Timeless Tales of Honor

by Suzan Tisdale

  The siege was something they had not anticipated. They had managed to return to Lambourn during the evening, losing themselves in the crowd and waiting for word to reach Ovid de Rydal that Richmond le Bec had made an attempt on his son.

  They had fully expected le Bec to retreat from Lambourn after the ugly confrontation with de Rydal simply to ease tensions, but he had refused to comply with their plans. Instead, he had remained as steadfast as ever before. It was apparent that Richmond le Bec was not a coward, and unwilling to run from anything.

  As frustrating as that had been, their annoyance had been fed when he had managed to shadow Lady Arissa as if physically attached. No man, or woman for that matter, was allowed near the girl as Henry's watchdog stood guard. And they couldn't help but notice what a lovely, fragile creature she was; white skin and black hair and rosy, full lips. Aye, she was a beauty unworthy of Plantagenet loins in their opinion. Her striking loveliness was better suited to a Welsh lass.

  Even now as they toiled in the heat of battle, Richmond le Bec was grossly occupied with holding Lambourn. Wise enough to be aware when advantages presented themselves, David and Lyle realized that if they were going to abduct the lady, there would be no better time. The problem, of course, would lie in removing her from the fortified walls.

  There were limited possibilities; the blockaded servants entrance that led to the huge field where yesterday's games had taken place, the sealed front gate, or literally climbing the walls and lowering themselves down the other side. And not one of those three options looked particularly attractive harboring an unwilling captive. Still, they had to try. Owen was depending on them.

  Leaving the battlements had not been difficult. It had been as simple as formulating an excuse to their superior officer that they were going for ammunition supplies and fresh water. Once in the midst of the ankle-deep mud of the bailey, the guarded fortress lay straight ahead.

  Having been at Lambourn since the day before, they had familiarized themselves with all known entrances to the bastion and moved confidently for the servant’s door near the kitchens. David and Lyle were seasoned veterans, thinking soldiers that had been at war for more years than they cared to recall. Their movements were confident, the gestures unhurried, as to not attract attention. As easy as they had anticipated it would be, they moved past the soldiers lingering by the kitchen portal and were engulfed by the warm interior of the fortress.

  The servants were in a panic, rushing about in chaos. David and Lyle moved slowly through the crowd, bumping into people as they pretended to have a sense of purpose. In faith, they were attempting to orient themselves to the interior layout of the castle to best determine where the Lady Arissa might be held. Logic dictated that she would be kept to her rooms during a crisis and they set about to determine the best route to the second floor.

  Nearing the gallery, their eyes fell on a host of people cluttering the huge room, nibbling nervously on bread and talking between themselves. Their trained eyes scanned the room for the dark head of their intended target as they struggled to maintain their casual manner.

  Fate was on their side; the servants and household troops were so concerned with the events occurring outside that they scarcely gave the two unfamiliar soldiers a passing glance.

  Like preying beasts, they sought their victim.

  * * *

  "I am simply not hungry," Arissa said listlessly, turning to her mother. "And I furthermore cannot believe that father chose to involve himself in this battle. He’s not been to battle in twenty years!"

  Lady Maude did not wish to be reminded of her husband's whereabouts. In spite of the cool temperature of the gallery, she fanned herself furiously in response to her daughter's statement.

  "'Tis his castle, dear, and he’s compelled to defend it," she said weakly.

  "Richmond and Daniel and the rest of them are defending us," Arissa replied with a touch of bitterness. "Father will only get in the way."

  "Your father was a great warrior, once," Maude stopped fanning herself. She was far too restless to remain seated. Rising on unsteady legs, she gave her daughter a thin smile. "All will be well, my dear. Remain to the safety of the castle until you are told otherwise."

  Arissa stood up and kissed her mother dutifully, watching as Lady Maxine and Lady Livia escorted her from the room. When her mother's wide form vanished, she sighed and returned her attention to The Horde.

  "I wonder where Bartholomew is," she pondered out loud. "Has anyone seen him?"

