But their fight had drawn attention, and alarms were going up through the city. Citizens were panicking, barring their doors, shutting out the fight that was going on around them. But some, the men in particular, were taking up arms to reinforce the rebels. Seeing this, William Marshal sent men back to the encamped army, calling them forth because the fighting had also roused the garrison at Lincoln Castle. Now, everyone knew the loyalists were there.
Rebel soldiers were mobilizing.
Still, the Marshal’s initial ground work had left the rebel army compartmentalized in pockets of fighting. The loyalists had them in groups, and those groups were being decimated. The fighting went street to street; one street would be secured and then they’d move on to the next. Rebels were either running, being captured, or being killed, and more than one of them had been chased down by the big Irish warrior with the silver eyes.
But it was more than being chased down by him; they could hear him coming. Bric moved with the greatest stealth when it was necessary. But when he wanted to frighten the enemy, he would howl like a beast. It was a sound that had the rebels in panic mode, because no sooner would they hear the sound than a massive knight would come barreling down on them.
Sometimes he had an ax in his hand, sometimes a sword, but sometimes it was his preferred fists. He’d flattened many a man with those ham-sized fists, and rumors of the crazed knight with the silver eyes was beginning to spread. The rebels lived in fear of that man. Some were saying that he was more animal that human.
The big Irish knight, the High Warrior, lived up to his name on that day.
Bric and his men had just finished cleaning out a small residence of six hiding rebels when Bric emerged from the home, his nostrils still flaring from the excitement of the fight, only to have someone with a scythe jump out at him from an adjoining alley. Bric reacted as he’d been taught – strike first. In battle, there was no time for indecision or second chances. But when the surprise of the ambush settled, Bric looked down at his victim to see it was a boy, perhaps no more than thirteen years of age.
A young boy who just had his guts cut out of him.
For the first time all morning, Bric’s command and control mode took a hit. He exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his brow at the sight of the child he’d just killed.
“Bloody Christ,” he hissed. “Are they fighting with children now? Has their cause become so desperate that they are sending their babes into the streets?”
Daveigh was behind him. His squad of men had joined up with Bric a short time before. Daveigh was younger than Bric by about ten years, but a strong and wise liege, a fine tribute to the House of de Winter. Daveigh Alexandre de Winter, Baron Cressingham and the Earl of Ardmore as part of his wife’s Irish dowry, was a broad man with big shoulders, dark hair, and muddy brown eyes. Those eyes were fixed on the tow-headed lad at Bric’s feet, bleeding out into the muddy gutters of Lincoln.
“He tried to kill you,” he said, slapping Bric on the arm. “There is no shame in protecting yourself, no matter what the age of your opponent. It is the rebels who should be ashamed for sending a child against seasoned soldiers.”
Bric shook his head unhappily, having difficulty moving past the dead child. The death of men, and sometimes even women, didn’t bother him, but there was a secret about Bric MacRohan – he had a soft spot for children and animals. Therefore, the sight of a dead youth disturbed him greatly.
“I should have looked first,” he said regretfully. “I should have punched him in the face. He might have lost teeth, but at least he would have retained his life.”
Daveigh eyed him. “Any hesitation on your part and he would have cut your head off,” he said pointedly. “Put aside your regrets, MacRohan. There is no time for such things in battle.”
Words of wisdom from Daveigh. As the group as a whole moved out, heading towards the castle, they could hear the great horns of de Lohr as the siege engines and battering rams were being brought through the west gate, in pieces, to be reassembled for the siege on the castle. Bric’s ears perked up.
“They must have the west side secure,” he said to Daveigh. Then, he looked around, as they were still in the south section of the city. “We’ve secured this portion of the city, my lord. I’ll put some men on the gatehouse to the south and when the bulk of the army arrives, I’ll staff it with a hundred of our men to ensure it stays in our control.”
Daveigh nodded, pleased that their morning of hell was now seeing some relief. “Good enough,” he agreed. “If de Lohr is sounding the horns, then he wants every able-bodied man to help him move in the war machines. Mayhap, I should take some of our men and move in their direction.”
Bric nodded. “I’ll take twenty men with me to the south gatehouse,” he said, “but before I do, I shall sweep to the east once more to make sure they don’t need our assistance.”
“Who is off to the east?”
“Savernake, I believe. They were meeting with heavy resistance, last I saw.”
“Then go. I will see you at the castle.”
With that, they split off, Daveigh taking his thirty men with him, and Bric taking the remaining twenty. One of those men was Pearce de Dere, with a nasty gash on his shoulder where his mail had been mangled by a club. As they headed east on streets that were now quiet with the dead or the dying, Pearce spoke beside him.
“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life,” he said. “I’ve never seen a city under siege like this.”
Bric’s eyes were scanning the streets, the alleys, and the homes, making sure no more children with blades were going to come running out at him.
“It was a bold move for William Marshal to subdue the city like this, but a brilliant move all the same,” he said. “In truth, I wasn’t sure it was wise with so few men, but it was positively brilliant. We were able to catch them off guard.”
Pearce held up his gloved hand, gingerly touching his wounded shoulder. “It was exhilarating,” he grinned. “Well worth the injury.”
