Her brow was furrowed like an angry child. “I will not go home. There is nothing for me there. They’ll simply try to marry me off again and won’t have any part of it, do you hear? I won’t marry ever, again.”
“Then what would you suggest?”
“That I go to the abbey with your sister.”
He had to admit that her answer pleased him, but he was positive that it was because he was being selfish. “You have a right to be happy in life should I not be at your side. I want you to be happy. Do you think you would truly be happy in the cloister?”
“I do not know. But I believe I would be happier there than married to some pompous fool whose only ambition is to be politically linked to the de Rosa name.” She stopped struggling, gazing deeply into his eyes. “Garren, do you think if I returned home that I would be a desirable marriage prospect? Of course not. My father would more than likely sell me to an arrogant French mercenary who can pay for the de Rosa name. Marrying me into a decent family was lost the moment I fled Framlingham. Is that the kind of life you would hope for me?”
She had turned it around on him admirably. He knew the political game of noble marriages as well as or better than she did, and knew she spoke the truth. His heart sank to think of what would become of her should he not return.
“Nay,” he said quietly. “And I suppose I should be more pragmatic than I have been. Truly, my intention is to return to you. It is my only thought. But if by chance the fates are against us, then you should know your next move. If I do not return within six weeks, then go to Yaxley Nene and stay with my sister until you have decided what you wish to do. No one can touch you there, especially your family. If you wish to devote yourself to the cloister, then so be it. But if you wish to return to your family, then I shall support your decision.”
“You’re sure that is what you wish me to do?”
“I believe it is a sound plan.”
With the most difficult of subjects decided upon, Garren’s impending departure began to weigh heavily enough that she could hardly breathe. Derica always believed she was the strongest of women, but suddenly, she didn’t want to be strong. She wanted to be weak. Resting her forehead against his armor, she cried silent tears of longing. The warm droplets fell on his protection, little salty rivers running their course. Garren stroked her hair, silently, feeling her pain and then some.
“The longer I delay, the more difficult this will become,” he murmured.
She sniffled, struggling to regain her composure. “I know. ‘Tis best you go, now, before I cling to you like a great anchor and you have to drag me across the yard.”
It was humor in a moment of agony. Garren kissed her deeply, tasting her tears. Abruptly, he broke away, leaving her standing in the doorway as he marched across the muddy inner ward. He didn’t dare look back, fearful that he would retrace his steps back to her and be unable to break away a second time. He got half way across the yard when two figures emerging from the crumbling gatehouse caught his attention. Garren’s pace slowed as he assessed the forms; one was Emyl, but it took him a moment to recognize the second. When he did, he froze dead in his tracks.
“Fergus!”
***
The hearth smoked and spit embers into the dark room. Fergus didn’t care if he did catch a few red-hot particles on his skin, so long as he was warm again. It seemed like it had been ages since he had last been warm and fed, or safe for that matter. But the great hall of Cilgarren had a massive, protective quality that soothed him after his harried adventure.
“For once, the blows did not come from someone with a grudge against me.” He was trying to be glib. “At any rate, not a gambling grudge. The de Rosas certainly had another grudge, especially when I wouldn’t tell them where Derica was.”
Derica sat at the crumbling table, wincing as she thought of her family imparting the bruises and welts on Fergus’ face.
“Oh, Fergus, I am so sorry,” she said. “They’ve always been as such. Ruffians in every sense of the word. Did they break any bones?”
He shook his head. “No one can crack this skull, my lady. Many have tried. It would take better men that the de Rosas to break my bones.”
Garren stood next to his friend, his great arms crossed. He analyzed every movement, every word, thinking there was far more to the story than what Fergus was saying. It was just a feeling he had, knowing his friend as well as he did. But the sheer fact that the man was alive was a miracle, and a welcome one. Still, there was something very odd about him, something Garren couldn’t quite figure out.