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.
“Look, Riss,” he pointed out the window. “The destriers are charging forth. Look at all of the knights!”
She caught sight of men on horseback, laden down with battle armor until there was barely a distinguishing division between man and beast. She’d never seen knights riding to battle before and her terror gained a shade of fascination.
“There must be dozens,” she agreed. “I see…. there’s Daniel! And Carlton is right behind him! But the other knights are bearing different standards and I do not recognize them. I…. Sweet St. Jude, there’s Gavan! He’s riding out to meet the enemy, too!”
“I have heard that Gavan Hage can take a man’s head off with one blow,” Bartholomew said eagerly, suddenly very much a spectator to the fight below. Growing up amongst knights had instilled a great appreciation in their skill, even if he had no desire to become one.
Arissa’s brow furrowed at that brutal thought; although he was a monstrous man with a fierce reputation, she found it difficult to think of the gentle knight in those terms. “How…. impressive.”
“Not only that, but I have heard tale that Richmond can….” he suddenly looked to his sister, noting her appalled expression. Weakly, he smiled. “It doesn’t matter. He’s a great knight and that is what he shall be known for.”
Gazing into Bartholomew’s blue eyes, she somehow obtained the impression that he sensed the relationship between Henry’s great knight and his younger sister. Being the sensitive, intuitive man that he was, she would not have been surprised. And she would have trusted Bartholomew far more that Regine to keep safe her secret.
But she would not elaborate, at least not at the moment. But Mossy was another story; glancing over her shoulder, the old man was back at his table, fussing with a myriad of mysterious junkets piled about him. She desperately wanted to tell him that all of her dreams, her hopes, had finally come true; smiling to herself, she realized he probably already knew. She swore the man could read minds.
“Do you see Richmond?” she asked, returning her attention to the window.
Bartholomew shook his head. “It’s difficult to see. This window does not have a good view of the battlefield. But I would safely wager that he was at the head of the group of knights that rode from the gates.”
She digested his statement, thinking that her bower was far more strategically located than Mossy’s tower and afforded a much better view of the open front gates. But she was hesitant to make the journey across nearly the entire width of the castle to reach her bower; should the bastion be violated, she did notwant to be caught alone. Here, in Mossy’s tower, was possibly the safest place she could be.
With a sigh, she turned away from the window. Since she could not see Richmond, there was nothing to do but wait and trust that his tactics would prove themselves. But in addition to those anxieties, she found herself worrying over her father and Gavan, Carlton and Daniel. They were in the midst of a heated battle and she could not bring herself to even imagine the worst. They were seasoned, intelligent warriors; they would survive.
She meandered over to Mossy as the sounds of the distant battle and pounding rain filled the stale air of the tower. Planting her round bottom on an ancient stool, she watched his quick movements without interest. Even if her eyes were focused on the old man, her heart, mind and soul were with Richmond somewhere in the battle beyond. To think that something might befall him was an inconceivable notion. She refused to entertain the possibility.
“What are you doing?” she asked the old man to distract herself.
Mossy was busying himself with something odd, as usual. He continued to fumble for a moment before answering.
“Yer lover is safe, Riss,” he said softly. “He’s in the heat of it, driving off the invaders.”
She stared at him a moment, a thousand words of inquiry and confusion coming to mind. How did he always know what she was thinking? It should not have come as a surprise, yet it always did. This was not the first time.
“He loves me, Mossy,” she whispered, shielding her words from Bartholomew’s ears. “He will marry me. He’s promised.”
“’Twill not be easy to wrest ye from Whitby, not when they’re expecting yer dowry. They’ve been hungering for it for eighteen years.”
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Bartholomew was not listening. “It does not matter. He’s promised to speak with Father.”
Mossy looked to her, the raven-hued tresses, the flawless skin. He wondered if, and when, Richmond intended to tell her the entire truth. For a young lady who had lived a relatively sheltered life, the facts of her existence were undoubtedly going to cause her tremendous shock. He felt a good deal of pity for what she was facing.
“I am sure he will,” he said after a moment, turning back to his work. “Richmond will have ye, have no doubt.”
She smiled faintly, feeling a great amount of comfort at the old man’s muttered words. To hear Mossy declare that Richmond would meet with success was as good as the word of God. She believed him, without question, and her hope began to soar. Not even the noise of the ongoing battle could dampen her joy.
She was still smiling when the door to Mossy’s sanctuary flew open, spilling forth two men dressed in dirty, rusted mail. Arissa was not alarmed until they flashed their broadswords menacingly, sinister bolts of light reflecting against the stone. Shocked and confused, her smiled faded into a, terrified expression as they moved directly toward her, tearing up everything in their path.
Bartholomew was startled, but not senseless. He immediately realized that, somehow, the castle had been breached and the soldiers before him were intent upon inflicting mortal harm. God help him, he had been wrong and all of his confident words came tumbling back on him, reminding him that his arrogant faith in Richmond had been misplaced. As much as the idea astonished him, the evidence was irrefutable. Lambourn was falling.
Knight or no, Bartholomew possessed a good deal of fighting ability. The protective instinct in him soared as the enemy soldiers plowed their way into Mossy’s sanctuary, upending cages and spilling out animals. As raccoons screamed and Samuel, overhead in the rafters, cawed loudly, Bartholomew hurled himself toward Arissa.
