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Medieval Master Swordsmen(417)

By:Kathryn Le Veque


“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?”

Garren cast his wife a wink. “Marrying this woman against her father’s wishes is crime enough. We need to find safe haven until his anger cools.”

Emyl laughed. “I see now. Well, I cannot blame you in the least. Were I younger and prettier, I might have done the same thing.” He reached over by the hearth, collecting a large earthenware jug. “A drink, then. Let us toast your criminal activities.”

Emyl took a huge swallow, reminding Garren very much of his son. Derica smirked as her husband reluctantly took the container and ingested a long swallow of the bitter, dark liquid.

“Do I get to drink to my own criminal activities, too?” she asked.

Garren cocked an eyebrow at her but dutifully handed her the jug. Derica took a gulp that spilled over her lips. She coughed and laughed at the same time, making a face at the strength of the liquor. Garren, grinning, shook his head at her and took the jug away. Emyl crowed happily.

“Garren, she is wonderful,” he took another drink. “Too bad you married her before my son had a fair chance. And where is my prodigal boy these days? Not visiting his father, I can tell you. I haven’t seen his swarthy hide in years.”

Garren’s jovial mood vanished. He didn’t dare look at his wife, who was suddenly looking at the fire. He didn’t want to tell this lonely old man that his only son had died as a result of Garren’s crime. As he struggled to find an answer, Derica spoke.

“The last I saw of him, he was riding to the south of Yaxley Nene Abbey,” she said softly. “I do not know where he went, but he was in good health last I saw him.”

Garren shot her a strange look, his jaw tense and his eyes narrowed. She turned away from the fire, facing her husband as if daring him to disagree with her. He wouldn’t back down and neither would she. After a moment, she looked at Emyl.

“Do you know that your son rescued me from my prison and delivered me to Garren?” she said. “He was brilliant in his plans. Why, had it not been for him, Garren and I would still be separated, longing for one another. “Tis a horrible thing to love someone you can never be with. Your son saved us from that fate.”

Emyl looked pleased and surprised. “Truly, now? My son was noble for once in his life?”

“Verily,” Derica said. “He is as clever as a fox and as loyal as a hound. Garren and I are both eternally grateful to him.”

Emyl scratched his thinning hair. “Perhaps the lad has become a worthy knight, after all. He wasn’t always so, you know.”

“How so?” Derica asked.

Garren knew he was foolish not to stop the charade this instant. But Emyl’s expression was so that Garren didn’t have the heart. He rationalized his lack of truth by telling himself that he did not know for sure that Fergus was dead; Hoyt had never actually seen his body. But the implication was such that the de Rosas had finished him off in their zeal to locate Derica.

Garren listed to Emyl go on about Fergus’ shortcomings. His son was rash, young and foolish, to be sure, but he was also strong and virtuous to a point. Drink and gambling were his vices, as were his father’s.

Garren finally sat down in an old chair, watching his wife’s profile in the firelight as she listened to the old man, noticing the wrinkle in her nose when she laughed. His thoughts soon turned from Fergus to Derica, and his heart began to swell so that he thought it might burst from his chest. Outside, the rain pounded harder, distracting him from his thoughts.