Chapter Seventeen #2
In the dusk, she could see her father, her Uncle Lon and her Uncle Alger.
They were atop their chargers, clad in colors of Norfolk.
It was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she had missed them.
Keller stood there, watching her, waiting for her to summon both courage and composure.
“I am here, Father,” Derica called from above.
Three helmed heads snapped up. Bertram removed his helm, his face as naked with emotion as Derica had ever seen. It took all of her self-control to keep from turning sentimental.
“Derica,” her father drank in the sight of her. “So you truly are here. Though we had hoped, I did not truly believe.”
“Aglette told me of your demands.”
“I only wish you home and safe, daughter.”
“I am home and I am safe. You must understand that I have no wish to return to Framlingham with you. I have my own life now.”
Bertram was quiet a moment, reflecting on what he was going to say next.
The conversation was moving faster than he’d hoped; it had been his wish to move slower, to play on her sentiment, before moving forward with demands.
But the Derica that faced him was unwilling to entertain even the slightest pleasantries.
He had to admit that he was not surprised.
“I know that le Mon is dead,” he said. “I also know that William Marshal plans to marry you off to some knight, someone I know nothing of. At least I knew something of le Mon.”
“You knew something of him, yet you showed him as little respect as you would the lowliest serf.” Derica could feel herself harden. “How dare you show so little regard for the man I loved.”
“It is my duty to protect you. I believe I was attempting to do that.”
“As you can see, I do not need protecting. I am safe, healthy and reasonably content. Garren took the best of care of me, and my future husband is continuing the tradition. It is my wish that you return to Framlingham and leave me to my new life.”
Bertram’s stubborn streak, seen so strongly in his daughter, came forth. “I can promise you a wonderful life at Framlingham. Norfolk has graciously arranged a betrothal that will promise you comfort and security the rest of your life. I have met and approve of this man.”
Derica thought it ironic that she had more than her share of betrothals now that Garren was presumed dead. “Who is he? A mercenary with plenty of money and no political connections?”
“The nephew of the Duke of Savoy, Alessandro Donatello Ettore di Savoy. He is very wealthy and well-connected in Rome.”
Derica was silent a moment. When she finally spoke, it was with bitterness.
“You do not want me to marry a man of my choosing, but a man of your choosing so that you may save your foolish pride.” She shook her head, sadly. “Go home, Father. Go home and forget you ever had a daughter.”
“Derica, please,” her father pleaded. “I only desire what is best for you, truly. By running away with le Mon, you severely limited your choices of a mate. Savoy is an excellent match and willing to overlook your female indiscretions.”
“Go home,” Derica exploded at him. “I have no desire to be swept under the rug because you are ashamed of me. If I had it to do over again a thousand times, I would do it the same way every single time. Nothing you can say will change how I feel about Garren.”
“You’re tired. You have been running too long, without the comforts of home and family. I can forgive your mistake, but I cannot forgive blind stupidity. Come home with me now, please, before any more damage is done.”
It was like talking to a wall. “I realize this is foreign to your thinking and God forgive me to saying this to you, but this is a battle you have lost, Father. With all of your wealth and strength, you could not win against me or against Garren. You must understand that.”
“Derica, listen to me. I…”
Derica didn’t hear the end of the conversation; she had turned away from the wall, in tears and anger.
Keller chipped off commands to his sergeant before following her.
He took hold of her elbow, helping her down the stairs so that she would not trip in her heavy gown.
When they reached the bottom, she was wiping her face, struggling to regain her composure.
“I fear I have put Pembroke in a bad situation,” she apologized. “My father will lay siege, of that I am sure. If you want to lower me over the west side and let me take my chances, then I understand.”
Keller watched her, every gesture, and every move like fluid poetry. She was graceful and ladylike even in turmoil.
“ ’Tis been a while since I have tasted battle with the English,” he said.
