Chapter Two #2
“Allow me to introduce your future relations,” he said evenly. Moving from his left, he indicated the men standing. “These are my brothers, Alger and Lon. And next to them stand my sons, Daniel, Donat and Dixon.”
Garren had stormed into Framlingham as if he were lord and master.
He, his father and the Marshal had determined that it would be the only way to give himself a level playing field against the aggressive de Rosas.
He was an aggressive man naturally, so the strength he put behind his manner was hardly an act.
He scrutinized each man indicated in turn; Alger was missing an eye, a battle scarred warrior.
Lon was also apparently seasoned, shorter than his brothers, with a challenging manner.
The three brothers stood next to one another; Daniel was tall, slender, and held no animosity in his expression, whereas Donat and Dixon seemed quite hostile.
The middle son was bulky, wearing a mail suit and, very strangely, no shoes.
The last son, a little man, stared at Garren as if he was going to throw knives at him at any moment.
Garren glared at all of them before turning back to Bertram.
“I have been months out of England, my lord,” he said. “I would see this woman my father has chosen for me.”
So the man wasn’t much for pleasantries. Bertram remained cool; he’d dealt with amorous suitors before. “You will go through the formalities with me first, as her father. It is my right and duty to inspect you as my daughter’s future husband.”
Alger walked up and stood next to Bertram in mute support. He looked like a brigand with his missing eye and dirty appearance.
“You will respect the House of de Rosa, le Mon,” he growled. “We have no patience for your demands.”
Garren’s jaw ticked. “Since when is a man’s right considered a demand? Have I been from England so long that all propriety is ignored?”
Alger bristled but Bertram stopped him. “We are not ignoring your demands, Sir Garren. But do we not have a right to question my daughter’s future husband? Would you not expect that formality were it your daughter?”
Bertram wasn’t being particularly obstinate; he was simply asking a question.
Garren thought perhaps it was time he softened his stance a bit and allowed the man to have a look at him.
But he had no doubt that any of them would think twice before challenging him in any way.
With a faint nod of his head, he then accepted a cup of wine that Bertram extended.
Alger stood there and grumbled until Bertram silenced him.
“Sir Garren,” Bertram began. “Please tell us of your adventures in the Holy Land. You are the first crusader we have seen in many months. What news is there?”
Garren did not drink the wine; he simply held it in his hand.
It was a nominal insult, accepting the wine but not drinking it, suggesting it was sub-standard or that there could possibly be poisoned laced in it.
In any case, it was to further stress that he was no one to be manipulated or trifled with.
“The news is that the men grow weary of fighting,” he said. “One out of every two Englishmen die from either illness or hunger, and the sands are littered with more knights dead from disease than from Saladin’s arrows.”
“What does the king have to say about the condition of his men?” Daniel’s deep voice came from behind. “Surely the king would be concerned for the men who have followed him on his quest?”
Garren looked at the young, dark-eyed man.
“Richard spends his nights in his tent with his lovers. He cares little for those who have sworn service to him. It is a dirty, bloody undertaking and I am more than glad to be free of it.” He turned back to Bertram.
“If there are no more questions, I would see my bride.”
Bertram stared at him. Then, he snorted ironically. “Not like your father, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Andrew is the congenial sort.”
“As I am not. And I am not happy with the fact that I return from the Levant a committed man.”
“You have never been so fortunate,” Lon, the youngest uncle, spoke up. “Every man in England would kill for the chance to become Derica’s husband. Had you not been off killing infidels and bedding pagan whores, you might show more manners with civilized people.”
Garren cast him a long glance. “Are you suggesting that I am uncivilized?”
There was great threat in his tone. Lon smiled thinly. “I suggest nothing of the sort. I say it plainly.”
Garren had been forced to leave his weapons at the door. But that did not prevent a great arm from shooting out, grasping Lon around the neck. Everyone leapt to aid him, but Bertram’s shout stopped the onslaught.
“Enough,” he roared. “Le Mon, you will release him immediately. I forbid you to show such disrespect in my house. One infraction is forgivable, but do it again and I shall throw you in the vault myself. Is that understood?”
