“Eiselle, please…” he whispered.
Eiselle’s eyes were filling with tears because she knew this was something profoundly painful for them both. She felt she was spilling all of Bric’s deep and dark secrets, but they were secrets meant to be known by those who loved him. Men who could help him, and if they were to help him, they had to know everything.
“They were fighting in the dark at Castle Acre,” she went on, her lower lip trembling. “Mylo saw a man go after Bric, but Bric did not see this. Mylo put himself between Bric and the French knight in order to save my husband, but Bric didn’t realize it was Mylo. He thought he was about to be killed and struck out in the darkness. After Mylo died, Bric carried him back the sixteen miles to Narborough. He walked the entire way and the army walked with him. After that… after that, he was incoherent. It was as if killing Mylo had broken him. We kept him sedated with a poppy potion and brought him here, hoping the rest would do him good, but he needs more than that. Please… help him if you can. He is the most powerful and wonderful man I have ever known. I beg you... help him.”
Her voice cracked with the last few words and tears spilled over. Quickly, she wiped at her face, struggling with her composure, but Bric pulled her against him and wrapped his big arms around her. Eiselle began to weep, painful sobs, as Bric simply held her.
It was a heartbreaking moment for Dashiell, Bentley, and Sean to watch. In fact, Dashiell had to swallow away the lump in his throat. The missive Lady de Winter sent suggested things were bad, but he couldn’t have imagined just how bad they were or the exact circumstances. He glanced at Bentley, who was greatly distressed at the scene, and then at Sean, who only had sadness in his eyes. After a moment, Dashiell went over to Bric and Eiselle, in their tight embrace, and put his hand on Bric’s head.
“That is why we have come,” he said hoarsely. “I owe you my very life, Bric. There is nothing I would not do for you and I swear, I will do all I can to help you through whatever ails you. You saved my life once and now, I am going to save yours.”
Bric simply nodded his head, still holding fast to Eiselle. “I am grateful,” he whispered. “My wife is grateful. Let me return her to our chamber and then I will come back to the hall and we may… speak on things.”
“Take your time,” Dashiell said. “We will be down here when you are ready.”
Bric could only nod. Dashiell patted him on the head before dropping his hand, watching with great sorrow as Bric escorted the weeping Eiselle back across the hall and up the spiral stairs. When the pair was out of sight, he turned to the men standing behind him.
Bentley was pale with sorrow while Sean seemed to have a deeply intense look about him. Both of them were shocked by what they’d seen, reacting to it in different ways. Dashiell sighed heavily.
“We have work to do, good men,” he said. “Whatever happens, we do not leave here without restoring Bric to the man he was.”
Bentley shook his head. “We do not have all the time in the world, Dash. God, I wish we did.”
Dashiell looked at him. “Whenever you think that we do not have enough time, remember that you owe him your dukedom. Do you have time for that?”
Bentley threw up his hands and turned away, knowing he was resigned to helping Bric no matter how long it took. Even if William Marshal himself had to come and pull them away, still, they wouldn’t go without Bric.
Without the man being the confident warrior they knew him to be.
As Bentley wandered back over towards the hearth, Sean was prepared to speak. He’d spent the past several minutes observing something he’d never thought he’d see, and he was as distressed as Dashiell and Bentley were.
But unlike Dashiell and Bentley, he’d been through a time in his life where he’d nearly been killed and he, too, had struggled to come back from it. In that respect, he very much understood what Bric was going through because he’d gone through it, too.
Aye, he understood the man’s position well.
“Two years ago, I was nearly killed when the allies marched on the Tower of London,” he said. “I know you were both a part of that siege, but what you may not know is my role in the event. You know of my past with John, so I will not repeat it, but my mission when the rebels were closing in on London was to assure the fall of the Tower of London.”
Dashiell came closer to him as he spoke. “I remember that siege,” he said. “That was a very difficult and bloody event. Bric was there, too, you know. The de Winter army was one of the first armies to breach the castle.”
