“There is no danger within Lambourn,” Arissa cocked an eyebrow at her sister, turning for the gallery door as she spoke. “The enemy is outside, Regine, not inside. I shall return.”
The corridor to Mossy’s sanctuary was laden with distant shouts and shapeless phantoms. Wrapped in yards of warm wool and linen, Arissa jumped and yelped at every shadow. Regine’s foolish words of warning echoed in her mind and she silently cursed her sister for compounding her regular cast of anxieties to include skittishness and hallucinations.
It could be dangerous. Arissa shook off the cautions of a silly young girl and mounted the stairs to the tower room. Far behind her in the dim recesses of the hall, two of the shadows suddenly took shape and began to follow. She never saw them.
Mossy’s tower room was utterly freezing. She was surprised and relieved to find Bartholomew seated at Mossy’s scarred, uneven table, playing with a raccoon. She moved toward her brother, putting her arms about his broad shoulders.
“I was worried for you,” she said softly. “No one seemed to know where you were.”
He patted his sister gently; there was a good deal of genuine affection between them. Where most of the family failed to understand his drives and whims, Arissa accepted him unconditionally. She may not have always understood him, but she was never judgmental.
“I have been here since the outbreak,” he said, feeding the raccoon a small apple.
Arissa watched him toy with the animal. “Why? Are you hiding?”
“Hardly,” Mossy bustled across the floor, his arms laden with bulk; he always seemed to be terribly busy within the confines of his sanctuary. Strange thing was, he never seemed to accomplish much of anything. “He came up to put on his armor and join the melee.”
Bartholomew glanced at Mossy. The young man was in the midst of a severe bout with confusion and self-pity. He shrugged, turning back to the pet.
“I am thinking on it.”
“Why?” Arissa asked. “You are not a warrior, Bart. You are better suited to the gentler things in life.”
He let out a grunting sigh, a frustrated gesture. “You do not understand, Riss. My father is outside, fighting for my inheritance, and I am not lifting a finger to help him. I should be out there, defending what is mine alongside him.”
“You are not a warrior,” she repeated softly. “He does not expect you to fight.”
Bartholomew stood up, raking his fingers through his blond hair restlessly. When he spoke, it was with genuine passion, not the play-acting she had come to expect from him.
“He’s always been disappointed in me,” he said. “I never wanted to be a knight, but a scholar and actor, and he’s never forgiven me for it. I know what he thinks of me, that I am foolish and unconventional, and I have been content to live with that opinion. As long as I was learning my craft, I did not care what he thought.” His gaze softened, an expression of pain. “Until this morning. When I came out of my bower to see what all the commotion was about, my father pushed past me in two hundred pounds of armor as if I were invisible. He knew better than to ask me to join him. Instead, he reacted as if I did not exist.”
Arissa’s eyes were wide with sympathy. “He loves you, Bart. You must believe that.”
He snorted softly, ironically. “Mayhap. But he’s ashamed of his heir. And I have given him every reason to be.”
“So you would wield a sword when you are not nearly as accomplished as those you would be fighting against?” she pointed out, her tone laced with quiet urgency. “That is suicide, Bart. It is madness.”
He shrugged again, kicking absently at the floor. “I am not a novice. I have managed to do quite well for myself over the years of fostering at Barham.”
“I did not mean to insinuate that you were not skilled. But you must admit you have not had as much practice as some, and I do not want anything to happen to you simply because you feel guilty for disappointing father because you chose a different life than what he had intended for you.”
Bartholomew’s gaze met with her pale green eyes, a world of hurt in his blue depths. More emotion than Arissa had ever seen from him. “There was more than mere disappointment in his eyes, Riss. It was…. failure.”
She did not say anything for the moment. Mossy pretended to busy himself with something useless, but she knew very well that he was listening to their conversation. If anything, he knew what they were going to say before they said it.
After a moment, she sighed regretfully. “Do what you must, then. But above all, you must be true to yourself. You cannot be happy trying to live your life the way someone else wants you to. You have never been a fighting man; why give in to father’s pressure now?”