Garren’s gaze moved to Bertram. He still held Lon in his massive grip. Ever so slowly, he released the smaller man, but the implication was obvious. It was a pack of wolves against one Alpha male, and there would be a war if all sides did not quickly come to terms.
“I do not disrespect the House of de Rosa, my lord,” he said. “But if you expect such reverence from me, I would expect the same from you. I will not be called uncivilized by men who stay in England, clinging to her shores as a child clings to his mother’s skirts.”
Every man in the room flared except for Bertram and his eldest son. “Do you call us cowards?” Donat bellowed.
Garren didn’t back down. “You are either cowardly or too brainless to serve your country when needed, so I will hear no more talk of my being uncivilized. We all make choices in life, only to be judged by God and not by others.”
Lon rubbed his neck, grumbling, but was wise enough to move out of Garren’s striking range. The others in the room grumbled and bickered to each other, deeply insulted, deeply angered. Bertram, however, seemed to be focused on something deeper in Garren’s meaning.
“You mentioned the service of your country rather than your king,” he said after a moment. “An interesting choice of words, Sir Garren, that you would rather serve your country’s needs over those of your king.”
“England is my king, my lord.”
“And that is where your loyalties lay?”
Garren knew that question had to come at some point; he was simply surprised it had come so quickly.
He smiled, without humor. “I returned to England to get away from the politics that threatened to pervert all of the good that the Holy Crusade is trying to accomplish. Yet I see I cannot escape it.”
“Politics are like life, Sir Garren. One cannot escape either.”
Garren took a step at that moment by drinking his wine.
It was a signal, very cleverly, to his host that some level of communication and comfort was being established.
It was a ploy he had developed during his years of service for the king, when a gesture or word could determine the course of his undertaking. He was well adept at such things.
“Agreed, my lord,” he replied. “And also like life, Politics can make a man wish he was never born. Sometimes it is better to simply walk away.”
It was more brilliant strategy to direct the conversation as Garren had intended. Though he would not come out directly and swear he had no political affiliation, a hint in this regard was enough for the moment. Still, Bertram was shrewd; Garren could see it in his eyes. The man was no fool.
“Sometimes you cannot walk away,” Bertram said quietly.
“Sometimes you must.”
Bertram acknowledged the statement by slightly lifting his cup in Garren’s direction.
Perhaps the old man was being particularly congenial because Garren was the son of his old friend.
Or perhaps he genuinely agreed with him.
In any case, he didn’t seem quite as aggressive as Garren had been led to believe.
But, then again, it was only their first meeting.
“Then I see that you do have much of your father in you,” Bertram said. “He would rather stay out of the political climate than risk himself. There is no shame in that, of course. Sometimes it is more than prudent. But I would have thought a knight like you to be fiercely loyal to the king.”
Before Garren could reply, the door to the solar creaked open and a woman burst forth. Apparently oblivious to the fact that there was a roomful of men around her, she planted herself squarely in front of Garren.
The men didn’t react initially, but Garren was momentarily taken aback; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
And she was glaring at him. He could see, faintly, that she resembled Bertram, for they both had the same pale green eyes.
She had her father’s expression, too; an appraising sort of look that one had when inspecting a side of beef.
The woman put her hands on her hips, looked up and down the length of Garren, and then turned to Bertram.
“Sir Garren, I presume?” she asked.
Bertram looked at the woman with little patience, yet with the same expression, appeared resigned to her behavior. He sighed heavily. “Sir Garren le Mon, may I present my daughter, the Lady Derica Isabela Fernanda Elspeth de Rosa.”
Derica turned back to Garren. Her expression hadn’t wavered one way or the other. “Welcome to Framlingham, Sir Garren.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
A tense silence followed as Garren and Derica sized one another up. “Sir Garren and I were just discussing business,” Bertram said. “Perhaps it is best if you leave us, my dear.”
Derica, predictably, ignored her father. “Sir Garren,” she said. “I understand that you have just returned from the Holy Land.”