The de Lohr Dynasty

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Richard paused a moment, cocking a harsh brow. “Nay, lad,” he said slowly. “He wishes for you to be her husband upon your return.”

  Christopher could not help it; his face went slack with shock. “He… he wishes for me to…?”

  Arthur grabbed his sleeve. “ ’Tis not as bad as it sounds, lad,” he said hoarsely. “I simply want to make sure my womenfolk are well-protected, and you are certainly the most capable man I know. I am only asking that you marry my daughter and give her children. The wealth, the fortress, is your reward for the duty.”

  “You mean my bribe,” Christopher snapped, struggling to remain calm. He put his hand over Arthur’s, trying to control his outrage. “My lord, when I return home, it will be to Lohrham Forest. I have amassed quite a fortune of my own and…”

  Arthur cut him off. “Lioncross has more,” he insisted weakly. “Lad, I am not asking that you love my daughter or that you even live with her. I am simply asking that you put my dying mind at ease by consenting to marry her. I know you shall be a fair and considerate husband, and I will go to my grave knowing that Dustin will be well taken care of.”

  Christopher didn’t want to be married. Ever. But Arthur was all but begging him to do it, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit the thought of being lord over Lioncross Abbey Castle wasn’t appealing. Much bigger and better than Lohrham Forest, his ancestral home. Hell, he wouldn’t even inherit Lohrham. It belonged to his uncle and would pass to his cousin, Edward. Even though the boy was twelve years old, it would still be his.

  Richard read his hesitation, but what Arthur was offering was quite satisfactory. He pulled Christopher to his feet and took him aside.

  “Think on it, Chris,” he said quietly. “Lioncross Abbey Castle is quite a prize and it would make Arthur happy to know his family was taken care of. Hell, marry the girl, get her pregnant, and you never have to see her again. Spend your time and your money in London with the whores if you want; I care not. But Lioncross also collects border revenues from Wales and she carries a force of eight hundred men, half of which are here.”

  Richard’s eyebrows lifted encouragingly but Christopher simply stared back indecisively. He didn’t want to marry anyone, for any amount of money. His resistance was evident, growing heavier by the moment, and Richard took a hard line. With Christopher, he had to or the man would bowl him right over, king or no.

  “I could order it,” Richard said after a moment. Even though his tone was steady and even, the statement was ridiculous. It already was an order.

  Christopher knew his fate was sealed. It never had been his choice after all; Richard had decided this long ago. Christopher was angry but powerless just the same, seeing an unexpected twist in his future that was unwelcome and frustrating. But it was done, and no amount of arguing would change it. He sighed heavily, looking away from his king so the man would not see his fury.

  “You do not have to, my lord,” Christopher replied calmly. “I understand.”

  Richard smiled with satisfaction. “That’s fine,” he said. “I knew you’d agree.”

  Christopher rolled his eyes, looking decidedly unhappy, and allowed Richard to lead him back over to the dying baron. Christopher would have liked nothing better than to strangle the old man for suggesting such a thing.

  “Arthur,” Richard said proudly. “Greet your new son-in-law.”

  Arthur smiled weakly. He was growing fainter by the moment and Richard was already moving to have his steward draw up the papers.

  “Chris,” Arthur’s voice was no more than a whisper as he extended his hand.

  In spite of his anger, Christopher leaned forward and took his fingers once again. He tried not to look as disappointed as he felt.

  “I am here, Arthur,” he muttered.

  The old man was having difficulty breathing. “Dustin is a good girl,” he rasped. “She’s willful and stubborn, but she’s a good girl. Handle her gently. I am afraid that with your quick temper and her quick temper, you will kill each other before the sun sets on your wedding day.”

  Christopher nodded solemnly but inside he was ranting like a madman. Stubborn and willful? Quick tempered? Christ, what kind of shrew was he to be saddled with?

  “I will be fair,” he assured the dying man.

