The Whispering Night (7 page)

"Of course it will
take place," William hissed. "This is what we have worked for these
past months. Now, pull your head together; otherwise, we are all dead. Is this
clear to you? Stop allowing yourself to be led by your loins and think with
that clever mind I know you have. This woman is a tool of your trade and
nothing more."

Garren's jaw ticked.
"You are correct, of course."

"Indeed I am,"
William calmed. "Garren, I am not unsympathetic, but this entire
conversation is ridiculous. You're a knight in the service of the king.
Anything else is secondary, including any personal feelings you may have. While
I appreciate that you are communicating these concerns to me, my answer is the
same- you have a job to do. Do it, and do it well, and perhaps when this
madness is finished, you and Lady Derica may have a chance at some manner of
life together. She will be, after all, your wife."

Garren smiled
ironically. "How much of a life can we have knowing I married her to
betray her and her family? My sole purpose is to destroy everything they
believe in."

"You can't
seriously expect me to believe that it worries you."

Garren could see that
the Marshall was hardening. Perhaps the honesty aspect had been a mistake.  He
shook his head. "It does not. It was merely an observation." It was
time to make the long ride back to Framlingham and he would waste no more
times. "Thank you for your attention, my lord. I am sorry to have
disrupted your sleep."

"You did not,"
William replied. "But I will do one thing for you; I will send someone to
infiltrate the servants at Framlingham. Perhaps another set of eyes and ears is
a prudent move and can be great assistance to you."

Garren wanted to leave.
He felt foolish for even coming, but the Marshall lay a hand on his broad
shoulder in a rare gesture.

"Do not be ashamed
of what you are feeling, Garren," he said quietly. "We have all had
moments of lust and fear when it comes to a woman. I know you, and I know what
you are capable of. I have nothing but confidence in your abilities to see this
through. All of this foolishness about Lady Derica shall pass."

Garren could only smile
weakly. He hoped the man was right, but on the other hand, he hoped he wasn't.

***

When she realized he
wasn't going to look at her, Derica hung her head and focused on her food.  The
great hall of Framlingham was lit with tapers as the family and senior soldiers
dined on a great pig stuffed with apples and nuts.  Garren had arrived an hour
or so before the evening meal, much to Derica's delight, but he'd barely said a
word to her since his return. He sat next to her on the dais, wine in hand,
making tight conversation with Bertram.

No one else would talk
to him. They all sat, glaring at him to various degrees. Derica had no idea
why, after he had left her chamber, he had become so cold towards her. He had
seemed genuinely sincere and friendly during their visit, but in the presence
of others, he ignored her.

"Eat, pigeon,"
came the deep voice beside her, "Your food is growing cold."

Derica glanced up at her
uncle, Hoyt, clad in a gown that was lavish and expensive. The rouge on his
cheeks was too bright and he smelled of strong perfume. She'd long since gotten
over the shock of him thinking he was a woman; in fact, at times, he was very
comforting in an odd sort of female way. He was like a great, protective nanny.

"I am not
hungry," she pushed her trencher away.

Hoyt put it back in
front of her. "You must eat. You must maintain your strength for... for…."

He suddenly burst into
loud tears, clapping a wisp of a handkerchief over his mouth to muffle the
cries. All conversation at the table stopped and they looked at Hoyt, carrying
on pitifully.

Bertram wasn't
particularly tolerant of the brother who dressed in the gowns of a queen. 
"Lady," he gruffed wearily. "You will not distract us with your
wailing. Leave us."

Hoyt cast him a pathetic
glance and continued to sob.  "How can you be so cold?" he sobbed.
"Your only daughter will be married on the morrow. Do you show no
compassion to her plight?"

Bertram sighed heavily.
"'Tis only your theatrics that intimate it 'twill be something horrible
and fiendish. Marriage is an event of satisfaction and progression."

"There is no
satisfaction in marrying a stranger," Hoyt insisted. "To allow
this... this man access to your daughter in the Biblical sense is barbaric. You
have protected her with your life since the day she was born only to turn her
over to someone we do not know? I find your callousness shocking."

"I will not discuss
this with you."

Hoyt continued to weep
and put his arm around Derica protectively. Garren watched it all carefully,
noting the size of the lady's hand, suggesting what his first instincts told
him that this was no lady at all. Suspicion filled his mind; he wondered
seriously what game he was playing. He didn't like the implications at all.

"And you, Sir
Garren?" Donat entered the conversation from across the table. "Do
you find it barbaric to wed a woman you do not know, someone who obviously has
no interest or need for you?"

Garren was cool. "I
have no need or interest, either, but I will attend my duty. The barbaric
nature of the deal has no bearing on my personal feelings for the matter."

Donat and his brothers
were working up a righteous flare. "Derica deserves better than the likes
of you," Donat hissed. "At least we do not have an ancestor that
surrendered like a coward to William the Bastard. Suppose cowardice runs in
your blood, eh?"

"Would you like to
find out?"

"Indeed!"

"Sit down, Donat,"
Bertram bellowed. "There will be no fighting on the eve of your sister's
wedding."

The table was growing
unruly. Hoyt's weeping grew louder. Donat's green eyes blazed at his father.
"'Tis not fighting, Father. Call it a test of worthiness."

"He is worthy else
I would not have agreed to a contract."

It was apparent that
Donat was surprised not to have his father's support.  "You agreed to the
contract based on your friendship with his father. As le Mon clearly stated, he
is nothing like his father. Doesn't Derica at least deserve to know what kind
of man she will be forced to spend her life with?"

