Great Protector (44 page)

The
man was thrilled that his son had recovered so quickly, so much so that he had
the entire family saying prayers three times a day in thanks.  His son’s mood
was foul but he didn’t seem to mind; he entered the room happily, greeting his
son with  a kiss to each cheek as the young man pushed him away.

“Tell
them to bring me meat,” Tad demanded. “I want beef pie. Kidney pie. Anything
but this slop they are trying to feed me.”

Ovid
wouldn’t dare deny his son’s request. He looked to the physics as they huddled
a few feet away. They were the same men who had saved his son’s life so he
tried to be somewhat respectful to them.

“The
boy requires meat,” he pleaded. “Can you not see how much better he’s feeling?
Meat will do him a world of good.”

The
skinny physic tried to deter him. “But, my lord, his body cannot....”

Ovid
cut him off, though not entirely unkindly. “Please,” he said, although it was a
command and not a request. “Go and select something appropriate for him to eat
that does not include food you would feed infants. I implore you.”

The
physics looked at each other, shrugged, and quit the room in a manner
suggesting they were not at all pleased.  They knew best, but the spoiled young
man always got what he wanted. His father saw to that. Ovid watched them go
before returning his attention to his son.

“They
are only doing what they feel best,” he said. “You could try to be more
cooperative.”

Tad
shrugged and looked away.  “What news have you brought me today?”

He
was changing the subject to the one and only thing that had held his interest
for the past nine days.   He would hardly speak of anything else and Ovid,
still hell-bent on vengeance against Richmond le Bec, was more than willing to
indulge him.

“It
is as we suspected,” he said. “Le Bec left Lambourn the morning after the
battle and took Lady Arissa with him.  I have paid people well to glean
information to this regard and from what they have been told, le Bec is taking
the girl straight to Whitby.”

“Do
we know this for certain?” Tad stood up, stiffly, rubbing at his tender torso.
“We have been hearing these rumors for days now.  This is not new information.”

“But
it has been confirmed,” Ovid insisted. “I paid a man well whose wife works in
the kitchens of Lambourn. This woman has confirmed that le Bec left with Lady
Arissa and is taking her to Whitby.  That is what de Lohr is telling everyone. 
Oddly, he does not seem to be too heartbroken about it.”

Tad
moved about gingerly. “What do you plan to do?”

Ovid
fell silent a moment, his manner turning from doting father to conniving enemy.
“My fury against le Bec has not abating,” he said quietly. “By the grace of God
you have healed, but that does not end my sense of vengeance.  The man will
pay.”

Tad
turned to him. “So I will ask you again; what do you plan to do?”

Ovid
began to pace just as his son was, his demeanor pensive. “If le Bec is heading
to Whitby, then we can catch him outside the walls of a fortress where the odds
will be even,” he said, then looked at his son. “I will send my army after him
and destroy him.”

Tad
cocked in an eyebrow. “What about Lady Arissa?”

Ovid’s
gaze was intense. “If she’s not yet made it to the abbey, then perhaps we shall
claim her.  You are attracted to her, are you not?”

Tad
thought a moment before nodding.  He had a rather dirty look about him. “She’s
beautiful, no doubt.  Perhaps she would make a splendid Lady de Rydal.”

“Perfect
vengeance against le Bec,” Ovid wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “It is said
he’s a fondness for the girl that goes beyond mere concern.  His attack upon
you is evidence of that.”

“Then
I will take her, marry her, and there will be nothing he can do about it.”

“Exactly.”

Tad
liked that suggestion a great deal.  Still moving a bit gingerly, he made his
way towards the massive wardrobe in his room where his broadsword lay resting
in a custom-made casket of silk and oak.  He opened the door to the wardrobe
and lifted the lid of the case, eyeing the sword that had cost his father a
small fortune.  Not strangely, he could see le Bec’s suffering reflected in the
blade.

“Summon
our army, then,” he said, looking at his father. “We will travel light and
hard, riding swiftly for Whitby.  If le Bec is indeed traveling north to the
abbey, then he’s a substantial head-start. However, traveling with a woman, I
would suspect his pace has been very slow.  It is possible if we ride hard
enough to make it to Whitby before he does, where I will wait for him to come. 
Then, I shall take what is mine.”

Ovid
wasn’t too keen on parts of that plan. “You are too weak to ride,” he insisted.
“A ride to Whitby will take over a week at a swift pace. You should stay here. 
The lady will be brought to you when she’s captured.”

Tad
shook his head. “If we do manage to capture her, unless le Bec is dead, I will
need to marry her as quickly as possible because he will track her like a
hound.  To suffer a journey all the way back to Goring risks her being
recaptured and taken out of our control.  That must not happen.”

Ovid
didn’t want his son riding the two hundred miles to Whitby but he understood
his reasoning. “I do not suppose I can stop you.”

Tad
shook his head. “He tried to kill me, Father,” he said, his voice quiet and
deadly. “This time, vengeance shall be mine. Le Bec will pay once and for all.”

Ovid
didn’t doubt him in the least.

***

The
trip north had been something of a delight.

True
to his word, Richmond stopped in the villages where Arissa wanted to stop,
purchasing anything that she desired.  If she saw a trinket, she got it, and if
she even mentioned the fact that she liked a purse or admired a pair of boots,
she received that as well.  Richmond would do anything to make her happy,
loving the smiles he received when she clutched a pretty vial of expensive
perfume or a bolt of exquisite material.  Each day, each delight, saw his love
for her deepen.  He was becoming acquainted with her on a level he could have
never imagined.

