Timeless Tales of Honor

by Suzan Tisdale

  But she would not elaborate, at least not at the moment. But Mossy was another story; glancing over her shoulder, the old man was back at his table, fussing with a myriad of mysterious junkets piled about him. She desperately wanted to tell him that all of her dreams, her hopes, had finally come true; smiling to herself, she realized he probably already knew. She swore the man could read minds.

  "Do you see Richmond?" she asked, returning her attention to the window.

  Bartholomew shook his head. "It's difficult to see. This window does not have a good view of the battlefield. But I would safely wager that he was at the head of the group of knights that rode from the gates."

  She digested his statement, thinking that her bower was far more strategically located than Mossy's tower and afforded a much better view of the open front gates. But she was hesitant to make the journey across nearly the entire width of the castle to reach her bower; should the bastion be violated, she did not want to be caught alone. Here, in Mossy's tower, was possibly the safest place she could be.

  With a sigh, she turned away from the window. Since she could not see Richmond, there was nothing to do but wait and trust that his tactics would prove themselves. But in addition to those anxieties, she found herself worrying over her father and Gavan, Carlton and Daniel. They were in the midst of a heated battle and she could not bring herself to even imagine the worst. They were seasoned, intelligent warriors; they would survive.

  She meandered over to Mossy as the sounds of the distant battle and pounding rain filled the stale air of the tower. Planting her round bottom on an ancient stool, she watched his quick movements without interest. Even if her eyes were focused on the old man, her heart, mind and soul were with Richmond somewhere in the battle beyond. To think that something might befall him was an inconceivable notion. She refused to entertain the possibility.

  "What are you doing?" she asked the old man to distract herself.

  Mossy was busying himself with something odd, as usual. He continued to fumble for a moment before answering.

  "Yer lover is safe, Riss,” he said softly. “He’s in the heat of it, driving off the invaders."

  She stared at him a moment, a thousand words of inquiry and confusion coming to mind. How did he always know what she was thinking? It should not have come as a surprise, yet it always did. This was not the first time.

  "He loves me, Mossy," she whispered, shielding her words from Bartholomew's ears. "He will marry me. He’s promised."

  "'Twill not be easy to wrest ye from Whitby, not when they're expecting yer dowry. They've been hungering for it for eighteen years."

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Bartholomew was not listening. "It does not matter. He’s promised to speak with Father."

  Mossy looked to her, the raven-hued tresses, the flawless skin. He wondered if, and when, Richmond intended to tell her the entire truth. For a young lady who had lived a relatively sheltered life, the facts of her existence were undoubtedly going to cause her tremendous shock. He felt a good deal of pity for what she was facing.

  "I am sure he will," he said after a moment, turning back to his work. "Richmond will have ye, have no doubt."

  She smiled faintly, feeling a great amount of comfort at the old man's muttered words. To hear Mossy declare that Richmond would meet with success was as good as the word of God. She believed him, without question, and her hope began to soar. Not even the noise of the ongoing battle could dampen her joy.

  She was still smiling when the door to Mossy's sanctuary flew open, spilling forth two men dressed in dirty, rusted mail. Arissa was not alarmed until they flashed their broadswords menacingly, sinister bolts of light reflecting against the stone. Shocked and confused, her smiled faded into a, terrified expression as they moved directly toward her, tearing up everything in their path.

  Bartholomew was startled, but not senseless. He immediately realized that, somehow, the castle had been breached and the soldiers before him were intent upon inflicting mortal harm. God help him, he had been wrong and all of his confident words came tumbling back on him, reminding him that his arrogant faith in Richmond had been misplaced. As much as the idea astonished him, the evidence was irrefutable. Lambourn was falling.

  Knight or no, Bartholomew possessed a good deal of fighting ability. The protective instinct in him soared as the enemy soldiers plowed their way into Mossy's sanctuary, upending cages and spilling out animals. As raccoons screamed and Samuel, overhead in the rafters, cawed loudly, Bartholomew hurled himself toward Arissa.

