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?”
“Northamptonshire, they say,” Emyl replied. “Seems that John’s loyalists are embedded at Rockingham Castle. Damn big place. Richard’s army is trying to unseat them and regain the castle.”
Fergus nodded in thought. The news was probably a few weeks old. The only thing to do would be to ride to Chepstow to find out what he could, and then follow the trail from there. He began to move as Emyl and the others watched him with closely.
“Where do you go?” Emyl demanded.
Fergus found his leather jerkin. “I go to war.”
“Why?” the old man was distressed. “This is not your war, son.”
Fergus looked at his father. “There are many things you do not know, things which I have not explained to you. Since I do not have the time, suffice it to say that any war of Richard’s is a war of mine. It is also a war of Garren’s and I can promise you that he has been in the midst of the fighting since it began.”
The others passed glances between them. “What do you mean? He was to go to his father’s aid against the de Rosas.” Emyl said.
Fergus sighed, wondering how much he should tell them. “It is possible that he has. But my suspicion is that he is involved in the civil war now enveloping the county. I must go and help him.”
His explanation only left them more confused. There was some bickering and chatter as Fergus gathered his possessions, only to turn to the doorway to see Derica standing there. From the expression on her face, Fergus knew she had heard far more than she should of. He silently cursed himself for not noticing her until this moment.
His manner softened dramatically. “How much did you hear, love?”
She stared at him. “Where are you going? What has happened to my husband?”
Fergus was truthful, yet he also wanted to reassure her very much that what he was doing was in her and Garren’s best interest. “England is erupting into civil war,” he said plainly. “If you know about your husband, and I suspect you do, then you know he is involved. I must go and help him. I do this so that he may return to you. Do you understand?”
Derica gazed at him, torn between horror and hope. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “Oh… Fergus,” she whispered. “He is fighting for William Marshal, isn’t he?”
Fergus put his hands on her shoulders. “I believe so.”
“This civil war I heard you speak of,” she said. “Richard and John are fighting for rule of the country?”
“Aye,” he nodded. “I cannot explain how it is that I know, but I can promise you that William Marshal has ordered Garren in to battle.”
“You serve the Marshal, too.”
His expression softened, winking at her when he was sure the others could not see. “You must trust me, Derica. I have to go find Garren and help him.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “War,” she murmured again, her knees suddenly weakening. Fergus took a good hold of her and helped her sit. “It is possible that he is already dead. That is why he has not returned to me.”
“And it is equally possible that he is still fighting,” Fergus would not give in to her gloom. “Wars have many battles. They move around like an army of ants, scuttling about, fighting, then pulling back to regroup and fighting again. I have seen your husband in battle, my lady. He is the one man that I have truly believed to be invulnerable.”
“What do you mean?” she sniffled.
Fergus thought a moment; what he would tell her would not be embellishment on his part. It would be the truth. “There is something about your husband that draws men to him. He has a quiet strength about him, a power that is beyond mere mortal strength. When he gives a command, men trust him and they follow him. He has never been wrong that I have known. When he wields a sword, it is as if St. George himself is living through him. He is as clever as he is deadly. That is why the Marshal has ordered him to fight; the old man knows that with le Mon in command, victory is very nearly assured.”
“He is a great warrior, then?”
“There has never been another like him.”
Derica felt better, but she also felt worse. Her heart ached for Garren in a way that she could not describe. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear his voice, feel his touch, and smell the warm musk of his skin. The simple possibility of losing that delicious joy made her tears fall faster, no matter how Fergus tried to comfort her.
“Fergus,” she sobbed gently. “Please… please find him. Help him fight his battles so that he may return to me.”
“I swear on my life, my lady. I will do this.”
Surprisingly, she wasn’t hysterical. The tears on her face were from pure emotion, the hole in her heart bleeding for her husband’s plight. Fergus held her hand as she rose, holding on to her soft flesh until she walked out of his reach.
The men watched her leave the hall, wondering if one of them should follow her but opting not to. She needed time to regain her dignity and deal with the events in her life over which she had no control.
