The de Lohr Dynasty

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  As the bustle of the encampment went on around them, David and Edward made their way into Derby’s settlement and headed for the largest tent. The weeping was drawing them towards it, like a siren’s call of sorrow, and it was a heady sound indeed. They saw a few soldiers they recognized standing outside of the large tent, men who knew them and gestured for them to enter. Edward had already seen Brentford and wasn’t apt to view him again, so David pushed aside the flap and went inside.

  It was dark in the tent, lit only by two oil lamps from what David could see. It smelled of leather and damp, that moldy damp smell that was so common to the tents because the wool would get wet sitting upon the damp ground. David’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness when a figure was suddenly in face.

  “David,” the man said, gladness in his voice. “Thank God you have come.”

  David found himself looking at the young heir to the Earldom of Derby. He had fought with William de Ferrers in the Holy Land, as the young man was a great favorite of Richard, as his father was. The Earldom of Derby was technically just the estate of Derby, and not the title itself, as it had been stripped from the family some time ago, but everyone called the elder William ‘earl’ as a courtesy. The younger William, at twenty years and four, managed a good deal of his elderly father’s business and had always handled himself responsibly. He was well-liked. But now, David found himself looking at the strained young lord, looking much different from the confident and happy man he had known.

  “I just heard about Brentford, my lord,” he said. “Edward told me it was Dennis de la Londe.”

  William nodded his head; it was clear the young man was quite shaken. “It happened so fast,” he said, hesitantly looking over to a corner of the tent, in the darkness, where a woman was weeping over a supine body. “I was only just speaking with him and now….”

  He shook his head, unable to continue. David looked over at the pallet in the darkness, seeing Brentford’s feet as the woman hovered over the body. He sighed heavily.

  “I am so very sorry,” he murmured. “Brentford was my dear friend. I was only just speaking with him, too. I simply cannot believe this has happened.”

  The young lord sniffed loudly, composing himself. “It has been a difficult year for us, David,” he said. “Leeton de Shera left his position as captain of my father’s army when his wife, my sister, died two years ago this winter. You know Leeton, do you not? Did you know his wife had died?”

  David nodded. “I did,” he said. “He came to see my brother last month and told him everything. He has come with us to Windsor, but surely you knew that. He told Chris that he could not stand the memories associated with Derby, memories of his dead Rachel, so Chris has allowed him to remain with us for now.”

  Young William wiped at his nose. “Leeton left his son with my parents,” he said. “The child my sister died giving birth to. I swear to you that young Richard is the only thing that keeps my father going. He lives for the boy.”

  David lifted his eyebrows in understanding. “I am sure it does an old man good to have his heirs about him,” he said. “Have you seen Leeton? He is here, competing with us.”

  William shook his head. “I have not seen him yet but even if I do, he will not speak to me,” he said. “I suppose the memories are still too difficult for him to deal with. He was quite in love with my sister, you know. But when he departed, it left a hole in our command structure and Brentford assumed the post. He was supposed to marry my other sister, Rebecca. Did you know that?”

  David sighed heavily, hanging his head with the horrible sorrow he was facing. “I did not,” he replied. “Jesus, I did not. Am I to assume that is your sister weeping over his body?”

  William nodded, looking at the corner of the tent and starting to tear up no matter how hard he tried not to. “Aye,” he whispered tightly. “I… I do not know how to take her away from him. He… he must be prepared for the return home.”

  David put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Leave her alone,” he said. “Give her all the time she needs. Brentford does not need to be prepared for a little while yet. Allow your sister her grief. When the time comes to prepare him, I will help. Send for me.”

  William simply nodded his head before looking away, blinking the tears away. “First Rachel and now Brentford,” he muttered. “My parents will be devastated. They liked Brentford a great deal.”

  David squeezed the young lord’s shoulder before dropping his hand. “As did I,” he said. “I will pay my respects, if I may. And I will say again how very sorry I am. If you need anything at all, please send word. My brother and I are at your service.”

  David started to move towards the corner of the tent but William reached out to grasp him before he could move away. “Before you go,” he said, keeping his voice low, “it was de la Londe who killed him. Did you even know he was here, David? I did not know until Brentford drew his name for the joust. What in the hell is he doing here?”

