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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “She is gone,” he said quietly.

  Garren stood up, his stool toppling over. “Gone? What do you mean?” He suddenly reached out, grabbing Fergus around the neck. “Did the de Rosas capture her?”

  Fergus couldn’t breathe, and there was no way he could contend against Garren’s strength. “If you kill me, you will never know the rest,” he gasped, and the grip loosened. “Nay, Garren, her family did not capture her. Please, won’t you sit? ’Twould be better for us both if you did.”

  Garren’s grip tightened again. “Damn you, Fergus, if you do not tell me what has happened to my wife, I will kill you where you stand and worry of the consequences later.”

  He meant every word, Fergus knew that. But he was not making this any easier. “Garren, please,” he begged, trying to loosen the hold on his neck. “You must be calm, my friend.”

  “Fergus!”

  Fergus could see there was no alternative than to tell him, quickly. “She knew you had gone to battle with the Marshal. She heard my father and me speaking of the civil wars. I tried to reassure her that it did not necessarily mean your death, but she was greatly distressed. She is easily distressed these days.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Fergus’ manner softened. “She carries your son, Garren. The child has turned her into a whirlwind of emotion.”

  Garren felt as if all of the wind had been knocked from him. A gambit of emotions raced over his features, delight and terror and everything in between.

  “She is with child?” he gasped.

  “Aye.”

  “Truly?”

  “I would not lie about this, my friend.”

  “And she is well?”

  Fergus was careful with his reply. “The child made her full of health, if that is what you mean. Otherwise, she drove us all mad with her raging and crying and smiles. We never knew what to expect from her.” He watched Garren’s eyes positively light with the news, a brief respite of joy from the horror that was about to follow. “When she found out about your whereabouts, she was upset, of course, but we did not believe overly so. We had seen her in a worse state. But… Garren, as closely as we can deduce, she must have thrown herself into the river in her grief. I swear that we never believed she would be capable of such a thing. The last we saw of her, she was standing on the hill overlooking the river, the hill where the wild lentils grow. You know the one. One moment she was there, the next she was gone.”

  Garren stared at him. It was an expression Fergus had never seen before. All of the color drained from Garren’s face and Fergus found himself helping the man to sit so that he would not collapse. For the all-powerful Garren le Mon to collapse like a weakling was unthinkable. But Fergus could see the man cracking, right before his eyes.

  “Perhaps she may have even slipped,” Fergus tried to soften the blow now that the hammer had fallen. “She was close to the edge, as she always is, and we found tracks in the soft earth that had dragging movement to them. She was probably gone hours by the time we realized she was missing and we searched for days, Garren. I swear to you, we didn’t sleep for several days or nights for search of her. We left no stone unturned.”

  Garren closed his eyes, falling forward to rest his head in his hands. “God, tell me this is a nightmare.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “You didn’t find her?”

  “Nay, my friend, we did not.”

  “No blood or… body?”

  “We found nothing, Garren. She is simply,” he shrugged helplessly, “gone.”

  Garren’s head remained in his hands for several long moments. When he finally lifted his face, there were tears in his eyes.

  “Just like Bryndalyn,” he muttered. “Oh… God, tell me she didn’t do what that woman did….”

  A light of recognition came to Fergus’ eye. “You know of Bryndalyn and Owain?” He knew the story, too, and horror suddenly swept him. “Just like the tale. Bryndalyn threw herself into the river when.…”

  A look from Garren made the words die in his throat. “Your father told us about it when we first went to Cilgarren,” Garren mumbled. “She was so saddened by it, but I never imagined she would follow in the shadow of the legend. It never occurred to me that my not returning immediately would… Christ, that story was in her mind, ever lingering, planting the seed of despair that made her go mad when I did not come back as I would sworn to. How long has she been missing?”

  “It has been nearly three weeks,” Fergus said. “I looked for her as long as I dared before riding to Chepstow. They told me of the battles north and I came searching for you.”

