The man dropped his hands and made his way over to his companion. His movements were slow with defeat. Emyl and Derica moved to stand with Garren as the three of them observed the man in the rags. He fell to one knee, putting his hand on the wet corpse.
“He was just a lad,” the man muttered. “A child.”
“A child who was trying to kill me,” Emyl didn’t feel guilty in the least. “If you were that worried over his health, you should not have allowed him to attack us.”
“We were protecting ourselves,” the man in rags suddenly boomed. The dark eyes flashed. “”Tis you who invade our home.”
Derica looked at her husband with big eyes. Garren’s expression was neutral, though he could feel her stare. “You live here? On whose authority?”
The man in rags stared at him for a moment. “On my own. No one has lived here in decades; there was no reason why we should not.”
The man that Derica had smashed over the head suddenly groaned and sat up. He shook his head as if waking up from a deep, ugly sleep. Garren heard the noise and glanced over at him.
“Tell him to be still,” he commanded quietly. “Any provocative movement and he shall meet the same fate as your companion.”
The man in the rags eyed his disoriented comrade, but he could see that provocative action would be the last thing to occur. He looked at Garren, more closely than before.
“You are a knight,” he stated.
Garren cocked an eyebrow. “And as such, you will answer my questions or face the consequences. Tell me your name.”
The man in rags signed deeply, with resignation. His hand came to rest protectively on the head of his dead friend.
“David,” he whispered.
“Who is the dead man?”
“My brother, Guy.”
Garren heard his wife gasp softly, but he didn’t look at her. “And the man over there?”
“My uncle.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Offa.”
“Offa,” Emyl repeated, looking closely at the man covered in mud. “Offa van Vert?”
The round, dirty man grunted. “The same.”
Emyl’s mouth popped open. Then he threw up his hands. “I should run you through, you idiot. Why in God’s name would you attack me?”
Offa blinked his eyes, trying to rid himself of his double vision. “Emyl?”
Emyl sneered. “Dim wit! Of course it is me. Can you not see that through those bloodshot eyes?”
“I cannot see anything at the moment,” Offa shook his head again. “The lady was true in her aim.”
“Emyl,” Garren cut into the conversation. “Who are these people?”
Emyl looked ill, as if a horrible situation had suddenly been made clear to him. “Offa van Vert was a knight, Garren. He served Cadell ap Gryffud. We grew up together, in this region. I simply haven’t seen him in years.” He glared at the muddy knight. “I thought you’d died, you old goat. What are you doing here?”
Offa struggled to one knee. “The Welsh rebellion hasn’t much room for an aged knight. My youth is gone and so is my money. I knew of this place, too. My nephews and I have lived here for three years.”
Emyl looked at Garren; he didn’t know what more he could say. The entire circumstance was sickening. Garren stood there a long while, watching David grieve over his brother. Finally, he sheathed his sword.
“Your brother did not have to die,” he said quietly. “You should have determined my motives before attacking us.”
David wiped his eyes. “My delay might have given you the upper hand had you been intent on killing us.”
“Are you a knight?”
“No.”
By now, Offa was on his feet and walking unsteadily towards his nephews. “My sister married a common man. There was no opportunity for the boys to foster in a proper house. I have schooled them the best I can.”
Garren took a few steps, retrieved David’s old sword, and extended it to the man.
“You have done an admirable job,” he said. “I am impressed with David’s skill and strength.”
Offa knelt beside his other nephew, putting a tender hand on the lad’s head. “Guy will never know his potential,” he whispered ironically. “He could have been great.”
Garren glanced at his wife, seeing the sorrowful expression on her face. He was feeling guilty when he knew he should not. “An unfortunate happening.” He came as close to an apology as he could.
“Unfortunate indeed,” Offa stroked the dark hair. “It was my fault. I am a foolish old man. Foolish and stupid. The boys fought against me in their training and I most always allowed them to win, giving them a sense of confidence. It was Guy’s undoing.”