Hurry, Bart, hurry!
…. please, hurry!
The evil warriors were nearly upon them. With a triumphant grunt, Bartholomew withdrew the broadsword just in time to meet with an opposing blade. Arissa cried out in fear, scampering away from the clash of swords. Unfortunately, the threatening soldier engaging Bartholomew in battle was far superior in skill and strength and Bartholomew knew instantly that he was badly outmatched. With every stroke, every parry, he was being driven further and further into the ground.
His heart ached for Arissa’s fate. He damned himself for choosing to pursue the finer arts in nature and, for the first time in his life, he regretted his decision not to become a knight. Were he knight, he would have been better able to protect his sister from the intruders. Were he a knight, he would have been able to save his own miserable hide.
“Riss!” he hollered. “Run!”
Arissa heard his shout, startling her to her feet. But as she attempted to obey her brother, the second soldier intercepted her.
“You are not going anywhere, lass,” he growled.
She screamed, whirling away from him as he tried to grab her. He caught her hair net, tearing it free of her scalp, and cascades of black silk tumbled to her waist. Shrieking with terror, Arissa scrambled away from him as fast as her quaking legs would take her.
“I shall not hurt you, girl,” the soldier tossed the net to the floor, oblivious to Bartholomew’s frantic attempts to dispatch his opponent; he was watching in horror as the second soldier pursued his sister. “Come peacefully.”
Arissa mind was a void of panic. She stumbled on a piece of debris, regaining her balance and persevering with determination across the room. Terror gripped her, the desperate need to run for her life the only matter she could manage to comprehend. But as she crossed the floor and came upon Mossy, she was not so utterly selfish that she would leave him behind to be butchered. As badly as Bartholomew needed to protect her, she was desperate to defend the frail old man.
“Get up!” she grasped him by the arms, pulling him to his feet. “Come with me!”
But Mossy resisted in a surprising show of strength. Shirking her grasp, he shoved her toward the door. “Run, Riss! Find Richmond!”
She gasped, half with fear and half with disbelief. “I won’t leave you!”
“Ye must! Run!”
On the opposite side of the room, Bartholomew let out a loud grunt and Arissa turned with horror in time to see her brother’s opponent disengaging his sword from the young man’s gut. A scream rose to her lips as her brother crumpled to the cold stone, a victim of his own protective instinct and a lack of knightly talent. He simply could not let them take his sister without a fight, and he had paid the ultimate price for his selfless attempt.
Arissa was frozen to the spot in terror, watching her brother’s blood flow upon the floor. She simply could not believe what she was seeing; her sweet, intelligent brother having met his end defending her against a pair of invaders who had dared breach the sanctuary of Lambourn.
Hot tears sprang to her eyes, tears of shock and disbelief. For the moment, she had completely forgotten about the pursuing soldiers as she watched her beloved brother bleed to death before her eyes. Unfortunately, her stunned horror provided the soldier who had been pursuing her the opportunity to close in and, before she realized it, a heavy mailed glove clamped down on her arm.
“You are coming with me!” the soldier boomed, pulling her into a vise-like grip.
The second soldier kicked a piece of broken furniture out of the way, moving for the door. “We have no time to waste, Lyle. The servant’s gate is our best option.”
Arissa was still reeling from her brother’s demise, almost non-resistant when the soldier captured her. But hearing their voices seemed to snap her out of her lethargy, and she suddenly turned into a fighting, spitting cat.
Lyle was the unfortunate recipient of a rake of nails across his face, catching him in the cheek and nose. He yelped with surprise as Arissa struggled against him, her frail strength no match for his power.
“Enough of that!” he snapped savagely, easily capturing her hands. “Princess or no, I shall beat you senseless if you do that again.”
Arissa heard the reference but did not comprehend the meaning. In fact, she seemed to disregard his threat as well, for her struggles did not lessen. If anything, they increased as Lyle dragged her toward the door.
“Get to the horses,” he grunted to David. “Wait for me just outside the gate. We shall have to take the long route to keep le Bec off our trail.”