“Because…,” he began softly, searching for the correct words. “Because he needs me, Riss. He’s never needed me before, but he needs me now. He needs his son by his side as he wards off the siege to protect my legacy.”
She understood his confusion, his indecision. Bartholomew pretended to be selfish most of the time, merely concerned with the trappings of his odd world. But she could see, clearly, that he was deeply concerned for his father. And his guilt for not living up to William’s expectations was a good part of that concern.
She smiled faintly. “Then support him if you feel you must. Go and stand beside him upon the battlements until the threat fades,” her smile faded, an intense cast to the pale green eyes. “But never give up your dreams to satisfy another. I would expect years and years of entertainment from you. In fact, I shall demand it.”
Bartholomew sighed heavily, nodding in resigned agreement. Mossy turned from his work, eyeing his great-grandnephew. “Listen to her, Bart. She’s wise beyond her years.”
The faded sounds of battle floated in on the chilly air, drawing their attention. Mute just moments before, it seemed to be increasing in strength and they turned to the distant window as if to see what was transpiring. Bartholomew was the first to move for the thin portal, overlooking a corner of the bailey and beyond the western wall. Arissa followed on his heels.
Bartholomew’s gaze met with the fighting below, a fiercer battle waging since the fog lifted, in spite of the driving rain. Arissa stood beside her brother, horrified to see two platforms on the outer side of the wall being positioned for a breach. When she gasped at the sight of a new threat, Mossy scuffled to the window and practically shoved her aside in his attempt to view the scene.
“Ah. Ovid is attempted to mount the walls,” he said casually. “We cannot burn the platform down because the flame arrows will not maintain their fire in this rain. All that’s left is to fight them off as they come, one at a time.”
Arissa’s hand was to her mouth, terrified. “But…. but they shall breach our wall and…,” she suddenly turned to Mossy, her eyes wide with panic. “He’s come for Richmond! Mossy, he cannot capture him!”
Mossy was not the least bit concerned, much to Arissa’s frustration. “They shall never capture Richmond le Bec. He’s far too cunning.”
She was about to open her mouth with a sharp reply when Bartholomew suddenly spoke up. “He’s opening the gate,” he muttered in disbelief, then louder: “Richmond is opening the gate!”
Arissa, petrified, returned her attention to the scene below. From where the three of them stood, they could see a small portion of the front gates. As they watched in shock, the massive panels began to roll open. Several hundred soldiers wait in the bailey in preparation for storming through the breach, spilling into the attacking enemy beyond for the mortal contact of hand-to-hand combat.
“My Dear God,” Arissa breathed, her eyes as wide as the sky. “What’s he doing? He’s going to kill us all!”
Even though Bartholomew was surprised, he knew the mentality of a siege very well. A brilliant student, he had learned all of his lessons impeccably during his years under Baron Lymse and sought to ease his panic-stricken sister. Having no idea the reasoning and methods behind a battle, she was understandably terrified.
“It�
�s the only answer, Riss,” he said gently, putting his arm about her slight shoulders. “The castle is no doubt secured and there is little chance that de Rydal’s army will make it inside. What Richmond is doing is simple; not only is the enemy preparing to breach the wall, but they are probably tunneling as well. Since Lambourn has no moat, ’tis not difficult to dig a tunnel to undermine our wall. What Richmond is doing is using the might inside the wall to meet the enemy head-on and scatter their forces. Better for the man-to-man confrontation to occur outside the walls than wait for the enemy to overtake us within the close confines of the bailey.”
Arissa swallowed hard, still frightened in spite of her brother’s reasonable explanation. “But he’s letting them in.”
Bartholomew shook his head. “Nay, Riss. He’s letting our troops out.”
