CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bedingfeld Manor
13 miles southeast of Narborough Castle
Birds were singing.
And they were damned loud.
Bric had no idea how long he’d been laying there, listening to the birds screaming outside of his window. When he rolled onto his side to actually look at the window, it wasn’t something he recognized at first. It wasn’t the window from his chamber at Narborough and as his gaze moved around the room, he realized he wasn’t even at Narborough. He was somewhere else.
Slowly, he sat up.
“So the sleeping giant awakens,” Eiselle said softly. “Good morn to you, my love.”
Bric heard Eiselle’s voice, turning to see her sitting over by a rather elaborate hearth that was burning gently. The hearth was set into a brick wall that was as tall as a tree. In fact, the entire chamber itself was huge, as was the bed Bric was lying in. It had four huge posts, one on each corner, and a canopy overhead with heavy brocade curtains.
Bric looked around, muddled by the opulent surroundings. This definitely wasn’t their tiny chamber at Narborough. Rubbing his eyes, he felt as if he’d been asleep for a thousand years.
“Am I truly awake?” he asked.
“You are.”
“Where are we? This is not our chamber.”
Eiselle had been sewing on something that she set aside as she stood up from her chair. With a smile on her lips, she made her way over to the bed.
“We are someplace safe,” she said. “How do you feel?”
Bric blinked his eyes. “I do not know yet,” he said. “Where are we?”
“Bedingfeld Manor.”
Recognition dawned. Bric looked around again, gaining his bearings. He didn’t feel quite so confused now. “I see,” he said. “I should have recognized those windows.”
He was referring to the elaborate windows with the diamond-shaped mullions, a unique feature. Eiselle leaned over and kissed him on the head.
“Not to worry,” she said. “We have all the time in the world to become acquainted with this place. It’s really quite beautiful, at least what I’ve seen of it.”
Bric reached up and pulled her down to him, and Eiselle slid into his embrace easily. But it wasn’t any embrace; it seemed powerful and tense. When she tried to move, he wouldn’t let her. He just held on to her, tightly.
“How long has it been?” he whispered.
Eiselle wasn’t sure what he meant. “Since when?”
“Since…” He couldn’t finish. He abruptly let her go, raking his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “I do not know. That sounds foolish, but I truly do not know.”
Eiselle sat down on the bed next to him, watching him struggle. Although he seemed more lucid than he had the last time they’d spoken, only time would tell just how coherent he really was. She proceeded carefully.
“What is your last memory?” she asked gently. “Let us start there.”
He shook his head. “I cannot,” he muttered. “I do not want to think.”
Eiselle didn’t push him. “Then don’t,” she said. “Lie there and think of nothing more than the shape of the windows, if it pleases you. I shall be here if you need me.”
She stood up from the bed with the intention of returning to her sewing, but she didn’t get very far. His hand shot out, grasping her by the wrist so she couldn’t move away. When Eiselle turned to look at him, questioningly, he simply sat there, staring off into space.
“Do not leave me,” he whispered.
Slowly, Eiselle sat back down, but he kept his grip on her as if afraid she was going to get away. He kept staring off into the room, not focused on anything in particular, but it was clear that his mind was working. After a moment, he released her wrist.
“Mayhap… mayhap I should speak of it,” he muttered. “It is not as if I can run from it.”
Eiselle didn’t want him to think he was under any pressure to talk of his feelings. “You do not need to speak of it now if you do not wish to. There is all the time in the…”
He cut her off, but it wasn’t harshly. “Nay,” he said, more firmly. “I… I must speak. I feel as if my head is about to burst.”
“Then speak. I will listen. What do you remember?”
Bric thought hard, trying to collect thoughts that were as tangled as cobwebs. “I remember the battle at Castle Acre,” he said as the day of the battle started coming back to him. “It was a good day, Eiselle. I was strong and the men were strong. I felt… I felt fine, as I normally do in battle. I was killing and men were dying, so it was a good day for me. We chased the French away from the village and they ended up by the priory. That is where… is where…”
He abruptly faded off and Eiselle reached out and took his hand, squeezing it tightly. “That is where?”
He looked like he was growing nervous because he swallowed hard. His manner seemed uneasy.
