Chapter Ten #5
Several seconds passed as Lyle and Arissa wait, their struggles against one another at a halt for the moment.
Tears ran down Arissa cheeks and onto Lyle’s mail; from the corner of his eye, he could see the small droplets and for the first time, he began to regret the brutality of his necessary duty.
Truthfully, there could not have been an easy way to abduct her, but he was sorry for her fear all the same.
David suddenly appeared in the doorway, his expression puzzled. But Lyle simply waved at him irritably, irritation directed at himself for being soft to a woman’s tears. “Leave the old man alone. Go get the horses.”
“You did not harm him, did you?” Arissa asked urgently, sniffling.
David stepped into the corridor, eyeing Arissa warily. “He’s unharmed. But a moment longer and my report would not have been as favorable.”
Arissa nearly collapsed with relief. Her sobs faded as star-bright tears still glistened on her cheeks. “Diolch yn fawr,” she whispered.
Both David and Lyle looked to her, their eyes widening. “You speak Welsh?” David asked neutrally.
She nodded faintly. “I know a little,” she sniffled again, wiping at her nose. “I…. I did not think you’d understand me, but I felt the need to thank you just the same for preserving Mossy’s life. As I was raised properly, I never allow a favor to go without expressing my gratitude.”
“So you expressed your appreciation in a language you thought we would not understand so we would not know you had thanked us? Most peculiar that you should thank an enemy for an act of mercy,” David’s gaze lingered on her a moment, studying her beauty.
After several seconds, he cocked an eyebrow slowly.
“Fedra ddim siarad Cymraeg,” he said softly.
Now it was Arissa’s turn for surprise. She blinked away the remainder of her tears, droplets gleaming on her thick lashes.
“You speak Welsh?”
“I just told you I did,” David replied, tearing his eyes away from her and focusing on Lyle. “I shall meet you by the servant’s gate.”
He was gone, slinking down the corridor. With Arissa still slung over his shoulder, Lyle followed.
*
Huddled against the wall in the remains of his sanctuary, Mossy listened to the boot falls as they faded down the hall. Shaken, he pulled himself up on an upended stool to unsteady feet.
A quick glance in Bartholomew’s direction showed the lad’s blood to be collecting against the stone floor in a bright pool of crimson.
Mossy stumbled towards his nephew, tripping over his robes in his haste to reach him.
The large young man was curled on his side, groaning with the agony of his severe wound as Mossy struggled to turn him onto his back.
“Nay!” Bartholomew rasped. “I am beyond help. You must…. save Arissa!”
Mossy dug his fingers into the tear in Bartholomew’s tunic, probing the cleanly-executed wound.
On the right side of his torso just below his ribs, it was bleeding profusely and Mossy wrestled with the hem of his robes, tearing a length of material free and pressing it to the injury.
Bart groaned loudly, making a weak attempt to move away from the agonizing pressure the old man was applying.
“Leave me, Mossy!” he breathed again, swallowing hard. “You must save Riss!”
“Richmond is the only one who can save her,” Mossy replied hoarsely, struggling against the bright red flow.
Bartholomew’s blue eyes opened, unnaturally bright against his pasty face. “Then find him. Do not let my death be in vain.”
Mossy stared at him, hearing his words and seeing the truth within.
Reluctantly, he left the dying young man and stumbled toward the doorway.
Nearly more than the shock of Bartholomew’s impending death and Arissa’s abduction, the fact that the soldiers who had come for her knew who she was was enough to dash his composure.
Distinctly, they had referred to her as Princess. God help her, they knew who she was.
It suddenly began to occur to him that the siege on Lambourn had not been revenge for the attack against Tad de Rydal. Mayhap, there was a greater scheme involved, a plot full of court intrigue and royal conspiracies that could threaten the very foundation of England’s stability.
Mayhap Ovid de Rydal hadn’t attacked in the hopes of exacting vengeance against Richmond le Bec. Mayhap, it had all been a cover for another objective.
Mossy was quivering so terribly that he could scarcely walk, but he knew that he had to get to Richmond before something horrible befell Arissa.
He was her Great Protector, sworn to protect and serve her with his very life.
For eighteen years Richmond le Bec had carried out his objective.
Now, when she needed him the most, he was distracted.
Mossy’s pace picked up speed and urgency, ignoring the panic and astonishment that threatened to disable him. He had to reach Henry’s le Bec with the news.
*
Lambourn was deserted for the most part as people took to their chambers to wait out the fighting in and around the bailey.
The kitchen doors had been shut and bolted, hindering David’s escape.
He had to do away with two serving wenches and three male servants before he was able to unlock the door, leaving it open for Lyle’s flight.
Trudging into the pouring rain, he went about his objective.
Lyle was not far behind. Arissa bounced miserably on his shoulder, trying to cushion the blows with each step.
As he descended the stairs, she begged to be put to her feet and he complied without a word.
However, the death-grip he kept on her arm was nearly as uncomfortable as being slung across his shoulder and she winced continuously as he led her through the dim foyer and into the deserted gallery.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked softly, resisting the urge to struggle against him. She had, after all, promised not to resist in lieu of sparing Mossy’s life.
“That is not for me to decide, princess,” Lyle replied, his eyes alert for any movement that might interfere with their progress.
Arissa tripped on her own feet, nearly falling to her knees had it not been for Lyle’s powerful grip. But the impact of his words settled, including the title of respect he had used. Not simply my lady, but princess. Puzzlement invaded her expression.
