“Aye,” she said. “Did Bric not tell you? We are to have a child in the spring.”
Dashiell looked at Bric in outrage. “Nay, he did not tell me!” he said, sounding angry until he put his arms around Eiselle and gave her a warm hug. “I am thrilled, truly. That is the most wonderful news.”
By this time, everyone at the table had heard what they were speaking of and hearty congratulations went all around. Daveigh seemed particularly thrilled, going so far as to actually hug Eiselle in his glee. It was a joyful start to Daveigh’s surprise visit and, through it all, Eiselle kept watch on the man’s expression to see if she could see any disappointment there, for the same reason she was sensitive to Keeva’s reaction to their news.
But she sensed nothing from Daveigh that could be interpreted as sad, and she was grateful. She genuinely liked the man and she was pleased that the news hadn’t upset him. In fact, when the cider came, passed around by Manducor who made sure to take the jug for himself when everyone was served, Daveigh insisted on proposing a toast to the unborn MacRohan son.
“I would like to wish Eiselle and Bric the greatest of happiness with this blessed event,” he said, lifting his cup high. “To the coming MacRohan – may strong arms hold you, may caring hearts tend you, and may God’s blessing await you at every step.”
The men around the table lifted their cups to Eiselle and Bric, drinking deeply of the strong cider. Bentley actually choked on it briefly, for it was much stronger than he’d anticipated. Daveigh, too, coughed a few times but that didn’t stop him from taking another long drink.
“Delicious,” he said. Then he set the cup down and looked at Bric. “Tell me – have you decided where Little Daveigh will foster? Are you thinking of sending him to Ireland to be with your father for a time?”
Bric fought off a grin. “Little Daveigh?”
“Of course. What else would you name him?”
Bric started to chuckle, looking at Eiselle, who merely shook her head in resignation. “I was thinking on calling him something other than Daveigh,” he said. “My old master, the one who gave me my talisman, was named Conor. I have always thought to name a son, if I ever had one, Conor.”
“A fine name,” Daveigh said. “But it is very Irish.”
“My son will be half-Irish.”
Daveigh simply shrugged and took another drink of the cider, coughing as he choked it down. “I suppose naming your son is your prerogative,” he said. “But any child named Daveigh would be sure to receive an inheritance, just so you know.”
Bric stood his ground. “And it would be an honor, indeed,” he said. “Would you do the same thing for a child that was not named for you, yet was your godson?”
Daveigh looked at him in surprise. “My godson?”
“Aye. My son will bear the name of Conor and Daveigh de Winter, Baron Cressingham, will be his godfather. When he is baptized, will you stand with him?”
Daveigh grew very serious. In fact, he may have had a tear or two in his eyes. “With all my heart, I will,” he said, suddenly very emotional, whereas moments before he had been in a jovial mood. “Do you mean it, Bric?”
“I never say anything I do not mean. Although I have not discussed it with my wife, I am sure she agrees with me. We would be honored.”
Daveigh was truly touched. He looked at Eiselle, who nodded her head, and then he was overcome with emotion.
“I… I do not know what to say, Bric,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “You do me the honor. I am overjoyed.”
Bric could see how overwhelmed the man was. Then, he looked around the table, at the knights who had worked so hard with him for the past few days, and the gratitude he felt was beyond measure.
It was the gratitude that Sean had spoken of once, something he’d never spoken of to Bric but, in truth, he didn’t need to. Bric had found that gratitude on his own. He was grateful for his life – and those who loved him, and it showed.
“My son shall bear the name of Conor Dashiell Bentley Sean de Gael MacRohan,” he said quietly. “As I said, I’ve not discussed any of this with my wife, so I hope she agrees, but that is what I should like to name him.”
Eiselle, who had been choking up watching Daveigh’s reaction, turned to the table of knights. “I think it is a wonderful name,” she said. “For what you have all done for Bric these past few days, I am happy to honor you so.”
