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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Then you say that Uncle Hoyt is dishonorable?”

  “I say nothing of the sort. I simply mean that he has them because, I would imagine, he derives a good deal of pleasure at men being terrified by the mere sight of them. ’Tis a good intimidation tactic, mentally unsettling an enemy before the battle has even begun. What sane man would not fear a knight with spikes all over his armor?”

  She thought on that a moment. “Father’s helm has a horn that comes out of the center of his forehead, like a Unicorn.”

  Garren merely wriggled his eyebrows, in approval or disapproval she could not tell. When Emyl finished struggling with a strap that finally decided to latch, Garren stepped away and shook himself slightly, like a dog shaking its hide. The armor clinked and settled on his big body.

  “Your weapon and helm are with the charger,” Emyl said.

  Garren nodded at him, then looked at his wife. She was smiling at him, but it was forced. Emyl, sensing the farewell to come, excused himself and left them alone.

  The silence was expectant. Derica struggled to keep the smile on her face. “It is time, I see.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “Will you walk with me to the door?”

  She slipped off the table and slid her hand into his enormous one. Together, they walked to the open door where the rain pounded outside. Derica was about to walk outside but he held her back.

  “Not outside, sweetheart,” he said. “I shall take my leave of you here, where it is dry.”

  She looked at him, those enormous green eyes bright with emotion. He smiled at her, memorizing every last line of her sweet face. He committed it to memory, to keep him warm on the long cold nights to come. He ran a delicate finger along her jawline, touching the honey-colored hair that tickled her face. He couldn’t discern any other emotion at the moment other than deep, agonizing longing.

  “I hope to make good time, but this weather is a bit of an obstacle,” he realized he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. “If all goes well, I should be in Chepstow in three or four days. I plan to meet with William, explain the situation, and beg my leave. Hopefully he will be gracious about it, but if not, ’tis of no matter. I shall try to make my stay at Chepstow no longer than a day. With luck, I shall return in a week, mayhap ten days.”

  She nodded. “Then we shall look for you then. What happens if it takes longer? Will you send word?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t dare. I cannot be certain that the de Rosa’s aren’t lingering somewhere around Chepstow, thinking that perhaps I may take you there. I doubt they would move on me if you are not at my side. The object is to find you, and if they kill me, they will eliminate all hope. I cannot take the chance that a messenger would be followed.”

  “And lead them right to me,” she murmured.

  “Exactly.”

  She digested that. “They will try to get you somehow. My father is very clever.”

  “I know,” Garren gazed up at the gray sky. “For that very fact, I wonder if he will not go to Chateroy to abduct my father. He may anticipate a hostage-for-hostage exchange.”

  “Your father for me?”

  “Something like that. I cannot rule out any possibility.”

  Derica fell silent. She traced the lines of his armor, running her fingers over his breastplate, simply to keep her hands busy. “Garren, what happens if you do not return?”

  He looked at her. “I swore to you that I would.”

  She met his gaze. “But you cannot guarantee it. Certainly, I am not asking you to because I know that you cannot. But if you do not return in a month or two or three, what should I do?”

  He sighed, heavily, realizing she was more willing to face the reality of it than he was. “You’re not going to like my answer.”

  “What is it?”

  “Have Emyl take you back to Framlingham.”

  She stiffened. “I will not.”

  He tightened his grip before she could pull away. “Listen to me, sweetheart. ’Tis the safest place for you, and I want you safe and well-cared for. Your father is after me, not you. He’ll forgive you should you return. ’Tis the most logical solution.”

  Her brow was furrowed like an angry child. “I will not go home. There is nothing for me there. They’ll simply try to marry me off again and won’t have any part of it, do you hear? I won’t marry ever, again.”

  “Then what would you suggest?”

  “That I go to the abbey with your sister.”

  He had to admit that her answer pleased him, but he was positive that it was because he was being selfish. “You have a right to be happy in life should I not be at your side. I want you to be happy. Do you think you would truly be happy in the cloister?”

  “I do not know. But I believe I would be happier there than married to some pompous fool whose only ambition is to be politically linked to the de Rosa name.” She stopped struggling, gazing deeply into his eyes. “Garren, do you think if I returned home that I would be a desirable marriage prospect? Of course not. My father would more than likely sell me to an arrogant French mercenary who can pay for the de Rosa name. Marrying me into a decent family was lost the moment I fled Framlingham. Is that the kind of life you would hope for me?”

  She had turned it around on him admirably. He knew the political game of noble marriages as well as or better than she did, and knew she spoke the truth. His heart sank to think of what would become of her should he not return.

  “Nay,” he said quietly. “And I suppose I should be more pragmatic than I have been. Truly, my intention is to return to you. It is my only thought. But if by chance the fates are against us, then you should know your next move. If I do not return within six weeks, then go to Yaxley Nene and stay with my sister until you have decided what you wish to do. No one can touch you there, especially your family. If you wish to devote yourself to the cloister, then so be it. But if you wish to return to your family, then I shall support your decision.”

  “You’re sure that is what you wish me to do?”