Sean remembered that particularly dark and terrible night. “At that point, my identity as a spy had been discovered, so the king sent his assassins after me,” he said. “They set up on me near the White Tower and they managed to badly wound me, in the chest and in the groin. As I lay there, I was certain that I was dying and I cannot describe what that awareness does to a man. There is an odd sense of peace but there is also a profound sense of disappointment. I had just married my wife, you see, and the thought of not living the rest of my life with her damaged me in a way that is difficult to describe. Only by God’s mercy did I heal, but to this day I carry a sense of gratitude – gratitude that I was given a second chance. Bric must be instilled with that sense of gratitude, too. Right now, all he knows is that he almost died, and it frightened him. That is a heavy burden for a fearless man to bear.”
Dashiell and Bentley were listening intently. “Then what do you suggest?” Dashiell asked. “Shall we speak to him? Pray with him? How do we instill this gratitude in him?”
Sean smiled thinly. “The man has to understand that he will not break,” he said. “When his wife described his timidity following his injury, I understood that completely. I do not believe he is broken so much as he may be at a crossroads. To move forward is a path of no return, of a man who will live timidly the rest of his life. But to go back means he can reclaim what he was. Therefore, we work him until he can hardly stand, and while we are working him, one of us will rush out at him with a broadsword so that he must defend himself. We must revive that killer instinct in him, the one that cost Mylo de Chevington his life.”
It seemed rather extreme. “Are you serious?” Dashiell said. “We must wear the man out and shock him in order to help him?”
Sean nodded. “Do not forget; I have been through this myself. I could be wrong, but Bric has two issues as I see it – not only is he living in fear of dying, but because of what happened with Mylo, he has suppressed the killer instinct that is stronger in him than in any man I have ever seen. Instill the gratitude, coax forth that killer instinct, and I do believe he will be restored.”
It sounded logical enough, coming from the wise de Lara, a man who had seen and experienced so much in his lifetime. In truth, Dashiell and Bentley had no choice but to agree with him, for they had no better answers. Neither one of them had ever suffered from battle fatigue, but Sean had.
He knew what he was talking about, and they had to trust him.
“Then it is fortuitous that you came with us to Bedingfeld,” Dashiell said. “How do we begin?”
Sean lifted his big shoulders. “There is no better time to begin than now,” he said. “When Bric comes down from settling his wife, tell him to find his gloves. The man is going outside with us.”
With that, he headed towards the kitchen, but Dashiell stopped him. “Where are you going?”
Sean was pulling tight his own gloves. “To the wood pile,” he said. “We are going to chop wood, cut down trees, and any other heavy labor we can force Bric into. Have Savernake get his sword and follow us. When Bric least expects it, Lord de Vaston is going to come at him like a runaway ale cart.”
Dashiell lifted his eyebrows in surprise, turning to look at Bentley, who didn’t seem quite agreeable to Sean’s suggestion.
“And do what?” Bentley asked.
“Attack him.”
Bentley’s eyebrows lifted. “Have you seen Bric when he is enraged?” he demanded. “The
man could knock down a castle single-handedly. I do not want my head cut off!”
Sean simply grinned. “We must hope he tries.”
Bentley was horrified. “If he kills me, I will come back to haunt you both, I swear it.”
Sean chuckled. “Don’t you see?” he asked. “The last time Bric was charged by a fellow knight, he killed the man. You must prove to him that it was an accident.”
“How?”
“By living.”
With that, he continued on through the kitchen, disappearing out of the door that led to the kitchen yard beyond. When he faded from sight, Dashiell turned to Bentley.
“You always thought you were a better knight than I am,” he jested. “Now is your chance to prove it.”
Bentley didn’t find it the last bit funny. “Did I say I wanted to help? I have changed my mind.”
“Too late.”
Bentley wasn’t really serious, but Dashiell was. They had come to do a job and they were damned well going to do it.
“I am sorry, Bric,” Eiselle wept. “I did not tell you I sent for Dash because I feared you would be angry. I only asked him to come because I love you.”
