Lyle
paused, turning to gaze at his comrade while his burden twisted and hollered.
"Then disable him. And meet me out in the 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 the wall 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!"
"Richmond
is the only one who can save her," Mossy replied hoarsely, struggling
against the bright red flow.
Bartholomew's
blue eyes opened, unnaturally bright against his pasty face. "Then find
him. Do not let my death be in vain."
Mossy
stared at him, hearing his words and seeing the truth within. Reluctantly, he
left the dying young man and stumbled toward the doorway. Nearly more than the
shock of Bartholomew's impending death and Arissa's abduction, the fact that
the soldiers who had come for her knew who she was enough to dash his
composure. Distinctly, they had referred to her as
Princess
. God help
her, they knew who she was.
It
suddenly began to occur to him that the siege on Lambourn had not been revenge
for the attack against Tad de Rydal. Mayhap, there was a greater scheme
involved, a plot full of court intrigue and royal conspiracies that could
threaten the very foundation of England's stability.
Mayhap
Ovid de Rydal hadn't attacked in the hopes of exacting vengeance against
Richmond le Bec. Mayhap, it had all been a cover for another objective.
Mossy
was quivering so terribly that he could scarcely walk, but he knew that he had
to get to Richmond before something horrible befell Arissa. He was her great
protector, sworn to protect and serve her with his very life. For eighteen
years Richmond le Bec had carried out his objective. Now, when she needed him
the most, he was distracted.
Mossy's
pace picked up speed and urgency, ignoring the panic and astonishment that
threatened to disable him. He had to reach Henry's le Bec with the news.
***
Lambourn
was deserted for the most part as people took to their chambers to wait out the
fighting in and around the bailey. The kitchen doors had been shut and bolted,
hindering David's escape. He had to do away with two serving wenches and three
male servants before he was able to unlock the door, leaving it open for Lyle's
flight. Trudging into the pouring rain, he went about his objective.
Lyle
was not far behind. Arissa bounced miserably on his shoulder, trying to cushion
the blows with each step. As he descended the stairs, she begged to be put to
her feet and he complied without a word. However, the death-grip he kept on her
arm was nearly as uncomfortable as being slung across his shoulder and she
winced continuously as he led her through the dim foyer and into the deserted
gallery.
"What
are you going to do with me?" she asked softly, resisting the urge to
struggle against him. She had, after all, promised not to resist in lieu of
sparing Mossy's life.
"That
is not for me to decide, princess," Lyle replied, his eyes alert for any
movement that might interfere with their progress.
Arissa
tripped on her own feet, nearly falling to her knees had it not been for Lyle's
powerful grip. But the impact of his words settled, including the title of
respect he had used. Not simply my lady, but princess. Puzzlement invaded her
expression.
"Why....
why do you address me in such a fashion?"
He
did not answer her as he pulled her through the gallery and prepared to enter
the kitchens. "Enemy or not, I will address you with due respect."
She
gazed up at him as he paused near the threshold leading to the kitchens,
completely confused.
"Due
respect
? I do not understand. I am a mere lady, the earl's daughter. But
you know that, lest you would not be abducting me," she was somewhat
calmer than she had been earlier, although she knew not why. She assumed that
if the large soldier was intent upon harming her, then he would have done so by
now. "Why does Ovid want me? To lay a trap for Richmond?"
The
soldier was distracted by her words as he scanned the dim kitchens beyond for
signs of danger. Irritably, he glanced at her. "I do not know of whom you
speak. Who is Ovid?"
Her
eyes narrowed curiously at his lack of understanding. It never occurred to her
to refrain from elaborating. "Lord de Rydal. You are with his army, are
you not?"
Satisfied
that no threat lay beyond in the yawning room, Lyle turned his full attention
to her. "I am not English. I serve Owen Glendower."
Arissa
blinked in confusion. "Who is that?"
He
cocked his head, less concerned with making it to the servant’s entrance as he
found himself interested in their conversation. "The Welsh prince opposing
your father. Surely he’s told you of his bloodthirsty quest to maintain a
captive Wales?"
Arissa's
eyebrows rose in surprise. "My father is intent on maintaining
Wales?" she repeated, surprised. "Good sir, my father is an earl, and
we are easily fifty miles from the Welsh border. You must have him confused
with someone else. Perhaps you have confused
me
with someone else."
Lyle
gazed into the pale green eyes, wondering how on earth she could be so dense.
Either that, or she was an accomplished liar. The mere fact that she was a
woman made him opt for the latter.
"No
more talk," he grip on her arm tightened in a display of irritation.
"You must have little respect for my intelligence to plead innocent of
your heritage"
Arissa
gasped as he swung her through the kitchens. Turning a sharp corner, they were
confronted with five dead bodies and an open door. The hellish weather beyond
beckoned viciously, calling them forth into her freezing embrace.
Lyle
attempted to move Arissa forward over the corpses, but she cried and squirmed,
resuming the struggle she had pledged to cease.
"Quit
your wrestling, wench," he snapped.
She
gasped and nearly swooned when one of her flailing feet came into contact with
a bloodied head against the stone. "I.... I need my cloak. Oh, please,
allow me to retrieve my cloak!"
Lyle
glanced at the pouring rain, thinking that a cloak would be a wise acquisition
in light of the weather they would be facing. 'Twould not due to have the
princess die of illness before they reached Wales. But returning to her chamber
to retrieve a heavy cover was out of the question; instead, he glanced about
quickly and was not surprised to see that both dead women were wearing
protection against the elements.
Releasing
Arissa's arm, he snatched a heavy woolen cloak from one of the deceased women
and shook it out sharply, tossing it at Arissa. She barely caught it, her hands
shaking from disgust and fear as she slung it about her narrow shoulders and
secured it tightly. Pulling the brown hood over her head and praying there
weren't lice nesting inside, she did not resist when Lyle grabbed her once more
and thrust her into the driving weather.
In
spite of the fact that the wool cloak stank to heaven and scratched her tender
skin, it was warm and thick and offered a good deal of protection. Lyle pulled
her through the muddy pond that had once been the kitchen yard, his eyes alert
for any soldier or servant that might alert Lambourn of the princess'
abduction.
Even
though the sounds of fighting were loud and fierce, he caught a glimpse of only
a few soldiers, and those men were engaged in mortal combat with enemy
warriors. Not one bothered to pay attention to the unfamiliar soldier leading a
small figure toward the servant’s gate. Additionally, the pounding rain offered
a shroud to partially obscure them against alert gazes.
Already,
Arissa's feet were soaking through. Her hide boots were not meant to be
submerged in water for any length of time and were saturating quickly. Lyle, however,
was oblivious of her discomfort as he hurried her toward the wall. The closer
they drew, the greater his sense of urgency.
They
were almost free. Soon, Wales would loom before him in all her glory and Owen
would be most pleased to discover Henry's bastard daughter within his midst.
Mayhap she would be the leverage he was looking for, the key to bargaining with
Henry. The surprise element the English king was not counting on.