Chapter Two #2
William’s lip twitched in an irritated snarl before he quaffed deeply from his chalice. “My only son, heir to my seat. Good Christ, the earldom shall be passed on to an idiot.”
Richmond gazed at the man with amused sympathy. “Bart is not an idiot, William. He’s simply….”
“An idiot!” William snorted. “My son, the pagan.”
“He’s merely open-minded.”
“He questions the church’s teachings, for Christ’s sake! What is open minded about that?”
“He’s a curious lad, not unlike the rest. He simply focuses his energies into areas where most men fear to tread.”
William felt the familiar disappointment his son always managed to cast upon him. “Greek tragedies, Roman mythology, Paganistic rites. The man threatens to disrupt England as we know it.”
Richmond’s lips flickered with a smile. “Baron Lymse insists he’s an intelligent, well-read boy. Which is, unfortunately, his primary problem. He’s too intelligent and well-read.”
“He’s an idiot,” William muttered into his cup.
With a twinkle in his eye, Richmond turned away. Habitually, his gaze roved in Arissa’s direction and he was startled to find her staring at him.
Their eyes met, locked. Pale, delicious green upon bright blue. Richmond was the first to attempt an acknowledgment, lifting his cup slightly in her direction. Forcing a weak smile, Arissa lowered her gaze.
Richmond, too, tore his eyes away from her after a few moments, wondering how her familiar gaze could impact him as if it were the very first time they had met.
Not a day went by that he did not curse God and Henry for delegating him with Arissa’s guardianship.
Had they only just met, it would be far easier to declare his want for her.
But as her guardian, he might as well have been her father.
The roles were basically the same. He had a sick obsession, in love with a woman he had practically raised.
As he immersed himself deeper and deeper into his depressing thoughts, something on the gallery’s balcony caught his attention. Immediately, he glanced up to see Bartholomew de Lohr poised on the ledge dressed in a toga.
Outwardly, he did not change expression. A massive elbow gently jostled William, who was conversing with Carlton. When William turned inquisitively to Richmond, the knight simply pointed to the balcony.
“Good Christ!” William sputtered. “He… he’s indecent! What in the hell is he doing?”
Arissa and Regine turned around, gaping at the source of their father’s outrage. In fact, the entire room had gone eerily still as all attention riveted to the half-naked man.
Bartholomew was pleased to have their focus. He perched himself on the ledge with arrogant confidence, hooking a thumb in the shoulder-drape of his toga.
“Greetings, citizens!” he bellowed. “In honor of our returned hero, a prose as befitting the most glorious Roman Gladiator!”
“Good Christ,” William moaned, casting a glance at his mortified wife. He rose to his feet. “Come down from there, Bart! Go put some clothes on!”
Bartholomew cocked a blond eyebrow at his father. “When I am finished, Great Caesar, I shall be happy to join the orgy. Allow me to finish my performance.”
Arissa was smiling faintly at her brother; not because she found him humorous, but because he was trying so desperately to maintain his individuality in a world where the norm was to bear armor and clutch a sword in your hand.
Bartholomew was immersed in a world where ancient Romans and Greeks were a part of his everyday existence, and he took great pride in extolling their literary works.
In a world where one was considered odd if one was different, Bartholomew de Lohr was something of a freak of nature.
“No performance,” William waved him off firmly. “Go put your clothes on. You are offending the ladies.”
Bartholomew gave his father an irritated look. “This is a toga, Father. All correct Romans wore togas. Greeks, too. There is nothing shameful about it.”
William’s face began to mottle a faint red. “’Tis no wonder they destroyed their own civilizations with their decadent dress and eccentric manner. Lad, you were born a thousand years too late.”
Bartholomew cleared his throat, ignoring his father completely. Instead, he focused on Richmond. “Oh Noble Warrior,” he put his hand over his chest dramatically. “A verse in honor of your return:
‘So like they were, no mortal
Might one from other know;
White as snow their armor was,
Their steeds were white as snow.
Never on earthy anvil
Did such rare armor gleam,
And never did such gallant steeds
Drink of an earthly stream.’”
Arissa and Regine clapped loudly, as did Penelope and Emma far down the table. The older ladies seemed to be indecisive, while the men appeared to be plain embarrassed.
William, his face resting in his hand, peered at his son from between splayed fingers. “Are you finished?”