“Why…. why do you address me in such a fashion?”
He did not answer her as he pulled her through the gallery and prepared to enter the kitchens. “Enemy or not, I will address you with due respect.”
She gazed up at him as he paused near the threshold leading to the kitchens, completely confused.
“Due respect? I do not understand. I am a mere lady, the earl’s daughter.
But you know that, lest you would not be abducting me,” she was somewhat calmer than she had been earlier, although she knew not why.
She assumed that if the large soldier was intent upon harming her, then he would have done so by now.
“Why does Ovid want me? To lay a trap for Richmond?”
The soldier was distracted by her words as he scanned the dim kitchens beyond for signs of danger. Irritably, he glanced at her. “I do not know of whom you speak. Who is Ovid?”
Her eyes narrowed curiously at his lack of understanding. It never occurred to her to refrain from elaborating. “Lord de Rydal. You are with his army, are you not?”
Satisfied that no threat lay beyond in the yawning room, Lyle turned his full attention to her. “I am not English. I serve Owen Glendower.”
Arissa blinked in confusion. “Who is that?”
He cocked his head, less concerned with making it to the servant’s entrance as he found himself interested in their conversation. “The Welsh prince opposing your father. Surely he’s told you of his bloodthirsty quest to maintain a captive Wales?”
Arissa’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “My father is intent on maintaining Wales?” she repeated, surprised. “Good sir, my father is an earl, and we are easily fifty miles from the Welsh border. You must have him confused with someone else. Perhaps you have confused me with someone else.”
Lyle gazed into the pale green eyes, wondering how on earth she could be so dense. Either that, or she was an accomplished liar. The mere fact that she was a woman made him opt for the latter.
“No more talk,” he grip on her arm tightened in a display of irritation. “You must have little respect for my intelligence to plead innocent of your heritage”
Arissa gasped as he swung her through the kitchens. Turning a sharp corner, they were confronted with five dead bodies and an open door. The hellish weather beyond beckoned viciously, calling them forth into her freezing embrace.
Lyle attempted to move Arissa forward over the corpses, but she cried and squirmed, resuming the struggle she had pledged to cease.
“Quit your wrestling, wench,” he snapped.
She gasped and nearly swooned when one of her flailing feet came into contact with a bloodied head against the stone. “I…. I need my cloak. Oh, please, allow me to retrieve my cloak!”
Lyle glanced at the pouring rain, thinking that a cloak would be a wise acquisition in light of the weather they would be facing.
’Twould not do to have the princess die of illness before they reached Wales.
But returning to her chamber to retrieve a heavy cover was out of the question; instead, he glanced about quickly and was not surprised to see that both dead women were wearing protection against the elements.
Releasing Arissa’s arm, he snatched a heavy woolen cloak from one of the deceased women and shook it out sharply, tossing it at Arissa.
She barely caught it, her hands shaking from disgust and fear as she slung it about her narrow shoulders and secured it tightly.
Pulling the brown hood over her head and praying there weren’t lice nesting inside, she did not resist when Lyle grabbed her once more and thrust her into the driving weather.
In spite of the fact that the wool cloak stank to heaven and scratched her tender skin, it was warm and thick and offered a good deal of protection.
Lyle pulled her through the muddy pond that had once been the kitchen yard, his eyes alert for any soldier or servant that might alert Lambourn of the princess’ abduction.
Even though the sounds of fighting were loud and fierce, he caught a glimpse of only a few soldiers, and those men were engaged in mortal combat with enemy warriors.
Not one bothered to pay attention to the unfamiliar soldier leading a small figure toward the servant’s gate.
Additionally, the pounding rain offered a shroud to partially obscure them against alert gazes.
Already, Arissa’s feet were soaking through. Her hide boots were not meant to be submerged in water for any length of time and were saturating quickly. Lyle, however, was oblivious of her discomfort as he hurried her toward the wall. The closer they drew, the greater his sense of urgency.
They were almost free. Soon, Wales would loom before him in all her glory and Owen would be most pleased to discover Henry’s bastard daughter within his midst. Mayhap she would be the leverage he was looking for, the key to bargaining with Henry.
The surprise element the English king was not counting on.
The gate was within his grasp. He reached out to touch it, feeling its iron comfort him, assuring him of his successful mission. He gained strength from the gate, even as he pushed Arissa through it, knowing the satisfaction of a task accomplished. The princess was his.
But his satisfaction was the last positive emotion he was to feel.
As he was preparing to enter the gate himself, a loud crash sounded directly over his head as something heavy slammed into the stone of the wall.
Instinctively, Lyle ducked as a heavy mace came crashing down on his helm.
Had it not been for his head protection, he would have been knocked unconscious.
As it was, his ears were ringing as he whirled to face his accoster.
It was his worst nightmare come to life.
Through the sheet of driving rain, emerging from the very bowels of hell, was a figure so massive and terrifying that Lyle could scarcely believe it.
He knew it would be of no use to run; he would simply be caught and killed.
But he knew in the same breath that he was going to meet his demise regardless, for the figure approaching had sent many a man into the depths of the underworld.
Lyle was gazing into the face of the Devil’s own ferryman. Surely Charon hadn’t driven as many souls into the maze of Hades as this man before him had. Terror filled his heart. There was no escape.
Death was approaching.