  "Surely your father would not allow him to fight," Penelope responded. "He’s not even a knight."

  "He would have been had he not been so distracted with his studies," Regine supplied. "Father had a suit of armor and a magnificent sword commissioned for him in anticipation of his knighthood. The armor and the broadsword sit collecting dust in Mossy's sanctuary."

  Mossy. Arissa turned in the direction of the tower as if to see Mossy in his cluttered room. He was the only one who had known of her secret love for Richmond all of these years, a shoulder to cry on when she could not tell anyone of her anguish.

  Truthfully, she'd never even admitted the extent of her adoration to the old man; Mossy had known without the benefit of words. With a back glance to her gaggle of friends, she excused herself from the table.

  "Where are you going?" Regine demanded.

  "To see Mossy," she replied honestly. "I simply cannot believe that he’s not shown himself during our crisis. I would make sure that he’s well."

  "Mossy is perfectly safe in his tower," Emma said frankly. "In fact, we would all be much safer if we would join him. I shall even brave the rats."

  Arissa did not want The Horde tagging along after her and shook her head firmly. "Nay, I shall not have us wandering the halls of Lambourn when we should simply stay put. I shall check on Mossy and return as quickly as I can, I promise."

  "You should not go alone, Riss," Regine said sincerely. "It could be dangerous."

  "There is no danger within Lambourn," Arissa cocked an eyebrow at her sister, turning for the gallery door as she spoke. "The enemy is outside, Regine, not inside. I shall return."

  The corridor to Mossy's sanctuary was laden with distant shouts and shapeless phantoms. Wrapped in yards of warm wool and linen, Arissa jumped and yelped at every shadow. Regine's foolish words of warning echoed in her mind and she silently cursed her sister for compounding her regular cast of anxieties to include skittishness and hallucinations.

  It could be dangerous. Arissa shook off the cautions of a silly young girl and mounted the stairs to the tower room. Far behind her in the dim recesses of the hall, two of the shadows suddenly took shape and began to follow. She never saw them.

  Mossy's tower room was utterly freezing. She was surprised and relieved to find Bartholomew seated at Mossy's scarred, uneven table, playing with a raccoon. She moved toward her brother, putting her arms about his broad shoulders.

  "I was worried for you," she said softly. "No one seemed to know where you were."

  He patted his sister gently; there was a good deal of genuine affection between them. Where most of the family failed to understand his drives and whims, Arissa accepted him unconditionally. She may not have always understood him, but she was never judgmental.

  "I have been here since the outbreak," he said, feeding the raccoon a small apple.

  Arissa watched him toy with the animal. "Why? Are you hiding?"

  “Hardly," Mossy bustled across the floor, his arms laden with bulk; he always seemed to be terribly busy within the confines of his sanctuary. Strange thing was, he never seemed to accomplish much of anything. "He came up to put on his armor and join the melee."

  Bartholomew glanced at Mossy. The young man was in the midst of a severe bout with confusion and self-pity. He shrugged, turning back to the pet.

  "I am thinking on it."

  "Why?" Arissa asked. "You are not a warrior, Bart. You are better suited to the gentler things in life."

  He let
out a grunting sigh, a frustrated gesture. "You do not understand, Riss. My father is outside, fighting for my inheritance, and I am not lifting a finger to help him. I should be out there, defending what is mine alongside him."

  "You are not a warrior," she repeated softly. "He does not expect you to fight."

  Bartholomew stood up, raking his fingers through his blond hair restlessly. When he spoke, it was with genuine passion, not the play-acting she had come to expect from him.

  "He’s always been disappointed in me,” he said. “I never wanted to be a knight, but a scholar and actor, and he’s never forgiven me for it. I know what he thinks of me, that I am foolish and unconventional, and I have been content to live with that opinion. As long as I was learning my craft, I did not care what he thought." His gaze softened, an expression of pain. "Until this morning. When I came out of my bower to see what all the commotion was about, my father pushed past me in two hundred pounds of armor as if I were invisible. He knew better than to ask me to join him. Instead, he reacted as if I did not exist."

