CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Faster, faster!”
As Manducor watched from afar, Dashiell was bellowing at Bric, urging him on in a heated race to see who could chop through a six-inch-thick oak log faster. It was Bric and Dashiell against Bentley and Sean, and at the moment, Sean and Bric were in a dead-heat, pounding away with axes against oak logs that were nearly as hard as stone.
Beneath the summer sun, Bric was sweating buckets. He was stripped down to his breeches and boots, as were Dashiell and Sean, all of them straining under the sun, struggling to beat one another in a race of strength that had been taking place for almost two hours.
Bric and Sean would chop away at logs until they split in two, and then quickly put another log up for Bentley and Dashiell to cut away at. It was a matter of pride now as the men labored against each other. Dashiell was like a wagon master, whipping his beasts as he bellowed at Bric, telling him that Sean was about to win so Bric would hit the wood harder and faster. Then, when the tides would turn and it was Dashiell’s time to chop, Bric turned into the Irish master knight that the de Winter army had feared and loved for years. He would insult and shout at Dashiell until the man wanted to throw a punch at him.
But that Irish master was the glimpse the men were hoping to see.
Truthfully, Dashiell feared what would happen to him if he didn’t beat Bentley, so he chopped wood harder and faster than he had in years, finally beating Bentley by a significant margin. When he quickly put another log back on the stump for Bric to chop, he stood back and cheered the man on as the High Warrior pounded on the wood with the ax that was quickly growing dull from such use. After chopping through twenty-four fairly large pieces of oak between the four of them, the men finally called a rest and everyone dropped what they were doing.
Bentley collapsed onto his backside in the dirt as Sean and Dashiell leaned up against the side of the manse. Bric was the only man standing without support, his shoulders red-kissed by the summer sun and the freckles on his skin even more pronounced than ever. But the purple scar on the left side of his torso was also pronounced, giving Dashiell, Sean, and Bentley a glimpse at the wound that nearly killed him. Sean finally pointed at it.
“So that was your injury,” he said.
Bric, panting and wiping sweat from his brow, looked down at his torso and nodded. “That is the hole a French bastard put in me,” he said. “It was a heavy arrow, one used to take down horses and boars and the like. It happened to hit me instead.”
Sean shook his head in wonder. “It is truly a miracle that you survived,” he said. “But you did survive, Bric. Can you not feel the joy of life right now, competing with your friends and losing to me?”
They all laughed, especially Bric. “You did not best me, de Lara,” he said. “You may be a man of legend, but I am a man of strength. Is mise an laoch ard.”
Sean smirked. “And what does that mean in your terrible language?”
“It means that I am the High Warrior. You cannot best me.”
“Ah,” Sean said. “You have not lost your arrogance. That is good. That tells me the knight inside of you is alive and well.”
Bric wasn’t sure how to respond to that. While he was considering his reply, he didn’t see Bentley getting to his feet and casually moving over towards the corner of the manse where he’d propped up two broadswords. As Sean kept Bric’s attention, Bentley handed Dashiell a sword as he moved around behind Bric, keeping his broadsword behind his back should Bric see him. When Bentley finally moved into position and nodded his head, Dashiell suddenly shouted.
“Bric!” he boomed. “Behind you!”
Bric startled as he’d never startled in his life. Behind you! God, those words… those terrible words… and suddenly, he was back in the dark river of Castle Acre Priory, and Mylo was yelling at him because a French knight was about to take his head off. His heart leapt into his throat and a bolt of terror raced through him, but it was also a bolt of rage.
Pure, unadulterated rage.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Dashiell tossing a broadsword at him and he deftly caught it, purely a reflex, before spinning around to see Bentley charging at him, sword held high.
The rage took over at that point. Bentley had been a high-caliber knight long before he’d been the Duke of Savernake, but he was no match for an enraged Bric. Bric brought his sword down to bear on top of Bentley, who was literally staggered by the blow. Just as he rolled to his left so that he could come back in for another strike, Bric lashed out a big boot and caught the man on the side of the knee. As Bentley went down in pain, Bric tossed the broadsword aside and threw a fist into Bentley’s jaw.