Bric glanced at the mangled shoulder. “You look like a cat has torn you to shreds.”
Pearce wriggled his eyebrows. “I’ve been torn by cats before,” he winked, most definitely meaning the human and not the feline variety. “It is well worth the blood they draw.”
“You’d better not let your wife hear you say that.”
Pearce laughed. He was a glib man in the best of times, a bit of a rogue who’d married a year ago to a woman who had become pregnant. At least, she said she’d been pregnant, but conveniently lost the child before her belly grew. Pearce was convinced she’d tricked him into marriage, so he didn’t feel badly about carousing with other females. It was something Bric didn’t pay much attention to; a man’s life was his own to live as he saw fit, he believed. But watching Pearce’s marriage had, in fact, made him more than wary of marriage in general.
“She’s heard me say it before,” Pearce said. “Moreover, what do I care what she thinks? The little minx is getting what she deserved. She thought she could force my loyalty through marriage? She was wrong. I am like a cloud, Bric. Nothing can hold me down. I am not meant to be tied to an anchor.”
Bric grunted. “No man is.”
Before Pearce could reply, they rounded a corner and came face to face with a massive brawl involving Savernake and a few de Lohr men. Bric didn’t hesitate; he rushed in, throwing punches or lifting his sword when necessary. In fact, he saw his dear friend, Dashiell du Reims, in a brutal fight with at least three men and Bric jumped into the brawl with both feet and both fists. Using his enormous booted feet to kick and disable, and his hands to choke or destroy, he helped Dashiell fight off the ruffians, disabling all three of them until they lay sprawled at their feet.
Breathing heavily, Dashiell tilted his helm back and wiped his forehead. Auburn-haired, handsome, and with a big mustache that was iconic to the man, he grinned at Bric.
“Like old times, eh, Bric?” he said. “This is not the first time you’ve
saved my life.”
Like most seasoned men, Dashiell and Bric had a long relationship and had fought many battles together, but the one in particular that Dashiell was referring to had been a nasty skirmish last year when Bric had killed a man who was trying to kill Dashiell.
It had been in the heat of battle, and Dashiell’s enemy was hoping it would look as if it had simply been an accident born of battle. But Bric had been there, and he’d prevented a terrible man from killing one of the truly good men in England.
Bric and Dashiell were bonded that way, but Bric didn’t like to be reminded of it. What he’d done, he’d done for the love of his friend and nothing more. He was embarrassed at the recognition for saving a friend.
It was the honorable knight in him.
“I think we’ve saved each other’s lives many times over, Dash,” he said briskly. “And I’ll be thanking you to never say it again.”
Dashiell fought off a smile. “You and I always seem to have a great deal of fun when we fight. Why is that?”
Bric snorted. “We are men of fine taste and good breeding,” he said. “If we weren’t doing this, what else would we do with our time?”
Dashiell patted him on the shoulder, taking a moment to catch his breath as the brawl dwindled around them. “I would not know,” he said. “We could take up a hobby, I suppose.”
“Fighting is a hobby.”
“Is it? I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I think my wife would like it if I found something else to do with my time. She doesn’t like it when I go off like this to enjoy my hobby with friends.”
Bric made a face. “Women have no sense of fun.”
Dashiell chuckled. “I suppose they have a different idea of fun,” he said. “When you marry, you shall see.”
“I don’t plan to marry.”
Dashiell settled his helm back onto his head. “I thought that way, once,” he said. “I was wrong.”
Bric’s silver eyes flashed. “You were weak, Dash,” he said. “You let that lovely slip of a woman bewitch you. Now she doesn’t like how you spend your time, fighting alongside your friends. ’Tis wrong for a woman to influence a man, I say. And you let her.”
Dashiell winked at him. “You’re bloody right I let her,” he said. “When you meet a slip of a woman who bewitches you, you shall understand.”
“Bite your tongue, man.”
Dashiell couldn’t stop the grin now. “I have a cousin who might be perfect for you,” he teased. “She is quite pretty. And, her father is wealthy.”
Bric rolled his eyes. “I don’t care if he owns the bloody royal jewels. My response is still the same.”
“Then you are a fool, man.”
“And you are an arse’s hole, Dash.”
Dashiell burst into soft laughter, amused by Bric’s animated response. Ever since Dashiell married last year, Bric had been increasingly turning his nose up at the suggestion of a union. With his friends getting married, or already married and having children, Bric MacRohan was quickly becoming something of a rarity in his bachelorhood – the more men married around him, the more devout he became to his bachelor life.
That was why most of Bric’s close friends, like Dashiell, found it greatly amusing to taunt the man about marriage because it was nearly the only subject that got a rise out of the usually collected knight.
Knights had to exploit weaknesses where they could find them.
In the distance, they could hear the de Lohr horns blowing again, drawing men to the castle as the siege of Lincoln Castle was about to start in earnest. The gates of the city were being secured and the rebels were either being captured or driven out.
As Dashiell patted Bric affectionately on the cheek and headed off with his men to rendezvous with the rest of the Savernake contingent, Bric headed off to the south gate to secure it with de Winter men. When the southern end of the city was finally secure, Bric moved to join the rest of the de Winter army that arrived from the west gate, taking charge of them as the battle for Lincoln Castle began in earnest.
