… did he?
As she sat there in the dim light, the chamber door quietly opened. She could see the panel moving very slowly, opening further and further, until Manducor’s head suddenly appeared. He had an expression of concern on his face as he looked at Bric, crumpled up in his wife’s arms.
The priest had been in the kitchen yard, his favorite place when he wasn’t in the hall. But in this case, he’d been arguing with the beer wife about the flavor of her brew. The woman was very old, married to one of the house servants, and she liked to swap in seasonal ingredients into her brews to alter the taste. Her last batch of brew had contained elderberries in it, and Manducor was grossly opposed to the use of it in ale. They’d been bickering back and forth when he’d seen Bric bolt from the training area, strange behavior from the normally calm man, so he’d come into the keep to see if Lady MacRohan knew what had her husband on the run.
Now, he found MacRohan laying on the floor, his head and shoulders in his wife’s lap. It was shocking to say the least. He took a few uneasy steps into the chamber.
“My lady,” he whispered. “Is… is everything all right?”
Eiselle simply shook her head. “I do not know.”
Bric heard them. He’d been half-dozing, anything to escape this crippling panic he felt, but at the sound of Manducor’s voice, he suddenly sat up. It was one thing for Eiselle to see him like this, but quite another for someone else.
“Nothing is amiss,” he said, his voice a growl.
Manducor was wary of his tone. “I did not mean to suggest there was,” he said. “I saw you run and thought to help. I thought that mayhap there was something amiss with Lady MacRohan, so I only came to make sure there was nothing wrong.”
Bric was suddenly on his feet, pulling Eiselle to stand. “I told you nothing was wrong,” Bric said, although he wouldn’t look Manducor in the eye. “And the next time you enter our chamber, you will knock. Is that clear?”
“It is, my lord.”
Bric was clearly uncomfortable and edgy. He took Eiselle’s hand, kissed it twice, before letting it go and quitting the room. He simply blew out of the chamber without another word. Eiselle stood there a moment, both confused and shocked with what had happened. She looked at Manducor, lifting her shoulders weakly.
“I do not know what is wrong,” she said. “He could not tell me. All he said was that he was working with the men, saw an arrow hit the ground, and then he ran up here.”
Since Manducor had been a knight for years before joining the priesthood, he’d fought in many battles and he had an inkling as to what might be the problem. He’d seen it before, with some, but he couldn’t really believe that a man of Bric MacRohan’s strength would suffer from such a thing. A weakness of the heart, they’d called it. A Man of Dishonor was another term. There were a few names for it, none of them particularly kind.
Like most of the inhabitants of Narborough, he had heard the rumors about MacRohan, about how he seemed less aggressive than he had been before his injury. Men were whispering that he’d lost his edge, that the injury had damaged his unwavering courage, but the whispers were those of concern and not condemnation. Nothing Manducor had heard was condemnation for the beloved High Warrior of Narborough.
Therefore, he tried to be tactful when he spoke.
“Sometimes, an injury can affect a man’s mind,” he said. “I have seen men cower from swords once they were cut by them. MacRohan said that he fled when he heard an arrow?”
Eiselle nodded. “He said he heard the arrow and he ran.”
“Then it is possible the sound of an arrow brings back memories of that terrible wound, something that frightens him.”
Eiselle frowned. “Not Bric,” she said firmly. “He is the greatest knight in the realm. He is not afraid of anything.”
Manducor could hear her staunch belief in her husband’s greatness. “My lady, sometimes men are afraid of things they cannot comprehend,” he said. “Battle will do strange things to a man’s mind. It is possible that MacRohan’s brush with death has made him fearful of things he would not normally be afraid of.”
“Nay,” she said strongly. “Bric MacRohan is the High Warrior. He does not know fear and I resent you for saying so.”
Manducor cocked an eyebrow at her. “It is that attitude that will sink him,” he said. “Do not tell him how strong he is. Do not shame him with talk of being de Winter’s High Warrior. If your husband is suddenly feeling some panic over his brush with death, then those things will not help him. They will only hurt him.”
Eiselle was deeply upset by his words, but she was also upset at herself because she’d been thinking nearly the same thing, only Manducor had been brave enough to speak of it. Bric was invincible and she didn’t like the fact that Manducor had seen him in a moment of weakness. She didn’t want anyone to see Bric in his moments of weakness, regardless of the cause, and she didn’t want any further gossip spread about it.
Whatever was happening with Bric, she was certain he could overcome it.
“Listen to me,” she said, pointing a finger at the priest. “You will not speak of this. You will not tell anyone what you saw, do you hear me? I will not have you planting doubt in men’s minds as to the greatness of my husband. He has a formidable reputation, and if you ruin that, I will kill you.”
Manducor believed her. He was touched by her fierce defense of her husband, but he was also concerned with the fact that she didn’t realize her husband may be suffering from mental anguish that only another fighting man would understand. Denying it wasn’t going to make it go away. Putting his hands up, he backed down.
“I would never ruin his reputation,” he said. “I think you know better than that. But I am telling you that you must be vigilant with him, my lady. He may have inner demons that he cannot control, so you must take great care with him.”
