Medieval Master Swordsmen(447)

“I do not know, my lord.”

“Find out. And confiscate his weapon!”

“Aye, my lord.”

The children were still screaming, crying over their mother’s corpse. The knight that held Derica spoke steady orders to another knight.

“Collect the children. Bring them.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Derica had ceased to struggle. Her body went limp and she cried pitifully, tears for Garren, a few for Mair. She wished she could die, too, retreating into a world of incoherency and darkness. At the moment, she cared naught for her fate. All that mattered was that Garren was gone and her life was over.

The trip back to Pembroke passed in a blur. The knight with the big brown eyes carried her the entire way. A couple of times, she had tried to remove herself from his charger, but he had held her tightly and said little. She had asked about the children and he assured her they were well.

When they finally arrived at Pembroke, Derica was whisked into the keep by a pair of severe looking women. They hustled her into a chamber and shut the door. They chatted endlessly, asking her a myriad of questions, but she shut them out just as she had shut out the knights. She didn’t want to talk, or think, or behave even remotely human. When the women stripped her down to her woolen shift, she didn’t protest. When the women saw how dirty her shift was, and the skin beneath it, they called for a bath and gently, but firmly, coaxed the shift off of her.

The bath was hot. The women scrubbed her with an enormous sponge and soap that smelled of violets. They even washed her hair with a vinegar concoction and rinsed it out with flat ale. The scents and activity of the bath moved Derica from her numb depression to tears, and she cried with deep grief as the women removed her from the tub, rubbed her skin with oil so it would not crack, and brushed her wet hair. A heavy robe draped her body as maids scurried in and out of the chamber, bringing all manner of surcoats, bodices and shifts for the women’s approval. There was apparently nothing of acceptable finery for a lady of her station at Pembroke, but the servants were trying desperately to find something.

Two hours later found Derica with dry hair and a clean body clad in a surcoat of deep blue brocade with a long-sleeved undershift of soft white linen. She had stopped crying for the moment, but her eyes were red and swollen. Truthfully, she didn’t have the energy to cry. Everything seemed drained. The numbness had returned and she sat in her borrowed chamber, neither feeling nor seeing. The women had tried to feed her, but she would accept nothing they offered.

The flames of the fire became her friend. She stared into the golden licks, the soft light offering some warmth and physical comfort. She became one with the fire, a few stolen moments where there was no pain, no sorrow, only the warmth and light she craved at the moment. Yet, every so often an errant tear would stream down her cheek and she would dully wipe it away.

Her entire world revolved around memories of Garren, of his deep voice, his gentle laughter, now forever silenced. The fire couldn’t soothe away the pain entirely. His death was a crime, she decided. God had committed a crime against her and she would never forgive him for it. Besides, he must hate her. Why else would he bring her such happiness and then abruptly take it away.

There was a knock at the chamber door, rousing her from her thoughts. She had been dreading this moment, for she knew what was to come. The knight who had brought her to Pembroke entered, a long ecru-colored scroll in his hand. He had cleaned up somewhat since their return, no longer wearing his armor. A tunic and leather breeches replaced the chain mail suit. He walked over to where she sat, lingering by her chair as if suddenly uncomfortable in her presence. Derica ignored him, uninterested in whatever he had to say.

“I see that you are feeling better, my lady,” he commented.

Derica didn’t look up. “I want to go back to Cilgarren.”

He knew he needed to be careful with her, unsure of himself. “There is no reason for you to return, my lady.”

“There is every reason for me to return. I have friends there that are missing me.”

“What friends, my lady?”

“Friends who are in charge of my welfare while my husband is… gone.”

“I am assuming charge of your welfare now.”

She did look up at him, then, a hateful look on her face. She hadn’t the strength to argue with him, her mind a whirlwind of anguish and confusion. Her gaze trailed to the missive in his hand. “You have brought me something. Read it and be done.”

The knight looked down at the parchment as if he had forgotten he held it. Truthfully, he had been so captivated by the lady’s clean and shining beauty when he entered the chamber, he nearly had. He felt stupid.