The Whispering Night (34 page)

“You killed her!” she
shrieked. “My God… Mair!”

The knight who held her
cursed under his breath, hissing to the knight nearest him. “God’s Bones, who
released that arrow?”

“I do not know, my
lord.”

“Find out. And
confiscate his weapon!”

“Aye, my lord.”

The children were still
screaming, crying over their mother’s corpse.  The knight that held Derica
spoke steady orders to another knight.

“Collect the children.
Bring them.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Derica had ceased to
struggle. Her body went limp and she cried pitifully, tears for Garren, a few
for Mair.  She wished she could die, too, retreating into a world of
incoherency and darkness. At the moment, she cared naught for her fate. All
that mattered was that Garren was gone and her life was over.

The trip back to
Pembroke passed in a blur. The knight with the big brown eyes carried her the
entire way.  A couple of times, she had tried to remove herself from his
charger, but he had held her tightly and said little.  She had asked about the
children and he assured her they were well. 

When they finally
arrived at Pembroke, Derica was whisked into the keep by a pair of severe
looking women.  They hustled her into a chamber and shut the door. They chatted
endlessly, asking her a myriad of questions, but she shut them out just as she
had shut out the knights. She didn’t want to talk, or think, or behave even
remotely human.  When the women stripped her down to her woolen shift, she
didn’t protest.  When the women saw how dirty her shift was, and the skin
beneath it, they called for a bath and gently, but firmly, coaxed the shift off
of her.

The bath was hot. The
women scrubbed her with an enormous sponge and soap that smelled of violets. 
They even washed her hair with a vinegar concoction and rinsed it out with flat
ale. The scents and activity of the bath moved Derica from her numb depression
to tears, and she cried with deep grief as the women removed her from the tub,
rubbed her skin with oil so it would not crack, and brushed her wet hair. A
heavy robe draped her body as maids scurried in and out of the chamber, bringing
all manner of surcoats, bodices and shifts for the women’s approval.  There was
apparently nothing of acceptable finery for a lady of her station at Pembroke,
but the servants were trying desperately to find something.

Two hours later found
Derica with dry hair and a clean body clad in a surcoat of deep blue brocade
with a long-sleeved undershift of soft white linen.  She had stopped crying for
the moment, but her eyes were red and swollen.  Truthfully, she didn’t have the
energy to cry. Everything seemed drained. The numbness had returned and she sat
in her borrowed chamber, neither feeling nor seeing. The women had tried to
feed her, but she would accept nothing they offered.

          The flames of
the fire became her friend. She stared into the golden licks, the soft light
offering some warmth and physical comfort.  She became one with the fire, a few
stolen moments where there was no pain, no sorrow, only the warmth and light
she craved at the moment. Yet, every so often an errant tear would stream down
her cheek and she would dully wipe it away. 

Her entire world
revolved around memories of Garren, of his deep voice, his gentle laughter, now
forever silenced.  The fire couldn’t soothe away the pain entirely. His death
was a crime, she decided. God had committed a crime against her and she would
never forgive him for it. Besides, he must hate her. Why else would he bring
her such happiness and then abruptly take it away.

There was a knock at the
chamber door, rousing her from her thoughts. She had been dreading this moment,
for she knew what was to come. The knight who had brought her to Pembroke
entered, a long ecru-colored scroll in his hand.  He had cleaned up somewhat
since their return, no longer wearing his armor. A tunic and leather breeches
replaced the chain mail suit. He walked over to where she sat, lingering by her
chair as if suddenly uncomfortable in her presence.  Derica ignored him,
uninterested in whatever he had to say.

“I see that you are
feeling better, my lady,” he commented.

Derica didn’t look up.
“I want to go back to Cilgarren.”

He knew he needed to be
careful with her, unsure of himself. “There is no reason for you to return, my
lady.”

“There is every reason
for me to return. I have friends there that are missing me.”

“What friends, my lady?”

“Friends who are in
charge of my welfare while my husband is… gone.”

“I am assuming charge of
your welfare now.”

She did look up at him,
then, a hateful look on her face. She hadn’t the strength to argue with him,
her mind a whirlwind of anguish and confusion.  Her gaze trailed to the missive
in his hand. “You have brought me something. Read it and be done.”

The knight looked down
at the parchment as if he had forgotten he held it. Truthfully, he had been so
captivated by the lady’s clean and shining beauty when he entered the chamber,
he nearly had. He felt stupid.

The knight promptly
rolled open the vellum, his gaze fixing on the carefully written words. Before
he could start, Derica interrupted.

“Your name, sir knight.”

It occurred to him that
he’d not told her. He had never been one for social pleasantries. “Sir Keller
de Poyer, my lady. I am the garrison commander of Pembroke Castle.”

“Proceed, Sir Keller.”

Keller could barely
read, though he’d not let on to the lady. He personally had a scribe who both
wrote and read his missives. Somehow, he didn’t feel right leaving this to the
scribe. He read slowly.

“ ‘Be it known this
twenty eighth day of September, Year of our Lord 1192, I, William Marshall,
Chancellor to King Richard I, Supreme Majesty of the British Realm, do hereby
grant to the Lady Derica de Rosa le Mon the marcher lordship of Knighton, and
all privileges, lands and wealth related hereto, in honour of the sacrifice her
husband, Sir Garren le Mon, has made for the King’s cause.’”

Derica sat there as the
words sank it. There was no mistaking that the missive was notifying her of
Garren’s death, but it was as if the notification was secondary to the granting
of title and lands. She continued to sit, unmoving, and Keller wondered if she
had even heard him.

