Mossy did not dare elaborate. Turning away from the powerful knight, he meandered back to his cluttered table.
“I implore ye to allow Arissa to rest, my lord,” he said evenly. “Ye’re well aware of her fragile health and she’s in for a busy day on the morrow.”
Richmond gazed at the old man a moment, deeply puzzled and concerned. He’d never seen Arissa appear so off balance, and her state distressed him. He couldn’t recall saying anything offensive or so terribly horrifying that she should flee his company like a scared chicken.
Mossy, however, was correct. She was under a good deal of stress due to her impending birthday celebration and if his presence seemed to upset her as it apparently did, then he would do his best to stay away from her to allow her a measure of peace. But the thought of keeping his distance from her cut at him, razor-sharp edges of disappointment and sorrow. He hadn’t seen her in six months. In four weeks, he would most likely never see her again. His duty as guardian would be complete.
Massaging the back of his neck wearily, he quit Mossy’s tower room without another word.
*
He did not see Arissa until the evening meal. Lady Maude had joined the festivities, gracing the room with her fair, plump presence. Richmond truly liked the generous woman, loving and nurturing whereas her husband could be detached and unbending.
Arissa was already seated by the time he arrived, across the table from him as was her customary position. He took his seat beside William, trying desperately not to gaze into Arissa’s lovely face. Her manner earlier in the day continued to distress him greatly, but he refrained from mentioning his concern. He would not question her, nor did he expect an unsolicited explanation. Women were puzzling, frustrating creatures and it was oft their pleasure to act as they pleased.
Lady Regine de Lohr was seated to her sister’s left. A fair young girl on the brink of womanhood, she stuffed food into her mouth faster than she could chew. She kept smiling at Richmond, food falling from her lips, and he would shake his head at her in a negative manner every so often; of any living girl-child in England, the very one in dire need of being sent away to foster continued to live within the bosom of her birth-home. She was in desperate need of being separated from her coddling, soft mother in order to learn the true meaning of manners and grace.
Lady Maude still called her “baby”. If anyone needed to be taught the proper conduct of a gracious lady in an unbiased household, the round young lady grinning at him was a prime candidate.
But certainly not her sister. Richmond dared to glace at Arissa as she picked at her food. He hadn’t been able to get a good look at her since he returned until this very moment, and he was both grieved and elated to see that she had grown far more beautiful in the six months they had been separated. He did not think it was possible that Arissa could become any lovelier; obviously, he had been wrong.
Her silky black hair was pulled away from her face, falling in soft curls down her back. Lashes so thick that they appeared to be painted-on tickled her cheeks like little fans as she looked to her trencher. He couldn’t help himself from staring at her, thinking her to be the most exquisite creature God had ever created.
“Damn that Bartholomew,” William growled, breaking Richmond from his thoughts. “I told him to be here promptly for sup. He simply doesn’t listen.”
“Which is why Lord Lymse sent him home,” Richmond replied softly, forcing himself away from Arissa’s vision. “Bart had been fostering in Barham for a good ten years before the baron decided nothing could be done with him.”
William’s lip twitched in an irritated snarl before he quaffed deeply from his chalice. “My only son, heir to my seat. Good Christ, the earldom shall be passed on to an idiot.”
Richmond gazed at the man with amused sympathy. “Bart is not an idiot, William. He’s simply….”
“An idiot!” William snorted. “My son, the pagan.”
“He’s merely open-minded.”
“He questions the church’s teachings, for Christ’s sake! What is open minded about that?”
“He’s a curious lad, not unlike the rest. He simply focuses his energies into areas where most men fear to tread.”
William felt the familiar disappointment his son always managed to cast upon him. “Greek tragedies, Roman mythology, Paganistic rites. The man threatens to disrupt England as we know it.”
Richmond’s lips flickered with a smile. “Baron Lymse insists he’s an intelligent, well-read boy. Which is, unfortunately, his primary problem. He’s too intelligent and well-read.”
