“Aye.”
The scratching of the stubble turned into rubbing the forehead. “Do you know where he and his bride have gone?”
Next to the desk, Hoyt de Rosa shook his head. “Nay,” he mumbled. “Last I saw, they were leaving the inn at Kettering. I did not ask where they were going, and he did not offer. The point is that you should know that my brothers were informed that Garren is a spy. His cover was destroyed and he was lucky to have escaped Framlingham with his life.”
“But he married your niece without her father’s permission.”
“He did. But that was secondary to my brothers discovering his true identity.”
“Somehow I believe the two are related. Is it possible that he told her of his true identity and she told her father?”
“Not at all, my lord,” Hoyt insisted. “I can assure you that Derica knew nothing of his mission. In defense of Garren, I will say this; he accomplished what he set forth to do. He posed as a suitor for Derica. He performed superbly. The only complication, which was not his fault, was that my brothers were told that he was a spy. His only choice was to flee. They would have killed him had he not.”
“Then who told them he was an agent?”
“A spy for Prince John, a man I have seen at Framlingham on more than one occasion. He apparently recognized Garren and told my brother of his suspicions.”
“Why was the man at Framlingham?”
“Informing my brother of all I just told you. Garren’s recognition was incidental.”
The Marshal absorbed the words. It was a true accounting of what had happened, more than likely. But the fact remained that his most prized agent was missing.
“Garren, Garren,” the Marshal muttered regretfully. After a moment, he shook his head, trying to shake off the shock of it. “Very well: I shall accept your explanation for now. But I must speak with Garren. Unless he has fled from the service of the king completely, I expect him to show himself and explain his actions. If there was ever a time I need Garren, it is now.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“For it seems now that we have a greater problem.”
“We do.”
“Several thousand Teutonic and Irish mercenaries at Nottingham and Bolton.”
“Aye.”
“And two thousand more French due next week.”
“That is true.”
“And you said you told Garren this?”
“I did.”
The Marshal shook his head faintly. “I cannot believe he would abandon Richard in his hour of need.”
“You know his character better than I.”
“I thought I did,” William murmured. He gazed across the room, to the lancet window where the cold night swirled beyond. “But a woman has been known to do strange things to a man’s sense of duty.”
Hoyt couldn’t argue. He’d seen the looks between Garren and Derica, but he was afraid to voice his opinion. He could only pray that Garren would do what was right.
*
“Garren?”
Garren looked up from the small piece of vellum he was writing on. Derica was smiling back at him, a large bundle of vegetation in her arms. Before he could answer her, she shook her head at him.
“You did not hear a word I said,” she set the bundle down on the table, next to his writing. “I asked if you would move aside so that I may set this down.”