“Le Bec is in the middle of a siege,” David pointed out, helping him move the twisting, fighting captive through the door. “I doubt her absence will be discovered for several hours yet.”
Lyle grunted as Arissa dug her heels into the floor, screeching and wrestling against him. With a growl, he swung her over his shoulder. “You may be right, but we can’t take the chance that le Bec will realize she’s missing immediately.”
David suddenly paused, glancing into the sanctuary. “What about the old man? He will tell him.”
Lyle paused, turning to gaze at his comrade while his burden twisted and hollered. “Then disable him. And meet me out in the field beyond the servant’s gate. If I do not meet you there within a half hour, ride ahead and inform Owen what we have discovered. He must be made aware that Henry’s bastard is indeed at Lambourn.”
On Lyle’s shoulder, Arissa heard the words, but they possessed no meaning for her whatsoever. She was still consumed with grief for Bartholomew’s death, for her own abduction, and for the threat against Mossy.
“Do not hurt him!” she cried. “Please do not hurt Mossy!”
David glanced at the flushed, frightened woman. Without a word, he disappeared into the sanctuary and Arissa screamed at the top of her lungs. Panting and gasping, her struggles slowly ceased as the result of pure sorrow.
“Please, please,” she sobbed. “Please do not hurt him. I shall…. I shall come with you peacefully. Just do not hurt Mossy.”
Lyle paused a moment. He almost ignored her plea and kept walking, but something inexplicably made him stop. He knew full well that there should be no witnesses left to inform le Bec of what had happened, but there was something in the sweet voice and painful tears that tugged at his fighting man’s heart.
He was a soldier, seasoned and toughened through years of fighting. But he was also a husband and a father, and female tears cut him just as they cut through any warm-blooded male. He could just as easily hear his young daughter’s pleas in the voice of the delicate woman slung over his shoulder.
“Please,” she whispered again. “Stop him. Do not hurt Mossy.”
Lyle clenched his jaw, disgusted with the weakness that was overtaking him. He could feel himself relenting. Turning toward the portal leading to the tower, he shouted to his companion.
“David!” he roared. “Cease! Do not touch the old man!”
Several seconds passed as Lyle and Arissa wait, their struggles against one another at a halt for the moment. Tears ran down Arissa cheeks and onto Lyle’s mail; from the corner of his eye, he could see the small droplets and for the first time, he began to regret the brutality of his necessary duty. Truthfully, there could not have been an easy way to abduct her, but he was sorry for her fear all the same.
David suddenly appeared in the doorway, his expression puzzled. But Lyle simply waved at him irritably, irritation directed at himself for being soft to a woman’s tears. “Leave the old man alone. Go get the horses.”
“You did not harm him, did you?” Arissa asked urgently, sniffling.
David stepped into the corridor, eyeing Arissa warily. “He’s unharmed. But a moment longer and my report would not have been as favorable.”
Arissa nearly collapsed with relief. Her sobs faded as star-bright tears still glistened on her cheeks. “Diolch yn fawr,” she whispered.
Both David and Lyle looked to her, their eyes widening. �
�You speak Welsh?” David asked neutrally.
She nodded faintly. “I know a little,” she sniffled again, wiping at her nose. “I…. I did not think you’d understand me, but I felt the need to thank you just the same for preserving Mossy’s life. As I was raised properly, I never allow a favor to go without expressing my gratitude.”
“So you expressed your appreciation in a language you thought we would not understand so we would not know you had thanked us? Most peculiar that you should thank an enemy for an act of mercy,” David’s gaze lingered on her a moment, studying her beauty. After several seconds, he cocked an eyebrow slowly. “Fedra ddim siarad Cymraeg,” he said softly.
Now it was Arissa’s turn for surprise. She blinked away the remainder of her tears, droplets gleaming on her thick lashes.
“You speak Welsh?”
“I just told you I did,” David replied, tearing his eyes away from her and focusing on Lyle. “I shall meet you by the servant’s gate.”
He was gone, slinking down the corridor. With Arissa still slung over his shoulder, Lyle followed.
*
Huddled against the wall in the remains of his sanctuary, Mossy listened to the boot falls as they faded down the hall. Shaken, he pulled himself up on an upended stool to unsteady feet.