Derica sobbed quietly as she wandered to her favorite spot on the hill overlooking the river. Her sobbing deepened as she remembered Garren following her around on the slope, holding on to her skirt so she would not slide down the cliff and into the river.
Four months ago, she had been living a spoiled life at Framlingham, catered to by her father, uncles and brothers, living day by day without a care in the world. It seemed like an eternity ago. She remembered the day that Garren le Mon had come into her life. It was the day she had been reborn, though she hadn’t known it at the time. All she had known was that the enormous man with the square jaw and sandy-copper hair intrigued her as no one else had. She couldn’t remember the exact moment she had fallen in love with him, yet she couldn’t remember when she hadn’t love him. It seemed like always.
Her tears faded as she wandered down the slope, hearing the river rushing below. Thoughts of Owain and Bryndalyn came to her, recollecting the story Emyl had told her. Bryndalyn had thrown herself into the river upon hearing of her husband’s demise, her grief far too strong for her to bear. Derica could now fully understand the woman’s despair.
She tried to take heart in Fergus’ words, rubbing her hand over the small bulge in her belly, praying that her unborn child would have the chance to know his father. Fergus said that Garren was a great fighter and that she should have faith in him. She must believe that. The more she wandered down and across the slope, the more her tears faded. She did have faith. She believed Garren would return to her. Somehow, somewhere, they would be together again. She knew it as surely as she knew he loved her.
It was her last pleasant thought as her footing gave way and she plummeted down the side of the cliff, into the churning waters of the River Teifi below.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The battle had been in full swing since first light. Even now, with hues of dusk streaming across the sky, men were fighting as if they were fresh, their screams of pain filling the air along with the sounds of metal against metal. The grounds surrounding Lincoln Castle were pooled with battle gore and the smell of death rang heavy in the air.
Garren was one of those who had been fighting since dawn, as had Hoyt de Rosa. Hoyt had been at his side from nearly the onset, joining Garren’s command at William’s orders. Garren hadn’t been surprised to see him; in fact, he had been glad. It was an odd connection to his wife that comforted him, though he secretly wondered if William had sent him to make sure Garren lived up to his agreement. To be fighting alongside a de Rosa rather than against one seemed natural to him and they worked well together.
A rather large band of John’s supporters had fled to Lincoln Castle and he had been ordered to take one thousand men to lay siege to the castle. Lincoln Castle wasn’t even one of those held by John; it was the property of a loyalist, now held hostage by the Prince’s supporters. It had an immense motte and thick walls, and Garren’s men had been given a rough time trying to breach the defenses.
Having brought two trebuchets with them, they had taken to flinging flaming pots of expensive tar over the walls, hoping to burn the inhabitants out. Nothing beyond that had a hope of succeeding until they could penetrate the walls.
It was a strategy that had eventually worked. The portcullis had lifted to allow a screaming band of burning people out, and the hand-to-hand combat had been fierce for several hours. Garren lost count of the men he’d killed, though one of them had given him a nasty nick on his thigh. He didn’t even remember how it happened, only that it had. The barber surgeon traveling with the army had cauterized it before it could bleed overly and he was back to the battle with hardly a step missed.
When the sun sat low and squat on the horizon, the battle began to lag. Garren and Hoyt wandered through the pockets of fighting while more socially ranking warriors invaded the interior of the castle to claim it for Richard once again. Garren’s job was to make sure the major fighting was quelled and to discourage any further rebellion. He did so with exhaustive efficiency and demanded surrender from those still resisting. With Hoyt’s assistance, he placed them under arrest and segregated the officers from the men into prisoner groups.
It was a long process that drug well on into the evening, and Garren had been grateful for Hoyt’s presence. The man had been a fierce warrior, one of the best he’d ever seen. His respect for the man grew and a bond intensified.
The skirmish had truthfully taken less time than he had originally thought, mostly because the rebel force had been poorly supplied and poorly organized. True to form, Garren had come at them like a hammer and had quashed them soundly. He was the first one into battle, and the last one to leave. It had always been his mode of operation, something that continually endeared him to his men. He never expected them to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself.
