Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I am not doing this again,” he said. “The last three times, I’ve had my hair grabbed or my knees kicked out. I refuse to be pummeled any longer.”

  As he turned to pick up the sword that had been dropped, Dashiell snorted. “That is the only reason we brought you along,” he said. “It certainly was not because you could hit a target with an arrow.”

  Bentley scowled. “I can still hit your eye with my fist.”

  Dashiell shrugged. “And it is your right to do so, Savernake.”

  It was Dashiell acknowledging the hierarchy that hadn’t existed until last year between them. Before that, Bentley had been his subordinate, but marrying the heiress to the Savernake dukedom had changed the dynamics somewhat. Still, they were great friends, and Dashiell showed Bentley all of the respect he’d ever shown the former duke. That was never in question. But the knightly camaraderie hadn’t changed between them.

  Bentley chuckled at Dashiell to let him know there wasn’t, and never would be, any animosity. Taking the sword in-hand, he headed over to the stone bench to set it down as Royce, excited more than his little mind could adequately handle, came rushing up to the knights as they began to pull their arrows out of the hay targets.

  “I saw you, my lord!” he said as he jumped up and down. “You shot the arrows!”

  Bric looked over at the child; Royce had been something of their shadow for the past few days, but he’d stayed well out of sight most of the time. Today was the first day he’d actually come into the area where they were, into the garden this time, and Bric frowned at the boy.

  “Aye, I shot the arrow,” he said. “What are you doing in the garden? Your mother will be cross with you.”

  Royce’s features flickered with concern, meaning he knew very well that he wasn’t supposed to be here, but his excitement had overruled his fear of punishment.

  “But I want to fight,” he said. “You said I could be a soldier. Can I shoot the arrow, too?”

  Bric had to admit that the bold little servant boy was growing on him. “Mayhap later,” he said. “We are busy at the moment, but mayhap when we are finished. Until then, you can do a job for us.”

  Royce began jumping up and down again. “I will do it! I will do it!”

  “You do not even know what it is yet.”

  Royce stopped jumping and just grinned, a gap-toothed smile that had Bric chuckling at the lad. The child certainly was enthusiastic, for anything at all when it came to the knights and combat.

  “When we are finished shooting the arrows, it will be your job to carefully remove them and bring them back to me,” Bric said. “Do not break them. Can you do that?”

  Royce nodded eagerly and ran straight to the targets as if to stand there and wait for the arrows to come. But Bric waved a big arm at him.

  “If you stand there, you are going to be hit with the arrows,” he said. Then he pointed to the southern wall. “Go and stand there. Do not move until I tell you to.”

  Wildly, with arms and legs flying, Royce raced over to the wall and stood there, but he was not still. He was bouncing around with excitement, and Bric had to shake his head with humor. He’d never thought about children as being adorable before, but if he did, the boy was all that.

  “Who is that?” Sean asked.

  Bric glanced at him to see that his focus was on Royce. “That is a servant boy who very badly wants to fight for de Winter,” he said. “His name is Royce and he will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  Sean, having twin daughters who were slightly younger than Royce, seemed to have some patience for the child. He didn’t order him away or snap; he simply shrugged and turned back to his work. The knights finished gathering their arrows and returned to the spot where they’d been firing at their targets. Resuming their positions and taking aim, another volley of arrows flew to their marks.

  In truth, it was an exercise that was helping Bric a great deal. Fire, collect arrows. Fire, collect arrows. It was repetition in the strictest sense of the word. They’d been doing it most of the morning because, yesterday, Bric had spoken of the arrow that had wounded him and it was Sean and Dashiell’s impression that arrows in general were making Bric nervous these days. This morning when the men had come out to continue their work, Bric had seen the hay bunches set up with targets, and they’d been firing arrows at them since early morning.

  The first two volleys had been difficult for Bric. His palms had sweated, and his heart had pounded, but as the day continued and they fired off round after round, the sweaty palms eventually faded, and his heart rate had returned to normal. The repetition of it had calmed him down and the competition of it turned the act of a firing arrow into something that wasn’t so terrifying. Certainly, arrows were still deadly, but the more he used the bow and arrow, the more he began to put the weapon into perspective.

  An arrow had nearly killed him, but he wasn’t going to let that disturb him any longer.

  He was slowly regaining control.

  After firing off their last arrows, Bric whistled between his teeth, loudly, to get Royce’s attention. When the boy looked at him, he motioned to the targets, and the child raced over and began yanking out the arrows, or at least the ones he could reach. Bric turned away from the boy to examine his longbow, which was starting to splinter. This was a longbow that was kept in the small armory at the manse for protection, and he inspected the split closely as Dashiell came up next to him.

  “What is the trouble?” Dashiell asked.

  Bric sighed, with some frustration. “These longbows have been in the armory for quite some time and it is clear that no one has maintained them. This one is starting to split under the stress. You had better check the other longbows as well.”

  Dashiell did just that. He and Bentley began pouring over the bows while Sean headed out to the targets to help Royce collect the arrows that were taller than his reach. The boy had already toppled one hay bundle trying to reach the arrows at the top, so Sean went out to assist him. The young servant boy was thrilled to see yet another knight and even at a distance, Bric could hear the boy telling Sean how much he wanted to fight. It made him smile, something Dashiell noticed.

