“I… not really. A castle, I think.”
“Ye’re a lady, then.”
“I… I do not know.”
“I am sure ye are, by the look of ye. But ye canna remember what castle ye came from?”
“Nay.”
The woman didn’t ask any more questions. Derica’s mind was shrouded in a foggy mist; it was alarming to realize that, until this very moment, she couldn’t recall much of anything. Her memories were an enormous blur for the moment.
“Where is this place?” she looked around the small, neat hut. “What village is this?”
“It is called Rhos-hill,” the woman said. “Do ye recognize the place?”
“Nay,” Derica shook her head. “What is your name?”
“Mair,” she said. “My children, Sian and Aneirin.”
Derica smiled weakly at the children, who were still hiding behind their mother. It was apparent that Mair was waiting for Derica to introduce herself. A wisp of a name sprang to mind, familiar yet not. It hung there, like an unvoiced thought. Derica spoke it, not even sure if it was true.
“Bryndalyn,” she whispered. “I… I think that is my name. But I am not… sure. I cannot seem to recall much of anything at the moment.”
Mair put a sympathetic hand on her forehead. “Do not be troubled,” she said. “Sleep, now. There will be time later for recollection.”
Derica didn’t particularly want to sleep, but she remained on her pallet. When she shifted to get more comfortable, sharp pains echoed through her lower torso. She gasped softly, puttingher hand against her lower abdomen to rub away the pain. Mair saw what she was doing.
“I am sorry,” she murmured. “The child did not survive.”
Though Derica could remember little else, she had remembered the child. She touched her belly, feeling it soft where once she had known it to be rounded and firm. Tears instantly sprang to her eyes.
“No,” she whispered. “Please… no.”
Mair stroked her forehead again. “’Twas a blessing, my lady.”
Derica sniffled. “Why would you say that?”
“I meant no harm. When we found ye, I would think that someone had beat you and thrown you in the river. Mayhap your husband. Any man that would beat his pregnant wife… ’tis a blessing, I say, not to bring a child into a world such as that.”
Derica’s tears were fading in lieu of her shock. “Why would you think someone has beaten me?”
“Because you are bruised all over your body. Someone thrashed you soundly, I would say. Do you not recall any of this?”
She didn’t. But within the mists of her mind, she couldn’t honestly recall if anyone had taken a hand to her, ever. Bits and pieces of a large castle and men who loved her came to mind, but she couldn’t recall the names. Just faces. She closed her eyes and silent tears fell again.
“There, there,” Mair said softly. “Sleep now, sweetheart. All will be well again.”
When she turned away to prepare some manner of sleeping drink for Derica, the little boy with the black hair and dark eyes moved in to be a closer look. He had a sweet little face, his striking eyes gazing curiously at Derica. A tiny hand lifted and he resumed stroking Derica’s head where his mother had leftoff. Derica sobbed deeply at the gentleness of his gesture, the longing for her own son that she would never know.
*
He was tooold to be attending battle, but he was doing so nonetheless. The Marshal had never missed a battle; he was an old soldier, and they knew little else. If there was war waging, most especially his war, his presence was required.
Newark Castle was a small structure in a strategic location. William had arrived a few days ago to await word on the fate of Lincoln Castle and plot his next move. Two days ago had seen him receive word of victory in one breath and the loss of Garren le Mon in the next.
He had wept privately at the news, though he refused to feel guilt. Garren was a warrior and the vocation went hand in hand with death. Garren had known what his fate could be the first day he drew a sword. He had lived longer than most. Still, his passing had been a horrible blow, both personally and professionally.
Hoyt de Rosa had joined William at Newark. The man had abandoned his family and had joined Richard’s cause in full. He had arrived a few months ago, pledging his service with a sudden strong loyalty that the Marshal was suspicious of, but that suspicion was lifted when he saw Hoyt in battle. The man was ferocious. The elder de Rosa had fought with Garren, and had been there when Garren had fallen. It had been Hoyt who had brought Garren’s body to the Marshal. One look at the face and skull disfigured by a morning star, and William had ordered the body interred in the chapel at Newark with full honors.