his answer—until Vitalis straightened and turned away. “Lower the rope!” he cried.
Vitalis looked around, and this time made the boy wait on him.
The prince groaned. “Pray, lower the rope, my lord.”
That last was inappropriate, though less for the lordship Vitalis did not possess than that the one who previously named him that had been slain by men loyal to Richard’s sire.
Though tempted to toss the coiled rope at the boy’s feet and leave him to his fate, Vitalis did what a Norman would not do for a Saxon.
Unless that Norman were a D’Argent, he reminded himself as he reeled up William’s son who had fashioned knots in the rope to better hold to it.
As he came up over the edge, he loosed a hand and set it on the ground to gain purchase.
Vitalis also loosed a hand, and with it drew the prince’s sword from its scabbard.
Pausing in the midst of delivering the lower half of his body out of the pit, Richard exclaimed, “That is mine!”
Vitalis tossed the sword aside and reached again. “The same as this,” he said and, as the boy gaped, slipped the beautifully wrought dagger beneath his own belt. Then he straightened and drew Richard fully up out of the pit.
“Fine weapons, these,” Vitalis said as he retrieved the prince’s sword, “but of use only inasmuch as they remain at hand.”
Richard lunged. He did lack the height expected of one made by William, but not the build. Though there was strength and force in his attempt to reclaim his blades, it lacked strategy.
Vitalis swept aside the sword to ensure the boy did not bleed upon its edge, and with just enough force to stun, drove an elbow into Richard’s nose.
He cried out, reeled back, and would have returned to the pit had Vitalis not caught hold of his belt.
“Are you done trying to slay me, boy?”
Upper body angled out over the pit, heels dug into the ground two feet from the edge, the prince gripped his savior’s arm and, blood running from his nose, nodded.
“Words, Prince,” Vitalis instructed.
“I am done!” Blood-tinted saliva flecked the air. “I will not try to kill you.”
Vitalis pulled him forward and released him. “I am glad we are of an understanding, Richard—providing your word is as good as mine.”
Another nod. “More so the word of a prince, the son of King William.”
If that made him more confident of the vow given, so be it. “Then I am satisfied.” Vitalis offered the youth his sword.
Dragging the back of a hand beneath his nose, staining his tunic’s cuff, Richard eyed the weapon as if fearing trickery. “Am I not to be your prisoner—a hostage?”
“Only if De Warenne’s men come for you ere I depart.” Vitalis made a show of listening. “As there are but two of us here, I see no reason to hold one who will hinder me.”
Richard frowned. “Only two here? Sir Daryl told you stole Lady Nicola of the D’Argents from Ely. Is she not in this wood with you?”
Vitalis raised his eyebrows.
“I believe the same as he that she is here,” the prince said. “Thus, for the lady’s sake more than my glory, I came for you.”
Containing his mirth, Vitalis reminded, “Your sword, Prince.”
Once again the youth considered what less he coveted than avoiding the feared consequences of reaching for it. Returning his gaze to Vitalis, he demanded, “Have you dishonored that Norman lady, Saxon?”
Were not his disdain for the English learned at his father’s knee, then it was learned from another as intolerant of those whose wealth and power had been stolen at Hastings.
“Have you?” Richard pressed.
“This my answer upon which all lies told of me ought to be impaled,” Vitalis said. “As told, I am Wulfen-trained, not Norman-trained. Unlike De Warenne’s men who frequent Red Castle’s hall, I do not view women—be they common or noble—as objects to be used and their remains discarded.”
Once more, he offended, but this offense appeared short-lived, as if Richard was struck by the truth of the sins Vitalis cast at men who dishonored the sisters of the young man crippled for defending them.
Vitalis stepped nearer, drew the precious dagger from his belt, and extended it alongside the sword. “Take your weapons and return to Red Castle.”
Hesitantly, the boy accepted his sword. Once it was in its scabbard, he reclaimed the dagger. That blade he did not sheathe but lowered to his side to appear less a threat.
A thought struck Vitalis, and he said, “I have a gift for your sire.”
As