Eiselle was angry, confused, and concerned. Manducor’s words made sense to her, which was the most frightening thing of all. Without another word, she rushed from the chamber, leaving Manducor to wonder if the arrow that had carved into MacRohan’s body had not only damaged his flesh, but his mind. He’d seen such things in his lifetime. With Bric, only time would tell.
Regardless, de Winter needed to know, if he didn’t already.
“My lord, you wished to see me?”
Bric asked the question, standing in the door of Daveigh’s solar. The lord of Narborough had a big chamber with one wall that was shaped like a half-circle, with windows that faced out over the inner bailey. Sunlight streamed in from the openings, bathing the room in a bright glow.
Daveigh looked up when he heard Bric’s question. He was seated at the massive table that held maps, missives, and any number of documents or utensils that helped him manage his great empire. There was also a gaggle of dogs beneath the table, big Irish wolfhounds that had been sent to him from his properties in Ireland, and dogs that, on occasion, had been sicced on young Edward de Chevington when the lad wandered into Daveigh’s solar. The dogs’ heads came up, curiously, when Bric entered.
“Come,” Daveigh waved him over to the table. He set aside a missive he had been reading to focus on Bric. “How goes the training this day?”
Bric knew immediately what Daveigh meant. In fact, he’d suspected from the beginning why he’d been summoned; he and Daveigh had served together for a very long time and there wasn’t much they kept from each other. Such was the nature of their relationship. He knew Daveigh had been out in the training area earlier, but he wasn’t sure he’d been there when Bric had panicked at the arrow strike. Even if he hadn’t been present, other men were. Surely someone had told him what had happened. Therefore, Bric was preemptive in his reply.
“I am sorry for what happened earlier, my lord,” he said frankly. “I did not mean to run off like that, but I… I was ill. Ask the servants. I managed to expel the contents of my stomach inside the keep, but I am better now. It must have been something I ate.”
It was typical for Bric to be straightforward and, in truth, Daveigh was indeed going to ask him about the situation earlier, when Bric had run from an entire troop of new recruits who had seen the High Warrior bolt into the keep. Pearce had seen it, too, and he’d been able to cover for Bric, but Daveigh was concerned about what the new recruits would think. Rumors were being whispered throughout Narborough these days, rumors that Daveigh had mentioned to Pearce, and surely the new recruits were hearing them.
Given Bric’s latest behavior, those rumors couldn’t be ignored any longer. It was time to address them.
In an effort to protect Bric, and to help the man, Daveigh needed to know what was going on and he didn’t believe Bric’s explanation in the least. He knew better.
“Do you remember when you first came to Narborough?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “When you first came here with Keeva? Do you recall that after you swore your oath to me, I put you in charge of a troop of men?”
Bric nodded, but he wasn’t giving in to the pleasant mood that Daveigh was trying to create. He was on his guard. “I remember.”
“Do you recall that your accent was so thick, no one could understand you?”
“I do, indeed, recall.”
“You called the men motley malcontents, as I recall, and it came out as ‘markley malkents’, or something to that effect. Then you became even more angry when they couldn’t understand you.”
“Those were difficult times, my lord.”
Daveigh grinned. “For all of us,” he said. “But you eventually won their respect. It just took time.”
“Indeed.”
Daveigh’s smile faded. “I will ask you a question, Bric, and you will give me an honest answer.”
“I would not lie to you, my lord, not ever.”
“You just did.”
Bric cocked his head curiously. “When did I do this disgraceful thing?”
“When you told me that you’d eaten something that had made you ill. That was not the truth, was it?”
Bric stared at him a moment before clearing his throat softly, trying to maintain eye contact with the man but having difficulty doing it.
“It was my way of saying you should not worry,” he said after a moment. “Whatever is happening with me, it will pass.”
Daveigh drew in a long, thoughtful breath. Then, he stood up from his chair, wandering over to the lancet windows that overlooked the inner bailey. His movements were slow, and pensive, as he pondered the world outside his windows.
“When I was very young, my father went on crusade with King Richard,” he said. “I was so young when he left, I do not even remember, but I do remember when he returned. He’d taken the land route back and by the time he came home, he was a shell of his former self. In fact, I did not know him when he came back. He looked as if he’d been starving and destitute for the last four years of his life. Did I ever tell you that story, Bric?”
“Some of it.”
Daveigh continued. “My mother took care of him and nursed his body back to health, but the one thing that did not return to health was his mind. You see, he’d seen so many horrific things that even a glimpse of a broadsword would turn him into a madman. He would run and hide. This was when the de Winter war machine was at its weakest point, and it was my father’s younger brother, Olivier, who commanded the army because my father was incapable. It took time for my father to recover, and eventually he did, and he was able to take the field again. My father died on the field of battle in Normandy about fifteen years ago. The point is that I can see the same symptoms in you, Bric, that my father suffered from. You were not sick today; you suffered from a bout of panic, the same panic my father had from time to time.”
By this point, Bric was standing in tense silence. But he didn’t want to admit anything because he didn’t believe what Daveigh was suggesting. He hadn’t panicked like a weakling; it simply wasn’t possible. He was the High Warrior, and there wasn’t a weak bone in his body.
