“Lost?”
“I wandered… too far and became lost.” When he appeared as if he didn’t believe a word, she grunted in frustration. “Suffice it to say that I was lost and am, even now, on my way home. I do not see how that is any concern of yours.”
The knight regarded her carefully; he didn’t doubt for a minute she was who she said she was. She was well spoken and exceedingly beautiful, even in the peasant clothing she was wearing. It was like looking at a diamond glistening in the dirt. But he was incredibly confused to find her wandering a road several miles south of Cilgarren Castle. She was surely as witless as she was lovely.
“William Marshal has ordered me to retrieve you, Lady le Mon.”
“Why?”
“I am to take you back to Pembroke. He has sent a missive for you.”
“A missive? What missive?”
“ ’Tis a private document, for your eyes only. I suspect it is news of some manner.”
Derica’s heart suddenly fell into her stomach; she knew what the missive was. The knight didn’t have to say another word. It had to be a missive telling her of her husband’s death, which is why the warrior referred to her as Garren’s widow. Much had apparently happened in her absence. The world was suddenly very unsteady and her heart began pounding loudly in her ears. She was vaguely aware of falling to her knees, slightly less aware of the knight dismounting his charger and coming to her aid so that she would not fall on her face. Somewhere, she could hear Aneirin crying.
“No,” she breathed. “God, please… no. He is not dead. He cannot be.”
By this time, several of the knights had ridden forward. One of them took hold of the riderless charger, while two others dismounted, mostly to gain a better look at the beautiful lady rather than to actually lend assistance. The knight that held her pulled off his helm with his free hand and passed it off to the man standing next to him.
“Help me get her on my steed,” he commanded softly.
“No!” Derica struggled weakly against him. “I will not go! I must go back to Cilgarren!”
The knight didn’t reply as he swung her up into his arms. Aneirin was crying loudly now. Mair and Sian came running out of the bushes, protesting loudly at what was surely a kidnapping. Startled, one of the Welsh crossbowmen released his weapon, and an arrow sailed with deadly precision into Mair’s chest. She was dead before she hit the ground.
The children screamed with horror. Derica, struggling for coherency, managed to angle her head around to see what had happened.
“You killed her!” she shrieked. “My God… Mair!”
The knight who held her cursed under his breath, hissing to the knight nearest him. “God’s Bones, who released that arrow?”
“I do not know, my lord.”
“Find out. And confiscate his weapon!”
“Aye, my lord.”
The children were still screaming, crying over their mother’s corpse. The knight that held Derica spoke steady orders to another knight.
“Collect the children. Bring them.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Derica had ceased to struggle. Her body went limp and she cried pitifully, tears for Garren, a few for Mair. She wished she could die, too, retreating into a world of incoherency and darkness. At the moment, she cared naught for her fate. All that mattered was that Garren was gone and her life was over.
The trip back to Pembroke passed in a blur. The knight with the big brown eyes carried her the entire way. A couple of times, she had tried to remove herself from his charger, but he had held her tightly and said little. She had asked about the children and he assured her they were well.
When they finally arrived at Pembroke, Derica was whisked into the keep by a pair of severe looking women. They hustled her into a chamber and shut the door. They chatted endlessly, asking her a myriad of questions, but she shut them out just as she had shut out the knights. She didn’t want to talk, or think, or behave even remotely human. When the women stripped her down to her woolen shift, she didn’t protest. When the women saw how dirty her shift was, and the skin beneath it, they called for a bath and gently, but firmly, coaxed the shift off of her.
The bath was hot. The women scrubbed her with an enormous sponge and soap that smelled of violets. They even washed her hair with a vinegar concoction and rinsed it out with flat ale. The scents and activity of the bath moved Derica from her numb depression to tears, and she cried with deep grief as the women removed her from the tub, rubbed her skin with oil so it would not crack, and brushed her wet hair. A heavy robe draped her body as maids scurried in and out of the chamber, bringing all manner of surcoats, bodices and shifts for the women’s approval. There was apparently nothing of acceptable finery for a lady of her station at Pembroke, but the servants were trying desperately to find something.
Two hours later found Derica with dry hair and a clean body clad in a surcoat of deep blue brocade with a long-sleeved undershift of soft white linen. She had stopped crying for the moment, but her eyes were red and swollen. Truthfully, she didn’t have the energy to cry. Everything seemed drained. The numbness had returned and she sat in her borrowed chamber, neither feeling nor seeing. The women had tried to feed her, but she would accept nothing they offered.
The flames of the fire became her friend. She stared into the golden licks, the soft light offering some warmth and physical comfort. She became one with the fire, a few stolen moments where there was no pain, no sorrow, only the warmth and light she craved at the moment. Yet, every so often an errant tear would stream down her cheek and she would dully wipe it away.
Her entire world revolved around memories of Garren, of his deep voice, his gentle laughter, now forever silenced. The fire couldn’t soothe away the pain entirely. His death was a crime, she decided. God had committed a crime against her and she would never forgive him for it. Besides, he must hate her. Why else would he bring her such happiness and then abruptly take it away.