As the sun set over the city of Lincoln and the siege engines, now reassembled, began to hurl flaming material over the walls of Lincoln Castle, Bric lost himself in the battle, and in his duties, remembering the glory of the day and completely forgetting about his conversation with Dashiell. He especially forgot about the offer from Dashiell about his wealthy cousin, because it meant nothing to him.
In hindsight, it had been a mistake. Those comments by Dashiell would come back to haunt him.
In truth, they would change his life.
CHAPTER ONE
First of June
Narborough Castle, Norfolk
Bric was trying to make it to the stables to escape, but he knew he’d be caught. He knew there was no real escape for him, but he was going to do it or die trying.
Woe to those who would try and stop him.
I have a gift for you, Bric, Daveigh had said. Only it hadn’t been a gift. It had been a burden. A trap of the most heinous kind. Bric knew who was behind it; God help him, he knew. A man he considered one of his closest friends, but a man who was clearly trying to offend him. When he left Narborough, he was going to ride all the way to Ramsbury Castle in Wiltshire and shove his fist right into Dashiell du Reims’ face.
He was going to flatten the man.
But he had to get out of Narborough first, which would be no simple feat. Narborough was, perhaps, one of the best fortified castles in all of England, with a massive keep of many rooms, great earthworks surrounding it, creating something of a maze when it came to actually entering the inner bailey where the keep was, and then an outer bailey that was full of men and animals, stables, outbuildings, and even stone-built residences for the army. Certainly, Bric could make it out to the bailey – or so he hoped – but making it through that outer bailey and to the gatehouse without being snared would be the trick.
Men were after him and he wasn’t about to surrender.
Now, he was trying to leave the keep without being seen. He had his own chamber in the keep, right next to the entry. It was simply a place to sleep, for a man like Bric had no real home or comforts. He could carry everything he owned with him and, at the moment, he was weighted down with heavy saddlebags that literally carried everything he owned. He didn’t want to leave anything behind because he was going to ride off and not come back for a very long time, at least until de Winter came to his senses. Bric was prepared to wait it out.
He didn’t want to be part of Daveigh, or Dashiell’s, political games.
It was dark at this ungodly hour as the night neared the morning. Bric was silently making his way from his chamber towards the keep entry, plastering himself against the cold, stone walls, trying to stay out of any light. He was keeping to the shadows, something he was good at, but the unfortunate part of that plan was that he’d taught every man in his command the same technique. His men were good at it, too. They could remain unseen if they wanted to. As he neared the bolted entry doors, two of his men proved it.
They stepped from the shadows to greet him.
“Where are you going so early, Bric?” Pearce asked, his eyes glittering in the weak light of distant torches. “We thought you might be coming this way.”
He gestured to his companion, another knight serving under Bric. Sir Mylo de Chevington was a troll of a man, short and stocky, but as strong as an ox. With his big smile and curly, dark hair, he had an impish look about him, which made Bric want to punch the man in the teeth because he could see a smile playing on his lips.
He glared at the pair.
“Get out of my way,” he growled. With his thick Irish accent, the threat sounded most deadly.
Pearce shook his head. “Alas, we cannot,” he said. “You know we cannot. De Winter thought you might try to run, so he posted us at these doors. We’ve been here all night because we knew, at some point, that you would make a break for them.”
Bric’s eyes narrowed, which was never a good thing.
“If you value your life, then you will get out of my way.”
Pearce was still smiling as he lifted his sword. Mylo mimicked the movement a split second later.
“I love you, Bric, you know I do,” he said, “but de Winter was specific in his orders. We are not to let you leave this keep.”
Bric was growing increasingly furious. “You are my knights,” he said flatly. “You are sworn to obey me, as your commander, and your commander is telling you to get out of his way.”
Pearce and Mylo took a defensive stance, swords leveled. They knew what was about to happen and they wanted to be prepared.
“De Winter has ordered us to hold the line,” Pearce said, bracing himself. “That is what we shall do, Bric. I am sorry.”
Bric’s silver eyes were fixed on Pearce. “Nay, you are not,” he said. “But you will be if you do not move.”
“Bric, have pity,” Mylo said. “Would you have de Winter angry with us instead? We took our oath to him, as did you. If you stop to think about this situation, you are disobeying the wishes of your liege by trying to leave Narborough and…”
“And you shall shut your nasty little face, Mylo,” Bric snapped, turning his venom on the younger knight. When Mylo’s eyes widened with a flash of fear, Bric was pleased. At least he’d get some pleasure out of this event by scaring the fresh young knight. “Now, move aside, de Chevington. Be a good lad.”
Mylo was far more pliable to Bric’s will than Pearce was but, surprisingly, he didn’t move away. He did shift a little, but not enough. That gave Bric the opening he needed to whack the knight’s broadsword away and throw a shoulder into him, shoving Mylo right into the wall. As the knight grunted with the force of the blow, Bric made a break for the bolt on the door.
After that, the fight was on.
Brides of Ireland Page 2
