing heady and he had no intention of letting it get the better of them.
“Are you willing to face the ghosts to get out of this rain?” he teased. “Boo!”
She frowned at his attempt to startle her. “How can you make jokes about this? ’Tis a horrible tale, Garren. Tragic.”
“I am sorry,” he kissed her hand and spurred his charger towards the entrance. “You’re right, It is tragic. I believe I shall go off and cry myself ill right now.”
She couldn’t see his expression, smirking at her, but she could feel his humorous snorts against her body. “Stop laughing at me. How would you like it if we were separated like that, through all eternity?”
“I wouldn’t. Tell me if you plan on doing something foolish like that, will you?”
“I don’t think I shall tell you anything. I think I shall go back to Framlingham and leave you alone with your bad sense of humor.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
He turned the horse around and she squealed, laughing as he reined the horse in a couple of tight circles. Finally, they were heading back for the gate and she smacked him, lightly, on the shoulder.
“Stop fooling, Garren,” she said. “If anything of what Emyl says is true, then this is a revered place. We should be respectful.”
Emyl had watched the interaction, smiling at their antics. Garren was a serious knight, he knew, and put no stock in ghost stories as his lady apparently did. Emyl didn’t know if the legends were true or not himself, but one thing was apparent; no one had lived in this massive place for years. There had to be a reason.
There was an enormous ditch surrounding the outer curtain wall. It was wide across and partially filled with muddy rainwater. Garren surveyed the trench and could see that, at some time, there had been a bridge over it. He could see remains of it floating in the muck. There was no way the horses could cross, so he dismounted and stood at the edge of the ditch, trying to figure out the best way to cross. Emyl came to stand beside him and together, they mulled over the problem.
The gatehouse and wall were directly on the other side. Garren couldn’t think of anything else but to climb down into the ditch and see how deep it was. He took off his helm and began to remove his armor.
“What are you doing?” Derica asked.
He unlatched his breastplate. Emyl took it from him and he began to unfasten the protection around his shoulders.
“I am going to find out just how deep this trench is,” he told her. “If It is too deep, I shall sink to the bottom with all of this armor on.”
Derica climbed off of the charger. She went to stand next to her husband, eyeing the trench, eyeing him as he removed every last scrap of protection. The rain soaked the woolen tunic he wore and water dripped off of his face. She wiped a drop from the end of his nose, smiling timidly when he looked at her. Garren gave her a quick kiss before lowering himself into the ditch.
“Be careful,” she admonished him. “There may be spikes in there that you cannot see.”
He almost slipped on the sides, warily regaining his balance. “I shall be careful.”
“Don’t fall!”
“I won’t.”
Derica winced and twisted her fingers as he slid down the muddy side and into the water. He stopped sinking when he was up to his knees. Surprised but cautious, he took a few more steps across the ditch.
“It looks like this is all there is of it,” he announced. “Still, we can’t get the horses across. The sides are too steep.”
Derica immediately began to descend into the ditch. “I am coming with you.”
He slugged back across the water. “Wait, sweetheart, don’t get your feet wet.”
He carefully took her in his arms and carried her to the other side. Derica deftly climbed to the top of the bank with a strategic shove from her husband. Emyl, his hands full of swords, slid down the muddy incline and trudged across the water as Garren hoisted himself out on the opposite side. Lowering a helping hand, he pulled the old man out of the ditch and took his weapon.
The great gatehouse loomed overhead. Derica stood there a moment, inspecting it, wondering if she could hear Bryndalyn and Owain calling to each other. Garren whispered a ghostly moan in her ear to tease her and she made a face at him. He took her hand as they crossed under the half-raised portcullis.
Inside the curtain wall was a massive outer bailey. The ground was muddy and uneven, and there were no outer buildings. But there was another, taller, curtain wall several hundred feet away. There were also three massive towers they could see set within the wall. Most of all, another ditch lay between them and the inner wall.
“Another trench,” Derica observed. “They were certainly obsessed with entrenching this place, were they not?”
Garren cocked an eyebrow. “When an enemy is laying siege, one is grateful for all of the protection a castle can provide.”
“You saw the walls around Framlingham. They are enormous. But since I have lived there, we have never truly seen a siege.”
“But you would be grateful for them in such an event, I can tell you from experience.”
They had crossed the outer bailey and now stood looking down into the deep, stone-lined ditch. It was wider than the first ditch, filled with water and debris. Garren glanced over to his far left and could see, almost butted against the outer curtain wall, a drawbridge crossing over the ditch and leading into another gatehouse. They made their way over to the bridge and gingerly walked across the wet, rotting wood. Garren inspected the chains that fastened it and they were old and rusting. He wasn’t comfortable with the bridge and made sure Derica was quickly off it.
The passage beneath the second portcullis was long and damp. It smelled of rot. When they emerged on the other side, it was into a smaller inner bailey where the true scope of Cilgarren came to light. There were four massive towers including the gatehouse, all of them at least three stories into the sky. To Garren’s right stood several buildings; a great hall, perhaps a chapel, and then kitchens off to the left of the larger structures. Over by the north tower was another building, possibly the stables. There was also a kiln.
