Derica fought off a grin, as did Garren. He pointed a thick finger at his sons. “That is because you have much to make up for,” he said sternly. “You three have harassed your sister sincethe day she was born. ’Tis a wonder I didn’t throw you all to the wolves with all of the havoc you have wrought.”
Roselyn stood next to her father, nodding vehemently. “Putting honey in my bed,” she sneered. “And saffron in rosewater so it turned my teeth yellow. And…!”
Garren put his hand on her copper-blond head to silence her. “And probably more that I do not even know about so, if I were you, I would listen to her. Be kind to your sister on the event of her wedding. And if you go anywhere near her marriage bed, you shall rue the day you were born. Is that understood?”
Roselyn stuck her tongue out at her brothers for good measure; with her father’s support, she was brave enough to antagonize them. As she continued to make faces at them, Derica grasped her husband by the arm when he turned to walk away.
“Would you please bring me a selection of fabric while you are in town?” she asked. “I want to make some more garments for Aneirin’s child.”
Garren struggled not to roll his eyes at her. “Sweetheart, you have already made that child a massive wardrobe and he is not even born yet,” he said, then relented when he saw the look on her face. He threw up his hands and turned away from her. “Oh, very well; I know he is our first grandchild. Surely the Christ Child was not so anticipated or revered as Aneirin’s first child.”
Derica watched him go, knowing he felt the same way about Aneirin’s first baby as she did. They were both so excited they could barely stand it. Aneirin had been married to a fine knight for seven years, childless until this past year when she discovered that she was pregnant. Derica thought that Garren was perhaps more excited about it than Aneirin was although he pretended otherwise. It was a wonderful addition to their already wonderful world.
The sound of distant horses suddenly interrupted her thoughts. In fact, Garren came to a halt, turning towards the wide-open portcullis as the sounds of hooves grew louder. The portcullis of the castle was almost never closed, and that was usually only at night. Beaucaire had been at peace for four years since the Count of Toulouse had captured it, putting Garren in charge of the garrison.
Garren had served the Count since fleeing England some twenty three years earlier, having come to the Count with his father’s reference. Although Chateroy hadn’t been destroyed those years ago by the de Rosas, it had been heavily damaged and Garren’s father was thankful it hadn’t been razed altogether. He also understood, clearly, why Garren needed to leave England. So the Count accepted Garren into his service based on former service from Sir Allan le Mon of Anglecynn and Ceri. The Count never asked why Garren had left England and Garren had never offered. For over twenty years, it had been the perfect arrangement.
Therefore, Garren wasn’t particularly concerned with the sounds of approaching hooves but he did order his soldiers on the wall to lower the first of the double-portcullises about half-way. That was so men on horses couldn’t suddenly storm in and rush the bailey without getting their heads cut off. He approached the open gate as the sounds grew louder. Behind him, the four le Mon brothers were already moving to arm themselves; as trained knights, like their father, they were always prepared.
As Garren wait for the horsemen to make an appearance, Lily suddenly ran to her father before Derica could stop her, grasping her father’s hand tightly and smiling up into his concerned face. Although Garren knew he should send her back with her mother and sister into the keep, he relented when he beheld her lovely face, going so far as to wink at her and squeeze her hand. Happy,Lily pressed herself against her father, half-hidden behind his massive bulk, as three riders suddenly appeared at the half-lowered portcullis.
The riders immediately came to a halt; to go any further would mean getting knocked off their horses by the half-lowered iron grate. The horses danced about nervously as the riders eventually dismounted. One man handed his reins to the man next to him and ducked underneath the lowered portcullis.
“Stop,” Garren boomed. “Come no further before you announce yourself.”
The armored man came to a halt. After a long, tense pause, he finally off his helm. Garren’s eyes nearly popped from his skull in astonishment as he recognized the face.
“Fergus!” he hissed.
Fergus de Edwin flashed his toothy grin; he was older, perhaps thinner, but there was no mistaking the bright blue eyes or graying blond hair.
“I see that I have come to the right place,” he said. “You are as ugly as ever, Garren.”
“And you are still as stupid.”
It was their traditional greeting, much missed and much revered. Garren was already making his way towards Fergus, who met him somewhere near the raise second portcullis. In lieu of an extended verbal greeting, Garren simply threw his arms around the man. Fergus returned the gesture and they hugged each other to reaffirm old bonds. The affection, the friendship, was still there and as strong as it had ever been. Words, at the moment, were fairly useless.
“I do not even know where to start,” Garren said as he pulled back, gazing into Fergus’ face with complete, utter amazement. “How on earth did you find me?”
Fergus clapped Garren on the side of the face. “Your father told me,” he said, catching a glimpse of a pretty young girl half-hidden behind Garren. His focus turned to her, startled. “And who is this pretty faerie princess? Is she magic, perhaps?”
He was looking at Lily as he spoke. Lily flushed bright red and shook her head, pressing her face into her father’s side. Fergus watched her a moment longer before returning his focus to Garren.
“Surely she must belong to you,” he said softly.
Garren grinned, lifting his arm so he could get a glimpse of Lily with her face buried in his torso.
“She does,” he said. “This is the Lady Lily le Mon. And the rest of the group behind me also belongs to me. I believe you know my wife.”
Fergus hadn’t noticed Derica standing on the steps with a lovely young woman beside her. As their eyes met, Derica smiled broadly and descended the stone stairs into the bailey, coming upon Fergus and doing just as her husband had; she hugged him fiercely. Fergus seemed a bit overwhelmed at everything, studying the faces of the young men and women looking back at him. He gestured to the group.
“All yours?” he asked Garren and Derica, incredulous.
Garren nodded, glancing over his shoulder at his children. “All ours; Weston, Davin, Austin, Sian and Roselyn. You remember Sian, of course.”
Fergus thought back through the years to that dark-haired little boy from Pembroke. “I do.”
“His sister is married and about to have her first child.”