  Mossy's ancient table was meeting with an ugly death as the soldiers kicked and hacked their way through it. Bartholomew grasped his sister savagely, pulling her with him as he fled across the room. Mossy, lost amidst the chaos of Arissa's shrieking and crashing furniture, pressed himself against the wall as the struggle ensued.

  Bartholomew had a specific destination in mind as he pulled Arissa across the floor. His never-used armor and blemish-free broadsword lay several feet away, wrapped and protected in a dilapidated old wardrobe. Mossy had always kept it for him, waiting for the day when Bartholomew overcame his thespian stage and chose to follow the path of a true earl.

  He had, in fact, come up to Mossy's sanctuary to retrieve his armor and fight beside his father. Now, for another reason, he was in desperate need to reach it. Yanking his stumbling, hysterical sister behind him, he struggled with every ounce of strength he possessed to reach the broadsword in time.

  Arissa fell to her knees as they reached the ancient wardrobe and Bartholomew ignored her for the moment, tearing open the splintering door and plunging into the contents. The broadsword, buried beneath the armor, was difficult to locate.

  The soldiers were advancing. Arissa watched their approach, her breathing coming in panicked gasped. As Bartholomew struggled for the sword, her gasps became a hysterical chant.

  Hurry, Bart, hurry!

  .... please, hurry!

  The evil warriors were nearly upon them. With a triumphant grunt, Bartholomew withdrew the broadsword just in time to meet with an opposing blade. Arissa cried out in fear, scampering away from the clash of swords. Unfortunately, the threatening soldier engaging Bartholomew in battle was far superior in skill and strength and Bartholomew knew instantly that he was badly outmatched. With every stroke, every parry, he was being driven further and further into the ground.

  His heart ached for Arissa's fate. He damned himself for choosing to pursue the finer arts in nature and, for the first time in his life, he regretted his decision not to become a knight. Were he knight, he would have been better able to protect his sister from the intruders. Were he a knight, he would have been able to save his own miserable hide.

  "Riss!” he hollered. "Run!"

  Arissa heard his shout, startling her to her feet. But as she attempted to obey her brother, the second soldier intercepted her.

  "You are not going anywhere, lass," he growled.

  She screamed, whirling away from him as he tried to grab her. He caught her hair net, tearing it free of her scalp, and cascades of black silk tumbled to her waist. Shrieking with terror, Arissa scrambled away from him as fast as her quaking legs would take her.

  "I shall not hurt you, girl," the soldier tossed the net to the floor, oblivious to Bartholomew's frantic attempts to dispatch his opponent; he was watching in horror as the second soldier pursued his sister. "Come peacefully."

  Arissa mind was a void of panic. She stumbled on a piece of debris, regaining her balance and persevering with determination across the room. Terror gripped her, the desperate need to run for her life the only matter she could manage to comprehend. But as she crossed the floor and came upon Mossy, she was not so utterly selfish that she would leave him behind to be butchered. As badly as Bartholomew needed to protect her, she was desperate to defend the frail old man.

  "Get up!" she grasped him by the arms, pulling him to his feet. "Come with me!"

  But Mossy resisted in a surprising show of strengt
h. Shirking her grasp, he shoved her toward the door. "Run, Riss! Find Richmond!"

  She gasped, half with fear and half with disbelief. "I won't leave you!"

  "Ye must! Run!"

  On the opposite side of the room, Bartholomew let out a loud grunt and Arissa turned with horror in time to see her brother's opponent disengaging his sword from the young man's gut. A scream rose to her lips as her brother crumpled to the cold stone, a victim of his own protective instinct and a lack of knightly talent. He simply could not let them take his sister without a fight, and he had paid the ultimate price for his selfless attempt.

  Arissa was frozen to the spot in terror, watching her brother's blood flow upon the floor. She simply could not believe what she was seeing; her sweet, intelligent brother having met his end defending her against a pair of invaders who had dared breach the sanctuary of Lambourn.

  Hot tears sprang to her eyes, tears of shock and disbelief. For the moment, she had completely forgotten about the pursuing soldiers as she watched her beloved brother bleed to death before her eyes. Unfortunately, her stunned horror provided the soldier who had been pursuing her the opportunity to close in and, before she realized it, a heavy mailed glove clamped down on her arm.