Bric was trying to calm her down as he pulled off her blue robe, guiding her towards their bed.
“I know,” he said patiently. “And I love you. I am not angry, I promise.”
Eiselle wasn’t convinced. She sat on the bed, wiping the tears and mucus on her face until Bric found a handkerchief and gave it to her so she could blow her nose. As she wiped off her face, she looked up at him with eyes that wouldn’t seem to stop watering.
“I hope you mean that,” she said, “because I would never do anything to make you angry, Bric, but I fear that you need more help than a simple rest in the country can give. I know that Dash and those men will help you.”
Bric sighed faintly as he pushed her down onto the mattress, forcing her to lie down. “We shall see,” he said quietly. “It is difficult to know how to fix a problem when you are unsure what that problem is.”
Eiselle allowed him to push her down and cover her with the blanket. “At least you are willing to discuss it,” she said. “That takes a brave man and I am proud of you. No matter what, I am proud of you, Bric. Surely you must know that.”
He smiled, somewhat modestly. “Mayhap I do, but it is good to hear you say it.”
Eiselle reached up, touching his stubbled cheek. “Then you will let them help you?”
His smile faded and he averted his gaze. “As you said, I am willing to discuss it,” he said. Then, he kissed her hand and stood up. “I would have you rest now while I tend to our visitors. I do not want you straining yourself, Eiselle. You must take care of yourself and my son.”
She put her hand on her belly, instinctively. “Do not worry, for we are well,” she said. “I will stay to the manse while you are doing what needs to be done. I have much that will keep me busy.”
He bent over and kissed her on the head before quitting the chamber. Heading back down the spiral stairs, he could see that there was more light in the manse now that the sun had risen. The early morning sun was streaming in from the east, sending pillars of yellow light through the eastern-facing window. By the time he entered the hall, there were great streams of illumination filling the room, brightening it greatly, and he could clearly see Dashiell and Bentley over near the hearth.
Royce’s mother had brought forth bread, butter, and fruit from the kitchen. Dashiell was stuffing bread into his mouth and Bentley was smearing the stewed fruit on his bread, taking a bite as he noticed Bric approaching.
“Join us?” he asked, mouth full.
But Bric shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Only weaklings and women eat a morning meal. Where is de Lara?”
His insult sounded very much like the Bric of old, something that gave both Dashiell and Bentley hope that, somewhere beneath that beaten façade, the Bric they knew was waiting to be unleashed again.
“He is out in the kitchen yard, waiting for us,” Dashiell said as he swallowed the bite in his mouth. “He says to tell you to bring your gloves.”
Bric looked at Dashiell in surprise. “Gloves?” he repeated. “What for?”
“You shall find out.”
Bric was both intrigued and wary of such a declaration, but he dutifully hunted down his gloves and went out into the kitchen yard where Sean and a sleepy-looking Manducor were waiting for him.
As Bric found out shortly, he had good reason to be on his guard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Faster, faster!”
As Manducor watched from afar, Dashiell was bellowing at Bric, urging him on in a heated race to see who could chop through a six-inch-thick oak log faster. It was Bric and Dashiell against Bentley and Sean, and at the moment, Sean and Bric were in a dead-heat, pounding away with axes against oak logs that were nearly as hard as stone.
Beneath the summer sun, Bric was sweating buckets. He was stripped down to his breeches and boots, as were Dashiell and Sean, all of them straining under the sun, struggling to beat one another in a race of strength that had been taking place for almost two hours.
Bric and Sean would chop away at logs until they split in two, and then quickly put another log up for Bentley and Dashiell to cut away at. It was a matter of pride now as the men labored against each other. Dashiell was like a wagon master, whipping his beasts as he bellowed at Bric, telling him that Sean was about to win so Bric would hit the wood harder and faster. Then, when the tides would turn and it was Dashiell’s time to chop, Bric turned into the Irish master knight that the de Winter army had feared and loved for years. He would insult and shout at Dashiell until the man wanted to throw a punch at him.
