The de Lohr Dynasty

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “I confiscate this horse in the name of King Richard,” he boomed loudly. “Go, man, and deliver my message.”

  He spurred the animal in the direction of the fighting even as the soldier wobbled off at a dead run, bearing unbelievable news.

  The Defender was returned.

  *

  As quickly as Christopher’s death had spread through the realm, the news of his resurrection spread even faster. John and Ralph were the first to hear of it, and they killed the messenger in their disbelief.

  Safe and sound in Nottingham, away from the wrath of Richard for the moment, they were gravely concerned with the rumors that Christopher de Lohr was indeed alive. Having Richard on the attack was threat enough, but if the Defender were indeed alive, then there was good reason to be terrified. Between the king and his champion, surely there was no hope in retaining the keeps gained in warfare.

  Christopher had single-handedly saved Rob’s camp that night. Although substantial damage had been done, few lives were lost and John’s troops turned tail when they realized just who they were fighting against. It had taken them months to find this den of bandits and they were fully prepared to destroy it and capture Lord Robin of the Hood. But when they saw Christopher de Lohr returned to battle like Lazarus arisen, superstition got the better of them and they retreated. Christopher purposely fought with his helmet off so John’s men could witness his face and return with the news. He had hoped that his presence would make John think twice before attacking these people again.

  Rob and Jonathan were quite amazed to see him in battle. They knew his reputation and assumed that he had not gained it by being a oaf, but to see him in action was a sight to behold. He moved with such ease and grace that Rob was nearly nailed twice by enemy soldiers as he watched him fight, hypnotized.

  When the soldiers retreated and the camp grew quiet in the last couple of hours before dawn, Christopher slept a short time but arose quickly to depart. Rob, Jonathan and Simon saw him off aboard his confiscated destrier, and Christopher had to be stern with Simon, for the boy was on the verge of tears the entire time. Knights do not cry, he told him with gentle firmness, although it was a lie. He had cried his share since he had met his wife. His body tingling with excitement, he loped from the burned camp without a hind glance.

  Christopher drove himself hard. His body was still weakened, but he forced it down as much as he could as he rode the endless green miles toward Lioncross. Evidence of spring was everywhere and he inhaled of it deeply, grateful to be alive.

  It was the near the first of May. He had been injured around the beginning of February and found it difficult to believe he had been gone that long. Had it truly been so long? Would he return to find all as he had left it, or would he discover his world had been turned awry? He was excited and apprehensive, so desperately eager to return to his wife and tell her how very sorry he was that his death had been a mistake, and in the next breath tell her how very much he loved her. He never told her often enough, in fact, hardly at all, but he would remedy that. He had vowed once before to tell her he loved her until she was sick of hearing it. He would keep that vow.

  He passed through Gloucestershire, a lovely portion of the country that he was fond of. The mount beneath him had a pleasant gate that made it easier for him to stay in the saddle for lengthy amounts of time. But eventually, he had to rest and eat, but he made sure it was no longer than absolutely necessary and then he was in the saddle again, riding for home.

  A trip that should have taken six days took just over four. The horse was hearty, fortunately, so he had been willing and able. Christopher rode the crest that overlooked Lioncross and the little village, pausing a moment to drink in the sight. It was strange how a year or two could change the way a man looks at life, he thought.

  When he first came to Lioncross, he was only concerned with securing the mightiest keep in England. The wife, the village, the perks that came with it were secondary. How his priorities had changed was amazing; how his life had changed was beyond comprehension.

  It was dark and the gates were closed. He rode up to the massive gatehouse and bellowed a greeting for the sentries. The moon was a sliver, offering the guards little light with which to view the caller, but they opened the gates anyway, as was customary.

  Christopher smiled to himself as the gates opened and he was beckoned in, thinking they were in for one hell of a surprise. Jeffrey was the first man to see him, his angled face severe.

  “Name yourself, man,” he said sternly.

  “Defender of the Realm, and your liege,” Christopher replied. “Do not take that tone with me, Kessler.”

