Brides of Ireland

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “She… she has been here?” he rasped.

  Manducor nodded. “She has not left you,” he said. Then, he looked down at Bric’s left hand and reached down to unwind something from his wrist. He held it up. “She returned your talisman, my lord. She seemed to think it meant something to you.”

  His talisman. Bric moved his focus away from Eiselle once again to see Manducor hanging the talisman in his face. That great and noble pendant that had been passed down through generations of a great Irish family until it was given to him.

  Odd; it hadn’t even occurred to him that he hadn’t been wearing it when the arrow pierced his chest. Not once did he lament not having worn it, or having left it with his wife. It was something that had been with him since nearly the moment he’d seriously swung a sword, and the battle at Holdingham had been the first time he’d fought a battle without it. It was true that he’d gone to kiss it on more than one occasion during the fight, as that was a habit with him, but he’d never once regretted leaving it with Eiselle.

  The woman who hadn’t left his side the entire time he’d been ill.

  My devoted angel…

  “Put it on me,” he whispered.

  Manducor obliged, helping him lift his head as he put the chain around his neck. But the jostling awoke Eiselle and her head shot up when she realized that Bric was being moved. All she saw was Manducor lifting the man’s head and she bolted to her feet, reaching out to slap Manducor’s hand away.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed groggily. “You will not move him about like that!”

  “Eiselle,” Bric murmured. “’Tis okay, mo chroí. He is putting the talisman on me.”

  At the sound of his hissing, raspy voice, Eiselle looked at Bric in shock, realizing the man was speaking. He was awake! Her eyes flew open wide at the realization and she cried out, slapping a hand over her mouth in shock.

  “Bric!” she said through splayed fingers. “You have awakened!”

  He smiled faintly – oh, so faintly – and his eyes glimmered weakly at her. “I had to see your beautiful face again.”

  Eiselle’s shock turned to joy, and a grin of unimaginable brilliance spread over her lips. “How do you feel?”

  He didn’t answer her right away. He simply gazed at her. Then, his right hand slowly lifted, his hand coming up to cup her face as she looked at him. It was a moment of tremendous sweetness as he touched her soft skin, reacquainting himself with those lovely features. More and more, he was convinced she had been the angel singing to him in his dreams. His heart swelled in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend, overwhelmed with her dedication.

  “I understand you have been with me the entire time,” he said.

  She put her hand over his as he touched her face. It was the most magnificent touch imaginable and her heart, so frightened by his wound and illness, began to beat again, just a little. There was hope in his touch; hope that he might actually survive.

  Hope that he would heal.

  “Nearly the entire time,” she said. “I will admit that I have not been around an injured man before, and the night they brought you in, I… I became a little sick over it. But I recovered quickly and I’ve not left you since. I wanted to be here when you awoke.”

  His big, rough fingers caressed her cheek, her jaw. “Sick? What do you mean?”

  She looked embarrassed. “I… well, I fainted. I’ve never seen such a wound before and… it overwhelmed me, I suppose.”

  The corners of his lips twitched. “And you shall never see one like it again, God willing,” he said. “In answer to your question, I feel a good deal of pain. Will I live?”

  Her smile faded. “You will,” she said firmly. “I will not permit you to do anything else. Weetley has cleaned your wound, and Manducor and I have been doing all we can to ensure there is no poison.”

  “Manducor?” he asked, turning slightly to see the priest. “Are you a healer?”

  Manducor shook his head. “A former knight, my lord,” he said quietly. “I have tended many a battle wound.”

  That statement caused Bric to look at Manducor through new eyes, perhaps with a little more respect now. A former knight. He briefly wondered why the man had turned to the priesthood, but it was only a fleeting thought. In truth, he was surprised the priest had been so attentive to him, considering he’d been fairly rough with the man. But now, the priest’s presence made more sense – perhaps the former knight in Manducor had understood Bric’s manner.

  “Then you have my thanks,” Bric said quietly. “And I am sure Lady MacRohan is thankful, as well.”

