The Whispering Night (3 page)

"The news is that
the men grow weary of fighting," he said. "One out of every two
Englishmen die from either illness or hunger, and the sands are littered with
more knights dead from disease than from Saladin's arrows."

"What does the king
have to say about the condition of his men?" Daniel's deep voice came from
behind. "Surely the king would be concerned for the men who have followed
him on his quest?"

Garren looked at the
young, dark-eyed man. "Richard spends his nights in his tent with his
lovers. He cares little for those who have sworn service to him. It is a dirty,
bloody undertaking and I am more than glad to be free of it." He turned
back to Bertram. "If there are no more questions, I would see my
bride."

Bertram stared at him.
Then, he snorted ironically. "Not like your father, are you?"

"What do you
mean?"

"Andrew is the
congenial sort."

"As I am not. And I
am not happy with the fact that I return from the Levant a committed man."

"You have never
been so fortunate," Lon, the youngest uncle, spoke up. "Every man in
England would kill for the chance to become Derica's husband.  Had you not been
off killing infidels and bedding pagan whores, you might show more manners with
civilized people."

Garren cast him a long
glance. "Are you suggesting that I am uncivilized?"

There was great threat
in his tone. Lon smiled thinly. "I suggest nothing of the sort. I say it
plainly."

Garren had been forced
to leave his weapons at the door. But that did not prevent a great arm from
shooting out, grasping Lon around the neck. Everyone leapt to aid him, but
Bertram's shout stopped the onslaught.

"Enough," he
roared. "Le Mon, you will release him immediately. I forbid you to show
such disrespect in my house. One infraction is forgivable, but do it again and
I shall throw you in the vault myself. Is that understood?"

Garren's gaze moved to
Bertram. He still held Lon in his massive grip. Ever so slowly, he released the
smaller man, but the implication was obvious. It was a pack of wolves against
one Alpha male, and there would be a war if all sides did not quickly come to
terms.

"I do not
disrespect the House of de Rosa, my lord," he said. "But if you
expect such reverence from me, I would expect the same from you. I will not be
called uncivilized by men who stay in England, clinging to her shores as a
child clings to his mother's skirts."

Every man in the room
flared except for Bertram and his eldest son. "Do you call us
cowards?" Donat bellowed.

 Garren didn't back
down. "You are either cowardly or too brainless to serve your country when
needed, so I will hear no more talk of my being uncivilized. We all make
choices in life, only to be judged by God and not by others."

Lon rubbed his neck,
grumbling, but was wise enough to move out of Garren's striking range. The
others in the room grumbled and bickered to each other, deeply insulted, deeply
angered.  Bertram, however, seemed to be focused on something deeper in
Garren's meaning.

"You mentioned the
service of your country rather than your king," he said after a moment.
"An interesting choice of words, Sir Garren, that you would rather serve
your country's needs over those of your king."

"England is my
king, my lord."

"And that is where
your loyalties lay?"

Garren knew that
question had to come at some point; he was simply surprised it had come so
quickly. He smiled, without humor. "I returned to England to get away from
the politics that threatened to pervert all of the good that the Holy Crusade
is trying to accomplish. Yet I see I cannot escape it."

"Politics are like
life, Sir Garren. One cannot escape either."

Garren took a step at
that moment by drinking his wine. It was a signal, very cleverly, to his host
that some level of communication and comfort was being established. It was a
ploy he had developed during his years of service for the king, when a gesture
or word could determine the course of his undertaking. He was well adept at
such things.

"Agreed, my
lord," he replied. "And also like life, Politics can make a man wish
he was never born. Sometimes it is better to simply walk away."

It was more brilliant
strategy to direct the conversation as Garren had intended. Though he would not
come out directly and swear he had no political affiliation, a hint in this
regard was enough for the moment.  Still, Bertram was shrewd; Garren could see
it in his eyes. The man was no fool.

  "Sometimes you
cannot walk away," Bertram said quietly.

 "Sometimes you
must."

Bertram acknowledged the
statement by slightly lifting his cup in Garren's direction. Perhaps the old
man was being particularly congenial because Garren was the son of his old
friend. Or perhaps he genuinely agreed with him. In any case, he didn't seem
quite as aggressive as Garren had been led to believe. But, then again, it was
only their first meeting.

"Then I see that
you do have much of your father in you," Bertram said. "He would
rather stay out of the political climate than risk himself. There is no shame
in that, of course. Sometimes it is more than prudent. But I would have thought
a knight like you to be fiercely loyal to the king."

Before Garren could
reply, the door to the solar creaked open and a woman burst forth. Apparently
oblivious to the fact that there was a roomful of men around her, she planted
herself squarely in front of Garren.

          The men didn't
react initially, but Garren was momentarily taken aback; she was the most
beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she was glaring at him. He could see,
faintly, that she resembled Bertram, for they both had the same pale green
eyes. She had her father's expression, too; an appraising sort of look that one
had when inspecting a side of beef.

The woman put her hands
on her hips, looked up and down the length of Garren, and then turned to
Bertram.

"Sir Garren, I
presume?" she asked.

Bertram looked at the
woman with little patience, yet with the same expression, appeared resigned to
her behavior. He sighed heavily. "Sir Garren le Mon, may I present my
daughter, the Lady Derica Isabela Fernanda Elspeth de Rosa."

Derica turned back to
Garren. Her expression hadn't wavered one way or the other.  "Welcome to
Framlingham, Sir Garren."

"Thank you, my
lady."

A tense silence followed
as Garren and Derica sized one another up. "Sir Garren and I were just
discussing business," Bertram said. "Perhaps it is best if you leave
us, my dear."

