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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Why should they be palatable to de Poyer?”

  William believed he was doing the best thing for all concerned, but he had to remind himself that Hoyt was the Widow le Mon’s uncle and, understandably, very fond of her. He needed to be diplomatic.

  “I have known Keller for years, as had Garren,” the Marshal replied. “In fact, they fought together on many campaigns and are of the same warrior fabric; powerful, cunning, and resourceful, though Keller does not have nearly the intelligence that Garren had. He is a large man with more strength than brains, but his nature is good and he is obedient to a fault. He will do as he was told, no matter what the order.”

  An inkling of suspicion came to Hoyt’s mind as to the nature of the request. “And that would be?”

  William looked at him. “The protection of a strong husband is necessary to a widowed woman, especially Garren’s widow.”

  Hoyt knew instantly what was coming. “And you have asked de Poyer to marry her.”

  “Garren would want her well taken care of.”

  Hoyt stared at him, dumbfounded. “Christ, William,” he hissed. “Garren is hardly cold in his grave and you have already married off his wife.”

  “I do not see the quandary in that.”

  Hoyt put down his empty glass, remembering the day that Garren and Derica met. He remembered the subsequent days that saw a magical attraction between them to the day when Garren ended up in the vault. What his niece and the knight had went beyond simple attraction. There was genuine emotion involved, so strong that it eclipsed the sun.

  “There is no possible way I can explain this to you, but I shall make an attempt,” Hoyt said. “Garren and Derica’s feelings for one another go beyond something that you and I can understand. It transcends time and sentiment, like the first, best love that ever touched the darkness of this earth. My niece was fortunate enough to experience something that few mortals do. You can’t just push that aside with titles and another husband.”

  “I am not attempting to,” William stressed. “But you cannot deny that Garren would want his wife well taken care of.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And she will be, I promise.”

  “She should go home to her family.”

  “She will not. My gift to Garren is to see that she sustains his legacy and doesn’t end up back in that den of vipers.”

  Hoyt didn’t argue further with him. He knew it was fruitless. But after William finally retired for the night, he summoned a messenger of his own and sent the man east to Framlingham.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Days passed into a week, and then two. Derica had grown strong enough to help with the chores, discovering she wasn’t very good at cooking but that she was quite good at mending. The massive lump on her head had slowly subsided and with it, her memory had returned in bits and pieces. She could remember the large family of men and a few of their names – Hoyt was her uncle, Dixon and Daniel were her brothers, but she still had no idea where they all lived or who the rest of the nameless men were.

  At night, she dreamt of a massive man with copper-gold hair who filled her with wondrous weakness. She awoke in the morning, expecting to see him sleeping beside her, and repeatedly disappointed when he wasn’t there. Perhaps he was the husband who had beaten her and thrown her into the river, though her instinct told her the man was not the kind. Surely if he was her husband, he would come looking for her. But no man came all of these days.

  Early one morning, Mair roused her from a deep, warm sleep. Derica yawned, rolling onto her back and searching for her clothes. The clothes that Mair had found her in had been unsalvageable, so the woman had given her what was probably her best clothing to wear. Considering the near-rags Mair wore, Derica could surmise nothing else.

  Derica slept in her shift, a soft wool garment that hung to her ankles. Over her head, she pulled the dark blue woolen surcoat with long sleeves, and then she pulled on a plain fawn-colored sleeveless garment that was made for durability and warmth. These were her clothes, day in and day out, and Mair washed them once since giving them to her. They smelled like rushes, and a little smoke.

  “Get up, get up,” Mair apparently thought Derica was moving too slowly. “We must get up and go to the lake.”

  Derica ran a wooden comb through her hair, wincing when it caught a snag. “The lake? Why?”

  Mair smiled, handing Sian a cup of warmed goat’s milk. “For a winter’s harvest. You will see.”