  “I believe it is a sound plan.”

  With the most difficult of subjects decided upon, Garren’s impending departure began to weigh heavily enough that she could hardly breathe. Derica always believed she was the strongest of women, but suddenly, she didn’t want to be strong. She wanted to be weak. Resting her forehead against his armor, she cried silent tears of longing. The warm droplets fell on his protection, little salty rivers running their course. Garren stroked her hair, silently, feeling her pain and then some.

  “The longer I delay, the more difficult this will become,” he murmured.

  She sniffled, struggling to regain her composure. “I know. ’Tis best you go, now, before I cling to you like a great anchor and you have to drag me across the yard.”

  It was humor in a moment of agony. Garren kissed her deeply, tasting her tears. Abruptly, he broke away, leaving her standing in the doorway as he marched across the muddy inner ward. He didn’t dare look back, fearful that he would retrace his steps back to her and be unable to break away a second time. He got half way across the yard when two figures emerging from the crumbling gatehouse caught his attention. Garren’s pace slowed as he assessed the forms; one was Emyl, but it took him a moment to recognize the second. When he did, he froze dead in his tracks.

  “Fergus!”

  The hearth smoked and spit embers into the dark room. Fergus didn’t care if he did catch a few red-hot particles on his skin, so long as he was warm again. It seemed like it had been ages since he had last been warm and fed, or safe for that matter. But the great hall of Cilgarren had a massive, protective quality that soothed him after his harried adventure.

  “For once, the blows did not come from someone with a grudge against me.” He was trying to be glib. “At any rate, not a gambling grudge. The de Rosas certainly had another grudge, especially when I wouldn’t tell them where Derica was.”

  Derica sat at the crumbling table, wincing as she thought of her family imparting
the bruises and welts on Fergus’ face.

  “Oh, Fergus, I am so sorry,” she said. “They’ve always been as such. Ruffians in every sense of the word. Did they break any bones?”

  He shook his head. “No one can crack this skull, my lady. Many have tried. It would take better men that the de Rosas to break my bones.”

  Garren stood next to his friend, his great arms crossed. He analyzed every movement, every word, thinking there was far more to the story than what Fergus was saying. It was just a feeling he had, knowing his friend as well as he did. But the sheer fact that the man was alive was a miracle, and a welcome one. Still, there was something very odd about him, something Garren couldn’t quite figure out.

  “But they didn’t follow you,” Garren said. “You’re sure of it?”

  “I would stake my life on it.”

  Garren didn’t question him further. That was all he really cared about at the moment, and there would be time for more detail later. He slapped his friend on the back. “I, for one, am amazed to see you. We thought for certain the de Rosas had devoured you.”

  Fergus stood from the fire, a weak smile on his lips. “Not hardly, though they tried.” He rubbed the stubble on his face. “Although I would like nothing better than to tell more stories of my persecution, I would truly like a bit of food and perhaps some sleep. It has been a long few days.”

  Derica leapt up, rushing around for the leftovers from their morning meal. David and Offa helped her gather the items while Emyl sat at the old table, his old eyes drinking in the sight of his only son.

  “ ’Tis been a long time, lad,” he said. “A long time indeed.”

  Fergus was genuinely glad to see his father. “I am a bad son, I know. I stay away for years and only come to you when I want something.”

  Emyl shrugged. “If that is all I can have of you, I shall accept it. At least you acknowledge what a rotten lad you are.”

  Fergus grinned as Derica placed some cold stew and berries before him. He shoved food in his mouth and continued. “I directed Garren to Cilgarren, you know. It is the safest place for him.” He eyed his friend. “But now I see he is leaving, after all this trouble I have been through. Where are you going, pray?”

  Garren had spent many years of his adult life avoiding that question from Fergus. He was quick to make a believable excuse. “I am afraid the de Rosas may go after my father. I intend to go home and scout the situation for myself.”

  “And if they have?”

  “I shall deal with that situation if and when I come upon it.”

  Fergus shoved another bite in his mouth. “Let me finish this feast and I shall go with you.”

  “How?” Garren asked. “You have been on the move for weeks, Fergus. You’re so weary with fatigue and lack of food that you can hardly stand. You need to rest and regain your strength. I have enough to worry about without wondering if you are going to drop dead any moment.”

  Fergus pointed his stew-covered knife at him. “I have been worse than this. Hell, Garren, you have been worse than this and still rode fifty miles into battle. I have seen you myself.” He turned back to his food. “It is settled. I ride with you.”

  Garren didn’t refute him right away. To do so would to have looked suspicious, but he clearly didn’t want Fergus coming with him. He needed a plan. Straddling the old bench, he sat, hearing it groan under his weight. A gloved hand scratched his forehead.

  “Fergus,” he said quietly. “I need you here.”

  Fergus’ mouth was full. “Why?”

  Garren glanced over at Offa and David, talking softly by the smoking hearth. “Do you see that dark haired man?”

  Fergus glanced in David’s direction. “That young whelp you introduced me to? The one who has been living here?”

  “Aye.”

  “What about him?”

  “He is fond of Derica. Too fond, if you get my meaning.”