The knights lifted their cups to her in thanks. The day, so far, had been full of much to celebrate. Bentley was just setting his cup down when he spoke.
“Will you keep the name MacRohan, then?” he asked Bric. “Is it not Irish tradition for the sons to bear the surnames of their fathers?”
Bric nodded. “My father’s name is Rohan,” he said. “My brothers and I all bear the surname of MacRohan, meaning ‘of Rohan’. But I think I will stop that tradition because it is not something the English follow. My son will be half-English, after all, with the bloodlines of the Earls of East Anglia. MacRohan will become our family name from now on.”
He looked at Eiselle, who was smiling openly at him, and kissed her on the forehead. The joy between them at this moment was immeasurable. Putting an arm around the woman and pulling her against him, his focus moved to Daveigh.
“But I am sure you did not come to discuss family names and baptisms, Daveigh,” he said. “I am assuming there is a reason behind your visit?”
Daveigh’s smile faded as he shifted from the news of his soon-to-be-born godson to the reason for his appearance at Bedingfeld.
“There is,” he said. He seemed serious as he collected his thoughts, scattered by the news of Eiselle’s pregnancy. “Bric, I know you came to Bedingfeld for a rest and I must say that you look much better than you did when you left Narborough.”
Bric glanced at the knights sitting at the table. “I am,” he said, “thanks to these men. Did Keeva tell you that she sent word to Dash on behalf of my wife?”
“She did.”
“Then you must know why they are here.”
Daveigh shrugged. “I can only assume,” he said. “They came to help you.”
“They did.”
“You do look better.”
Bric could see that Daveigh wasn’t quite sure how to ask him just how much better he was feeling and he assumed it was because Daveigh had need of him. The last time Bric had gone to battle for Daveigh, he hadn’t been ready for it, but Daveigh had let him go anyway. He understood the reluctance on Daveigh’s part – the man didn’t want to make the same mistake twice, putting a man into battle who was not mentally prepared for such a thing.
“I am better,” Bric assured him quietly. “Sean and Dash and Bentley have been here for four days. In that time, they have done everything in their power to snap me out of whatever horror has its claws in me. As shameful as it is for me to speak of it, we must – you saw me, Daveigh. You saw how I was after Mylo’s death. I cannot explain how I felt at that time because I truly do not remember much. I remember the fight at Castle Acre Priory and I remember holding Mylo in my arms as he died, but after that… I do not remember anything until I woke up here, at Bedingfeld.”
Daveigh was listening to him with much regret. “I am so sorry, Bric,” he said after a moment. “I let you go to Castle Acre and you were not ready for it. I should have known that by the way you were acting after your wound healed. I should have known you were not the same man. It is my fault that Mylo’s death affected you so. It should have never happened.”
Bric could see, in that moment, that Daveigh was assuming much guilt for Mylo’s passing, almost as much as Bric had. But with what he’d learned over the past several days with Sean and Dashiell and Bentley, he had come to see that what had happened had been a terrible accident and nothing more.
“It was not your fault,” he said. “I suppose I knew there was something amiss with me, but I did not want to admit it. I lied to you when I said I was capable of going into battle because I knew I wasn’t. But what ha
ppened with Mylo… you cannot imagine the learning and the healing that has gone on with Sean and Dash and Bentley. I realize that all of this has taken place in a short amount of time but, for me, it has been a small eternity. From sunrise to sunset, we have worked ourselves into exhaustion. We have chopped wood and fired arrows until our fingers were bleeding. I have felt more alive than I have in months, with their help, and I have come to see that the circumstances with Mylo were simply an accident. Looking at the situation one hundred different ways, the conclusion is always the same – Mylo put himself in harm’s way to save me. It was his sacrifice. And I feel that if I continue to mourn his loss, and not honor his actions, somehow it diminishes what he did. Does that make sense?”
Daveigh nodded, a smile playing on his lips. “It does,” he said. “It makes perfect sense.”