Arissa was not entirely convinced and Bart squeezed her gently, sympathetically. “Have no fear, Riss,” he said. “’Tis a normal tactic. In fact, it brings to mind the story of Alexander the Great’s victory in the battle of Issus. Even though Alexander’s forces were outnumbered by King Darius’ men nearly ten to one, Alexander took the offensive by charging their lines, taking a sharp turn into their ranks, and carving a path straight up the middle. Resistance was fierce, but with Darius’ men divided, they panicked and fled. That, darling Riss, is what Richmond is attempting. To divide and scatter.”
She continued to stare out of the window to the brutal scene below, spilling out into her beloved Berkshire landscape. In spite of her full-blown anxieties, Bartholomew’s story made sense. Taking a calming breath, she nodded as if acknowledging his calm reasoning. “You are sure that’s what he’s doing?”
Bart nodded confidently. “I am indeed. Besides, Richmond told me the story I just relayed to you. He’s a great admirer of Alexander and the man’s bold tactics.”
“I know,” she said softly, feeling somewhat more relaxed. Richmond’s tactics and military brilliance was well-known; during Henry’s battle for the throne, Richmond did the majority of the planning and Hotspur carried forth the schemes. They had made a brilliant, powerful team.
With every breath, she seemed to regain an additional measure of composure. She knew that Richmond would not have opened all of Lambourn to an attack had he not possessed the good reason and confidence to do so. The man was not a fool.
Next to her, Bartholomew watched the unfolding fight with a good deal of faith. Knowing Richmond’s reputation, he suspected the fight would be done before the sun set. Down below, a flash of armor caught his eye and he strained to catch a glimpse.
“Look, Riss,” he pointed out the window. “The destriers are charging forth. Look at all of the knights!”
She caught sight of men on horseback, laden down with battle armor until there was barely a distinguishing division between man and beast. She’d never seen knights riding to battle before and her terror gained a shade of fascination.
“There must be dozens,” she agreed. “I see…. there’s Daniel! And Carlton is right behind him! But the other knights are bearing different standards and I do not recognize them. I…. Sweet St. Jude, there’s Gavan! He’s riding out to meet the enemy, too!”
“I have heard that Gavan Hage can take a man’s head off with one blow,” Bartholomew said eagerly, suddenly very much a spectator to the fight below. Growing up amongst knights had instilled a great appreciation in their skill, even if he had no desire to become one.
Arissa’s brow furrowed at that brutal thought; although he was a monstrous man with a fierce reputation, she found it difficult to think of the gentle knight in those terms. “How…. impressive.”
“Not only that, but I have heard tale that Richmond can….” he suddenly looked to his sister, noting her appalled expression. Weakly, he smiled. “It doesn’t matter. He’s a great knight and that is what he shall be known for.”
Gazing into Bartholomew’s blue eyes, she somehow obtained the impression that he sensed the relationship between Henry’s great knight and his younger sister. Being the sensitive, intuitive man that he was, she would not have been surprised. And she would have trusted Bartholomew far more that Regine to keep safe her secret.
But she would not elaborate, at least not at the moment. But Mossy was another story; glancing over her shoulder, the old man was back at his table, fussing with a myriad of mysterious junkets piled about him. She desperately wanted to tell him that all of her dreams, her hopes, had finally come true; smiling to herself, she realized he probably already knew. She swore the man could read minds.
“Do you see Richmond?” she asked, returning her attention to the window.
Bartholomew shook his head. “It’s difficult to see. This window does not have a good view of the battlefield. But I would safely wager that he was at the head of the group of knights that rode from the gates.”
She digested his statement, thinking that her bower was far more strategically located than Mossy’s tower and afforded a much better view of the open front gates. But she was hesitant to make the journey across nearly the entire width of the castle to reach her bower; should the bastion be violated, she did not want to be caught alone. Here, in Mossy’s tower, was possibly the safest place she could be.
With a sigh, she turned away from the window. Since she could not see Richmond, there was nothing to do but wait and trust that his tactics would prove themselves. But in addition to those anxieties, she found herself worrying over her father and Gavan, Carlton and Daniel. They were in the midst of a heated battle and she could not bring herself to even imagine the worst. They were seasoned, intelligent warriors; they would survive.
