“I did.”
The Marshal shook his head faintly. “I cannot believe he would abandon Richard in his hour of need.”
“You know his character better than I.”
“I thought I did,” William murmured. He gazed across the room, to the lancet window where the cold night swirled beyond. “But a woman has been known to do strange things to a man’s sense of duty.”
Hoyt couldn’t argue. He’d seen the looks between Garren and Derica, but he was afraid to voice his opinion. He could only pray that Garren would do what was right.
***
“Garren?”
Garren looked up from the small piece of vellum he was writing on. Derica was smiling back at him, a large bundle of vegetation in her arms. Before he could answer her, she shook her head at him.
“You did not hear a word I said,” she set the bundle down on the table, next to his writing. “I asked if you would move aside so that I may set this down.”
He smiled, rather sheepishly, and moved the vellum well clear of her burden. “I am sorry. I was writing to my sister.”
Derica knew that. Over the past week, they had worked hard to settle in to Cilgarren and she could not fault her husband a bit of quiet time. Offa and his nephew had become gracious hosts, working alongside Garren and Emyl to make the great hall livable for the lady’s sake. The table had been restored and everyone had a dark corner of the room to sleep in. Garren had eventually told them of their reasons for being there; it was only fair should the de Rosas show up. Instead of being upset by it, Offa had seemed strangely excited as if he would once again be provided the chance to prove himself a warrior.
“And just what are you saying in your missive?” Derica nodded at the vellum. “Complaining about me, were you?”
He laughed softly. “Absolutely. You are too sweet, too wonderful and too generous for your own good. What a burden you are.”
“Then it is your misfortune to have been foolish enough to marry me.” She grinned, peeling back the cloth of the bundle she had been carrying. “While you were loafing about, I went hunting. I found wild lentils growing on the slope above the river. Someone must have planted them there some time ago, when this castle was lived-in, because the hill is covered with them. And see what else? Blackberries. Lots of them.”
He plucked one out of her pile and popped it in his mouth. “Delicious.” Snatching her around the waist, he kissed her cheek. “As are you.”
She let him kiss her a few times, affection that quickly grew into passion. As he nibbled her neck, she put her hands on his chest in a half-hearted attempt to stop him.
“Not now, Garren,” she muttered. “Someone might come in.”
“Let them,” he growled, but she somehow found the strength to dislodge him and he sighed with mock frustration. “You are a cold wench.”
She ignored him, focusing on the harvest before her. “I am afraid that I am not much of a cook, as you have no doubt discovered. Other than supervising the kitchens, father would never let me learn the craft. He was afraid the knives would cut me or the fire would burn me, or I would somehow get hurt. So all I can do is hunt for food, and not much more. At least I feel as if I am contributing something that way.”
Garren put a hand on her shoulder. “No worries, sweetheart. I learned to do for myself at a young age, as you no doubt have discovered.”
It was her turn to smile sheepishly. “So you can cook whatever I gather.”
“Precisely.”
“Will you at least go with me to forage?”
“I think I can spare the time.”
They carefully divided up the lentils from the berries before heading out again. It had stopped raining a few days hence, but the ground was still wet and soft, and the moats were filled to brimming. Garren carried the cloth she used to bundle up whatever she gathered, keeping the conversation light as they made their way over to the north tower next to the kitchen. The cooks of Cilgarren had apparently planted their gardens on the steep slope above the river, knowing that it would be relatively safe from invasion from the river below.
Garren had hold of his wife’s skirt as she scavenged about, fearful she would lose her footing in the damp soil and plunge into the water far below. But she was quite surefooted, chattering as she collected more lentils and found a few wild turnips. He remained mostly silent, listening to her talk, watching the dull sunlight glisten off of her hair and wondering how he was going to tear himself away from her long enough to conduct his business with the Marshal. No doubt, William was wondering what had become of him by now. Time was not his friend in this matter. As reluctant as he was to leave her, he knew equally as much that he had to.