Medieval Master Swordsmen(423)

Emyl sighed heavily, making his way to the man he had once known. His gaze moved between the dead lad and the uncle.

“You did as you felt best, even as you moved to defend your home,” he tried to comfort him. “You did not know our intentions were peaceful. But Garren is correct; you could have determined them first. ‘Twould be best to teach David that lesson today. A costly lesson though it might be.”

Offa nodded his head silently. Emyl stood over him, knowing there was nothing more he could say. Observing the scene, Derica slipped her wet hand into her husband’s.

“We should help him bury his nephew,” she said softly.

Garren gazed down at her, her sweet face pinched pink with cold and wet. She did not understand the warring ways, the event that one did not usually bury his enemy, but he knew this was a different case. In spite of himself, he was beginning to feel very guilty about the whole thing. The Garren of old never knew the meaning of the word.

“As you wish, my lady,” he said softly.

He helped Offa and David dig the grave. By the time the sun settled, the rain had let up somewhat. Still, it was the end of a very long day, and a very long trip. As he fell asleep beside his wife later that night in the shadows of the old great hall, he felt a sense of peace for the first time in days. But he knew that would be short-lived.





CHAPTER TWELVE



“I thought I should inform you. I doubted He is had the opportunity yet.”

William Marshal sat at his great desk, listening to the words. Many times over the years he had heard news, good or bad, from this exact spot. Tonight, the news was not encouraging. He felt disappointment deep in his gut.

The old man sighed, scratching the chin with a day’s growth of white stubble. He tried to remain calm. He should have seen this coming, and in a sense he had. He had tried to discourage a man who had never known the joys of love from exploring the temptation of it. He thought he’d been firm enough, candid enough. But apparently his words had been in vain. Of all the men in the world to succumb to insubordination, he never thought he would live to see the day it would be Garren le Mon.

“So he married her.” It was more of a statement.

“Aye, my lord.”

“Against Bertram’s wishes?”

“Aye.”

The scratching of the stubble turned into rubbing the forehead. “Do you know where he and his bride have gone?”

Next to the desk, Hoyt de Rosa shook his head. “Nay,” he mumbled. “Last I saw, they were leaving the inn at Kettering. I did not ask where they were going, and he did not offer. The point is that you should know that my brothers were informed that Garren is a spy. His cover was destroyed and he was lucky to have escaped Framlingham with his life.”

“But he married your niece without her father’s permission.”

“He did. But that was secondary to my brothers discovering his true identity.”

“Somehow I believe the two are related. Is it possible that he told her of his true identity and she told her father?”

“Not at all, my lord,” Hoyt insisted. “I can assure you that Derica knew nothing of his mission. In defense of Garren, I will say this; he accomplished what he set forth to do. He posed as a suitor for Derica. He performed superbly. The only complication, which was not his fault, was that my brothers were told that he was a spy. His only choice was to flee. They would have killed him had he not.”

“Then who told them he was an agent?”

“A spy for Prince John, a man I have seen at Framlingham on more than one occasion. He apparently recognized Garren and told my brother of his suspicions.”

“Why was the man at Framlingham?”

“Informing my brother of all I just told you. Garren’s recognition was incidental.”

The Marshal absorbed the words. It was a true accounting of what had happened, more than likely. But the fact remained that his most prized agent was missing.

“Garren, Garren,” the Marshal muttered regretfully. After a moment, he shook his head, trying to shake off the shock of it. “Very well: I shall accept your explanation for now. But I must speak with Garren. Unless he has fled from the service of the king completely, I expect him to show himself and explain his actions. If there was ever a time I need Garren, it is now.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“For it seems now that we have a greater problem.”

“We do.”

“Several thousand Teutonic and Irish mercenaries at Nottingham and Bolton.”

“Aye.”

“And two thousand more French due next week.”

“That is true.”

“And you said you told Garren this?”