“Let your father attack if he wants to. Frankly, when the Welsh catch wind of a battle, it may very well anger them and your father could find himself fighting on two fronts. I will wager your father is in a good deal more danger than Pembroke is. We can hold out.”
He sounded so sure. Derica was moved by his chivalry. “You are a good man, Keller. I want you to know that if Garren was not alive, then I should have been very proud to be your wife.”
“Then never have I been more tempted to commit murder.”
He meant it as a joke. Derica smiled at his attempt, worried over the fate of Pembroke and praying that Fergus would reach Garren to deliver the news. So much could happen to ruin all she hoped for. Keller sensed her distress and took her by the elbow.
“Come,” he said softly. “I would have you retreat to the keep so that I may accept your father’s invitation to dance.”
“Invitation to dance?”
“Battle is like a dance, carefully planned, carefully executed. It all depends on who will lead and who will follow.”
She thought on that. “An interesting comparison. I have been around knights my entire life and have never heard it put quite that way.”
He took her to the steps of the keep. “There is one thing your father doesn’t know about my dancing skills, however.”
“What is that?”
His expression took on a shadow of dark determination. “I can trip a partner in that careful choreography. He’ll hit the ground and lay there, dazed and vulnerable, before He is even realized He is fallen.”
Derica hesitated. “Keller,” she said softly. “This is my father. I do not wish him… killed if it can be helped. I just want him to go away.”
“I understand and shall do my best to accommodate your wishes.”
She smiled in thanks. With nothing more to say to a man she was deeply grateful to, she impulsively leaned over to kiss him gently on the cheek.
Keller grasped her face before she could pull away and covered her mouth with his own, overwhelming her with his power and desire for a flash of a moment.
When he released her, it was as quickly as he had taken her.
Derica stumbled back, her eyes wide at him.
Keller looked equally surprised but managed to shrug weakly.
“I had to know what I would miss.”
It was as much as an explanation as he could give her. Derica, having no reply, went up the stairs to the keep and disappeared inside. Keller stood there, watching until she vanished.
He probably would have been better off if he’d not kissed her, for his own sake.
*
It had started raining again the moment Fergus left Pembroke.
It had been rather harrowing being lowered over the western wall into the sea cliff below, but they had intentionally waited until low tide so he wouldn’t be swept away by the pounding surf.
Still, he was wet and cold by the time he slipped along the cliffs and beaches to the north before daring to make his way back up onto the land.
It was dark as he made his way inland, racing through the shadowed landscape as fast as his freezing legs would carry him. With the cloud cover, there was no moon by which to see. More than once he tripped over something, muffling his curses as he stubbed a toe or whacked a knee.
Fergus had always had a knack for physical activity and running did not tire him easily, but the conditions were cold and wet and he could feel his muscles tightening after a few miles.
Pushing on at the pace he was, he reckoned that it would take him between seven and eight hours to reach Cilgarren, thirty miles to the northeast. However, if he kept crashing into things in the dark, no telling how much longer it would take, if he made it at all.
Settling himself down into a rhythm, he moved along at a steady pace.
He was glad when the rain eased. The supper hour came and went because his stomach was rumbling and it was never wrong.
He kept running, unable to tell the difference now between the sweat rolling off his body and the blobs of rain still pelting him.
On the outskirts of Jeffreystown, he slowed his pace, thinking now would be a good time to borrow a horse.
It was by sheer luck that he passed near a tavern, the occupants barricaded in for the night.
There was a stable behind the tavern and he silently made his way to it.
It was pitch black inside when he opened the door, careful not to wake the lad sleeping just inside.
The boy was snoring. Keeping his eyes on the lad, Fergus took the nearest horse he could find, good or bad or indifferent, and quietly led it from the stall.
It was a hairy brown steed, fairly well fed.
Fergus took a rope hanging on the side of the fence and fashioned a bridle out of it.
Slipping it over the horse’s ears and nose, he leapt onto the animal’s back and inaudibly walked it from the barn and through the grass.
When he reached the trees near the road, he spurred the animal into a run.