Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  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 pro
ve 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 watc
hing 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.