Chapter Thirteen #2
The conversation he had with Fergus in the gatehouse filled his brain.
It was the most peculiar conversation they had ever had.
Unspoken words and innuendos had brought Garren to the conclusion that Fergus may have actually worked for the Prince.
But that was not the case. He wondered why the deception, the evasiveness.
Fergus was trying to throw him off track, yet he had been trying to protect him also.
Garren began to realize that Fergus was trying to steer him away from Chepstow.
Fergus knew what was waiting for him. He had been trying to convince him to stay at Cilgarren and stay far away from Chepstow.
Fergus had known. Garren felt like a fool for not understanding what his friend had been trying to tell him.
“Fergus promised me that he would protect her,” he heard himself mutter. “I cannot believe that he would betray his word.”
William could feel himself weakening. He loved Garren like a son and it was a difficult situation.
He was a man, too, and could understand the pangs that came with love.
But he understood England more, and knew what was necessary to preserve her future.
Garren was, and always had been, an integral part of that plan.
“He will protect her as long as you fulfill your duty,” William said quietly. “She could be in no better hands.”
Garren didn’t respond. He was shutting William out, killing all of the feelings of admiration and affection he had ever experienced for the old man. William sensed this.
“Garren,” he got as close to him as he dared, afraid that in his turmoil the knight might actually strike out.
“I will promise you this; lead our armies to victory and I will release you from Richard’s service.
I will provide you with an army of your own, lands and title, so that you and your wife may live your years in comfort and security.
Do as I ask now and your future is secure.
Betray me and you shall lose everything. ”
Garren looked at him, his eyes full of venom and resignation. He knew he had no choice and there was nothing left to say but the obvious.
“By your command, my lord.”
It had been a struggle to speak the words. Garren’s pride was wounded, his heart damaged, but he knew what he must do. The Marshal was sad and pleased at the same time that Garren’s call of duty meant his liberation and, quite possibly, his death.
“I am sorry it has to be this way, Garren.”
“The hell you are, my lord.”
William returned to his solar without another word, greeted by a host of expectant faces as he resumed covering the plans of battle.
Garren came in behind him with no hint of what had transpired in that tiny room.
For all the others knew, there had been a detailed war conference between the Marshal and his greatest knight.
Garren and William would not let anyone think otherwise.
The stage was set.
*
Fall was upon the land. The lush hills of Wales were turning shades of golds, some reds and browns, and the heavy fog that was normally so prevalent had been in reprieve a few weeks. It was a lovely time of year.
Derica sat at the top of the hill overlooking the River Teifi.
The swollen waters rushed below her, echoing off the rock.
She had a basket beside her, filled with wild turnips and blackberries she had harvested from the uncultivated vines that ran along the side of the castle.
It wasn’t food that was settling particularly well in her stomach these days, but nothing seemed to be.
The child in her growing belly was particular about what he ate, making his mother miserable at times.
The child also made her cry or rage in an instant.
Sometimes she could do both at the same time.
Fergus had borne the brunt of her hysteria most of the time, in the dismal evenings when she would miss Garren horribly and she would demand Fergus go search for him.
Fergus would try to soothe her, as did Emyl and Offa and David, but she would rage at all of them and cry pitifully.
Then there would be periods of sunshine when she was the sweetest angel in the land.
But the angel was giving way to the crazed woman more often than not, especially the more time passed and the more Garren did not return. Things were growing darker.
This morning seemed particularly bleak. Derica had done little but sit on the hill for most of it.
She felt as if she had a great hole inside of her, impossible to fill except for the sight of Garren walking through the gatehouse.
But nearly three months had passed since she last saw him on that rainy morning and the more time passed, the more desperation she felt.
It was difficult to be continually optimistic, and to have faith in his promise.
On this sweet morning, her confidence was in danger of disappearing completely. She had sat on the hill and cried.
She heard footsteps behind her, jolting her from her bleak thoughts. Quickly wiping her cheeks, she wasn’t surprised to see David’s dark eyes gazing shyly down at her.
