Seeing MacRohan carry his dead colleague home was one of the most tragic sights Manducor had ever seen. He should have been shocked by it but, in truth, he wasn’t. MacRohan’s brush with death had changed him, as most were aware, and it was a fragile man who had returned to battle far sooner than he should have.
Bric MacRohan was strong, stronger than any man alive, but slaying his fellow knight, accidental though it might be, had pushed him beyond his endurance. The fragile man had cracked, and the results were before them.
It was devastating.
So, Manducor followed the pair as they headed into the keep. He thought they might lose MacRohan when Lady de Chevington and her terrible son came bolting from the keep, with Lady de Chevington screaming and Lady de Winter running after her. But Eiselle kept a tight grip on Bric and wouldn’t let him follow Angela even though he tried. He tried to call after her, to tell her that he was sorry, but Eiselle put her hands on his face and made him turn away. Then, she pleaded with Manducor to physically help her and he did, coming alongside MacRohan and taking one of the man’s arms to pull him into the keep.
But they all heard Angela screaming and weeping over the body of her husband.
It was a sound none of them would ever forget.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“How is he feeling?”
The softly-uttered question came from Daveigh.
Standing outside of Bric and Eiselle’s chamber in the dark and cool corridor, the question was directed at Eiselle. Keeva was sitting with Bric because Daveigh had wanted to speak with Eiselle, who hadn’t left her husband’s side since his return to Narborough two days before. She’d remained with him every second and, even now, she was nervous to be away from him.
Her manner was edgy.
“He is sleeping,” Eiselle said. “Weetley prescribed wine with poppy in it, so every time he has awoken, I have forced him to drink it. Weetley says it is best right now to make him sleep.”
Daveigh grunted miserably. “God,” he muttered. “So the man has been kept sedated.”
“He must recover, my lord. Sleep will surely help.”
Daveigh wasn’t so sure that was true, but he couldn’t dwell on that. Decisions had to be made. He’d been agonizing over the situation since it happened, devastated at the loss of two of his knights. All of Narborough was in mourning.
“Eiselle, we must speak,” he said, running his fingers through his dark hair in a weary gesture. “After Bric’s injury and before the battle at Castle Acre, Bric and I discussed sending him to Bedingfeld Manor to rest and recover. He seemed quite agreeable to going and now I believe it is more important than ever. You must get the man away from Narborough so he can recover his wits, and his emotions, and Bedingfeld is a perfect place for this. It is simply not healthy for him to remain here.”
Eiselle remembered her conversation with Bric where they had discussed going to a lesser de Winter castle so she could have a keep of her own, but she didn’t know about the discussion regarding Bedingfeld. At this point, she was going to have to trust Daveigh to do what was right for Bric, so she simply nodded.
“Whatever you feel is best, my lord,” she said. “All he has done is sleep for two days, so I have not spoken to him about it, but if you believe it best, then we will go.”
Daveigh nodded. “Good,” he said. “I will have horses and wagons prepared, and you can depart on the morrow. I will send fifty men with you, and servants, and will make all necessary preparations, so you needn’t worry about anything.”
“I will not.”
Daveigh gazed at the woman in the darkness of the corridor; there was still a good deal more on his mind, things he felt that he needed to say. “You must know how much anguish I feel over the situation,” he said, lowering his voice. “Bric is my rock, the greatest knight in my arsenal. I feel as if the heart of the de Winter army has been ripped out with Mylo’s death and Bric’s… illness. You cannot know how terrible I feel about all of this. I simply want him to get better.”
Eiselle smiled weakly. “As do I,” she said. “And he will. Rest is all he needs, I am certain of it. He will come back, better than before.”
Daveigh wasn’t so sure. Although he had seen his own father suffer with battle fatigue, it hadn’t been as bad as what Bric was suffering. At least his father hadn’t killed a friend. He wasn’t entirely sure there would be any coming back from it, but he wouldn’t dispute Eiselle, who had been as steady as the northern star throughout the ordeal. The timid, quiet woman who had married the fearsome Irish knight had transformed into something powerful. He couldn’t help but feel both respect and pity for the woman.
