The Whispering Night (30 page)

“And it is equally
possible that he is still fighting,” Fergus would not give in to her gloom.
“Wars have many battles. They move around like an army of ants, scuttling
about, fighting, then pulling back to regroup and fighting again. I have seen
your husband in battle, my lady. He is the one man that I have truly believed
to be invulnerable.”

“What do you mean?” she
sniffled.

Fergus thought a moment;
what he would tell her would not be embellishment on his part. It would be the
truth. “There is something about your husband that draws men to him. He has a
quiet strength about him, a power that is beyond mere mortal strength. When he
gives a command, men trust him and they follow him. He has never been wrong
that I have known. When he wields a sword, it is as if St. George himself is
living through him. He is as clever as he is deadly. That is why the Marshall
has ordered him to fight; the old man knows that with le Mon in command,
victory is very nearly assured.”

“He is a great warrior,
then?”

“There has never been
another like him.”

Derica felt better, but
she also felt worse. Her heart ached for Garren in a way that she could not
describe.  If she closed her eyes, she could still hear his voice, feel his
touch, and smell the warm musk of his skin. The simple possibility of losing
that delicious joy made her tears fall faster, no matter how Fergus tried to
comfort her.

“Fergus,” she sobbed
gently. “Please… please find him. Help him fight his battles so that he may
return to me.”

“I swear on my life, my
lady. I will do this.”

Surprisingly, she wasn’t
hysterical. The tears on her face were from pure emotion, the hole in her heart
bleeding for her husband’s plight.  Fergus held her hand as she rose, holding
on to her soft flesh until she walked out of his reach. The men watched her
leave the hall, wondering if one of them should follow her but opting not to.
She needed time to regain her dignity and deal with the events in her life over
which she had no control.

Derica sobbed quietly as
she wandered to her favorite spot on the hill overlooking the river. Her
sobbing deepened as she remembered Garren following her around on the slope,
holding on to her skirt so she would not slide down the cliff and into the
river. 

Four months ago, she had
been living a spoiled life at Framlingham, catered to by her father, uncles and
brothers, living day by day without a care in the world. It seemed like an
eternity ago. She remembered the day that Garren le Mon had come into her life.
It was the day she had been reborn, though she hadn’t known it at the time. 
All she had known was that the enormous man with the square jaw and
sandy-copper hair intrigued her as no one else had. She couldn’t remember the
exact moment she had fallen in love with him, yet she couldn’t remember when
she hadn’t love him. It seemed like always.

Her tears faded as she
wandered down the slope, hearing the river rushing below.  Thoughts of Owain
and Bryndalyn came to her, recollecting the story Emyl had told her. Bryndalyn
had thrown herself into the river upon hearing of her husband’s demise, her
grief far too strong for her to bear. Derica could now fully understand the
woman’s despair.

She tried to take heart
in Fergus’ words, rubbing her hand over the small bulge in her belly, praying
that her unborn child would have the chance to know his father.  Fergus said
that Garren was a great fighter and that she should have faith in him. She must
believe that. The more she wandered down and across the slope, the more her
tears faded. She did have faith. She believed Garren would return to her.
Somehow, somewhere, they would be together again.  She knew it as surely as she
knew he loved her.

It was her last pleasant
thought as her footing gave way and she plummeted down the side of the cliff,
into the churning waters of the River Teifi below.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The battle had been in
full swing since first light. Even now, with hues of dusk streaming across the
sky, men were fighting as if they were fresh, their screams of pain filling the
air along with the sounds of metal against metal.  The grounds surrounding
Lincoln Castle were pooled with battle gore and the smell of death rang heavy
in the air.

Garren was one of those
who had been fighting since dawn, as had Hoyt de Rosa. Hoyt had been at his
side from nearly the onset, joining Garren’s command at William’s orders.
Garren hadn’t been surprised to see him; in fact, he had been glad. It was an
odd connection to his wife that comforted him, though he secretly wondered if
William had sent him to make sure Garren lived up to his agreement. To be
fighting alongside a de Rosa rather than against one seemed natural to him and
they worked well together.

 A rather large band of
John’s supporters had fled to Lincoln Castle and he had been ordered to take
one thousand men to lay siege to the castle. Lincoln Castle wasn’t even one of
those held by John; it was the property of a loyalist, now held hostage by the
Prince’s supporters.  It had an immense motte and thick walls, and Garren’s men
had been given a rough time trying to breach the defenses.

 Having brought two
trebuchets with them, they had taken to flinging flaming pots of expensive tar
over the walls, hoping to burn the inhabitants out. Nothing beyond that had a
hope of succeeding until they could penetrate the walls.

It was a strategy that
had eventually worked. The portcullis had lifted to allow a screaming band of
burning people out, and the hand-to-hand combat had been fierce for several
hours.  Garren lost count of the men he’d killed, though one of them had given
him a nasty nick on his thigh. He didn’t even remember how it happened, only
that it had. The barber surgeon traveling with the army had cauterized it
before it could bleed overly and he was back to the battle with hardly a step
missed.

When the sun sat low and
squat on the horizon, the battle began to lag. Garren and Hoyt wandered through
the pockets of fighting while more socially ranking warriors invaded the
interior of the castle to claim it for Richard once again. Garren’s job was to make
sure the major fighting was quelled and to discourage any further rebellion. 
He did so with exhaustive efficiency and demanded surrender from those still
resisting. With Hoyt’s assistance, he placed them under arrest and segregated
the officers from the men into prisoner groups.

 It was a long process
that drug well on into the evening, and Garren had been grateful for Hoyt’s
presence. The man had been a fierce warrior, one of the best he’d ever seen.
His respect for the man grew and a bond intensified.

