Chapter Twenty-Two
“Faster, faster!”
As Manducor watched from afar, Dashiell was bellowing at Bric, urging him on in a heated race to see who could chop through a six-inch-thick oak log faster.
It was Bric and Dashiell against Bentley and Sean, and at the moment, Sean and Bric were in a dead-heat, pounding away with axes against oak logs that were nearly as hard as stone.
Beneath the summer sun, Bric was sweating buckets. He was stripped down to his breeches and boots, as were Dashiell and Sean, all of them straining under the sun, struggling to beat one another in a race of strength that had been taking place for almost two hours.
Bric and Sean would chop away at logs until they split in two, and then quickly put another log up for Bentley and Dashiell to cut away at.
It was a matter of pride now as the men labored against each other.
Dashiell was like a wagon master, whipping his beasts as he bellowed at Bric, telling him that Sean was about to win so Bric would hit the wood harder and faster.
Then, when the tides would turn and it was Dashiell’s time to chop, Bric turned into the Irish master knight that the de Winter army had feared and loved for years.
He would insult and shout at Dashiell until the man wanted to throw a punch at him.
But that Irish master was the glimpse the men were hoping to see.
Truthfully, Dashiell feared what would happen to him if he didn’t beat Bentley, so he chopped wood harder and faster than he had in years, finally beating Bentley by a significant margin.
When he quickly put another log back on the stump for Bric to chop, he stood back and cheered the man on as the High Warrior pounded on the wood with the ax that was quickly growing dull from such use.
After chopping through twenty-four fairly large pieces of oak between the four of them, the men finally called a rest and everyone dropped what they were doing.
Bentley collapsed onto his backside in the dirt as Sean and Dashiell leaned up against the side of the manse.
Bric was the only man standing without support, his shoulders red-kissed by the summer sun and the freckles on his skin even more pronounced than ever.
But the purple scar on the left side of his torso was also pronounced, giving Dashiell, Sean, and Bentley a glimpse at the wound that nearly killed him. Sean finally pointed at it.
“So that was your injury,” he said.
Bric, panting and wiping sweat from his brow, looked down at his torso and nodded. “That is the hole a French bastard put in me,” he said. “It was a heavy arrow, one used to take down horses and boars and the like. It happened to hit me instead.”
Sean shook his head in wonder. “It is truly a miracle that you survived,” he said. “But you did survive, Bric. Can you not feel the joy of life right now, competing with your friends and losing to me?”
They all laughed, especially Bric. “You did not best me, de Lara,” he said. “You may be a man of legend, but I am a man of strength. Is mise an laoch ard.”
Sean smirked. “And what does that mean in your terrible language?”
“It means that I am the High Warrior. You cannot best me.”
“Ah,” Sean said. “You have not lost your arrogance. That is good. That tells me the knight inside of you is alive and well.”
Bric wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
While he was considering his reply, he didn’t see Bentley getting to his feet and casually moving over towards the corner of the manse where he’d propped up two broadswords.
As Sean kept Bric’s attention, Bentley handed Dashiell a sword as he moved around behind Bric, keeping his broadsword behind his back should Bric see him.
When Bentley finally moved into position and nodded his head, Dashiell suddenly shouted.
“Bric!” he boomed. “Behind you!”
Bric startled as he’d never startled in his life.
Behind you! God, those words… those terrible words…
and suddenly, he was back in the dark river of Castle Acre Priory, and Mylo was yelling at him because a French knight was about to take his head off.
His heart leapt into his throat and a bolt of terror raced through him, but it was also a bolt of rage.
Pure, unadulterated rage.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Dashiell tossing a broadsword at him and he deftly caught it, purely a reflex, before spinning around to see Bentley charging at him, sword held high.
The rage took over at that point. Bentley had been a high-caliber knight long before he’d been the Duke of Savernake, but he was no match for an enraged Bric.
Bric brought his sword down to bear on top of Bentley, who was literally staggered by the blow.
Just as he rolled to his left so that he could come back in for another strike, Bric lashed out a big boot and caught the man on the side of the knee.
