Chapter Eleven #3
“Aye, my lady, but the truth was that Owain did not die. He returned, quite sound, only to find his lady dead. ’Tis said he went mad, locking himself in a room with her body.
He neither ate, nor slept, but kept himself in with her corpse.
Eventually, he died of a broken heart.” The old man looked at her.
“But God punishes those who take their own lives, as Bryndalyn and Owain did. So the two of them spend eternity searching the rooms of this place for each other, never in the same place at the same time. On still nights, one can hear them calling for each other. They come so close, but are ever damned to be just a breath away.”
“So they can never be together, ever?”
“So it is said.”
Derica looked as if she was about to cry. “That is the most awful story I have ever heard.”
Garren held her hand, smiling faintly at the old man’s story and at his wife’s gullibility. The mood was growing heady and he had no intention of letting it get the better of them.
“Are you willing to face the ghosts to get out of this rain?” he teased. “Boo!”
She frowned at his attempt to startle her. “How can you make jokes about this? ’Tis a horrible tale, Garren. Tragic.”
“I am sorry,” he kissed her hand and spurred his charger towards the entrance. “You’re right, It is tragic. I believe I shall go off and cry myself ill right now.”
She couldn’t see his expression, smirking at her, but she could feel his humorous snorts against her body. “Stop laughing at me. How would you like it if we were separated like that, through all eternity?”
“I wouldn’t. Tell me if you plan on doing something foolish like that, will you?”
“I don’t think I shall tell you anything. I think I shall go back to Framlingham and leave you alone with your bad sense of humor.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
He turned the horse around and she squealed, laughing as he reined the horse in a couple of tight circles. Finally, they were heading back for the gate and she smacked him, lightly, on the shoulder.
“Stop fooling, Garren,” she said. “If anything of what Emyl says is true, then this is a revered place. We should be respectful.”
Emyl had watched the interaction, smiling at their antics.
Garren was a serious knight, he knew, and put no stock in ghost stories as his lady apparently did.
Emyl didn’t know if the legends were true or not himself, but one thing was apparent; no one had lived in this massive place for years. There had to be a reason.
There was an enormous ditch surrounding the outer curtain wall.
It was wide across and partially filled with muddy rainwater.
Garren surveyed the trench and could see that, at some time, there had been a bridge over it.
He could see remains of it floating in the muck.
There was no way the horses could cross, so he dismounted and stood at the edge of the ditch, trying to figure out the best way to cross.
Emyl came to stand beside him and together, they mulled over the problem.
The gatehouse and wall were directly on the other side. Garren couldn’t think of anything else but to climb down into the ditch and see how deep it was. He took off his helm and began to remove his armor.
“What are you doing?” Derica asked.
He unlatched his breastplate. Emyl took it from him and he began to unfasten the protection around his shoulders.
“I am going to find out just how deep this trench is,” he told her. “If It is too deep, I shall sink to the bottom with all of this armor on.”
Derica climbed off of the charger. She went to stand next to her husband, eyeing the trench, eyeing him as he removed every last scrap of protection.
The rain soaked the woolen tunic he wore and water dripped off of his face.
She wiped a drop from the end of his nose, smiling timidly when he looked at her.
Garren gave her a quick kiss before lowering himself into the ditch.
“Be careful,” she admonished him. “There may be spikes in there that you cannot see.”
He almost slipped on the sides, warily regaining his balance. “I shall be careful.”
“Don’t fall!”
“I won’t.”
Derica winced and twisted her fingers as he slid down the muddy side and into the water. He stopped sinking when he was up to his knees. Surprised but cautious, he took a few more steps across the ditch.
“It looks like this is all there is of it,” he announced. “Still, we can’t get the horses across. The sides are too steep.”
Derica immediately began to descend into the ditch. “I am coming with you.”
He slugged back across the water. “Wait, sweetheart, don’t get your feet wet.”
He carefully took her in his arms and carried her to the other side.
