Chapter Eleven #2
Garren cast his wife a wink. “Marrying this woman against her father’s wishes is crime enough. We need to find safe haven until his anger cools.”
Emyl laughed. “I see now. Well, I cannot blame you in the least. Were I younger and prettier, I might have done the same thing.” He reached over by the hearth, collecting a large earthenware jug. “A drink, then. Let us toast your criminal activities.”
Emyl took a huge swallow, reminding Garren very much of his son. Derica smirked as her husband reluctantly took the container and ingested a long swallow of the bitter, dark liquid.
“Do I get to drink to my own criminal activities, too?” she asked.
Garren cocked an eyebrow at her but dutifully handed her the jug. Derica took a gulp that spilled over her lips. She coughed and laughed at the same time, making a face at the strength of the liquor. Garren, grinning, shook his head at her and took the jug away. Emyl crowed happily.
“Garren, she is wonderful,” he took another drink. “Too bad you married her before my son had a fair chance. And where is my prodigal boy these days? Not visiting his father, I can tell you. I haven’t seen his swarthy hide in years.”
Garren’s jovial mood vanished. He didn’t dare look at his wife, who was suddenly looking at the fire. He didn’t want to tell this lonely old man that his only son had died as a result of Garren’s crime. As he struggled to find an answer, Derica spoke.
“The last I saw of him, he was riding to the south of Yaxley Nene Abbey,” she said softly. “I do not know where he went, but he was in good health last I saw him.”
Garren shot her a strange look, his jaw tense and his eyes narrowed. She turned away from the fire, facing her husband as if daring him to disagree with her. He wouldn’t back down and neither would she. After a moment, she looked at Emyl.
“Do you know that your son rescued me from my prison and delivered me to Garren?” she said.
“He was brilliant in his plans. Why, had it not been for him, Garren and I would still be separated, longing for one another. ’Tis a horrible thing to love someone you can never be with. Your son saved us from that fate.”
Emyl looked pleased and surprised. “Truly, now? My son was noble for once in his life?”
“Verily,” Derica said. “He is as clever as a fox and as loyal as a hound. Garren and I are both eternally grateful to him.”
Emyl scratched his thinning hair. “Perhaps the lad has become a worthy knight, after all. He wasn’t always so, you know.”
“How so?” Derica asked.
Garren knew he was foolish not to stop the charade this instant.
But Emyl’s expression was so that Garren didn’t have the heart.
He rationalized his lack of truth by telling himself that he did not know for sure that Fergus was dead; Hoyt had never actually seen his body.
But the implication was such that the de Rosas had finished him off in their zeal to locate Derica.
Garren listed to Emyl go on about Fergus’ shortcomings. His son was rash, young and foolish, to be sure, but he was also strong and virtuous to a point. Drink and gambling were his vices, as were his father’s.
Garren finally sat down in an old chair, watching his wife’s profile in the firelight as she listened to the old man, noticing the wrinkle in her nose when she laughed.
His thoughts soon turned from Fergus to Derica, and his heart began to swell so that he thought it might burst from his chest. Outside, the rain pounded harder, distracting him from his thoughts.
“Derica, sweetheart,” he muttered. “We should be on our way. Are you warm and dry enough to continue?”
She nodded, her cheeks rosy from sitting so near the hearth. “I am.”
Emyl fingered the cloak, laid out before the flames. “ ’Tis nearly dry,” he stood up. “Give me a moment to gather my things and we’ll be off.”
Garren could have very well found the castle himself, but he allowed Emyl to feel useful.
He was sure the old man didn’t get much chance at that.
Moreover, he was still feeling guilty about Fergus.
In very short time, Emyl was cloaked and carrying one of the biggest swords Garren had ever seen, save his own.
As Derica donned her drying cloak, Garren indicated the old man’s weapon.
“A fine piece,” he said. “Where did you acquire it?”
Emyl held the weapon up for Garren to inspect.
“ ’Twas a gift from my liege, Shrewsbury.
” He beheld the sword as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world.
“De Braose was an evil bastard, the most wicked marcher lord on the border. But he rewarded his faithful well. He gave this to me for meritorious service, probably stolen off of a dead Welsh prince.”