“That is where night fell, and we found ourselves in a fight down by the river,” he continued. “It was a dark night, darker than I have ever seen, and the fight became dangerous. I even stopped swinging my sword, fearful I was going to strike down my own men. And then… then I heard Mylo shouting to me.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to watch my back,” he said. The hand Eiselle was holding was beginning to shake. “It was too dark for me to see anything, but I could feel men beside me, struggling. There was a fight going on right next to me. I saw the flash of a blade in the darkness, and was certain I was about to be killed, so I had no choice but to strike out in self-defense. But then the torches were brought in and I saw that it was Mylo I had cut down. God help me… it was Mylo.”
He lowered his head and Eiselle lifted the hand she was holding, kissing it. “Bric, it was not your fault,” she insisted softly. “You did not know it was Mylo. How could you?”
He was hanging his head now, looking at her hands as she held on to his scarred fingers. “That was what he said,” he muttered. A lone tear dropped onto their tangle of hands. “He said it was not my fault.”
“You were able to speak with him?”
“He lived for a brief time. He told me that he had put himself between me and the man attempting to kill me. He sacrificed himself so that I might live.”
Eiselle was starting to tear up because she could hear the anguish in his voice. More than that, she now knew what had truly happened between Bric and Mylo, and it was too tragic for words. But it wasn’t her right to cry; she knew that. Bric was the one in need of comfort, and not her, no matter how badly she hurt for him.
Reaching up, she gently caressed his stubbled cheek, wiping away his tears.
“Bric,” she said, quietly but firmly. “I know you are devastated, my love. I cannot pretend to know how you feel, but I can only think to say one thing to you – if the situation was reversed, and it had been Mylo who cut you down under the same circumstances, would it have been his fault?”
Bric drew in a long, unsteady breath before releasing it all in a heavy rush. He simply sat there, holding her hand, pondering her words.
“Nay,” he said after a moment, his voice trembling. “He would not have known it was me, as I did not know it was him. There is no one to blame. Even so, I cannot shake the guilt, Eiselle. I killed a man who was trying to protect me.”
“He laid his life down for you, just as you would have done for him had the situation been different.”
“That is true. I would have. I would gladly give my life now for his.”
Eiselle almost said something selfish, that she was glad Bric hadn’t given his life for Mylo, but she bit her tongue. It was not her place to say such a thing, even if she did think it.
“Daveigh told me that you gave him your talisman,” she said. “That was a generous thing to do, Bric. I am sure it would have meant a great deal to Mylo.”
Bric could only nod. Then, he began to search around his neck, hunting for something beneath the smelly tunic he wore. He was still in much of the clothing he’d worn for the battle because, not wanting to disturb him too much, Eiselle had only stripped him down to the breeches and tunic he wore beneath his mail. But he quickly found what he was looking for, pulling out the keepsake that Eiselle had given him.
“The talisman belongs to Mylo, but this belongs to me,” he whispered, looking at it. “It is the most valuable thing I own.”
Eiselle smiled. “And you are the most valuable thing I own,” she said. “Daveigh sent us to Bedingfeld because you must regain your strength. Being wounded as you were, and then suffering through Mylo’s death, has earned you some time to rest, Bric. You have been through too much as of late. Even the strongest of men must rest.”
Bric looked at her with eyes that didn’t seem to glisten as they usually did. The Bric MacRohan she had married was a sharp man with a sharp mind, fearless in every way. But the man that looked back at her now… it wasn’t the same man.
He seemed empty.
“What I have endured as of late is something I have never had to endure,” he said. “It’s as if I do not even know my own mind any longer. I woke up in a room I did not recognize but what is even more frightening is that I do not remember how I got here. You asked me what I remember, and I have told you everything I can recall. I also remember carrying Mylo in my arms after I killed him… and now I am here. Bleeding Christ, I am surely losing my mind. What is happening to me?”
It was a plea and Eiselle felt it carve through her like a dagger. She didn’t know what to say because Manducor had warned her against tell him that the world would be well again, or trying to make his concerns not sound so serious.
The man was seeking answers she could not give.
Therefore, she did the only thing she could think of – she threw her arms around his head and neck, embracing him tightly. She had never had to fight off tears so strongly as she had to at this moment.
He was breaking her heart.
“Nothing has happened to you,” she said hoarsely. “You simply need rest and I shall make sure you get it. You shall rest and then you shall be ready to take on the world again, I swear it. You are the High Warrior, Bric. You are the strongest man in all of England and you must never doubt that, not for a moment.”
