Chapter Twelve
Mid-August
“Have you noticed anything different about Bric?”
The question came from Daveigh, directed at Pearce, on the cusp of a fine August day.
A storm had blown through the night before, leaving the following day bright and blustery.
In the outer bailey of Narborough Castle, in the area near the troop house where the men would train or stage, Bric was running some new recruits to the de Winter war machine through a series of drills.
But it wasn’t the Bric they’d known in the past.
The High Warrior that had made a name for himself was a man of great skill and talent when it came to training men, but he was also a man of little patience.
He’d been known to go head-to-head with a soldier or even a knight who was too timid or too hardheaded to understand what he was being taught, and the pupil would always lose.
Bric wasn’t beyond punching men in the face, or slicing them with his broadsword simply to teach them a lesson.
That was simply his way, and the men would learn very quickly as a result.
But the Bric nowadays didn’t seem willing to push the men that hard.
In fact, he almost seemed pleasant in his training these days, which wasn’t like Bric at all.
The knights had noticed it, as had Daveigh, but no one was willing to say anything about it, hoping that Bric would regain whatever confidence he’d lost as a result of that terrible wound, but as the weeks passed and nothing seemed to change, it was Daveigh who said something to Pearce about it.
Those fateful words, what they’d all been thinking, had finally been uttered.
“Different?” Pearce turned to his liege as they both stood on the edge of the training area watching Bric and the newer recruits. “What do you mean, my lord?”
Daveigh was feeling greatly depressed by the Bric he was witnessing these days, meaning he had no patience for Pearce’s ambiguity. He eyed the man unhappily.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he said quietly.
“Be honest, Pearce – we’ve been watching Bric with the men for the past several weeks and things are…
different. I was hoping it was simply because of his brush with death, the fact that he was physically still recovering, but his entire manner is different these days.
This is not the Bric MacRohan we knew before that arrow hit him in the chest.”
Pearce was fiercely loyal to Bric. He knew what Daveigh was driving at, but he wasn’t going to agree with the man.
“Give him time,” he said. “He nearly lost his life two months ago. Tasting death is going to change a man, but he will come around. It is not as if we are talking about an unseasoned weakling. We are speaking of Bric MacRohan.”
Daveigh sighed heavily, watching as Bric grabbed a sword out of a soldier’s hand, pushed the man back, and then swung the sword in a controlled fashion as he explained something to him.
Two months ago, Bric probably would have drawn his own sword against a man who was having trouble learning a technique and engage him in swordplay that would have eventually drawn blood.
As he watched Bric explain something rather than demonstrate it, he shook his head.
“I know,” Daveigh muttered. “Mayhap you are correct; mayhap he simply needs time. I suppose almost losing his life is bound to shake him up, because Bric has never faced such a thing. He has never even come close. But this… it looks as if he is nursemaiding the men rather than being the master he needs to be.”
Pearce wasn’t going to agree with him, even if it was true. “If it is bothering you so much, have you spoken with him?”
Daveigh shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Truthfully, I am simply glad to have him back. If his dance with death has changed him somewhat, I suppose it is a small price to pay. But this is not the man I have known all of these years. I am not sure I like it.”
Pearce watched Bric as he handed the sword back over to the soldier so the man could try what he’d been shown.
“It is still Bric,” he said quietly. “I simply think you should give him time. He will come around.”
Daveigh looked at him. “And what if he does not?” he asked. “What if we are summoned by another ally and Bric must lead the army? Will he lead with the same fearless bloodlust we are used to, or will he shepherd the men like a dog herding sheep, fearful they are going to be injured?”
Pearce looked at him. “I have every faith in Bric MacRohan, my lord,” he said.
“I have heard of injuries changing men and their outlook. Bric has much to consider these days, mostly a wife he adores. He has much to live for and it was something he nearly lost two months ago. Everything changed for him, all at once, so I do not believe we should judge him so harshly right now. Give him time to become accustomed to everything that has happened to him and I am sure we will see the old Bric make a return.”
Daveigh knew that what Pearce said was very true; much had changed for Bric in a short amount of time. Drawing in a deep breath, he exhaled thoughtfully.
