The Whispering Night (22 page)

“What on earth for?”

“Because my father wants
to see this country torn apart by a greedy bastard of a prince. Le Mon serves
the one man who can save this country. I believe in that cause.”

“What cause?”

“William Marshall, of
course. The same man you serve.”

A glimmer came to
Fergus’ eye. “I serve Longton, not Richard.”

“There is no need for
secrecy. I know that le Mon serves the king’s inner circle. I would assume you
do the same.”  When Fergus didn’t react, he held up his hands. “I even know the
phrase. La lealtà alla morte. Onorare soprattutto. It is le Mon’s phrase, is it
not?”

“I do not know what you
speak of.”

Donat shrugged his
shoulders. “As you wish,” he said. “But I must know where my sister and le Mon
are so I can keep my family away from them. They’ll search to the ends of the
earth for her.”

Fergus cocked an eyebrow.
“Is this some clever ploy? To trick me into believing you are my ally when, in
truth, it is simply another tactic to force me to reveal all that I know? I am
not as stupid as I apparently look.”

“Nor am I,” Donat said.
“Sir knight, I realize this situation appears morbidly strange. But you must
believe me when I tell you that the beating you took, at my hands, was purely
an act for the benefit of my family. I was protecting you, if you will believe
it. But they are off now, searching for my sister and preparing to lay siege to
le Mon’s castle.  If le Mon and my sister are heading there, then they must be
warned. Do you not understand?”

He was imploring him,
but Fergus had seen some great actors in his time and was not taken in. Still,
there was something urgent about the man’s manner.

“I will believe you if
you let me go,” Fergus responded, confident that his request would be met by a
refusal.

“Is that they only way?”

“It is.”

“Go, then,” Donat
replied. “I will not follow, and I will do my best to keep the others off your
trail. But, for God’s Holy sake, if you know where le Mon is, you must tell him
what is happening. He must be warned. Use his phrase and he will know that you
speak the truth.”

Fergus stared at him.
The circumstance was as strange as any he had ever encountered and he did not
trust the man in the least. But he was not about to contest his freedom.  With
his eyes still on Donat, he made his way to the trees where a destrier was
tethered. Confiscating the horse, he tore off through the bramble, heading in
haste for the road. 

Donat watched him go,
hoping the knight was loyal enough to le Mon to warn him but wondering in the
same breath if he had just made a foolish mistake. 

“
Pour Richard de Dieu
et Roi
,” he whispered softly.

Donat picked up the club
that his brother had held and promptly smacked himself in the nose. When Dixon
eventually regained his wits, he found his older brother unconscious on the
ground and the prisoner escaped.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

This time of the year,
Wales was a place soaked in perpetual gray. The land was gray, the sky gray,
even the water. It was cloudy for days on end, making travel cold and
miserable. 

It took Garren and
Derica nearly a week to make it to the border of England and Wales, the desolate
area of the southern marches.  They watched the landscape move from flat,
fertile farming soil to rocky, hilly land that seemed to be the distinguishing
characteristic of this part of the country. Still, there were moments when the
sun broke through the cloud cover and produced spectacular yellow beams that
fingered the slumbering landscape. In those moments, it was beautiful, and
Derica would make Garren stop the horse to observe the precious moment.

For a woman who had
spent her entire life given any luxury she could possibly want, Derica had
traveled incredibly well with hardly a comfort. There were times when she would
want to walk because her backside ached, but Garren never heard a compliant
other than that.  She was, however, constantly cold and many were a time when
her icy fingers would snake inside his tunic to seek warmth against his skin.
He would grunt and make faces, but she would giggle and tell him to quiet. 
Such was the price he had to pay for her company.

Quiet wasn’t a word she
knew much of herself. Although it wasn’t annoying in the least, she talked
constantly as the charger lumbered over the landscape. While Garren listened
with interest, Derica would prattle on about her life back at Framlingham, the
day her brothers accidentally killed her dog in a drunken brawl, or the time
when her entire family went to a tourney in Saxmundham and another knight, not
knowing that she was a de Rosa, had asked for her favor as she sat in the
lists.  Garren grinned as she relayed how the entire clan cornered the knight
and his pages in the knight’s tent, collapsed the tent, and then proceeded to
beat everyone caught within the folds of material with the tent stakes they had
ripped up from the earth.

He came to learn quite a
bit about the woman he married in the two weeks that it took them to travel
into Dyfed.  He found her to be more of a delight than he could have imagined.
He knew that she desperately wanted to learn how to read Latin. He also learned
that she loved to draw sketches of castles; not simply to produce artwork, but
of how to build them.  They would sit by the fire at sundown and he would watch
her sketch in the dirt.  He had to admit that she had some brilliant ideas.

Garren had never been
much of a conversationalist, or so he thought. Whereas he believed he had been
doing most of the listening, it seemed that he had done some talking, too. He
spoke of his father, a short man with bad eyes who had doted on his only son.
Derica heard about the young page who had missed his pet goat when he had gone
to foster.  She heard a few antics that had involved Fergus, but Garren would
become sad upon remembering the friend who had sacrificed himself and Derica
would change the subject in a well-meaning way.  It had been, after all, her
family who had murdered Fergus. She hoped that the event would never cast a
shadow over her and Garren, even though Garren had never so much as uttered a
word to that effect.

Carreg-wen was the home
of Fergus’ birth, the village on the outskirts of Cilgarren.  Garren and Derica
had spent the night in the woods a few miles out, making love before the fire
and talking well into the night. When dawn broke, they made their way through
the mist and fog into the small town. It was an unspectacular place. Garren had
made up his mind to seek out Fergus’ father not only to inform him of his son’s
fate, but also to seek his aid in locating the castle. A few inquiries in town
pointed the direction to a small cottage at the north-western end of the berg. 