  Eiselle nodded. “He has been quite helpful,” she said. “In fact, your fever is gone but Weetley made a terrible-smelling tea for you to drink. He wanted you to drink the moment you awakened, so I am sorry to say that you must take it.”

  The smile on his lips grew as he looked at her. “You sound as if you are giving me orders, Lady MacRohan.”

  “I am.”

  Eiselle held her ground, hoping he wouldn’t rebel against such a statement. Instead, he emitted a noise that sounded like a chuckle.

  “Aye, madam,” he said. “Give me a kiss and I shall take whatever potion you wish.”

  Eiselle kissed him, gladly. Manducor turned away as the married couple shared a private moment, a sweet kiss that was as pure and fresh and new as the earth on the day that God had created it. It was a kiss full of the promise of hope and affection, a sign that something deep was brewing between the pair, something a stolen French arrow couldn’t destroy.

  There was hope for a new future on the horizon now.

  In the end, Bric drank the Rotten Tea that tasted as foul as anything he’d ever tasted in his life. He drank it twice every day, for the next week, until his wound showed signs of adequate healing and his health began to return. Weetley permitted him to eat beef broth but little else, and Eiselle sat by his side and fed him for the first few days until he was strong enough to sit up and feed himself. Then, it was beef broth with pieces of bread soaked in it. He ate it ravenously.

  Little by little, Bric MacRohan began to heal.

  As the days passed, and finally the weeks passed, it was clear that Bric was going to recover. Within ten days of his injury, he was able to stand, and then he began taking short walks around the great hall with his wife, who held on to him tightly as if she could keep a man of his size stabilized. Manducor, or even Pearce or Mylo or Daveigh, would usually follow around behind them, making sure Lady MacRohan didn’t get into any trouble she couldn’t handle. But Bric remained rock solid, demonstrating the sheer resilience of the man.

  Everything seemed fine, and there was a sense of relief and joy around Narborough as de Winter’s High Warrior recovered both his strength and his health. Physically, the man was rapidly healing. Mentally, however, was another story.

  The worst was yet to come.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mid-August

  “Have you noticed anything different about Bric?”

  The question came from Daveigh, directed at Pearce, on the cusp of a fine August day. A storm had blown through the night before, leaving the following day bright and blustery. In the outer bailey of Narborough Castle, in the area near the troop house where the men would train or stage, Bric was running some new recruits to the de Winter war machine through a series of drills.

  But it wasn’t the Bric they’d known in the past.

  The High Warrior that had made a name for himself was a man of great skill and talent when it came to training men, but he was also a man of little patience. He’d been known to go head-to-head with a soldier or even a knight who was too timid or too hardheaded to understand what he was being taught, and the pupil would always lose. Bric wasn’t beyond punching men in the face, or slicing them with his broadsword simply to teach them a lesson. That was simply his way, and the men would learn very quickly as a result.

  But the Bric nowadays didn’t seem willing to push the men that hard. In fact, he almo
st seemed pleasant in his training these days, which wasn’t like Bric at all. The knights had noticed it, as had Daveigh, but no one was willing to say anything about it, hoping that Bric would regain whatever confidence he’d lost as a result of that terrible wound, but as the weeks passed and nothing seemed to change, it was Daveigh who said something to Pearce about it.

  Those fateful words, what they’d all been thinking, had finally been uttered.

  “Different?” Pearce turned to his liege as they both stood on the edge of the training area watching Bric and the newer recruits. “What do you mean, my lord?”

  Daveigh was feeling greatly depressed by the Bric he was witnessing these days, meaning he had no patience for Pearce’s ambiguity. He eyed the man unhappily.

  “You know exactly what I mean,” he said quietly. “Be honest, Pearce – we’ve been watching Bric with the men for the past several weeks and things are… different. I was hoping it was simply because of his brush with death, the fact that he was physically still recovering, but his entire manner is different these days. This is not the Bric MacRohan we knew before that arrow hit him in the chest.”