  Garren’s teeth abruptly clenched. “I know of your mission. The Marshal told me. Fergus, I swear to Almighty God, if you have done something to her and are trying to throw me off your scent, I shall….”

  Fergus shook his head emphatically. “Do you truly believe I could harm a hair on her beautiful head? Garren, you are closer to me than a brother. ’Tis true, years ago, the Marshal asked that I watch you, and as a fearful lad, I did as I was told. But as we grew older and our friendship blossomed, I put the Marshal’s priorities behind yours. I would never betray you, not even for our country. I do not blame you if you never trust me again, but I assure you, my loyalty is and always has been with you. Haven’t I proven that time and time again?” He could see that he wasn’t making much of an impact. “If I truly wanted to harm her, I could have done it on that chaotic odyssey from Framlingham to the abbey. I could have easily turned her back over to her family, but I didn’t. Does that not account for anything?”

  Garren couldn’t decide whether to kill him at that point or not. He decided against it, mostly because what Fergus said made sense. “Then why didn’t you ever tell me who you were?”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  There was a tense silence as Garren pondered the obvious. He probably shouldn’t have trusted Fergus, but years of experience and instinct took hold and the bond that had been established ages ago could not be broken. However, all of that was secondary to what had happened to Derica. Garren stood up, struggling to gain control; there was only one thought on his mind and he would kill Fergus if he tried to stop him. If Fergus were sincerely committed to their friendship, now would be the supreme test of that bond.

  “I must go and search for her,” Garren said.

  “What of the Marshal? Surely he will not….”

  Garren cast him a glare so deadly that Fergus swallowed the remainder of his words.

  “This is where William Marshal and I come to an end,” Garren growled. “I was foolish and weak to have let it come this far, but I did. I am going to find my wife and not all of the armies in England can stop me.”

  “But.…”

  “You are either with me or against me, Fergus. If you are against me, I will kill you where you stand.”

  “I am with you, of course. What can I do?”

  Garren had a clear picture of what must happen. “We will go to the battlefield,” he said in a low voice. “We will find a body; anybody that is near my size. If it is recognizable, then we will make it so that it cannot be identified. Onto this corpse will go my armor, my clothing, my weapon….”

  Fergus’ eyes gleamed. “We will make it as though you were killed in battle.”

  “This man will be me. To the Marshal, I shall be dead.”

  “And then you can search for Derica without fear of reprisal.”

  “As much as I do not relish defacing a man who has given his life in battle, there are times when sacrifice is necessary. He will have died for two just causes this night.”

  Garren and Fergus blended into the night, like wraiths, completing their gruesome work with silence and efficiency. By morning, they were far from the battlefield as word of Garren le Mon’s death spread like wildfire. When Hoyt de Rosa awoke to the news, he wept.

  She didn’t know how long she had been awake. She realized she was staring at the ceiling, a dense mixture of rus
hes and straw, woven tightly to create a barrier against the elements. When she tried to move, her entire body ached as if she had been pummeled. It was her groan of pain that stirred the others.

  “Are ye awake?’

  It was a soft female voice. Derica blinked her eyes, rolling her head with much effort to find herself gazing into a pair of pale blue eyes. She blinked again, disoriented, wondering why her head hurt so much.

  “Who… where am I?” she rasped.

  The woman smiled, reaching for a wooden pitcher. She poured something into a cup. “Here,” she helped Derica lift her head. “Drink.”

  It was water, cool and clear. Derica took a sip, then gulped until she almost choked. When the coughing died down, she saw that the woman’s face had been joined by two smaller ones. Derica gazed into children’s eyes.

  “Hello,” she said softly.

  The children, a boy and girl perhaps three and four years, respectively, giggled and did not reply. They were dark-eyed, dark haired little ones. They looked at their mother, who continued to smile.

  “How do ye feel?” the woman asked.