The man went sprawling.
But Bric wasn’t finished. He was going in for the kill. He hadn’t taken two steps when Sean rushed up behind him and grabbed him around the chest, pulling him back as Dashiell moved in to protect Bentley, who was only half-conscious. Unfortunately, Sean was having a difficult time, even with his size and strength, restraining Bric.
“Easy, Bric,” he said steadily. “No harm done. We were simply testing your reflexes and I am happy to say that your knightly traits are still there. You are still as deadly as you ever were.”
A test. That made the whole thing even worse. When Bric realized what they had done, he yanked himself from Sean’s grasp, still furious and shaken. His face was red and sweaty, and he began to pace, keeping away from Sean and Dashiell and now Bentley, who was starting to come around. They were all looking at him with concern but perhaps even a ray of hope. Yet, Bric dashed all of that.
“Mylo shouted those same words to me at Castle Acre when we were fighting,” he said, his lips white because he was so angry. “He shouted those exact words and when I turned around, I killed him. Damn you for taking me back to that time I have been trying so hard to forget.”
Bentley was just sitting up, shaking off the bells, but he heard Bric’s angry words. He looked up at Dashiell, whose expression was stoic – but only marginally. It was clear by the tick in his jaw that he was deeply regretful.
“We did not know, Bric,” Dashiell said quietly. “You know we would have never used that tactic had we known. I am sorry you are so angry. As Sean said, you still have your knightly instincts. Those have not gone away. Mayhap we have clumsily proved that to you, but it is true.”
Bric stood back, flexing his big fists, his features taut with rage. Bentley was climbing to his feet at this point, pulled up by Dashiell, and Bric’s focus seemed to be on the man he’d just punched in the jaw.
So many things were going through Bric’s mind. He knew his friends had only been trying to help, but their poor choice of words and tactics had caused him to relive the moment he’d killed Mylo. The terror of that moment was all he could seem to feel, and his heart was still pounding from the excitement of it.
But this time, things had gone markedly different.
Bentley was alive.
As Bric looked at Bentley, he realized the man had survived not only his surprise, but his rage. He hadn’t been cut down as Mylo had. In truth, it was daylight and he could see much better than he had on the night in question, but he’d been moving so quickly that light wouldn’t have made any difference. Bric could see that now. Even if he had been able to see Mylo, because he had been moving so fast and everything was in such close proximity, he probably would have killed him, anyway. Nothing could have been done to spare him.
In realizing that, Bric’s anger began to fade.
Perhaps his clumsy friends had helped him, after all.
Taking a deep breath, he made his way over to Bentley, who took a step back when he realized Bric was heading towards him, perhaps to throw another punch. But he stood his ground after that, watching as Bric came up on him. He found himself looking the man in the face, wondering if he was going to get a tongue lashing or worse. But what Bric did next surprised them all.
Bric put his arms around Bentley and squeezed the man so tightly that Bentley was getting the air squeezed right out of him. The tears flowed from Bric’s eyes as he whispered over and over:
“You are alive. I did not kill you; you are alive.”
Bentley put his arms around Bric, too, in a brotherly gesture. “Aye, Bric,” he said. “I am alive. I am sorry if I startled you, but I am alive. You did not kill me.”
It was Bric’s acknowledgement that he knew they had only staged the attack to help him. Perhaps they even had. Dashiell watched the scene with a smile on his lips, a smile of relief and, indeed, a great deal of hope. He looked at Sean, who had the same expression. The man they so admired, the one they’d come to help, was capable of being helped.
There was optimism.
Bric held on to Bentley for a few moments longer before finally releasing the man, quickly wiping the tears from his face, embarrassed with his reaction. But in a small way, he felt better somehow.
“I would call you all idiots, but to do so would mean insulting a duke,” he said. “Suffice it to say that I apologize for my outburst. I know you were only trying to help. I suppose my biggest fear has been shaming myself in front of men I so deeply respect. I hope I have not done that – yet.”
