The Whispering Night (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Spring was in full
bloom. It was a clear day, if not cold, with great puffy clouds scattered
across the sky.  The land below was growing green with new sprigs. Norfolk was
lovely country in the spring with its gentle fields and relatively flat lands,
conducive to the farmers that plowed into the thawed earth.  Everywhere there
were signs of life, peasants going about their chores, and animals in the
field. It was a lovely place to live.

The hulk of Framlingham
Castle dominated the landscape, its cold stone facade a strong contrast to the
brilliant life surrounding it.  It was the only bastion for several miles and
the gates remained open for the peasants who conducted business within the
walls. And massive walls they were; fourteen enormous towers linked the curtain
wall nearly thirty feet in height, creating a huge circle around an equally
large inner ward.

Each tower was designed
to function autonomously should the castle fall under siege. Two of the towers
were particularly large, one on the middle section of the western wall, and one
on the east. They were longer, more spacious, and the tower on the western wall
harbored a great hall. There were also several outbuildings and stables to
house the four hundred men-at-arms needed to maintain the safety and structure
of the castle.

Framlingham was the
property of the Roger Bigod, second Earl of Norfolk, but the earl chose to live
at Norwich Castle to the north rather than in the wilds of Framlingham. He
entrusted his castle to Bertram de Rosa, a knight who had served his father,
Hugh, for many years.  Bertram and his sons were essentially part of the earl’s
family and the castle belonged more to them that to the earl himself. They took
great pride in the place and ran it with power and efficiency.

On the third floor of
the larger western tower, a lone young woman sat in her chamber running a brush
through long, honey-colored hair. She had been listening to sobs and wails all
morning.  Had she not known better, she would have suspected the person
emitting them to be in some manner of horrible pain or grief.  But she knew too
well of the dramatics behind them.  As the day wore on, it grew annoying and
her patience waned.

 The young woman sighed,
making a face that no one would ever see, expressing her irritation at the
screeching. The brush strokes grew more furious as she used her hand to form
curls from the strands that cascaded down her back. She scrunched up her pert
nose when a particularly loud cry pierced the air, rolling her eyes in
disbelief.

In the corner, a serving
maiden was sewing on a gown of pale yellow and silver. When another chorus of
cries filled the air, she slapped the sewing in her lap.

"I cannot take this
any longer," she groaned. Into the air, she thrust the needle. "I
would sew his mouth shut, my lady!"

The young woman glanced
over her shoulder, an expression somewhere between tolerance and agreement.

"Weddings always
affect him so," she sighed heavily. "Especially mine.”

The serving maiden's
countenance softened. "Forgive, my lady. I did not mean to...."

The woman shook her
head. "You did not upset nor offend me, Aglette. Do not worry. I have had
months to come to terms with my future and surely time enough to come to terms
with whatever angst I may have felt."

"Three months, to
be exact, my lady."

The young woman paused
in her toilette, gazing at her reflection in the polished pewter mirror before
her. A sweet oval face looked back at her, bright green eyes with long dusky
lashes. She had been called beautiful since the day she was born, yet the term
had no meaning to her. It hadn't for years. Her uncles and brothers and father
were bias and she knew it. But there were times when other men had come, a few
suitors, and had called her beautiful as well. Still, she wasn't sure if she
believed them, though the reflection said otherwise.

She wondered if she
would hear the same praise from her new husband.  Certainly she was curious
about him as well, as she had never even seen him. His father, an old friend of
her father's, had initiated the betrothal proposal and she had never once seen
hide nor hair of her Intended. All she knew was that he was a knight of
independent wealth, newly returned from the Crusades.  And they would be wed in
one week.

A well-arched brow
lifted. "The Lady Derica de Rosa le Mon.  Has a rather musical sound to
it, does it not?"

"It does, my
lady."

"The House of le
Mon is an old, distinguished family."

"It 'tis, my
lady."

"I shall be a baroness
someday."

"Indeed, my lady.
Most honorable."

Derica thought she
sounded very much like a woman trying to convince herself that everything would
be all right. With Aglette echoing everything she said, she realized they were
both trying to comfort her.  She set the brush down and stood up. Her long
day-robe trailed along the cold floor as she went to her maiden to see how her
wedding dress was coming along.

 "What if he is
hideous?"

Aglette looked up from
her work. "Who, my lady?"

"My husband… what if
he is hideous?"

Aglette could only
shrug. "I suppose we shall find out soon enough, my lady."

"I suppose."
Derica's gaze moved from the exquisite gown to the young serving woman she had
known her entire life; Aglette's parents had both served the de Rosa household
for many years. Derica reached out and stroked the girl’s red head before
turning away, wandering across the chamber with no true destination in mind.

"Garren le Mon has
been fighting in the Holy Land for several years," she said, more to
herself than to Aglette. "He could have been injured, or disfigured
somehow. Mayhap that is the reason he did not come with his father during the
betrothal negotiations. Mayhap... mayhap his father was afraid I would refuse
if I saw what his son truly looked like."

Aglette looked up from
her fine stitching. "I believe you were told that Sir Garren was not yet
returned from Jerusalem during the negotiations. He has only just set foot back
on English soil."

"Ah, or so they
would have you believe," Derica held up a finger as if correctly surmising
the situation.  "Or, if he is not disfigured, mayhap he is an ogre. Or a
simpleton. Or he has a great pimpled face that frightens young children."