  Derica thought a moment. “I am not sure,” she finally said. “What happened? Where am I?”

  “Ye are in my house,” the woman replied. “We found you.”

  “Found me?”

  The woman nodded. “Aye. On the river bank. Ye were nearly dead when we came upon ye. How did ye get there?”

  Derica tried to recall. “I do not remember.” She put her hand to her head, wincing when she brushed the large lump on her forehead. “How long was I unconscious?”

  “A few days,” the woman replied. “Do ye remember where ye came from?”

  “I… not really. A castle, I think.”

  “Ye’re a lady, then.”

  “I… I do not know.”

  “I am sure ye are, by the look of ye. But ye canna remember what castle ye came from?”

  “Nay.”

  The woman didn’t ask any more questions. Derica’s mind was shrouded in a foggy mist; it was alarming to realize that, until this very moment, she couldn’t recall much of anything. Her memories were an enormous blur for the moment.

  “Where is this place?” she looked around the small, neat hut. “What village is this?”

  “It is called Rhos-hill,” the woman said. “Do ye recognize the place?”

  “Nay,” Derica shook her head. “What is your name?”

  “Mair,” she said. “My children, Sian and Aneirin.”

  Derica smiled weakly at the children, who were still hiding behind their mother. It was apparent that Mair was waiting for Derica to introduce herself. A wisp of a name sprang to mind, familiar yet not. It hung there, like an unvoiced thought. Derica spoke it, not even sure if it was true.

  “Bryndalyn,” she whispered. “I… I think that is my name. But I am not… sure. I cannot seem to recall much of anything at the moment.”

  Mair put a sympathetic hand on her forehead. “Do not be troubled,” she said. “Sleep, now. There will be time later for recollection.”

  Derica didn’t particularly want to sleep, but she remained on her pallet. When she shifted to get more comfortable, sharp pains echoed through her lower torso. She gasped softly, putting her hand against her lower abdomen to rub away the pain. Mair saw what she was doing.

  “I am sorry,” she murmured. “The child did not survive.”

  Though Derica could remember little else, she had remembered the child. She touched her belly, feeling it soft where once she had known it to be rounded and firm. Tears instantly sprang to her eyes.

  “No,” she whispered. “Please… no.”

  Mair stroked her forehead again. “ ’Twas a blessing, my lady.”

  Derica sniffled. “Why would you say that?”

  “I meant no harm. When we found ye, I would think that someone had beat you and thrown you in the river. Mayhap your husband. Any man that would beat his pregnant wife… ’tis a blessing, I say, not to bring a child into a world such as that.”

  Derica’s tears were fading in lieu of her shock. “Why would you think someone has beaten me?”

  “Because you are bruised all over your body. Someone thrashed you soundly, I would say. Do you not recall any of this?”

  She didn’t. But within the mists of her mind, she couldn’t honestly recall if anyone had taken a hand to her, ever. Bits and pieces of a large castle and men who loved her came to mind, but she couldn’t recall the names. Just faces. She closed her eyes and silent tears fell again.

  “There, there,” Mair said softly. “Sleep now, sweetheart. All will be well again.”

  When she turned away to prepare some manner of sleeping drink for Derica, the little boy with the black hair and dark eyes moved in to be a closer look. He had a sweet little face, his striking eyes gazing curiously at Derica. A tiny hand lifted and he resumed stroking Derica’s head where his mother had left off. Derica sobbed deeply at the gentleness of his gesture, the longing for her own son that she would never know.

  He was too old to be attending battle, but he was doing so nonetheless. The Marshal had never missed a battle; he was an old soldier, and they knew little else. If there was war waging, most especially his war, his presence was required.

  Newark Castle was a small structure in a strategic location. William had arrived a few days ago to await word on the fate of Lincoln Castle and plot his next move. Two days ago had seen him receive word of victory in one breath and the loss of Garren le Mon in the next.