Derica deftly climbed to the top of the bank with a strategic shove from her husband.
Emyl, his hands full of swords, slid down the muddy incline and trudged across the water as Garren hoisted himself out on the opposite side.
Lowering a helping hand, he pulled the old man out of the ditch and took his weapon.
The great gatehouse loomed overhead. Derica stood there a moment, inspecting it, wondering if she could hear Bryndalyn and Owain calling to each other.
Garren whispered a ghostly moan in her ear to tease her and she made a face at him.
He took her hand as they crossed under the half-raised portcullis.
Inside the curtain wall was a massive outer bailey.
The ground was muddy and uneven, and there were no outer buildings.
But there was another, taller, curtain wall several hundred feet away.
There were also three massive towers they could see set within the wall.
Most of all, another ditch lay between them and the inner wall.
“Another trench,” Derica observed. “They were certainly obsessed with entrenching this place, were they not?”
Garren cocked an eyebrow. “When an enemy is laying siege, one is grateful for all of the protection a castle can provide.”
“You saw the walls around Framlingham. They are enormous. But since I have lived there, we have never truly seen a siege.”
“But you would be grateful for them in such an event, I can tell you from experience.”
They had crossed the outer bailey and now stood looking down into the deep, stone-lined ditch.
It was wider than the first ditch, filled with water and debris.
Garren glanced over to his far left and could see, almost butted against the outer curtain wall, a drawbridge crossing over the ditch and leading into another gatehouse.
They made their way over to the bridge and gingerly walked across the wet, rotting wood.
Garren inspected the chains that fastened it and they were old and rusting.
He wasn’t comfortable with the bridge and made sure Derica was quickly off it.
The passage beneath the second portcullis was long and damp.
It smelled of rot. When they emerged on the other side, it was into a smaller inner bailey where the true scope of Cilgarren came to light.
There were four massive towers including the gatehouse, all of them at least three stories into the sky.
To Garren’s right stood several buildings; a great hall, perhaps a chapel, and then kitchens off to the left of the larger structures.
Over by the north tower was another building, possibly the stables. There was also a kiln.
“Amazing,” he breathed.
“What do you mean?” Derica asked.
He was at a loss where to begin. “This place is a massive, fully-functioning fortress that has been abandoned. Why, in God’s name, would someone just abandon this?”
Derica didn’t have an answer. The place was indeed large and intricate.
She let go of his hand and pulled her cloak more tightly around her, wandering through the bailey and inspecting the towers from a distance.
While Garren kept an eye on her, she went to the long, low building that held the great hall and peered into the open door.
It was dark inside, but there was enough weak light that she could see a few broken stools, a table that was missing a couple of legs, and other debris scattered inside.
The hall itself was good sized with a massive stone hearth.
She took a step inside the door, smelling the dampness and mold. It was eerie.
She thought of Bryndalyn and Owain. Perhaps they sat at this table once, long ago, and toasted their happiness.
Perhaps they had enjoyed the fire in the hearth or danced across the floor to lively minstrel music.
She could almost hear their laughter if she listened hard enough.
Derica wasn’t quite sure why the tale of the pair sat so heavily on her mind except for the fact that, for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to truly love someone and she could never imagine losing that love.
Bryndalyn did not survive the loss and she doubted she would, either. There would be nothing to live for.
A low, desolate sound suddenly pierced her thoughts, howling eerily through the musty air.
It echoed off the walls, lifting the rafters with its mournful sound.
Startled, Derica bolted from the room and into her husband’s line of sight.
Though Garren’s expression was unreadable, he had heard the sound, too, and unsheathed his weapon in a deliberate motion.
“Derica,” he said calmly. “Come to me, sweetheart.”
Another wail filled the air and Derica didn’t need to be told twice; she darted back over to Garren, panting with fright.
“Garren, what is it?” she gasped. “Ghosts?”
He shook his head, his eyes riveted to the structures around him. “I am sure nothing so unearthly,” he said evenly. “Stay close.”