Brides of Ireland Read online

  Eiselle wasn’t so sure she should keep his good luck charm. “But it will do more good if you take it into battle, as always. Please, Bric.”

  He shook his head. “The good it will do me is in knowing you are comforted by keeping it. This is your first battle, after all. You will need the comfort only the talisman can bring.”

  She smiled wanly. “It is my first battle, but I was not going to become hysterical about it, I promise.”

  He grinned. “I know. But I think my talisman will do more good with you, since this is your very first.” Then, he took her hands into his big mitts, kissing them sweetly. “I will return. Do you believe me?”

  Eiselle was caught up in the expression on his face, how those piercing eyes seemed to reach out and grab her. And the kisses to her hand… she could hardly breathe because of them.

  “I do,” she murmured.

  “Good.”

  A servant suddenly appeared bearing food, and Bric didn’t say anything more. He’d said all he needed to say, and he felt a good deal of comfort in leaving his beloved talisman with his new wife to ease her anxiety, so he let go of Eiselle’s hands and he focused on his meal. More people were wandering into the hall, men who would soon be departing and looking for sustenance, so Bric’s line of conversation from that point forward was about things that were trivial and had nothing to do with the fact that he felt sad at the thought of leaving his new bride. This woman he never wanted to marry suddenly had him feeling things he’d never felt before.

  It was both thrilling and confusing.

  He suspected that warfare, from this point on, would not be the same for him. Now, he had a wife to think of, and leaving his talisman with her was his first indication that, perhaps, she meant something more to him than he could begin to comprehend. It was madness, truly, to suspect deep feelings after only a few days, but there was no denying that there was a connection between them, something that went beyond anything he’d ever known before. Leaving his talisman with her was the first indication of that.

  Already, he couldn’t wait to return to her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Holdingham Castle

  Forty miles northwest of Narborough

  Four days since departing Narborough with weather that had been crisp and clear, the day of the actual battle had turned dark and stormy.

  De Lohr, de Winter, Lincoln, and Savernake troops found themselves holding the line against an onslaught of French armies that were here simply because the French prince, Louis, had been an ally of the rebels against King John. Almost a year after John’s death, Louis wouldn’t leave the country because he’d been promised the throne. In light of John’s death and Henry’s ascension to the crown of England, Louis had no support from the rebels who were now supporting Henry. Cast aside, and angry, he was determined to wreak what havoc he could. With nothing to lose, his recklessness made him quite dangerous.

  Even though it was summer, the storm that rolled over Holdingham was severe and within just a few hours of fighting, the ground had turned to ankle-deep sludge. The blood of the wounded was mixing with the rain that puddled of the battlefield, turning everything into a sea of red. The landscape was quite flat, with very little elevation, so everything simply sat and pooled.

  The de Winter army was covering the south flank of de Lohr’s army, with Savernake covering the north flank, in a line of men and animals that stretched for a half-mile. The Lincoln troops were in Holdingham Castle, a quarter of a mile to the east, shoring up the castle should the French break through the line.

  And break, they tried.

  The morning had seen vicious fighting with archers, each side launching volley after volley at each other, but the French soon grew weary of the damage they were sustaining. Being that they were ill-supplied these days, they simply didn’t have the shields or arrows to withstand a sustained attack from the archers, and when Christopher de Lohr, who was in command of the loyalist army, began to heavily pound them with archers to beat them down, the French broke ranks and began to charge at the long line of English loyalists.

  After that, it was chaos.

  Bric entered the fray earlier on because the French had tried to hit the flanks to go around de Lohr and on to the castle, so it was up to the de Winter army to hold off the French and prevent them from breaking through. Early on, it was hand-to-hand combat, and Bric spent the hours in the saddle, fighting French knights, dispatching those who were too weak to hold out against him.