  Pearce was fiercely loyal to Bric. He knew what Daveigh was driving at, but he wasn’t going to agree with the man.

  “Give him time,” he said. “He nearly lost his life two months ago. Tasting death is going to change a man, but he will come around. It is not as if we are talking about an unseasoned weakling. We are speaking of Bric MacRohan.”

  Daveigh sighed heavily, watching as Bric grabbed a sword out of a soldier’s hand, pushed the man back, and then swung the sword in a controlled fashion as he explained something to him. Two months ago, Bric probably would have drawn his own sword against a man who was having trouble learning a technique and engage him in swordplay that would have eventually drawn blood. As he watched Bric explain something rather than demonstrate it, he shook his head.

  “I know,” Daveigh muttered. “Mayhap you are correct; mayhap he simply needs time. I suppose almost losing his life is bound to shake him up, because Bric has never faced such a thing. He has never even come close. But this… it looks as if he is nursemaiding the men rather than being the master he needs to be.”

  Pearce wasn’t going to agree with him, even if it was true. “If it is bothering you so much, have you spoken with him?”

  Daveigh shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Truthfully, I am simply glad to have him back. If his dance with death has changed him somewhat, I suppose it is a small price to pay. But this is not the man I have known all of these years. I am not sure I like it.”

  Pearce watched Bric as he handed the sword back over to the soldier so the man could try what he’d been shown.

  “It is still Bric,” he said quietly. “I simply think you should give him time. He will come around.”

  Daveigh looked at him. “And what if he does not?” he asked. “What if we are summoned by another ally and Bric must lead the army? Will he lead with the same fearless bloodlust we are used to, or will he shepherd the men like a dog herding sheep, fearful they are going to be injured?”

  Pearce looked at him. “I have every faith in Bric MacRohan, my lord,” he said. “I have heard of injuries changing men and their outlook. Bric has much to consider these days, mostly a wife he adores. He has much to live for and it was something he nearly lost two months ago. Everything changed for him, all at once, so I do not believe we should judge him so harshly right now. Give him time to become accustomed to everything that has happened to him and I am sure we will see the old Bric make a return.”

  Daveigh knew that what Pearce said was very true; much had changed for Bric in a short amount of time. Drawing in a deep breath, he exhaled thoughtfully.

  “I suppose I simply miss the man who called everyone a pisswit,” he said. “Bric’s insults were the only fun we ever have around here. Why does he not insult men anymore? I miss that.”

  Pearce grinned. “I am sure that will come again, with time.”

  Daveigh eyed the young knight. “You are wiser than you look, de Dere.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  With a smirk, Daveigh wandered away, heading off to the stables to see to a new horse he’d purchased recently and leaving Pearce to watch Bric instruct men with a kindness unlike him. In truth, Pearce missed the old Bric, too.

  As Pearce pondered the situation, Eiselle had just exited the keep with Zara. Over the past few weeks, the women had become friends. As Keeva had once told Eiselle, Zara was a little dim-witted, and liked to drink excessively, but she was quite humorous and Eiselle found her to be honest, sometimes brutally so. Bric had told her the story about Pearce and how the man believed Zara had tricked him into marrying her, but Eiselle didn’t believe it. Zara didn’t seem manipulative, certainly not like Angela was.

  Angela, in fact, had increasingly isolated herself against the other woman, hiding out with her naughty son, but she would make an appearance at the evening meal on occasion, complaining or trying to guilt her husband into doing something she wanted him to do. It didn’t matter what it was – dancing, a new pony for their son, or any number of things she felt were important. She would whine, Mylo would mostly ignore her, and eventually she would leave the meal in tears. Edward no longer made an appearance at any of the meals where the adults were present, but Angela would take him outside daily so the child could run about and get into trouble.