  Arthur’s eyes closed, perhaps for the last time now that he knew his daughter would be taken care of. He squeezed Christopher’s hand feebly.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “You have my deepest… gratitude….”

  He faded off and Christopher gazed down at the man, feeling the tug of sorrow over his anger with the forced marriage. He was greatly torn. As he let go of the man’s hand, gently, Richard led him away from the cot.

  The king walked him to the tent flap. Richard knew exactly what the knight was feeling, but that was of no consequence. He would thank him one day. At least he hoped so. Richard clasped his hands behind his back, facing off against his mightiest warrior.

  “Consider Lioncross Abbey Castle and her wealth a gift from the crown to a most deserving knight,” he said. “You have served me well, Christopher, and I will not forget it. In fact, I will seek you later, as we have much to discuss concerning my brother, John. Go now. Prepare for your leave.”

  Christopher bowed deeply and spun on his heel, his mind becoming one angry, muddy bog of thoughts. A wife. The word was sand on his tongue, yet he had no choice. Such a bitter way to receive rewards for his years of service. He was coming to wonder if he was somehow being punished instead. He had to go and clear his thoughts; otherwise, he might go against all that he had worked for and, deep down, he knew he could not. He had been ordered to marry, and marry he would.

  Later that evening as Arthur Barringdon was prepared for a Christian burial, Christopher, Philip, and King Richard sat in the king’s tent around a small war table. Richard had vellum and ink before him, preferring to write his own private missives rather that have his steward do it – especially this missive.

  Christopher was grim, his trencher-sized hands folded patiently as Richard scratched away with the quill. Philip, distinguished and fair like his nephew, sat casually opposite his king, pondering the world beyond the tent flap. Not a particularly personable man, but he was brilliant and was Richard’s greatest confidante. Finally, Richard seemed to finish his message and he put the quill down, sanding the ink to dry it.

  “I apologize for making you sit through this, Chris,” he said after a moment. “But I had to put my commands in writing before I spoke to you of them.” He looked up at Christopher then, his brown eyes glittering dully in the dim tent. “This is to my brother, John. I have been in the Holy Land a great many years and am well aware of my brother’s ambitions for my throne, and I have had enough of the weasel. Christopher, I have bequeathed you a new title this night. From here on you shall be known as Defender of the Realm for my entire empire. My troops, the crown’s troops, shall be yours in my absence. The justices will still be the ruling body, but ’twill be you who controls the military might. As loyal as my justices are, ’tis never good to give any one group too much power, especially with my brother panting for my throne. They may not be particularly happy to give up the army, but I must make sure the troops are in experienced and loyal hands. I would hate to return home to find my own army fighting me on the shore.”

  Christopher was shocked but he didn’t show it. He nodded slowly, “As you command, my lord.”

  Richard knew Christopher well enough to know he had not been expecting the directive. “Lioncross will serve as a fine seat for you, close enough to London to keep an eye on John, yet fairly central to the rest of the country,” the king continued. “Read this missive and it will explain everything. Ask me questions when you are finished, should you have any.”

  Christopher rose and read the missive as it lay on the table, his sky blue eyes studying it intently. After several minutes, he returned to his seat, his face impassive.

  Richard watched him expectantly. “Well?”r />
  Christopher, deep in thought, shrugged “You are, in effect, dividing the rule of England three ways, with John, your justices, and me.”

  “In effect,” Richard agreed. “Yet you have no direct powers, other than those over the armed forces. John still continues with his princely powers, and my justices continue to be the ruling body.”

  “Your brother’s limited powers will have decreased substantially.” Christopher rubbed his chin, his gaze flicking to Richard. “John will not be pleased in the least.”

  “That is his misfortune,” Richard said sharply, running his hands over his face in a frustrated gesture. “But take heed, de Lohr. John is a wily, cunning, evil little bastard, and you must watch your back at all times. He will not hesitate to take out any threat to his dictator rule, and he has loyalists everywhere. You must beware. My chancellor, William Longchamp, has had a hell of a time with him.”