“I thought I would take the basket from you,” he said. “It looks like a fine harvest.”
Derica smiled weakly, handing him the goods. “My thanks.”
David stood there a moment, awkwardly. “Will you be coming back now?”
She shook her head. “Not now. I will in a while.”
“I shall wait for you.”
“Please don’t. I shall be along shortly.”
David didn’t want to leave her alone, for he knew how it was with her these days.
But he respected her wishes and left. He was a quiet man, very gentle, and his feelings for Derica were no secret even though he thought he concealed them quite nicely.
He and Offa had gone out of their way to repair what was repairable for her, cleaning and roofing two rooms on the second floor of the north tower with a view overlooking the river.
Fergus and Emyl lived below her on the first floor, while David and Offa maintained the loft in the great hall.
David was a good craftsman, using wood from the trees surrounding the castle and other items to fashion a bed for her.
From wood, he had also fashioned bowls, eating utensils, a crude chest and chair, and a handloom.
Then he had sold his dead brother’s sword and purchased six sheep, carefully shearing them of their old wool so that Derica had something to make yarn and fabric with.
Even though it was nearing winter and the sheep were cold without their wooly coats, the hair was growing back quickly.
Their life at Cilgarren was not as desolate as it could have been. They had food and were moderately comfortable, and the de Rosas had not come around in all the time they had been there. The only thing missing was Garren, and because Derica felt it like a knife, they all did.
David was crossing the bailey towards the kitchen when Emyl came hurrying in through the inner gatehouse.
He was laden with items he had purchased in town with some of the money remaining from the sale of Guy’s sword.
He struggled towards David, who set the basket down and took the sack of grain from the old man’s shoulders. Emyl wiped his forehead.
“Where is Fergus?” he demanded.
“In the hall, I think. Is something wrong?”
Emyl could only shake his head as he moved in the direction of the hall. “News. My son must hear of this.”
David put the grain and vegetables in the kitchen. He went to find Offa and the two of them hurried to the hall. Emyl was sitting on a bench, wiping his forehead again and huffing about his age. Fergus, who had been mending a stool, sat on the table beside his father.
“You’re sure about this, Da?”
“Sure enough.”
Offa spoke. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“News,” Emyl said. “I heard in town. There were Welsh knights, talking to the smith.”
“What news?”
The old man fixed the small group with a heady gaze. “A big battle, Richard against John. All the armies of the empire have been called to fight against each other.”
The implication was not lost on Fergus; his eyes closed for a moment as if to ward off the very idea of it. “So it has begun.”
“Aye, it has. And there is more. William Marshal rallied a huge army from the south and met John’s mercenaries at Tick Hill Castle.
It was an enormous battle with many lives lost. John’s loyalists have captured thirteen castles about England’s midsection and Richard’s armies are struggling to regain ground lost. All of England is in turmoil. ”
Now, it all made sense. Fergus knew exactly where Garren was; if he wasn’t dead already, he was in the middle of the great bloody war that had gripped the country. Feelings of dread and guilt swept him.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked.
“Since July.”
Fergus ran a weary hand across his face, his thoughts racing.
As a knight, he knew his only course of action would be to find the Marshal’s army, find Garren, and join the fighting.
But William Marshal had ordered him to watch over Derica.
There was also the small matter of promising Garren that he would take care of his wife.
Still, Derica had three men willing and able to see to her every need, and if the civil war was indeed raging, then the likelihood of Garren forsaking his duties to come back to Derica was slim.
Fergus had carried out his mission for the Marshal, in his opinion.
Besides, he never could have truly killed her.
The Marshal would have been wiser to assign that task to someone who hadn’t known Garren like a brother.
Now, the civil war they had feared for years was finally bearing fruition and Fergus knew where his place should be, as it had been many times; beside Garren in battle.
“Do we know where the fiercest fighting is at present? Did the Welsh knights say?”