Garren came to a halt. “For what? Fergus, I don’t have time for this.”
It was odd how the expression on Fergus’ face had changed. Garren had never seen such a look, something between wisdom and sorrow. It was an expression that cut through Garren like a knife.
“For this,” he whispered. “La lealtà alla morte. Onorare soprattutto.”
The sledgehammer hit. Garren was confused and suspicious. Had Fergus been an agent for William, Garren would have known long ago. Or perhaps he wouldn’t; there were those in service that even Garren didn’t know about. Something wasn’t right and his guts churned with dread. It occurred to him that the probing Fergus had been doing was for a definitive reason, an overshadowing motive that Garren was slowly coming to understand. Something told him not to respond.
“What does that mean?”
“Your phrase, my friend.”
“The last I recall, I don’t speak Italian.”
“You are obligated to respond.”
“Fergus, what are you talking about?”
Fergus gazed at him without saying a word. Then, he smiled weakly. “Nothing,” he said. “Forget about it. In fact, it is best you do not respond.”
“Why not?”
“Because… well, because ’tis best, that’s all. I do not want to know that you know what I know.”
Garren could have done of two things at that moment; he could have continued his ignorant charade, or he could have let his guard down. He had known Fergus far too well and long to let it go.
“What in the hell are you talking about, Fergus?” he rumbled.
Fergus shrugged weakly. “Nothing, my friend. Nothing at all. ’Tis simply… stay away from Chepstow, and stay away from Chateroy. Stay here, with your wife. ’Tis the best place for you.”
Garren felt as if he were walking the edge of a cliff, unwilling to look down, but being inexplicably drawn towards the danger. “I cannot stay here,” he said, wanting off the subject, unbalanced by the entire conversation. “My only concern, beyond my father, is that Derica is protected in my absence.”
Fergus nodded. “I will protect her with my life. You know that.”
“I know that,” Garren said. “But it shan’t be for long. I shall return as soon as I can.”
“Christ, I hope not,” Fergus muttered.
“What’s that you say?”
“Nothing,” Fergus said quickly. “And if you do not return, Garren? What then?”
Garren forgot about the past few moments of conversation, Fergus’ oddly murmured words. He looked at Fergus as his oldest, closest friend. “Then I will trust you to take care of her, for all time. Will you do this for me?”
“Without question.”
Garren left without another word.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He thundered in at dusk of the second day. Even from a distance away, Garren could see that the ambiance of Chepstow had changed. A heavy blanket of smoke hung over the castle and he knew that could only mean one thing; either Chepstow was under siege or there was an army in residence.
Fortunately for him, it was the lesser of the possibilities. Many of the men at arms recognized him as he pounded into the bailey, as they were loyal to the Marshal and had fought under Garren’s command many a time. Somewhat perplexed as to the purpose of the amassing army, he tried to appear as if their presence was nothing new to him as he stowed his horse and made his way, somewhat wearily, into the keep. He was increasingly apprehensive of what he would find.
It was busier than usual inside. Commanders and noblemen that he recognized greeted him. Garren had to admit it was good to see the familiar faces. The Marshal was found in a sea of officers, clustered two deep around his table in the solar. There were plans on the table, and a map. When the old blue eyes lifted at the movement in the doorway, Garren saw the wave of surprise, then a flash of anger, then massive relief.
“Garren,” William pushed his way between armored men in his haste to get to him. “Thank God, you have come.”
Garren accepted the outstretched hand, unusual for the old man. He wasn’t the warm kind. It was a gesture that put him on his guard.
“My lord,” he was suddenly torn between the guilt of what he’d done and the gladness of seeing him again. “I came as soon as I was able.”
The Marshal’s pale eyes glittered at him, reprovingly, suspiciously. “Of course,” he took Garren by the elbow. “Come with me. I would speak with you privately a moment.”
That was not an unusual occurrence, and the men in the solar let them go without a thought. William pulled Garren into the adjoining room, a small chamber used by the servants, and closed the door. When he faced Garren again, the warmth was gone from his face and Garren felt the chill.
“Now,” William grumbled. “I give you two minutes to satisfactorily explain to me what has happened over the past few weeks.”
“My lord?”
“If you play me for a fool, so help me, I shall run you through myself. You know exactly what I mean, le Mon.”
“I married Derica de Rosa.”
“You eloped with her!”
“I did.”
“To what purpose?”
“Because you ordered me to.”
The Marshal was losing his patience. “Aye, I did. But under specific conditions and damn you for ignoring them. You, my friend, have violated my commands and have created a shambles out of your mission.”
Garren wouldn’t back down. “You ordered me to marry Derica de Rosa, my lord. I have done that. The circumstances on how it was done are not of issue.”
The old man lost his patience then. “It is the issue. Are you living at Framlingham with your wife and her family?”
“No.”
“Do you have any contact with Bertram de Rosa and his horde?”
“No.”
“Then how can you possibly tell me that you are still within the guidelines of your mission? Your mission was to spy on them, Garren, nothing more or less. What information can you give me? Has all of my careful planning for you been in vain?”
