Chapter Eleven #4
He handed her the charger’s reins and paced into the center of the ward.
Emyl also had his weapon wielded, the old man as calm as Garren was.
Once a knight, always a knight, no matter how long it had been since he’d last whiffed the scent of battle.
Both men were acutely vigilant as they visually inspected their surroundings for the origins of the noise.
The wail came again. Garren turned, hearing it come from the north tower, or so he thought.
He motioned to Emyl to flank him as he made his way to the entrance of the tower.
Derica huddled against the charger out of fear and warmth, watching her husband with anxious eyes.
It took her a moment to realize that Garren had not put his armor back on after removing it to cross the first trench.
Not wanting to call out to him and distract him, she could only watch and pray that whatever situation he was about to face did not injure him.
Her first indication that all was not well was when the charger suddenly started. Derica would have fallen to the ground had hands not grabbed her. Trouble was, they were not her husband’s hands. A scream erupted from her throat.
Garren swung around in time to see someone grabbing his wife.
He took a step in her direction when a body suddenly came flying at him, a man dressed in dirty rags that blended in with the gray sheets of rain.
The man had a weapon and Garren brought his sword up instinctively, deflecting a heavy blow.
He was involved in his own fight, terrified for his wife, furious at the inconvenience of having to battle for his life.
He was about to shout for Emyl when he saw that the old man, too, had been set upon.
Derica was howling, swinging fists and kicking feet.
A fine lady though she might be, having grown up with three older brothers had taught her something about self-defense.
She was desperately trying to find eyes to gouge her fingers into.
When that failed, she took to kicking furiously at the knees of her attacker.
One foot made contact with a kneecap and the man released a growling yelp.
It was enough of a break for Derica to swing around and kick him, as hard as she could, in the lower abdomen.
The man fell into the mud and Derica scattered like a frightened chicken.
She was terrified her attacker was going to rise up and come after her again, so she grabbed the first heavy rock she could find and raced back over to the man wallowing in the muck.
She smacked him on the head and stopped his squirming.
With her assailant subdued, she took a look around her; a glance to Garren saw him in serious combat with a man nearly as tall as he was, yet infinitely more slender.
Emyl seemed to have the more immediate problem, grunting and groaning as he battled for his life.
Derica couldn’t stand by idly; she lifted the rock and made her way over towards Emyl.
Careful not to get in the way or take the chance that the enemy would turn on her, she hung back, clutching the rock, until Emyl’s opponent turned his back on her.
With a cry, she hurled the rock and hit the man on the nape of the neck.
It was enough of a blow to cause him to fall down, whereupon Emyl finished him.
The sight of the blood made Derica nauseous.
In spite of her warring family, she’d never seen a man killed before.
Emyl went to her, trying to take her someplace safe, away from the fighting, but she would not leave Garren.
She and Emyl watched with trepidation as Garren launched a powerful enough blow to dislodge his opponent’s sword completely.
When the man tried to retrieve his weapon, Garren shoved the tip of his razor-sharp blade at the man’s neck.
“The game is ended,” he growled. “Leave the sword and I shall be merciful. Attempt to reclaim it and my mercy is at an end.”
The man slowly lifted his hands to show his submission. Garren gazed into deep brown eyes and a handsome face. The man was young, but he had handled the sword well. He took his eyes off of Garren long enough to look at his dead companion in the mud.
“Did you have to kill him?” he whispered.
Garren responded. “What did you expect? You were trying to kill us. It was necessary to defend ourselves.”
The man dropped his hands and made his way over to his companion. His movements were slow with defeat. Emyl and Derica moved to stand with Garren as the three of them observed the man in the rags. He fell to one knee, putting his hand on the wet corpse.
“He was just a lad,” the man muttered. “A child.”
“A child who was trying to kill me,” Emyl didn’t feel guilty in the least. “If you were that worried over his health, you should not have allowed him to attack us.”
“We were protecting ourselves,” the man in rags suddenly boomed. The dark eyes flashed. “ ’Tis you who invade our home.”
Derica looked at her husband with big eyes. Garren’s expression was neutral, though he could feel her stare. “You live here? On whose authority?”
The man in rags stared at him for a moment. “On my own. No one has lived here in decades; there was no reason why we should not.”
