Bartholomew was moving into the room, clad in yards and yards of white fabric that had been dirtied with soot or some other sort of blackness. His face was painted white and dark circles ringed his faded blue eyes. Beside her, she heard her father groan.
“Good Christ, now what?” he said miserably, motioning to Richmond standing on the other side of the table. “Get him out of here, Richmond. I shall not have him spoiling the celebration.”
Richmond stepped in Bartholomew’s direction, but Arissa leapt to her feet and held out a quelling hand. “No, Richmond, leave him alone. He’s about to perform a special skit in honor of my birthday.”
Richmond halted his forward momentum, his gaze moving between Arissa and her father. William focused on his daughter. “What sort of skit? Did he tell you?”
“Of course not, father. It is a surprise.”
William cast a long glance at his son, who was currently taking position by the elaborate hearth. He shook his head slowly. “He looks as if he’s just survived a bout with the plague. What sort of performance could he be planning with that costume?”
Lady Maude stood up on the other side of her husband. “If it is in honor of his sister’s birthday, then we will all sit and enjoy it. No matter what it is,” she regained her seat, waving a stern hand to Richmond. “Return to your seat, Richmond.”
Richmond obeyed. As soon as he pulled his chair up to the table, Arissa wound her warm fingers around his hand. Under the table, he clutched her tightly.
The crowd saw that Bartholomew was about to speak and a hush settled over the smoke-hazed room. Bartholomew faced his sister, his parents, and raised his arm in simulation of a Roman salute.
“Greetings, friends, guests, relatives, honored nobles. In tribute to my sister’s most monumental day of birth, I have prepared a prolific Greek prose that, in itself, hinges the meaning of life,” he focused on his sister dramatically. “For you, my dear sister. Congratulations that you have achieved this day:
‘Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate,
Sad Acheron of sorrow black and deep;
Cocytus named of lamentation loud
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.’”
The prose was delivered with great flourish, gloom-and-doom that would be better suited for a funeral than a birthday celebration. William put his face in his hand and shook his head with disbelief while the rest of the hall was deadly silent, listening with intense concern and puzzlement.
“He’s praising her by reciting a poem about the River Styx?” Gavan was suddenly crouched by Richmond’s left hand. Two seats down, Daniel and Penelope sat with open mouths as Bartholomew raised his voice with great theatrical control. Regine, loitering at the end of the table, watched her sister and Richmond closely for their reaction.
Richmond kept his gaze straight ahead, on Bartholomew. “Hardly appropriate.” Beside him, Arissa hushed them both sternly.
Bartholomew took a dramatic pause, propping his foot on a chair and pretending to pilot a boat as one does when crossing water, by using a pole and pushing it across the bottom.
“‘Far off from these slow and silent stream.
Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks
Forthwith his former state and being forgets,
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.’”
He suddenly bowed with great embellishment before any applause was attempted. As he took his third bow, the stunned audience began to clap weakly for a performance that was obviously concluded.
Bartholomew soaked up the timid adoration like a sponge. As if he had just completed the greatest performance of his life, he thanked the crowd graciously, working his way toward the dais, shaking hands and kissing women’s palms as he went on his way. He knew, without question, that he was the greatest actor in all the civilized world. Soon enough, all of England would realize it as well.
The applause was already dying out as Richmond and Gavan watched him approach. “God’s Teeth,” Gavan muttered, rising from his crouch. “Of all the….”
Arissa shot him a nasty look, giving her brother a loud standing ovation as he approached. Gavan bit his tongue and removed himself from the dais lest Arissa physically attack him for his opinion. Richmond, however, was not so fortunate.
“That was by far the most unsuitable act….”
Arissa turned to him before he could finish his sentence. “If you say one negative word to him, Richmond le Bec, I shall have your head. Do you understand me?”