“He’s an idiot,” William muttered into his cup.
With a twinkle in his eye, Richmond turned away. Habitually, his gaze roved in Arissa’s direction and he was startled to find her staring at him.
Their eyes met, locked. Pale, delicious green upon bright blue. Richmond was the first to attempt an acknowledgment, lifting his cup slightly in her direction. Forcing a weak smile, Arissa lowered her gaze.
Richmond, too, tore his eyes away from her after a few moments, wondering how her familiar gaze could impact him as if it were the very first time they had met. Not a day went by that he did not curse God and Henry for delegating him with Arissa’s guardianship. Had they only just met, it would be far easier to declare his want for her. But as her guardian, he might as well have been her father. The roles were basically the same. He had a sick obsession, in love with a woman he had practically raised.
As he immersed himself deeper and deeper into his depressing thoughts, something on the gallery’s balcony caught his attention. Immediately, he glanced up to see Bartholomew de Lohr poised on the ledge dressed in a toga.
Outwardly, he did not change expression. A massive elbow gently jostled William, who was conversing with Carlton. When William turned inquisitively to Richmond, the knight simply pointed to the balcony.
“Good Christ!” William sputtered. “He… he’s indecent! What in the hell is he doing?”
Arissa and Regine turned around, gaping at the source of their father’s outrage. In fact, the entire room had gone eerily still as all attention riveted to the half-naked man.
Bartholomew was pleased to have their focus. He perched himself on the ledge with arrogant confidence, hooking a thumb in the shoulder-drape of his toga.
“Greetings, citizens!” he bellowed. “In honor of our returned hero, a prose as befitting the most glorious Roman Gladiator!”
“Good Christ,” William moaned, casting a glance at his mortified wife. He rose to his feet. “Come down from there, Bart! Go put some clothes on!”
Bartholomew cocked a blond eyebrow at his father. “When I am finished, Great Caesar, I shall be happy to join the orgy. Allow me to finish my performance.”
Arissa was smiling faintly at her brother; not because she found him humorous, but because he was trying so desperately to maintain his individuality in a world where the norm was to bear armor and clutch a sword in your hand. Bartholomew was immersed in a world where ancient Romans and Greeks were a part of his everyday existence, and he took great pride in extolling their literary works. In a world where one was considered odd if one was different, Bartholomew de Lohr was something of a freak of nature.
“No performance,” William waved him off firmly. “Go put your clothes on. You are offending the ladies.”
Bartholomew gave his father an irritated look. “This is a toga, Father. All correct Romans wore togas. Greeks, too. There is nothing shameful about it.”
William’s face began to mottle a faint red. “’Tis no wonder they destroyed their own civilizations with their decadent dress and eccentric manner. Lad, you were born a thousand years too late.”
Bartholomew cleared his throat, ignoring his father completely. Instead, he focused on Richmond. “Oh Noble Warrior,” he put his hand over his chest dramatically. “A verse in honor of your return:
‘So like they were, no mortal
Might one from other know;
White as snow
their armor was,
Their steeds were white as snow.
Never on earthy anvil
Did such rare armor gleam,
And never did such gallant steeds
Drink of an earthly stream.’”
Arissa and Regine clapped loudly, as did Penelope and Emma far down the table. The older ladies seemed to be indecisive, while the men appeared to be plain embarrassed.
William, his face resting in his hand, peered at his son from between splayed fingers. “Are you finished?”
“Nay,” Bartholomew suddenly reached for a strip of rope that held one of the massive chandeliers in place. Gripping the rope, he suddenly swung out over the room to a chorus of shrieks.
“‘Back comes the chief in triumph
Who in the hour of fight….’”
Richmond was on his feet, leaping over the table with incredible agility for a man of his massive size. Arissa felt him move past her, startled as his thick arm inadvertently grazed her tender shoulder.
“Slowly, lad, slowly,” he cautioned Bartholomew. “Do not attempt to slide. Hand over hand.”