  Jeffrey cocked an eyebrow, going for his sword, but something made him stop. The voice, by all that was holy… did he recognize the voice? As if in a nightmare, he washed with cold fear and stepped back from the horse and rider.

  “Show yourself.” His voice was a whisper.

  Christopher removed his helmet and fixed Jeffrey in the eye. The soldiers standing around him let out a collective gasp and instinctively jumped back, afraid that it was a phantom come to kill them. Christopher gazed around him with patience.

  “I am not going to bite you,” he assured them, understanding their shock. “It is me. Truly.”

  Jeffrey was as white as plaster. He was the only man brave enough to step forward and give Christopher close scrutiny.

  “Can you see through me?” Christopher asked, holding up his hands. “Do I hover above the horse? Look at me, Jeffrey.”

  Jeffrey did, meeting his eyes with astonishment. “What…?” he stammered. “I do not understand this.”

  Christopher swung his leg over the charger and dismounted. All of the soldiers, save Jeffrey, jumped back a step when he hit the ground and Christopher scowled.

  “Enough of this nonsense,” he scolded. “I am alive, I am whole, and I want to see my wife. Where is she?”

  Jeffrey shook his head, trying to regain his reeling senses. “What happened to you, my lord?” he asked, awe and shock in his voice. “Anthony and the others said you perished in battle. They even buried you on a hill overlooking Gowergrove.”

  “I was not killed, but I was severely wounded,” Christopher replied. “I fully realize that it appears I have returned from the dead, but I assure you, I am quite alive. Where is Dustin?”

  He caught movement over Jeffrey’s shoulder and looked up to see Edward emerging from Lioncross, looking at Christopher as if he were looking at a ghost. His eyes were bugged and his face had the same strange pallor that Jeffrey’s did, and he seemed to have forgotten how to take stairs. He tripped, recovered, and slowly continued his approach as if he were walking in a dream.

  “Oh… my sweet God,” Edward breathed. “Is it really you?”

  “It is really me,” Christopher said gently, smiling at his close and dear friend. “I am very much alive and in the flesh, and I have returned home.”

  Edward stopped, swaying as he put his hand to his mouth. Christopher held out his arm. “Would you like to touch me to see if my rotting flesh is peeling from my bones?” he asked. “Mayhap you would prefer to address me as Beelzebub or Mephistopheles? Yet, I assure you, I will answer to Chris.’”

  “This cannot be,” Edward gasped. “You are dead.”

  “I am not dead,” Christopher said patiently, realizing he had collected quite an audience in the bailey. “As I told Jeffrey, I was severely injured and it has taken me all of this time to recover from the wound. It is only now that I am able to ride a horse and return home. Honestly, I am not the walking dead.”

  Edward took his hand from his mouth and approached him, still eyeing him with a great deal of disbelief.

  “Where is Dustin?” Christopher asked softly.

  Edward blinked and turned a darker shade of gray. “Oh, God, I think I am going to be ill.”

  Christopher cocked an eyebrow at him and reached out to grab his arm. With a tug, he pulled him toward the keep. “Christ, Edward,” he swore so
ftly. “When did you become such a weakling?”

  They entered the dark and cool keep where Christopher went straight to Lady Mary’s old solar. There was wine there, on the heavy oak table, and he shoved a cup at Edward and forced the man to drink it. Edward did, all of it in two big gulps.

  “Have some more,” Christopher poured Edward a second of wine. “Perhaps that will bring you to your senses.”

  But Edward needed more than wine; he needed a slap in the face and someone to tell him he wasn’t dreaming. All he could do was stare at Christopher, absolutely astonished.

  “I thought I was seeing a goddamn ghost when I saw you in the bailey,” he whispered. “Jesus Christ, Chris. You are supposed to be dead.”

  “I very nearly was,” he replied. “But I shall go into that later. Where is Dustin? Do I have to ask again?”