  Christopher nodded to what he already knew. “Indeed, my lord.”

  Richard watched his champion’s strong face a moment, confident he had made a sound decision. Christopher was the best of the best, a man with impeccable skills and tactics. He was also the best and strongest barrier between John and the throne of England.

  “Christopher,” he said in a low voice, “My throne is in jeopardy. In fact, my whole country is bordering on anarchy and disorder. Yet, ’tis my belief that God wants me here in the Levant to purge the verminous heathens; therefore, I must trust Him to select people to help me govern England. You are one of the chosen I must, nay, will depend on until I return. With Acre captured, my work here is nearly finished and it shan’t be long until my soles tread the heady English grass once again. Until that time, I need you.”

  Christopher gazed back at the king, his friend and liege, feeling the concern and desperation borne of absence. He knew that he was being given an awesome responsibility, a responsibility he took with the utmost importance.

  “I shall not fail, my lord, I swear it,” he promised with sincerity.

  “I know.” Richard was suddenly very tired. His years were catching up with him this night. “Yet there is one thing you have not mentioned. I am in essence making you my spy to John’s court, and as much as you loathe that duty, yet it is necessary. I must have your eyes and ears. My justices have their hands full simply running my country, which is why I do not expect them to take the time to spy on my brother. I must know vital information if you feel the situation warrants it, and in this I trust your decisions implicitly.”

  “Situations, my lord? Like what?” Christopher asked.

  Richard toyed with his worn chair. “If it appears imminent that John intends to overthrow me,” he said. “He will, you know. The only reason he hasn’t yet is because the church loves me and is proud of my work here. Yet that will fade, too, in time. And the general populace is an ungrateful, forgetful lot. John will wait for the right moment, and you must be there in my stead to prevent it.”

  Christopher let out a sigh, the only real show of emotion the entire night. “You ask a great deal, my lord. If the people side with John, it could be a bitter civil war.”

  “I realize that,” Richard said, “Which is why I intend to return before that happens. Yet I need forewarning, and your hand on the pulse of the country.”

  “You are asking me to anticipate the whim of the ignorant,” Christopher returned softly. “I can only tell you that I shall do my best.”

  “ ’Tis all I ask.” Richard’s voice was dull with fatigue.

  Philip cleared his throat, having absorbed the entire exchange of thought. “If anyone can do it, Christopher can, my lord,” he said to Richard. “You have made an excellent choice, yet I must admit that I am concerned for his safety. You said yourself John has many loyalists who could strike unexpectedly. And Christopher’s brother, David, is in danger as well.”

  “David and I can take care of ourselves.” Christopher glanced at his uncle. “I can assure you that we will be quite safe.”

  “Beware all the same, Chris,” Richard said, rising slowly and stiffly. “Marcus Burton left yesterday for home, under direct orders from me to search out those nobles loyal to the crown and report to you. Expect him and use well the information.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Christopher and Marcus were part of the same group of knights that Richard favored, and were the best of friends. He was as confident in the man’s abilities as he was in his own.

  Richard sighed and pulled off his mail hood, tossing it to the floor. “Go, now,” he said. “I would see you off in the morning.”

  Christopher and Philip rose and left the tent obediently. They walked together for several minutes in the waning afternoon heat before Philip spoke.

  “ ’Tis an awesome responsibility you hold, Chris,” Philip said softly. “As great as any.”

  Christopher gazed into the golden sands, wondering if he would ever miss any of it. He didn’t think so. “It has been three years since I have been home,” he said. “I truly wonder what I will find upon my return.”

  Philip stopped, as did Christopher, the two men studying each other under the brilliant blue sky. Finally, Philip clapped his nephew on the shoulder.

  “God be with you, Chris, and with David,” he said. “I shall miss you both, and I shall pray for you.”

