The Whispering Night (23 page)

Garren cast his wife a
wink. “Marrying this woman against her father’s wishes is crime enough. We need
to find safe haven until his anger cools.”

Emyl laughed. “I see
now. Well, I cannot blame you in the least. Were I younger and prettier, I
might have done the same thing.” He reached over by the hearth, collecting a
large earthenware jug. “A drink, then. Let us toast your criminal activities.”

Emyl took a huge
swallow, reminding Garren very much of his son. Derica smirked as her husband
reluctantly took the container and ingested a long swallow of the bitter, dark
liquid. 

“Do I get to drink to my
own criminal activities, too?” she asked.

Garren cocked an eyebrow
at her but dutifully handed her the jug.  Derica took a gulp that spilled over
her lips. She coughed and laughed at the same time, making a face at the
strength of the liquor. Garren, grinning, shook his head at her and took the
jug away. Emyl crowed happily.

“Garren, she is
wonderful,” he took another drink. “Too bad you married her before my son had a
fair chance. And where is my prodigal boy these days? Not visiting his father,
I can tell you. I haven’t seen his swarthy hide in years.”

Garren’s jovial mood
vanished.  He didn’t dare look at his wife, who was suddenly looking at the
fire.  He didn’t want to tell this lonely old man that his only son had died as
a result of Garren’s crime.  As he struggled to find an answer, Derica spoke.

“The last I saw of him,
he was riding to the south of Yaxley Nene Abbey,” she said softly. “I do not
know where he went, but he was in good health last I saw him.”

Garren shot her a
strange look, his jaw tense and his eyes narrowed. She turned away from the
fire, facing her husband as if daring him to disagree with her. He wouldn’t
back down and neither would she. After a moment, she looked at Emyl.

“Do you know that your
son rescued me from my prison and delivered me to Garren?” she said. “He was
brilliant in his plans.  Why, had it not been for him, Garren and I would still
be separated, longing for one another. “Tis a horrible thing to love someone
you can never be with. Your son saved us from that fate.”

Emyl looked pleased and
surprised. “Truly, now? My son was noble for once in his life?”

“Verily,” Derica said.
“He is as clever as a fox and as loyal as a hound. Garren and I are both
eternally grateful to him.”

Emyl scratched his
thinning hair. “Perhaps the lad has become a worthy knight, after all.  He
wasn’t always so, you know.”

“How so?” Derica asked.

Garren knew he was
foolish not to stop the charade this instant.  But Emyl’s expression was so
that Garren didn’t have the heart.  He rationalized his lack of truth by
telling himself that he did not know for sure that Fergus was dead; Hoyt had
never actually seen his body. But the implication was such that the de Rosas
had finished him off in their zeal to locate Derica.

Garren listed to Emyl go
on about Fergus’ shortcomings. His son was rash, young and foolish, to be sure,
but he was also strong and virtuous to a point. Drink and gambling were his
vices, as were his father’s. 

Garren finally sat down
in an old chair, watching his wife’s profile in the firelight as she listened
to the old man, noticing the wrinkle in her nose when she laughed. His thoughts
soon turned from Fergus to Derica, and his heart began to swell so that he
thought it might burst from his chest.  Outside, the rain pounded harder,
distracting him from his thoughts.

“Derica, sweetheart,” he
muttered. “We should be on our way. Are you warm and dry enough to continue?”

She nodded, her cheeks
rosy from sitting so near the hearth. “I am.”

Emyl fingered the cloak,
laid out before the flames. “’Tis nearly dry,” he stood up. “Give me a moment
to gather my things and we’ll be off.”

Garren could have very
well found the castle himself, but he allowed Emyl to feel useful. He was sure
the old man didn’t get much chance at that. Moreover, he was still feeling
guilty about Fergus.  In very short time, Emyl was cloaked and carrying one of
the biggest swords Garren had ever seen, save his own.  As Derica donned her
drying cloak, Garren indicated the old man’s weapon.