“I suppose I simply miss the man who called everyone a pisswit,” he said. “Bric’s insults were the only fun we ever have around here. Why does he not insult men anymore? I miss that.”
Pearce grinned. “I am sure that will come again, with time.”
Daveigh eyed the young knight. “You are wiser than you look, de Dere.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
With a smirk, Daveigh wandered away, heading off to the stables to see to a new horse he’d purchased recently and leaving Pearce to watch Bric instruct men with a kindness unlike him. In truth, Pearce missed the old Bric, too.
As Pearce pondered the situation, Eiselle had just exited the keep with Zara.
Over the past few weeks, the women had become friends.
As Keeva had once told Eiselle, Zara was a little dim-witted, and liked to drink excessively, but she was quite humorous and Eiselle found her to be honest, sometimes brutally so.
Bric had told her the story about Pearce and how the man believed Zara had tricked him into marrying her, but Eiselle didn’t believe it.
Zara didn’t seem manipulative, certainly not like Angela was.
Angela, in fact, had increasingly isolated herself against the other woman, hiding out with her naughty son, but she would make an appearance at the evening meal on occasion, complaining or trying to guilt her husband into doing something she wanted him to do.
It didn’t matter what it was – dancing, a new pony for their son, or any number of things she felt were important.
She would whine, Mylo would mostly ignore her, and eventually she would leave the meal in tears.
Edward no longer made an appearance at any of the meals where the adults were present, but Angela would take him outside daily so the child could run about and get into trouble.
Even now, Eiselle and Zara could see Angela and Edward in the inner bailey as Edward chased the waterfowl that were basking in the sun on the banks of the moat. Ducks were flying in all directions as Edward ran through them, kicking at them. Eiselle and Zara watched from a distance.
“I do not suppose he could fall into the moat, could he?” Eiselle muttered.
Zara couldn’t hold back the laughter. “I have often hoped for that myself,” she said. “Somehow, Angela always seems to grab him before he can fall in.”
“Pity.”
The two chuckled as they made their way to the small gatehouse that opened up into the outer bailey beyond.
“Edward was a cute babe,” Zara said. “In fairness to Angela, she had a difficult pregnancy with him. Weetley made her stay in her bed for months on end, so when Eddie was born, one would have thought Angela was the only woman in the world to have ever given birth to a child. Lady de Winter requested that I attend the birth and I swear I never want to have children after watching Angela go through her dramatics. It was harrowing.”
Eiselle grinned. “I understand that childbirth can be very painful.”
Zara nodded. “That is true, but I would expect that some women bear the pain with some dignity. She had no dignity at all.”
Eiselle chuckled. “I shall remind you of that should I ever attend a birth of your child.”
Zara rolled her eyes. “If I behave as Angela did, slap me.”
“I shall remind you of that, too.”
It was Zara’s turn to chuckle. But quickly, her smile faded.
“I pray that someday you will have the opportunity,” she said.
“I wish I knew what God had planned for me. I know that Pearce would like a son. I was pregnant when we married, you know, but I lost the child shortly thereafter. Pearce has never believed that, but it is true. He thinks that I tricked him into marriage.”
The subject of the mysterious pregnancy came to light, quite unexpectedly. Eiselle pretended that she’d heard nothing about it. “Why would he believe such a thing?” she asked. “Surely you would not lie about something like that.”
Zara lifted her shoulders. “Nay, I would not,” she said.
“But he did not want to marry me. Pearce did not want to marry anyone; he simply wanted to love women and leave them. I lived in King’s Lynn with my parents when we met; my father is a tanner and Pearce purchased boots from him.
He was quite taken with me, as I was with him, and I will admit that I allowed him to take…
liberties. But I could not help it; I loved him so.
When I became pregnant, I told him and he did not believe it was his child.
He refused to marry me but I told him I would tell my father if he did not, so he did.
Still, he has not let it stop him from seducing other women.
He thinks I do not know that, but I do.”
Eiselle was looking at Zara quite seriously. “Oh… Zara,” she breathed. “I am so sorry to hear that. I do not understand how he could do such a thing to you.”