  Derica thought she meant fish. Pulling her hair into a braid at the nape of her neck, she put on her shoes and borrowed cloak, which was really more of a woolen blanket, and followed Mair and the children out into the early morning. Everything was damp and icy as they made their way through the trees and into the outskirts of the small village.

  The sun rose steadily and smoke from cooking fires hung heavy in the misty air. Mair led them around the village and to a well-traveled road that headed to the east. Sian and Aneirin walked on either side of Derica, holding baskets for their harvest. They had decided over the past week that they liked Derica very much and had taken to following her everywhere. Sian was a sweet, protective little boy, while Aneirin was more aggressive in a big sisterly manner and liked to push her younger brother around a bit. They squabbled here and there, but had mostly made wonderful companions for Derica. She was quite fond of them.

  “Bryndalyn?”

  For the past few days, Derica had been having dreams and memories that suggested that wasn’t her name, but she answered nonetheless. “Aye?”

  Sian grinned up at her. He was always grinning at her. “Tell me of the knights.”

  They had been having a discussion for several days about knights. Sian was enamored with warriors. She smiled gently at him. “Men with big horses and bigger swords.”

  She held her arms up to indicate an enormous weapon, and Sian’s grin broadened. “Tell me of a fight!”

  Derica thought hard. She thought she could recall a tournament, events flowing through her mind of colors and lists and shouting people. Dixon had taken the melee prize at this particular one. Very slowly, she could recall the name York. This particular tournament had been in York, and she recollected how much she had loved gazing at the magnificent cathedral.

  “Do you remember what I told you about tournaments?”

  “Aye!”

  “Then do you remember what I told you about the knight’s weaponry?”

  Sian nodded eagerly. “They use a lance for the jost.”

  “Joust,” she corrected.

  “Joust,” Sian repeated. “They use their swords for the me.. me…”

  “Melee.”

  “A fight!”

  She laughed softly. “Aye, a fight, little man. They stick each other with swords until one man is left standing. It is a horrible, bloody spectacle, something I suspect you would love immensely.”

  Sian began swinging the basket around as if fighting for his life. “Behold, bad men,” he said, swinging the basket so close to Derica’s head that she had to duck. “Beware of my wrath!”

  Derica took hold of Aneirin’s hand, pulling her gently out of the way so she would not be struck by the flying basket. “All hail, Sir Sian of the Dark Woods.”

  Sian liked that name. Derica had come up with it one night when the young boy was expressing his desire to be the greatest knight in all the land. He paused in his basket swinging and bowed stiffly.

  “I shall marry you when I am a knight.”

  Derica cocked an eyebrow. “I think that I shall be a bit old for you, but your offer is most flattering.”

  The boy suddenly looked very serious. He slipped his cold little hand into Derica’s. “But who will take care of you?”

  Derica had flashes of the man with the sandy-copper hair, straining with body and soul to remember who he was. In her heart, she already knew. “My husband will, when he finds me.”

  Sian looked confused. “Mam says he is bad for what he did to you. I will
kill him if he tries to hurt you.”

  Derica stroked his dark head. “I am very fortunate to have a protector such as you. But he is my husband, and if he comes for me, I must go with him. I belong to him.”

  Sian didn’t agree with her but he didn’t know what to say. Aneirin looked frightened. Up ahead, Mair was leading them off the road and into some trees. Derica and the children followed. On the other side of a thin line of trees lay a large pond, swamped with too much water. Mair paused at the edge, and when Derica and the children reached her, she put her hand in the water up to the elbow, fished around, and came up with a handful of wet, red berries.

  “Come on, help me,” she encouraged them.

  Soon, they were all harvesting the wet fruit from the swampy water. At Mair’s urging, Derica popped one in her mouth and was delighted with the strong bitter-sweet flavor. They swept the edge of the pond until their baskets were full and their hands were freezing and wet. Derica dried off Sian’s hands, while Mair dried off Aneirin’s.

