Chapter Eighteen #3
“Have you thought about what there is for you if you do not return to the knighthood?” he asked, watching Bric turn to look at him. “I did not and look what became of me. You are better than me, MacRohan, a thousand-fold. What would you do if you were not a knight?”
Bric’s brow furrowed. “Who says I will no longer be a knight?”
Manducor shrugged. “No one,” he said. “But it must have crossed your mind.”
Bric’s gaze lingered on him a moment before turning back to the sundial. It seemed to be leaning to him, so he kicked at it, trying to level it.
“It has not crossed my mind,” he said. “There is nothing else for me. I was raised as a knight and it is what I know.”
“Then you will return to the battlefield.”
Bric sighed sharply. “I am sure I will, at some point.”
“Then why do you say no one is afraid of you?”
Bric was becoming more agitated as he moved the sundial around. “I do not wish to discuss this with you.”
Manducor didn’t want to upset the man; he was simply trying to get him to think a little. “Do you remember when we first met?”
“Regretfully, I do.”
“You slapped me and called me a drunkard.”
“Your point being?”
Manducor grinned as he leaned in Bric’s direction.
“You do not even have to try to be frightening, MacRohan,” he muttered.
“All you need do is look at a man and he is terrified. You have that gift and it is not something everyone has. Even now, the gift is apparent. It is not something you will ever lose, no matter how damaged your confidence.”
With that, he turned away, heading towards the smaller garden gate, looking at the flowers as he went.
Bric watched him go, realizing that, in some very small way, he felt better.
He was still capable of frightening Manducor, so that had to be a boost to his pride.
He remembered slapping the man around when they’d first met and, strangely, he felt rather sorry he had. But not sorry enough to tell him.
As Manducor headed out of the gate, Bric caught movement off to his left again, seeing that the bushes were moving once more.
There was so much lush undergrowth in the garden that it was easy for his stalkers to conceal themselves.
He was growing more curious now so he moved away from the sundial, his focus on the shuddering bushes several feet away.
It was some kind of a yellow flower bush and since he didn’t know a flower from a weed, all he knew was that it was a big bush with big, yellow blooms. But it was shaking so hard that some of the yellow petals were falling off.
Just as he neared the bush, a young boy jumped out at him.
“Halt!” the child cried, holding a small switch in his right hand. “You may not pass!”
Dutifully, Bric came to a halt. The boy couldn’t have been more than four or five years in age, dressed in simple peasant clothing, but having a fairly fierce expression for a servant.
He was brave, this one. Behind him, a little girl with golden curls bolted out of the bushes and ran for the wall of the garden, pressing herself against the stone beneath a creeping vine of purple flowers as if fearful of Bric.
“Who are you?” Bric asked the lad. “What are you doing here?”
The boy swished the stick back and forth, quickly enough to make it sing. “I am Sir Royce,” he declared. “You are the wicked knight and I must vanish you!”
“Do you mean vanquish?”
“Nay!” the child barked. “Vanish! You must go!”
Bric put a hand up to his face, hiding the smile that threatened. “I see,” he said. “Tell me, Sir Royce – where do you live?”
Royce pointed at the manor house, briefly, with his stick before returning it to a defensive position. “There,” he said. “Now, will you fight me?”
“I will not.”
Royce lost his aggressiveness. The stick came down and he frowned. “But why not?”
Before Bric could answer, he heard a voice behind him.
“I agree – why not?”
He turned to see Eiselle standing behind him, grinning. Lifting her hand, she extended a stick to him about the same size as the one the little boy held.
“Well?” she said. “You have been challenged, MacRohan. Since when do you refuse a challenge?”
Bric looked at her. Then, he looked at the stick.
Suddenly, his heart began to pound and his palms began to sweat.
He was coming to feel agitated and angry, something he didn’t like in the least. He didn’t want to be angry and agitated at Eiselle, but he couldn’t help himself.
At that moment, all he wanted to do was run.
He couldn’t get away fast enough.
“I won’t do it,” he muttered.
Turning on his heel, he blew past her, knocking the stick out of her hand as he went. It was an accident; he hadn’t meant to do it, but he’d been moving so swiftly that he’d recklessly hit it.
But it was a small stick and even as it popped out of Eiselle’s grip, it hardly made a sound.
Truthfully, she didn’t even care – she was more concerned about Bric as he practically ran away.
She watched him go, her smile fading, feeling bad that she’d tried to coerce him into something he wasn’t willing to do.
It had only been a game, from her perspective, and she thought it might do him good.
But Bric hadn’t viewed it as a game at all.
Perhaps in that little boy’s stick, he saw another sword.
He saw a battle.
He wasn’t ready to fight.
Eiselle thought that he simply needed some time to be alone.
She had been with him every second of every day since his injury, the only time that they were separated being when he had gone to Castle Acre.
Perhaps, in this instance, the man just needed some time away from her, to ponder his thoughts and clear his mind without her constant presence.
The thought brought tears to her eyes, thinking that maybe she’d been too attentive, and now pushing him to do something he clearly wasn’t ready to do.
Playing with a child, even with a pretend-sword, had upset him.
She had upset him.
As the main gate slammed when Bric passed through it, Eiselle didn’t follow. She made her way over to a stone bench that was lodged near the smaller gate, one that was situated beneath the shade of a big poplar tree.
As young Royce and his curly-haired playmate found excitement elsewhere, Eiselle plopped down on the stone bench and wept.