“How long it has been since we have tasted your ale?” murmured his wife.
Edgar dropped to one knee before Bartholomew. “Take us home, my lord. I would follow you to do whatever needed to be done.”
“Aye!” came the chorus of assent.
Bartholomew sighed. “And what would I be asking of any who followed me? To offer themselves for slaughter against trained and armed knights?” The villagers exchanged glances as he counted off Royce’s forces on his fingers. “There is Royce, there is Gaultier, there are four more knights and at least a half a dozen men-at-arms.”
“Eight,” the red-haired man affirmed.
“Eight then, plus the others means thirteen armed and trained warriors, prepared to kill in their liege lord’s defense.” A ripple of unease passed through the company. “We have few swords, few daggers, no armament and solely two men who have tasted the kind of battle we would face.”
“One at less than his full capacity,” Duncan added.
“But…” Anna protested, but Bartholomew held up a finger.
“Add to those fourteen the squires, most of whom are training for battle as part of their service. I saw at least a dozen of them, and they are armed, as well.”
“We are outnumbered,” murmured the red-haired woman to the man beside her. He nodded grim agreement and Bartholomew saw hope die in many a face.
“Add to that the fortification of the keep itself. It is tall and well-wrought, designed to keep attackers at bay. We have no siege engines or horses. We cannot besiege a fortified keep with loose stones and bare hands, not if we mean to triumph.”
“We have our fury,” Anna said. “That is not to be overlooked.”
A few villagers agreed, but Bartholomew heard his own tone grow impatient. “There is passion and there is folly. I have seen enough to know the difference, and I have seen enough of futile death to suffice for all my days and nights.” He shook his head. “Nay, I would be no better than what you have known if I were to lead you all in such an assault. It would be irresponsible and wrong.”
Father Ignatius nodded quietly, his expression approving. “He is his father’s son indeed,” he murmured but Bartholomew did not reply.
Anna challenged him anew. “You could have attacked from inside, while we were all there. He would not have suspected such a feat.”
“Sir Royce was my host,” Bartholomew countered. “I could not betray his hospitality with treachery.”
Anna gasped. “But you endeavored to steal from him!”
“I tried to retrieve what had been entrusted to our party,” Bartholomew corrected. “And I ensured your brother’s freedom. To take more than our due when we were guests would have been wrong.”
“Surely Haynesdale is your due!” cried Edgar.
“It might well be, if I can claim it and if I can pay the escheat. We like to believe that holdings should pass from father to son, but since the Angevin kings claimed England, that is no longer the law. I will not kill Royce to make this claim.” He bit off his next words. “I will not ignore the law for my own convenience.”
They stared at him in silence.
Bartholomew turned to Duncan, well aware that he had disappointed the villagers, but he saw no reason to lie. “Give me your boots, Duncan, and I will clean them along with mine.”
Chatter broke out amongst the villagers, whispers he could not hear clearly but doubtless filled with speculation. He imagined they blamed him or thought him a coward, but he knew the limits of what he could do. Bartholomew was aware that Father Ignatius followed him, but did not see the glance that the priest fired at Anna.
He heard her footsteps behind them, though, and shook his head. How like Anna to refuse to accept any answer other than the one she desired. In a way, her passion was inspiring, but he would not be reckless with the lives of others.
He could not simply seize what he desired, as Royce had done.
Still, there had to be a solution. In this moment, Bartholomew was glad beyond belief that he had known Gaston and learned from that man’s experience.
For it would take a diplomat and a man of integrity to see this victory won.
*
Father Ignatius found himself liking this knight more than he had liked any new acquaintance in a while. He followed Bartholomew to the stream, where the younger man squatted and scooped up a handful of snow. Father Ignatius watched him scrub his boots with fresh snow, then cast the mired snow into the stream before taking another handful. He was not afraid to work, this knight, or to perform tasks beneath his station when they needed to be done. And Father Ignatius respected the care Bartholomew showed for the villagers of Haynesdale.
He had not made a jest when he had called the young knight his father’s son.
