Dashiell sighed faintly, thinking of the last time he saw Bric as he’d been recuperating from his battle injury. “The last time I saw him was after he’d been badly wounded,” he said. “He’d been weak but alive, and certain nothing to indicate he was… disturbed. But he had passed into unconsciousness and I left before he recovered. Still… sometimes the strongest men cannot bend, and when stress becomes too great, they simply shatter. I have seen it before, as Bent has said. Mayhap Bric was so strong that when he finally felt weakness as others do, mayhap… mayhap it was simply enough to destroy him.”
The mood of the chamber was full of gloom. Each man was lost to his thoughts of Bric MacRohan, evidently weakened beyond his endurance. It simply didn’t seem possible, to any of them, coming from a man such as Bric. But Dashiell knew there was only one thing to do.
“I must go to him,” he finally said, standing up from his stool. “Bent, I will have Aston muster the army to move to Kent. But I must attend Bric and I will have to meet you in Kent at some point.”
“Wait,” Bentley stood up, too. “I agree that Aston can handle the army, which is why I am going with you. You said it yourself – I owe Bric my very happiness. If he is in trouble, then I will do all I can to help.”
Aston Summerlin was Dashiell’s second in command at Ramsbury, a knight who was quite capable, as they were suggesting. Therefore, the army could still move out as the Marshal had requested. But Dashiell and now Bentley would not be moving out with the army.
They had something more important to attend to, and Dashiell accepted Bentley’s help without argument.
“Sean,” Dashiell turned to the man next to him. “I know you wanted to return home to see your wife, but Bent and I should leave immediately. Could you possibly put off your departure until tomorrow to aid Aston as he assembles the army? He may require your assistance and I would consider it a personal favor.”
Sean shook his head, rising to his feet. “I am going with you,” he said. “Bric has been a paragon of power for the cause of England in every battle I have ever fought with the man. If he is in trouble, then mayhap you will need my assistance more than Aston will. I have seen men crumble under the pressure of battle and it is not a sight for the faint of heart. I know what it is like to be so badly wounded that you are certain death will claim you. I know what it feels like to struggle to return from such an injury, thinking that you will never be the same again. Let me come, Dash; I may be of some use to MacRohan.”
Dashiell was genuinely touched by Sean’s offer. There was no more noble or dedicated man in all of England as far as Dashiell was concerned, knowing Sean’s past as he did. He was a man of great experience and great worth. That he should want to help Bric, too, spoke volumes to the man’s generosity.
“Of course you may come,” he said after a moment. “But what of your wife? I would imagine we will spend some time at Bedingfeld and you may not be able to return to her before we head for Kent.”
Sean grunted, regretfully. “The Marshal wants his armies in Kent in the next few weeks,” he said. “We will have very little time as it is, so it was not like I was going to have a good deal of time to spend with my wife. But this… this is important and she would understand that. Bric is in command of the de Winter war machine, and as powerful as it is, it will not be nearly as strong without him at the helm. Do you get my meaning?”
Dashiell did. “We must put a sword in Bric’s hand again.”
“It sounds heartless, but when men suffer such as Bric is evidently suffering, the longer they are allowed to wallow in their depression, the more likely that they will never wield a sword again.”
“Then the sooner we help him regain what he has lost, the better for us all.”
“We need him in Kent, Dash. A man like MacRohan is irreplaceable. We must help him find himself again.”
It did sound heartless, but it was also true. They needed Bric’s power and command presence against the French, in perhaps the final battle to end all battles as they had been suffering through since King John and his warlords splintered into separate factions. If William Marshal thought the battle at Dover was going to be enormous, then chances were, it would be. It would also be decisive.
They needed a man of Bric’s caliber to help win that fight.
“Then we go to help him for his own sake,” Dashiell said with some finality in his tone. “But we also help him for England’s sake as well.”
Sean simply nodded. It was something they all knew. Their reasons for going to Bric’s aid were altruistic, but they were also self-serving. Without Bric in the battle, somehow, they would be diminished as a whole, so it was imperative to get Bric back on his feet. It was imperative to fight off the demons that had the man in their grips and put that broadsword back in his hand so he could do what he was born to do.
He wasn’t called the High Warrior without reason.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bedingfeld Manor
One week later
The fire in the hearth snapped quietly as Eiselle, Bric, and Manducor sat in the hall of Bedingfeld Manor.
It was after sup on a lazy summer evening, and the doors of the manse were open to let the cooling breeze flow through the house. The day had been a warm one, and the fire was more for light than for warmth. Servants had brought in banks of tallow candles that now shed their yellow glow around the room, casting away the darkness of the coming night.
Bric and Manducor sat on opposite ends of a small table near the hearth, a vicious game of chess between them. This was their second game, even though they had been playing most of the week, but the first game took two days before Bric had finally triumphed, and this game was nearing the end with Bric inching towards victory yet again.