  The children’s teeth were chattering with cold, but they were thrilled with their booty, dancing around with the catch of red berries. As Derica bent over to pick up the little scarf that Sian had dropped, the little boy gleefully swung his basket around and hit her on the back. Derica pitched forward, unable to stop herself from ramming head-first into the decomposing tree directly behind her. Stars flashed before her eyes before everything went suddenly dark.

  She hadn’t been out very long, perhaps a few moments. Derica blinked her eyes, gazing up at Sian and Mair’s worried faces. She put a hand up to her bruised forehead, struggling to sit.

  “Are ye well?” Mair was beside herself with horror at what her son had done.

  Derica nodded unsteadily. “I… I think so.”

  Sian, over the shock of having accidentally hit her, began to wail and Derica comforted him. “There, there,” she hugged him. “I am fine. Do not be troubled.”

  “I am sorry, Bryndalyn,” he sniffed.

  Derica’s expression slowly changed, as if a spark of flame slowly bloomed within her mind. She rubbed her forehead again, a weary smile on her lips.

  “That’s not my name,” she said softly.

  Sian’s tears faded and he looked at her, confused. Mair, too, looked surprised. “It is not?”

  Derica closed her eyes briefly, suddenly remembering everything in a waterfall of memories and feelings. They had been struggling to come through for several days and the knock on the head was apparently all she had needed. Her smile broadened as if the most wonderful thing in the world had just happened.

  “My name is the Lady Derica de Rosa le Mon,” she said, restraining her excitement lest she frighten the children with it. “My husband is Sir Garren le Mon, sworn to King Richard and vassal of William Marshal.”

  Mair squeezed her arm. “So ye do remember now.”

  Derica nodded. “I do.” She hugged Sian tightly. “My thanks to you, Sian, for causing me to hit my head. ’Twas the best gift you could have given me.”

  The little boy was glad he was not in trouble, happy his friend was so joyful. But something occurred to him out of all the fuss and joy going on. “Your husband is a knight?”

  Derica nodded, remembering the man with the sandy-copper hair and thrilled to remember every last detail about him. “He is a great knight,” she said quietly. “And he did not beat me and throw me in the river. I was too close to the edge and slipped in. The bruises were from my fall.”

  “Ye recollect the fall that brought ye to us?” Mair asked. “Do ye also remember where ye’re from?”

  “We were at Cilgarren Castle,” Derica said. “How far are we from there?”

  Mair thought. “A goodly distance, I think. ’Tis to the north of us.”

  “But you know of it?”

  “I have lived here all my life. I know the land.”

  Derica rubbed her head again and stood up, gripping the offending tree for support. But she didn’t care that her head was swimming; all that mattered is that she could remember who she was again. It was deliriously liberating. She was seized with the desire to return to Cilgarren right away.

  “I must go home,” she said. “Will you help me?”

  Mair nodded. “Of course we will.”

  “Can we make it in a day, if we start now? ’Tis still early.”

  Mair shrugged. “Is it also possible yer husband is already looking for ye? Perhaps if we stay here, he will come to us.”

  Tears came to Derica’s eyes, remembering her last conversation with Fergus. The good memories as well as the bad rejoined her. She wondered what had happened during her absence. “He is fighting the wars between Richard and John. I suspect he’ll not come looking for me any time soon.”

  Mair understood. She didn’t like the thought of wandering the dangerous countryside with her children, but she could not refuse her. “Very well,” she said softly. “We will take you home.”

  Derica sensed the moment between them, the sacrifice Mair was willing to make for a woman she hardly knew. “I cannot tell you what you have meant to me, you and your children. You have taken me in and cared for me, and I will not forget your kindness. My family has much wealth and I swear I shall reward you for your trouble.”

  Mair’s pale complexion flushed. “We have all we need. I did not help ye for the fortune to be gained by it.”

  “I know you didn’t. But you shall be rewarded all the same. You have risked much.”

