Medieval Master Swordsmen(418)

“Derica, sweetheart,” he muttered. “We should be on our way. Are you warm and dry enough to continue?”

She nodded, her cheeks rosy from sitting so near the hearth. “I am.”

Emyl fingered the cloak, laid out before the flames. “’Tis nearly dry,” he stood up. “Give me a moment to gather my things and we’ll be off.”

Garren could have very well found the castle himself, but he allowed Emyl to feel useful. He was sure the old man didn’t get much chance at that. Moreover, he was still feeling guilty about Fergus. In very short time, Emyl was cloaked and carrying one of the biggest swords Garren had ever seen, save his own. As Derica donned her drying cloak, Garren indicated the old man’s weapon.

“A fine piece,” he said. “Where did you acquire it?”

Emyl held the weapon up for Garren to inspect. “’Twas a gift from my liege, Shrewsbury.” He beheld the sword as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. “De Braose was an evil bastard, the most wicked marcher lord on the border. But he rewarded his faithful well. He gave this to me for meritorious service, probably stolen off of a dead Welsh prince.”

Garren knew well the marcher lords, past and present. The Marshal was also a marcher lord. They were often the most ruthless men in the kingdom simply because the Welsh border was the most disputed.

Outside, the thunder rolled, and Emyl sheathed his sword. Garren put his helm on, adjusting it on his head so that it did not chaff against his skin. Just as Emyl opened the door of his warm hut, lightning flashed across the sky.

“The weather worsens,” he commented. “Are you sure you won’t stay here until this passes?”

Garren swept Derica into his arms. “If the castle is as derelict as your son said it was and provides no immediate shelter, then perhaps we shall. But for the moment, I would like to see it. I feel more secure within stone walls.” He glanced as his wife. “Should the lady’s family be tracking us, I would not want to be caught in a cottage that would be easily burned to the ground. And I would not want to jeopardize you.”

Emyl threw up his hood. “Pah,” he spat. “They’d have a fight on their hands, I can tell you.”

Garren didn’t reply. He followed the old man out into the driving rain, placing Derica upon the wet back of the charger. As he mounted up in front of her, Emyl disappeared around the side of the cottage and emerged a short time later astride a small, pale-colored donkey. Garren remembered Fergus’ father coming to visit his squiring son, perched on the crest of a mighty red charger. To see him like this, a worn out man on a worn out steed, was disheartening.

They followed Emyl out onto the road that led through the town. They were heading west, into rain that stung with its ferocity. Garren shielded Derica as best he could, providing a huge windbreak from the elements. She huddled behind him, well protected, her cheek against his back as she watched the road pass by. When the charger began its jaunty trot, she had to lift her head otherwise it would bang against Garren’s body. The rain fell hard, wetting her already cold nose.

It was slow going in the bad weather. Eventually, they reached a decline in the road. Derica peered around Garren and saw that the road descended to the banks of a river, running full with rainwater. Ahead of them, Emyl directed his donkey off the road and into the thick, grassy mud.

There was so much fog and rain that it was difficult to see for any distance around them. Garren followed Emyl into the sludge, realizing it was not so much a muddy field as a muddy path. The grass, as far as he could tell, was simply overgrown on to it. Ascending the path, he craned his neck back to see what he could through the haze. Gradually, an ominous sight came into view.

Cilgarren Castle loomed like a great ghostly beast on the hill high above them. Garren had seen many castles in his life, and it was clear from the onset that Cilgarren was no ordinary castle; as they mounted the path, he could see how the path cleverly paralleled the structure, making it convenient for defenders to shoot down invading forces.

Men would be picked off like sitting ducks. Massive round towers connected the curtain wall, arrow slits evident in the rounded stone fortifications. The west side of the castle was protected by a steep cliff that disappeared into the river below, while the northern side with the path was protected by a steep, unmanageable slope.

With every muddy step his destrier took, Garren became more impressed with what he was witnessing. It was apparent that this huge gray beast was built by for greatness. In the same breath, he was baffled why it should sit, unused and unwanted, when it could be a major force to be reckoned with.