  “Why are you grinning, Bric?” Dashiell asked. “What is so funny about a splintered longbow?”

  Bric shook his head, looking to the west side of the garden where Royce was evidently showing Sean his moves with a stick he’d picked up off the ground, the same moves he’d tried to show Bric the first day they’d met.

  “I am not smiling at a broken longbow,” he said. “I can hear the servant boy from here. He was very excited to see me on my first day here, also, and told me how he wanted to be a knight. I wonder if my own son shall be so eager to follow in my footsteps.”

  Dashiell’s gaze moved to the far end of the garden where Sean pretended to seriously watch Royce as the child demonstrated his skill.

  “Your son will have the greatest teacher in all of England in his father,” he said. “In fact, I will send my own son to you for training.”

  Bric looked at him, a somewhat surprised expression on his face. “You would…?” He stopped, swallowed, and then started again. “Even after all of this, you would still send your son to me for training?”

  Dashiell nodded without hesitation. “Bric, you worry overly,” he said. “You seem to think that we are all ashamed of you, but the truth is that our respect for you has not changed. All men falter from time to time; it is part of a man’s nature, I think. But you are so damned perfect that when you faltered, it was completely unnatural and you thought the entire world had caved in. But it hasn’t, you know. Don’t you see? You are still as great as you ever were. Greater, even, because you are working to overcome something that could have destroyed you. But you did not let it. That is the mark of a true man.”

  Of everything that had been said and done over the past four days, Dashiell’s words of faith, in stressing how he would gladly send his son to Bric for training, bolstered Bric more th
an anything ever had. Dashiell believed in him. In fact, all of these men believed in him or else they would not have come. Bric never felt the bonds of brotherhood, or of friendship, more strongly than he did at that moment.

  “You deserve the credit, not me,” he said quietly. “My wife was right to send word to you, Dash. I do not know if I could have done this without you.”

  Dashiell patted him on the shoulder. “You could have,” he said. “It just would not have been nearly as fun. We have had a good time at your expense, Bric. But it was worth it.”

  Bric chuckled softly. “I do feel better,” he said. “I feel as if I can face myself again. I can hold a sword again and I can shoot a longbow again without my palms sweating. That is progress.”

  “It is, indeed.”

  “I suppose I shall know for certain when I next find myself in battle.”

  Dashiell looked at him, thinking that now might be a good time to tell him about William Marshal’s directive to England’s armies. But he didn’t get the words out of his mouth before Eiselle suddenly appeared, and Manducor along with her. After that, Bric was righteously distracted.

  As well the man should have been. His lovely wife had just entered the garden and she was all he could see. Clad in a pale blue dress made from a light fabric to combat the warmer temperatures of summer, she looked radiant and rosy-cheeked as she headed straight for her husband. Bric handed the longbow over to Dashiell to go and greet her.

  “Lady MacRohan,” he said as he reached out to take her hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

  Eiselle positively glowed at her husband. “We could see you practicing with your longbows from the window,” she said. “I also saw Royce cheering you on, so I thought if he can come out here and not be chased away, mayhap I can come out here, too. May we watch?”

  Bric kissed her hand again. “Of course you may,” he said. “But I do not think we shall be practicing with the longbows anymore today. Mine has a crack in it and I do not think the others will be able to stand up to the strain, so we are going to find something else to do. But whatever it is, you may watch.”

  Eiselle beamed, wrapping her arms around his big bicep. “More wood chopping?”

  “God, no.”

  “More lugging around those very big tree stumps?”

  Bric made a face, glancing over at Bentley and Sean, who were coming over to join them. “Those damnable stumps have my eternal ire,” he said. “Moving those things around the stable yard nearly broke my back. Whose stupid idea was that, anyway?”

  Bentley and Dashiell laughed as Sean spoke up. “Are you calling me stupid?”

  Bric cocked an eyebrow. “Not you; simply your idea to drag those tree stumps all over the place.”

  “It was a test of strength, Bric.”

  “I do not need to test my strength. I know how strong I am.”

  Sean’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “As do I,” he said. “I shall tell your wife to make the next garment she sews for you a dress because, clearly, you need one. You complain just like a woman.”

  Bric started to laugh. “Bleeding Christ, you’re a vicious beast.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  By that time, they were all laughing. Eiselle could see the easy camaraderie between the men and it did her heart good to see Bric’s good mood. The man was quite humorous when he wanted to be, and she was coming to see a side of him she hadn’t really seen before. All she’d seen was the serious side of him, the sad side of him, and the sweet side of him on occasion. But this side was quite bristly, in a funny sort of way.

  “It is getting rather warm,” she said, looking up into the bright blue sky and shielding her eyes from the sun. “Why not come into the manse? It is cooler inside and the cook has made some cider. It will be delicious on this warm day.”

  Bric thought some time with his wife would be a good idea, but Sean, ever the task-master, shook his head.

