Medieval Master Swordsmen(446)

“Who asks?” she questioned with polite authority.

“You will answer me, wench.”

“I will. As soon as you answer me. And you will not call me wench.”

The knight was working up another snappish retort, but the large knight next to him put out a hand, stopping the reaction. The knight who spoke reworded his reply.

“The Lord of Pembroke asks.”

Derica knew she had to tell him. To be evasive would only pull her deeper into what could possibly be an unpleasant situation. She’d already been far bolder than she should have been.

“The Lady Derica de Rosa le Mon.”

The knight snorted. “And I am the King of France. I will ask you one more time your name. Lie to me, and punishment shall be swift.”

“I did not lie. I am the daughter of Bertram de Rosa of Framlingham Castle and wife to Garren le Mon, heir to the barony of Anglecynn and Ceri and descendent of Saxon kings. My father and uncles have crusaded with King Henry, and my godfather is Roger Bigod, second Earl of Norfolk. Shall I go on?”

The helmed heads looked at each other. The large knight who had held up a quelling hand lifted his visor, gaining a better look. His large brown eyes regarded her. He finally spurred his charger forward, an enormously hairy red horse with an abundance of cream-colored fur around its hooves. Derica didn’t flinch as he came to within a few feet of her.

“You are Garren le Mon’s widow?”

Derica felt as if she had been struck. “I am his wife,” she replied steadily.

“What are you doing so far from Cilgarren, lady?”

Derica wasn’t sure where to start with all of it, and her mind was still spinning with his words. Garren le Mon’s widow. And how did this knight, whom she did not know, have the knowledge that she was at Cilgarren? “I… I was lost and preparing to make my way back home.” It sounded like a lame excuse, even to her.

“Lost?”

“I wandered… too far and became lost.” When he appeared as if he didn’t believe a word, she grunted in frustration. “Suffice it to say that I was lost and am, even now, on my way home. I do not see how that is any concern of yours.”

The knight regarded her carefully; he didn’t doubt for a minute she was who she said she was. She was well spoken and exceedingly beautiful, even in the peasant clothing she was wearing. It was like looking at a diamond glistening in the dirt. But he was incredibly confused to find her wandering a road several miles south of Cilgarren Castle. She was surely as witless as she was lovely.

“William Marshal has ordered me to retrieve you, Lady le Mon.”

“Why?”

“I am to take you back to Pembroke. He has sent a missive for you.”

“A missive? What missive?”

“’Tis a private document, for your eyes only. I suspect it is news of some manner.”

Derica’s heart suddenly fell into her stomach; she knew what the missive was. The knight didn’t have to say another word. It had to be a missive telling her of her husband’s death, which is why the warrior referred to her as Garren’s widow. Much had apparently happened in her absence. The world was suddenly very unsteady and her heart began pounding loudly in her ears. She was vaguely aware of falling to her knees, slightly less aware of the knight dismounting his charger and coming to her aid so that she would not fall on her face. Somewhere, she could hear Aneirin crying.

“No,” she breathed. “God, please… no. He is not dead. He cannot be.”

By this time, several of the knights had ridden forward. One of them took hold of the riderless charger, while two others dismounted, mostly to gain a better look at the beautiful lady rather than to actually lend assistance. The knight that held her pulled off his helm with his free hand and passed it off to the man standing next to him.

“Help me get her on my steed,” he commanded softly.

“No!” Derica struggled weakly against him. “I will not go! I must go back to Cilgarren!”

The knight didn’t reply as he swung her up into his arms. Aneirin was crying loudly now. Mair and Sian came running out of the bushes, protesting loudly at what was surely a kidnapping. Startled, one of the Welsh crossbowmen released his weapon, and an arrow sailed with deadly precision into Mair’s chest. She was dead before she hit the ground.

The children screamed with horror. Derica, struggling for coherency, managed to angle her head around to see what had happened.

“You killed her!” she shrieked. “My God… Mair!”

The knight who held her cursed under his breath, hissing to the knight nearest him. “God’s Bones, who released that arrow?”