“Amazing,” he breathed.
“What do you mean?” Derica asked.
He was at a loss where to begin. “This place is a massive, fully-functioning fortress that has been abandoned. Why, in God’s name, would someone just abandon this?”
Derica didn’t have an answer. The place was indeed large and intricate. She let go of his hand and pulled her cloak more tightly around her, wandering through the bailey and inspecting the towers from a distance. While Garren kept an eye on her, she went to the long, low building that held the great hall and peered into the open door.
It was dark inside, but there was enough weak light that she could see a few broken stools, a table that was missing a couple of legs, and other debris scattered inside. The hall itself was good sized with a massive stone hearth. She took a step inside the door, smelling the dampness and mold. It was eerie.
She thought of Bryndalyn and Owain. Perhaps they sat at this table once, long ago, and toasted their happiness. Perhaps they had enjoyed the fire in the hearth or danced across the floor to lively minstrel music. She could almost hear their laughter if she listened hard enough. Derica wasn’t quite sure why the tale of the pair sat so heavily on her mind except for the fact that, for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to truly love someone and she could never imagine losing that love. Bryndalyn did not survive the loss and she doubted she would, either. There would be nothing to live for.
A low, desolate sound suddenly pierced her thoughts, howling eerily through the musty air. It echoed off the walls, lifting the rafte
rs with its mournful sound. Startled, Derica bolted from the room and into her husband’s line of sight. Though Garren’s expression was unreadable, he had heard the sound, too, and unsheathed his weapon in a deliberate motion.
“Derica,” he said calmly. “Come to me, sweetheart.”
Another wail filled the air and Derica didn’t need to be told twice; she darted back over to Garren, panting with fright.
“Garren, what is it?” she gasped. “Ghosts?”
He shook his head, his eyes riveted to the structures around him. “I am sure nothing so unearthly,” he said evenly. “Stay close.”
He handed her the charger’s reins and paced into the center of the ward. Emyl also had his weapon wielded, the old man as calm as Garren was. Once a knight, always a knight, no matter how long it had been since he’d last whiffed the scent of battle. Both men were acutely vigilant as they visually inspected their surroundings for the origins of the noise.
The wail came again. Garren turned, hearing it come from the north tower, or so he thought. He motioned to Emyl to flank him as he made his way to the entrance of the tower. Derica huddled against the charger out of fear and warmth, watching her husband with anxious eyes. It took her a moment to realize that Garren had not put his armor back on after removing it to cross the first trench. Not wanting to call out to him and distract him, she could only watch and pray that whatever situation he was about to face did not injure him.
Her first indication that all was not well was when the charger suddenly started. Derica would have fallen to the ground had hands not grabbed her. Trouble was, they were not her husband’s hands. A scream erupted from her throat.
Garren swung around in time to see someone grabbing his wife. He took a step in her direction when a body suddenly came flying at him, a man dressed in dirty rags that blended in with the gray sheets of rain. The man had a weapon and Garren brought his sword up instinctively, deflecting a heavy blow. He was involved in his own fight, terrified for his wife, furious at the inconvenience of having to battle for his life. He was about to shout for Emyl when he saw that the old man, too, had been set upon.
Derica was howling, swinging fists and kicking feet. A fine lady though she might be, having grown up with three older brothers had taught her something about self-defense. She was desperately trying to find eyes to gouge her fingers into. When that failed, she took to kicking furiously at the knees of her attacker. One foot made contact with a kneecap and the man released a growling yelp. It was enough of a break for Derica to swing around and kick him, as hard as she could, in the lower abdomen.
The man fell into the mud and Derica scattered like a frightened chicken. She was terrified her attacker was going to rise up and come after her again, so she grabbed the first heavy rock she could find and raced back over to the man wallowing in the muck. She smacked him on the head and stopped his squirming.
With her assailant subdued, she took a look around her; a glance to Garren saw him in serious combat with a man nearly as tall as he was, yet infinitely more slender. Emyl seemed to have the more immediate problem, grunting and groaning as he battled for his life. Derica couldn’t stand by idly; she lifted the rock and made her way over towards Emyl. Careful not to get in the way or take the chance that the enemy would turn on her, she hung back, clutching the rock, until Emyl’s opponent turned his back on her. With a cry, she hurled the rock and hit the man on the nape of the neck. It was enough of a blow to cause him to fall down, whereupon Emyl finished him.
The sight of the blood made Derica nauseous. In spite of her warring family, she’d never seen a man killed before. Emyl went to her, trying to take her someplace safe, away from the fighting, but she would not leave Garren. She and Emyl watched with trepidation as Garren launched a powerful enough blow to dislodge his opponent’s sword completely. When the man tried to retrieve his weapon, Garren shoved the tip of his razor-sharp blade at the man’s neck.
“The game is ended,” he growled. “Leave the sword and I shall be merciful. Attempt to reclaim it and my mercy is at an end.”