Bartholomew gazed down at Richmond as the rope spun him in circles. “I know how to descend a rope. Return to your seat so that I might finish your tribute.”
“I have heard enough tribute. Come down from there before you lose your grip and plunge to your death.”
“‘Hath seen the great Twin Brethren
In harness on his right.
Safe comes the ship to haven….’”
“Bartholomew, come down from there!” William boomed. “I shall have Richmond cut the rope if you are not to the floor by the time I count to five!”
Bartholomew glanced at his father. “I shall come down when I am finished. Can you not see that I am a sailor descending from the sails of my battleship? Listen to the rest of the prose.”
“Only a moment ago you were praising a knight in armor,” William held out his hands, completely frustrated. “Where in the hell did the sailor come from? Richmond has no interest in your inane sailor’s prose.”
Bartholomew sighed heavily; his father simply did not understand. “The sailor is a battle weary warrior returning home from the skirmish at Lake Regillus. If you knew anything at all about Roman history, you would know that Roman sailors were knights without horses.”
“I shall not argue the point,” William was mightily flushed, becoming more agitated by the minute. “Come down from there before I have you removed.”
Bartholomew was not deterred in the least. The rope, however, was working against him; the knot that held the chandelier so steadily was not designed to carry stress on the free end. As Bartholomew opened his mouth to finish his victory recitation, the knot suddenly slipped.
He plummeted several feet but maintained his grip. The rope continued to hold but was slipping steadily, bit by bit, lured on by Bartholomew’s considerable weight. The entire room was in a panic.
Richmond was directly below the young man; any attempt to descend the rope would most likely cause it to slip further, thereby dropping him the remaining twelve feet to the stone floor below. His mind working with lightning speed, he whirled to Carlton and Daniel.
“The tapestry above the earl’s chair!” he commanded. “Rip it down!”
Daniel bound over the table, leaping into the air and grasping the large tapestry that was nicely displayed high on the wall. The tapestry tore, shifted, and finally pulled free as Daniel rode it six or so feet to the ground. With Carlton’s help, they managed to yank from its remaining restraints.
Richmond took a corner of the fabric as Carlton and Daniel positioned themselves strategically. When their grips were sure, they placed themselves directly beneath Bartholomew.
“Everyone clear away from the table!” Richmond shouted; the chandelier was sure to come crashing down the moment Bartholomew released his hold. “Out of the room. Now!”
Richmond le Bec’s orders were not meant to be delayed, refused, or questioned. Without hesitation, the entire dining table cleared and the occupants scampered from the room.
Except for Arissa. She was terrified that her brother was going to plummet to his death and, worse, Richmond would most likely be crushed beneath him. Pressed against the wall as far as she could go, she watched in wide-eyed horror.
Richmond did not see her; he was singularly focused on the young man clinging to the rope above his head.
“Jump, Bart,” he encouraged. “We shall catch you!”
Bartholomew gazed down at the spread tapestry, knowing he had little choice in the matter. His grand performance had been ruined, unfortunately, but not entirely destroyed. In fact, he thought it had ended on a rather exciting note. Too bad Richmond had cleared the room of his audience.
He loosened his grip.
“‘Safe comes the ship to haven,
Through billows and through gales
If once the great Twin Brethren….’”
He suddenly let go, falling through the air like a stricken bird, his toga flapping wildly and revealing his taut, hairy buttocks. He landed with a grunt on the tapestry, his dead weight causing Daniel to lose his grip.
Bartholomew crashed to the floor and Daniel toppled onto him, both of them becoming entangled in the heavy folds of the mussed tapestry.
Across the room, the chandelier crashed into the large table, spraying food and trenchers and hot wax from the tallow candles in every direction. Arissa, standing against the wall, received a barrage of hot wax droplets to her delicate forearm. Burned, she did not utter a sound as she watched Richmond and Carlton struggle against the huge tapestry.
