Great Protector (32 page)

"Your
father was a great warrior, once," Maude stopped fanning herself. She was
far too restless to remain seated. Rising on unsteady legs, she gave her
daughter a thin smile. "All will be well, my dear. Remain to the safety of
the castle until you are told otherwise."

Arissa
stood up and kissed her mother dutifully, watching as Lady Maxine and Lady
Livia escorted her from the room. When her mother's wide form vanished, she
sighed and returned her attention to The Horde.

"I
wonder where Bartholomew is," she pondered out loud. "Has anyone seen
him?"

"Surely
your father would not allow him to fight," Penelope responded. "He’s
not even a knight."

"He
would have been had he not been so distracted with his studies," Regine
supplied. "Father had a suit of armor and a magnificent sword commissioned
for him in anticipation of his knighthood. The armor and the broadsword sit
collecting dust in Mossy's sanctuary."

Mossy
. Arissa turned in the direction
of the tower as if to see Mossy in his cluttered room. He was the only one who
had known of her secret love for Richmond all of these years, a shoulder to cry
on when she could not tell anyone of her anguish.

Truthfully,
she'd never even admitted the extent of her adoration to the old man; Mossy had
known without the benefit of words. With a back glance to her gaggle of
friends, she excused herself from the table.

"Where
are you going?" Regine demanded.

"To
see Mossy," she replied honestly. "I simply cannot believe that he’s
not shown himself during our crisis. I would make sure that he’s well."

"Mossy
is perfectly safe in his tower," Emma said frankly. "In fact, we
would all be much safer if we would join him. I shall even brave the
rats."

Arissa
did not want The Horde tagging along after her and shook her head firmly.
"Nay, I shall not have us wandering the halls of Lambourn when we should
simply stay put. I shall check on Mossy and return as quickly as I can, I promise."

"You
should not go alone, Riss," Regine said sincerely. "It could be
dangerous."

"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 was 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
soldiers. "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.