The chamber was completely dark but for a small taper burning on a well-scrubbed table. As he eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a figure seated near the wall.
“Garren?”
He knew the voice very well. Dropping the saddlebags he had slung over one massive shoulder, he went to the silhouette and dropped to one knee.
“’Tis me,” he said. “I am sorry it is so early.”
The figure moved into the light; an older woman with fine features surrounded folds of white material. “You needn’t apologize, little brother. Early morning or midnight, I care not. I am most thankful for your presence.”
She smiled, her hands reaching for Garren. He smiled in return, kissing her hands before embracing her. The former Lady Gabrielle le Mon, or now more correct Sister Mary Felicitas, put her arms around her younger brother’s neck.
“Garren,” she gasped, patting his shoulders. “You grow larger by the year. Have you found a wife to feed you well, then?”
He shook his head even though she could not see him. Gabrielle had been blind since birth, committed to Yaxley Nene Abbey at eleven years of age, months after her brother, and only sibling, was born. Though they were far apart in age and had never lived under the same roof, the yearly pilgrimages to Yaxley had seen them form a bond that ran strangely deep. Garren adored her.
“No wife,” he said. “Not yet, at any rate. But let’s not talk about me. I want to know about you; how have you been?”
“Well, little brother,” she held his hands in her warm, tiny ones. “And you?”
“Well enough,” he said. “I have been quite busy, but I have written to you some.”
Gabrielle lit up. “Diaries!” she exclaimed softly. “You know how much I look forward to your visits when you read to me the chronicle of your life. How long has it been? At least a year since you were last here. I am sure so much has happened since then.”
“Much indeed.”
Garren left her long enough to retrieve small rolls of vellum from his saddlebags. His sister was the only outsider, other than his father, who knew his true role in the scheme of Richard’s cause. He knew his secret was safe with her and made it a point to write letters to her, chronicling the adventures that his life sometimes took. It was dangerous writing should it fall into the wrong hands, but he never left any identifying marks on the parchment other than a name here and there. Certainly nothing traceable. Settling his bulk beside her, he unrolled a spool of yellowed parchment.
“I am not sure where to start,” he said. “I spent some time in London, but there is not much to say about that other than a grand feast I attended where a woman wore jewelry she said was smelted for the gods. She had this necklace in the shape of a vulture and many colored stones to adorn it. She also wore solid gold rings in the shape of bugs.”
“Bugs?”
“Strange, is it not? But she said ancient kings used to wear these adornments and she was quite proud to show them off.”
“Garren?”
“Aye?”
“What is wrong?”
He paused in his chatter. “What do you mean?”
Gabrielle took his hand again. “I know you well, my baby brother. Something is troubling you. I can hear it in your voice.”
“I am not sure what you mean.”
“I am not a fool. When you come to me before dawn, when your voice trembles and you talk too much, something is wrong. What is it?”
Garren felt a huge sense of depression sweep him. He had indeed come for a reason, not simply to see his sister. She knew that, and he felt doubly guilty. He set the vellum down.
“It is that obvious?”
“Tell me.”
He felt as if he was at confession. He had truly meant not to delve into the problems in his life immediately, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Gabrielle was soothing, comforting, and wise. Before he knew it, everything from the past week was spilling out and he could hear the anguish in his voice as he spoke. It frightened him. Gabrielle held his hand and never said a word. By the time he was finished, exhaustion claimed him and he leaned back against the wall, positive he would never rise again.
“It would seem that much has happened, little brother,” Gabrielle said softly.
Garren snorted at the irony of it. “I can face any battle with confidence. Give me a sword and I shall emerge the victor. But give me emotion, give me a woman whom I am undeniably attracted to, and I fall apart like a weakling. My heart hurts and I cannot repair it; my anger knows no bounds, yet it is directionless. I have no one to blame, yet everyone to blame. I feel as if I am in everlasting damnation, in love with a woman I should have never loved in the first place.”