The Whispering Night (24 page)

Derica climbed off of
the charger. She went to stand next to her husband, eyeing the trench, eyeing
him as he removed every last scrap of protection. The rain soaked the woolen
tunic he wore and water dripped off of his face.  She wiped a drop from the end
of his nose, smiling timidly when he looked at her.  Garren gave her a quick
kiss before lowering himself into the ditch.

“Be careful,” she
admonished him. “There may be spikes in there that you cannot see.”

He almost slipped on the
sides, warily regaining his balance. “I shall be careful.”

“Don’t fall!”

“I won’t.”

Derica winced and
twisted her fingers as he slid down the muddy side and into the water. He
stopped sinking when he was up to his knees.  Surprised but cautious, he took a
few more steps across the ditch.

“It looks like this is
all there is of it,” he announced. “Still, we can’t get the horses across. The
sides are too steep.”

Derica immediately began
to descend into the ditch. “I am coming with you.”

He slugged back across
the water. “Wait, sweetheart, don’t get your feet wet.”

He carefully took her in
his arms and carried her to the other side.  Derica deftly climbed to the top
of the bank with a strategic shove from her husband. Emyl, his hands full of
swords, slid down the muddy incline and trudged across the water as Garren
hoisted himself out on the opposite side. Lowering a helping hand, he pulled
the old man out of the ditch and took his weapon.

The great gatehouse
loomed overhead. Derica stood there a moment, inspecting it, wondering if she
could hear Bryndalyn and Owain calling to each other.  Garren whispered a
ghostly moan in her ear to tease her and she made a face at him. He took her
hand as they crossed under the half-raised portcullis.

Inside the curtain wall
was a massive outer bailey. The ground was muddy and uneven, and there were no
outerbuildings. But there was another, taller, curtain wall several hundred
feet away. There were also three massive towers they could see set within the
wall. Most of all, another ditch lay between them and the inner wall.

“Another trench,” Derica
observed. “They were certainly obsessed with entrenching this place, were they
not?”

Garren cocked an
eyebrow. “When an enemy is laying siege, one is grateful for all of the
protection a castle can provide.”

“You saw the walls
around Framlingham. They are enormous. But since I have lived there, we have
never truly seen a siege.”

“But you would be
grateful for them in such an event, I can tell you from experience.”

They had crossed the
outer bailey and now stood looking down into the deep, stone-lined ditch.  It
was wider than the first ditch, filled with water and debris. Garren glanced
over to his far left and could see, almost butted against the outer curtain
wall, a drawbridge crossing over the ditch and leading into another gatehouse. 
They made their way over to the bridge and gingerly walked across the wet,
rotting wood.  Garren inspected the chains that fastened it and they were old
and rusting. He wasn’t comfortable with the bridge and made sure Derica was
quickly off it.

The passage beneath the
second portcullis was long and damp.  It smelled of rot. When they emerged on
the other side, it was into a smaller inner bailey where the true scope of
Cilgarren came to light. There were four massive towers including the
gatehouse, all of them at least three stories into the sky. To Garren’s right
stood several buildings; a great hall, perhaps a chapel, and then kitchens off
to the left of the larger structures.  Over by the north tower was another
building, possibly the stables.  There was also a kiln. 

“Amazing,” he breathed.

“What do you mean?”
Derica asked.

He was at a loss where
to begin. “This place is a massive, fully-functioning fortress that has been
abandoned. Why, in God’s name, would someone just abandon this?”

Derica didn’t have an
answer. The place was indeed large and intricate.  She let go of his hand and
pulled her cloak more tightly around her, wandering through the bailey and
inspecting the towers from a distance. While Garren kept an eye on her, she
went to the long, low building that held the great hall and peered into the
open door.

It was dark inside, but
there was enough weak light that she could see a few broken stools, a table
that was missing a couple of legs, and other debris scattered inside. The hall
itself was good sized with a massive stone hearth.  She took a step inside the
door, smelling the dampness and mold. It was eerie.

She thought of Bryndalyn
and Owain. Perhaps they sat at this table once, long ago, and toasted their
happiness. Perhaps they had enjoyed the fire in the hearth or danced across the
floor to lively minstrel music. She could almost hear their laughter if she
listened hard enough. Derica wasn’t quite sure why the tale of the pair sat so
heavily on her mind except for the fact that, for the first time in her life,
she knew what it was to truly love someone and she could never imagine losing
that love.  Bryndalyn did not survive the loss and she doubted she would,
either.  There would be nothing to live for.

A low, desolate sound
suddenly pierced her thoughts, howling eerily through the musty air. It echoed
off the walls, lifting the rafters with its mournful sound. Startled, Derica
bolted from the room and into her husband’s line of sight. Though Garren’s
expression was unreadable, he had heard the sound, too, and unsheathed his
weapon in a deliberate motion.

“Derica,” he said
calmly. “Come to me, sweetheart.”

Another wail filled the
air and Derica didn’t need to be told twice; she darted back over to Garren,
panting with fright.

“Garren, what is it?”
she gasped. “Ghosts?”

He shook his head, his
eyes riveted to the structures around him. “I am sure nothing so unearthly,” he
said evenly. “Stay close.”

He handed her the
charger’s reins and paced into the center of the ward. Emyl also had his weapon
wielded, the old man as calm as Garren was. Once a knight, always a knight, no
matter how long it had been since he’d last whiffed the scent of battle. Both
men were acutely vigilant as they visually inspected their surroundings for the
origins of the noise.

The wail came again.
Garren turned, hearing it come from the north tower, or so he thought. He
motioned to Emyl to flank him as he made his way to the entrance of the tower.
Derica huddled against the charger out of fear and warmth, watching her husband
with anxious eyes. It took her a moment to realize that Garren had not put his
armor back on after removing it to cross the first trench.  Not wanting to call
out to him and distract him, she could only watch and pray that whatever
situation he was about to face did not injure him.