As Bentley went down in pain, Bric tossed the broadsword aside and threw a fist into Bentley’s jaw.
The man went sprawling.
But Bric wasn’t finished. He was going in for the kill.
He hadn’t taken two steps when Sean rushed up behind him and grabbed him around the chest, pulling him back as Dashiell moved in to protect Bentley, who was only half-conscious.
Unfortunately, Sean was having a difficult time, even with his size and strength, restraining Bric.
“Easy, Bric,” he said steadily. “No harm done. We were simply testing your reflexes and I am happy to say that your knightly traits are still there. You are still as deadly as you ever were.”
A test. That made the whole thing even worse.
When Bric realized what they had done, he yanked himself from Sean’s grasp, still furious and shaken.
His face was red and sweaty, and he began to pace, keeping away from Sean and Dashiell and now Bentley, who was starting to come around.
They were all looking at him with concern but perhaps even a ray of hope. Yet, Bric dashed all of that.
“Mylo shouted those same words to me at Castle Acre when we were fighting,” he said, his lips white because he was so angry. “He shouted those exact words and when I turned around, I killed him. Damn you for taking me back to that time I have been trying so hard to forget.”
Bentley was just sitting up, shaking off the bells, but he heard Bric’s angry words. He looked up at Dashiell, whose expression was stoic – but only marginally. It was clear by the tick in his jaw that he was deeply regretful.
“We did not know, Bric,” Dashiell said quietly. “You know we would have never used that tactic had we known. I am sorry you are so angry. As Sean said, you still have your knightly instincts. Those have not gone away. Mayhap we have clumsily proved that to you, but it is true.”
Bric stood back, flexing his big fists, his features taut with rage. Bentley was climbing to his feet at this point, pulled up by Dashiell, and Bric’s focus seemed to be on the man he’d just punched in the jaw.
So many things were going through Bric’s mind.
He knew his friends had only been trying to help, but their poor choice of words and tactics had caused him to relive the moment he’d killed Mylo.
The terror of that moment was all he could seem to feel, and his heart was still pounding from the excitement of it.
But this time, things had gone markedly different.
Bentley was alive.
As Bric looked at Bentley, he realized the man had survived not only his surprise, but his rage.
He hadn’t been cut down as Mylo had. In truth, it was daylight and he could see much better than he had on the night in question, but he’d been moving so quickly that light wouldn’t have made any difference.
Bric could see that now. Even if he had been able to see Mylo, because he had been moving so fast and everything was in such close proximity, he probably would have killed him, anyway.
Nothing could have been done to spare him.
In realizing that, Bric’s anger began to fade.
Perhaps his clumsy friends had helped him, after all.
Taking a deep breath, he made his way over to Bentley, who took a step back when he realized Bric was heading towards him, perhaps to throw another punch.
But he stood his ground after that, watching as Bric came up on him.
He found himself looking the man in the face, wondering if he was going to get a tongue lashing or worse.
But what Bric did next surprised them all.
Bric put his arms around Bentley and squeezed the man so tightly that Bentley was getting the air squeezed right out of him. The tears flowed from Bric’s eyes as he whispered over and over:
“You are alive. I did not kill you; you are alive.”
Bentley put his arms around Bric, too, in a brotherly gesture. “Aye, Bric,” he said. “I am alive. I am sorry if I startled you, but I am alive. You did not kill me.”
It was Bric’s acknowledgement that he knew they had only staged the attack to help him.
Perhaps they even had. Dashiell watched the scene with a smile on his lips, a smile of relief and, indeed, a great deal of hope.
He looked at Sean, who had the same expression.
The man they so admired, the one they’d come to help, was capable of being helped.
There was optimism.
Bric held on to Bentley for a few moments longer before finally releasing the man, quickly wiping the tears from his face, embarrassed with his reaction. But in a small way, he felt better somehow.
“I would call you all idiots, but to do so would mean insulting a duke,” he said. “Suffice it to say that I apologize for my outburst. I know you were only trying to help. I suppose my biggest fear has been shaming myself in front of men I so deeply respect. I hope I have not done that – yet.”