“I did not panic, my lord,” he said firmly. “I am not sure what happened, but it will not happen again. This I vow.”
Daveigh looked at him. “There is no shame in this, Bric,” he insisted. “Sometimes, it happens. Men have more than they can take on the field of battle and it happens. With you, I believe the moment the arrow struck you was when you realized you are not immortal. Knowing that does not make you weak in and of itself, but how you handle that knowledge is where the men are separated from the fools. Running away as you did today, that is what a weakling would do, and I know you are not weak. You are right when you say it will not happen again; it cannot. The de Winter army must believe you are as fearless as you have always been, because the moment they start doubting your strength is the moment you are no longer any good to me.”
Bric knew that; God, he knew that. He knew that the respect of the army was hard fought and easily lost. If he lost it, there would be nothing left. He would no longer be de Winter’s High Warrior. The mere thought of losing everything he’d worked so hard for made his palms sweat.
“I understand, my lord,” he said. “As I said, it will not happen again.”
Daveigh’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. “You do know there are rumors about that you are not the same man you were before your injury.”
“I do.”
“When I see how you are with the new recruits, it is easy to believe you are not the same man. The Bric MacRohan before his injury was a harsh, sometimes brutal taskmaster, yet you were always fair. That is why the men loved you so. The man I have seen training these new recruits as of late is more of a nursemaid than a master. Everyone is seeing it, Bric.”
Bric sighed heavily. “Then what would you have me do? What do you want me to do? I am doing my best, Daveigh.”
It was rare that Bric called Daveigh by his given name, but that was the type of relationship they shared. They were not simply liege and servant; they were friends and kin, as well. Daveigh moved in his direction, his manner subdued.
“I want you to leave Narborough for a time,” he said quietly. “The men know you are still recovering from your injury, so it will be a simple thing to tell them that you need rest. Go to Bedingfeld Manor in the countryside with your wife and stay there until you feel as if you can watch an arrow fly again without coming apart at the seams. You have a new wife, Bric; enjoy her, rest, and relax. Take the time away and recover yourself. I need my High Warrior in top form and if you must take a rest to do that, then so be it.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, in fact. Before his injury, Bric had been thinking of asking Daveigh for a lesser post and his own command so that Eiselle could have a home of her own. And he knew Bedingfeld; it was like heaven out there in the countryside. A fortified manor with a small lake and a beautiful garden from what he remembered. A perfect place to take his new wife so they could spend some time alone, and perhaps he could overcome the urge to run when he saw an arrow. In truth, he had scared himself with that reaction because it hadn’t been something he’d been able to control.
Perhaps Daveigh was right.
The High Warrior needed to regain his form.
“Very well,” he said after a moment. “If you believe that is best, then I will go.”
Daveigh was relieved that he wasn’t going to have a fight on his hands. He went to Bric and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“I respect you more for agreeing to go,” he said. “Had you fought me on this, I would have believed you to be in denial that there may be a problem. But I truly do not believe there is any shame in this, Bric. My father went through it. Many men go through it. I know there is talk of a weak heart or of dishonorable behavior when something like this occurs, but I do not believe it is either. A man’s mind is a vast and mysterious thing, and there are times when even the best of us must deal with something we cannot control.”
Bric appreciated that Daveigh was being understanding over something that Bric didn’t even understand himself. What he felt
wasn’t something he could put into words.
“Mayhap I can use some time away,” he finally said. “In truth, before all of this happened, I was going to ask you if you could station me at Roxham or Wissington so that Eiselle could have her own home. Here, she is one of Keeva’s women, but at one of the lesser castles, she could run it how she saw fit.”
Daveigh nodded. “Every woman wants her own home,” he said, trying to make it seem like it was a good thing for Bric to leave Narborough. “Go to Bedingfeld for a time and if you like it, you can remain there. If not, I will move you to one of the other castles. Go where you like, Bric. You may choose.”
This way, it wasn’t like Daveigh was sending Bric away for his mental health. It was more a mutual decision, so Bric could heal completely and get control of his nerves, and Bric appreciated that.
It left him his dignity.
In truth, he felt better than he had in weeks. He felt there was hope for him to return to the man he once was. He had no idea what was happening to him and an understanding liege helped tremendously. With time away, he could sort himself out and deal with whatever was happening. But just as he and Daveigh were heading towards the table where the maps were, so they could take a look at all of the de Winter properties where Bric and Eiselle could go, Mylo suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“My lord,” he said, somewhat breathlessly, as he had run all the way from the main gatehouse. “We have a rider from Castle Acre. The French have amassed and are attacking both the town and castle. De Warenne begs us for help, my lord.”
It was unwelcome news, but not entirely surprising. Daveigh looked at Bric, who had a stony expression on his face. In fact, it was unreadable, like a marble statue. It was the face of a man who had confronted war many times, a man who knew his duty no matter how he personally felt. As of this moment, Bric MacRohan was still in command of the de Winter army and Bric’s gaze lingered on Daveigh for a moment longer before turning to Mylo.
Lords of Eire: An Irish Medieval Romance Bundle Page 20