The rain was falling
harder. Water formed in puddles all around the small, mud-brick dwelling. A
heavy thatched roof dripped rain onto the ground as Garren walked up to the
warped door and rapped on the splintering wood with his great gloved fist. 
Derica sat astride the charger, her lips unnaturally bright in the freezing
weather, trying not to let Garren see that her teeth were chattering. He
glanced at her when he received no immediate answer, winked, and rapped on the
door again.  He almost pounded on the head of the man who swiftly opened it.

Garren took a step back,
noting the shock in the man’s eyes.  “Emyl de Edwin?” he asked.

The man had Fergus’
eyes. They were bright blue and suspicious. “Who asks for him?”

“Fear not, my lord,”
Garren said. “I mean you no harm. I am a friend of Fergus’.”

The man looked slightly
less suspicious. “If you are looking for my son, I do not know where he is. He
could be in France, or perhaps the Holy Land. If he owes you money, be assured
that I have none to pay his debts. If I had, do you think I would be living
here?”

Garren had to smile. He
put up his hand to silence the man. “My lord, I come not to collect a debt your
son owes me, though I am not surprised you have had experiences like that.
Fergus had been known to make a promise or two that he had no intention of
keeping.”

The man cocked an
eyebrow. “Ah, well, I see that you do indeed know my son.”

“Well enough not to lend
him money, my lord. May we speak?”

“That depends. What
about?”

Garren glanced up at the
sky. “I would prefer not to discuss business out here in the rain.  My wife is
freezing and I would hope to gain her some shelter.”

The old man’s eyes
drifted to the charger, to Derica sitting cold and wet in the saddle. “No,” he
said after a moment. “I don’t suppose you have come here to collect any debt
with your lady in tow. ‘Twould be bad manners. Bring her in by the fire.”

The old man stepped back
inside the cottage. Garren lifted Derica off the horse, carrying her across the
mud and into the cramped, warm quarters.  Closing the door behind them, he
helped her pull back the soaking cloak.  Near the hearth, the old man motioned
them over.

“Take the cloak off and
give it to me,” he held his hands out. “I shall dry it by the fire. Lady, sit
here, on the stool.  ‘Tis warm here.”

Derica gratefully took
the offered seat. Her hands were blue with cold and she held them up before the
flame. The old man laid out the cloak, glancing at Derica with appreciative
eyes.  She caught his stares and he shrugged sheepishly.

“Forgive, my lady,” he said.
“’Tis been a long time since I have seen such beauty.  I am Emyl de Edwin, and
you are welcome in my home.”

Garren removed his helm
and pulled off his wet gloves. “I can see that you are indeed Fergus’ father.
The gift of flattery must run in the blood.”

Emyl shrugged. “’Tis not
flattery, but truth.” He looked at the enormous knight. “And you, my lord. Your
name?”

“Garren le Mon. And this
is my wife, the lady Derica.”

A flicker came to Emyl’s
eye. “Garren,” he murmured. “I remember you as a lad. Now I see you as a fine,
strong man.”

Garren smiled. “And I
remember you as a loud man who tried to thump us on the head with the butt of
your sword on the occasions when you came to visit your son.”

Emyl took Garren’s
outstretched hand and held it tightly. “You used to run from me.”

“I am no fool.”

“Did you come to seek
vengeance, then?”

“No,” Garren snickered.
“Though you surely deserve it. I have actually come for another reason.”

“Name it, then.”

“I would ask that you
direct me to Cilgarren Castle.”

Emyl’s eyebrows lifted.
“Cilgarren? That derelict, beautiful old woman?”

“Then you know of it.”

“Of course I do. What do
you want at that place?”

Garren took a long, slow
breath, listening to the rain pound on the walls. “’Tis a long story, my lord,
one not worthy of delving into. I would be indebted to you should you tell me
the way.”

Emyl was either wise
enough not to probe. “Very well. Take the road through the town out to the
west.  When you come to the River Teifi, go south along the bank. Where the
ground rises, look to the sky. You will see the castle above you. In fact,” he
pointed a finger at Garren. “I will take you there myself. In this fog, ‘twill
be difficult to see. I should not want you to get lost.”

“That is not necessary,
my lord,” Garren assured him. “We can find it, though your offer is
appreciated.”

“Nonsense,” Emyl waved
him off. “’Tis the least I can do for Garren le Mon, the boy who once ran from
me in terror. I should make up for my bad behavior.”

Derica’s hands were
warming, as was her smile as she listened to the conversation. “You must have
been an awesome knight, my lord.”

Emyl turned to her.
“Indeed, Lady le Mon. I was indeed formidable at one time. But that was
before…” he looked slightly uncomfortable. “That was before the ravages of drink
and foolishness set upon me.  There was a time when I was an honorable knight
in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury. My ancestor arrived at Dover with
William the Bastard many years back. Once, the de Edwin name meant something.”

Derica glanced at Garren,
uncertain what to say to a man who had apparently ruined himself. “Perhaps it
shall again,” she said with soft encouragement. “We plan to live at Cilgarren
Castle. Perhaps you could serve Garren and help us make it a fine, strong
place.”

“Truly, Garren?” Emyl
said. “Have you been granted the lands?”

Garren shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Suffice it to say that the lady and I are in need of finding a
safe place for a time. Your son suggested the derelict castle of Cilgarren for
this purpose.”

“Safe place?” Emyl
repeated. “Have you committed a crime, then?”