A quick glance in Bartholomew’s direction showed the lad’s blood to be collecting against the stone floor in a bright pool of crimson. Mossy stumbled towards his nephew, tripping over his robes in his haste to reach him. The large young man was curled on his side, groaning with the agony of his severe wound as Mossy struggled to turn him onto his back.
“Nay!” Bartholomew rasped. “I am beyond help. You must…. save Arissa!”
Mossy dug his fingers into the tear in Bartholomew’s tunic, probing the cleanly-executed wound. On the right side of his torso just below his ribs, it was bleeding profusely and Mossy wrestled with the hem of his robes, tearing a length of material free and pressing it to the injury. Bart groaned loudly, making a weak attempt to move away from the agonizing pressure the old man was applying.
“Leave me, Mossy!” he breathed again, swallowing hard. “You must save Riss!”
“Richmond is the only one who can save her,” Mossy replied hoarsely, struggling against the bright red flow.
Bartholomew’s blue eyes opened, unnaturally bright against his pasty face. “Then find him. Do not let my death be in vain.”
Mossy stared at him, hearing his words and seeing the truth within. Reluctantly, he left the dying young man and stumbled toward the doorway. Nearly more than the shock of Bartholomew’s impending death and Arissa’s abduction, the fact that the soldiers who had come for her knew who she was was enough to dash his composure. Distinctly, they had referred to her as Princess. God help her, they knew who she was.
It suddenly began to occur to him that the siege on Lambourn had not been revenge for the attack against Tad de Rydal. Mayhap, there was a greater scheme involved, a plot full of court intrigue and royal conspiracies that could threaten the very foundation of England’s stability.
Mayhap Ovid de Rydal hadn’t attacked in the hopes of exacting vengeance against Richmond le Bec. Mayhap, it had all been a cover for another objective.
Mossy was quivering so terribly that he could scarcely walk, but he knew that he had to get to Richmond before something horrible befell Arissa. He was her Great Protector, sworn to protect and serve her with his very life. For eighteen years Richmond le Bec had carried out his objective. Now, when she needed him the most, he was distracted.
Mossy’s pace picked up speed and urgency, ignoring the panic and astonishment that threatened to disable him. He had to reach Henry’s le Bec with the news.
*
Lambourn was deserted for the most part as people took to their chambers to wait out the fighting in and around the bailey. The kitchen doors had been shut and bolted, hindering David’s escape. He had to do away with two serving wenches and three male servants before he was able to unlock the door, leaving it open for Lyle’s flight. Trudging into the pouring rain, he went about his objective.
Lyle was not far behind. Arissa bounced miserably on his shoulder, trying to cushion the blows with each step. As he descended the stairs, she begged to be put to her feet and he complied without a word. However, the death-grip he kept on her arm was nearly as uncomfortable as being slung across his shoulder and she winced continuously as he led her through the dim foyer and into the deserted gallery.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked softly, resisting the urge to struggle against him. She had, after all, promised not to resist in lieu of sparing Mossy’s life.
“That is not for me to decide, princess,” Lyle replied, his eyes alert for any movement that might interfere with their progress.
Arissa tripped on her own feet, nearly falling to her knees had it not been for Lyle’s powerful grip. But the impact of his words settled, including the title of respect he had used. Not simply my lady, but princess. Puzzlement invaded her expression.
“Why…. why do you address me in such a fashion?”
He did not answer her as he pulled her through the gallery and prepared to enter the kitchens. “Enemy or not, I will address you with due respect.”
She gazed up at him as he paused near the threshold leading to the kitchens, completely confused.
“Due respect? I do not understand. I am a mere lady, the earl’s daughter. But you know that, lest you would not be abducting me,” she was somewhat calmer than she had been earlier, although she knew not why. She assumed that if the large soldier was intent upon harming her, then he would have done so by now. “Why does Ovid want me? To lay a trap for Richmond?”
The soldier was distracted by her words as he scanned the dim kitchens beyond for signs of danger. Irritably, he glanced at her. “I do not know of whom you speak. Who is Ovid?”