  He left him with that, and Christopher watched him trudge off across the sand. He often saw his father in Philip’s actions and movements, remembering Myles de Lohr in faded memories. He wondered what his father would have thought about all of this, of his sons and the directives straight into the heart of England’s politics. It was a deadly game they all played. All thoughts of his forced marriage aside, the real issue was John Lackland.

  “Pray for the prince, Uncle,” he mumbled. “When I return, he will need all of your prayers.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Year of Our Lord 1192

  The Month of September

  Lioncross Abbey Castle

  The Welsh Marches

  Lady Dustin Barringdon bit at her full lower lip in concentration. Climbing trees were no easy feat, but climbing trees in a skirt was near impossible.

  Her target was the nest of baby birds high in the old oak tree. Her cat, Caesar, had killed the mama bird earlier that day and now Dustin was determined to take the babies back to Lioncross and raise them. Her mother, of course, thought she was mad, but she still had to try. After all, if she hadn’t spoiled and pampered Caesar then this might never have happened. Caesar had no discipline whatsoever.

  She pushed her blond hair back out of her way for the tenth time; her hands kept snagging on it as she clutched the branch. But as soon as she pushed it away, it was back again and hanging all over her. She usually loved her buttock-length hair, reveled in it, but not today. Long and thick and straight, it glistened and shimmered like a banner of gold silk.

  Her big, almond-shaped eyes watched the nest intently. But not just any eyes, they were of the most amazing shade of gray, like sunlight behind storm clouds. Surrounded by thick dark-blond lashes, they were stunning. With her full rosy lips set in a heart-shaped face, she was an incredible beauty.

  Not that Dustin had any shortage of suitors. The list was long of the young men waiting for a chance to speak with her father upon his return. She truly didn’t care one way or the other; men were a nuisance and a bore and she got along very well without them. Nothing was worse than a starry-eyed suitor who mooned over her like a lovesick pup. She had punched many idiots right in the eye in answer to a wink or a suggestive look.

  “Can you reach it yet?” Her friend, Rebecca, stood at the base of the tree, apprehensively watching.

  “Not yet,” Dustin called back, irritated at the distraction. “Almost.”

  Just another couple of feet and she would have it. Carefully, carefully, she crept along the branch, hoping it wouldn’t give way.

  “Dustin?” Rebecca called urgently.

  Dustin paused in her quest. “What now?”

  “
Riders,” Rebecca said with some panic, “coming this way.”

  Dustin lay down on the branch, straining to see the object of her friend’s fear. Indeed, up on the rise of the road that led directly under the tree she was on, were incoming riders. A lot of them, from what she could see.

  Her puzzlement grew. Who would be coming to Lioncross this time of day, this lazy afternoon in a long succession of lazy afternoons? The riders passed through a bank of trees and she could see them better.

  She began to catch some of her friend’s fear. There were soldiers, hundreds of them.

  “Rebecca,” she hissed. “Climb the tree. Hurry up.”

  With a shriek, Rebecca clumsily climbed onto the trunk and began slowly making her way up.

  “Who are they?” she gasped.

  Dustin shook her head. “I do not know,” she replied. “The only time I have ever seen that many soldiers was when my father….” She suddenly sat up on the branch. “My father! Rebecca, climb down!”

  Rebecca didn’t share Dustin’s excitement. “Why?” she exclaimed.

  Dustin was already scooting back down, crashing into her friend. “It is my father, you ninny. He has returned!”

  Rebecca, reluctantly, began to back down the scratchy oak branch. “How do you know that? Are they flying a banner?”

  Dustin hadn’t even looked. She didn’t have to. “Who else would it be?” She was so excited she was beginning to shake.

  The army was quickly approaching the ladies’ position. Thunder filled the air, blotting out everything else. Now, they were upon them. Rebecca was down from the tree but Dustin was still descending.

  Dust from the road swirled about as several large destriers kicked up grit with their massive hooves. They had come up amazingly fast and Dustin found herself paying more attention to the chargers than to what she was doing. As the knights reined their animals to a halt several feet from Rebecca’s terrified form, Dustin tried to get a better look at them.