  There was nothing more to say. Rubbing her head again, Derica let go of the tree and took Sian’s hand. Her heart was lighter than it had been since she came to this place. Together, the four of them made their way back through the trees, towards the road. The day was warming as the sun struggled through the clouds. Sian saw a rabbit with big white ears and ran off in pursuit. He wanted to play with it, but Aneirin wanted the fur for a coat. Derica and Mair reached the road, watching the children chase the rabbit through the bushes. A low rumble in the distance caught their attention.

  “Rain is coming,” Mair glanced up at the semi-cloudy sky.

  Derica looked up, too. But the rumble didn’t stop; it continued and seemed to grow louder. Her gaze moved to the road leading west.

  “I do not think it is rain,” she said. “Listen. It sounds more like horses. Many horses.”

  Mair’s relaxed expression tensed. “An army?”

  Derica was quiet a moment, thinking. “Where does this road lead?”

  “To Pembroke.”

  There was a large castle in Pembroke. “Get the children,” Derica said with quiet urgency.

  They sprinted into the bramble. Derica came across Aneirin and grasped the little girl by the wrist, but the child didn’t understand. She thought it was a game and pulled away from Derica, laughing. Derica chased her through a cluster of trees, panicked when she saw that the girl was heading back up towards the road. She called her name, trying to stop her, but the child dashed onward. By the time she hit the road, Derica was right behind her and finally grabbed her around the waist.

  “Got you!” she breathed.

  She noticed the dust first. Whirling around with the child still in her arms, her eyes fell on a large group of armed men several feet away. They were clad in expensive armor and rode massive chargers, animals built for the brutality of war. Having been around knights her entire life, she knew this particular group of men could be nothing other than seasoned warriors.

  The group carried several Welsh crossbowmen with them, men renowned for their deadly accuracy. It was a war party. She prayed that Mair and Sian would stay to the bushes as she herself faced the horde, having no other choice. To run would be to surely invite them to follow, and that could result in the capture of all of them.

  The group had come to a halt. Derica pushed Aneirin behind her, protectively, facing the men with courage. One knight flipped up his visor, studying her carefully.

  “I have traveled this road many a time and have never seen a fairy, though
I have heard tale of them,” he said. When Derica didn’t reply, he continued in a less friendly tone. “Your name, woman.”

  Derica knew her family name held much weight, on both sides of the realm. If these knights supported the Prince, then it would save her. If not, it may very well work against her. But it was her name, for better or worse.

  “Who asks?” she questioned with polite authority.

  “You will answer me, wench.”

  “I will. As soon as you answer me. And you will not call me wench.”

  The knight was working up another snappish retort, but the large knight next to him put out a hand, stopping the reaction. The knight who spoke reworded his reply.

  “The Lord of Pembroke asks.”

  Derica knew she had to tell him. To be evasive would only pull her deeper into what could possibly be an unpleasant situation. She’d already been far bolder than she should have been.

  “The Lady Derica de Rosa le Mon.”

  The knight snorted. “And I am the King of France. I will ask you one more time your name. Lie to me, and punishment shall be swift.”

  “I did not lie. I am the daughter of Bertram de Rosa of Framlingham Castle and wife to Garren le Mon, heir to the barony of Anglecynn and Ceri and descendent of Saxon kings. My father and uncles have crusaded with King Henry, and my godfather is Roger Bigod, second Earl of Norfolk. Shall I go on?”

  The helmed heads looked at each other. The large knight who had held up a quelling hand lifted his visor, gaining a better look. His large brown eyes regarded her. He finally spurred his charger forward, an enormously hairy red horse with an abundance of cream-colored fur around its hooves. Derica didn’t flinch as he came to within a few feet of her.

  “You are Garren le Mon’s widow?”

  Derica felt as if she had been struck. “I am his wife,” she replied steadily.

  “What are you doing so far from Cilgarren, lady?”

  Derica wasn’t sure where to start with all of it, and her mind was still spinning with his words. Garren le Mon’s widow. And how did this knight, whom she did not know, have the knowledge that she was at Cilgarren? “I… I was lost and preparing to make my way back home.” It sounded like a lame excuse, even to her.