  Arissa's eyes were wide with sympathy. "He loves you, Bart. You must believe that."

  He snorted softly, ironically. "Mayhap. But he’s ashamed of his heir. And I have given him every reason to be."

  "So you would wield a sword when you are not nearly as accomplished as those you would be fighting against?" she pointed out, her tone laced with quiet urgency. "That is suicide, Bart. It is madness."

  He shrugged again, kicking absently at the floor. "I am not a novice. I have managed to do quite well for myself over the years of fostering at Barham."

  "I did not mean to insinuate that you were not skilled. But you must admit you have not had as much practice as some, and I do not want anything to happen to you simply because you feel guilty for disappointing father because you chose a different life than what he had intended for you."

  Bartholomew's gaze met with her pale green eyes, a world of hurt in his blue depths. More emotion than Arissa had ever seen from him. "There was more than mere disappointment in his eyes, Riss. It was.... failure."

  She did not say anything for the moment. Mossy pretended to busy himself with something useless, but she knew very well that he was listening to their conversation. If anything, he knew what they were going to say before they said it.

  After a moment, she sighed regretfully. "Do what you must, then. But above all, you must be true to yourself. You cannot be happy trying to live your life the way someone else wants you to. You have never been a fighting man; why give in to father's pressure now?"

  "Because...," he began softly, searching for the correct words. "Because he needs me, Riss. He’s never needed me before, but he needs me now. He needs his son by his side as he wards off the siege to protect my legacy."

  She understood his confusion, his indecision. Bartholomew pretended to be selfish most of the time, merely concerned with the trappings of his odd world. But she could see, clearly, that he was deeply concerned for his father. And his guilt for not living up to William's expectations was a good part of that concern.

  She smiled faintly. "Then support him if you feel you must. Go and stand beside him upon the battlements until the threat fades," her smile faded, an intense cast to the pale green eyes. "But never give up your dreams to satisfy another. I would expect years and years of entertainment from you. In fact, I shall demand it."

  Bartholomew sighed heavily, nodding in resigned agreement. Mossy turned from his work, eyeing his great-grandnephew. "Listen to her, Bart. She’s wise beyond her years."

  The faded sounds of battle floated in on the chilly air, drawing their attention. Mute just moments before, it seemed to be increasing in strength and they turned to the distant window as if to see what was transpiring. Bartholomew was the first to move for the thin portal, overlooking a corner of the bailey and beyond the western wall. Arissa followed on his heels.

  Bartholomew's gaze met with the fighting below, a fiercer battle waging since the fog lifted, in spite of the driving rain. Arissa stood beside her brother, horrified to see two platforms on the outer side of the wall being positioned for a breach. When she gasped at the sight of a new threat, Mossy scuffled to the window and practically shoved her aside in his attempt to view the scene.

  "Ah. Ovid is attempted to mount the walls," he said casually. "We cannot burn the platform down because the flame arrows will not maintain their fire in this rain. All that's left is to fight them off as they come, one at a time."

  Arissa's hand was to her mouth, terrified. "But.... but they shall breach our wall and...," she suddenly turned to Mossy, her eyes wide with panic. "He’s come for Richmond! Mossy, he cannot capture him!"

  Mossy was not the least bit concerned, much to Arissa's frustration. "They shall never capture Richmond le Bec. He’s far too cunning."

  She was about to open her mouth with a sharp reply when Bartholomew suddenly spoke up. "He’s opening the gate," he muttered in disbelief, then louder: "Richmond is opening the gate!"

  Arissa, petrified, returned her attention to the scene below. From where the three of them stood, they could see a small portion of the front gates. As they watched in shock, the massive panels began to roll open. Several hundred soldiers wait in the bailey in preparation for storming through the breach, spilling into the attacking enemy beyond for the mortal contact of hand-to-hand combat.

  "My Dear God," Arissa breathed, her eyes as wide as the sky. "What's he doing? He’s going to kill us all!"

