The Whispering Night (27 page)

“I do not know. But I
believe I would be happier there than married to some pompous fool whose only
ambition is to be politically linked to the de Rosa name.” She stopped
struggling, gazing deeply into his eyes. “Garren, do you think if I returned
home that I would be a desirable marriage prospect? Of course not. My father
would more than likely sell me to an arrogant French mercenary who can pay for
the de Rosa name. Marrying me into a decent family was lost the moment I fled
Framlingham. Is that the kind of life you would hope for me?”

She had turned it around
on him admirably. He knew the political game of noble marriages as well as or
better than she did, and knew she spoke the truth.  His heart sank to think of
what would become of her should he not return.

“Nay,” he said quietly.
“And I suppose I should be more pragmatic than I have been. Truly, my intention
is to return to you. It is my only thought. But if by chance the fates are
against us, then you should know your next move. If I do not return within six
weeks, then go to Yaxley Nene and stay with my sister until you have decided
what you wish to do. No one can touch you there, especially your family.  If
you wish to devote yourself to the cloister, then so be it. But if you wish to
return to your family, then I shall support your decision.”

“You’re sure that is
what you wish me to do?”

“I believe it is a sound
plan.”

With the most difficult
of subjects decided upon, Garren’s impending departure began to weigh heavily
enough that she could hardly breathe.  Derica always believed she was the
strongest of women, but suddenly, she didn’t want to be strong. She wanted to
be weak. Resting her forehead against his armor, she cried silent tears of
longing.  The warm droplets fell on his protection, little salty rivers running
their course.  Garren stroked her hair, silently, feeling her pain and then
some.

“The longer I delay, the
more difficult this will become,” he murmured.

She sniffled, struggling
to regain her composure. “I know. ‘Tis best you go, now, before I cling to you
like a great anchor and you have to drag me across the yard.”

It was humor in a moment
of agony. Garren kissed her deeply, tasting her tears. Abruptly, he broke away,
leaving her standing in the doorway as he marched across the muddy inner ward.
He didn’t dare look back, fearful that he would retrace his steps back to her
and be unable to break away a second time.  He got half way across the yard
when two figures emerging from the crumbling gatehouse caught his attention. 
Garren’s pace slowed as he assessed the forms; one was Emyl, but it took him a
moment to recognize the second.  When he did, he froze dead in his tracks.

“Fergus!”

***

The hearth smoked and
spit embers into the dark room.  Fergus didn’t care if he did catch a few
red-hot particles on his skin, so long as he was warm again. It seemed like it
had been ages since he had last been warm and fed, or safe for that matter. But
the great hall of Cilgarren had a massive, protective quality that soothed him
after his harried adventure. 

“For once, the blows did
not come from someone with a grudge against me.” He was trying to be glib. “At
any rate, not a gambling grudge. The de Rosas certainly had another grudge,
especially when I wouldn’t tell them where Derica was.”

Derica sat at the
crumbling table, wincing as she thought of her family imparting the bruises and
welts on Fergus’ face.

“Oh, Fergus, I am so
sorry,” she said. “They’ve always been as such. Ruffians in every sense of the
word. Did they break any bones?”

He shook his head. “No
one can crack this skull, my lady. Many have tried. It would take better men
that the de Rosas to break my bones.”

Garren stood next to his
friend, his great arms crossed. He analyzed every movement, every word,
thinking there was far more to the story than what Fergus was saying. It was
just a feeling he had, knowing his friend as well as he did. But the sheer fact
that the man was alive was a miracle, and a welcome one.  Still, there was
something very odd about him, something Garren couldn’t quite figure out.

“But they didn’t follow
you,” Garren said. “You’re sure of it?”

“I would stake my life
on it.”

Garren didn’t question
him further. That was all he really cared about at the moment, and there would
be time for more detail later. He slapped his friend on the back. “I, for one,
am amazed to see you. We thought for certain the de Rosas had devoured you.”

Fergus stood from the
fire, a weak smile on his lips. “Not hardly, though they tried. “ He rubbed the
stubble on his face. “Although I would like nothing better than to tell more
stories of my persecution, I would truly like a bit of food and perhaps some
sleep.  It has been a long few days.”

Derica leapt up, rushing
around for the leftovers from their morning meal.  David and Offa helped her
gather the items while Emyl sat at the old table, his old eyes drinking in the
sight of his only son.

“’Tis been a long time,
lad,” he said. “A long time indeed.”

Fergus was genuinely
glad to see his father. “I am a bad son, I know. I stay away for years and only
come to you when I want something.”

Emyl shrugged. “If that
is all I can have of you, I shall accept it. At least you acknowledge what a
rotten lad you are.”

Fergus grinned as Derica
placed some cold stew and berries before him.  He shoved food in his mouth and
continued. “I directed Garren to Cilgarren, you know. It is the safest place
for him.” He eyed his friend. “But now I see he is leaving, after all this
trouble I have been through. Where are you going, pray?”

Garren had spent many
years of his adult life avoiding that question from Fergus. He was quick to
make a believable excuse. “I am afraid the de Rosas may go after my father.  I
intend to go home and scout the situation for myself.”

“And if they have?”

“I shall deal with that
situation if and when I come upon it.”

Fergus shoved another
bite in his mouth. “Let me finish this feast and I shall go with you.”

“How?” Garren asked.
“You have been on the move for weeks, Fergus. You’re so weary with fatigue and
lack of food that you can hardly stand. You need to rest and regain your
strength.  I have enough to worry about without wondering if you are going to
drop dead any moment.”