Her eyes narrowed curiously at his lack of understanding. It never occurred to her to refrain from elaborating. “Lord de Rydal. You are with his army, are you not?”
Satisfied that no threat lay beyond in the yawning room, Lyle turned his full attention to her. “I am not English. I serve Owen Glendower.”
Arissa blinked in confusion. “Who is that?”
He cocked his head, less concerned with making it to the servant’s entrance as he found himself interested in their conversation. “The Welsh prince opposing your father. Surely he’s told you of his bloodthirsty quest to maintain a captive Wales?”
Arissa’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “My father is intent on maintaining Wales?” she repeated, surprised. “Good sir, my father is an earl, and we are easily fifty miles from the Welsh border. You must have him confused with someone else. Perhaps you have confused me with someone else.”
Lyle gazed into the pale green eyes, wondering how on earth she could be so dense. Either that, or she was an accomplished liar. The mere fact that she was a woman made him opt for the latter.
“No more talk,” he grip on her arm tightened in a display of irritation. “You must have little respect for my intelligence to plead innocent of your heritage”
Arissa gasped as he swung her through the kitchens. Turning a sharp corner, they were confronted with five dead bodies and an open door. The hellish weather beyond beckoned viciously, calling them forth into her freezing embrace.
Lyle attempted to move Arissa forward over the corpses, but she cried and squirmed, resuming the struggle she had pledged to cease.
“Quit your wrestling, wench,” he snapped.
She gasped and nearly swooned when one of her flailing feet came into contact with a bloodied head against the stone. “I…. I need my cloak. Oh, please, allow me to retrieve my cloak!”
Lyle glanced at the pouring rain, thinking that a cloak would be a wise acquisition in light of the weather they would be facing. ’Twould not do to have the princess die of illness before they reached Wales. But returning to her chamber to retrieve a heavy cover was out of the question; i
nstead, he glanced about quickly and was not surprised to see that both dead women were wearing protection against the elements.
Releasing Arissa’s arm, he snatched a heavy woolen cloak from one of the deceased women and shook it out sharply, tossing it at Arissa. She barely caught it, her hands shaking from disgust and fear as she slung it about her narrow shoulders and secured it tightly. Pulling the brown hood over her head and praying there weren’t lice nesting inside, she did not resist when Lyle grabbed her once more and thrust her into the driving weather.
In spite of the fact that the wool cloak stank to heaven and scratched her tender skin, it was warm and thick and offered a good deal of protection. Lyle pulled her through the muddy pond that had once been the kitchen yard, his eyes alert for any soldier or servant that might alert Lambourn of the princess’ abduction.
Even though the sounds of fighting were loud and fierce, he caught a glimpse of only a few soldiers, and those men were engaged in mortal combat with enemy warriors. Not one bothered to pay attention to the unfamiliar soldier leading a small figure toward the servant’s gate. Additionally, the pounding rain offered a shroud to partially obscure them against alert gazes.
Already, Arissa’s feet were soaking through. Her hide boots were not meant to be submerged in water for any length of time and were saturating quickly. Lyle, however, was oblivious of her discomfort as he hurried her toward the wall. The closer they drew, the greater his sense of urgency.
They were almost free. Soon, Wales would loom before him in all her glory and Owen would be most pleased to discover Henry’s bastard daughter within his midst. Mayhap she would be the leverage he was looking for, the key to bargaining with Henry. The surprise element the English king was not counting on.
The gate was within his grasp. He reached out to touch it, feeling its iron comfort him, assuring him of his successful mission. He gained strength from the gate, even as he pushed Arissa through it, knowing the satisfaction of a task accomplished. The princess was his.
But his satisfaction was the last positive emotion he was to feel. As he was preparing to enter the gate himself, a loud crash sounded directly over his head as something heavy slammed into the stone of the wall. Instinctively, Lyle ducked as a heavy mace came crashing down on his helm. Had it not been for his head protection, he would have been knocked unconscious. As it was, his ears were ringing as he whirled to face his accoster.
Lasses, Lords, and Lovers: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 94