“Let us hope so,” he murmured. “Meanwhile, I will make the arrangements for your departure to Bedingfeld.”
“Thank you,” Eiselle said. As Daveigh turned to leave, she stopped him. “If Bric asks, where is Mylo? He has already asked for him when he woke briefly, but I did not answer him. At some point, I must tell him something when he is lucid and it is my fear that he may want to attend the man’s funeral mass, or at least go to the man’s grave.”
Daveigh began shaking his head before she’d even finished speaking. “That would be a terrible idea,” he said. “That would throw the man right back to that horrific moment and he would never heal from it. Angela has taken Mylo back to his home of Chevington, in Suffolk, and he will be buried in the church of his ancestors. Bric cannot do anything more for the man and he must understand that. It is over.”
Eiselle simply nodded, for Daveigh seemed agitated and despondent over the whole thing. She could see how much the situation pained him. As she turned for the door to her chamber, Daveigh spoke again.
“Did you know that he put his talisman around Mylo’s neck?” he asked. When Eiselle turned to him, shocked, he nodded his head. “I, too, was surprised by it. Do you know what is inscribed on it?”
Eiselle pictured the fine metal cross in her mind’s eye. “He showed it to me, once,” she said. “It says ‘Greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for his friends’.”
Daveigh appeared particularly saddened as she spoke the words, those poignant words that every soldier lived and breathed. Words that meant so much to any man who had ever lifted a weapon, Daveigh included.
“He said that Mylo deserved it,” he said quietly. “I have never seen Bric without that talisman, and for him to give it to Mylo… it was a sacrifice on his part. That talisman means a great deal to Bric.”
Eiselle hadn’t even realized what Bric had done. He’d given her the talisman, once, to comfort her, and she had given it back and made him promise never to give it to her again. But she hadn’t made him promise never to give it to anyone else. Knowing how much it meant to him, she was overwhelmed with the sadness of it, too.
“I know it does,” she said. “But he must have felt very strongly if he gave it to Mylo. Being responsible for his death, I suppose it was the only thing he could give him, something that was so close to his heart. I hope Angela permits him to be buried with it.”
“I asked her if she would and she agreed. She doesn’t blame Bric, you know. I found that surprising.”
“As do I. But I am glad.”
Daveigh simply nodded as he headed down the corridor, with the unhappy duty of sending his High Warrior away from Narborough looming ahead of him. Eiselle watched the man go, noting his slumped shoulders and damp spirit. That wasn’t the Daveigh de Winter she had come to know.
Mylo’s death and Bric’s breakdown was affecting them all.
Retreating back into the chamber, Eiselle shut the door softly behind her. As she stretched her back out, stiff from sitting for so long next to her sleeping husband, she heard Keeva speak.
“Why not try and sleep, Eiselle?” she murmured. “I will sit with Bric while you do. Certainly, you have not slept much.”
Eiselle grinned. “Is it that obvious?”
Keeva smiled in return. “You are a lovely lass, with or without sleep,” she
said. “But you do look tired.”
Eiselle stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her husband, who was breathing heavily and steadily as a result of the poppy potion. Her smile faded.
“It does not matter how I feel,” she said. “All that matters is Bric. Daveigh is going to send us to Bedingfeld Manor. He says Bric needs to go away from Narborough.”
Keeva already knew that. She and Daveigh had discussed it the night before. Her husband wasn’t sleeping well, either, thinking he was responsible for all of this. It was his army, after all, and Bric and Mylo were his knights. He’d let them fight in the dark when he could have just as easily called a retreat simply for safety’s sake. But he’d let them fight and Mylo’s death had been the result.
But it was more than that with Daveigh. His guilt over Bric’s mental state ran deep. It had been against his better judgement to allow Bric to go to Castle Acre, especially when he knew how mentally unstable the man was after his injury, but he’d let him go just the same. It wasn’t as if Bric had given him any choice, but Daveigh knew he shouldn’t have let him go.
