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