There was a knock at the chamber door, rousing her from her thoughts. She had been dreading this moment, for she knew what was to come. The knight who had brought her to Pembroke entered, a long ecru-colored scroll in his hand. He had cleaned up somewhat since their return, no longer wearing his armor. A tunic and leather breeches replaced the chain mail suit. He walked over to where she sat, lingering by her chair as if suddenly uncomfortable in her presence. Derica ignored him, uninterested in whatever he had to say.
“I see that you are feeling better, my lady,” he commented.
Derica didn’t look up. “I want to go back to Cilgarren.”
He knew he needed to be careful with her, unsure of himself. “There is no reason for you to return, my lady.”
“There is every reason for me to return. I have friends there that are missing me.”
“What friends, my lady?”
“Friends who are in charge of my welfare while my husband is… gone.”
“I am assuming charge of your welfare now.”
She did look up at him, then, a hateful look on her face. She hadn’t the strength to argue with him, her mind a whirlwind of anguish and confusion. Her gaze trailed to the missive in his hand. “You have brought me something. Read it and be done.”
The knight looked down at the parchment as if he had forgotten he held it. Truthfully, he had been so captivated by the lady’s clean and shining beauty when he entered the chamber, he nearly had. He felt stupid.
The knight promptly rolled open the vellum, his gaze fixing on the carefully written words. Before he could start, Derica interrupted.
“Your name, sir knight.”
It occurred to him that he’d not told her. He had never been one for social pleasantries. “Sir Keller de Poyer, my lady. I am the garrison commander of Pembroke Castle.”
“Proceed, Sir Keller.”
Keller could barely read, though he’d not let on to the lady. He personally had a scribe who both wrote and read his missives. Somehow, he didn’t feel right leaving
this to the scribe. He read slowly.
“ ‘Be it known this twenty eighth day of September, Year of our Lord 1192, I, William Marshal, Chancellor to King Richard I, Supreme Majesty of the British Realm, do hereby grant to the Lady Derica de Rosa le Mon the marcher lordship of Knighton, and all privileges, lands and wealth related hereto, in honour of the sacrifice her husband, Sir Garren le Mon, has made for the King’s cause.’ ”
Derica sat there as the words sank it. There was no mistaking that the missive was notifying her of Garren’s death, but it was as if the notification was secondary to the granting of title and lands. She continued to sit, unmoving, and Keller wondered if she had even heard him.
“He goes on to list your lands,” he said. “Hopton Castle belongs to you and the lordship that stretches to the marches on the east, Adforton to the south, and Craven Arms to the north, and includes four towns, two fiefdoms, and about five thousand vassals. Additionally, you have possession of Clun Castle and her lands, although the castle was burned by the Welsh a year ago and is now an abandoned shell. The Marshal is also providing you with your own army of four hundred men, as well as ten thousand gold marks as a dowry.”
Still, Derica sat with no outward reaction. Any person in their right mind would have been delirious with joy. Keller was hesitant to say what had to come next.
“He is also providing you with a husband.”
Derica looked at him with disbelief, shock, and then anger. It was enough to get her out of the chair.
“I have a husband,” she hissed. “I do not want another.”
Keller took offense, although he should not have. From the moment he saw her, he had actually been pleased at the thought of acquiring such a beautiful bride, lands and title notwithstanding. He would have taken her with just the clothes on her back. Being somewhat inexperienced when it came to any manner of personal emotion, he matched her anger with some of his own.
“You will have to take it up with the Marshal,” he growled.
She was particularly lovely with her fury-colored cheeks. “I intend to, have no doubt.” She reached out and grabbed the vellum from him, looking at the scribble as if she could read it. “Who does he demand I marry? Who is this fool?”
Keller’s anger cooled to droll resignation. “A knight in rather good standing with some wealth of his own.”
“Who?”
“Keller de Poyer.”
Derica’s eyes widened. “You?”
“Aye,” he could read her expression. “And before you go any further, I certainly had nothing to do with this. I was only informed that I was to have a bride two days ago. Do not imagine that it brought me any great happiness to assume this burden.”
Rather than explode, Derica seemed to calm. She grasped for her chair, sitting heavily as she absorbed the information. Keller regretted his last few words the moment they left his mouth; he hadn’t meant them. The lady looked so pitifully lost at the moment. He wasn’t very good with women and right now was a prime example. He attempted to ease her in his own clumsy way.
“I fought with your husband in a few campaigns, my lady,” he said quietly. “He was a good man and an excellent knight. I have nothing but the greatest admiration for him and his death saddens me deeply. To be asked to take care of his widow is something of a tremendous honor for me.”
Derica closed her eyes, struggling not to cry. When she finally opened them, it was to look at Keller. She took a moment to study his features for the first time; he had short, thick brown hair with some gray mixed into it. His face had been marred by pimples at one time, leaving some scars on the tanned skin. He wasn’t particularly ugly, nor was he particularly handsome. He was somewhere in between. He had a big, muscular body and enormous hands, but Derica sensed a gentleness about him. He was fairly soft-spoken and seemed nervous around her. The comparison of him against Garren was inevitable; there truly was no comparison. Garren was a god, and this man was a mortal.