  Even now, Eiselle and Zara could see Angela and Edward in the inner bailey as Edward chased the waterfowl that were basking in the sun on the banks of the moat. Ducks were flying in all directions as Edward ran through them, kicking at them. Eiselle and Zara watched from a distance.

  “I do not suppose he could fall into the moat, could he?” Eiselle muttered.

  Zara couldn’t hold back the laughter. “I have often hoped for that myself,” she said. “Somehow, Angela always seems to grab him before he can fall in.”

  “Pity.”

  The two chuckled as they made their way to the small gatehouse that opened up into the outer bailey beyond.

  “Edward was a cute babe,” Zara said. “In fairness to Angela, she had a difficult pregnancy with him. Weetley made her stay in her bed for months on end, so when Eddie was born, one would have thought Angela was the only woman in the world to have ever given birth to a child. Lady de Winter requested that I attend the birth and I swear I never want to have children after watching Angela go through her dramatics. It was harrowing.”

  Eiselle grinned. “I understand that childbirth can be very painful.”

  Zara nodded. “That is true, but I would expect that some women bear the pain with some dignity. She had no dignity at all.”

  Eiselle chuckled. “I shall remind you of that should I ever attend a birth of your child.”

  Zara rolled her eyes. “If I behave as Angela did, slap me.”

  “I shall remind you of that, too.”

  It was Zara’s turn to chuckle. But quickly, her smile faded. “I pray that someday you will have the opportunity,” she said. “I wish I knew what God had planned for me. I know that Pearce would like a son. I was pregnant when we married, you know, but I lost the child shortly thereafter. Pearce has never believed that, but it is true. He thinks that I tricked him into marriage.”

  The subject of the mysterious pregnancy came to light, quite unexpectedly. Eiselle pretended that she’d heard nothing about it. “Why would he believe such a thing?” she asked. “Surely you would not lie about something like that.”

  Zara lifted her shoulders. “Nay, I would not,” she said. “But he did not want to marry me. Pearce did not want to marry anyone; he simply wanted to love women and leave them. I lived in King’s Lynn with my parents when we met; my father is a tanner and Pearce purchased boots from him. He was quite taken with me, as I was with him, and I will admit that I allowed him to take… liberties. But I could not help it; I loved him so. When I became pregnant, I told him and he did not believe it was his child. He refused t
o marry me but I told him I would tell my father if he did not, so he did. Still, he has not let it stop him from seducing other women. He thinks I do not know that, but I do.”

  Eiselle was looking at Zara quite seriously. “Oh… Zara,” she breathed. “I am so sorry to hear that. I do not understand how he could do such a thing to you.”

  Zara shrugged. “It is my fault,” she said. “I wanted the man to marry me. I did not care that I was trying to curb his nature in order to do it. He likes women and does not see his marriage to me as an obstacle to that.”

  Eiselle frowned. “Well, I do not like it. Does Bric know?”

  “They all know.”

  Eiselle was quite unhappy by the sad tale. “Then I cannot imagine he approves of it. What a terrible thing for Pearce to do.”

  Zara put her hand on Eiselle’s arm. “Please, do not tell Bric that I told you,” she said. “I do not want him to know because it might get back to Pearce, and I do not want my husband to know that it bothers me. That would make me ashamed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Zara glanced up, seeing the training field off to their right, where her husband was standing on the fringes, watching Bric train some newer recruits.

  “It is that dignity I spoke of,” she said quietly. “Angela had none in childbirth, and she continues to have none. For me, it is different – dignity is all that I have. As long as Pearce does not know his behavior bothers me, then I retain my dignity. But the moment he knows I am distressed by his behavior, it is as if I lose any semblance of pride. I lose my dignity. Therefore, I have to pretend his behavior does not bother me because only then can I live with it. I do not know if that makes any sense, but it is the way I feel.”

  She was right – it didn’t make much sense to Eiselle, but she didn’t argue with her friend. “I cannot pretend to know how you feel,” she said. “All I know is that if Bric did such things to me, I could not stand it. It would destroy me.”