  Fergus’ eyebrows rose. Then he laughed. “Idiot. His life shall not be a long one.”

  “He is the nephew of an old friend of your father’s. I should hate to have to kill him were he to press his intentions on my wife while I am away. As it stands, only your father stands between my wife and a potential problem. But with you here, there is no doubt that David would be in way over his head were he to attempt something. It would give me more peace of mind than you know.”

  Fergus swallowed the last of his food. “So, once again, you expect me to pay nursemaid to your wife.”

  “I ask you, my friend.”

  “You do not want my sword at your side?”

  “I want your sword here, in my stead.”

  Fergus signed heavily, wiping at a smear of food on his chin. “Very well. If that is your wish.”

  Garren smiled. “Many thanks.”

  “But you owe me.”

  “The usual?”

  Fergus nodded firmly. “A hog’s head of ale, deliverable upon your return.”

  Garren stood up and reseated his helm. Derica had been standing a respectful distance away, allowing the men sometime between the two of them, and Garren extended a hand to her. It would be their second painful farewell of the day.

  Fergus watched them walk from the hall, Garren’s arm protectively around Derica’s shoulders. He rose from the table, told his father he was going to find shelter for his weary horse, and went out into the yard. His movements didn’t seem so weary anymore. He casually melted into the shadow of a wall, watching Garren and Derica take their leave of each other. When Derica finally went back into the hall, wiping her eyes, Fergus followed Garren into the old gatehouse.

  “So I finally get you all to myself.”

  They were sheltered from the elements in the dank passage. Garren stopped walking and turned around. “So it seems.” He moved back towards Fergus. “I assume you have information for my ears only.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I just do. I know you, Fergus. There’s something else.”

  “Perhaps,” Fergus regarded him. “I have a question for you.”

  “Ask it.”

  “Where are you really going, Garren?”

  It was more a statement than a question. Garren answered evenly-. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean exactly that. You’re not going back to Chateroy, are you?”

  “I said I was. What makes you think otherwise?”

  Fergus’ pale blue eyes glittered. “Something that one of the de Rosas said to me.”

  “And that was?”

  “That perhaps you are going to see William Marshal.”

  Inwardly, Garren flinched. “William Marshal? Why would I want to see him?”

  “As a member of his inner circle. As a man who is loyal to Richard in the most sworn sense.”

  Garren snorted. “So they told you I was a spy, did they? They accused me of that to my face.”

  “You do seem to wander a bit, Garren. It would explain a great many things about you.”

  Garren rolled his eyes. “Not you, too,” he growled. “Fergus, listen to me. The de Rosas think that everyone is somehow involved with William Marshal, especially the man who eloped with their only female kin.”

  “He seemed terribly certain. He said to tell you that he was on your side, and he wanted me to warn you against returning to Chateroy.”

  Garren grew serious. “The de Rosas are waiting for me there.”

  “They’re going to raze it. They are probably laying siege as we speak. I did not want to say anything in front of your wife for fear of upsetting her.”

  “That was wise,” Garren said. “And you say it has been at least a week since you saw the de Rosas?”

  “Aye,” Fergus replied. “They’ve already had time to amass and reach Chateroy by now.”

  Garren fell silent, mulling over his options. Fergus watched him closely. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I must defend my father’s house, of course.”

  “By yourself?”

&nbs
p; “My father has two hundred men at arms. It is a sizable force.”

  “Against the de Rosa thousand?” Fergus shook his head. “That’s madness, Garren. Chateroy will fall if it hasn’t already. And if you go back there now, they’ll kill you. What about your wife?”

  Garren’s eyes turned in the direction of the great hall, as if he could see her through all of the stones that separated them. “I must deal with the consequences my actions have brought upon my family,” he said softly. “She understands that.”

  “She’ll understand everything until you get yourself killed, and then she’ll go mad,” Fergus said. “Trust me, my friend, when it comes to women. They never mean what they say.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “Do you have anyone with an army you can call upon for support?”

  Garren wouldn’t be sucked into that line of conversation again, and he wondered seriously why Fergus was trying to probe him. Knowing Fergus, it was purely nosiness.

  “Let me think… I could call on my father, I suppose.”

  “Oh… right.”

  Garren didn’t like being toyed with, especially not by Fergus. He cocked an eyebrow at him, his manner sarcastic. “I suppose you could ask Longton for help, but being allied with John, I don’t suppose he’d respond.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “Any other suggestions?”

  “Sorry, not at the moment.”

  The thought of Chateroy under siege was growing increasingly disturbing. Garren suddenly felt a strong sense of urgency. He turned from Fergus.

  “I must go and see what they’ve done to my father.”

  “Garren,” Fergus took a step after him. “I wish you wouldn’t. It is a trap.”

  “Be that as it may, my father would not be in trouble were it not for me.”

  Fergus watched him until he was nearly out of the gatehouse. “Garren, there’s something else. Another message from the de Rosa brother that saved my hide. He said that if I speak it, you will know the truth.”

  “What?”

  “I am sorry, my friend. So sorry.”