Sean went to pick up the broadsword that Bric had tossed aside. “There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “Two years ago, I was like you. I’d just suffered a terrible injury at the hands of John’s assassins and should have died. Yet, I did not. I have come back, stronger than before, and you shall come back as well, Bric. It is only a matter of time. With help, your confidence will return. You will cast out those demons that haunt you.”
Bric knew of Sean’s past, the Lord of the Shadows who had been England’s greatest spy. That was why he respected the man so much – he’d gone head-to-head with King John and had lived to tell the tale. Not many men could say the same.
“I am glad you think so because, at the moment, I am not so sure,” he said. “I can use a sword, of course, but it does not feel natural in my hand any longer. It feels like something I am allergic to.”
“You were not allergic to it when you struck me with it,” Bentley said. “You used it as you have always used it. And you had better feed me well tonight if I am to forget about that blow to the jaw.”
Bric smiled weakly. “I will ply you with wine in the hope that you will forget a mere knight struck you.”
Bentley shook his head. “You are not a ‘mere’ knight, Bric,” he said. “You are the knight. I have the bruise to prove it.”
As everyone laughed softly, Sean went to Bric and put his hand on the man’s neck. “Now,” he said. “If you feel like continuing, then we have work to do. But do not be surprised if you are attacked again by a man wielding a broadsword. It may happen again, some time.”
Bric now understood what they were doing; trying to work the fear out of him and in doing so, help him regain his confidence. He’d told Eiselle in a low moment that he didn’t know who he was any longer but, at this moment, he was starting to recognize himself again, the knight who had taken a beating ever since his injury.
But he still had a long way to go.
“Then I suppose I shall have to accept it,” he said. “Are we finished chopping wood? I am growing bored.”
Sean cocked his head. “We are finished if you choose to submit to my victory.”
“I do not choose to submit to your victory.”
“Then we are not finished.”
The wood chopping, the yelling, and the camaraderie went on the rest of the day.
Three days later
“He is functioning much better,” Manducor said as he watched Eiselle fuss around the smaller feasting table in the hall of Bedingfeld. “I have been watching him and his companions for four days now and he seems to be getting much better. Yesterday, they had him participate in a mock sword fight and he beat de Lara right into the ground. There seems to be an anger in him when he fights, my lady. Such… anger.”
Eiselle was making sure everything on the table was nicely set for the evening feast. Bedingfeld had apple and pear orchards, and she’d gone out with Royce and a few of the servants today to pick apples and cut off some of the branches so that the table had a lovely decoration of apples and green-leafed branches. Her mother used to decorate their table so, and she thought it rather fresh and festive.
But Manducor’s words worried her. She had not really known her husband before his injury, so she could only base her knowledge of him on her experiences since their marriage. He didn’t seem like an angry man to her, simply overwrought and exhausted at times, so his anger wasn’t something she was familiar with.
“Mayhap they are working him too hard,” she finally said. “Mayhap he is angry because his friends are pushing him so.”
Manducor could only shrug. “They are pushing him so that he will recover,” he reminded her. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.”
“Then mayhap the anger he feels is at himself.”
Eiselle looked up from the table. “Why would you say that?”
Manducor reached out and took one of the apples from her careful decoration, taking a big bite out of it. As he spoke, pieces of apple went flying from his lips.
“Bric is a man of strength,” he said. “That is all he knows. To lose that strength would make him very angry at himself, so this is a way of displaying that anger. But I would not worry; mayhap it is all part of the process of restoring him to what he was before.”
Eiselle believed his words because they made sense to her. “I hope so,” she said. Then, he stole another apple and she found herself wishing he’d go away from her pretty table. “Why are you not out there with the men? Why are you in here with me?”
Manducor averted his gaze, chomping down on his second apple. “They do not need an old man in the way,” he said. “You have four of the finest knights I have ever seen out in your garden, Lady MacRohan. Not just any knights; you even have a duke. Who am I? A knight who laid down his sword to become a priest. I am not worthy to be with the likes of them.”
Eiselle replaced the apple he’d taken with another one in her basket. “You are very worthy,” she said. “Whether or not you realize it, you have been a great help to both Bric and me. You have a great deal of wisdom. But I must ask you something.”