“There are two thousand Teutonic mercenaries amassing north of Nottingham as we speak. The next few days with see two thousand more French. It is my guess that they plan to stranglehold England about the middle of the country and cut off the north from the south.”
The Marshal stared at him. “Why do you think there is an army amassed in the bailey, Garren? I already know this.”
Garren didn’t flinch, though he felt as if he’d been struck. He felt like a fool. “Chateroy is under siege by the de Rosas because of what I have done.”
That news gave the Marshal pause. “How do you know this?”
“I have my trusted sources. I must go and help my father.”
William stared at Garren a moment longer before letting out a long, heavy sigh. Scratching his white head, he leaned back against a small table, pondering his course of action from this point. His anger had abated for the most part, though he was still rightfully upset. Mostly, he was disappointed.
“You realize that I have been quite angry with you.”
Garren’s guard came down somewhat. He could feel the disillusionment in the Marshal’s voice and it hurt him. He had worked so hard to achieve the trust he had with William, though it was not completely lost, it had been damaged.
“Who told you?’
“It does not matter. I suppose what matters is that you have come back to face me as a man should. I expected nothing less.”
“And I would never show such disrespect by not facing you.”
“Then you admit your mistake.”
“It was not a mistake.”
William cast him a long look. “You failed.”
“I did not.”
“I am not going to argue technicalities, Garren.”
“And I am not going to admit that marrying a woman I am deeply in love with was a mistake. I have done what I have done, for reasons you do not agree with. Rather than a
rguing about it, I am here to tell you what I have done and ask that I be given leave of Richard’s service to be with my wife.”
William’s jaw dropped. “You’re serious?”
“Never more so.”
The fury returned to William’s veins. He rose from his seated position, stiffly. “I have no intention of allowing my greatest emissary leave, in any circumstance. You were born, bred and trained to serve me, le Mon, and that is exactly what you shall do. Your marriage and personal feelings are secondary to the needs of our king at this moment. I need you now, more than ever. Is that clear?”
Garren stood his ground. “You have many capable commanders, my lord. I am inconsequential.”
“You are my hammer.”
For the first time since Garren had been a knight, he felt a surge of anger at a direct command. Never mind that it was coming from William Marshal; anyone who would keep him from his wife would be dealt with.
“Find another hammer, my lord. I am going back to my wife.”
He spun on his heel, uncharacteristically defiant. He hadn’t made it three steps when the Marshal spoke.
“Do you know Fergus de Edwin?”
Garren paused, massive confusion filling him. “Should I?”
William Marshal had achieved his position in life for a very good reason. He could be a cold and calculating when he needed to be. This was one of those moments. He knew even before the words spilled from his lips that the mood between him and Garren would change forever.
“I am the last person you need be evasive with.”
“I am not being evasive.”
“Then you will tell me that you know of him, for I know that you do.”
“I do.”
“Then I will tell you something else, Garren.”
Garren couldn’t help it; his eyes narrowed. “By all means, my lord. Tell me something else.”
It was a tone that William had never heard from Garren before, threatening and deadly. But it did not deter him. “You will ride from Chepstow at the head of my army,” he said quietly. “You will ride north to Nottingham and meet the mercenary army in battle. You will lead the armies of Richard to victory. Richard’s reign is everything; you and I are nothing. Merely expendable figures in this great chess match of Life. And along with you and me as pawns, there are many other players. Your wife, for one. Fergus for another.”
Garren hated the horror creeping into his veins. It was all he could do to keep his hands from wrapping around the Marshal’s throat.
“What in the hell does that mean?”
“It means that Fergus de Edwin works for me. He has always worked for me. He befriended you on my orders and has been assigned to watch you since he was quite young. He has been my eyes on you, though I never truly believed you needed watching until recent events. It means that, even now, Fergus has orders. I assume he is at Cilgarren, is he not?”
Garren knew that all of the color had drained from his face. “How do you know this?”
“How do you suppose? Fergus suggested the place, and I agreed.” The Marshal’s gaze grew hard. “As you disobeyed me, I was one step ahead of you. Always one step ahead, Garren.”
Something snapped inside Garren and he pushed forward, coming to within an inch of William’s face. The expression on his face was sheer murder.
“If she is touched, I will kill you myself.”
The Marshal wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “She will be fine providing you do as you are told. And what you are told is to ride north at the head of my army. Any premature return to Cilgarren, any glimpse of you within the next six months in return for your wife, and Fergus has orders to kill her. She’ll be dead before you can stop him. This is something you have forced me to do, Garren. As you love your wife, I love England more. I would do anything to protect and serve her, including blackmailing you.”
Garren was struggling not to show his emotion, so much so that his lips were white. Suddenly, everything he had ever believed about his life was a masquerade. People he had trusted and loved did not trust him. He had been betrayed.
His mind began to swirl and he labored to stop the building madness. Had he stood there any longer gazing into William’s eyes, he would have strangled him. With the greatest effort, he pulled himself away and paced the floor, slowly, struggling with every fiber of his being to clear his thoughts. He had to regain control if he was going to get himself and Derica out of this alive.