That decision was going to cost him.
But Keeva didn’t say anything about that. What Daveigh felt was only between them, and she would not share it. Much like Eiselle, she didn’t want her husband’s weaknesses or doubts to be known.
“Bedingfeld is a beautiful place,” she said. “It is deep in the country and has a lovely garden and a pond. It will be an excellent place for Bric to rest and regain his health.”
Eiselle moved to the other side of the bed, opposite Keeva, and put a gentle hand on Bric’s forehead. He wasn’t warm, or ill, simply exhausted, and the poppy was having a strong effect on him. As long as he was sleeping, he wasn’t miserable, so Eiselle was glad for small mercies.
“I hope so,” she sighed. “I do believe I will take Manducor with me. He seems to know much about knights, and men, and he will be of assistance.”
Keeva thought on the smelly priest who had made himself a fixture at Narborough, whether or not they wanted him there. She snorted softly.
“Then if he is going, I shall make sure to send double the provisions,” she said. “And double the wine.”
Eiselle chuckled. “Aye, you’d better,” she said. But quickly, she sobered. “Keeva, you have been around knights your entire life, have you not?”
Keeva nodded, her thoughts turning towards her youth, her childhood. “Aye.”
“Have you ever seen anything like this? What Bric is going through, I mean.”
Keeva sighed faintly. “Aye,” she said. “But warriors do not speak of such things. Men who suffer from this keep it to themselves, like a dark shame. We do not speak of it.”
Eiselle’s brow furrowed. “But why?” she asked. “I do not understand why it is a shameful thing. Men like Bric… he is the strongest man I know, but he is also just a man. That means he has the weaknesses of a man. Why is it shameful when these weaknesses become evident?”
Keeva could see she didn’t quite understand. In truth, Keeva wasn’t even sure she understood. “Because men like Bric are perfect,” she said softly. “Perfect warriors who inspire the armies. Men look to knights like Bric and they have faith in their strength. When that strength falls, they all fall.”
“I do not believe that. It does not seem fair.”
“Fair or not, it is the truth,” Keeva said. “I come from a family of warriors that believes in this ideal of the perfect warrior, and Bric is part of that family. That means he has had a good deal to live up to. He has two younger brothers, Brendan and Ryan, and they are both just like Bric. They all fostered in England, as Bric did, but only Bric actually serves in England.”
Eiselle was interested in anything that had to do with her husband’s background. “He did not tell me that he fostered in England,” she said, “but he did tell me of his brothers.”
Keeva sat back in her chair, thinking of her big, loud Irish family that she missed so much.
“Our family is from Munster,” she said. “In fact, our family is descended from the High Kings of Munster, but Munster is a region with a great deal of English influence. English lords have properties there and, long ago, my ancestor knew it was better to ally with England than fight to the death. He wanted peace for his people, so he agreed to allow some of his young men to foster in England and learn English ways. Bric fostered in the finest houses, you know – Bowes Castle in Durham – before returning to Ireland to share what he’d learned with other Irish warriors. When I was betrothed to Daveigh, he came with me, back to England where he already had many friends. Bric’s bond with his English counterparts runs deep.”
Eiselle was looking at Bric’s sleeping face as Keeva spoke. “Friends,” she murmured. An idea was coming to her as she thought on Keeva’s story. “My cousin, Dash, adores Bric. He speaks very highly of him. Keeva… if I write down some notes, can you pen Dash a missive and have it delivered to Ramsbury Castle right away?”
Keeva nodded. “Of course, love. Why?”
Eiselle was on the verge of a plan that was lifting her spirits the more she thought on it. She’d expressed her concern to Manducor about not having lived with knights, about not knowing what they were going through. But even if she didn’t, there were men who loved Bric and knew exactly what he was going through. Perhaps men willing to help him.
Men who might come to Bedingfeld.
