Warinus cried out. “Merciful God, Willa’s got her?”
“How did this happen?” Ranulf asked.
“The village had been alerted,” Barca winced at the throbbing in his head, “and they were told to look out for a whore-blasphemer dressed as a monk. They took her to Castle Garda – alive.”
“Oh, no.” Father Warinus crossed himself.
“There’s a fellow with me.” Barca gestured toward the woods. “Let him come in. He supports our cause. Memmo, come in.”
Scowling, Ranulf looked to where Barca was pointing. “Who’s Memmo?”
The village man stepped out from behind a tree, cap in hand, and bowed.
Warinus eyed him suspiciously, and Ranulf glowered.
“Father, good soldier,” Memmo said, “Garda Village is my home. I am a fisherman by trade, and no fighter, but I have eyes and ears and enough common sense to know what’s right and what’s not.”
“And?” Ranulf prompted.
“Let him speak,” Barca said. “He has my confidence.”
The man shuffled his feet, then looked directly at Father Warinus. “My village knows well enough what Berengar is up to, and many disagree with him, but there is little we can do. And besides, his wife Willa is greatly feared. We dare not provoke her wrath.” He nervously twisted his cap. “We’ve all been watching for a return of the robbers, wanting justice, but it wasn’t until two days past that I spied the work you were doing up on La Rocca and understood why the tools were taken.”
Barca heard the priest suck in his breath and saw Ranulf’s knuckles go white on the grip of his bow.
“I’ve told no one,” Memmo quickly offered as he used his cap to wipe the sweat covering his brow. “If you mean to bring harm to Berengar, he’s already gone. If you mean to rescue the queen, and the woman who wears the cowl, then I’d be pleased to help any way I can.”
“And we need him,” Barca interjected. “Memmo says they left me for dead when they took Gwen. I thank God he was up early and heard the scuffle. She was brave. She killed one, mayhap two of our enemies.” He gave them a grim smile, proud of her hard-won abilities. “Forgive me, but I… I couldn’t stop them… I failed to protect her. I’m sorry.”
Warinus looked to have aged a full decade, but Ranulf bore his usual, tough demeanor, still eyeing Memmo with skepticism.
“So, why is he here?” Ranulf challenged, jerking his head toward the fisherman.
“He just told you – oh, God, my head.” Bolts of pain shot through Barca’s skull, and he leaned sideways and heaved, grabbing his wound again, moaning, his brain swimming with unease. “Christ, it hurts.”
Warinus pried Barca’s hands away and inspected his wound.
“As I said, I would like to help,” Memmo responded. “After the men left with your woman and their dead, I went to look more closely and found Barca. I was able to rouse him and offered my assistance. He told me how to find you. I helped him walk here.”
“Thank God for you,” Father Warinus said, feverishly rummaging in his saddlebags.
“Does anyone else know about this, Memmo?” Ranulf asked pointedly. “Anyone from town?”
“No, I got Barca out of there before anyone else arrived.”
“Are you certain no one followed you?”
“Yes.”
Barca made the mistake of nodding in agreement and winced.
“I once suffered as you, my son,” Warinus said. “I was thrown from my horse, hit my head on a rock, and saw double for days.”
“Yes.” Barca felt his guts twisting and retched again. “Double.”
The priest removed a cloth from his bag. “I shall bind your head, and you will be fine, but you must rest today.”
“No. I must try to find his lordship,” Barca argued weakly.
“The hell you must,” Ranulf shot back. “He’ll kill us for losing Gwen.”
“It won’t come to that,” Father Warinus countered. “Moreover, I know Lord Alberto very well – may God bless his trying soul – and he is no brute. You make him sound akin to
“How did this happen?” Ranulf asked.
“The village had been alerted,” Barca winced at the throbbing in his head, “and they were told to look out for a whore-blasphemer dressed as a monk. They took her to Castle Garda – alive.”
“Oh, no.” Father Warinus crossed himself.
“There’s a fellow with me.” Barca gestured toward the woods. “Let him come in. He supports our cause. Memmo, come in.”
Scowling, Ranulf looked to where Barca was pointing. “Who’s Memmo?”
The village man stepped out from behind a tree, cap in hand, and bowed.
Warinus eyed him suspiciously, and Ranulf glowered.
“Father, good soldier,” Memmo said, “Garda Village is my home. I am a fisherman by trade, and no fighter, but I have eyes and ears and enough common sense to know what’s right and what’s not.”
“And?” Ranulf prompted.
“Let him speak,” Barca said. “He has my confidence.”
The man shuffled his feet, then looked directly at Father Warinus. “My village knows well enough what Berengar is up to, and many disagree with him, but there is little we can do. And besides, his wife Willa is greatly feared. We dare not provoke her wrath.” He nervously twisted his cap. “We’ve all been watching for a return of the robbers, wanting justice, but it wasn’t until two days past that I spied the work you were doing up on La Rocca and understood why the tools were taken.”
Barca heard the priest suck in his breath and saw Ranulf’s knuckles go white on the grip of his bow.
“I’ve told no one,” Memmo quickly offered as he used his cap to wipe the sweat covering his brow. “If you mean to bring harm to Berengar, he’s already gone. If you mean to rescue the queen, and the woman who wears the cowl, then I’d be pleased to help any way I can.”
“And we need him,” Barca interjected. “Memmo says they left me for dead when they took Gwen. I thank God he was up early and heard the scuffle. She was brave. She killed one, mayhap two of our enemies.” He gave them a grim smile, proud of her hard-won abilities. “Forgive me, but I… I couldn’t stop them… I failed to protect her. I’m sorry.”
Warinus looked to have aged a full decade, but Ranulf bore his usual, tough demeanor, still eyeing Memmo with skepticism.
“So, why is he here?” Ranulf challenged, jerking his head toward the fisherman.
“He just told you – oh, God, my head.” Bolts of pain shot through Barca’s skull, and he leaned sideways and heaved, grabbing his wound again, moaning, his brain swimming with unease. “Christ, it hurts.”
Warinus pried Barca’s hands away and inspected his wound.
“As I said, I would like to help,” Memmo responded. “After the men left with your woman and their dead, I went to look more closely and found Barca. I was able to rouse him and offered my assistance. He told me how to find you. I helped him walk here.”
“Thank God for you,” Father Warinus said, feverishly rummaging in his saddlebags.
“Does anyone else know about this, Memmo?” Ranulf asked pointedly. “Anyone from town?”
“No, I got Barca out of there before anyone else arrived.”
“Are you certain no one followed you?”
“Yes.”
Barca made the mistake of nodding in agreement and winced.
“I once suffered as you, my son,” Warinus said. “I was thrown from my horse, hit my head on a rock, and saw double for days.”
“Yes.” Barca felt his guts twisting and retched again. “Double.”
The priest removed a cloth from his bag. “I shall bind your head, and you will be fine, but you must rest today.”
“No. I must try to find his lordship,” Barca argued weakly.
“The hell you must,” Ranulf shot back. “He’ll kill us for losing Gwen.”
“It won’t come to that,” Father Warinus countered. “Moreover, I know Lord Alberto very well – may God bless his trying soul – and he is no brute. You make him sound akin to
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