  “We are not finished yet,” he said, “but I will look forward to sampling the cider come this evening, Lady MacRohan. Your husband has more things to accomplish before he can rest for the night.”

  Bric sighed with great frustration. “Accomplish what?” he demanded. “More tree-moving? Or do you wish for me to find rocks in the fields and then build you a house with them? What more could we possibly have to do today, Sean?”

  Sean fought off a grin. “You are complaining like an old woman again, MacRohan.”

  “Taispeánfaidh mé mo chuid liathróid duit má chreideann tú sin.”

  “Stop it with your devil’s tongue already. What in the hell does that mean?

  “It means that I will show you my ballocks if you really believe I am an old woman.”

  Sean burst out laughing and Eiselle pulled away from Bric, covering her ears. “Bric!” she gasped. “How crude!”

  Bric looked at his wife, suddenly very contrite. “I am sorry, my dearest,” he said. “But no man will call me an old woman, most especially in front of my wife.”

  Eiselle shook her head at him but she couldn’t quite summon the serious face necessary to convey her disapproval at so boorish an insult. She grinned, slapping her hand over her mouth, as she turned for the manse.

  “I am going inside where we do not speak of such things,” she said. “Leave the vulgarity out here, for if it comes inside, I may have to beat it to death.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “I mean what I say, MacRohan. Not in my house.”

  “I swear to you, I will never again be so rude in front of you.”

  His eyes were glimmering with mirth as he spoke, properly remorseful, and Eiselle thought it was one of his more charming moments. He was being quite sweet and contrite, but there was a flirt in the air as he said it, something she’d never quite experienced from the man. She rather liked it. She was just about to say so when one of the old house servants suddenly entered the garden.

  The servant was a very old man with fine, white hair. It would fly around his head and look like a cloud. Everyone turned to the poor old man, who seemed terribly nervous in the presence of so many fighting men. Serving in the quiet manse as he was, he wasn’t used to the boisterous knights.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, m’lord,” he said, pointing a gnarled finger in the general direction of the front of the manse. “Lord de Winter has arrived. He has asked for ye.”

  The warm mood that had been present only moments earlier vanished. Bric’s brow furrowed in surprise.

  “Daveigh?” he repeated. “Here?”

  The old man nodded. “He is in the hall, m’lord. He has asked for ye and the lady.”

  Eiselle looked at Bric, who looked at her with equal astonishment. As Eiselle turned for the manse in a rush, Bric turned to his friends.

  “I cannot imagine why he has come,” he said, “but you will all come with me. He will want to see you.”

  With that, he turned for the manse as well, and Bentley immediately followed. But Dashiell and Sean hung back, collecting the arrows, and the longbows, lingering behind because they had something to say about de Winter’s unexpected visit. The arrival of Daveigh de Winter wasn’t coincidental, they were certain.

  It was all starting to fall into place.

  “De Winter must have received word from the Marshal,” Dashiell said quietly. “That must be why he has come. He has to move the de Winter army south and he will want to see if Bric can manage it.”

  Sean nodded. “Truthfully, we could not have remained at Bedingfeld much longer,” he muttered, picking up the last longbow. “You know that as well as I do. We have been here four days, Dash. At some point, we were going to have to tell Bric about the Marshal’s order and convince him to go with us.”

  Dashiell nodded reluctantly as they began to head towards the manse. “Indeed,” he said. “But de Winter should tell Bric about the orders to move into Kent, and if he doesn’t, then we shall have to tell Bric tonight, especi
ally with de Winter here. If Daveigh has not been told what is happening, then you must tell him. The de Winter army must move south immediately.”

  Sean knew that. They passed from the walled garden, seeing the manse looming in front of them. With all of the brotherhood and warmth, games and serious work that had gone on over the past four days, time had moved swiftly but Sean felt as if Bric had made tremendous progress. He was strong, that one, so strong that nothing short of God Himself could keep him down.

  “I have every faith that Bric can lead the army,” he said as the door to the manse loomed before them. “Do you?”

  Dashiell nodded. “I have seen the old Bric before me,” he said quietly. “But he said it best – sword play and target practice is one thing, but he has yet to face an actual battle.”

  “And what do you think will happen when he does?”

  They came to the open door, hearing voices inside as Bric greeted his liege. Dashiell came to a halt, facing Sean.

  “I think Bric will lead the charge as he always does,” he muttered seriously. “And if he does not, we will be there to carry him. Whatever happens, I will not let him fail.”

  “Nor will I.”

  The situation was settled. Dashiell and Sean entered Bedingfeld to greet Daveigh, but the agreement between them – to keep Bric from failing – was set in stone. They never said another word about it.

  They didn’t have to.

  Bric MacRohan would succeed, no matter what.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “God’s Bones,” Daveigh gasped. “Du Reims is here, too? And de Lara? I am overwhelmed.”

  Already, Daveigh was moving forward to greet them properly. He shook their hands, a customary greeting that had evolved over the centuries to ensure that no man was carrying a weapon to harm the other but, in this case, it was a greeting of genuine friendship and warmth. Daveigh shook Dashiell’s hand but when he came to Sean, he held the man’s hand just a few moments longer.