“He goes on to list your
lands,” he said. “Hopton Castle belongs to you and the lordship that stretches
to the marches on the east, Adforton to the south, and Craven Arms to the
north, and includes four towns, two fiefdoms, and about five thousand vassals. 
Additionally, you have possession of Clun Castle and her lands, although the
castle was burned by the Welsh a year ago and is now an abandoned shell. The
Marshall is also providing you with your own army of four hundred men, as well
as ten thousand gold marks as a dowry.”

Still, Derica sat with
no outward reaction. Any person in their right mind would have been delirious
with joy. Keller was hesitant to say what had to come next.

“He is also providing
you with a husband.”

Derica looked at him
with disbelief, shock, and then anger. It was enough to get her out of the
chair.

“I have a husband,” she
hissed. “I do not want another.”

Keller took offense,
although he should not have. From the moment he saw her, he had actually been
pleased at the thought of acquiring such a beautiful bride, lands and title notwithstanding.
He would have taken her with just the clothes on her back.  Being somewhat
inexperienced when it came to any manner of personal emotion, he matched her
anger with some of his own.

“You will have to take
it up with the Marshall,” he growled.

She was particularly
lovely with her fury-colored cheeks. “I intend to, have no doubt.” She reached
out and grabbed the vellum from him, looking at the scribble as if she could
read it. “Who does he demand I marry? Who is this fool?”

Keller’s anger cooled to
droll resignation. “A knight in rather good standing with some wealth of his
own.”

“Who?”

“Keller de Poyer.”

Derica’s eyes widened.
“You?”

“Aye,” he could read her
expression. “And before you go any further, I certainly had nothing to do with
this. I was only informed that I was to have a bride two days ago. Do not
imagine that it brought me any great happiness to assume this burden.”

          Rather than
explode, Derica seemed to calm.  She grasped for her chair, sitting heavily as
she absorbed the information.  Keller regretted his last few words the moment
they left his mouth; he hadn’t meant them. The lady looked so pitifully lost at
the moment.  He wasn’t very good with women and right now was a prime example.
He attempted to ease her in his own clumsy way.

“I fought with your
husband in a few campaigns, my lady,” he said quietly. “He was a good man and
an excellent knight. I have nothing but the greatest admiration for him and his
death saddens me deeply. To be asked to take care of his widow is something of
a tremendous honor for me.”

Derica closed her eyes,
struggling not to cry.  When she finally opened them, it was to look at Keller.
She took a moment to study his features for the first time; he had short, thick
brown hair with some gray mixed into it. His face had been marred by pimples at
one time, leaving some scars on the tanned skin. He wasn’t particularly ugly,
nor was he particularly handsome. He was somewhere in between.  He had a big,
muscular body and enormous hands, but Derica sensed a gentleness about him. He
was fairly soft-spoken and seemed nervous around her.  The comparison of him
against Garren was inevitable; there truly was no comparison.  Garren was a
god, and this man was a mortal.

“I will apologize if I
offended you, then,” she murmured. “You must know that my husband and I loved
each other. I do not want another husband.”

“That is
understandable,” he said. “You have only just been told of his death. Please do
not hold it against me that I was the one to tell you. It was only by chance.”

“I know that.”

“When I saw you out on
the road, earlier today, I am sorry if I was harsh in addressing you as his
widow. I did not know that you were unaware.”

“You were not harsh. You
do not need to apologize.”

He stood there, growing
uncomfortable, unsure what to say. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but
suspected he should. Still, he wanted to reassure her that he would attempt to
make as fine a husband as Garren le Mon. Perhaps it would help her grief and
uncertainty right now.

“My lady, may I speak?”

“Aye.”

He scratched his head
before continuing. “Perhaps this is not the right time to say this, but I am
not sure if there will ever be a right time, so I must speak.” His hands,
unconsciously, were cracking knuckles.  “I am not Sir Garren, nor could I ever
be, but I swear to you that I will never raise a hand to you, nor speak harshly
to you, and I will provide you with comfort and gifts and protection as well
as, or better than, any man alive. You will never want for anything. Perhaps…
perhaps with time, you will grow accustomed to the idea of me as your husband,
a poor substitute for Sir Garren.”

It was a kind thing to
say, gently spoken. Derica could only nod, as she felt the tears coming again. 
Keller realized he had been expecting a reaction from her, something favorable.
But she gave him nothing. Not knowing what else to say, he turned to leave.

“Thank you,” Derica
whispered. “For your kindness and hospitality, I thank you.”

Keller paused, dipping
his head graciously in response to her words.   He also felt emboldened by
them.

“If I were to bring you
some food, would you eat it?”

Derica didn’t want to
give him the kind of encouragement she suspected he was looking for.  She
refused to even think about it.

“I would like to have
the children brought to me,” she said. “And perhaps some food for all of us.”

A hint of a smile
crossed Keller’s lips. “It shall be done, my lady.”

***

Sian and Aneirin slept
with Derica that night in the great bed, and for the next several nights
afterward. She would not let them out of her sight. Keller would come every
morning as their meal was brought and would attempt to engage her in small
talk, which he wasn’t very good at. Although Derica could sense his conversational
ineptness, she hadn’t a greater desire to lead their conversations. So Keller
would leave within a few minutes, saying he had duties to attend to, which he
did, but it was obvious he was disappointed that his future bride had no
interest in him. Derica was never rude, but she wasn’t particularly receptive,
either. Keller would return two or three more times throughout the day just to
see if she required anything, but she never did. At least, not from him.

Whether or not she
required anything, Keller saw to it that she had an entirely fitting
noblewoman’s wardrobe by week’s end.  The two severe women who aided Derica
were the chatelaines of the castle and had set an armada of women sewing
garments for Derica and the children. Keller had personally escorted the severe
women to the town of Penfro to barter with the merchants for fabric. While the
women tended to the dressing needs, he had wandered to the silverworker’s hovel
and had come away with several lovely pieces of jewelry.