“A fine piece,” he said.
“Where did you acquire it?”

Emyl held the weapon up
for Garren to inspect. “’Twas a gift from my liege, Shrewsbury.” He beheld the
sword as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. “De Braose was an
evil bastard, the most wicked marcher lord on the border. But he rewarded his
faithful well. He gave this to me for meritorious service, probably stolen off
of a dead Welsh prince.”

Garren knew well the
marcher lords, past and present. The Marshall was also a marcher lord. They
were often the most ruthless men in the kingdom simply because the Welsh border
was the most disputed. 

Outside, the thunder
rolled, and Emyl sheathed his sword. Garren put his helm on, adjusting it on
his head so that it did not chaff against his skin.  Just as Emyl opened the
door of his warm hut, lightning flashed across the sky.

“The weather worsens,”
he commented. “Are you sure you won’t stay here until this passes?”

Garren swept Derica into
his arms. “If the castle is as derelict as your son said it was and provides no
immediate shelter, then perhaps we shall. But for the moment, I would like to
see it. I feel more secure within stone walls.” He glanced as his wife. “Should
the lady’s family be tracking us, I would not want to be caught in a cottage
that would be easily burned to the ground. And I would not want to jeopardize
you.”

Emyl threw up his hood.
“Pah,” he spat. “They’d have a fight on their hands, I can tell you.”

Garren didn’t reply. He
followed the old man out into the driving rain, placing Derica upon the wet
back of the charger.  As he mounted up in front of her, Emyl disappeared around
the side of the cottage and emerged a short time later astride a small,
pale-colored donkey. Garren remembered Fergus’ father coming to visit his
squiring son, perched on the crest of a mighty red charger. To see him like
this, a worn out man on a worn out steed, was disheartening.

They followed Emyl out
onto the road that led through the town. They were heading west, into rain that
stung with its ferocity. Garren shielded Derica as best he could, providing a
huge windbreak from the elements.  She huddled behind him, well protected, her
cheek against his back as she watched the road pass by.  When the charger began
its jaunty trot, she had to lift her head otherwise it would bang against
Garren’s body.  The rain fell hard, wetting her already cold nose.

It was slow going in the
bad weather. Eventually, they reached a decline in the road. Derica peered
around Garren and saw that the road descended to the banks of a river, running
full with rainwater.  Ahead of them, Emyl directed his donkey off the road and
into the thick, grassy mud.

 There was so much fog
and rain that it was difficult to see for any distance around them.  Garren
followed Emyl into the sludge, realizing it was not so much a muddy field as a
muddy path.  The grass, as far as he could tell, was simply overgrown on to it.
Ascending the path, he craned his neck back to see what he could through the
haze. Gradually, an ominous sight came into view.

Cilgarren Castle loomed
like a great ghostly beast on the hill high above them.  Garren had seen many
castles in his life, and it was clear from the onset that Cilgarren was no
ordinary castle; as they mounted the path, he could see how the path cleverly
paralleled the structure, making it convenient for defenders to shoot down
invading forces.

 Men would be picked off
like sitting ducks.  Massive round towers connected the curtain wall, arrow
slits evident in the rounded stone fortifications.  The west side of the castle
was protected by a steep cliff that disappeared into the river below, while the
northern side with the path was protected by a steep, unmanageable slope.

With every muddy step
his destrier took, Garren became more impressed with what he was witnessing. It
was apparent that this huge gray beast was built by for greatness.  In the same
breath, he was baffled why it should sit, unused and unwanted, when it could be
a major force to be reckoned with.

The path crested at the
top of the slippery hill and a large curtain wall stood before them. At first
glance, Garren estimated it was easily twenty feet high. There was no telling
how thick it was until they came closer.  They edged the horses forward and
Emyl spoke with reverence.

“I had forgotten the
beauty of her,” his eyes grazed the structure. “Why the princes abandoned it, I
shall never understand. But they say ghosts chased them away.”