“Anything, my lady.”
“Are you ever going to tell me your real name?”
He snorted, taking the last bite of the apple and tossing the core into the hearth. “I am Jesus Christ,” he said, throwing up his arms. “I am John the Baptist, the Apostle Paul, and Charlemagne. I am every man.”
Eiselle chuckled at him. “You are impossible,” she said. But quickly, she sobered. “Do you remember when you and I used to have discussions about God speaking?”
Manducor nodded. “I do.”
She looked at him. “Has He spoken to you about Bric?” she asked. “Surely, I would have thought God would speak to you about something so important.”
Manducor pondered her words. “I think, mayhap, we are looking at this all wrong,” he said. “We are waiting for God to use words. But when those three knights arrived to help Bric, mayhap that was God speaking in actions. He sent those men here to help. Did you ever think of it that way?”
Eiselle hadn’t, but she liked the idea. “I had the missive sent to Dash.”
“And Dash came and brought his friends,” he pointed out. “You did not ask for that, so mayhap God is speaking through de Lara and de Vaston.”
Eiselle was comforted by his words. Perhaps God had been speaking all along but she had been listening for the wrong sign.
It was certainly something to consider.
Manducor turned to leave the hall, perhaps to go and watch the knights he’d been shadowing since they arrived. He’d never actively participated in what they were doing, as he said, but he’d been watching them closely and reporting back to Eiselle.
Eiselle, too, had kept a low profile since the arrival of Dashiell and the others, not wanting to be a distraction or a crutch to Bric, who seemed to be genuinely responding to what they were doing. His mood seemed better, and although his hands bled from the work and his body was sore at night, he seemed to be enjoying it immensely and that was all she could hope for. He did seem better and Eiselle could not have been more pleased.
In fact, she was so very happy the he seemed to be returning to normal, much more like the man she’d met on the day she’d arrived at Narborough. Not that she didn’t love the man he’d become. In truth, she loved his weaker moments with her, the moments he would let his emotions run free. But in order for Bric to be healthy, he had to return to the man he’d been before the madness started.
She was starting to see that, little by little.
Leaving her half-dressed table, she followed Manducor as he headed up the spiral stairs. She knew he was going to the chamber with the windows that overlooked the garden, and she wanted to see what her husband was taking part in on this fine day because, in truth, they could hear the shouting all the way in the hall. Whatever it was must have been exciting.
Once Eiselle and Manducor peered from the windows overlooking the garden to see the activity below, it was something that immediately brought a smile to Eiselle’s lips. Someone had set up four targets against the western wall of the garden, targets that consisted of hay from the stables that had been bundled up with rope. She could see that they’d taken charcoal from the ashes of a fire and had drawn targets on the hay bundles, dark enough so they could be seen from a good distance away.
Then, standing over against the eastern wall of the garden, she could see the four knights, all lined up. They had longbows and arrows in their hands and as she watched, she could see Bric and Sean arguing over the fact that Sean had a crossbow that he wanted to use, when everyone else had traditional longbows. Sean finally surrendered the crossbow and picked up the same bow that the others hand. Using arrows that Dashiell and Sean had brought with them, they all lined up, aimed at the targets, and fired.
Eiselle heard cheering as the knights rushed across the garden to see who came the closest to their targets and Manducor pointed out young Royce as he stood along the southern wall of the garden, jumping up and down excitedly.
The sight of the servant boy gave Eiselle an idea; if young Royce could watch from inside the garden, then she wanted to watch at close range, too. It was true that she’d been purposely staying out of the way as of late, but in watching her handsome husband and his friends, she couldn’t stay away any longer. She very much wanted to see them up close.
Departing the chamber with Manducor on her heels, she rushed back the way she’d come, heading out of the rear door of the manse and onward to the walled garden where all of the excitement was happening.
Excitement, today, that she intended to be part of.