It was after midnight when he sent Hoyt off to sleep. The old man was so exhausted he could barely stand. Garren lingered on the battlefield with the last few prisoners before returning to his own tent. The castle was quiet, the prisoners finally secured, and the squire that traveled with him had lit the fire in his tent and had food and drink waiting for him. Garren sat heavily on a sturdy stool, allowing himself a sweet moment to feel his exhaustion. The squire came back into the tent with a great piece of meat, some part of the cow that had been cooked to blackness. Garren wasn’t particularly hungry, but he took it anyway. The squire, a young man to be knighted the next year, hovered before him.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” he asked.
Garren set the beef down; he couldn’t stomach it at the moment. He took his cup of wine instead. “Perhaps some water to wash my hands with,” he took a long drink. “Where are my commanders?”
“Lord Payn and Lord Barnard have not yet returned from battle, my lord,” the lad replied. “I have heard rumor that they have fallen.”
Payn de Cantelupe and Barnard de Warrenne were young nobles from two of the more powerful families on the Welsh Marches. They had brought four hundred men-at-arms with them, men that would now fall to Garren’s command if what the squire said was true. It would make his presence more critical than ever and his chances of returning home soon dwindle. Garren took another gulp of wine, pondering the information.
“Do we have any further news from Newark Castle?”
“Not since last eve, my lord. As far as we know, there is heavy fighting in and around the castle. They are expecting us as soon as this unpleasantness at Lincoln is finished.”
Garren knew that. He was always expected somewhere, ready for battle at a moment’s notice. It was one encounter after another, a never-ending parade of castles, villains, allies and action. Somewhere it had ceased to be a war between Richard and John and become an endless conflict between countrymen. When Garren had led the first charge at Tick Hill Castle, he was foolishly hoping that whatever battles there were would be short-lived, and that he could return to Derica within a few short weeks.
But the weeks had stretched into months. Two months, three weeks, three days, fifteen hours, and an odd number of minutes. He remembered to the last detail. He knew Derica would be frantic, thinking of committing herself to Yaxley Nene Abbey if she hadn’t done so already. He felt a great deal of comfort in that, truthfully, for no matter how long the war waged, he knew where to find her, and he knew that she would be safe. He was desperately sorry that she would have to go through so much emotional turmoil in the meanwhile, thinking he was dead when he was very much alive and thinking of her every minute of every day. He longed for her as he had never longed for anything in his life.
But thoughts like that were useless. They simply made him hurt more. Pulling himself from the brink of emotional decline, as he had done so many times over the past several weeks, he drained his cup and reached for a piece of bread.
�
��We should be finished here tomorrow,” he told the squire. “I do not anticipate Lincoln Castle taking any more of our time. We ship the prisoners south and move the army north by midday. Spread the word to whatever commanders I have left. Arrange a meeting in my tent in one hour.”
The squire nodded and fled. Garren returned to his meal, emitting a heavy sigh as he forced himself to eat. After two bites, his thoughts turned to his pallet and a short nap before his officers arrived for conference. As he took one last drink from his cup, someone entered his tent.
Expecting the squire, it took Garren longer than usual to recognize Fergus. When recognition dawned, he stared at the man as if he had grown two heads. Fergus, seeing the shock, the suspicion, the anxiety, wasted no time.
“Garren,” he muttered, true satisfaction in his voice. “They told me you were here. Thank Almighty God you are alive.”
Garren wasn’t sure how to react. He didn’t know where to begin. But one thing was foremost in his mind; if Fergus was here, then….
“Where is my wife?”
The weary smile faded from Fergus’ face. “My father heard about the wars between Richard and John. I knew you would be in the midst of them. I promised your wife that I would find you and make sure that you were safe.”
Garren couldn’t help but notice that his question hadn’t been answered. “Where is she?”
There was no room for pleasantries or idle talk. Garren’s expression was taut with anticipation. Fergus had hoped to ease his friend into the predominant reason for his visit, but he could see it would not happen. What he had to say would be the hardest words he ever had to bring forth.
The Agents of William Marshal Volume II: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 49