The conversation he had with Fergus in the gatehouse filled his brain. It was the most peculiar conversation they had ever had. Unspoken words and innuendos had brought Garren to the conclusion that Fergus may have actually worked for the Prince. But that was not the case. He wondered why the deception, the evasiveness. Fergus was trying to throw him off track, yet he had been trying to protect him also. Garren began to realize that Fergus was trying to steer him away from Chepstow. Fergus knew what was waiting for him. He had been trying to convince him to stay at Cilgarren and stay far away from Chepstow.
Fergus had known. Garren felt like a fool for not understanding what his friend had been trying to tell him.
“Fergus promised me that he would protect her,” he heard himself mutter. “I cannot believe that he would betray his word.”
William could feel himself weakening. He loved Garren like a son and it was a difficult situation. He was a man, too, and could understand the pangs that came with love. But he understood England more, and knew what was necessary to preserve her future. Garren was, and always had been, an integral part of that plan.
“He will protect her as long as you fulfill your duty,” William said quietly. “She could be in no better hands.”
Garren didn’t respond. He was shutting William out, killing all of the feelings of admiration and affection he had ever experienced for the old man. William sensed this.
“Garren,” he got as close to him as he dared, afraid that in his turmoil the knight might actually strike out. “I will promise you this; lead our armies to victory and I will release you from Richard’s service. I will provide you with an army of your own, lands and title, so that you and your wife may live your years in comfort and security. Do as I ask now and your future is secure. Betray me and you shall lose everything.”
Garren looked at him, his eyes full of venom and resignation. He knew he had no choice and there was nothing left to say but the obvious.
“By your command, my lord.”
It had been a struggle to speak the words. Garren’s pride was wounded, his heart damaged, but he knew what he must do. The Marshal was sad and pleased at the same time that Garren’s call of duty meant his liberation and, quite possibly, his death.
“I am sorry it has to be this way, Garren.”
“The hell you are, my lord.”
William returned to his solar without another word, greeted by a host of expectant faces as he resumed covering the plans of battle. Garren came in behind him with no hint of what had transpired in that tiny room. For all the others knew, there had been a detailed war conference between the Marshal and his greatest knight. Garren and William would not let anyone think otherwise.
The stage was set.
Fall was upon the land. The lush hills of Wales were turning shades of golds, some reds and browns, and the heavy fog that was normally so prevalent had been in reprieve a few weeks. It was a lovely time of year.
Derica sat at the top of the hill overlooking the River Teifi. The swollen waters rushed below her, echoing off the rock. She had a basket beside her, filled with wild turnips and blackberries she had harvested from the uncultivated vines that ran along the side of the castle. It wasn’t food that was settling particularly well in her stomach these days, but nothing seemed to be. The child in her growing belly was particular about what he ate, making his mother miserable at times.
The child also made her cry or rage in an instant. Sometimes she could do both at the same time. Fergus had borne the brunt of her hysteria most of the time, in the di
smal evenings when she would miss Garren horribly and she would demand Fergus go search for him. Fergus would try to soothe her, as did Emyl and Offa and David, but she would rage at all of them and cry pitifully. Then there would be periods of sunshine when she was the sweetest angel in the land. But the angel was giving way to the crazed woman more often than not, especially the more time passed and the more Garren did not return. Things were growing darker.
This morning seemed particularly bleak. Derica had done little but sit on the hill for most of it. She felt as if she had a great hole inside of her, impossible to fill except for the sight of Garren walking through the gatehouse. But nearly three months had passed since she last saw him on that rainy morning and the more time passed, the more desperation she felt. It was difficult to be continually optimistic, and to have faith in his promise. On this sweet morning, her confidence was in danger of disappearing completely. She had sat on the hill and cried.
She heard footsteps behind her, jolting her from her bleak thoughts. Quickly wiping her cheeks, she wasn’t surprised to see David’s dark eyes gazing shyly down at her.
“I thought I would take the basket from you,” he said. “It looks like a fine harvest.”
Derica smiled weakly, handing him the goods. “My thanks.”
David stood there a moment, awkwardly. “Will you be coming back now?”
She shook her head. “Not now. I will in a while.”
“I shall wait for you.”
“Please don’t. I shall be along shortly.”
David didn’t want to leave her alone, for he knew how it was with her these days. But he respected her wishes and left. He was a quiet man, very gentle, and his feelings for Derica were no secret even though he thought he concealed them quite nicely. He and Offa had gone out of their way to repair what was repairable for her, cleaning and roofing two rooms on the second floor of the north tower with a view overlooking the river. Fergus and Emyl lived below her on the first floor, while David and Offa maintained the loft in the great hall.
David was a good craftsman, using wood from the trees surrounding the castle and other items to fashion a bed for her. From wood, he had also fashioned bowls, eating utensils, a crude chest and chair, and a handloom. Then he had sold his dead brother’s sword and purchased six sheep, carefully shearing them of their old wool so that Derica had something to make yarn and fabric with. Even though it was nearing winter and the sheep were cold without their wooly coats, the hair was growing back quickly.
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