Lyle grunted as Arissa dug her heels into the floor, screeching and wrestling against him. With a growl, he swung her over his shoulder. “You may be right, but we can’t take the chance that le Bec will realize she’s missing immediately.”
David suddenly paused, glancing into the sanctuary. “What about the old man? He will tell him.”
Lyle paused, turning to gaze at his comrade while his burden twisted and hollered. “Then disable him. And meet me out inthe field beyond the servant’s gate. If I do not meet you there within a half hour, ride ahead and inform Owen what we have discovered. He must be made aware that Henry’s bastard is indeed at Lambourn.”
On Lyle’s shoulder, Arissa heard the words, but they possessed no meaning for her whatsoever. She was still consumed with grief for Bartholomew’s death, for her own abduction, and for the threat against Mossy.
“Do not hurt him!” she cried. “Please do not hurt Mossy!”
David glanced at the flushed, frightened woman. Without a word, he disappeared into the sanctuary and Arissa screamed at the top of her lungs. Panting and gasping, her struggles slowly ceased as the result of pure sorrow.
“Please, please,” she sobbed. “Please do not hurt him. I shall…. I shall come with you peacefully. Just do not hurt Mossy.”
Lyle paused a moment. He almost ignored her plea and kept walking, but something inexplicably made him stop. He knew full well that there should be no witnesses left to inform le Bec of what had happened, but there was something in the sweet voice and painful tears that tugged at his fighting man’s heart.
He was a soldier, seasoned and toughened through years of fighting. But he was also a husband and a father, and female tears cut him just as they cut through any warm-blooded male. He could just as easily hear his young daughter’s pleas in the voice of the delicate woman slung over his shoulder.
“Please,” she whispered again. “Stop him. Do not hurt Mossy.”
Lyle clenched his jaw, disgusted with the weakness that was overtaking him. He could feel himself relenting. Turning toward the portal leading to the tower, he shouted to his companion.
“David!” he roared. “Cease! Do not touch the old man!”
Several seconds passed as Lyle and Arissa wait, their struggles against one another at a halt for the moment. Tears ran down Arissa cheeks and onto Lyle’s mail; from the corner of his eye, he could see the small droplets and for the first time, he began to regret the brutality of his necessary duty. Truthfully, there could not have been an easy way to abduct her, but he was sorry for her fear all the same.
David suddenly appeared in the doorway, his expression puzzled. But Lyle simply waved at him irritably, irritation directed at himself for being soft to a woman’s tears. “Leave the old man alone. Go get the horses.”
“You did not harm him, did you?” Arissa asked urgently, sniffling.
David stepped into the corridor, eyeing Arissa warily. “He’s unharmed. But a moment longer and my report would not have been as favorable.”
Arissa nearly collapsed with relief. Her sobs faded as star-bright tears still glistened on her cheeks. “Diolch yn fawr,” she whispered.
Both David and Lyle looked to her, their eyes widening. “You speak Welsh?” David asked neutrally.
She nodded faintly. “I know a little,” she sniffled again, wiping at her nose. “I…. I did not think you’d understand me, but I felt the need to thank you just the same for preserving Mossy’s life. As I was raised properly, I never allow a favor to go without expressing my gratitude.”
“So you expressed your appreciation in a language you thought we would not understand so we would not know you had thanked us? Most peculiar that you should thank an enemy for an act of mercy,” David’s gaze lingered on her a moment, studying her beauty. After several seconds, he cocked an eyebrow slowly. “Fedra ddim siarad Cymraeg,” he said softly.
Now it was Arissa’s turn for surprise. She blinked away the remainder of her tears, droplets gleaming on her thick lashes.
“You speak Welsh?”
“I just told you I did,” David replied, tearing his eyes away from her and focusing on Lyle. “I shall meet you by the servant’s gate.”
He was gone, slinking down the corridor. With Arissa still slung over his shoulder, Lyle followed.
*
Huddled against thewall in the remains of his sanctuary, Mossy listened to the boot falls as they faded down the hall. Shaken, he pulled himself up on an upended stool to unsteady feet.
A quick glance in Bartholomew’s direction showed the lad’s blood to be collecting against the stone floor in a bright pool of crimson. Mossy stumbled towards his nephew, tripping over his robes in his haste to reach him. The large young man was curled on his side, groaning with the agony of his severe wound as Mossy struggled to turn him onto his back.
“Nay!” Bartholomew rasped. “I am beyond help. You must…. save Arissa!”
Mossy dug his fingers into the tear in Bartholomew’s tunic, probing the cleanly-executed wound. On the right side of his torso just below his ribs, it was bleeding profusely and Mossy wrestled with the hem of his robes, tearing a length of material free and pressing it to the injury. Bart groaned loudly, making a weak attempt to move away from the agonizing pressure the old man was applying.
“Leave me, Mossy!” he breathed again, swallowing hard. “You must save Riss!”