Derica, predictably,
ignored her father. "Sir Garren," she said. "I understand that
you have just returned from the Holy Land."

The woman had the
manners of a raging bull, but he almost didn't care. She was positively
delightful to look at and at that moment, Garren knew he was in a huge amount
of trouble. A mediocre or even ugly woman would have been far easier for him to
deal with objectively.

"Aye, my
lady," he said evenly.

 "Tell me about
it."

"What do you wish
to know?"

Derica cocked a
well-shaped brow. "Well... the women, for instance. I hear they act like a
pack of wild animals."

"No worse than a
daughter barging into her father's solar uninvited."

Garren heard a few
titters, though he could not be sure where they came from. He thought perhaps
the brothers. Derica, however, simply cocked her head. A challenging smile
creased her lips. "I am welcome anywhere in my father's house, invited or
not."

Garren smiled back. They
simply smiled at one another, like hungry wolves, a standoff that made Garren
want to laugh out loud. She was amazingly audacious. He looked at Bertram.

"Do you raise your
daughter to behave so, my lord?" he asked. His gaze disapprovingly
returned to Derica. "No wonder she has had no husband yet."

Before Derica could
verbalize her outrage, Bertram spoke. "She knows how to behave, I assure
you. At the moment, she chooses not to."

Derica would not be left
out of the conversation. "I am not in any way insolent. It is my right to
inspect the man who would be my husband, is it not?"

"It is not,"
Bertram said flatly. "Leave us now. We will send for you when the time is
correct."

"I will not be
discarded, Father. I have every right to inspect Sir Garren just as you
are."

"Later, Derica. Do
as I say."

"I will not. I have
every right to...."

Bertram took her by the
shoulders and turned her back towards the door.  Before they reached it,
however, a large figure in flowing silks and perfume appeared and threw massive
arms around Derica. The largest woman Garren had ever seen held Derica, weeping
hysterically.

"My darling, my sweetling,"
the woman wept in a deep, husky voice. "I told you not to come down here.
Your fate will come soon enough; you do not have to hasten it."

Garren looked at the
woman; he could hardly believe it was Derica's mother. She had a huge wimple on
with miles of sheer fabric, flowing all about her like waterfalls of color. She
also wore an appalling amount of rouge on her lips in an attempt to make
herself more attractive. But no amount of color could disguise the obvious. As
Garren looked more closely, he swore he saw stubble on the fat cheeks.

"Remove her,"
Bertram waved his hands at the pair. "Both of you, leave us."

The huge woman wept and
wept. Derica removed herself gently from the embrace and in turn, embraced the
woman. She cast a long glance at Garren; he would never forget the look in her
eyes. He didn't know why the expression affected him so, but it did. Her eyes
seemed to reach out and grab him. Quickly, thankfully, she left the room and he
could refocus on the task before him. Still, the Marshall's words echoed in his
head.

I hear Derica de Rosa is
a beautiful woman.

God help him, he had
been right. The stakes of the game grew.

***

It had been, in fact,
one of the longest afternoons of his life. Bertram de Rosa, having been the
more congenial out of the group of de Rosa men, had turned into something of a
barracuda when his daughter had left the room. It was as if, suddenly, a taper
had been lit in his mind and he pounded Garren with questions for several
hours. Politics, religion, education- no subject escaped him. It was if he
suddenly had to know everything about the man, immediately. By the time the sun
set, Garren was exhausted. Sup was a few hours off, but he fully expected the
interrogation to resume at mealtime. At the moment, he was grateful for the
intermission.

It was the first time He
is been at Framlingham and discovered it to be an enormous place. The wall walk
seemed to go on forever. He had made his way up onto the battlements, watching
the last of the sun, the dancing colors across the deepening sky. It was
peaceful and he welcomed it. Now and again a sentry would pass him and hardly
give him a glance.

A chill breeze was
kicking up. Garren leaned back against the stone, his big arms crossed and his
brow furrowed in thought. The Lady Derica de Rosa, he repeated over and over in
his mind. He pondered the long honey-colored hair, silken-looking with its
loose curls. He thought about her great green eyes, huge things that stared
back at him as if they could read into his soul. He mulled over the shape of
her face, the way her lips curved into the shape of a rosebud.  He even liked
the contours of her nose. She was rather tall for a woman, and rather robust,
with delicious curves. Not that she was heavy by any means, but she wasn't a frail
little thing, either. She was quite tasty in his opinion. The Marshall hadn't
lied in the least.

A gust of cold wind came
up, whistling past his ears. He was standing near the northeast tower when he
heard something that didn't sound at all like the wind.  There was someone
lingering in the shadows of the tower, just inside the top of the stairs. He
didn't flinch or try to see who it was; he simply stood there and waited.
Whoever it was would make themselves known soon enough. His dagger, well
concealed, was within easy reach.

Another gust of wind
arose and he caught the distinct scent of flowers. He didn't know which kind
because he wasn't very good at that sort of thing. But the scent alone told him
who was lying in wait for him.

"You know," he
said casually, "if your father finds you out here with me, without an
escort, we would both be in for a good deal of trouble."

There was no immediate
reply. After a moment, he heard soft footfalls coming towards him. Very
leisurely, he turned his head to see Derica emerging into the moonlight. She
looked beautiful, dressed in a burgundy surcoat and a matching heavy cloak.
Garren wasn't sure if he should smile at her or just look at her. He settled
for just looking at her.

Derica gazed back.  She
wasn't sure what to say to him, or why she had even followed him for that
matter. The only reason she could manage to pinpoint was curiosity. Pure, wild
curiosity.