  Even though Bartholomew was surprised, he knew the mentality of a siege very well. A brilliant student, he had learned all of his lessons impeccably during his years under Baron Lymse and sought to ease his panic-stricken sister. Having no idea the reasoning and methods behind a battle, she was understandably terrified.

  "It's the only answer, Riss," he said gently, putting his arm about her slight shoulders. "The castle is no doubt secured and there is little chance that de Rydal's army will make it inside. What Richmond is doing is simple; not only is the enemy preparing to breach the wall, but they are probably tunneling as well. Since Lambourn has no moat, 'tis not difficult to dig a tunnel to undermine our wall. What Richmond is doing is using the might inside the wall to meet the enemy head-on and scatter their forces. Better for the man-to-man confrontation to occur outside the walls than wait for the enemy to overtake us within the close confines of the bailey."

  Arissa swallowed hard, still frightened in spite of her brother's reasonable explanation. "But he’s letting them in."

  Bartholomew shook his head. "Nay, Riss. He’s letting our troops out."

  Arissa was not entirely convinced and Bart squeezed her gently, sympathetically. "Have no fear, Riss,” he said. “'Tis a normal tactic. In fact, it brings to mind the story of Alexander the Great's victory in the battle of Issus. Even though Alexander's forces were outnumbered by King Darius' men nearly ten to one, Alexander took the offensive by charging their lines, taking a sharp turn into their ranks, and carving a path straight up the middle. Resistance was fierce, but with Darius' men divided, they panicked and fled. That, darling Riss, is what Richmond is attempting. To divide and scatter."

  She continued to stare out of the window to the brutal scene below, spilling out into her beloved Berkshire landscape. In spite of her full-blown anxieties, Bartholomew's story made sense. Taking a calming breath, she nodded as if acknowledging his calm reasoning. "You are sure that's what he’s doing?"

  Bart nodded confidently. "I am indeed. Besides, Richmond told me the story I just relayed to you. He’s a great admirer of Alexander and the man's bold tactics."

  "I know," she said softly, feeling somewhat more relaxed. Richmond's tactics and military brilliance was well-known; during Henry's battle for the throne, Richmond did the majority of the planning and Hotspur carried forth the schemes. They had made a brilliant, powerful team.

  With every breath, she seemed to regain an additional measure of composure. She knew that Richmond would not have opened all of La
mbourn to an attack had he not possessed the good reason and confidence to do so. The man was not a fool.

  Next to her, Bartholomew watched the unfolding fight with a good deal of faith. Knowing Richmond's reputation, he suspected the fight would be done before the sun set. Down below, a flash of armor caught his eye and he strained to catch a glimpse.

  "Look, Riss," he pointed out the window. "The destriers are charging forth. Look at all of the knights!"

  She caught sight of men on horseback, laden down with battle armor until there was barely a distinguishing division between man and beast. She'd never seen knights riding to battle before and her terror gained a shade of fascination.

  "There must be dozens," she agreed. "I see.... there's Daniel! And Carlton is right behind him! But the other knights are bearing different standards and I do not recognize them. I.... Sweet St. Jude, there's Gavan! He’s riding out to meet the enemy, too!"

  "I have heard that Gavan Hage can take a man's head off with one blow," Bartholomew said eagerly, suddenly very much a spectator to the fight below. Growing up amongst knights had instilled a great appreciation in their skill, even if he had no desire to become one.

  Arissa's brow furrowed at that brutal thought; although he was a monstrous man with a fierce reputation, she found it difficult to think of the gentle knight in those terms. "How.... impressive."

  "Not only that, but I have heard tale that Richmond can...." he suddenly looked to his sister, noting her appalled expression. Weakly, he smiled. "It doesn't matter. He’s a great knight and that is what he shall be known for."

  Gazing into Bartholomew's blue eyes, she somehow obtained the impression that he sensed the relationship between Henry's great knight and his younger sister. Being the sensitive, intuitive man that he was, she would not have been surprised. And she would have trusted Bartholomew far more that Regine to keep safe her secret.