Garren knew well the marcher lords, past and present. The Marshal was also a marcher lord. They were often the most ruthless men in the kingdom simply because the Welsh border was the most disputed.
Outside, the thunder rolled, and Emyl sheathed his sword. Garren put his helm on, adjusting it on his head so that it did not chaff against his skin. Just as Emyl opened the door of his warm hut, lightning flashed across the sky.
“The weather worsens,” he commented. “Are you sure you won’t stay here until this passes?”
Garren swept Derica into his arms. “If the castle is as derelict as your son said it was and provides no immediate shelter, then perhaps we shall. But for the moment, I would like to see it. I feel more secure within stone walls.” He glanced as his wife.
“Should the lady’s family be tracking us, I would not want to be caught in a cottage that would be easily burned to the ground.
And I would not want to jeopardize you.”
Emyl threw up his hood. “Pah,” he spat. “They’d have a fight on their hands, I can tell you.”
Garren didn’t reply. He followed the old man out into the driving rain, placing Derica upon the wet back of the charger.
As he mounted up in front of her, Emyl disappeared around the side of the cottage and emerged a short time later astride a small, pale-colored donkey.
Garren remembered Fergus’ father coming to visit his squiring son, perched on the crest of a mighty red charger.
To see him like this, a worn out man on a worn out steed, was disheartening.
They followed Emyl out onto the road that led through the town.
They were heading west, into rain that stung with its ferocity.
Garren shielded Derica as best he could, providing a huge windbreak from the elements.
She huddled behind him, well protected, her cheek against his back as she watched the road pass by.
When the charger began its jaunty trot, she had to lift her head otherwise it would bang against Garren’s body.
The rain fell hard, wetting her already cold nose.
It was slow going in the bad weather. Eventually, they reached a decline in the road. Derica peered around Garren and saw that the road descended to the banks of a river, running full with rainwater. Ahead of them, Emyl directed his donkey off the road and into the thick, grassy mud.
There was so much fog and rain that it was difficult to see for any distance around them.
Garren followed Emyl into the sludge, realizing it was not so much a muddy field as a muddy path.
The grass, as far as he could tell, was simply overgrown on to it.
Ascending the path, he craned his neck back to see what he could through the haze.
Gradually, an ominous sight came into view.
Cilgarren Castle loomed like a great ghostly beast on the hill high above them.
Garren had seen many castles in his life, and it was clear from the onset that Cilgarren was no ordinary castle; as they mounted the path, he could see how the path cleverly paralleled the structure, making it convenient for defenders to shoot down invading forces.
Men would be picked off like sitting ducks.
Massive round towers connected the curtain wall, arrow slits evident in the rounded stone fortifications.
The west side of the castle was protected by a steep cliff that disappeared into the river below, while the northern side with the path was protected by a steep, unmanageable slope.
With every muddy step his destrier took, Garren became more impressed with what he was witnessing. It was apparent that this huge gray beast was built by for greatness. In the same breath, he was baffled why it should sit, unused and unwanted, when it could be a major force to be reckoned with.
The path crested at the top of the slippery hill and a large curtain wall stood before them. At first glance, Garren estimated it was easily twenty feet high. There was no telling how thick it was until they came closer. They edged the horses forward and Emyl spoke with reverence.
“I had forgotten the beauty of her,” his eyes grazed the structure. “Why the princes abandoned it, I shall never understand. But they say ghosts chased them away.”
“Ghosts?” Derica echoed. “What ghosts?”
Emyl gestured at the fortress shrouded in mist. “Legend says that Cilgarren was built by a prince of Dyfed named Owain,” he answered.
“He built it as his seat of power, given to him by his father, Madog ap Gruffyd. Owain had a wife named Bryndalyn, the most beautiful maiden in the land. One day, shortly after the castle was finished, Owain went off to fight one of the many skirmishes that hamper the Welsh. Men returned from the battle saying that Owain had perished. In her sorrow, Bryndalyn threw herself from the cliff that overlooks the river.”
Derica’s mouth was open in sorrow. “Poor lady,” she murmured. “If Garren were not to return to me, I….”
She trailed off, unable to continue. As Garren reached around to pat her hand, Emyl shook his head sadly.