She meandered over to Mossy as the sounds of the distant battle and pounding rain filled the stale air of the tower. Planting her round bottom on an ancient stool, she watched his quick movements without interest. Even if her eyes were focused on the old man, her heart, mind and soul were with Richmond somewhere in the battle beyond. To think that something might befall him was an inconceivable notion. She refused to entertain the possibility.
“What are you doing?” she asked the old man to distract herself.
Mossy was busying himself with something odd, as usual. He continued to fumble for a moment before answering.
“Yer lover is safe, Riss,” he said softly. “He’s in the heat of it, driving off the invaders.”
She stared at him a moment, a thousand words of inquiry and confusion coming to mind. How did he always know what she was thinking? It should not have come as a surprise, yet it always did. This was not the first time.
“He loves me, Mossy,” she whispered, shielding her words from Bartholomew’s ears. “He will marry me. He’s promised.”
“’Twill not be easy to wrest ye from Whitby, not when they’re expecting yer dowry. They’ve been hungering for it for eighteen years.”
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Bartholomew was not listening. “It does not matter. He’s promised to speak with Father.”
Mossy looked to her, the raven-hued tresses, the flawless skin. He wondered if, and when, Richmond intended to tell her the entire truth. For a young lady who had lived a relatively sheltered life, the facts of her existence were undoubtedly going to cause her tremendous shock. He felt a good deal of pity for what she was facing.
“I am sure he will,” he said after a moment, turning back to his work. “Richmond will have ye, have no doubt.”
She smiled faintly, feeling a great amount of comfort at the old man’s muttered words. To hear Mossy declare that Richmond would meet with success was as good as the word of God. She believed him, without question, and her hope began to soar. Not even the noise of the ongoing battle could dampen her joy.
She was still smiling when the door to Mossy’s sanctuary flew open, spilling forth two men dressed in dirty, rusted mail. Arissa was not alarmed until they flashed their broadswords menacingly, sinister bolts of light reflecting against the stone. Shocked and confused, her smiled faded into a, terrified expression as
they moved directly toward her, tearing up everything in their path.
Bartholomew was startled, but not senseless. He immediately realized that, somehow, the castle had been breached and the soldiers before him were intent upon inflicting mortal harm. God help him, he had been wrong and all of his confident words came tumbling back on him, reminding him that his arrogant faith in Richmond had been misplaced. As much as the idea astonished him, the evidence was irrefutable. Lambourn was falling.
Knight or no, Bartholomew possessed a good deal of fighting ability. The protective instinct in him soared as the enemy soldiers plowed their way into Mossy’s sanctuary, upending cages and spilling out animals. As raccoons screamed and Samuel, overhead in the rafters, cawed loudly, Bartholomew hurled himself toward Arissa.
Mossy’s ancient table was meeting with an ugly death as the soldiers kicked and hacked their way through it. Bartholomew grasped his sister savagely, pulling her with him as he fled across the room. Mossy, lost amidst the chaos of Arissa’s shrieking and crashing furniture, pressed himself against the wall as the struggle ensued.
Bartholomew had a specific destination in mind as he pulled Arissa across the floor. His never-used armor and blemish-free broadsword lay several feet away, wrapped and protected in a dilapidated old wardrobe. Mossy had always kept it for him, waiting for the day when Bartholomew overcame his thespian stage and chose to follow the path of a true earl.
He had, in fact, come up to Mossy’s sanctuary to retrieve his armor and fight beside his father. Now, for another reason, he was in desperate need to reach it. Yanking his stumbling, hysterical sister behind him, he struggled with every ounce of strength he possessed to reach the broadsword in time.
Arissa fell to her knees as they reached the ancient wardrobe and Bartholomew ignored her for the moment, tearing open the splintering door and plunging into the contents. The broadsword, buried beneath the armor, was difficult to locate.
The soldiers were advancing. Arissa watched their approach, her breathing coming in panicked gasped. As Bartholomew struggled for the sword, her gasps became a hysterical chant.