Bric looked at his friends around the table, men who were gazing back at him with approval in their eyes. He gestured to the group.
“And these foolish, brave, wonderful men,” he said. “They came here to fix me or die trying. I cannot say that I am the same man I was before the injury, but I do not think I should like to be. That man was hollow somehow. He pretended he was as strong as an ox and as immortal as stone, but he wasn’t. That strong façade encased a man with a hollow heart.”
“And now?” Daveigh asked quietly.
Bric looked at him. “And now he is as full and solid as he has never been in his life,” he said. “I cannot say that I am not ever going to feel fear again, for I am sure that I will, at some point. But I shall not think of the fear; I shall only think of my duty, to myself and to my wife, and to men who have shown me what is to be strong and honorable and noble every minute of the day. Thanks to them, I am healing, Daveigh. I will be better than I ever was.”
Daveigh could feel the sincerity. Before the battle at Castle Acre, he’d had doubts about Bric. But at this moment, he had no doubts whatsoever because Bric believed what he was telling him; Daveigh could see that. If Bric believed it, then it would be so.
There was no doubt in Daveigh’s mind.
“That is good to hear,” he said. “Because now I must bring about the reason for my visit. I received a missive from William Marshal, Bric. It would seem that a French fleet, full of supplies and men, is due to land in Dover and the armies of England must be there to greet them. We have been ordered to move the army south, into Kent, immediately, and I came to see if you were at all ready to face such a responsibility. I thought that I was hoping beyond hope that you would be ready, but after listening to you, I am willing to believe that my hope is a real one.”
Bric wasn’t surprised to hear about the missive from William Marshal. In fact, he felt drawn to the news, because the battle with the French had been part of his life for a few years now. His reaction was calm because this kind of news was perfectly normal in his world.
In fact, that’s how the news made him feel – normal.
“That makes sense,” he said. “After the French fought so zealously at Castle Acre, stealing cattle and trying to pilfer supplies, it was a tell-tale sign as to how badly supplied the French army is right now. Where is Prince Louis?”
“In London,” Sean answered quietly. When Bric looked at him, surprise in his features, Sean nodded faintly. “I was with William when he received word about the coming French fleet. In fact, I was at Ramsbury Castle telling Dashiell and Lord de Vaston about the summons from the Marshal when they received the missive about you.”
Bric’s eyebrows rose. “And you came to Bedingfeld?” he said, astonished. “But why? You should be moving your armies into Kent at this very moment.”
Sean’s eyes glittered. “You were more important, Bric,” he said. “There is not one man around this table that does not owe you something. Were it not for you, Dashiell would not be alive, and Bentley would not be the Duke of Savernake. If there is a battle, you will lead it, and if there are men to be killed, you will always lead the charge. You are the High Warrior and without you, our armies are somehow diminished. You mean a great many things to a great many people, and when we received word that you needed help, there was nothing more important for us to do. There will always be French to fight, or armies to move, but there will never be another Bric MacRohan.”
Bric was both embarrassed and touched by Sean’s words. “I am just a knight,” he finally said. “I am one of many.”
“You are one of a kind,” Dashiell spoke up, answering for Sean. “The truth is this – and mayhap we are being selfish about it – but we did not want to face this battle without you. You have been fighting against tyranny for as many years as I have, and that is a long time, indeed. Who else but the big Irish knight with the silver eyes, who lobs off the heads of his enemies, can strike fear into the hearts of the French? You are more valuable than you know, Bric, to all of us, and I am thankful to God that Sean was able to come to Bedingfeld with us because he understands what you have been going through. You needed a man who understood your fears, and he did. I am coming to think that God sent him to Ramsbury at the right time, knowing we would be receiving the missive about you. If we have not fixed you, then I hope we have at least helped you along the way to reclaiming who you once were.”
Bric realized that he was fighting off a lump in his throat. “You have,” he said hoarsely. “And you have my eternal thanks. As I said, I will never be the man I was before but, somehow, I do believe I shall be better. The world is different than it was before my injury and before Mylo’s death, but that is a good thing. I have learned something about myself.”