Richmond glanced at William, his back turned against his daughter and the great knight as he conversed softly with his wife. And Richmond had little doubt regarding the subject. Turning his gaze to Arissa once again, he nodded once in resignation. “Perfectly, kitten.”
Pleased with his submission, Arissa returned her focus to her brother as he came upon the table. His smile was bright as he took both of Arissa’s hands into his own, kissing them loudly.
“For you, my darling Riss,” he said happily. “Are you pleased?”
She nodded vigorously. “It was wonderful, Bart, simply wonderful. Thank you so much for a most memorable gift.”
His smile threatened to divide his face in half. He glanced at Richmond, waiting expectantly for the same words of praise. Richmond cocked a stubborn eyebrow until Arissa stepped on his foot. It was not a painful action, but he took the hint nonetheless. It would please Arissa and, therefore, he would perjure himself.
“Most accomplished, Bart,” he mumbled.
Bartholomew bowed courteously in thanks. “I am glad you are pleased. I have saved several others for later this eve when everyone grows tired of dancing.”
William had turned away from Maude and sat listening to the conversation. Maude had managed to convince him to praise his son’s talents and he was fully prepared to do so. But when Bartholomew intimated that his performance was not yet complete, he could no longer remain silent.
“This is a party, Bart, not a theatre performance,” he said sternly. “You cannot expect people to sit still when there is music and food and entertainment to be had. Truthfully, I do believe one dose of Greek tragedy is quite enough.”
Arissa turned to her father, highly aware of her brother’s feelings. Bartholomew was terribly sensitive when it came to his craft.
“I…. I think it would be wonderful, Father,” she insisted. “Mayhap Bart could grant us another recitation later on this evening. I would certainly enjoy it, and you saw the favorable reaction of our guests to his act.”
William cast her a droll, irritable glance. “Aye, I saw their reaction. And I would hardly call it favorable.”
“It was grand!” Maude leapt to her son’s defense. “However, I would suggest that you change out of your costume and enjoy the evening. You are a host and certainly not expected to entertain your guests as a common artisan. Truthfully, dear, it is beneath your station as heir to the earldom to perform in front of those you would preside over.”
Leave it to Maude to tactfully put an end to Bartholomew’s act. His expression dampened somewhat and he glanced at Arissa uncertainly. Seeing his indecision, Arissa took her mother’s lead.
“I must agree with mother, Bart,” she said gently. “Although your performance was magnificent, it is quite different when you perform for the immediate family. To display yourself for your vassals, subjecting yourself to their review, is hardly fitting for the future earl.”
Bartholomew’s gaze roved over the entire table, his eyes veiled with doubt. After a moment, he nodded reluctantly. “If that is your wish, then I shall adhere to it. I am sorry you feel that way.”
Arissa could see that his feelings were hurt and she hastened to assure him. “Truly, Bart, I could listen to you all night. Please do not be angry.”
He shook his head, his mood damp and his demeanor somber. “I am not. I suppose I shall go and change so t
hat I may join the festivities,” he slanted his father a cold glance. “So that I may blend in with the crowd. That is what you want, is it not? You would have me be like all the rest so that you are not embarrassed by your son, the eccentric.”
He moved across the room, leaving Arissa in tears. As Regine slipped after her brother, William sighed heavily. “’Tis about time he realizes my view. It’s taken him a long time to become aware of his station in life. Mayhap now he will even reconsider his knighthood and forget about this ridiculous thespian art.”
Arissa turned to her father. “How can you be so heartless? Bart is a deeply sensitive man with a good deal of intelligence and vigor. How can you quash his spirit under your boot as one would a spider?”
“Do not fret so, Riss,” William saw her tears but, as usual, was not overly swayed. Sometimes he was quite inept when it came to sensing the depths of the human soul. “He’s not quashed, but merely realizing his place in the world. He’s to be an earl, not an idiot performer with dreams of grandeur. The sooner he comes to grips with his destiny, the better for us all.”
