Medieval Master Swordsmen(443)

“Of course not.”

“And she will be, I promise.”

“She should go home to her family.”

“She will not. My gift to Garren is to see that she sustains his legacy and doesn’t end up back in that den of vipers.”

Hoyt didn’t argue further with him. He knew it was fruitless. But after William finally retired for the night, he summoned a messenger of his own and sent the man east to Framlingham.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN



Days passed into a week, and then two. Derica had grown strong enough to help with the chores, discovering she wasn’t very good at cooking but that she was quite good at mending. The massive lump on her head had slowly subsided and with it, her memory had returned in bits and pieces. She could remember the large family of men and a few of their names – Hoyt was her uncle, Dixon and Daniel were her brothers, but she still had no idea where they all lived or who the rest of the nameless men were.

At night, she dreamt of a massive man with copper-gold hair who filled her with wondrous weakness. She awoke in the morning, expecting to see him sleeping beside her, and repeatedly disappointed when he wasn’t there. Perhaps he was the husband who had beaten her and thrown her into the river, though her instinct told her the man was not the kind. Surely if he was her husband, he would come looking for her. But no man came all of these days.

Early one morning, Mair roused her from a deep, warm sleep. Derica yawned, rolling onto her back and searching for her clothes. The clothes that Mair had found her in had been unsalvageable, so the woman had given her what was probably her best clothing to wear. Considering the near-rags Mair wore, Derica could surmise nothing else.

Derica slept in her shift, a soft wool garment that hung to her ankles. Over her head, she pulled the dark blue woolen surcoat with long sleeves, and then she pulled on a plain fawn-colored sleeveless garment that was made for durability and warmth. These were her clothes, day in and day out, and Mair washed them once since giving them to her. They smelled like rushes, and a little smoke.

“Get up, get up,” Mair apparently thought Derica was moving too slowly. “We must get up and go to the lake.”

Derica ran a wooden comb through her hair, wincing when it caught a snag. “The lake? Why?”

Mair smiled, handing Sian a cup of warmed goat’s milk. “For a winter’s harvest. You will see.”

Derica thought she meant fish. Pulling her hair into a braid at the nape of her neck, she put on her shoes and borrowed cloak, which was really more of a woolen blanket, and followed Mair and the children out into the early morning. Everything was damp and icy as they made their way through the trees and into the outskirts of the small village.

The sun rose steadily and smoke from cooking fires hung heavy in the misty air. Mair led them around the village and to a well-traveled road that headed to the east. Sian and Aneirin walked on either side of Derica, holding baskets for their harvest. They had decided over the past week that they liked Derica very much and had taken to following her everywhere. Sian was a sweet, protective little boy, while Aneirin was more aggressive in a big sisterly manner and liked to push her younger brother around a bit. They squabbled here and there, but had mostly made wonderful companions for Derica. She was quite fond of them.

“Bryndalyn?”

For the past few days, Derica had been having dreams and memories that suggested that wasn’t her name, but she answered nonetheless. “Aye?”

Sian grinned up at her. He was always grinning at her. “Tell me of the knights.”

They had been having a discussion for several days about knights. Sian was enamored with warriors. She smiled gently at him. “Men with big horses and bigger swords.”

She held her arms up to indicate an enormous weapon, and Sian’s grin broadened. “Tell me of a fight!”

Derica thought hard. She thought she could recall a tournament, events flowing through her mind of colors and lists and shouting people. Dixon had taken the melee prize at this particular one. Very slowly, she could recall the name York. This particular tournament had been in York, and she recollected how much she had loved gazing at the magnificent cathedral.

“Do you remember what I told you about tournaments?”

“Aye!”

“Then do you remember what I told you about the knight’s weaponry?”

Sian nodded eagerly. “They use a lance for the jost.”

“Joust,” she corrected.

“Joust,” Sian repeated. “They use their swords for the me.. me…”

“Melee.”

“A fight!”

She laughed softly. “Aye, a fight, little man. They stick each other with swords until one man is left standing. It is a horrible, bloody spectacle, something I suspect you would love immensely.”