The skirmish had
truthfully taken less time than he had originally thought, mostly because the
rebel force had been poorly supplied and poorly organized. True to form, Garren
had come at them like a hammer and had quashed them soundly.  He was the first one
into battle, and the last one to leave.  It had always been his mode of
operation, something that continually endeared him to his men. He never
expected them to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself.

It was after midnight
when he sent Hoyt off to sleep. The old man was so exhausted he could barely
stand. Garren lingered on the battlefield with the last few prisoners before
returning to his own tent. The castle was quiet, the prisoners finally secured,
and the squire that traveled with him had lit the fire in his tent and had food
and drink waiting for him.  Garren sat heavily on a sturdy stool, allowing
himself a sweet moment to feel his exhaustion.  The squire came back into the
tent with a great piece of meat, some part of the cow that had been cooked to
blackness.  Garren wasn’t particularly hungry, but he took it anyway. The
squire, a young man to be knighted the next year, hovered before him.

“Will there be anything
else, my lord?” he asked.

Garren set the beef
down; he couldn’t stomach it at the moment. He took his cup of wine instead.
“Perhaps some water to wash my hands with,” he took a long drink. “Where are my
commanders?”

“Lord Payn and Lord
Barnard have not yet returned from battle, my lord,” the lad replied. “I have
heard rumor that they have fallen.”

Payn de Cantelupe and
Barnard de Warrenne were young nobles from two of the more powerful families on
the Welsh Marches. They had brought four hundred men-at-arms with them, men
that would now fall to Garren’s command if what the squire said was true. It
would make his presence more critical than ever and his chances of returning
home soon dwindle. Garren took another gulp of wine, pondering the information.

“Do we have any further
news from Newark Castle?”

“Not since last eve, my
lord. As far as we know, there is heavy fighting in and around the castle. 
They are expecting us as soon as this unpleasantness at Lincoln is finished.”

Garren knew that. He was
always expected somewhere, ready for battle at a moment’s notice.  It was one
encounter after another, a never-ending parade of castles, villains, allies and
action. Somewhere it had ceased to be a war between Richard and John and become
an endless conflict between countrymen. When Garren had led the first charge at
Tick Hill Castle, he was foolishly hoping that whatever battles there were
would be short-lived, and that he could return to Derica within a few short
weeks.

 But the weeks had
stretched into months. Two months, three weeks, three days, fifteen hours, and
an odd number of minutes. He remembered to the last detail. He knew Derica
would be frantic, thinking of committing herself to Yaxley Nene Abbey if she
hadn’t done so already.  He felt a great deal of comfort in that, truthfully,
for no matter how long the war waged, he knew where to find her, and he knew
that she would be safe.  He was desperately sorry that she would have to go
through so much emotional turmoil in the meanwhile, thinking he was dead when
he was very much alive and thinking of her every minute of every day. He longed
for her as he had never longed for anything in his life.

But thoughts like that
were useless. They simply made him hurt more. Pulling himself from the brink of
emotional decline, as he had done so many times over the past several weeks, he
drained his cup and reached for a piece of bread.

“We should be finished
here tomorrow,” he told the squire. “I do not anticipate Lincoln Castle taking
any more of our time. We ship the prisoners south and move the army north by
midday.  Spread the word to whatever commanders I have left. Arrange a meeting
in my tent in one hour.”

The squire nodded and
fled. Garren returned to his meal, emitting a heavy sigh as he forced himself
to eat.  After two bites, his thoughts turned to his pallet and a short nap
before his officers arrived for conference. As he took one last drink from his
cup, someone entered his tent.

Expecting the squire, it
took Garren longer than usual to recognize Fergus. When recognition dawned, he
stared at the man as if he had grown two heads. Fergus, seeing the shock, the
suspicion, the anxiety, wasted no time.

“Garren,” he muttered,
true satisfaction in his voice. “They told me you were here. Thank Almighty God
you are alive.”

Garren wasn’t sure how
to react. He didn’t know where to begin. But one thing was foremost in his
mind; if Fergus was here, then….

“Where is my wife?”

The weary smile faded
from Fergus’ face. “My father heard about the wars between Richard and John. I
knew you would be in the midst of them. I promised your wife that I would find you
and make sure that you were safe.”

Garren couldn’t help but
notice that his question hadn’t been answered. “Where is she?”

There was no room for
pleasantries or idle talk. Garren’s expression was taut with anticipation.
Fergus had hoped to ease his friend into the predominant reason for his visit,
but he could see it would not happen. What he had to say would be the hardest
words he ever had to bring forth.

“She is gone,” he said
quietly.

Garren stood up, his
stool toppling over. “Gone? What do you mean?” He suddenly reached out,
grabbing Fergus around the neck. “Did the de Rosas capture her?”

Fergus couldn’t breathe,
and there was no way he could contend against Garren’s strength. “If you kill
me, you will never know the rest,” he gasped, and the grip loosened. “Nay,
Garren, her family did not capture her. Please, won’t you sit? ‘Twould be
better for us both if you did.”

Garren’s grip tightened
again. “Damn you, Fergus, if you do not tell me what has happened to my wife, I
will kill you where you stand and worry of the consequences later.”

He meant every word,
Fergus knew that.  But he was not making this any easier. “Garren, please,” he
begged, trying to loosen the hold on his neck. “You must be calm, my friend.”

“
Fergus!
”

Fergus could see there
was no alternative than to tell him, quickly. “She knew you had gone to battle
with the Marshall. She heard my father and me speaking of the civil wars. I
tried to reassure her that it did not necessarily mean your death, but she was
greatly distressed. She is easily distressed these days.”