CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ramsbury Castle
Wiltshire
Dashiell was sitting in the very large solar of Ramsbury Castle, one used by the Dukes of Savernake for generations. Presently, it belonged to the current duke, Bentley de Vaston, and the man was seated at one end of a very large, cluttered table whilst Dashiell was seated at the other.
Dogs milled about the solar, looking for any scraps of food left over from the night before, while two servants tried to unblock the hearth that was billowing clouds of smoke into the chamber.
But Dashiell and Bentley weren’t paying attention to the distractions; they were both working on tasks, with Bentley scribing a missive to William Marshal and Dashiell studying a map that showed the entire southern portion of England. He was studying it with a purpose because the day before, they’d received a message from William Marshal that was about to shape the course of their next few months.
Another battle was on the horizon.
It would seem the rebels, still reeling from the defeat at Lincoln, had moved south and were starting to converge near Dover in Kent, shores that could easily receive supply ships from France. It was serious news because it meant they weren’t defeated, or even finished as far as that went. It meant the French intended to stay. As Dashiell studied the map and the roads that would become the Savernake army’s path into Kent, another figure entered the solar.
Enormous, with dark blond hair and eyes of the clearest blue, Sir Sean de Lara was the man who had brought the news of the rebel movements from William Marshal. Sean was part of the de Lara family, the Lords of the Trilateral castles along the Welsh Marches, but Sean’s status in the annals of England’s politics went far beyond being a mere member of a prestigious family.
He was one of William Marshal’s most trusted spies.
A spy who had been placed with King John for many years, earning the king’s trust and becoming the man known as Lord of the Shadows – the bodyguard for the king, whom all men feared. Sean had earned himself a terrible reputation during his tenure as John’s bodyguard, becoming known as someone who would do anything the king told him to do – kill, abduct, or anything else that came from John’s twisted mind.
It had been a horrific assignment for the moral and ethical de Lara, who’d had to put all of that aside in order to earn that terrible reputation so he could spy on the king for William Marshal. The information he’d killed, begged, or stolen to obtain had saved the rebel cause against John too many times to count. His position had been invaluable and he knew it, but the personal cost to him had been great.
Sean de Lara had become a monster.
But that monster had been slain two years ago when his true identity had been discovered and he’d nearly been killed by John’s assassins because of it. Yet, for a man as strong and seasoned as de Lara, it hadn’t ended him. He’d come back into William Marshal’s fold as the Marshal’s greatest spy and advisor, only now he was actually working with those he was allied with rather than pretending he was against them.
“So you have finally decided to rise this morning,” Dashiell said as the man approached the table. “You’ve become lazy in your old age.”
Sean snorted. “And you’ve become foolish in yours,” he returned. “It was not you who rode forty-three miles yesterday. I have earned my rest, du Reims.”
Dashiell pulled up a stool for the man. “So you have,” he said. “Bent is writing a missive to Marshal as we speak, but I did not ask you last night how soon you will be returning to the Marshal. Will you be leaving today so that you may take the missive with you?”
Sean sat down on the stool but not before sending the nearest manservant for food and drink. He grunted wearily as he planted his backside on the wooden seat, his gaze moving to the map Dashiell had laid out on the table.
“Nay,” he said. “I only stopped at Ramsbury because I was on my way home to see my wife. I’ve not seen her or my children in two months, so the Marshal gave me permission to see them before I am tied down to the army in Kent. God’s Bones, I would like for this to be the last time for a very long while. I am tired of spending all of my time with the army while my children grow up.”
Dashiell understood his position. With his own wife pregnant with their first child, leaving her now did not thrill him. “My wife is due to deliver our child in the next month,” he said. “I do not wish to be with the army in Kent, fighting off the damnable French, when my son is born.”
“Hopefully, you will not be.”’
“Tell me of your children, Sean. We’ve not had a chance to talk about them.”
Sean smiled faintly, a big dimple carving into his left cheek. “I have three girls,” he said. “The twins, Lorica and Lorelle, are the eldest. They were barely a year old when my third daughter was born. Her name is Evangeline and she is a holy terror. Had she been a boy, she would have made a magnificent knight.”
Dashiell grinned. “Three girls,” he said, lifting eyebrows. “Thank God you have the de Lara wealth to support the dowries you will need.”
Sean couldn’t disagree. “If you have a son, then we must speak. Evie will need a husband someday.”
Dashiell looked at him in disbelief. “Marry my son to the Holy Terror? You must be mad.”
“I will pay you handsomely.”
Dashiell started to laugh. “Then I may consider it,” he said. “But we have time enough to discuss it later. Right now, I am more concerned about moving my army into Kent. So the Marshal is very sure that Prince Louis is bringing over a fleet from his father?”
Sean sobered as he looked at the map. “Aye,” he said. “We have intercepted messages between Louis and his father. There is a fleet coming, supported by French nobles, and unless we want a massive war on English soil, we are calling all English warlords to Kent and to ensure that fleet never makes it to the shore. This is serious, Dash. I cannot stress it enough.”
It was a gloomy situation they were facing. Dashiell shook his head, disappointed.