His big arms went around her, holding her so tightly that he was squeezing the breath from her.
“I do not know who I am any longer,” he whispered.
Eiselle kissed the top of his head, holding him close. “I know who you are,” she whispered fiercely. “You are my husband and I love you very much. Now, can you do something for me?”
“If I can.”
“Can you eat something? You’ve not eaten in days and if you are going to regain your strength, then you must eat. Please?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. He simply held her tightly, his face buried in her bosom. When he finally spoke, it was muffled against her flesh.
“If you wish it,” he said.
Eiselle kissed his head again and released her grip on his head. “It would make me happy,” she said. “Stay in bed. I shall send for food right now.”
She kissed him on the lips before bolting from the bed and rushing to the chamber door, pulling it open. They were on the top floor of Bedingfeld and right outside the door was a landing and a small servant’s alcove. The servants had been told by Daveigh to stay close to Lady MacRohan in case she needed anything, so both a male and female servant were nearby, prepared to move when Lady MacRohan sent them down to the kitchen for food. She also asked for hot water so she could clean Bric of the battlefield grime, and the gore on his skin that she was certain had been left by Mylo.
If she was going to help him, and tend to him, then it would start now.
As the servants fled for the kitchens, Eiselle shut the door and turned to Bric, still sitting on the bed.
“Food is coming,” she said, smiling at his pale face. “You shall eat and then you shall sleep again, and mayhap tomorrow, I shall escort you on a walk outside. The gardens are truly lovely, though I only had a brief glimpse of them when we arrived.”
He looked at her, his lovely little wife with her beautiful dark hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. The guilt he felt, that was his constant companion, began to shift as he gazed into her sweet face.
“Mo chroí,” he said after a moment. “You married a man only to take care of him constantly. That is no life for you.”
Her smile vanished. “You will not say that again,” she said sternly. “I have the exact life that I want with the man I want. My life is perfect.”
He sighed faintly. “You are not married to a man. You are married to a weakling.”
He looked away from her as he said it, but she moved around the bed so he couldn’t avoid looking at her. When he tried to turn away again, she put her hands on his face, forcing him to meet her eye.
“I am married to the man I love,” she whispered. “You are the High Warrior, Bric. You will always be the High Warrior. You do not have a weak bone in your body. You are simply tired.”
Bric closed his eyes because he could no longer look at her. “I am broken.”
He sounded so grieved, so very torn and shattered. Eiselle wasn’t sure what more she could say to the man. She knew he was upset and it was an effort for her not to become upset, too, because his words hurt. She didn’t like to see him so down on himself, his usual confidence destroyed.
That was perhaps the worst part.
“Broken or weak, you are still my husband,” she said. “If you are trying to scare me into leaving you, I will not do it. I do not scare easily.”
Bric stared at her a moment before breaking into a crooked smile. “I do not imagine that you do,” he said. “You have proven to be quite formidable, Lady MacRohan. You are a fine tribute to a man who does not deserve you.”
It did her heart good to see him smile, if only for a moment. Her hands were still on his cheeks and she kissed him, a sweet and lingering gesture.
“Do not tell me how wonderful I am because it will go to my head,” she said, watching him smile yet again. “Whether or not you like it, I am here to stay. I am not leaving you, not ever, so you had better come to terms with it. Please do not ever try to discourage me again because next time, I might have to punch you in the face.”
Bric started laughing, a raspy sound that was like music to Eiselle’s ears. It was good to hear him laugh. She put her arms around him again and kissed him just as there was a knock on the door. Moving quickly to the panel, Eiselle opened it up to the servants bearing food and hot water.
As it turned out, Bric was very hungry and ate everything on the tray. Once he was finished with his meal, he permitted Eiselle to strip him and wash him down with hot water and soap that smelled of flowers, but he really didn’t care. Her attention, and her warm touch, was the best medicine in the world for him at that moment.
When he slept again, it was with Eiselle in his arms.
Two days later
“We have followers.”
“I know.”
It was Bric who had uttered those words, words of observation as he and Eiselle walked in the garden of Bedingfeld on a bright summer morning. The garden was truly a delight, surrounded by tall stone walls, with every imaginable flowering plant and vine contained within. Several servants tended the garden constantly, and it showed – it was a marvel to see, and Eiselle had to stop every few feet and smell a bloom. Bric walked along beside her, dressed simply in a tunic and breeches, following his wife as she marveled at the glorious flowers.
