Chapter One
First of June
Narborough Castle, Norfolk
Bric was trying to make it to the stables to escape, but he knew he’d be caught. He knew there was no real escape for him, but he was going to do it or die trying.
Woe to those who would try and stop him.
I have a gift for you, Bric, Daveigh had said.
Only it hadn’t been a gift. It had been a burden.
A trap of the most heinous kind. Bric knew who was behind it; God help him, he knew.
A man he considered one of his closest friends, but a man who was clearly trying to offend him.
When he left Narborough, he was going to ride all the way to Ramsbury Castle in Wiltshire and shove his fist right into Dashiell du Reims’ face.
He was going to flatten the man.
But he had to get out of Narborough first, which would be no simple feat.
Narborough was, perhaps, one of the best fortified castles in all of England, with a massive keep of many rooms, great earthworks surrounding it, creating something of a maze when it came to actually entering the inner bailey where the keep was, and then an outer bailey that was full of men and animals, stables, outbuildings, and even stone-built residences for the army.
Certainly, Bric could make it out to the bailey – or so he hoped – but making it through that outer bailey and to the gatehouse without being snared would be the trick.
Men were after him and he wasn’t about to surrender.
Now, he was trying to leave the keep without being seen.
He had his own chamber in the keep, right next to the entry.
It was simply a place to sleep, for a man like Bric had no real home or comforts.
He could carry everything he owned with him and, at the moment, he was weighted down with heavy saddlebags that literally carried everything he owned.
He didn’t want to leave anything behind because he was going to ride off and not come back for a very long time, at least until de Winter came to his senses. Bric was prepared to wait it out.
He didn’t want to be part of Daveigh, or Dashiell’s, political games.
It was dark at this ungodly hour as the night neared the morning.
Bric was silently making his way from his chamber towards the keep entry, plastering himself against the cold, stone walls, trying to stay out of any light.
He was keeping to the shadows, something he was good at, but the unfortunate part of that plan was that he’d taught every man in his command the same technique.
His men were good at it, too. They could remain unseen if they wanted to.
As he neared the bolted entry doors, two of his men proved it.
They stepped from the shadows to greet him.
“Where are you going so early, Bric?” Pearce asked, his eyes glittering in the weak light of distant torches. “We thought you might be coming this way.”
He gestured to his companion, another knight serving under Bric.
Sir Mylo de Chevington was a troll of a man, short and stocky, but as strong as an ox.
With his big smile and curly, dark hair, he had an impish look about him, which made Bric want to punch the man in the teeth because he could see a smile playing on his lips.
He glared at the pair.
“Get out of my way,” he growled. With his thick Irish accent, the threat sounded most deadly.
Pearce shook his head. “Alas, we cannot,” he said. “You know we cannot. De Winter thought you might try to run, so he posted us at these doors. We’ve been here all night because we knew, at some point, that you would make a break for them.”
Bric’s eyes narrowed, which was never a good thing. “If you value your life, then you will get out of my way.”
Pearce was still smiling as he lifted his sword. Mylo mimicked the movement a split second later.
“I love you, Bric, you know I do,” he said, “but de Winter was specific in his orders. We are not to let you leave this keep.”
Bric was growing increasingly furious. “You are my knights,” he said flatly. “You are sworn to obey me, as your commander, and your commander is telling you to get out of his way.”
Pearce and Mylo took a defensive stance, swords leveled. They knew what was about to happen and they wanted to be prepared.
“De Winter has ordered us to hold the line,” Pearce said, bracing himself. “That is what we shall do, Bric. I am sorry.”
Bric’s silver eyes were fixed on Pearce. “Nay, you are not,” he said. “But you will be if you do not move.”
“Bric, have pity,” Mylo said. “Would you have de Winter angry with us instead? We took our oath to him, as did you. If you stop to think about this situation, you are disobeying the wishes of your liege by trying to leave Narborough and…”
“And you shall shut your nasty little face, Mylo,” Bric snapped, turning his venom on the younger knight.
When Mylo’s eyes widened with a flash of fear, Bric was pleased.
At least he’d get some pleasure out of this event by scaring the fresh young knight.