“After the battle at Lincoln, I thought the Marshal was negotiating with Louis for peace,” he said. “What happened?”
Sean’s expression turned bitter. “They simply could not come to an agreement,” he said. “Louis has too many stipulations, too many men he wants pardoned or, worse still, given lands in England. The Marshal has denied him most of his demands, and Louis has resolved to fight on. We only recently received news about the incoming fleet and we suspect it will be docking somewhere at or near Dover.”
Dashiell was looking at the map, which included most of Kent and Dover. “I was very much hoping Lincoln would be the last of it,” he said. “It seems as if we’ve not even seen the worst of it yet if Louis is waiting for a fleet to support him. That means new and fresh men, Sean. Our warlords are exhausted from years of heavy fighting.”
Sean knew that. “We will have to take a last stand at Dover,” he muttered. “It was a chance we took inviting the French over in the first place to help us defeat John, but we have a new king and no longer any need for French support. Still, Louis cannot understand that. He wants what we have promised him and I cannot say that I blame him, but promising him the throne of England was done in desperation. We are no longer desperate and we must push the French away once and for all. If we do not, I fear we will lose our country.”
It was a terrifying thought. Bentley was listening now; he had a new son, and a new position as the Duke of Savernake, and he didn’t want to risk any of that. Bentley was a good man and the Savernake dukedom was in good hands after he married the heiress last year. The more he heard the conversation between Sean and Dashiell, the more concerned he became.
“Has the Marshal put out a call to everyone, Sean?” he asked from across the table. “I cannot imagine that he would not summon every warlord in England.”
Sean looked to the young and handsome duke. “Everyone, my lord,” he said. “The de Lohr brothers, Worcester and Canterbury, are already in Kent, heading for Dover, as is Arundel and nearly everyone else from the south of England. It takes longer, of course, to send word to the far reaches of the country, which is why he asked me to stop at Ramsbury. He would like to see Savernake’s army move out within the week.”
Dashiell was looking at Bentley; the two were close friends and had served together for many years. If they couldn’t read each other’s minds these days, then they were close to it. Dashiell said what Bentley was thinking.
“We shall be ready,” he said quietly. “Have you sent word to East Anglia and Norfolk? My father should be mobilizing his army, and Norfolk has de Winter at its head. You must have their strength.”
Before Sean could reply, a Savernake soldier appeared in the doorway of the solar, knocking on the doorjamb in the open portal.
“My lord?” the soldier said. “Beg pardon for interrupting, but we received a missive from Narborough Castle. It is for Dashiell.”
Dashiell stood up and went to the door. “Speaking of de Winter,” he said ironically. He took the missive and sent the soldier away, breaking the seal as he headed back to the table. “It is probably from Bric, wanting to know when our army is departing for Kent. Surely they have already been informed.”
The seal came away and Dashiell reclaimed his seat next to Sean as he started to read. Bentley turned back to his missive and Sean accepted the food brought to him by the manservant. He plowed into the warmed-over beef and gravy, with big hunks of bread to sop up the juices. In fact, he was so involved in his meal, and Bentley was so focused on his missive, that neither one of them noticed the expression on Dashiell’s face as he read the missive twice. When he finally finished, he lowered the missive to the table and simply stared at it.
“Oh, God…” he finally muttered. “I cannot believe it.”
Bentley didn’t look up from his missive. “What?”
“Bric is in trouble.”
That prompted Bentley to look at him. “What do you mean? What has he done?”
Dashiell shook his head, picking the missive up and handing it over to Bentley. “You misunderstand,” he said. “Read it. This missive comes from Lady de Winter and she says Bric has suffered a breakdown, of both the spirit and the mind. Eiselle has asked for my help.”
By this time, Sean was looking up from his food. “Bric?” he repeated. “Bric MacRohan?”
Dashiell nodded, his expression tense with concern. “You would not know this, but Bric married my cousin recently,” he said. “He suffered a serious injury shortly after their marriage in the battle at Holdingham Castle. According to Lady de Winter, the injury turned Bric into a timid man, but he went to battle against French rebels at Castle Acre recently and in the heat of battle, accidentally killed one of his own men. Lady de Winter says that Bric is unable to function any longer and that my cousin requests that I come to Bedingfeld Manor in Norfolk immediately.”
Sean stopped chewing. “MacRohan?” he said again, as if he didn’t believe it. “This cannot be the same Bric MacRohan I know.”
“I am afraid it is.”
“But… it is simply not possible.”
Dashiell was nearly ill with distress. “Possible or not, I am sure Lady de Winter would not lie about the situation.”
Bentley read the missive twice before setting it down. He, too, appeared greatly distressed. “My God,” he breathed. “He cut down one of his own men. I wonder who it was?”
Dashiell shrugged. “Does it matter? I can only imagine how I would feel if I cut you down, or any other warrior close to me. God, it must have destroyed Bric completely for him to lose sight of his duty like this. Honestly, I am in shock by all of this.”
