Medieval Master Swordsmen(448)

The knight promptly rolled open the vellum, his gaze fixing on the carefully written words. Before he could start, Derica interrupted.

“Your name, sir knight.”

It occurred to him that he’d not told her. He had never been one for social pleasantries. “Sir Keller de Poyer, my lady. I am the garrison commander of Pembroke Castle.”

“Proceed, Sir Keller.”

Keller could barely read, though he’d not let on to the lady. He personally had a scribe who both wrote and read his missives. Somehow, he didn’t feel right leaving this to the scribe. He read slowly.

“ ‘Be it known this twenty eighth day of September, Year of our Lord 1192, I, William Marshal, Chancellor to King Richard I, Supreme Majesty of the British Realm, do hereby grant to the Lady Derica de Rosa le Mon the marcher lordship of Knighton, and all privileges, lands and wealth related hereto, in honour of the sacrifice her husband, Sir Garren le Mon, has made for the King’s cause.’”

Derica sat there as the words sank it. There was no mistaking that the missive was notifying her of Garren’s death, but it was as if the notification was secondary to the granting of title and lands. She continued to sit, unmoving, and Keller wondered if she had even heard him.

“He goes on to list your lands,” he said. “Hopton Castle belongs to you and the lordship that stretches to the marches on the east, Adforton to the south, and Craven Arms to the north, and includes four towns, two fiefdoms, and about five thousand vassals. Additionally, you have possession of Clun Castle and her lands, although the castle was burned by the Welsh a year ago and is now an abandoned shell. The Marshal is also providing you with your own army of four hundred men, as well as ten thousand gold marks as a dowry.”

Still, Derica sat with no outward reaction. Any person in their right mind would have been delirious with joy. Keller was hesitant to say what had to come next.

“He is also providing you with a husband.”

Derica looked at him with disbelief, shock, and then anger. It was enough to get her out of the chair.

“I have a husband,” she hissed. “I do not want another.”

Keller took offense, although he should not have. From the moment he saw her, he had actually been pleased at the thought of acquiring such a beautiful bride, lands and title notwithstanding. He would have taken her with just the clothes on her back. Being somewhat inexperienced when it came to any manner of personal emotion, he matched her anger with some of his own.

“You will have to take it up with the Marshal,” he growled.

She was particularly lovely with her fury-colored cheeks. “I intend to, have no doubt.” She reached out and grabbed the vellum from him, looking at the scribble as if she could read it. “Who does he demand I marry? Who is this fool?”

Keller’s anger cooled to droll resignation. “A knight in rather good standing with some wealth of his own.”

“Who?”

“Keller de Poyer.”

Derica’s eyes widened. “You?”

“Aye,” he could read her expression. “And before you go any further, I certainly had nothing to do with this. I was only informed that I was to have a bride two days ago. Do not imagine that it brought me any great happiness to assume this burden.”

Rather than explode, Derica seemed to calm. She grasped for her chair, sitting heavily as she absorbed the information. Keller regretted his last few words the moment they left his mouth; he hadn’t meant them. The lady looked so pitifully lost at the moment. He wasn’t very good with women and right now was a prime example. He attempted to ease her in his own clumsy way.

“I fought with your husband in a few campaigns, my lady,” he said quietly. “He was a good man and an excellent knight. I have nothing but the greatest admiration for him and his death saddens me deeply. To be asked to take care of his widow is something of a tremendous honor for me.”

Derica closed her eyes, struggling not to cry. When she finally opened them, it was to look at Keller. She took a moment to study his features for the first time; he had short, thick brown hair with some gray mixed into it. His face had been marred by pimples at one time, leaving some scars on the tanned skin. He wasn’t particularly ugly, nor was he particularly handsome. He was somewhere in between. He had a big, muscular body and enormous hands, but Derica sensed a gentleness about him. He was fairly soft-spoken and seemed nervous around her. The comparison of him against Garren was inevitable; there truly was no comparison. Garren was a god, and this man was a mortal.

“I will apologize if I offended you, then,” she murmured. “You must know that my husband and I loved each other. I do not want another husband.”