Fergus pointed his
stew-covered knife at him. “I have been worse than this. Hell, Garren, you have
been worse than this and still rode fifty miles into battle. I have seen you
myself.” He turned back to his food. “It is settled. I ride with you.”

Garren didn’t refute him
right away. To do so would to have looked suspicious, but he clearly didn’t
want Fergus coming with him. He needed a plan. Straddling the old bench, he
sat, hearing it groan under his weight. A gloved hand scratched his forehead.

“Fergus,” he said
quietly. “I need you here.”

Fergus’ mouth was full.
“Why?”

Garren glanced over at
Offa and David, talking softly by the smoking hearth. “Do you see that dark
haired man?”

Fergus glanced in
David’s direction. “That young whelp you introduced me to? The one who has been
living here?”

“Aye.”

“What about him?”

“He is fond of Derica.
Too fond, if you get my meaning.”

Fergus’ eyebrows rose.
Then he laughed. “Idiot. His life shall not be a long one.”

“He is the nephew of an
old friend of your father’s. I should hate to have to kill him were he to press
his intentions on my wife while I am away. As it stands, only your father
stands between my wife and a potential problem. But with you here, there is no
doubt that David would be in way over his head were he to attempt something. It
would give me more peace of mind than you know.”

Fergus swallowed the
last of his food. “So, once again, you expect me to pay nursemaid to your
wife.”

“I ask you, my friend.”

“You do not want my
sword at your side?”

“I want your sword here,
in my stead.”

Fergus signed heavily,
wiping at a smear of food on his chin. “Very well. If that is your wish.”

Garren smiled. “Many
thanks.”

“But you owe me.”

“The usual?”

Fergus nodded firmly. “A
hog’s head of ale, deliverable upon your return.”

Garren stood up and
reseated his helm.  Derica had been standing a respectful distance away,
allowing the men sometime between the two of them, and Garren extended a hand
to her. It would be their second painful farewell of the day. 

Fergus watched them walk
from the hall, Garren’s arm protectively around Derica’s shoulders. He rose
from the table, told his father he was going to find shelter for his weary
horse, and went out into the yard.  His movements didn’t seem so weary anymore.
He casually melted into the shadow of a wall, watching Garren and Derica take
their leave of each other.  When Derica finally went back into the hall, wiping
her eyes, Fergus followed Garren into the old gatehouse.

“So I finally get you
all to myself.”

They were sheltered from
the elements in the dank passage. Garren stopped walking and turned around. “So
it seems.” He moved back towards Fergus. “I assume you have information for my
ears only.”

“What makes you say
that?”

“I just do. I know you,
Fergus. There’s something else.”

“Perhaps,” Fergus
regarded him.  “I have a question for you.”

“Ask it.”

“Where are you really
going, Garren?”

It was more a statement
than a question. Garren answered evenly-. “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly that.
You’re not going back to Chateroy, are you?”

“I said I was. What
makes you think otherwise?”

Fergus’ pale blue eyes
glittered. “Something that one of the de Rosas said to me.”

“And that was?”

“That perhaps you are
going to see William Marshall.”

Inwardly, Garren
flinched. “William Marshall? Why would I want to see him?”

“As a member of his
inner circle. As a man who is loyal to Richard in the most sworn sense.”

Garren snorted. “So they
told you I was a spy, did they? They accused me of that to my face.”

“You do seem to wander a
bit, Garren.  It would explain a great many things about you.”

Garren rolled his eyes.
“Not you, too,” he growled. “Fergus, listen to me. The de Rosas think that everyone
is somehow involved with William Marshall, especially the man who eloped with
their only female kin.”

“He seemed terribly
certain.  He said to tell you that he was on your side, and he wanted me to
warn you against returning to Chateroy.”

Garren grew serious.
“The de Rosas are waiting for me there.”

“They’re going to raze
it.  They are probably laying siege as we speak. I did not want to say anything
in front of your wife for fear of upsetting her.”

“That was wise,” Garren
said. “And you say it has been at least a week since you saw the de Rosas?”

“Aye,” Fergus replied.
“They’ve already had time to amass and reach Chateroy by now.”

Garren fell silent,
mulling over his options. Fergus watched him closely. “What are you going to do
now?”

“I must defend my
father’s house, of course.”

“By yourself?”

“My father has two
hundred men at arms. It is a sizable force.”

“Against the de Rosa
thousand?” Fergus shook his head. “That’s madness, Garren. Chateroy will fall
if it hasn’t already.  And if you go back there now, they’ll kill you. What
about your wife?”

Garren’s eyes turned in
the direction of the great hall, as if he could see her through all of the
stones that separated them. “I must deal with the consequences my actions have
brought upon my family,” he said softly. “She understands that.”

“She’ll understand
everything until you get yourself killed, and then she’ll go mad,” Fergus said.
“Trust me, my friend, when it comes to women. They never mean what they say.”

“So what do you
suggest?”

“Do you have anyone with
an army you can call upon for support?”

Garren wouldn’t be
sucked into that line of conversation again, and he wondered seriously why
Fergus was trying to probe him. Knowing Fergus, it was purely nosiness.

“Let me think… I could
call on my father, I suppose.”

“Oh… right.”

Garren didn’t like being
toyed with, especially not by Fergus. He cocked an eyebrow at him, his manner
sarcastic. “I suppose you could ask Longton for help, but being allied with
John, I don’t suppose he’d respond.”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Any other suggestions?”           

“Sorry, not at the
moment.”