Bentley was, too. He looked down at the missive as if more of an explanation would be contained within those words, something that gave a catastrophic reason behind Bric’s collapse. But all he could see was desperation in Lady de Winter’s careful writing, speaking of a man they all knew.
But it was like she was speaking of another man entirely.
“There is no denying we have seen lesser knights fold under the stress of battle,” Bentley said. “It is not uncommon. But it certainly does not happen to men as fearless and powerful as Bric MacRohan.”
Dashiell could only shake his head. “Well, something has happened to him, or Lady de Winter would not have sent this missive,” he said. “Were it not for Bric, I would not be alive, and you, Bent, would not be the Duke of Savernake. He has made all things possible for us and we owe him everything.”
“Truer words were never spoken, Dash.”
As Dashiell nodded firmly to Bentley’s statement, Sean spoke. “Bric and I have seen a few battles together,” he said. “I do not know him as well as you two do, but I consider him a friend. Hearing this greatly disturbs me. Men like MacRohan do not break.”
Dashiell sighed faintly, thinking of the last time he saw Bric as he’d been recuperating from his battle injury. “The last time I saw him was after he’d been badly wounded,” he said. “He’d been weak but alive, and certain nothing to indicate he was… disturbed. But he had passed into unconsciousness and I left before he recovered. Still… sometimes the strongest men cannot bend, and when stress becomes too great, they simply shatter. I have seen it before, as Bent has said. Mayhap Bric was so strong that when he finally felt weakness as others do, mayhap… mayhap it was simply enough to destroy him.”
The mood of the chamber was full of gloom. Each man was lost to his thoughts of Bric MacRohan, evidently weakened beyond his endurance. It simply didn’t seem possible, to any of them, coming from a man such as Bric. But Dashiell knew there was only one thing to do.
“I must go to him,” he finally said, standing up from his stool. “Bent, I will have Aston muster the army to move to Kent. But I must attend Bric and I will have to meet you in Kent at some point.”
“Wait,” Bentley stood up, too. “I agree that Aston can handle the army, which is why I am going with you. You said it yourself – I owe Bric my very happiness. If he is in trouble, then I will do all I can to help.”
Aston Summerlin was Dashiell’s second in command at Ramsbury, a knight who was quite capable, as they were suggesting. Therefore, the army could still move out as the Marshal had requested. But Dashiell and now Bentley would not be moving out with the army.
They had something more important to attend to, and Dashiell accepted Bentley’s help without argument.
“Sean,” Dashiell turned to the man next to him. “I know you wanted to return home to see your wife, but Bent and I should leave immediately. Could you possibly put off your departure until tomorrow to aid Aston as he assembles the army? He may require your assistance and I would consider it a personal favor.”
Sean shook his head, rising to his feet. “I am going with you,” he said. “Bric has been a paragon of power for the cause of England in every battle I have ever fought with the man. If he is in trouble, then mayhap you will need my assistance more than Aston will. I have seen men crumble under the pressure of battle and it is not a sight for the faint of heart. I know what it is like to be so badly wounded that you are certain death will claim you. I know what it feels like to struggle to return from such an injury, thinking that you will never be the same again. Let me come, Dash; I may be of some use to MacRohan.”
Dashiell was genuinely touched by Sean’s offer. There was no more noble or dedicated man in all of England as far as Dashiell was concerned, knowing Sean’s past as he did. He was a man of great experience and great worth. That he should want to help Bric, too, spoke volumes to the man’s generosity.
“Of course you may come,” he said after a moment. “But what of your wife? I would imagine we will spend some time at Bedingfeld and you may not be able to return to her before we head for Kent.”
Sean grunted, regretfully. “The Marshal wants his armies in Kent in the next few weeks,” he said. “We will have very little time as it is, so it was not like I was going to have a good deal of time to spend with my wife. But this… this is important and she would understand that. Bric is in command of the de Winter war machine, and as powerful as it is, it will not be nearly as strong without him at the helm. Do you get my meaning?”
Dashiell did. “We must put a sword in Bric’s hand again.”
“It sounds heartless, but when men suffer such as Bric is evidently suffering, the longer they are allowed to wallow in their depression, the more likely that they will never wield a sword again.”
“Then the sooner we help him regain what he has lost, the better for us all.”
“We need him in Kent, Dash. A man like MacRohan is irreplaceable. We must help him find himself again.”
It did sound heartless, but it was also true. They needed Bric’s power and command presence against the French, in perhaps the final battle to end all battles as they had been suffering through since King John and his warlords splintered into separate factions. If William Marshal thought the battle at Dover was going to be enormous, then chances were, it would be. It would also be decisive.
They needed a man of Bric’s caliber to help win that fight.
“Then we go to help him for his own sake,” Dashiell said with some finality in his tone. “But we also help him for England’s sake as well.”
Sean simply nodded. It was something they all knew. Their reasons for going to Bric’s aid were altruistic, but they were also self-serving. Without Bric in the battle, somehow, they would be diminished as a whole, so it was imperative to get Bric back on his feet. It was imperative to fight off the demons that had the man in their grips and put that broadsword back in his hand so he could do what he was born to do.
He wasn’t called the High Warrior without reason.