Arissa stared at her father. He could be a callous man at times, with little understanding beyond very basic emotions. Even when it came to his own family. He viewed the world the way he wanted to see it or not at all; all else was scorned or ignored.
“You hurt his feelings, Father,” she said softly, knowing she might as well be talking to a stone wall.
William snorted, accepting another goblet of fine wine. “He will overcome his foolish emotions. I shall not coddle my son’s temperamental state as if he were a weakling. He’s the future earl and damn well better start acting as such.”
There was no use in speaking with the man and Arissa turned away from him. Concerned with her brother’s mental condition, she moved away from the table intent upon seeking him. Richmond reached out and grasped her arm as she passed him by.
“Where are you going, Riss?”
“To find Bart,” she passed an angry glance at her father. “Regine is comforting him and so shall I. Together we will prove to him that at least two members of his family care about his craft.”
Richmond shook his head faintly. “He has Regine to console him for the moment. Stay and enjoy your party and we shall seek him later.”
She pulled her arm free, hurt and angry on her brother’s behalf. “I would find him now, Richmond.”
He snatched her once more, more firmly this time. “Leave Bart to regain his composure. For now, I feel like dancing. Will you join me, or must I seek out another willing partner?”
She gazed at him, her mood instantly moving from frustration to one of uncertainty. “You…. you would dance with another?”
He smiled, moving to take her hand. He kissed it softly before placing it on his arm. “Perish the thought, kitten. Unless, of course, you refuse me.”
She gripped his arm tightly, her eyes bright. As much as she was concerned for her brother’s feelings, there were few things in life that took precedence over the young man’s emotions. And Richmond was one of them.
“I would never refuse you,” she whispered.
In spite of the fact that Richmond hadn’t danced in years, he was a marvelous dancer. He held his own quite nicely through two folkdances and one slow ballad until Arissa had to sit down because she was beginning to breathe laboriously. He brought her a chalice of cider, fending off two would-be dance partners who were unfortunate to venture too close.
Arissa watched Richmond with sparkling eyes as he intimidated the young noblemen, giggling into her goblet when they scattered like frightened chickens. He never had to utter more than a word or two, and his menacing glare usually precluded even that. One look from Richmond le Bec was enough to send the fear of God into the heartiest of men.
“Why are you laughing?” he had knelt beside her chair, his amused gaze upon her.
She fought off a broad grin. “Because you are so entirely nasty. They simply wished to dance with me, Richmond, not propose marriage.”
He looked away, his eyes roving across the moving dance floor. “They shall not touch you. No man will, ever.”
Her grin broke through the restraint, warm and tender. “Except you.”
He slanted her a gaze. “I am the only man worthy of you.”
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. “I do love you, Richmond,” she whispered.
His gaze turned smoky and deep. “And I love you, kitten.”
A pretty flush mottled her cheeks as she tore her eyes away from him, draining the contents of her chalice. Richmond allowed his gaze to linger on her a moment longer, moving his attention to the crowd of dancers as one ballad stopped and another immediately commenced. It was a slow, lovely song and he rose to his feet, intent on taking Arissa in his arms once more until he was stopped dead in his tracks.
“Murderer!” came a harrowing cry.
The room slowed, voices hushed as all eyes turned towards the source of the accusation. Richmond had been in the process of helping Arissa to her feet when the shout was heard; still clutching her hand, he turned in the direction of the howl.
Ovid de Rydal stood in the massive archway leading into the gallery, his fat face coated with perspiration and grief. Richmond did not think it strange that he seemed focused on him until Ovid began to stumble in his direction.
“Murderer!” he croaked again, pointing a meaty finger at Richmond. “You have all but killed my boy!”
Richmond stiffened as an odd silence settled over the gallery. The music, the dancers, had come to a halt as Ovid de Rydal ranted and swayed like a madman, and the object of his accusation was apparently none other than the mighty Richmond le Bec. Arissa watched, shocked, as Ovid came to an unsteady halt a few feet away from Richmond.