The man slowly lifted his hands to show his submission. Garren gazed into deep brown eyes and a handsome face. The man was young, but he had handled the sword well. He took his eyes off of Garren long enough to look at his dead companion in the mud.
“Did you have to kill him?” he whispered.
Garren responded. “What did you expect? You were trying to kill us. It was necessary to defend ourselves.”
The man dropped his hands and made his way over to his companion. His movements were slow with defeat. Emyl and Derica moved to stand with Garren as the three of them observed the man in the rags. He fell to one knee, putting his hand on the wet corpse.
“He was just a lad,” the man muttered. “A child.”
“A child who was trying to kill me,” Emyl didn’t feel guilty in the least. “If you were that worried over his health, you should not have allowed him to attack us.”
“We were protecting ourselves,” the man in rags suddenly boomed. The dark eyes flashed. “ ’Tis you who invade our home.”
Derica looked at her husband with big eyes. Garren’s expression was neutral, though he could feel her stare. “You live here? On whose authority?”
The man in rags stared at him for a moment. “On my own. No one has lived here in decades; there was no reason why we should not.”
The man that Derica had smashed over the head suddenly groaned and sat up. He shook his head as if waking up from a deep, ugly sleep. Garren heard the noise and glanced over at him.
“Tell him to be still,” he commanded quietly. “Any provocative movement and he shall meet the same fate as your companion.”
The man in the rags eyed his disoriented comrade, but he could see that provocative action would be the last thing to occur. He looked at Garren, more closely than before.
“You are a knight,” he stated.
Garren cocked an eyebrow. “And as such, you will answer my questions or face the consequences. Tell me your name.”
The man in rags signed deeply, with resignation. His hand came to rest protectively on the head of his dead friend.
“David,” he whispered.
“Who is the dead man?”
“My brother, Guy.”
Garren heard his wife gasp softly, but he didn’t look at her. “And the man over there?”
“My uncle.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Offa.”
“Offa,” Emyl repeated, looking closely at the man covered in mud. “Offa van Vert?”
The round, dirty man grunted. “The same.”
Emyl’s mouth popped open. Then he threw up his hands. “I should run you through, you idiot. Why in God’s name would you attack me?”
Offa blinked his eyes, trying to rid himself of his double vision. “Emyl?”
Emyl sneered. “Dim wit! Of course it is me. Can you not see that through those bloodshot eyes?”
“I cannot see anything at the moment,” Offa shook his head again. “The lady was true in her aim.”
“Emyl,” Garren cut into the conversation. “Who are these people?”
Emyl looked ill, as if a horrible situation had suddenly been made clear to him. “Offa van Vert was a knight, Garren. He served Cadell ap Gryffud. We grew up together, in this region. I simply haven’t seen him in years.” He glared at the muddy knight. “I thought you’d died, you old goat. What are you doing here?”
Offa struggled to one knee. “The Welsh rebellion hasn’t much room for an aged knight. My youth is gone and so is my money. I knew of this place, too. My nephews and I have lived here for three years.”
Emyl looked at Garren; he didn’t know what more he could say. The entire circumstance was sickening. Garren stood there a long while, watching David grieve over his brother. Finally, he sheathed his sword.
“Your brother did not have to die,” he said quietly. “You should have determined my motives before attacking us.”
“Are you a knight?”
“No.”
By now, Offa was on his feet and walking unsteadily towards his nephews. “My sister married a common man. There was no opportunity for the boys to foster in a proper house. I have schooled them the best I can.”
Garren took a few steps, retrieved David’s old sword, and extended it to the man.
“You have done an admirable job,” he said. “I am impressed with David’s skill and strength.”
Offa knelt beside his other nephew, putting a tender hand on the lad’s head. “Guy will never know his potential,” he whispered ironically. “He could have been great.”
Garren glanced at his wife, seeing the sorrowful expression on her face. He was feeling guilty when he knew he should not. “An unfortunate happening.” He came as close to an apology as he could.
“Unfortunate indeed,” Offa stroked the dark hair. “It was my fault. I am a foolish old man. Foolish and stupid. The boys fought against me in their training and I most always allowed them to win, giving them a sense of confidence. It was Guy’s undoing.”
Emyl sighed heavily, making his way to the man he had once known. His gaze moved between the dead lad and the uncle.
“You did as you felt best, even as you moved to defend your home,” he tried to comfort him. “You did not know our intentions were peaceful. But Garren is correct; you could have determined them first. ’Twould be best to teach David that lesson today. A costly lesson though it might be.”
Offa nodded his head silently. Emyl stood over him, knowing there was nothing more he could say. Observing the scene, Derica slipped her wet hand into her husband’s.
“We should help him bury his nephew,” she said softly.
Garren gazed down at her, her sweet face pinched pink with cold and wet. She did not understand the warring ways, the event that one did not usually bury his enemy, but he knew this was a different case. In spite of himself, he was beginning to feel very guilty about the whole thing. The Garren of old never knew the meaning of the word.
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