“Nay,” Bartholomew suddenly reached for a strip of rope that held one of the massive chandeliers in place. Gripping the rope, he suddenly swung out over the room to a chorus of shrieks.
“‘Back comes the chief in triumph
Who in the hour of fight….’”
Richmond was on his feet, leaping over the table with incredible agility for a man of his massive size. Arissa felt him move past her, startled as his thick arm inadvertently grazed her tender shoulder.
“Slowly, lad, slowly,” he cautioned Bartholomew. “Do not attempt to slide. Hand over hand.”
Bartholomew gazed down at Richmond as the rope spun him in circles. “I know how to descend a rope. Return to your seat so that I might finish your tribute.”
“I have heard enough tribute. Come down from there before you lose your grip and plunge to your death.”
“‘Hath seen the great Twin Brethren
In harness on his right.
Safe comes the ship to haven….’”
“Bartholomew, come down from there!” William boomed. “I shall have Richmond cut the rope if you are not to the floor by the time I count to five!”
Bartholomew glanced at his father. “I shall come down when I am finished. Can you not see that I am a sailor descending from the sails of my battleship? Listen to the rest of the prose.”
“Only a moment ago you were praising a knight in armor,” William held out his hands, completely frustrated. “Where in the hell did the sailor come from? Richmond has no interest in your inane sailor’s prose.”
Bartholomew sighed heavily; his father simply did not understand. “The sailor is a battle weary warrior returning home from the skirmish at Lake Regillus. If you knew anything at all about Roman history, you would know that Roman sailors were knights without horses.”
“I shall not argue the point,” William was mightily flushed, becoming more agitated by the minute. “Come down from there before I have you removed.”
Bartholomew was not deterred in the least. The rope, however, was working against him; the knot that held the chandelier so steadily was not designed to carry stress on the free end. As Bartholomew opened his mouth to finish his victory recitation, the knot suddenly slipped.
He plummeted several feet but maintained his grip. The rope continued to hold but was slipping steadily, bit by bit, lured on by Bartholomew’s considerable weight. The entire room was in a panic.
Richmond was directly below the young man; any attempt to descend the rope would most likely cause it to slip further, thereby dropping him the remaining twelve feet to the stone floor below. His mind working with lightning speed, he whirled to Carlton and Daniel.
“The tapestry above the earl’s chair!” he commanded. “Rip it down!”
Daniel bound over the table, leaping into the air and grasping the large tapestry that was nicely displayed high on the wall. The tapestry tore, shifted, and finally pulled free as Daniel rode it six or so feet to the ground. With Carlton’s help, they managed to yank from its remaining restraints.
Richmond took a corner of the fabric as Carlton and Daniel positioned themselves strategically. When their grips were sure, they placed themselves directly beneath Bartholomew.
“Everyone clear away from the table!” Richmond shouted; the chandelier was sure to come crashing down the moment Bartholomew released his hold. “Out of the room. Now!”
Richmond le Bec’s orders were not meant to be delayed, refused, or questioned. Without hesitation, the entire dining table cleared and the occupants scampered from the room.
Except for Arissa. She was terrified that her brother was going to plummet to his death and, worse, Richmond would most likely be crushed beneath him. Pressed against the wall as far as she could go, she watched in wide-eyed horror.
Richmond did not see her; he was singularly focused on the young man clinging to the rope above his head.
“Jump, Bart,” he encouraged. “We shall catch you!”
Bartholomew gazed down at the spread tapestry, knowing he had little choice in the matter. His grand performance had been ruined, unfortunately, but not entirely destroyed. In fact, he thought it had ended on a rather exciting note. Too bad Richmond had cleared the room of his audience.
He loosened his grip.
“‘Safe comes the ship to haven,
Through billows and through gales
If once the great Twin Brethren….’”
He suddenly let go, falling through the air like a stricken bird, his toga flapping wildly and revealing his taut, hairy buttocks. He landed with a grunt on the tapestry, his dead weight causing Daniel to lose his grip.
Bartholomew crashed to the floor and Daniel toppled onto him, both of them becoming entangled in the heavy folds of the mussed tapestry.
Across the room, the chandelier crashed into the large table, spraying food and trenchers and hot wax from the tallow candles in every direction.
Arissa, standing against the wall, received a barrage of hot wax droplets to her delicate forearm.
Burned, she did not utter a sound as she watched Richmond and Carlton struggle against the huge tapestry.