Richmond gazed at the man with amused sympathy. “Bart is not an idiot, William. He’s simply….”
“An idiot!” William snorted. “My son, the pagan.”
“He’s merely open-minded.”
“He questions the church’s teachings, for Christ’s sake! What is open minded about that?”
“He’s a curious lad, not unlike the rest. He simply focuses his energies into areas where most men fear to tread.”
William felt the familiar disappointment his son always managed to cast upon him. “Greek tragedies, Roman mythology, Paganistic rites. The man threatens to disrupt England as we know it.”
Richmond’s lips flickered with a smile. “Baron Lymse insists he’s an intelligent, well-read boy. Which is, unfortunately, his primary problem. He’stoointelligent and well-read.”
“He’s an idiot,” William muttered into his cup.
With a twinkle in his eye, Richmond turned away. Habitually, his gaze roved in Arissa’s direction and he was startled to find her staring at him.
Their eyes met, locked. Pale, delicious green upon bright blue. Richmond was the first to attempt an acknowledgment, lifting his cup slightly in her direction. Forcing a weak smile, Arissa lowered her gaze.
Richmond, too, tore his eyes away from her after a few moments, wondering how her familiar gaze could impact him as if it were the very first time they had met. Not a day went by that he did not curse God and Henry for delegating him with Arissa’s guardianship. Had they only just met, it would be far easier to declare his want for her. But as her guardian, he might as well have been her father. The roles were basically the same. He had a sick obsession, in love with a woman he had practically raised.
As he immersed himself deeper and deeper into his depressing thoughts, something on the gallery’s balcony caught his attention. Immediately, he glanced up to see Bartholomew de Lohr poised on the ledge dressed in a toga.
Outwardly, he did not change expression. A massive elbow gently jostled William, who was conversing with Carlton. When William turned inquisitively to Richmond, the knight simply pointed to the balcony.
“Good Christ!” William sputtered. “He… he’sindecent! What in the hell is he doing?”
Arissa and Regine turned around, gaping at the source of their father’s outrage. In fact, the entire room had gone eerily still as all attention riveted to the half-naked man.
Bartholomew was pleased to have their focus. He perched himself on the ledge with arrogant confidence, hooking a thumb in the shoulder-drape of his toga.
“Greetings, citizens!” he bellowed. “In honor of our returned hero, a prose as befitting the most glorious Roman Gladiator!”
“Good Christ,” William moaned, casting a glance at his mortified wife. He rose to his feet. “Come down from there, Bart! Go put some clothes on!”
Bartholomew cocked a blond eyebrow at his father. “When I am finished, Great Caesar, I shall be happy to join the orgy. Allow me to finish my performance.”
Arissa was smiling faintly at her brother; not because she found him humorous, but because he was trying so desperately to maintain his individuality in a world where the norm was to bear armor and clutch a sword in your hand. Bartholomew was immersed in a world where ancient Romans and Greeks were a part of his everyday existence, and he took great pride in extolling their literary works. In a world where one was considered odd if one was different, Bartholomew de Lohr was something of a freak of nature.
“No performance,” William waved him off firmly. “Go put your clothes on. You are offending the ladies.”
Bartholomew gave his father an irritated look. “This is a toga, Father. All correct Romans wore togas. Greeks, too. There is nothing shameful about it.”
William’s face began to mottle a faint red. “’Tis no wonder they destroyed their own civilizations with their decadent dressand eccentric manner. Lad, you were born a thousand years too late.”
Bartholomew cleared his throat, ignoring his father completely. Instead, he focused on Richmond. “Oh Noble Warrior,” he put his hand over his chest dramatically. “A verse in honor of your return:
‘So like they were, no mortal
Might one from other know;
White as snow their armor was,
Their steeds were white as snow.
Never on earthy anvil
Did such rare armor gleam,