Manducor was beside himself because of it. As Bric had quickly come to learn, the man was a poor loser. He groaned, grunted, cursed, and tried to cheat his way to victory, but Bric watched him closely and was able to tell when he tried to do anything unseemly. This thoroughly upset Manducor, who denied cheating to the point of nearly throwing a punch at Bric for the intimation. But he wasn’t foolish; he’d tangled with Bric before and knew the man’s strength, so not even in the spirit of friendly competition would he try and strike the man.
For certain, he would lose more than just the game.
As Bric sat silently and stoically, studying the game board for his next move while Manducor drank more wine and farted to break Bric’s concentration, Eiselle sat over by the hearth and sewed on the interior for a heavy robe she had been making for Bric, one she’d been working on since before he left for Castle Acre. She had the leather pieces for the exterior of the robe, tanned and softened by the tanner at Narborough, and now she was stitching together the fine interior that was made of brown wool with a silk pattern sewn into the back of it.
As she worked, her ears were attuned to the men playing chess, fighting off a grin when Manducor would make a spectacle out of himself. In truth, she’d been watching their relationship for the better part of a week and she was pleased to see that Bric was at least willing to do something other than stare aimlessly from a window. He’d done that the day after their first walk in the garden, when she’d tried to coerce him into engaging the servant boy and Bric had run off as a result. She’d come into the manse later to find him sitting in their chamber, simply staring out of the window. It took her some time to realize he’d been staring at the garden, watching her the entire time.
He’d apologized to her for snapping at her, and she’d forgiven him on the spot. In truth, she’d forgiven him before he’d even asked for forgiveness, but she still didn’t think it was a good idea for her to cling to him day in and day out. Certainly, she wanted to be there if he needed her, but she worried that her constant hovering presence would both annoy and cripple him.
And that was where Manducor came in.
In speaking briefly to the priest, she explained her fears, thinking that Bric would need the company of a man more t
han ever. A man who understood what he was going through. Manducor didn’t exactly understand Bric’s demons, but he knew the man needed someone to give him a sense of worth and respect. Perhaps, it would even help him regain his confidence. That was why he played chess with him, or backgammon on occasion, resolved to let Bric win when the truth was that Bric was winning regardless. It was something that had put a smile on Bric’s face, much to Eiselle’s delight.
And there was something more she hoped might put a smile on his face, although she wasn’t quite sure how to tell him. The nausea she’d been feeling in the mornings and sometimes in the evening had been constant, and growing worse, and even with Bric’s breakdown, he still made love to her every night, telling her how very much he loved her. It began to occur to Eiselle that she hadn’t suffered through her menses since her arrival to Narborough, which had been several weeks earlier.
With her upset belly and tender breasts, Eiselle was thinking that, perhaps, she might have conceived. In speaking to one of the older female servants that had come with her from Narborough, the woman convinced her that she was, indeed, pregnant.
It was a secret Eiselle had been holding in for an entire day. She and Bric had never discussed children and given the fact that his nerves were frayed, she wasn’t sure the news would be well-met. But she quickly decided that the man had to know because it wasn’t something she’d be able to keep a secret forever. At some point, he was going to figure it out, especially the way he liked to make love to her, so a rounded belly wouldn’t escape his notice.
The man had to know.
But she would tell him later, in the privacy of their bedchamber, because he was enjoying himself with Manducor at the moment. She continued to sit by the fire and sew, glancing up at him every so often. When their eyes met, he would wink at her and she would smile in return. She loved the man so much she couldn’t put it into words, and she knew he felt the same way. She just wanted to see him well again and although she’d never been one to pray very much, she was coming to pray daily that Bric would find his sense of self again.
He was too great a man not to.
Eiselle was just putting the final stitches in part of the silk pattern when someone appeared beside her. Looking to her right, she saw that it was young Royce, or Sir Royce as he had introduced himself. She’d learned that the child who had challenged Bric to a duel with sticks was the son of a woman who worked in the kitchen. His father, she’d been told, had died the previous year of a fever.
Eiselle had discovered that when she’d asked about the boy, and evidently he wasn’t supposed to be in the garden when the lord and lady were present, so he’d been punished as a result. All week, his mother had kept him to the kitchens, so Eiselle was surprised to see the lad standing beside her with a wooden plate laden with something baked. She smiled at him but the smell of baked goods hit her in the nose and with her strange stomach as of late, she immediately felt nauseous.
“Goodness,” she said, trying to lean away from the tray of delights. “What did you bring me?”
Royce didn’t seem particularly pleased to be forced into servitude. “My mam says I should give these to you, my lady.”
Slightly confused, Eiselle looked over her shoulder to the door that led into the kitchen and saw Royce’s mother standing there, smiling encouragingly. Assuming she was trying to teach her son how to be a proper servant, Eiselle played along.
“They look… delicious,” she said. “What are they?”
Royce sighed heavily, as if he wished he was anywhere but offering food to the lady. “Mam made them,” he said. “They have oats and… and honey… and... and currants. Mam says to eat them.”
Eiselle took one of the little cakes simply to appease the child, but she had no intention of eating it. Even looking at it was making her stomach roll. She pointed to Bric.
“Go and ask Sir Bric if he wants a cake,” she said. “Go ahead.”