Aglette giggled.
"Anything is possible, my lady."

"I shall wager
there is something wrong with him. There has to be."

"It matters not
now. The contract is done."

Derica's composure took
a hit. She was always in control of herself, sometimes unnaturally so. Being a
woman, it was expected that she would be an emotional creature. But not Derica.
Growing up among men had given her that element.

"Aye," she
agreed softly. "It is done."

"Are you
afraid?"

Derica thought a moment.
Was she? "I am not. But I am apprehensive. And a bit surprised. I truly
never thought I would ever wed."

Aglette smiled; she knew
the reasons behind that well. "Your new husband will have his hands full
with your male kin."

"It 'tis the
truth."

They smiled at each
other. Perhaps that was why Derica was not frightened of her marriage; any hint
of abuse or threat from her new husband, and her brothers and uncles would take
care of him directly. There was comfort in the thought. But more than that, she
did not have a fearful nature.

Sounds of a commotion
wafted up through the lancet window. It was enough to catch their attention.
Crowding around the thin slit, Derica and Aglette struggled to catch a glimpse
of what was going on; they could see a flurry of activity around the open gate.
There was the glint of armor that passed across their line of sight that was
just as quickly gone. From the sounds of shouting, the women correctly surmised
that the mysterious Garren le Mon had just made an appearance.

From mild apprehension
to a case of full-blown panic, Derica moved away from the window, her heart in
her throat. The sounds of the wailing, momentarily ignored, was suddenly back
with a vengeance. Aglette looked at her mistress, fear in her own eyes. The
moment they had waited for had come all too soon.

"I must be
strong," Derica struggled to regain her control.

"Aye, my lady,"
Aglette agreed fervently. "You will be."

"He must know that
I am a woman to be respected."

"Aye, my
lady."

"Yet I will also be
respectful."

"Aye, you
will."

Derica stopped pacing
and looked at her. "There is only one thing to do."

Aglette blanched.
"Saints help us," she whispered. "I am afraid to know what that
may be."

***

"You heard me
correctly. I would see my bride before we wed."

Bertram de Rosa was
looking into the face of a very large, very stubborn man. He could see a bit of
his friend in the son's expression, but for the most part, Garren le Mon had a
look and feel all his own. Having never met the man before, Bertram wasn't sure
what to think. But he certainly sounded like a man who was eager to get a look
at his fair English bride after having spent the past two years in the sand and
sun with only dark women to view. In that respect, he could hardly blame him.

But he was careful with
his reply. In the solar of Framlingham where the castle business was conducted,
the only move he made was to pour himself a cup of wine. There was no desk, and
only one chair. Bertram usually took it, leaving whomever he was conducting
business with to stand and be scrutinized. It worked amazingly well. But he did
not take his seat this time. Even with his three sons and two of his three
brothers in the solar with him, Bertram wasn't at all sure he would hold the
advantage.

"Allow me to
introduce your future relations," he said evenly. Moving from his left, he
indicated the men standing. "These are my brothers, Alger and Lon. And
next to them stand my sons, Daniel, Donat and Dixon."

Garren had stormed into
Framlingham as if he were lord and master. He, his father and the Marshall had
determined that it would be the only way to give himself a level playing field
against the aggressive de Rosas.  He was an aggressive man naturally, so the
strength he put behind his manner was hardly an act.

He scrutinized each man
indicated in turn; Alger was missing an eye, a battle scarred warrior. Lon was
also apparently seasoned, shorter than his brothers, with a challenging manner.
The three brothers stood next to one another; Daniel was tall, slender, and
held no animosity in his expression, whereas Donat and Dixon seemed quite
hostile. The middle son was bulky, wearing a mail suit and, very strangely, no
shoes. The last son, a little man, stared at Garren as if he was going to throw
knives at him at any moment.

Garren glared at all of
them before turning back to Bertram.

 "I have been
months out of England, my lord,” he said. “I would see this woman my father has
chosen for me."

So the man wasn't much
for pleasantries. Bertram remained cool; he'd dealt with amorous suitors
before. "You will go through the formalities with me first, as her father.
It is my right and duty to inspect you as my daughter's future husband."

Alger walked up and
stood next to Bertram in mute support. He looked like a brigand with his
missing eye and dirty appearance.

"You will respect
the House of de Rosa, le Mon," he growled. "We have no patience for
your demands."

Garren's jaw ticked.
"Since when is a man's right considered a demand? Have I been from England
so long that all propriety is ignored?"

Alger bristled but
Bertram stopped him. "We are not ignoring your demands, Sir Garren. But do
we not have a right to question my daughter's future husband? Would you not
expect that formality were it your daughter?"

Bertram wasn't being
particularly obstinate; he was simply asking a question. Garren thought perhaps
it was time he softened his stance a bit and allowed the man to have a look at
him. But he had no doubt that any of them would think twice before challenging
him in any way. With a faint nod of his head, he then accepted a cup of wine
that Bertram extended. Alger stood there and grumbled until Bertram silenced
him.

"Sir Garren,"
Bertram began. "Please tell us of your adventures in the Holy Land. You
are the first crusader we have seen in many months. What news is there?"

Garren did not drink the
wine; he simply held it in his hand. It was a nominal insult, accepting the
wine but not drinking it, suggesting it was sub-standard or that there could
possibly be poisoned laced in it. In any case, it was to further stress that he
was no one to be manipulated or trifled with.