Unaware that his audience in the manse was coming to take a closer look, Bric was standing by the targets he’d helped build, noting that he, Dashiell, and Sean had hit their targets while Bentley had been slightly off. While Bentley was out of the competition at that point, humiliated in a good-natured sort of way, Bric, Dashiell, and Sean began arguing over who had come closest to the very center of the target.
It was Sean who had started the argument because, in truth, it was a ploy to distract Bric. As the men argued and pointed, Bentley went to collect the broadsword that they’d been carrying around for four days, attacking Bric with it intermittently, and watching the man’s reaction to the surprise attacks.
After the first attack, when Bric had become so angry and then had broken down and wept, the High Warrior’s reactions were quickly improving. Sometimes it was Bentley doing the charge, sometimes it was Dashiell, and once it was Sean, an attack that had turned into a fist fight when Bric disarmed Sean and had furiously thrown a punch.
But there had been no animosity, even when Sean ended up with a bloodied nose. They’d all laughed in the end, and hugged one another, and everything had been fine between them. It was all part of the healing process for a man who had done much healing as of late.
But he had also become wise to their tricks, very quickly.
Therefore, when Bentley came up behind Bric with a broadsword leveled at him, Bric was ready. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, ripped the arrow from its target, and then moved swiftly away from Bentley’s sword to come up beside the man, grab his hair, and hold the arrowhead as his throat.
Instantly compromised, Bentley dropped the sword, but Bric held the sharp arrowhead at his throat a few seconds longer before breaking down into laughter and releasing the man. Rubbing his scalp where Bric had grabbed his hair, Bentley held up a hand.
“I am not doing this again,” he said. “The last three times, I’ve had my hair grabbed or my knees kicked out. I refuse to be pummeled any longer.”
As he turned to pick up the sword that had been dropped, Dashiell snorted. “That is the only reason we brought you along,” he said. “It certainly was not because you could hit a target with an arrow.”
Bentley scowled. “I can still hit your eye with my fist.”
Dashiell shrugged. “And it is your right to do so, Savernake.”
It was Dashiell acknowledging the hierarchy that hadn’t existed until last year between them. Before that, Bentley had been his subordinate, but marrying the heiress to the Savernake dukedom had changed the dynamics somewhat. Still, they were great friends, and Dashiell showed Bentley all of the respect he’d ever shown the former duke. That was never in question. But the knightly camaraderie hadn’t changed between them.
Bentley chuckled at Dashiell to let him know there wasn’t, and never would be, any animosity. Taking the sword in-hand, he headed over to the stone bench to set it down as Royce, excited more than his little mind could adequately handle, came rushing up to the knights as they began to pull their arrows out of the hay targets.
“I saw you, my lord!” he said as he jumped up and down. “You shot the arrows!”
Bric looked over at the child; Royce had been something of their shadow for the past few days, but he’d stayed well out of sight most of the time. Today was the first day he’d actually come into the area where they were, into the garden this time, and Bric frowned at the boy.
“Aye, I shot the arrow,” he said. “What are you doing in the garden? Your mother will be cross with you.”
Royce’s features flickered with concern, meaning he knew very well that he wasn’t supposed to be here, but his excitement had overruled his fear of punishment.
“But I want to fight,” he said. “You said I could be a soldier. Can I shoot the arrow, too?”
Bric had to admit that the bold little servant boy was growing on him. “Mayhap later,” he said. “We are busy at the moment, but mayhap when we are finished. Until then, you can do a job for us.”
Royce began jumping up and down again. “I will do it! I will do it!”
“You do not even know what it is yet.”
Royce stopped jumping and just grinned, a gap-toothed smile that had Bric chuckling at the lad. The child certainly was enthusiastic, for anything at all when it came to the knights and combat.
“When we are finished shooting the arrows, it will be your job to carefully remove them and bring them back to me,” Bric said. “Do not break them. Can you do that?”
Royce nodded eagerly and ran straight to the targets as if to stand there and wait for the arrows to come. But Bric waved a big arm at him.
“If you stand there, you are going to be hit with the arrows,” he said. Then he pointed to the southern wall. “Go and stand there. Do not move until I tell you to.”