But he’d seen movement out of the corner of his eye when they’d first entered the garden. They’d come in through the main gate but there was also a smaller gate in the southern wall that paralleled the brook that ran through Bedingfeld’s property and fed the moat that surrounded the manor house. That smaller gate had opened, and then shut, and then he’d seen the top of someone’s head as they moved amongst the bushes, trying to stay out of sight. First one head and then two.
Bric was curious, but Eiselle wasn’t paying much attention. She was more interested in the flowers. As she paused by a stalk of foxgloves that was taller than she was, Bric casually looked over his shoulder in time to see two little faces peeking out at him from a bush several feet away. When they saw that the big knight was looking at them, they quickly disappeared. Bushes shook as they moved away, and Bric was certain he heard laughter.
Children’s laughter.
“They are giggling,” he said. “Our stalkers are giggling.”
Eiselle stood up from having been bent over a smaller variety of foxgloves. “I heard,” she said. “I do not know who they are, but I am sure we will discover it soon enough.”
She was casual about something that had Bric’s curiosity. Perhaps it was the observant knight in him. As he watched the stalkers move through some bushes over near the wall, the main gate suddenly swung open again, spilling forth Manducor. When Bric realized that it was the priest, he shook his head in a gesture of disapproval.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, though he didn’t sound entirely displeased. “My wife and I came to Bedingfeld for a rest and we do not need an audience.”
Manducor sensed that Bric was jesting with him, at least for the most part. He was sure there was some part of the man who genuinely wanted to be alone with his wife, but Manducor couldn’t stay away any longer. He’d spent the past few days staying clear of Bric and Eiselle, simply to give them time alone, and keeping busy around the manor house, at least as much as he could.
But when he saw Eiselle and Bric head to the garden on this bright morning, he wanted to see for himself how Bric was feeling. He’d not seen Eiselle enough to have a decent conversation with her, as she had remained in the master’s chamber with Bric since their arrival, so now was his chance to sate his curiosity.
“My lord, I promise I will not be a burden,” he said. “But I thought I would come in case I could be of service. You may want a man to play games with, you know. There is a chess set in the hall and I shall be more than willing to challenge you for supremacy.”
Bric eyed the man as he came near. “Chess,” he muttered. “I’ve not played that in years.”
“Good,” Manducor said firmly. “Then I shall triumph over you.”
“I did not say I’d forgotten how to play, old man. Be careful who you challenge.”
Manducor grinned. “I am very bold now, but ask me again when we actually start playing. You frighten me, MacRohan.”
Bric couldn’t help but snort at the man. “If that is true, then you are the only one.”
His smile rapidly faded as he turned away, wandering in the direction of a stone sundial in the middle of the garden. Manducor and Eiselle exchanged glances, hearing the struggle in Bric’s voice again. Eiselle sensed that perhaps this time, Bric didn’t want to hear her tell him how great he still was or how much she loved him. He’d been hearing that enough. Perhaps this time, he needed to hear something from another man, someone who, perhaps, understood more of what he was going through.
It was time for Manducor to earn his keep.
Manducor understood Eiselle’s pleading expression, though he was hesitant. He wasn’t a peer of MacRohan’s, but he had been a knight, once. He understood the profession. As Eiselle pretended to turn back to the flowers, Manducor followed Bric as the man wandered towards the sundial.
“Have you thought about what there is for you if you do not return to the knighthood?” he asked, watching Bric turn to look at him. “I did not and look what became of me. You are better than me, MacRohan, a thousand-fold. What would you do if you were not a knight?”
Bric’s brow furrowed. “Who says I will no longer be a knight?”
Manducor shrugged. “No one,” he said. “But it must have crossed your mind.”
Bric’s gaze lingered on him a moment before turning back to the sundial. It seemed to be leaning to him, so he kicked at it, trying to level it.
“It has not crossed my mind,” he said. “There is nothing else for me. I was raised as a knight and it is what I know.”
“Then you will return to the battlefield.”
Bric sighed sharply. “I am sure I will, at some point.”
“Then why do you say no one is afraid of you?”
Bric was becoming more agitated as he moved the sundial around. “I do not wish to discuss this with you.”
Manducor didn’t want to upset the man; he was simply trying to get him to think a little. “Do you remember when we first met?”
“Regretfully, I do.”
“You slapped me and called me a drunkard.”
