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 were 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 wellthat 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. Havingno 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 shoulders. “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 troopsout.”
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?”