  The High Warrior was in fine form that day. He blazed through a fight with a French knight who was quite skilled but, in the end, the Frenchman fell to Bric’s sword. When the man toppled off his horse, Bric spurred his war horse forward and literally onto the man’s body, a massive hoof coming to rest on the back of the knight’s head and shoving his face into the mud to drown him. When the knight moved no more, the horse trampled him and dashed off to find more victims.

  Once again, whispers of a vicious English knight with silver eyes began to drift among the French lines, and men would run when they saw the black, gray, and red of the House of de Winter, knowing that any man bearing those colors could be the knight with the silver eyes, the one who was killing men as easily as a man could breathe air.

  But it was more than that. There also happened to be an abnormal amount of decapitated heads around the battlefield because Bric wasn’t one to go for the kill in the chest or belly, as some men did. He preferred the definitive, quick kill of decapitation, and he’d used that technique throughout his career. It was a signature stroke. Unlike some men, Bric wasn’t in the battle for the thrill of a fight, for the excitement of proving he was better than anyone else. He was in it for the kill. If a man was his enemy, he was destined to die.

  And die, they did.

  Towards dusk, the sky was still flooding the fields with rain and men were slogging through mud that was now up to their knees, exhausted as they fought the French who were unwilling to surrender. But the rain had lightened somewhat, and the wind that had whistled through the battlefield all day had eased, so there was hope that the weather would soon clear. Every so often, the clouds would part and bits of blue sky could be seen but, for the most part, it was still a horribly miserable battle.

  Several times during the day, Bric had reached for his talisman to kiss it only to remember that he’d left it with Eiselle. Eiselle. Such a beautiful name for a woman he was increasingly obsessed over. Truthfully, he didn’t regret leaving her his talisman, convinced it was giving her comfort knowing that he would return for it.

  But the truth was that he would be returning for her, and her alone.

  As the battle wore on and he began to feel his exhaustion, his thoughts turned increasingly to Eiselle and the moment when they would be reunited. He intended to bed her when next he saw her again, perhaps several times, and then he intended to spend all the time he could with her. He’d even been thinking about asking Daveigh if he could take command of one of the lesser castles in the Honor of Narborough, perhaps Roxham Castle, so that Eiselle could be the mistress of her own keep. As it was, Eiselle was secondary to Keeva, and he thought the woman might like her own keep.

  As his wife, she was deserving of such a thing.

  It would give them time to start their life together, without the chaos of a big castle around them. For the first time in his life, Bric was thinking about easing off from such active duty. He could turn the Narborough duties over to Pearce, who was young and hungry. He was a good commander. And Bric could settle down with his wife at a lesser castle, and they could live a perfectly happy and wonderful little life.

  Bric’s priorities were changing.

  It was rather ironic that he would consider such a thing, coming from de Winter’s High Warrior, but he rather thought it sounded wonderful. Just him, and Eiselle, and their life together. If he had to lift his sword now and again, he would do it, but his focus would be on his wife. His family.

  His marriage.

  But he h
ad to make it home first. Avoiding the arc of an angry Frenchman’s broadsword, he brought his own sword around and ended up cutting off the man’s arm when his horse suddenly shifted. As the French knight raced off, screaming, Bric noticed Pearce as the man came alongside him.

  “How does it look to the north?” he yelled at Pearce. “Is Savernake holding their lines?”

  Pearce nodded, trying to hold tight to his excited horse. “Aye,” he said. “Dash and Savernake are holding fast. It seems that we’ve received the brunt of the French attempts to break the lines. I am hearing rumor that we have more dead and wounded than most.”

  Bric looked around; he could see that he had many wounded and as sunset approached, the French had backed off for the most part. There were pockets of fighting, but not nearly what it had been. He wiped the water and sweat from his eyes.

  “I must find Christopher and discover what he has in mind for the conclusion of this skirmish,” he said. “The French seem to be fleeing, and we have our own wounded to remove from the field of battle. It seems to me that this battle has come to an end.”