“Because you have given me an idea,” she said. “You said that Bric has many friends. He has men who love him. I know you said that men who suffer as Bric is suffering do not speak of it, but I cannot believe his friends would not want to help him. Dash, for example. I cannot believe he would judge Bric for suffering so.”
Keeva knew Dashiell and his reputation as a fine, fair knight. “I cannot believe he would, either.”
Eiselle lifted her hands. “Then who better to help Bric through this terrible state than those friends who adore him?” she said. “Surely Dash will know what to do, because with God as my witness, I certainly do not. Mayhap, instead of hiding Bric’s situation, we should ask for help. I ask you to write to Dash immediately and ask him to come to Bedingfeld Manor.”
Keeva appeared rather encouraged by the suggestion. “Do you think he will?”
Eiselle was feeling increasing excitement over her idea, thinking that finally there might be some genuine hope for Bric. Perhaps Dashiell would give him the understanding and guidance he needed.
“I do,” she said firmly. “If Bric is suffering, he will want to help. I know it.”
As Eiselle rushed over to the table that held Bric’s writing kit so she could scratch out a few notes, Keeva thought that her suggestion was a very good one. Eiselle could give Bric all of the love and support he could ever need, but it might not be enough. Only a man who understood battle and sacrifice might truly be able to get to the core of Bric’s issues, and Keeva knew for a fact that there were many men who owed Bric their very lives.
Men who would be willing to help.
Daveigh couldn’t help because he was too close to the problem. Pearce now had his hands full with the command of the de Winter war machine, so he couldn’t help, either. Therefore, the logical solution was to seek those men who knew Bric, and loved him, and would be willing to do anything to help him.
Perhaps there was hope, after all.
For the first time in days, Keeva began to feel some relief.
The next morning when Eiselle and a groggy Bric were loaded in to a fortified carriage for the trip to Bedingfeld, Keeva sent a rider with her missive straight to Ramsbury Castle in Wiltshire. The recipient of that missive, Dashiell du Reims, was one man who literally owed Bric his life.
Help would soon be on the way.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bedingfeld Manor
13 miles southeast of Narborough Castle
Birds were singing.
And they were damned loud.
Bric had no idea how long he’d been laying there, listenin
g to the birds screaming outside of his window. When he rolled onto his side to actually look at the window, it wasn’t something he recognized at first. It wasn’t the window from his chamber at Narborough and as his gaze moved around the room, he realized he wasn’t even at Narborough. He was somewhere else.
Slowly, he sat up.
“So the sleeping giant awakens,” Eiselle said softly. “Good morn to you, my love.”
Bric heard Eiselle’s voice, turning to see her sitting over by a rather elaborate hearth that was burning gently. The hearth was set into a brick wall that was as tall as a tree. In fact, the entire chamber itself was huge, as was the bed Bric was lying in. It had four huge posts, one on each corner, and a canopy overhead with heavy brocade curtains.
Bric looked around, muddled by the opulent surroundings. This definitely wasn’t their tiny chamber at Narborough. Rubbing his eyes, he felt as if he’d been asleep for a thousand years.
“Am I truly awake?” he asked.
“You are.”
“Where are we? This is not our chamber.”
Eiselle had been sewing on something that she set aside as she stood up from her chair. With a smile on her lips, she made her way over to the bed.
“We are someplace safe,” she said. “How do you feel?”
Bric blinked his eyes. “I do not know yet,” he said. “Where are we?”
“Bedingfeld Manor.”
Recognition dawned. Bric looked around again, gaining his bearings. He didn’t feel quite so confused now. “I see,” he said. “I should have recognized those windows.”
He was referring to the elaborate windows with the diamond-shaped mullions, a unique feature. Eiselle leaned over and kissed him on the head.
“Not to worry,” she said. “We have all the time in the world to become acquainted with this place. It’s really quite beautiful, at least what I’ve seen of it.”
Bric reached up and pulled her down to him, and Eiselle slid into his embrace easily. But it wasn’t any embrace; it seemed powerful and tense. When she tried to move, he wouldn’t let her. He just held on to her, tightly.
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