The two knights were yanking at the material, attempting to locate the two men within the creases. They could see a hand and a leg, listening to Daniel’s growls of frustration as he struggled like a cat in a snare.
Suddenly, Bartholomew’s head appeared and a split second later, Daniel’s emerged. Daniel glared daggers while Bartholomew smiled brightly. With a wink, he ruffled the furious knight’s blond hair.
“‘…. Sit shining on the sails.’”
Daniel grunted loudly and pushed himself off Bartholomew, regaining his footing. “You are a bloody fool, de Lohr. You could have broken your goddamn neck!”
“Not so, Danny m’lad,” Bartholomew said happily. “I am sitting on shining sails.”
“You are sitting on a tapestry,” Carlton shook his head slowly, passing Richmond an intolerant glance.
But Richmond did not react. He gazed down at Bartholomew, his face characteristically unreadable. Bartholomew, however, was smiling expectantly at him.
“Well? Did you like it?”
Richmond did not say anything for a moment. He could only stare at the heir to the Berkshire earldom and feel a certain amount of trepidation. So this is to be the future of England, he thought bleakly. He hoped he was dead by then.
“I thought it was wonderful,” Arissa was suddenly behind him, her sweet voice soft and caressing.
Richmond turned sharply to her, startled by her appearance. He opened his mouth to speak but, instead, his eyes were drawn to the angry red spots on her delicate skin. Without thinking, he reached out and snatched the arm.
“What happened?”
He was touching her. Sweet St. Jude, he was touching her! Arissa gasped as the searing heat of his flesh burned her far more than the wax had. His bright blue eyes were dark with concern, anger.
“Answer me, Arissa.”
She opened her mouth, cleared her throat, and tried anew. “I…. the wax from the chandelier burned me. I suppose I was not standing far enough away when it came down.”
He glanced over at the destroyed table. “The wax could not have splashed into the foyer, which is where you should have gone,” his steady gaze returned to her. “Why did you not leave with the others?”
His tone, hard and cold, hurt her tender emotions. She tried to pull her arm free, but his grip was like iron. “Because I was frightened for my brother.” An
d you.
She was looking at the floor and Richmond’s gaze lingered on the top of her dark head a moment longer before glancing to the rising Bartholomew. It was obvious that the young man was uninjured by his adventure, severing any further concern on Richmond’s part. Without another word, he led Arissa from the room.
Lady Maude met them in the foyer. One look at Arissa’s arm and she fell into a shrieking fit. When Bartholomew wandered into view, she berated the young man for his foolish actions and nearly worked herself into a spell. As Lady Maxine and Penelope returned Lady Maude to her bower, Lady Livia and Emma offered to tend Arissa’s arm.
But Richmond declined their offer, instead, choosing to tend her himself. He wanted the excuse to be alone with her. Sending a serving wench for Mossy, he took Arissa to her chamber.
“Sit down, kitten,” he said softly, moving her toward a chair. “Mossy should have something to ease the sting.”
The pain increased when he released her from his grasp. She swallowed hard, trying not to watch every move he made. Trying desperately to ignore the mad twisting of her stomach and the quivering in her hands.
“Most likely something smelly,” she said quietly, attempting to ease her own nerves. “Always something smelly.”
Richmond smiled. His smiles were rare; in fact, her father had once accused him of having a face of stone. Yet whenever he and Arissa were together, the gesture came freely and warmly.
“As long as it eases your pain, you should not mind the smell,” he leaned against the warming hearth, crossing his arms over his broad chest. After a moment, his smile faded. “What is this I hear that you have suffered from the cough?”
She looked down at her hands. “Only twice. ’Tis not unusual when the weather gets colder.”
“Nay, it is not unusual, but you have a talent for inviting illness where there should be none. I do not want to hear of you roaming about the forest after a fresh rain in search of blossoms. The next I discover you have allowed your willful streak to control your common sense, I shall take my hand to your backside.”
Her eyes came up to him and she cocked a dramatically arched brow. “If you can catch me, my lord.”