Wildly, with arms and legs flying, Royce raced over to the wall and stood there, but he was not still. He was bouncing around with excitement, and Bric had to shake his head with humor. He’d never thought about children as being adorable before, but if he did, the boy was all that.
“Who is that?” Sean asked.
Bric glanced at him to see that his focus was on Royce. “That is a servant boy who very badly wants to fight for de Winter,” he said. “His name is Royce and he will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Sean, having twin daughters who were slightly younger than Royce, seemed to have some patience for the child. He didn’t order him away or snap; he simply shrugged and turned back to his work. The knights finished gathering their arrows and returned to the spot where they’d been firing at their targets. Resuming their positions and taking aim, another volley of arrows flew to their marks.
In truth, it was an exercise that was helping Bric a great deal. Fire, collect arrows. Fire, collect arrows. It was repetition in the strictest sense of the word. They’d been doing it most of the morning because, yesterday, Bric had spoken of the arrow that had wounded him and it was Sean and Dashiell’s impression that arrows in general were making Bric nervous these days. This morning when the men had come out to continue their work, Bric had seen the hay bunches set up with targets, and they’d been firing arrows at them since early morning.
The first two volleys had been difficult for Bric. His palms had sweated, and his heart had pounded, but as the day continued and they fired off round after round, the sweaty palms eventually faded, and his heart rate had returned to normal. The repetition of it had calmed him down and the competition of it turned the act of a firing arrow into something that wasn’t so terrifying. Certainly, arrows were still deadly, but the more he used the bow and arrow, the more he began to put the weapon into perspective.
An arrow had nearly killed him, but he wasn’t going to let that disturb him any longer.
He was slowly regaining control.
After firing off their last arrows, Bric whistled between his teeth, loudly, to get Royce’s attention. When the boy looked at him, he motioned to the targets, and the child raced over and began yanking out the arrows, or at least the ones he could reach. Bric turned away from the boy to examine his longbow, which was starting to splinter. This was a longbow that was kept in the small armory at the manse for protection, and he inspected the split closely as Dashiell came up next to him.
“What is the trouble?” Dashiell asked.
Bric sighed, with some frustration. “These longbows have been in the armory for quite some time and it is clear that no one has maintained them. This one is starting to split under the stress. You had better check the other longbows as well.”
Dashiell did just that. He and Bentley began pouring over the bows while Sean headed out to the targets to help Royce collect the arrows that were taller than his reach. The boy had already toppled one hay bundle trying to reach the arrows at the top, so Sean went out to assist him. The young servant boy was thrilled to see yet another knight and even at a distance, Bric could hear the boy telling Sean how much he wanted to fight. It made him smile, something Dashiell noticed.
“Why are you grinning, Bric?” Dashiell asked. “What is so funny about a splintered longbow?”
Bric shook his head, looking to the west side of the garden where Royce was evidently showing Sean his moves with a stick he’d picked up off the ground, the same moves he’d tried to show Bric the first day they’d met.
“I am not smiling at a broken longbow,” he said. “I can hear the servant boy from here. He was very excited to see me on my first day here, also, and told me how he wanted to be a knight. I wonder if my own son shall be so eager to follow in my footsteps.”
Dashiell’s gaze moved to the far end of the garden where Sean pretended to seriously watch Royce as the child demonstrated his skill.
“Your son will have the greatest teacher in all of England in his father,” he said. “In fact, I will send my own son to you for training.”
Bric looked at him, a somewhat surprised expression on his face. “You would…?” He stopped, swallowed, and then started again. “Even after all of this, you would still send your son to me for training?”
Dashiell nodded without hesitation. “Bric, you worry overly,” he said. “You seem to think that we are all ashamed of you, but the truth is that our respect for you has not changed. All men falter from time to time; it is part of a man’s nature, I think. But you are so damned perfect that when you faltered, it was completely unnatural and you thought the entire world had caved in. But it hasn’t, you know. Don’t you see? You are still as great as you ever were. Greater, even, because you are working to overcome something that could have destroyed you. But you did not let it. That is the mark of a true man.”