“Ghosts?”  Derica
echoed. “What ghosts?”

Emyl gestured at the
fortress shrouded in mist. “Legend says that Cilgarren was built by a prince of
Dyfed named Owain,” he answered. “He built it as his seat of power, given to
him by his father, Madog ap Gruffyd.  Owain had a wife named Bryndalyn, the
most beautiful maiden in the land. One day, shortly after the castle was
finished, Owain went off to fight one of the many skirmishes that hamper the
Welsh. Men returned from the battle saying that Owain had perished. In her
sorrow, Bryndalyn threw herself from the cliff that overlooks the river.”

Derica’s mouth was open
in sorrow. “Poor lady,” she murmured. “If Garren were not to return to me, I….”

She trailed off, unable
to continue. As Garren reached around to pat her hand, Emyl shook his head
sadly.

“Aye, my lady, but the
truth was that Owain did not die. He returned, quite sound, only to find his
lady dead.  ‘Tis said he went mad, locking himself in a room with her body. He
neither ate, nor slept, but kept himself in with her corpse. Eventually, he
died of a broken heart.” The old man looked at her. “But God punishes those who
take their own lives, as Bryndalyn and Owain did. So the two of them spend
eternity searching the rooms of this place for each other, never in the same
place at the same time. On still nights, one can hear them calling for each
other.  They come so close, but are ever damned to be a just breath away.”

“So they can never be
together, ever?”

“So it is said.”

Derica looked as if she
was about to cry.  “That is the most awful story I have ever heard.”

Garren held her hand,
smiling faintly at the old man’s story and at his wife’s gullibility.  The mood
was growing heady and he had no intention of letting it get the better of them.

“Are you willing to face
the ghosts to get out of this rain?” he teased. “Boo!”

She frowned at his
attempt to startle her. “How can you make jokes about this? ‘Tis a horrible
tale, Garren. Tragic.”

“I am sorry,” he kissed
her hand and spurred his charger towards the entrance. “You’re right, It is
tragic. I believe I shall go off and cry myself ill right now.”

She couldn’t see his
expression, smirking at her, but she could feel his humorous snorts against her
body. “Stop laughing at me. How would you like it if we were separated like
that, through all eternity?”

“I wouldn’t. Tell me if
you plan on doing something foolish like that, will you?”

“I don’t think I shall
tell you anything. I think I shall go back to Framlingham and leave you alone
with your bad sense of humor.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

He turned the horse
around and she squealed, laughing as he reined the horse in a couple of tight
circles.  Finally, they were heading back for the gate and she smacked him,
lightly, on the shoulder.

“Stop fooling, Garren,”
she said. “If anything of what Emyl says is true, then this is a revered place.
We should be respectful.”

Emyl had watched the
interaction, smiling at their antics. Garren was a serious knight, he knew, and
put no stock in ghost stories as his lady apparently did.  Emyl didn’t know if
the legends were true or not himself, but one thing was apparent; no one had
lived in this massive place for years. There had to be a reason.

There was an enormous
ditch surrounding the outer curtain wall.  It was wide across and partially
filled with muddy rainwater.  Garren surveyed the trench and could see that, at
some time, there had been a bridge over it. He could see remains of it floating
in the muck.  There was no way the horses could cross, so he dismounted and
stood at the edge of the ditch, trying to figure out the best way to cross.
Emyl came to stand beside him and together, they mulled over the problem.

The gatehouse and wall
were directly on the other side. Garren couldn’t think of anything else but to
climb down into the ditch and see how deep it was.  He took off his helm and
began to remove his armor.

“What are you doing?”
Derica asked.

He unlatched his
breastplate. Emyl took it from him and he began to unfasten the protection
around his shoulders.

“I am going to find out
just how deep this trench is,” he told her. “If It is too deep, I shall sink to
the bottom with all of this armor on.”