Her first indication
that all was not well was when the charger suddenly started. Derica would have
fallen to the ground had hands not grabbed her. Trouble was, they were not her
husband’s hands. A scream erupted from her throat.

Garren swung around in
time to see someone grabbing his wife. He took a step in her direction when a
body suddenly came flying at him, a man dressed in dirty rags that blended in
with the gray sheets of rain. The man had a weapon and Garren brought his sword
up instinctively, deflecting a heavy blow.  He was involved in his own fight,
terrified for his wife, furious at the inconvenience of having to battle for
his life.  He was about to shout for Emyl when he saw that the old man, too,
had been set upon.

Derica was howling,
swinging fists and kicking feet. A fine lady though she might be, having grown
up with three older brothers had taught her something about self-defense.  She
was desperately trying to find eyes to gouge her fingers into. When that
failed, she took to kicking furiously at the knees of her attacker.  One foot
made contact with a kneecap and the man released a growling yelp.  It was
enough of a break for Derica to swing around and kick him, as hard as she
could, in the lower abdomen.

The man fell into the
mud and Derica scattered like a frightened chicken.  She was terrified her attacker
was going to rise up and come after her again, so she grabbed the first heavy
rock she could find and raced back over to the man wallowing in the muck.  She
smacked him on the head and stopped his squirming.

With her assailant
subdued, she took a look around her; a glance to Garren saw him in serious
combat with a man nearly as tall as he was, yet infinitely more slender.  Emyl
seemed to have the more immediate problem, grunting and groaning as he battled
for his life. Derica couldn’t stand by idly; she lifted the rock and made her
way over towards Emyl. Careful not to get in the way or take the chance that
the enemy would turn on her, she hung back, clutching the rock, until Emyl’s
opponent turned his back on her. With a cry, she hurled the rock and hit the
man on the nape of the neck. It was enough of a blow to cause him to fall down,
whereupon Emyl finished him.

The sight of the blood
made Derica nauseous. In spite of her warring family, she’d never seen a man
killed before. Emyl went to her, trying to take her someplace safe, away from
the fighting, but she would not leave Garren.  She and Emyl watched with
trepidation as Garren launched a powerful enough blow to dislodge his
opponent’s sword completely.  When the man tried to retrieve his weapon, Garren
shoved the tip of his razor-sharp blade at the man’s neck.

“The game is ended,” he
growled. “Leave the sword and I shall be merciful. Attempt to reclaim it and my
mercy is at an end.”

The man slowly lifted
his hands to show his submission. Garren gazed into deep brown eyes and a
handsome face.  The man was young, but he had handled the sword well.  He took
his eyes off of Garren long enough to look at his dead companion in the mud.

“Did you have to kill
him?” he whispered.

Garren responded. “What
did you expect? You were trying to kill us.  It was necessary to defend
ourselves.”

The man dropped his
hands and made his way over to his companion.  His movements were slow with
defeat. Emyl and Derica moved to stand with Garren as the three of them
observed the man in the rags.  He fell to one knee, putting his hand on the wet
corpse.

“He was just a lad,” the
man muttered. “A child.”

“A child who was trying
to kill me,” Emyl didn’t feel guilty in the least. “If you were that worried
over his health, you should not have allowed him to attack us.”

“We were protecting
ourselves,” the man in rags suddenly boomed. The dark eyes flashed. “”Tis you
who invade our home.”

Derica looked at her
husband with big eyes. Garren’s expression was neutral, though he could feel
her stare. “You live here? On whose authority?”

The man in rags stared
at him for a moment. “On my own. No one has lived here in decades; there was no
reason why we should not.”

The man that Derica had
smashed over the head suddenly groaned and sat up. He shook his head as if
waking up from a deep, ugly sleep.  Garren heard the noise and glanced over at
him.

“Tell him to be still,”
he commanded quietly. “Any provocative movement and he shall meet the same fate
as your companion.”

The man in the rags eyed
his disoriented comrade, but he could see that provocative action would be the
last thing to occur. He looked at Garren, more closely than before.

“You are a knight,” he
stated.

Garren cocked an
eyebrow. “And as such, you will answer my questions or face the consequences.
Tell me your name.”

The man in rags signed
deeply, with resignation. His hand came to rest protectively on the head of his
dead friend.

“David,” he whispered.

“Who is the dead man?”

“My brother, Guy.”

Garren heard his wife
gasp softly, but he didn’t look at her. “And the man over there?”

“My uncle.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Offa.”

“Offa,” Emyl repeated,
looking closely at the man covered in mud. “Offa van Vert?”

The round, dirty man
grunted. “The same.”

Emyl’s mouth popped
open. Then he threw up his hands. “I should run you through, you idiot. Why in
God’s name would you attack me?”

Offa blinked his eyes,
trying to rid himself of his double vision. “Emyl?”

Emyl sneered. “Dim wit!
Of course it is me. Can you not see that through those bloodshot eyes?”

“I cannot see anything
at the moment,” Offa shook his head again. “The lady was true in her aim.”

“Emyl,” Garren cut into
the conversation. “Who are these people?”

Emyl looked ill, as if a
horrible situation had suddenly been made clear to him. “Offa van Vert was a
knight, Garren. He served Cadell ap Gryffud. We grew up together, in this
region. I simply haven’t seen him in years.” He glared at the muddy knight. “I thought
you’d died, you old goat. What are you doing here?”

Offa struggled to one knee.
“The Welsh rebellion hasn’t much room for an aged knight.  My youth is gone and
so is my money.  I knew of this place, too. My nephews and I have lived here
for three years.”