Bertram wouldn't dignify
the challenge to his authority as head of the House. His gaze was steady on his
middle son. "Take your seat, Donat.  We will speak of this no further.
"

Donat wouldn't give up without
a fight. He thrust a hand at Derica. "But look at her; she is clearly
miserable. She clearly despises this man."

Derica's head came up
sharply. "You do not speak for me, Donat de Rosa," she snapped.
Realizing what she had just said, her cheeks flamed as she looked at the
surprised faces around her. "That is... I mean to say that...!" She
suddenly bolted to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. "I think
you are all horrid. Each and every one of you."

She tripped over Hoyt in
her attempt to flee the table, knocking his wimple into the subtlety in front
of him. The tumbling wimple also managed to clip a chalice, which tipped over
and splashed red wine onto Donat's linen tunic. Donat, trying to evade the spilling
liquid, leapt up and knocked Dixon across the side of the head with his
forearm. Dixon, outraged, threw a punch into Donat's face that sent the brother
tumbling. In seconds, a full -scale fight erupted at the head table. It seemed
that the de Rosas needed little provocation to leap into battle, with others or
just with themselves.

Garren pushed himself
back, away from the flying fists.  The only family member not fighting was the
eldest brother Daniel, and he immediately excused himself. Meanwhile, Derica
was tangled in Hoyt's skirts and Garren reached over, unwrapping the material
from her ankle. Before she stumbled further in her haste to leave the table, he
grasped her hand to steady her, but she jerked her arm away.

"I do not require
your assistance," she hissed.

Garren allowed himself
to look at her for the first time since arriving back at Framlingham. He'd
spend the past several hours attempting desperately not to think of her, much
less look at her. Now, in the midst of a melee, he could think or see nothing
else. 

"My
apologies," he said. "I did not want you to fall and hurt
yourself."

Derica glared at him,
gathering her skirts. Before she could reply, they were both startled by Hoyt's
flying fist, sending his younger brother Lon to the floor when the man spilled
more wine on him in his attempt to stop his nephews from fighting.  Hoyt had an
enormous hand and an enormous punch, and in spite of Derica's declaration of no
assistance needed, Garren took firm hold of her and half carried her, half
pulled her, off the dais.

The table was in a nasty
uproar. Garren took Derica to the small alcove directly behind the table,
shielding her from the violence.  He watched the fight a moment before shaking
his head with disapproval.

"Are they always
like this?" he asked.

Derica tried to stay
focused on her need to get away from Garren, but she found that she couldn't. 
She didn't want to admit that she simply liked being around him, but she did.
After a moment's struggle, she resigned herself, feeling like a fool.

"Aye," she
muttered. "The de Rosas tend to be a riotous bunch. You may as well know
that events like this are not unusual for us."

Garren had a good grip
on her, just in case bodies came flying in their direction and he needed to
move her, quickly, to a safer haven. His eyes were sharp at the fighting going
on, in particular, watching Hoyt clobber a nephew and brother to the point of
unconsciousness.  With the wimple off, there was no longer a question of the
overly-made up creature being a man. He was colossal, with deadly fists. 

A chair crashed against
the wall near them, splintering. Above it all, Bertram was shouting for the
disturbance to cease. No one was listening, however, and the punches continued
to fly.

"I think we should
leave," Garren began to look around for an escape route. "I do not
like the shift in winds."

Derica shrugged.
"This will calm soon enough, once they've blown off their anger."

He spied an opening at
the far end of the hall. "Perhaps. But I will not risk the potential for
your injury." He put both arms around her, shielding her with his massive
body as they moved from the alcove. "The sooner we get out of here, the
better."

Derica permitted him to
drag her along the wall until they reached the exit. It led into the servant's
passage that skirted the hall and led to the entrance of the larger tower. It
was a cold night, with the stars bright above, and Garren took her down the
wooden steps into the ward.  At the base of the stairs, however, Derica removed
herself from his protective grasp.

"I do not believe I
am in any danger now," she said crisply. "In fact, I believe I can
make it back into the hall and up to my chamber without any horrors befalling
me. But I thank you for your concern."

Garren didn't know what
to say. Her manner was abrupt and he knew it was because of his behavior. Warm
one minute, cold the next. He wished he could explain the reasons for his
actions, but he truthfully wasn't sure he fully understood them himself.  He
just looked at her and Derica began to suspect he was never going to reply.
Gathered her skirts, she turned to the stairs. Garren continued to stare after
her, her name on the tip of his tongue, knowing he should let her go but unable
to.

"Derica," he
called softly.

She paused, her manner
stiff. "What is it?"

What is it?
Garren felt a strange
pressure in his chest, tight, as if he couldn't breathe.  He couldn't be
truthful and tell her what it was. He felt himself weakening again and
wondered, if this time, there would be no point of return.

"I am sorry if I
have been rude to you," he said.

"I am sure I do not
know what you mean, Sir Garren. Good eve to you."

She turned up the stairs
again but he stopped her. When she turned this time, he appeared a few steps
below her. He had mounted the stairs and she had never heard him. The
expression on his face was surprisingly unguarded.

"You must
understand something," his voice was low. "How I behave with you
privately and how I behave with you in front of your family are two different
matters altogether."

She almost did not want
to be drawn into this line of conversation, so deep was her insult and
confusion. But a large part of her needed to know why he had been so nice to her
then had changed as abruptly as day to night.

"Why?" she
demanded softly.

"Because if they
see that I am kind to you, interested even, then it will suggest weakness. And
right now, your family is putting me to a test of strength. I must not fail
that test. Can you comprehend that, in any manner?"