Of everything that had been said and done over the past four days, Dashiell’s words of faith, in stressing how he would gladly send his son to Bric for training, bolstered Bric more than anything ever had. Dashiell believed in him. In fact, all of these men believed in him or else they would not have come. Bric never felt the bonds of brotherhood, or of friendship, more strongly than he did at that moment.
“You deserve the credit, not me,” he said quietly. “My wife was right to send word to you, Dash. I do not know if I could have done this without you.”
Dashiell patted him on the shoulder. “You could have,” he said. “It just would not have been nearly as fun. We have had a good time at your expense, Bric. But it was worth it.”
Bric chuckled softly. “I do feel better,” he said. “I feel as if I can face myself again. I can hold a sword again and I can shoot a longbow again without my palms sweating. That is progress.”
“It is, indeed.”
“I suppose I shall know for certain when I next find myself in battle.”
Dashiell looked at him, thinking that now might be a good time to tell him about William Marshal’s directive to England’s armies. But he didn’t get the words out of his mouth before Eiselle suddenly appeared, and Manducor along with her. After that, Bric was righteously distracted.
As well the man should have been. His lovely wife had just entered the garden and she was all he could see. Clad in a pale blue dress made from a light fabric to combat the warmer temperatures of summer, she looked radiant and rosy-cheeked as she headed straight for her husband. Bric handed the longbow over to Dashiell to go and greet her.
“Lady MacRohan,” he said as he reached out to take her hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
Eiselle positively glowed at her husband. “We could see you practicing with your longbows from the window,” she said. “I also saw Royce cheering you on, so I thought if he can come out here and not be chased away, mayhap I can come out here, too. May we watch?”
Bric kissed her hand again. “Of course you may,” he said. “But I do not think we shall be practicing with the longbows anymore today. Mine has a crack in it and I do not think the others will be able to stand up to the strain, so we are going to find something else to do. But whatever it is, you may watch.”
Eiselle beamed, wrapping her arms around his big bicep. “More wood chopping?”
“God, no.”
“More lugging around those very big tree stumps?”
Bric made a face, glancing over at Bentley and Sean, who were coming over to join them. “Those damnable stumps have my eternal ire,” he said. “Moving those things around the stable yard nearly broke my back. Whose stupid idea was that, anyway?”
Bentley and Dashiell laughed as Sean spoke up. “Are you calling me stupid?”
Bric cocked an eyebrow. “Not you; simply your idea to drag those tree stumps all over the place.”
“It was a test of strength, Bric.”
“I do not need to test my strength. I know how strong I am.”
Sean’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “As do I,” he said. “I shall tell your wife to make the next garment she sews for you a dress because, clearly, you need one. You complain just like a woman.”
Bric started to laugh. “Bleeding Christ, you’re a vicious beast.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
By that time, they were all laughing. Eiselle could see the easy camaraderie between the men and it did her heart good to see Bric’s good mood. The man was quite humorous when he wanted to be, and she was coming to see a side of him she hadn’t really seen before. All she’d seen was the serious side of him, the sad side of him, and the sweet side of him on occasion. But this side was quite bristly, in a funny sort of way.
“It is getting rather warm,” she said, looking up into the bright blue sky and shielding her eyes from the sun. “Why not come into the manse? It is cooler inside and the cook has made some cider. It will be delicious on this warm day.”
Bric thought some time with his wife would be a good idea, but Sean, ever the task-master, shook his head.
“We are not finished yet,” he said, “but I will look forward to sampling the cider come this evening, Lady MacRohan. Your husband has more things to accomplish before he can rest for the night.”
Bric sighed with great frustration. “Accomplish what?” he demanded. “More tree-moving? Or do you wish for me to find rocks in the fields and then build you a house with them? What more could we possibly have to do today, Sean?”
Sean fought off a grin. “You are complaining like an old woman again, MacRohan.”
“Taispeánfaidh mé mo chuid liathróid duit má chreideann tú sin.”
“Stop it with your devil’s tongue already. What in the hell does that mean?
“It means that I will show you my ballocks if you really believe I am an old woman.”