The man that Derica had smashed over the head suddenly groaned and sat up. He shook his head as if waking up from a deep, ugly sleep. Garren heard the noise and glanced over at him.
“Tell him to be still,” he commanded quietly. “Any provocative movement and he shall meet the same fate as your companion.”
The man in the rags eyed his disoriented comrade, but he could see that provocative action would be the last thing to occur. He looked at Garren, more closely than before.
“You are a knight,” he stated.
Garren cocked an eyebrow. “And as such, you will answer my questions or face the consequences. Tell me your name.”
The man in rags sighed deeply, with resignation. His hand came to rest protectively on the head of his dead friend.
“David,” he whispered.
“Who is the dead man?”
“My brother, Guy.”
Garren heard his wife gasp softly, but he didn’t look at her. “And the man over there?”
“My uncle.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Offa.”
“Offa,” Emyl repeated, looking closely at the man covered in mud. “Offa van Vert?”
The round, dirty man grunted. “The same.”
Emyl’s mouth popped open. Then he threw up his hands. “I should run you through, you idiot. Why in God’s name would you attack me?”
Offa blinked his eyes, trying to rid himself of his double vision. “Emyl?”
Emyl sneered. “Dim wit! Of course it is me. Can you not see that through those bloodshot eyes?”
“I cannot see anything at the moment,” Offa shook his head again. “The lady was true in her aim.”
“Emyl,” Garren cut into the conversation. “Who are these people?”
Emyl looked ill, as if a horrible situation had suddenly been made clear to him.
“Offa van Vert was a knight, Garren. He served Cadell ap Gryffud. We grew up together, in this region. I simply haven’t seen him in years.
” He glared at the muddy knight. “I thought you’d died, you old goat. What are you doing here?”
Offa struggled to one knee. “The Welsh rebellion hasn’t much room for an aged knight. My youth is gone and so is my money. I knew of this place, too. My nephews and I have lived here for three years.”
Emyl looked at Garren; he didn’t know what more he could say. The entire circumstance was sickening. Garren stood there a long while, watching David grieve over his brother. Finally, he sheathed his sword.
“Your brother did not have to die,” he said quietly. “You should have determined my motives before attacking us.”
David wiped his eyes. “My delay might have given you the upper hand had you been intent on killing us.”
“Are you a knight?”
“No.”
By now, Offa was on his feet and walking unsteadily towards his nephews. “My sister married a common man. There was no opportunity for the boys to foster in a proper house. I have schooled them the best I can.”
Garren took a few steps, retrieved David’s old sword, and extended it to the man.
“You have done an admirable job,” he said. “I am impressed with David’s skill and strength.”
Offa knelt beside his other nephew, putting a tender hand on the lad’s head. “Guy will never know his potential,” he whispered ironically. “He could have been great.”
Garren glanced at his wife, seeing the sorrowful expression on her face. He was feeling guilty when he knew he should not. “An unfortunate happening.” He came as close to an apology as he could.
“Unfortunate indeed,” Offa stroked the dark hair. “It was my fault. I am a foolish old man. Foolish and stupid. The boys fought against me in their training and I most always allowed them to win, giving them a sense of confidence. It was Guy’s undoing.”
Emyl sighed heavily, making his way to the man he had once known. His gaze moved between the dead lad and the uncle.
“You did as you felt best, even as you moved to defend your home,” he tried to comfort him. “You did not know our intentions were peaceful. But Garren is correct; you could have determined them first. ’Twould be best to teach David that lesson today. A costly lesson though it might be.”
Offa nodded his head silently. Emyl stood over him, knowing there was nothing more he could say. Observing the scene, Derica slipped her wet hand into her husband’s.
“We should help him bury his nephew,” she said softly.
Garren gazed down at her, her sweet face pinched pink with cold and wet.
She did not understand the warring ways, the event that one did not usually bury his enemy, but he knew this was a different case.
In spite of himself, he was beginning to feel very guilty about the whole thing.
The Garren of old never knew the meaning of the word.
“As you wish, my lady,” he said softly.
He helped Offa and David dig the grave. By the time the sun settled, the rain had let up somewhat.
Still, it was the end of a very long day, and a very long trip.
As he fell asleep beside his wife later that night in the shadows of the old great hall, he felt a sense of peace for the first time in days. But he knew that would be short-lived.