  David paused, seeing by William’s expression that the young lord had evidently not heard about John and his mercenary crew. Since William had been in the Holy Land with Richard, however, he too knew of Dennis de la Londe. He knew of the French knight’s wickedness. The man had a reputation that spanned continents.

  “It seems that John has hired mercenaries to compete against Richard’s supporters,” he said softly. “These men will do anything to win, including kill. But trust me when I say that Dennis will pay. This offense against Brentford will not go unanswered, my lord. My brother and I will see to it.”

  That seemed to bring some relief to young William’s features. “I knew you would,” he said, his grip still on David. “Whatever you do… make sure it hurts. Make sure it hurts a great deal. Make him suffer, David. Please.”

  David nodded his head, feeling so much hatred and angst towards Dennis de la Londe that it was difficult to control. But he steeled himself. Without another word, he moved to the pallet where Brentford was lying.

  The woman weeping over Brentford didn’t even look up as David stood there and gazed down at his dark haired friend. The man didn’t have any visible signs of injury; he merely looked as if he was sleeping. There was dirt in his hair and on his tunic where he had hit the ground, but it was clear that Brentford had not suffered at all. He looked very peaceful.

  That peaceful expression was like a stab to David’s heart. It just wasn’t fair, any of it. He went to his knees beside the man, riveted to his face, thinking of the horrible waste of it all. Brentford le Bec was an excellent knight, a good friend, and David was feeling his loss already. Bending over, he kissed the man on the forehead.

  “This is not over, Brentford,” he murmured. “Dennis will pay. With every damn bone in his body, I will ensure he pays. Every blow we deal him will have your name on it. You shall be avenged, my friend, I swear it.”

  With that, David reached out and clasped one of the hands that was resting on Brentford’s chest, squeezing it. There was a promise in that squeeze, the affirmation of knightly bonds and brotherly affection. It was a painful farewell. As he released Brentford’s hand, the woman next to him spoke.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “For avenging him, I thank you.”

  David turned to look at her; she was pretty, dark haired and dark eyed, her nose red from weeping. “You are Lady Rebecca?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I am,” she said, sniffling. “Will you… will you make sure it hurts a great deal? Whatever you do to the man who killed my Brent, will you make sure it hurts terribly?”

  It was a shocking request from a lady but in hindsight, perhaps not so shocking. William had made the same request, too. It seemed that both of them understood revenge in its purest form.

  Make it hurt.

  From the depths of the soul, Brentford’s lady demanded satisfaction and she evidently wanted an eye for an eye. That was usually a man’s point of view. But David respected her request and looked her straight in the eye as he spoke.
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  “He will feel agony such as no man has ever known,” he swore softly. “I vow this, my lady. For Brentford, he will be punished.”

  David would swear, until the end of his days, that he had never seen a sinister or grateful smile as the lady thanked him. “You have my gratitude,” she murmured.

  “David!”

  The hiss came from the tent entry, distracting David from that wicked gesture on Rebecca’s lovely face. He turned to see young William, as well as Edward, standing in the darkness. Edward was gesturing to him so he quietly excused himself and made his way over to Edward.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “The marshals are drawing lots for the next round,” he said quietly. “We must go if we are to be given a slot.”

  David nodded reluctantly, turning once more to watch the lady as she bent over Brentford, now stroking the man’s hair. As David and William and Edward watched, she began singing to Brentford. It was a soft lullaby. Sickened, and enraged, David turned for Edward.

  “Let us go,” he said. “Let us pray that I draw Dennis in this round, for I would sincerely like to punish the man. Did we bring the spear-tipped joust poles, Edward?”

  Edward shook his head. “We did not, not this time.”

  “I have spear-tipped poles,” William intervened in their conversation. “You may take them. Take all of them. Use them well.”

  David didn’t have to be told twice. He and Edward left the tent to collect all of the spear-tipped poles that Derby had, which amounted to six total. Hastily, they carried them back to the de Lohr encampment where Christopher and the rest of the men were. When Christopher saw the spear-tipped poles, he understood why David had them but he personally refused to use them. He insisted that he didn’t need a speared pole in order to bring down de la Londe but wouldn’t fault the others if they wanted to use them. As the elder de Lohr brother remained true to his crow’s-foot tipped joust poles, David and Leeton were more than eager to use the spear tipped. David was more hot-headed than his much cooler brother; in this case, that difference was clearly showing.

  David wanted vengeance any way he could get it.