“I will apologize if I offended you, then,” she murmured. “You must know that my husband and I loved each other. I do not want another husband.”
“That is understandable,” he said. “You have only just been told of his death. Please do not hold it against me that I was the one to tell you. It was only by chance.”
“I know that.”
“When I saw you out on the road, earlier today, I am sorry if I was harsh in addressing you as his widow. I did not know that you were unaware.”
“You were not harsh. You do not need to apologize.”
He stood there, growing uncomfortable, unsure what to say. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but suspected he should. Still, he wanted to reassure her that he would attempt to make as fine a husband as Garren le Mon. Perhaps it would help her grief and uncertainty right now.
“My lady, may I speak?”
“Aye.”
He scratched his head before continuing. “Perhaps this is not the right time to say this, but I am not sure if there will ever be a right time, so I must speak.” His hands, unconsciously, were cracking knuckles. “I am not Sir Garren, nor could I ever be, but I swear to you that I will never raise a hand to you, nor speak harshly to you, and I will provide you with comfort and gifts and protection as well as, or better than, any man alive. You will never want for anything. Perhaps… perhaps with time, you will grow accustomed to the idea of me as your husband, a poor substitute for Sir Garren.”
It was a kind thing to say, gently spoken. Derica could only nod, as she felt the tears coming again. Keller realized he had been expecting a reaction from her, something favorable. But she gave him nothing. Not knowing what else to say, he turned to leave.
“Thank you,” Derica whispered. “For your kindness and hospitality, I thank you.”
Keller paused, dipping his head graciously in response to her words. He also felt emboldened by them.
“If I were to bring you some food, would you eat it?”
Derica didn’t want to give him the kind of encouragement she suspected he was looking for. She refused to even think about it.
“I would like to have the children brought to me,” she said. “And perhaps some food for all of us.”
A hint of a smile crossed Keller’s lips. “It shall be done, my lady.”
Sian and Aneirin slept with Derica that night in the great bed, and for the next several nights afterward. She would not let them out of her sight. Keller would come every morning as their meal was brought and would attempt to engage her in small talk, which he wasn’t very good at. Although Derica could sense his conversational ineptness, she hadn’t a greater desire to lead their conversations. So Keller would leave within a few minutes, saying he had duties to attend to, which he did, but it was obvious he was disappointed that his future bride had no interest in him. Derica was never rude, but she wasn’t particularly receptive, either. Keller would return two or three more times throughout the day just to see if she required anything, but she never did. At least, not from him.
Whether or not she required anything, Keller saw to it that she had an entirely fitting noblewoman’s wardrobe by week’s end. The two severe women who aided Derica were the chatelaines of the castle and had set an armada of women sewing garments for Derica and the children. Keller had personally escorted the severe women to the town of Penfro to barter with the merchants for fabric. While the women tended to the dressing needs, he had wandered to the silverworker’s hovel and had come away with several lovely pieces of jewelry.
Keller had never bought jewelry in his life and had gone over the top with his first purchase. Either the silversmith had been very persuasive, or Keller had been very weak to resist the sales pitch. At any rate, there were three brooches with different colored semi-precious stones, one necklace with Citrine stone and one with Garnet stone, each necklace with a matching ring, and finally a filigree belt inlaid with pale purple stones that he had sewn into a gown of heavy lavender brocade.
On the guise that they were wedding gifts to h
is bride, Keller had delivered everything to Derica after sup one evening. He’d simply thrown all of the gowns on the bed and then handed her the jewelry in a great awkward bunch. While Derica stood there with her hands overflowing with silver and stones, Keller gave the children little trinkets he had also picked up on his shopping tour. Sian had a wooden horse and cart and a tiny sword, while Aneirin had a doll. Before they could properly thank him, Keller predictably fled the room.
Stunned with the gifts and his fast disappearance, Derica put the jewelry on the table against the wall and went through the pieces one at a time. Aneirin came to stand beside her, inspecting each item carefully. The little girl had never seen such things. She put one of the necklaces around the doll’s neck and Derica smiled her approval. The jewelry was finely made, Derica knew; she had possessed a great deal of it, left behind at Framlingham. This small horde must have cost Keller a sizable amount of money.
She turned to the gowns, lying in a heap upon the bed. She could see at least five different colors of garments. There was a lavender, a pale blue, a deep green, a rich yellow, and a soft red. While Sian crawled on the ground alternately playing with his cart and his wonderful sword, Derica and Aneirin inspected the clothes. They were well made. Since she had come to Pembroke in nothing but peasant rags, Keller had been more than thoughtful to her needs. More than that, he had gone out his way to be kind to her and the children.
Derica fingered the gowns, feeling guilty for the way she was behaving towards him, but she didn’t want to give the man any encouragement. Her heart forever belonged to Garren. But that should not prevent her from being nice to Keller, who was doing all he could to make her life comfortable.
It was late when Derica finally put the children to sleep. Sian liked to fall asleep in her arms, so disengaging herself from him when he was finally asleep was something of a tricky effort. She managed to do so without rousing him. The fire in the chamber burned low, giving off a good deal of heat as she silently changed into one of the new gowns Keller had given her.
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