“Your point being?”
Manducor grinned as he leaned in Bric’s direction. “You do not even have to try to be frightening, MacRohan,” he muttered. “All you need do is look at a man and he is terrified. You have that gift and it is not something everyone has. Even now, the gift is apparent. It is not something you will ever lose, no matter how damaged your confidence.”
With that, he turned away, heading towards the smaller garden gate, looking at the flowers as he went.
Bric watched him go, realizing that, in some very small way, he felt better. He was still capable of frightening Manducor, so that had to be a boost to his pride. He remembered slapping the man around when they’d first met and, strangely, he felt rather sorry he had. But not sorry enough to tell him.
As Manducor headed out of the gate, Bric caught movement off to his left again, seeing that the bushes were moving once more. There was so much lush undergrowth in the garden that it was easy for his stalkers to conceal themselves. He was growing more curious now so he moved away from the sundial, his focus on the shuddering bushes several feet away. It was some kind of a yellow flower bush and since he didn’t know a flower from a weed, all he knew was that it was a big bush with big, yellow blooms. But it was shaking so hard that some of the yellow petals were falling off. Just as he neared the bush, a young boy jumped out at him.
“Halt!” the child cried, holding a small switch in his right hand. “You may not pass!”
Dutifully, Bric came to a halt. The boy couldn’t have been more than four or five years in age, dressed in simple peasant clothing, but having a fairly fierce expression for a servant. He was brave, this one. Behind him, a little girl with golden curls bolted out of the bushes and ran for the wall of the garden, pressing herself against the stone beneath a creeping vine of purple flowers as if fearful of Bric.
“Who are you?” Bric asked the lad. “What are you doing here?”
The boy swished the stick back and forth, quickly enough to make it sing. “I am Sir Royce,” he declared. “You are the wicked knight and I must vanish you!”
“Do you mean vanquish?”
“Nay!” the child barked. “Vanish! You must go!”
Bric put a hand up to his face, hiding the smile that threatened. “I see,” he said. “Tell me, Sir Royce – where do you live?”
Royce pointed at the manor house, briefly, with his stick before returning it to a defensive position. “There,” he said. “Now, will you fight me?”
“I will not.”
Royce lost his aggressiveness. The stick came down and he frowned. “But why not?”
Before Bric could answer, he heard a voice behind him.
“I agree – why not?”
He turned to see Eiselle standing behind him, grinning. Lifting her hand, she extended a stick to him about the same size as the one the little boy held.
“Well?” she said. “You have been challenged, MacRohan. Since when do you refuse a challenge?”
Bric looked at her. Then, he looked at the stick. Suddenly, his heart began to pound and his palms began to sweat. He was coming to feel agitated and angry, something he didn’t like in the least. He didn’t want to be angry and agitated at Eiselle, but he couldn’t help himself. At that moment, all he wanted to do was run.
He couldn’t get away fast enough.
“I won’t do it,” he muttered.
Turning on his heel, he blew past her, knocking the stick out of her hand as he went. It was an accident; he hadn’t meant to do it, but he’d been moving so swiftly that he’d recklessly hit it.
But it was a small stick and even as it popped out of Eiselle’s grip, it hardly made a sound. Truthfully, she didn’t even care – she was more concerned about Bric as he practically ran away. She watched him go, her smile fading, feeling bad that she’d tried to coerce him into something he wasn’t willing to do. It had only been a game, from her perspective, and she thought it might do him good. But Bric hadn’t viewed it as a game at all. Perhaps in that little boy’s stick, he saw another sword.
He saw a battle.
He wasn’t ready to fight.
Eiselle thought that he simply needed some time to be alone. She had been with him every second of every day since his injury, the only time that they were separated being when he had gone to Castle Acre. Perhaps, in this instance, the man just needed some time away from her, to ponder his thoughts and clear his mind without her constant presence. The thought brought tears to her eyes, thinking that maybe she’d been too attentive, and now pushing him to do something he clearly wasn’t ready to do. Playing with a child, even with a pretend-sword, had upset him.
She had upset him.
As the main gate slammed when Bric passed through it, Eiselle didn’t follow. She made her way over to a stone bench that was lodged near the smaller gate, one that was situated beneath the shade of a big poplar tree.
As young Royce and his curly-haired playmate found excitement elsewhere, Eiselle plopped down on the stone bench and wept.