“What is that? Dashiell asked.
Bric looked at Eiselle, who was gazing at him with utter adoration. He smiled at her. “That I am stronger than I thought I was,” he said. “And I have friends to whom I am very grateful. But most of all, I learned that the love of a good woman is stronger than anything on this earth. With Eiselle by my side, I could take on the devil himself and win.”
Every man at the table understood that because every man at the table had a wife they were madly in love with. It was Daveigh who finally asked the fateful question.
“Pearce is mustering the army as we speak, Bric,” he said with some hesitation. “I would like you leading it, but if you cannot, I must hear it from you. And I will not fault you for it. But you must be honest with me and not tell me what I want to hear. Tell me what you feel, Bric.”
Bric’s gaze lingered on the man. Then, he looked around the table, seeing the expressions of his friends – expressions of hope, of encouragement, but of truth. Always, of truth. He didn’t want to disappoint them but, in the same breath, he knew that whatever his answer was, they would understand. He didn’t feel pressured; he felt their love and support, no matter what.
Then, he looked at Eiselle. She was looking at him in much the same way his friends were – with hope, encouragement, and support. But glimmering in her pale eyes, he could also see a love that ran deeper than the ocean. It was a love that embraced him, filled him, and touched him like nothing else ever had. He was strong, and he was invincible, but the love he shared with Eiselle was stronger than all the men in all the world, now and forever more. It was that love that gave him the confidence to do his duty and to be the knight he was born to be.
It was time to reclaim who he was.
“I will lead the army,” he finally said. “And the French will be very sorry they ever came to England.”
Everyone heard him, but he was looking at Eiselle as if she were the only person in the room. Eiselle, too, was gazing into his eyes as if nothing else on earth existed.
“I am so proud of you,” she whispered. “You are fierce, and you are mighty, and who else but you can lead the de Winter army to victory? It will be your shining moment.”
He put a hand up, cupping her sweet face. “Nay,” he murmured. “This is my shining moment. With you.”
As Eiselle wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, the men around the table grinned at ea
ch other. Bric was the strongest man they knew and he was proving it now. He’d worked hard, they’d all worked hard, and the end result was a man who had managed to find some of what he’d lost. He wasn’t perfect yet, but he would be. He wasn’t the man he was before the injury but, as Bric had said, he didn’t want to be.
He wanted to be better.
The next day, Eiselle, Bric, Manducor, and Daveigh returned to Narborough while Sean, Dashiell, and Bentley headed out to rendezvous with their own armies, all of whom were heading across England to converge in Kent where the French fleet would have quite a welcoming committee. It was the build up to something big, as Sean had stated, a battle that would perhaps decide the future of England herself.
When Bric rode out of Narborough at the head of the de Winter army two days later, it was as a proud and strong man who held his head high. He felt as confident as he looked. The sight of him bolstered the de Winter men, men who had seen him at his lowest not long before, but his transformation had been astonishing. Not one man disbelieved that the High Warrior hadn’t returned to lead them all to victory, and they had faith in the man whose well-established reputation long outweighed whatever brief failing he might have had.
They had to believe.
As Bric departed from the gray-stoned castle, his last sight was of his wife, standing by the gatehouse, and waving to him. No tears, no weeping, simply complete faith and confidence that he would return to her. She had even packed for him. But the one thing she didn’t need to pack for him was strung around his neck, the lock of dark hair with a pale-green fabric chain that he kept close to his heart.
The talisman that would be with him in this life, and beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
October
“Do you remember this lad, Eiselle?” Keeva asked. “The majordomo from Bedingfeld seems to think you do.”
In the great hall of Narborough on an unseasonably warm October day, Eiselle found herself looking at Royce. The child was dirty and red-eyed, indicative of his emotional state, and simply by looking at him, Eiselle could see that something terrible had happened.
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