  Edward closed his eyes and took a long, hard swallow of wine. “She is not here,” he said, closing his eyes and wondering how Christopher was going to react to the events since his alleged death. When he opened his eyes again and saw Christopher staring back at him, as healthy and whole as when last he saw him, he rolled his eyes again and put his face in his hands. “My God, I am talking to a dead man.”

  Christopher grabbed him roughly, pulling him to stand and leaving no doubt in Edward’s mind that he was, indeed, alive.

  “Have no doubt that I am not dead, de Wolfe, but if you do not tell me where my wife is, you may find yourself in that very state,” he growled. “Where in the hell is Dustin?”

  Edward finally relaxed, gazing back into his liege’s eyes. Perhaps that brutal action, small as it was, had convinced him that Christopher was indeed alive. There was so very much to say he did not know where to begin.

  “She’s with Marcus,” he said. “He came to Lioncross when he heard of your death and took her back with him. They are probably married by now.”

  Christopher let him go, anger and grief flashing in his eyes. “Marcus took her? And she went?”

  Edward scratched his head and sank back into his chair; he was feeling distinctly weak. “It is just not that simple, Chris. Dustin was… well, she was beyond devastated to hear of your death. Jesus, I have never seen anyone grieve the way she did. I think she quite literally went mad. She wasn’t the same person after she received the news.”

  Christopher’s eyes stung with tears and he found himself taking the seat opposite Edward. He looked down at his folded hands. “And I can never make it up to her for causing her so much pain. I’d sooner gut myself than hurt her like that, but it was out of my control.”

  “I know,” Edward replied softly, still finding it hard to believe he was talking to Christopher. “She wouldn’t eat, she took to wearing that peasant garb she was so fond of when you first married her, and she cried all of the time. At one point, she broke a fragile vase and cut herself terribly with the shards. It was just awful.”

  Christopher shut his eyes tightly and his eyelashes glistened with tears. “Christ, Edward….”

  Edward was feeling a bit more in control as he talked. “Marcus arrived to express his condolences, but there was no mistaking his intent,” he continued softly. “He came for Dustin and he would not be dissuaded. I tried and he threatened me. David and Richard arrived nearly a week after Marcus did and our king was pulling David and Marcus apart at every turn; it was a nightmare, totally chaotic.” He poured Christopher some wine. “Richard was in a foul mood with your death and with John’s rampages; David and Marcus were at each other’s throats, and Dustin was crazy. I have never seen such madness.”

  Christopher’s head came up, his eyes wet with tears. “Did Marcus force her to go with him?”

  “Yes and no,” Edward replied. “Her mind was brittle, and Marcus, as you know, can be persuasive. He convinced her that a change of scenery would be the best thing for her, and he furthermore wasted no time in declaring his intentions. I think he simply overwhelmed her.”

  “Bastard,” Christopher growled. “Has he so little respect for me that he would not even allow Dustin to grieve? And what did Richard say to this?”

  “Marcus respects you, Chris, but he loves Dustin more,” Edward replied. “Richard gave him his blessing to take Dustin and marry her. David was livid.”

  Christopher’s jaw ticked. “So David returned, did he? I knew he would.”

  “Your brother was in agony, Chris,” Edward told him softly. “He was consumed with guilt for what had happened between you two and he was as protective of Dustin as a lioness. He only left Marcus alone when Richard ordered him back to Canterbury.”

  Christopher sighed, running his hand over his face. “This is all so overwhelming.”

  “I know how you feel,” Edward said ironically, watching Christopher as he absorbed the events of the past few months. “Now, tell me, what in the hell happened to you?”

  Christopher looked at Edward a long moment before fumbling with his armor and mail. He pulled everything aside and yanked his tunic up to allow Edward a glimpse of the large, purple scar on his torso. Edward visibly paled.

  “That,” Christopher said softly, “is the result of a mercenary spear. I was gored like a wild pig and left to die on the outskirts of the battle when a man found me and took me back to his village. There, I was tended by a woman and her husband and nursed back to health. Hell, Edward, I did not regain consciousness for two weeks. They thought I was dead, too.”

  Edward shook his head. “Could you get no message to us, to let us know you were alive?”