“Now, move aside, de Chevington. Be a good lad.”
Mylo was far more pliable to Bric’s will than Pearce was but, surprisingly, he didn’t move away.
He did shift a little, but not enough. That gave Bric the opening he needed to whack the knight’s broadsword away and throw a shoulder into him, shoving Mylo right into the wall.
As the knight grunted with the force of the blow, Bric made a break for the bolt on the door.
After that, the fight was on.
Somehow, he’d managed to throw the bolt and yank at the door before Pearce and Mylo could stop him, but he couldn’t get the door open wide enough to escape before Pearce threw his body at the door to slam it shut again.
Swords were up and flying, and Bric had to fend off two good strokes from Mylo, meant to disarm him and nothing more.
They weren’t trying to hurt him, but they were attempting to disarm him.
Bric would die before he let that happen.
The little whelps were going to pay dearly.
The sounds of swords could be heard throughout the keep. On the top floor, Daveigh was roused from a deep sleep by his manservant, who announced that the knights were fighting down in the keep entry. With a smirk, Daveigh tossed off the coverlets and hurried to dress, as did his wife beside him.
Keeva de Winter knew what was happening.
This was something that had been building for two days, ever since Bric MacRohan had been informed that he was to be a bridegroom, courtesy of an offer from Dashiell du Reims, heir to East Anglia’s earldom.
That didn’t sit well with the big Irish knight, and he’d locked himself in his chambers for two days.
No amount of pleading or shouting from Daveigh could get him to come out.
But Daveigh knew, at some point, that Bric would attempt an escape. He’d prepared for that eventuality.
It seemed that he’d been right.
When Daveigh saw that his wife was dressing, he waved her off. “I do not want you downstairs right now,” he told her. “If Bric is in battle mode, then you could be injured. You know the man stops for nothing when he is in a fight and I do not want you in his line of sight.”
Keeva, pretty and pale, with deep red hair in long spirals down her back, waved him off. “Don’t be stupid.” Her Irish accent was strong as she pulled on a long, heavy robe that was warm against the cold morning temperatures. “Bric would not turn against me.”
“He may not even know it is you until it is too late.”
Keeva tied off her robe and headed for the chamber door as her husband hurried to follow, pulling on his boots. She wasn’t about to take any foolishness from her husband’s premier knight, a man who happened to be her cousin.
“I will stop this right now,” she said. “You and your knights have coddled Bric too much. This is ridiculous that you’d let a grown man rebel like this.”
Fiery was a word to describe the woman. She was stronger than most men.
Keeva charged out of the bedchamber as Daveigh followed, both of them racing for the narrow spiral stairs that led to the level below.
Once they entered the darkened first level, where the great hall and several smaller chambers were, they could immediately see the fighting near the massive, double-doored entry.
Instead of two knights against one, several soldiers were now involved, too.
They’d been summoned through the kitchens by frightened servants and now a line of armed soldiers stood around the three knights doing battle.
There was some shouting going on, mostly shouting encouragement at Bric, who had disarmed Mylo and had the man in a chokehold around the neck, using him as a shield against Pearce, who was genuinely trying not to hurt anyone.
All he wanted to do was disarm Bric, but now it had turned into a hostage situation.
But Bric was having no part of Pearce’s attempts. As Daveigh and Keeva approached, Bric lashed out a big foot at a soldier who got too close, smashing the man in the knee. As the soldier went down in pain, Keeva’s shout brought everything to a halt.
“Bric MacRohan!” she yelled. “If you don’t cease your fighting and release Mylo, I will enter the fight and you’ll not like it in the least. Do you understand me?”
Odd how one angry woman could stop what dozens of men couldn’t.
Bric came to an immediate halt at the sound of her voice and released Mylo, shoving the man far away from him.
Back against the wall, he stood there with his sword raised as Keeva and Daveigh broke up the ring of soldiers, sending them all back the way they’d came.
But Keeva was genuinely angry. As Pearce and Mylo backed away, she came up to Bric and pointed to his sword.
“Put it away,” she grumbled. “How dare you embarrass me. How dare you behave like this.”