  Pearce nodded, surveying the field that was full of bodies, beaten and broken. There was so much blood that the mud was red, giving the entire battlefield a macabre and apocalyptic appearance.

  “It was a brutal fight, Bric,” he said. “Thank God we were victorious. We held the line so the French were unable to make it to Holdingham. They remain strong.”

  Bric was thinking the same thing, but he didn’t voice it. He rarely bragged in battle, thinking that it was an affront to the gods of war. Oddly enough, the man was always humble in victory, no matter how great or bloody it had been.

  “Aye,” he said. “We shall live to fight another day. Now, do your duty and sweep the field to ensure the French do not start killing our wounded. We need to have them removed immediately. I will find Christopher and discover what his plans are now that the fighting has died down.”

  Pearce nodded. “I will,” he said. “I will find Mylo and he can assist me. Last I saw him, he was near the de Lohr lines.”

  “If I see him, I will send him to you.”

  The knights were preparing to part when they both heard what sounded like a thin wailing. Immediately, they knew what it was because they’d heard it in chorus earlier in the day when the French were lobbing volleys of arrows their direction. It seemed that the French, as a dying beast, weren’t ready to give up yet. They were going to inflict what they could until the very end.

  Pearce managed to get his shield up, but Bric was a split-second slower. As Pearce’s shield was hit with a large, broad-headed arrow, that very same arrowhead hit Bric in the lower left side of his chest.

  The noise it made was something Pearce would remember until the day he died.

  It was an arrowhead designed to take down horses and other large animals, and the French probably stole it off of another soldier or hunter and reused it. It was such a large arrowhead that it pushed through layers of tunics and Bric’s heavy mail coat, carving a hole into the left side of his body and anchoring deep.

  Pearce heard a scream, realizing it was his own. But Bric didn’t utter a sound; he simply looked down at the enormous arrow spine protruding from his body. In tribute to Bric’s strength, he didn’t fall from his horse – the High Warrior remained mounted, his left hand going to the spine that was protruding from his body. As Pearce gaped at him in horror, Bric looked at the shaft as if he could hardly believe what had just happened.

  For a moment, neither man spoke. They simply looked on in shock. This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen at the end of a battle, and it certainly wasn’t supposed to happen to a man who men had deemed immortal. Finally, Pearce grabbed the reins of Bric’s war horse and turned the animal for the encampment to the south.

  With tears in his eyes, he escorted Bric back to camp the entire way.

  Bric never did fall from his horse.

  Six days after the army’s departure

  He called himself Manducor, but Eiselle had never met a priest like him.

  Truthfully, it wasn’t as if she had spent a lot of time around priests. She really hadn’t spent time around any. Therefore, Manducor’s behavior wasn’t something that struck her as particularly strange but, from what she’d heard about priests, the man certainly didn’t follow the mold.

  Mold…

  He smelled like mold. And rot, and any other foul smell that Eiselle had experienced in her lifetime. The man positively reeked. The night Bric and the army had departed, Manducor had wandered into the great hall – God only knows where the man had been – and proceeded to sit across the table from Eiselle and eat until he could eat no more.

  Eiselle had never seen anyone eat so much in her entire life. Even Keeva, who had joined her in the hall, had watched the priest slurp up his meal with disgust. No one seemed to know why he was still at Narborough, and why he hadn’t returned to his parish in King’s Lynn. He seemed quite intent on remaining and even when Keeva told him she would arrange for an escort to return him home, he disappeared and didn’t return until the evening meal the next day.

  He was a strange, strange man.

  But he seemed harmless enough, simply reluctant to return to his church, and when Keeva finally demanded to know why he wouldn’t leave Narborough, he proceeded to tell her that his church, St. Margaret’s Priory, had suffered through a glut of starving peasants from the countryside due to the unseasonable rains in the spring. The month-long deluge had killed crops as well as people, and Norfolk was a land of swamps and marshes as it was. People were starving, which meant the meager food for the priests had gone to feed the needy.