  "You are coming with me!" the soldier boomed, pulling her into a vise-like grip.

  The second soldier kicked a piece of broken furniture out of the way, moving for the door. "We have no time to waste, Lyle. The servant's gate is our best option."

  Arissa was still reeling from her brother's demise, almost non-resistant when the soldier captured her. But hearing their voices seemed to snap her out of her lethargy, and she suddenly turned into a fighting, spitting cat.

  Lyle was the unfortunate recipient of a rake of nails across his face, catching him in the cheek and nose. He yelped with surprise as Arissa struggled against him, her frail strength no match for his power.

  "Enough of that!" he snapped savagely, easily capturing her hands. "Princess or no, I shall beat you senseless if you do that again."

  Arissa heard the reference but did not comprehend the meaning. In fact, she seemed to disregard his threat as well, for her struggles did not lessen. If anything, they increased as Lyle dragged her toward the door.

  "Get to the horses," he grunted to David. "Wait for me just outside the gate. We shall have to take the long route to keep le Bec off our trail."

  "Le Bec is in the middle of a siege," David pointed out, helping him move the twisting, fighting captive through the door. "I doubt her absence will be discovered for several hours yet."

  Lyle grunted as Arissa dug her heels into the floor, screeching and wrestling against him. With a growl, he swung her over his shoulder. "You may be right, but we can't take the chance that le Bec will realize she’s missing immediately."

  David suddenly paused, glancing into the sanctuary. "What about the old man? He will tell him."

  Lyle paused, turning to gaze at his comrade while his burden twisted and hollered. "Then disable him. And meet me out in the field beyond the servant's gate. If I do not meet you there within a half hour, ride ahead and inform Owen what we have discovered. He must be made aware that Henry's bastard is indeed at Lambourn."

  On Lyle's shoulder, Arissa heard the words, but they possessed no meaning for her whatsoever. She was still consumed with grief for Bartholomew's death, for her own abduction, and for the threat against Mossy.

  "Do not hurt him!" she cried. "Please do not hurt Mossy!"

  David glanced at the flushed, frightened woman. Without a word, he disappeared into the sanctuary and Arissa screamed at the top of her lungs. Panting and gasping, her struggles slowly ceased as the result of pure sorrow.

  "Please, please," she sobbed. "Please do not hurt him. I shall.... I shall come with you peacefully. Just do not hurt Mossy."

  Lyle paused a moment. He almost ignored her plea and kept walking, but something inexplicably made him stop. He knew full well that there should be no witnesses left to inform le Bec of what had happened, but there was something in the sweet voice and painful tears that tugged at his fighting man's heart.

  He was a soldier, seasoned and toughened through years of fighting. But he was also a husband and a father, and female tears cut him just as they cut through any warm-blooded male. He could just as easily hear his young daughter's pleas in the voice of the delicate woman slung over his shoulder.

  "Please," she whispered again. "Stop him. Do not hurt Mossy."

  Lyle clenched his jaw, disgusted with the weakness that was overtaking him. He could feel himself relenting. Turning toward the portal leading to the tower, he shouted to his companion.

  "David!" he roared. "Cease! Do not touch the old man!"

  Several seconds passed as Lyle and Arissa wait, their struggles against one another at a halt for the moment. Tears ran down Arissa cheeks and onto Lyle's mail; from the corner of his eye, he could see the small droplets and for the first time, he began to regret the brutality of his necessary duty. Truthfully, there could not have been an easy way to abduct her, but he was sorry for her fear all the same.

  David suddenly appeared in the doorway, his expression puzzled. But Lyle simply waved at him irritably, irritation directed at himself for being soft to a woman's tears. "Leave the old man alone. Go get the horses."

  "You did not harm him, did you?" Arissa asked urgently, sniffling.

  David stepped into the corridor, eyeing Arissa warily. "He’s unharmed. But a moment longer and my report would not have been as favorable."

  Arissa nearly collapsed with relief. Her sobs faded as star-bright tears still glistened on her cheeks. "Diolch yn fawr," she whispered.