But that Irish master was the glimpse the men were hoping to see.
Truthfully, Dashiell feared what would happen to him if he didn’t beat Bentley, so he chopped wood harder and faster than he had in years, finally beating Bentley by a significant margin. When he quickly put another log back on the stump for Bric to chop, he stood back and cheered the man on as the High Warrior pounded on the wood with the ax that was quickly growing dull from such use. After chopping through twenty-four fairly large pieces of oak between the four of them, the men finally called a rest and everyone dropped what they were doing.
Bentley collapsed onto his backside in the dirt as Sean and Dashiell leaned up against the side of the manse. Bric was the only man standing without support, his shoulders red-kissed by the summer sun and the freckles on his skin even more pronounced than ever. But the purple scar on the left side of his torso was also pronounced, giving Dashiell, Sean, and Bentley a glimpse at the wound that nearly killed him. Sean finally pointed at it.
“So that was your injury,” he said.
Bric, panting and wiping sweat from his brow, looked down at his torso and nodded. “That is the hole a French bastard put in me,” he said. “It was a heavy arrow, one used to take down horses and boars and the like. It happened to hit me instead.”
Sean shook his head in wonder. “It is truly a miracle that you survived,” he said. “But you did survive, Bric. Can you not feel the joy of life right now, competing with your friends and losing to me?”
They all laughed, especially Bric. “You did not best me, de Lara,” he said. “You may be a man of legend, but I am a man of strength. Is mise an laoch ard.”
Sean smirked. “And what does that mean in your terrible language?”
“It means that I am the High Warrior. You cannot best me.”
“Ah,” Sean said. “You have not lost your arrogance. That is good. That tells me the knight inside of you is alive and well.”
Bric wasn’t sure how to respond to that. While he was considering his reply, he didn’t see Bentley getting to his feet and casually moving over towards the corner of the manse where he’d propped up two broadswords. As Sean kept Bric’s attention, Bentley handed Dashiell a sword as he moved around behind Bric, keeping his broadsword behind his back should
Bric see him. When Bentley finally moved into position and nodded his head, Dashiell suddenly shouted.
“Bric!” he boomed. “Behind you!”
Bric startled as he’d never startled in his life. Behind you! God, those words… those terrible words… and suddenly, he was back in the dark river of Castle Acre Priory, and Mylo was yelling at him because a French knight was about to take his head off. His heart leapt into his throat and a bolt of terror raced through him, but it was also a bolt of rage.
Pure, unadulterated rage.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Dashiell tossing a broadsword at him and he deftly caught it, purely a reflex, before spinning around to see Bentley charging at him, sword held high.
The rage took over at that point. Bentley had been a high-caliber knight long before he’d been the Duke of Savernake, but he was no match for an enraged Bric. Bric brought his sword down to bear on top of Bentley, who was literally staggered by the blow. Just as he rolled to his left so that he could come back in for another strike, Bric lashed out a big boot and caught the man on the side of the knee. As Bentley went down in pain, Bric tossed the broadsword aside and threw a fist into Bentley’s jaw.
The man went sprawling.
But Bric wasn’t finished. He was going in for the kill. He hadn’t take two steps when Sean rushed up behind him and grabbed him around the chest, pulling him back as Dashiell moved in to protect Bentley, who was only half-conscious. Unfortunately, Sean was having a difficult time, even with his size and strength, restraining Bric.
“Easy, Bric,” he said steadily. “No harm done. We were simply testing your reflexes and I am happy to say that your knightly traits are still there. You are still as deadly as you ever were.”
A test. That made the whole thing even worse. When Bric realized what they had done, he yanked himself from Sean’s grasp, still furious and shaken. His face was red and sweaty, and he began to pace, keeping away from Sean and Dashiell and now Bentley, who was starting to come around. They were all looking at him with concern but perhaps even a ray of hope. Yet, Bric dashed all of that.
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