  With that story, the man’s ravenous appetite started to make some sense. Keeva talked the man into giving her his robes so they could at least be washed, and taking a bath himself, which he balked at because he couldn’t remember the last bath he’d had. It wasn’t good for man’s soul, he told her, but Keeva was insistent. She wasn’t going to have a man who smelled of compost in her hall, so Manducor had no choice but to turn over his robes and wash his dirty body down in the kitchen yard. Keeva gave him a long tunic and an old robe that belonged to Daveigh to wear while his clothing was being washed, but he seemed to like the new clothing so much that he kept it on even when his robes were returned to him.

  Eiselle could count on seeing the priest every morning in the hall, breaking his fast, and then every night when the evening meal was produced. Often times, there would be no one else in the hall but them, and the first four days after the army’s departure, Manducor sat far away from Eiselle as he ate his meals.

  But the past two days, he’d wandered over and sat across the table from her, and their conversation had been awkward and short at times. In fact, their very first real conversation had been about the talisman around Eiselle’s neck, something she hadn’t removed since Bric had given it to her for safe keeping. The priest seemed fascinated by a charm that had been blessed by St. Patrick himself. But on this sixth night since the departure of the de Winter army, Manducor was more talkative than usual.

  The cook had slaughtered a flock of older chickens and had made the most delightful dish of chicken with dumplings and chicken gravy. The smell permeated the far reaches of Narborough, drawing the hungry soldiers who weren’t currently on duty as well as Keeva, Zara, Angela, and Eiselle. The great hall had more people in it than usual as a result, and as a storm thundered overhead in a midsummer’s shower, a hot and flavorful meal took place in the hall.

  Manducor, of course, joined them. He sat at the end of the table, across from Eiselle and Keeva, and slurped, burped, and farted his way through the meal. Zara hadn’t been around the man at all, and she’d been happily into her second cup of sweet wine when she noticed his terrible manners. After that, she didn’t try to hide her reaction to his burping and farting. Angela sat down the table from him with her rude son, taking no notice of the equally rude priest.

  It was the first time Angela had
been around Eiselle since the pinching incident, and she was markedly standoffish from Lady MacRohan. Keeva noticed it and thought the woman’s behavior was ridiculous, made worse when little Edward didn’t want to eat his meal and began to whine as Angela patiently tried to feed him. More than once, he threw food back at his mother, mussing her surcoat. When he threw a spoon at her, clipping her shoulder, Keeva was forced to step in.

  “Angela,” she said sternly. “I do not mind if you bring Edward to eat with us provided he behaves. If he cannot behave, then he must remain in his chamber. I will not have him upsetting everyone’s meal.”

  Angela looked at her, torn between defiance and feeling wounded. “If you had a child, Lady de Winter, you would understand,” she clapped back. “Sometimes children must be allowed to express themselves. If he does not want to eat, I shall not force him.”

  That was a very hurtful insult as far as Keeva was concerned. Everyone at Narborough knew that in spite of being married for many years, Keeva and Daveigh remained childless even though they wanted children very badly. Upset at the dig, Keeva didn’t hold back her ire.

  “If I had a child, he would behave a thousand times better than your little monster,” she said. “I have warned you before about Edward. If he cannot behave like a polite child, then keep him shut up in his chamber. I do not want to see him, not anywhere in Narborough. Animals like that boy deserve cages.”

  Angela burst into tears. “He is not a monster!”

  “I will not argue with you. Get him out of my sight.”

  Sobbing, Angela stood up from the table and grabbed at Edward, who didn’t want his mother to touch him. He pulled away and began to run, but he didn’t get very far. Manducor caught the child by the arm and lifted him up, practically tossing him onto the tabletop.

  “Let him go!” Angela screamed.

  As she rushed to remove her son from the priest’s grip, Manducor spoke. “Lady,” he said with disdain, “that child is an abomination. I have watched him show you absolutely no respect since you arrived in the hall. How old is he?”