  Both David and Lyle looked to her, their eyes widening. "You speak Welsh?" David asked neutrally.

  She nodded faintly. "I know a little," she sniffled again, wiping at her nose. "I.... I did not think you'd understand me, but I felt the need to thank you just the same for preserving Mossy's life. As I was raised properly, I never allow a favor to go without expressing my gratitude."

  "So you expressed your appreciation in a language you thought we would not understand so we would not know you had thanked us? Most peculiar that you should thank an enemy for an act of mercy," David's gaze lingered on her a moment, studying her beauty. After several seconds, he cocked an eyebrow slowly. "Fedra ddim siarad Cymraeg," he said softly.

  Now it was Arissa's turn for surprise. She blinked away the remainder of her tears, droplets gleaming on her thick lashes.

  "You speak Welsh?"

  "I just told you I did," David replied, tearing his eyes away from her and focusing on Lyle. "I shall meet you by the servant's gate."

  He was gone, slinking down the corridor. With Arissa still slung over his shoulder, Lyle followed.

  * * *

  Huddled against the wall in the remains of his sanctuary, Mossy listened to the boot falls as they faded down the hall. Shaken, he pulled himself up on an upended stool to unsteady feet.

  A quick glance in Bartholomew's direction showed the lad's blood to be collecting against the stone floor in a bright pool of crimson. Mossy stumbled towards his nephew, tripping over his robes in his haste to reach him. The large young man was curled on his side, groaning with the agony of his severe wound as Mossy struggled to turn him onto his back.

  "Nay!" Bartholomew rasped. "I am beyond help. You must.... save Arissa!"

  Mossy dug his fingers into the tear in Bartholomew's tunic, probing the cleanly-executed wound. On the right side of his torso just below his ribs, it was bleeding profusely and Mossy wrestled with the hem of his robes, tearing a length of material free and pressing it to the injury. Bart groaned loudly, making a weak attempt to move away from the agonizing pressure the old man was applying.

  "Leave me, Mossy!" he breathed again, swallowing hard. "You must save Riss!"

  "Richmond is the only one who can save her," Mossy replied hoarsely, struggling against the bright red flow.

  Bartholomew's blue eyes opened, unnat
urally bright against his pasty face. "Then find him. Do not let my death be in vain."

  Mossy stared at him, hearing his words and seeing the truth within. Reluctantly, he left the dying young man and stumbled toward the doorway. Nearly more than the shock of Bartholomew's impending death and Arissa's abduction, the fact that the soldiers who had come for her knew who she was was enough to dash his composure. Distinctly, they had referred to her as Princess. God help her, they knew who she was.

  It suddenly began to occur to him that the siege on Lambourn had not been revenge for the attack against Tad de Rydal. Mayhap, there was a greater scheme involved, a plot full of court intrigue and royal conspiracies that could threaten the very foundation of England's stability.

  Mayhap Ovid de Rydal hadn't attacked in the hopes of exacting vengeance against Richmond le Bec. Mayhap, it had all been a cover for another objective.

  Mossy was quivering so terribly that he could scarcely walk, but he knew that he had to get to Richmond before something horrible befell Arissa. He was her Great Protector, sworn to protect and serve her with his very life. For eighteen years Richmond le Bec had carried out his objective. Now, when she needed him the most, he was distracted.

  Mossy's pace picked up speed and urgency, ignoring the panic and astonishment that threatened to disable him. He had to reach Henry's le Bec with the news.

  * * *

  Lambourn was deserted for the most part as people took to their chambers to wait out the fighting in and around the bailey. The kitchen doors had been shut and bolted, hindering David's escape. He had to do away with two serving wenches and three male servants before he was able to unlock the door, leaving it open for Lyle's flight. Trudging into the pouring rain, he went about his objective.

  Lyle was not far behind. Arissa bounced miserably on his shoulder, trying to cushion the blows with each step. As he descended the stairs, she begged to be put to her feet and he complied without a word. However, the death-grip he kept on her arm was nearly as uncomfortable as being slung across his shoulder and she winced continuously as he led her through the dim foyer and into the deserted gallery.