  He had wept privately at the news, though he refused to feel guilt. Garren was a warrior and the vocation went hand in hand with death. Garren had known what his fate could be the first day he drew a sword. He had lived longer than most. Still, his passing had been a horrible blow, both personally and professionally.

  Hoyt de Rosa had joined William at Newark. The man had abandoned his family and had joined Richard’s cause in full. He had arrived a few months ago, pledging his service with a sudden strong loyalty that the Marshal was suspicious of, but that suspicion was lifted when he saw Hoyt in battle. The man was ferocious. The elder de Rosa had fought with Garren, and had been there when Garren had fallen. It had been Hoyt who had brought Garren’s body to the Marshal. One look at the face and skull disfigured by a morning star, and William had ordered the body interred in the chapel at Newark with full honors.

  William felt tremendous guilt for the state of their relationship when Garren had passed. It had been strained, though in William’s estimation that could not have been helped. Still, he would have liked to have known that Garren harbored no permanent ill will. William had hoped that the marcher lordship of Buckton would have eased any hardship. The lordship came with two castles and a large chunk of land, something Garren deserved. Now that he was no longer in the land of the living to accept it, William could think of nothing else but granting it posthumously to his wife. Perhaps by making amends to Garren’s widow, it would right things between them in the next life.

  That was his guilt talking. He hated feeling the strange stirrings of indecision and regret. Hoyt had been at his side constantly since his return and the two of them had sparred with their philosophies on life and death. Even tonight, they shared a blood-red wine and discussed a variety of critical subjects, and the important subject, Lady le Mon’s future.

  “I never asked Garren where she was,” Hoyt muttered, staring at the liquid in his cup. “In all of the months I fought at his side, I never asked. I did not want to know, as I thought it was best considering the circumstances. But you must know.”

  “Of course I do,” William would not mention the entire ugly incident with Fergus and blackmailing Garren into service. “She is well taken care of at the moment, I assure you.”

  Hoyt glanced at him. “Then I will ask you. Where is she?”

  “Wales.”

  “It is a big country.”

  “Cilgarren Castle. Near Pembroke.”

  “I must stand by my opinion, Wil
liam. She should return to Framlingham.”

  “And I must stand by mine. She will be granted the titles and lands that were intended for Garren. That is suitable to his legacy. Should she return to Framlingham, the de Rosas will erase all memories of him from your niece’s mind. That is an unacceptable end for such a man.”

  Hoyt couldn’t completely disagree. “So you intend to grant her the lordship of Knighton?”

  William’s answer was to summon a messenger to the borrowed solar. The young, skinny lad was barely a man, but William had used him before. He was cunning and rode like the wind. Standing at the waist-high writing table, he authored two missives by himself in the flickering candlelight. He carefully sanded the ink, blew it away, rolled and sealed both missives. The messenger watched anxiously as William handed over one parchment.

  “You will find your way to Pembroke Castle,” he instructed. “Do you know it?”

  The lad nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

  “Then go there with all haste. Find Keller de Poyer, the knight in charge of the garrison. He is an older man, with brown hair last I knew, and arms the size of battering rams. Give him this first missive.” William handed the boy a second rolled parchment. “And give him this one as well. Tell him it is for Lady le Mon. Is this, in any way, unclear?”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  “It is of the utmost importance that you deliver these safely to him.”

  “I will, my lord.”

  “Be gone, then.”

  The lad fled. William wandered to the lancet window, watching the bailey below as the young man leapt onto his long-legged horse and thundered through the gates. When the rider was out of view, William gazed into the misty night, struggling to release his guilt now that the deed was complete. He did not look at Hoyt, still seated by the empty bottle of claret.

  “This does not ease the loss of Garren, to be sure, but it will ease the situation with time,” William said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I have provided well for the widow in two ways; titles and lands will be hers, making her a very wealthy woman. The second provision is to give her an attractive dowry to make my orders to de Poyer more palatable.”