“You did this!” Ovid hissed, a wild gleam to his eye. “You killed him, you bastard. I demand justice!”
“You will do me the courtesy of telling me what has occurred before you proceed with your wild allegations,” Richmond’s voice was characteristically controlled. “I do not appreciate public slander.”
Ovid swallowed hard, licking his dry lips. Tucked into his wide, gold-link belt was a slip of crimson; he pulled it free, waving it in Richmond’s face. “This is your crest, is it not? Henry’s standard!”
Richmond eyed the man before reaching out a deliberate hand to retrieve the material from Ovid’s grasp. After a moment of scrutiny, he nodded. “It is.”
The tension in the room thickened. On the dais, William was on his feet and Maude watched, terrified, as de Rydal soldiers suddenly appeared in the doorway leading from the foyer.
“Ovid, remove your soldiers immediately,” William boomed, leaping from the dais as fast as his rotund body could move. “How dare you bring arms into my home!”
Ovid was quivering violently, unresponsive to his host as his eyes remained riveted to Richmond. William moved to stand beside Richmond, his fair face threatening. “Do you hear me? Remove your soldiers before I unleash my personal guard!”
As if on cue, several dozen soldiers appeared on the lofts overlooking the grand gallery, armed to the teeth with crossbows and long-range spears. As Ovid tore his gaze away long enough to look upward, Gavan emerged from the kitchen doors, leading an entire company of Richmond’s soldiers. But he refrained from positioning them, waiting for Richmond’s signal.
Tension was joined by fear. There were as many soldiers as guests in the gallery and the noblemen began to shield the wives and daughters instinctively. On the dais, Daniel and Carlton had herded the ladies into a small, frightened huddle in anticipation of the unfolding events.
It did not take Ovid an over amount of intelligence or time to deduce that he had, mayhap, acted rashly. But his grief was consuming him, driving him daft with unchecked emotion. Emotion that devoured his common sense as he faced off against Richmond and William.
“I came for le Bec,” his voice was shaky, thin. “Give him to me and I shall be happy to remove my men-at-ar
ms.”
“I am not going anywhere, as I am completely innocent of these outrageous charges you are so free in announcing,” Richmond said steadily. “If your son has been assaulted, it was not my doing.”
“You are a liar!” Ovid crowed in grief, shaking a finger at Richmond. “My boy is dying because of your twisted sense of pride. You sent your men to ambush him in retaliation for his alleged action against you during the Stick and Ball game!”
“That is nonsense,” William snapped quietly. “Richmond le Bec is not a murderer. He’s a respected knight with an impeccable reputation.”
“He was hostile to Tad from the onset!” Ovid returned angrily, his voice cracking with emotion. “From the very moment my son set foot inside Lambourn, Richmond has declared a personal vendetta against him!”
“Why would I do that?” Richmond asked calmly. “I do not even know your son. He, however, has proven to be ill-mannered and sly, which is why he was sent on his way. If he was ambushed, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then explain your standard, le Bec!” Ovid thrust a thick finger at the tattered piece of fabric. “It was on the arrow that imbedded itself within my son’s chest!”
Richmond handed the fabric to William, who studied it closely. “I assure you, Lord de Rydal, that I had nothing to do with the attack on your son. I swear this to you.”
Ovid’s expression began to loosen, far less furious and far more desperate. “He’s just a lad, a young lad with a glorious future ahead of him. Why would you do this?” Between Richmond and William, he caught sight of Arissa’s astonished face and he suddenly focused on her. His accusations progressed to gain a portion of madness. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? My Tad graced her with his presence and charm and the both of you took offense to his attentions. You are both involved in this…. this plot!”
“The only plot is the one you have managed to create within your own mind,” William answered, his voice a growl. “You will clear out of here immediately, de Rydal. Consider yourself fortunate if I do not seek a measure of vengeance against you for ruining my daughter’s birthday.”