The Agents of William Marshal Volume II: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Quiet wasn’t a word she knew much of herself. Although it wasn’t annoying in the least, she talked constantly as the charger lumbered over the landscape. While Garren listened with interest, Derica would prattle on about her life back at Framlingham, the day her brothers accidentally killed her dog in a drunken brawl, or the time when her entire family went to a tourney in Saxmundham and another knight, not knowing that she was a de Rosa, had asked for her favor as she sat in the lists. Garren grinned as she relayed how the entire clan cornered the knight and his pages in the knight’s tent, collapsed the tent, and then proceeded to beat everyone caught within the folds of material with the tent stakes they had ripped up from the earth.

  He came to learn quite a bit about the woman he married in the two weeks that it took them to travel into Dyfed. He found her to be more of a delight than he could have imagined. He knew that she desperately wanted to learn how to read Latin. He also learned that she loved to draw sketches of castles; not simply to produce artwork, but of how to build them. They would sit by the fire at sundown and he would watch her sketch in the dirt. He had to admit that she had some brilliant ideas.

  Garren had never been much of a conversationalist, or so he thought. Whereas he believed he had been doing most of the listening, it seemed that he had done some talking, too. He spoke of his father, a short man with bad eyes who had doted on his only son. Derica heard about the young page who had missed his pet goat when he had gone to foster. She heard a few antics that had involved Fergus, but Garren would become sad upon remembering the friend who had sacrificed himself and Derica would change the subject in a well-meaning way. It had been, after all, her family who had murdered Fergus. She hoped that the event would never cast a shadow over her and Garren, even though Garren had never so much as uttered a word to that effect.

  Carreg-wen was the home of Fergus’ birth, the village on the outskirts of Cilgarren. Garren and Derica had spent the night in the woods a few miles out, making love before the fire and talking well into the night. When dawn broke, they made their way through the mist and fog into the small town. It was an unspectacular place. Garren had made up his mind to seek out Fergus’ father not only to inform him of his son’s fate, but also to seek his aid in locating the castle. A few inquiries in town pointed the direction to a small cottage at the north-western end of the berg.

  The rain was falling harder. Water formed in puddles all around the small, mud-brick dwelling. A heavy thatched roof dripped rain onto the ground as Garren walked up to the warped door and rapped on the splintering wood with his great gloved fist. Derica sat astride the charger, her lips unnaturally bright in the freezing weather, trying not to let Garren see that her teeth were chattering. He glanced at her when he received no immediate answer, winked, and rapped on the door again. He almost pounded on the head of the man who swiftly opened it.

  Garren took a step back, noting the shock in the man’s eyes. “Emyl de Edwin?” he asked.

  The man had Fergus’ eyes. They were bright blue and suspicious. “Who asks for him?”

  “Fear not, my lord,” Garren said. “I mean you no harm. I am a friend of Fergus’.”

  The man looked slightly less suspicious. “If you are looking for my son, I do not know where he is. He could be in France, or perhaps the Holy Land. If he owes you money, be assured that I have none to pay his debts. If I had, do you think I would be living here?”

  Garren had to smile. He put up his hand to silence the man. “My lord, I come not to collect a debt your son owes me, though I am not surprised you have had experiences like that. Fergus had been known to make a promise or two that he had no intention of keeping.”

  The man cocked an eyebrow. “Ah, well, I see that you do indeed know my son.”

  “Well enough not to lend him money, my lord. May we speak?”

  “That depends. What about?”

  Garren glanced up at the sky. “I would prefer not to discuss business out here in the rain. My wife is freezing and I would hope to gain her some shelter.”

  The old man’s eyes drifted to the charger, to Derica sitting cold and wet in the saddle. “No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t suppose you have come here to collect any debt with your lady in tow. ’Twould be bad manners. Bring her in by the fire.”

  The old man stepped back inside the cottage. Garren lifted Derica off the horse, carrying her across the mud and into the cramped, warm quarters. Closing the door behind them, he helped her pull back the soaking cloak. Near the hearth, the old man motioned them over.

  “Take the cloak off and give it to me,” he held his hands out. “I shall dry it by the fire. Lady, sit here, on the stool. ’Tis warm here.”

  Derica gratefully took the offered seat. Her hands were blue with cold and she held them up before the flame. The old man laid out the cloak, glancing at Derica with appreciative eyes. She caught his stares and he shrugged sheepishly.

  “Forgive, my lady,” he said. “ ’Tis been a long time since I have seen such beauty. I am Emyl de Edwin, and you are welcome in my home.”

  Garren removed his helm and pulled off his wet gloves. “I can see that you are indeed Fergus’ father. The gift of flattery must run in the blood.”

  Emyl shrugged. “ ’Tis not flattery, but truth.” He looked at the enormous knight. “And you, my lord. Your name?”

  “Garren le Mon. And this is my wife, the lady Derica.”

  A flicker came to Emyl’s eye. “Garren,” he murmured. “I remember you as a lad. Now I see you as a fine, strong man.”

  Garren smiled. “And I remember you as a loud man who tried to thump us on the head with the butt of your sword on the occasions when you came to visit your son.”

  Emyl took Garren’s outstretched hand and held it tightly. “You used to run from me.”

  “I am no fool.”

  “Did you come to seek vengeance, then?”

  “No,” Garren snickered. “Though you surely deserve it. I have actually come for another reason.”

  “Name it, then.”

  “I would ask that you direct me to Cilgarren Castle.”

  Emyl’s eyebrows lifted. “Cilgarren? That derelict, beautiful old woman?”

  “Then you know of it.”

  “Of course I do. What do you want at that place?”

  Garren took a long, slow breath, listening to the rain pound on the walls. “ ’Tis a long story, my lord, one not worthy of delving into. I would be indebted to you should you tell me the way.”

  Emyl was either wise enough not to probe. “Very well. Take the road through the town out to the west. When you come to the River Teifi, go south along the bank. Where the ground rises, look to the sky. You will see the castle above you. In fact,” he pointed a finger at Garren. “I will take you there myself. In this fog, ’twill be difficult to see. I should not want you to get lost.”

  “That is not necessary, my lord,” Garren assured him. “We can find it, though your offer is appreciated.”

  “Nonsense,” Emyl waved him off. “ ’Tis the least I can do for Garren le Mon, the boy who once ran from me in terror. I should make up for my bad behavior.”

  Derica’s hands were warming, as was her smile as she listened to the conversation. “You must have been an awesome knight, my lord.”

  Emyl turned to her. “Indeed, Lady le Mon. I was indeed formidable at one time. But that was before…” he looked slightly uncomfortable. “That was before the ravages of drink and foolishness set upon me. There was a time when I was an honorable knight in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury. My ancestor arrived at Dover with William the Bastard many years back. Once, the de Edwin name meant something.”

  Derica glanced at Garren, uncertain what to say to a man who had apparently ruined himself. “Perhaps it shall again,” she said with soft encouragement. “We plan to live at Cilgarren Castle. Perhaps you could serve Garren and help us make it a fine, strong place.”

  “Truly, Garren?” Emyl said. “Have you been granted the
lands?”

  Garren shook his head. “No,” he said. “Suffice it to say that the lady and I are in need of finding a safe place for a time. Your son suggested the derelict castle of Cilgarren for this purpose.”

  “Safe place?” Emyl repeated. “Have you committed a crime, then?”

  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, u
nmanageable 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.

  “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 a just breath away.”