  “Nay,” Christopher replied regretfully. “The village was a den for outlaws. John is seeking these people and they could not risk letting their place be known. There was no way to send word. The only way to let you know I was alive was to tell you myself, so, here I am.”

  Edward was beyond overwhelmed; he was having difficulty grasping the entire event. He wiped his hand over his face. “This is incredible. I simply cannot believe any of it.”

  “Believe it,” Christopher murmured. “Christ, Edward, now I have to go north and fight Marcus to get my wife back? Life gets more complicated all the time.”

  “Indeed,” Edward agreed fervently. “But I warn you, Chris; Marcus will not let Dustin go easily. He was quite adamant when he came here for her, like a man possessed.”

  Christopher ground his jaw. “She’s my wife, Edward. He has no choice but to return her to me. If he doesn’t, then he will die.”

  Edward averted his gaze, the clash between Christopher and Marcus was bound to tear up the north. He had seen the look in Marcus’ eye when he came for Dustin; the man would die for her. So would Christopher.

  “Chris,” Edward ventured after a moment. “Do you think it wise to go charging up to Somerhill to retrieve your wife? I mean, there is no doubt in my mind that Marcus will do everything in his power to keep her, which will only result in a full-scale war. Do you think that wise for Dustin to witness? After all, the shock of seeing that you are alive will be strong enough without witnessing the ensuing war. And then, suppose, you do not survive; how do you think she will react?”

  Christopher’s face was dark as he absently studied his goblet. “She’s my wife, Edward, and Christin is my daughter. I appreciate Marcus taking care of them, but the fact remains that they are mine. And I will take back what is mine.”

  “At what cost? Dustin’s sanity?” Edward fired back gently. “Think long and hard on this approach, Defender. Use your mighty wisdom now, more than ever.”

  Christopher started to reply when there was a rap at the solar door. Max, Anthony, Jeffrey, Nicholas, Sean, and Guy pushed the door open before being invited, and Christopher motioned them into the room. He knew how stunned and curious they were.

  “ ’Tis really you, my lord?” Anthony asked timidly.

  “Truly, Anthony,” Christopher smiled wearily.

  The men shook their heads, astonished. “But you died. I saw your body.” Anthony insisted.

  “I do not know whose body you saw,
but it wasn’t mine,” Christopher replied.

  Something shot in through the doorway, a wisp of an animal level with their shins. Harold threw himself into his master’s arms, licking crazily and wagging his stubby tail so hard he threatened to shake it off. Christopher grinned as he fought off the affectionate attack.

  “Hal, you fat little maggot,” he exclaimed softly. “I was wondering where in the hell you were.”

  “Well, that is good enough for me,” Max said softly. “He’s no ghost or the dog wouldn’t go near him.”

  Hal was in dog heaven as Christopher scratched him roughly. Edward shook his head at the two of them. “He wouldn’t leave with Dustin, you know,” he said. “She took every animal but him. It was as if he was rooted here.”

  “ ’Tis because he knew I would return,” Christopher said, throwing Hal off his lap only to have the dog spring up again. It was a game they played, the harder Christopher tossed him, the more eager he was to return for more. He ended up throwing the dog across the room and Hal raced back, wagging his tall and dancing with delight when Christopher put his hand down to let him know he was sincere about not wanting him in his lap.

  Anthony was still shaken. He watched Christopher and the dog, letting out a blustery sigh. “You….I mean, the body, was wedged beneath Zephyr. I even retrieved your wedding ring for your wife.”

  Christopher looked at him a moment as if he suddenly realized something. “Leeton,” he whispered. “I gave my wedding ring to Leeton to give to Dustin. He was wedged beneath Zephyr, did you say?”

  Understanding spread between the men, as if the pieces of a puzzle were suddenly coming together.

  “He must have taken your horse,” Anthony said quietly. “His steed sustained a heavy battle wound and he must have taken Zephyr when you were injured.”

  Christopher closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the loss of his dear friend. “Did you send word to Derby?”