“I believe it is a sound plan.”
With the most difficult of subjects decided upon, Garren’s impending departure began to weigh heavily enough that she could hardly breathe. Derica always believed she was the strongest of women, but suddenly, she didn’t want to be strong.She wanted to be weak. Resting her forehead against his armor, she cried silent tears of longing. The warm droplets fell on his protection, little salty rivers running their course. Garren stroked her hair, silently, feeling her pain and then some.
“The longer I delay, the more difficult this will become,” he murmured.
She sniffled, struggling to regain her composure. “I know. ’Tis best you go, now, before I cling to you like a great anchor and you have to drag me across the yard.”
It was humor in a moment of agony. Garren kissed her deeply, tasting her tears. Abruptly, he broke away, leaving her standing in the doorway as he marched across the muddy inner ward. He didn’t dare look back, fearful that he would retrace his steps back to her and be unable to break away a second time. He got half way across the yard when two figures emerging from the crumbling gatehouse caught his attention. Garren’s pace slowed as he assessed the forms; one was Emyl, but it took him a moment to recognize the second. When he did, he froze dead in his tracks.
“Fergus!”
*
The hearth smokedand spit embers into the dark room. Fergus didn’t care if he did catch a few red-hot particles on his skin, so long as he was warm again. It seemed like it had been ages since he had last been warm and fed, or safe for that matter. But the great hall of Cilgarren had a massive, protective quality that soothed him after his harried adventure.
“For once, the blows did not come from someone with a grudge against me.” He was trying to be glib. “At any rate, not a gambling grudge. The de Rosas certainly had another grudge, especially when I wouldn’t tell them where Derica was.”
Derica sat at the crumbling table, wincing as she thought of her family imparting the bruises and welts on Fergus’ face.
“Oh, Fergus, I am so sorry,” she said. “They’ve always been as such. Ruffians in every sense of the word. Did they break any bones?”
He shook his head. “No one can crack this skull, my lady. Many have tried. It would take better men that the de Rosas to break my bones.”
Garren stood next to his friend, his great arms crossed. He analyzed every movement, every word, thinking there was far more to the story than what Fergus was saying. It was just a feeling he had, knowing his friend as well as he did. But the sheer fact that the man was alive was a miracle, and a welcome one. Still, there was something very odd about him, something Garren couldn’t quite figure out.
“But they didn’t follow you,” Garren said. “You’re sure of it?”
“I would stake my life on it.”
Garren didn’t question him further. That was all he really cared about at the moment, and there would be time for more detail later. He slapped his friend on the back. “I, for one, am amazed to see you. We thought for certain the de Rosas had devoured you.”
Fergus stood from the fire, a weak smile on his lips. “Not hardly, though they tried.” He rubbed the stubble on his face. “Although I would like nothing better than to tell more stories of my persecution, I would truly like a bit of food and perhaps some sleep. It has been a long few days.”
Derica leapt up, rushing around for the leftovers from their morning meal. David and Offa helped her gather the items while Emyl sat at the old table, his old eyes drinking in the sight of his only son.
“’Tis been a long time, lad,” he said. “A long time indeed.”
Fergus was genuinely glad to see his father. “I am a bad son, I know. I stay away for years and only come to you when I want something.”
Emyl shrugged. “If that is all I can have of you, I shall accept it. At least you acknowledge what a rotten lad you are.”
Fergus grinned as Derica placed some cold stew and berries before him. He shoved food in his mouth and continued. “I directed Garren to Cilgarren, you know. It is the safest place for him.” He eyed his friend. “But now I see he is leaving, after all this trouble I have been through. Where are you going, pray?”
Garren had spent many years of his adult life avoiding that question from Fergus. He was quick to make a believable excuse. “I am afraid the de Rosas may go after my father. I intend to go home and scout the situation for myself.”
“And if they have?”
“I shall deal with that situation if and when I come upon it.”
Fergus shoved another bite in his mouth. “Let me finish this feast and I shall go with you.”
“How?” Garren asked. “You have been on the move for weeks, Fergus. You’re so weary with fatigue and lack of food that you can hardly stand. You need to rest and regain your strength. I have enough to worry about without wondering if you are going to drop dead any moment.”
Fergus pointed his stew-covered knife at him. “I have been worse than this. Hell, Garren, you have been worse than this and still rode fifty miles into battle. I have seen you myself.” He turned back to his food. “It is settled. I ride with you.”
Garren didn’t refute him right away. To do so would to have looked suspicious, but he clearly didn’t want Fergus coming with him. He needed a plan. Straddling the old bench, he sat, hearing it groan under his weight. A gloved hand scratched his forehead.
“Fergus,” he said quietly. “I need you here.”