Chapter Eleven #3
He was about to head upstairs via a back staircase when someone quite loud entered the home through the main entry.
They could hear two men speaking, one of whom was carrying on a loud conversation with the other one.
Eyes narrowed as he recognized the voices, Bastian cut through the lavish reception room to reach the entry, telling the women to be comfortable in the reception room and he would rejoin them in a few moments.
As Gisella and Sparrow seated themselves in a pair of conversational chairs near one of the long, glass-paned windows, they could hear shouts going up in the entryway.
Someone cried Bastian’s name and soon, there were sounds of a scuffle going on.
Startled, Gisella and Sparrow looked to the entry just in time to see Bastian grappling with a younger man who was shorter than he was but still quite muscular.
They weren’t exactly throwing punches, but they were wrestling each other, arms around each other, as they both grunted and groaned.
It became quickly evident that they were attempting to throw each other to the floor.
Gisella shot to her feet, her eyes wide on her husband as he viciously wrestled the man.
The men scuffled into the room before bashing into a fine painted table, which crashed to the floor.
Then they proceeded to smash into a pair of heavy oak chairs, placed before the fireplace, breaking the arm on one of the chairs, before grunting and struggling their way over to the massively long table with the pewter candlesticks.
As they grappled near it, Bastian picked the man up and threw him over the table.
The women shrieked as the man hit the floor and Bastian vaulted over the table, landing on top of him.
Now, Bastian’s opponent was at a distinct disadvantage as Bastian sat on him, flipping him over onto his belly and managing to get an arm behind his back.
Bastian put his full weight on the man’s torso as he sat down on him, twisting his arm.
“Say it!” Bastian growled. “Say that you stole my horse. Say it!”
The man on the ground was defeated but he refused to surrender. “Never!” he bellowed. “I did not take your stupid horse, Bas! I will never admit to something I did not do!”
Bastian grinned. It was a wicked grin, and he twisted the arm more savagely. “Say it, Martin,” he said, sticking his index finger into the man’s right ear and listening to him howl. “Admit it and I will show mercy!”
Sir Martin de Russe was in a bad way. His bigger, stronger cousin was twisting his arm and sticking fingers in his ear. He was also sitting on top of him and squeezing the breath from him. If he did not break free soon, he would be forced to surrender or suffer more torture.
“You are a bully, Bas,” Martin grunted, unable to breathe. “You were a bully as a child and you are still a bully. I did not steal your horse and you know it! Let me up!”
Bastian was enjoying his cousin’s distress but he happened to glance up and see Gisella standing a few feet away, a horrified expression on her face. The smile vanished from Bastian’s lips with unnatural speed and he climbed off his cousin. His focus was on Gisella.
“I am sorry if we startled you,” he said to her. “This is my cousin, Martin, whom I’ve not seen in a few years.”
Gisella wasn’t quite sure how she felt about all of that wrestling, which had seemed more like fighting to her. It had been rather frightening as she looked to Martin, now picking himself up off of the slate floor.
“Ah,” she said. “The horse thief. I have heard of you, Sir Martin. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I think.”
Martin stood up, brushing off his elbows, both of which were now bruised. He was big, more muscle than flab, with a head of curly dark hair. He was also younger than Gisella had first thought. The man was in his early twenties at the very most. He had a rather cherubic face.
“Lady de Russe,” Martin greeted. “Bas just told us of his marriage. Welcome to the family, although you picked the wrong de Russe to marry. You should not have married such a wretched, violent man.”
Gisella smiled. “I would rather marry the wretched de Russe than the thief,” she teased, turning her focus to Bastian. “Is this how you always greet your cousin? By wrestling him to the ground?”
Bastian nodded as if that was the most normal thing in the world. “Of course,” he said. “Don’t you?”
Gisella laughed. “Not usually,” she said, moving towards her husband when he extended a hand to her.
She took it, experiencing the warmth around her small appendage and feeling giddy with the sensation as she faced Martin.