Sean burst out laughing and Eiselle pulled away from Bric, covering her ears. “Bric!” she gasped. “How crude!”
Bric looked at his wife, suddenly very contrite. “I am sorry, my dearest,” he said. “But no man will call me an old woman, most especially in front of my wife.”
Eiselle shook her head at him but she couldn’t quite summon the serious face necessary to convey her disapproval at so boorish an insult. She grinned, slapping her hand over her mouth, as she turned for the manse.
“I am going inside where we do not speak of such things,” she said. “Leave the vulgarity out here, for if it comes inside, I may have to beat it to death.”
“Aye, my lady.”
“I mean what I say, MacRohan. Not in my house.”
“I swear to you, I will never again be so rude in front of you.”
His eyes were glimmering with mirth as he spoke, properly remorseful, and Eiselle thought it was one of his more charming moments. He was being quite sweet and contrite, but there was a flirt in the air as he said it, something she’d never quite experienced from the man. She rather liked it. She was just about to say so when one of the old house servants suddenly entered the garden.
The servant was a very old man with fine, white hair. It would fly around his head and look like a cloud. Everyone turned to the poor old man, who seemed terribly nervous in the presence of so many fighting men. Serving in the quiet manse as he was, he wasn’t used to the boisterous knights.
“Forgive me for interrupting, m’lord,” he said, pointing a gnarled finger in the general direction of the front of the manse. “Lord de Winter has arrived. He has asked for ye.”
The warm mood that had been present only moments earlier vanished. Bric’s brow furrowed in surprise.
“Daveigh?” he repeated. “Here?”
The old man nodded. “He is in the hall, m’lord. He has asked for ye and the lady.”
Eiselle looked at Bric, who looked at her with equal astonishment. As Eiselle turned for the manse in a rush, Bric turned to his friends.
“I cannot imagine why he has come,” he said, “but you will all come with me. He will want to see you.”
With that, he turned for the manse as well, and Bentley immediately followed. But Dashiell and Sean hung back, collecting the arrows, and the longbows, lingering behind because they had something to say about de Winter’s unexpected visit. The arrival of Daveigh de Winter wasn’t coincidental, they were certain.
It was all starting to fall into place.
“De Winter must have received word from the Marshal,” Dashiell said quietly. “That must be why he has come. He has to move the de Winter army south and he will want to see if Bric can manage it.”
Sean nodded. “Truthfully, we could not have remained at Bedingfeld much longer,” he muttered, picking up the last longbow. “You know that as well as I do. We have been here four days, Dash. At some point, we were going to have to tell Bric about the Marshal’s order and convince him to go with us.”
Dashiell nodded reluctantly as they began to head towards the manse. “Indeed,” he said. “But de Winter should tell Bric about the orders to move into Kent, and if he doesn’t, then we shall have to tell Bric tonight, especially with de Winter here. If Daveigh has not been told what is happening, then you must tell him. The de Winter army must move south immediately.”
Sean knew that. They passed from the walled garden, seeing the manse looming in front of them. With all of the brotherhood and warmth, games and serious work that had gone on over the past four days, time had moved swiftly but Sean felt as if Bric had made tremendous progress. He was strong, that one, so strong that nothing short of God Himself could keep him down.
“I have every faith that Bric can lead the army,” he said as the door to the manse loomed before them. “Do you?”
Dashiell nodded. “I have seen the old Bric before me,” he said quietly. “But he said it best – sword play and target practice is one thing, but he has yet to face an actual battle.”
“And what do you think will happen when he does?”
They came to the open door, hearing voices inside as Bric greeted his liege. Dashiell came to a halt, facing Sean.
“I think Bric will lead the charge as he always does,” he muttered seriously. “And if he does not, we will be there to carry him. Whatever happens, I will not let him fail.”
“Nor will I.”
The situation was settled. Dashiell and Sean entered Bedingfeld to greet Daveigh, but the agreement between them – to keep Bric from failing – was set in stone. They never said another word about it.
They didn’t have to.
Bric MacRohan would succeed, no matter what.