Since
he had promised Arissa a leisurely trip, a journey he could make on a hard
march in ten or twelve days took almost three weeks.  They stopped where they
wished to stop, camped by great rivers or stayed in lively inns.  Whatever
Arissa wanted, Richmond would comply.  The weather, for December, had been
remarkably mild so the trip hadn’t been a difficult one. But no matter how
languid the pace, eventually, they drew close to Whitby.

Just
to the north of the city of York, they passed through a berg called
Pickering.   There was a big castle overlooking the village but Richmond
bypassed the castle, mostly because he knew the garrison commander and the man
tended to be fickle in his loyalties, so he at least sent word of greeting to
identify his big army as he passed through the town.   It was his intention to
camp just north of the city before reaching their destination of Whitby Abbey
on the morrow.  Already, he could feel the anxiety building in his chest for
the separation to come.  He’d been ignoring it for weeks, but now, he could
ignore it no longer.

Pickering
had a fairly large merchant street and although the army paralleled the street
of the merchants as they traveled the main avenue through town, Arissa and Emma
could nonetheless see the stalls in intervals when houses would part and reveal
the street beyond.  Richmond could see it, too, as he and Gavan traveled at the
head of the column and he knew it was only a matter of time before Arissa
called a halt.  It was not long in coming.

“Richmond!”
she called.

He
reined his charger around, noting the smirk on Gavan’s face as he made his way
back to Arissa and Emma in the provisions wagon.  He reined the animal next to
her.

“Aye,
kitten?”

It
sounded more like a statement of resignation than a question, but Arissa smiled
brightly and pointed.

“I
saw a merchant’s stall over there with garments hanging from the rafters,” she
said, rather sweetly. “Do you think we can go and look?”

He
grunted softly, with resistance. “Riss, I am not entirely sure we have any more
room to store your goods,” he tried to sound gentle, not like a man who was
going back on his promise to buy her anything she wanted. “Do you not think you
have enough? I am going to have to build a monstrous castle as it is to house
everything.”

Arissa
giggled, not taking him seriously. “I simply want to look. Please?”

Richmond’s
resistance held out for another second or two before he finally nodded in
defeat.  Dismounting his charger, he handed the reins over to the nearest
soldier as he reached up and lifted Arissa from the wagon bench.  Emma squealed
and he lifted her down, too.  Taking the ladies in-hand, he called a halt to
his brigade and led the women over to the next street where a good deal of
commerce was taking place.

The
avenue was wide and filled with holes and ruts, with lots of activity occurring
beneath moderately sunny skies and a very brisk temperature. Wagons, people and
carts were everywhere in the cold, clear weather.  Arissa and Emma went
straight for the merchant with the garments hanging from the rafters as
Richmond hung back and watched them dive into the merchandise with gusto.

“You
are going to be broke by the time we reach Whitby,” Gavan came up behind him,
fussing with a gauntlet. “You must learn to deny her once in a while.”

Richmond
puckered his lips wryly. “Think not to lecture me,” he told him. “I seem to
recall you having difficulty denying your wife anything.”

Gavan
returned the wry expression, although there was a defensive attitude with it.
“This is not about me. This is about you, and you are spoiling Arissa. She’s
going to expect this from you for the rest of your life.”

Richmond
just shook his head, watching Arissa giggle happily as the merchant, a thin
woman with bad skin, held up a lovely blue surcoat against her to see if it
would fit.  Arissa took the surcoat and, with Emma’s approving nod, rushed over
to Richmond as he stood in the street with Gavan.  Her lovely features were
alight with joy.

“Richmond,
look,” she held up the surcoat. “What do you think? This woman has all manner
of coats that are already sewn. She says that she sells a great number of them
because they are already made. Have you ever seen such a thing?”

Richmond
shook his head. “Alas, I have not,” he said. “May I point out that you already
have plenty of fabric to make your own coats with?”

Her
face fell slightly and she looked at the surcoat, made from a lovely and
billowing
Perse
fabric. It was very fine.

“But
these are already made,” she insisted. “This one will fit me. Do you not like
it?”

Richmond
looked at her, a smile playing on his lips. Then he looked at Gavan, who simply
lifted his eyebrows. After a moment, Richmond returned his attention to Arissa’s
hopeful expression.  He couldn’t deny her and they all knew it.

“I
like it,” he told her, conceding complete and utter defeat. “Get what you
will.”

Arissa
was back to smiling brightly. With a giggle of joy, she rushed back into the
shop and began having the shop keeper remove several more surcoats that were
hanging on nails.  As Richmond stood there, ignoring Gavan’s smirks, something
suddenly hit him on the back of his armored legs.

It
was not a hard hit, but enough to get his attention. Hand on the hilt of his
broadsword, he turned to see a young girl picking herself up out of the dirt. 
She was a filthy little urchin, with tangled red curls and freckles on her
nose.  Richmond peered down at the child as Gavan, having heard the knock against
Richmond’s armor, reached down and grasped the child by the arm.

“Here,
now,” he all but shoved her away from Richmond. “Watch where you are going.”

The
little girl tripped when Gavan firmly directed her away and ended up on the
ground again, this time falling on a rock.  She immediately started wailing as
she came away with a cut knee.  That brought a cavalry charge of more children
pouring out of the shadows and doorways around them.  There had to be a dozen
or more, all rushing in the child’s direction.

“Oy!”
a boy around ten years rushed to the child’s side, pulling her up off the
street and noticing her bloody knee.  Rather than cower from the two enormous
knights, he actually grew angry. “Did ye have tae hurt her, then?”

Gavan
looked rather surprised at the challenge. “I did not hurt her,” he said. “She
fell and scraped her knee. Moreover, she ran into us first.  She should be more
careful next time.”

The
boy with the matted blond hair and extremely dirty body did not back down as
more children gathered behind him in mute support.  There was strength in
numbers. The weeping little girl was absorbed by the group as they pulled her
back into a protective huddle.