“I suppose the only way you can avoid this in the future is to admit that you stole his toy horse. Otherwise, you will both look very foolish as elderly men trying to wrestle each other to the ground.”
Martin shrugged. “I suppose,” he said, inspecting her more closely. “God’s Teeth, Bas, she’s a beauty. Why on earth would she agree to marry the man called Beast?”
Gisella and Bastian looked at each other and they both ended up chuckling. “Trust me when I say that she did not agree at first,” Bastian said. “I am not even entirely sure if she agrees now, but we are married and it is finished. Now she must make the best of it.”
Gisella squeezed his hand. “I am satisfied.”
Bastian smiled warmly at her, causing her giddiness to increase and her knees to tremble.
It was a wholly remarkable feeling and she would have been quite content to bask in it had they both not been distracted, for now entering the reception room was a second man, almost as tall as Bastian and built nearly the same.
He was quite handsome with a long, straight nose and smoky gray eyes.
As he walked into the room, looking at the carnage, his head wagged back and forth reproachfully.
“You two are going to destroy this house some day with your antics,” he said, his focus settling on Gisella. He dipped his head in a gallant bow. “I heard the introduction. Lady de Russe, I am Brant de Russe, Martin’s brother. Welcome to Braidwood.”
Gisella smiled at the man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a rather regal manner about him. She curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Brant,” she said. “Am I to understand that you do not greet Bastian the way your brother does?”
Brant’s lips flickered with a smile. He seemed a bit more controlled and austere than Martin did.
“Nay, my lady, I do not,” he said. “I leave that greeting to this pair, for they surely cannot overcome their difference of opinion and have not been able to since they were about six years of age. Bastian says that Martin stole his toy horse and Martin denies it. It is quite a dilemma for them.”
Bastian grunted. “One day I shall wrest a confession from him,” he said. “Mark my words.”
Martin’s dark eyes flashed. “Never!” he hissed. “I hate you and your stupid horse, do you hear? God’s Bones, I am famished. Has the nooning meal been served yet?”
The subject changed swiftly but it was completely natural, as if the wrestling between them was of no consequence and it was on to more important things. Bastian shook his head to his cousin’s question.
“Not yet,” he said. “We only just arrived here less than an hour ago. We will eat with you before departing to the Tower. There is much to tell you both. Much has happened since we last met.”
Martin turned to bellow for Collins, demanding food, as he began removing his heavy leather gloves.
Both he and Brant were in pieces of plate armor, not the full regalia that Bastian was dressed in.
Their dress was far more casual but they were wearing the same tunics – bright blue with a shield of red upon it.
They began throwing gloves and cloaks onto the table in front of them as they engaged Bastian in conversation about the situation in Rouen.
It was all military talk, however. Surprisingly, no one brought up the Maid, as they seemed more interested in the situation in general and Bedford’s military plans.
They were detailed battle plans, coming from Bastian mostly, and the younger cousins soaked it up.
Gisella learned, from the conversation, that both Martin and Brant served Richard de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and had therefore spent their time in either London or Cirencester, where the young king was based, as de Beauchamp was in charge of the young king’s schooling.
They also knew that Bastian had been given the title of King’s Protector, something that confused them greatly and they demanded to know what Bastian had done to have Bedford relegate him to the king’s nursemaid.
Listening to them speak, it was as if Bastian was the greatest warrior on the planet, now consigned to watching over a young boy in what was surely a greatly humiliating demotion.
It was then that the subject of the Maid was introduced.
As Collins and a few house servants brought trays of food into the reception room and set it upon that beautiful, big table with the pewter candlesticks, Bastian remained silent with regards to the subject of the Maid.
He wasn’t about to say anything in front of the servants, even trusted de Russe servants, so he kept his mouth shut on the matter and neither Brant nor Martin pressed him.
Lucas and Gannon eventually joined them in the reception room and the focus shifted to the nooning meal.