Turning towards Bric, Royce shuffled his way across the floor. When Manducor saw him approach, he reached out to take more than one cake but Royce quickly pulled the tray away.
“Nay,” he said. “Not you. The lord.”
Eiselle started to giggle, turning her face away when Manducor looked at her in outrage. Bric, however, smiled faintly and with some approval.
“As it should be,” he said. “I should always be served first before this hairy boar.”
Royce held the plate up to him. “Mam says to eat them.”
Bric cocked eyebrow. “She does, does she?” he said. Then, he inspected the small cakes, selecting one. But he didn’t eat it right away and Royce looked at him with some worry, so he forced himself to take a bite. “Delicious. Thank your mam for sending these to me.”
Royce nodded, but he didn’t leave. He simply stood there, watching Bric eat the honey cake. There was wonderment and awe in his expression, much as there had been in the garden when they’d first met. Royce was clearly enamored with Bric.
“Are you a knight?” he finally asked.
Bric was still chewing. “I am.”
“I want to be a knight.”
Bric swallowed his bite and looked at the child. Clearly, the boy had no concept of the knighthood, or how men achieved such things. But he remembered from the first time he’d met Royce how the child had been pretending to hold him off with a stick. But to Royce, it had been the biggest broadsword in the land. He’d even challenged Bric to a fight, which didn’t go particularly well in the child’s favor.
As Bric gazed at the little boy, he felt himself softening, just a little. He’d never been around children much, leaving the training for squires and pages to the knights with more patience, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel some compassion for a very small servant boy who had no idea of the way of the world. In fact, he envied the child for his innocent view of the world. For Bric, that innocence was long gone, with disillusion and doubt taking its place.
He longed for those days when nothing in the world bothered him.
He wondered if he’d ever know them again.
“Are you sure you want to be a knight?” he asked after a moment. “Why not follow your father? What did he do?”
The child made a face of distaste. “He tended the garden,” he said. “I do not want to tend the garden. I want to fight!”
Bric lifted his eyebrows. “That is a fine goal, but it takes training and discipline,” he said. “The knighthood is only for the sons of noblemen, I am afraid. Tending a garden is not so bad.”
Royce frowned. “But I am strong,” he pointed out, holding up an arm to show Bric his muscle as the tray of cakes wobbled dangerously. “I would make a good knight.”
“I am sure you would, but I am afraid it will not be possible,” Bric said. “But when you are old enough, and if your mother allows it, I am sure Lord de Winter would permit you to be a soldier for the de Winter army. You would still get to fight.”
“Can I have a sword?”
“You can, indeed.”
That seemed to give Royce a good deal of hope and he smiled brightly at the idea. But Royce’s mother, realizing that her son was making a nuisance out of himself, rushed forward to collect her bold son. Royce saw her coming and began to run. The platter with the cakes tumbled to the ground.
“Nay!” he said as he ran away from his mother. “I do not want to go! Nay!”
Royce’s mother was beside herself with embarrassment. Before she realized it, her son had taken her on a chase twice around the hall as Eiselle, Bric, and Manducor watched with varied levels of amusement and annoyance. When the child started to make the third round, Manducor stuck out his foot and the little boy went sprawling.
“There,” Manducor said quite casually as he turned back to the chess board. “That solves that.”
Bric looked at the poor lad who was now being hauled up by his mother. As the woman apologized profusely whilst dragging her son away, the child reached out and pinched Manducor on the arm. As Manducor howled
and lifted his hand to hit the boy, Bric burst into laughter and stopped him.
“Nay,” he said. “Do not strike him. He is bold and fearless. You’ll not retaliate.”
Manducor was fuming, but he had his satisfaction when Royce’s mother swatted the child’s behind as she pulled him into the kitchen.
“Ha!” he said as he heard the boy scream. “I have my vengeance!”
The problem was that Bric could hear the crying, too, and for some reason it upset him. He didn’t want to see the child’s spirit crushed because he rather liked a spirited child, a servant boy who didn’t understand he had limitations. It was only when one grew up and understood the world at large, and the frailty of life, did limitations become apparent. Nay, he didn’t like hearing the lad cry one bit.
He turned to Eiselle.
“Mo chroí,” he said softly. “Will you please see to the lad? He should not be punished. I do not want to hear him cry.”
Eiselle smiled at her husband and his tender heart when it came to a crying boy. From the hardened man she had first met, it was a little surprising. But it gave her hope that, indeed, he might be pleased that in a few months, he, too, would have a boy, if God was willing. Putting her sewing aside, she stood up and headed towards the kitchen where she could hear the lad weeping in the distance.
For whatever reason, she felt somewhat woozy after standing up. Perhaps she had stood up too quickly. Whatever the case, she thought she could simply walk it off but the closer she drew to the kitchen door, the stranger she felt. Her head began to swim and spots danced before her eyes, and the last thing she remembered was reaching the door leading into the kitchen and trying to brace herself against it.
And then… nothing.
Shadows were dancing on the wall of the darkened chamber when Eiselle opened her eyes again.
Lords of Eire: An Irish Medieval Romance Bundle Page 28