  David and Leeton and Edward were in the process of adjusting the tips when Christopher’s wife, escorted by Burton, came out of the lists and joined them for a short while. David, however, spared the woman little time. He continued to work on tightening up the spear tips so they would not bend or break when meeting with the steel of chain mail or even the immovability of a shield. Between he and Leeton, they managed to sharpen the spears into razor-sharp daggers, tips that could do Dennis de la Londe a good deal of damage.

  This time, there would be no mistakes or oversights. What they intended to do to Dennis, they intended for it to be permanent.

  For Brentford.

  *

  The joust competitions continued on for the rest of the morning, the field of knights narrowing down little by little. There were two more substantial injuries, but for the most part, the majority of the combatants walked away unharmed. By midday, the list had been narrowed down to only two men and, as expected, Christopher was to face-off against Dennis the Destroyer.

  Dustin had actually enjoyed the rest of the bouts and was even able to watch her husband dispose of his final three challengers with nary a twinge of apprehension, but when it became apparent that his final round would be against John’s champion, her anxiety returned worse than before.

  Sitting between Edward and Marcus, her stomach was twisting into painful knots. Christopher was at the opposite end of the field and she could see his spiral-decorated shaft pointing up to the sky as he adjusted his shield over his left side. Sir Dennis was closer to her, his horned helmet quite imposing as he sat stock still, watching Christopher settle himself.

  Dustin found herself staring at the man, her eyes shooting daggers and every inch of her body conveying pain and hatred. She didn’t even know him yet she hated him all the same; from what she had heard, he was a disgrace to the brotherhood of knights and for the simple fact he was competing against her husband, she hated him all the more.

  Sir Dennis reined his steed over to the lists where John and Ralph were sitting. He raised his visor and Dustin was able to catch a glimpse of the despised face.

  “Ten marks, did you say?” the knight said in a heavy French accent. “Seems like a small amount for a man’s life. He is married, n’est-ce pas? Where is his wife?”

  Ralph jerked his head leisurely in Dustin’s direction. “The Lady Dustin de Lohr.”

  Dennis’ bright, pale eyes immediately focused on Dustin and she went rigid under his naked scrutiny. He was probably as old as her husband, plain-faced, almost boyish-looking. She found it hard to believe that this man had the nickname of “Destroyer”. He smiled and she quickly averted her gaze.

  “I want her, as well,” Dennis said to John. “Ten marks and the mademoiselle.”

  As he reined his horse away, Dustin’s lovely face washed with shocked anger.

  “What is he talking about?” she demanded hotly of John and Ralph, ignoring the titles completely.

  The prince glanced casually over his shoulder at the sheriff, who shrugged lazily. “I wouldn’t know,” he replied. “Ralph? Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  “I have no knowledge, sire,” Ralph lied. “We will have to ask him to clarify his statement when the joust is finished.”

  Dustin was shaking with fury and confusion and Marcus reached out to pat her arm. He and Edward exchanged disgusted glances, each man knowing exactly what the knight had meant. Had Christopher heard it, there would be French guts spilled out all over the ground.

  The tournament marshal took the field, looking at both competitors to make sure they were ready. A hush settled over the crowd and Dustin’s palms began to sweat terribly. She wanted to cover her eyes but could not seem to lift her hands. The stands grew quieter and quieter until it seemed that all she could hear was the scream of the hawk riding the drafts high above the arena and she wondered vaguely if it were a bad omen.

  Dustin closed her eyes a brief second, fighting off her lurching stomach. She swore at that moment that if Christopher survived, she would make him promise never to compete in a tourney again. She simply could not take the terror it provoked, excitement be damned.

  The marshal dropped the flag and Dustin’s heart surged into her throat as she watched her husband and Dennis charge at one another like rolling thunder, poles leveling out as they closed the gap. Dustin’s fingers flew to her mouth and she bit hard to keep from screaming, seeing the two mailed and colored knights come together in a scream of wood and metal, horse and man. Yet a split second before their poles collided with one another, she saw her husband jerk sideways in the saddle and then came a thunderous, shattering crash.

  Christopher’s whole body snapped like a rag-doll from the force of the blow, but he remained seated as his destrier came to a halt at the end of the run. The crowd let up a collective groan and rose to their feet, concerned for their newly-returned hero. Dustin shrieked as Marcus and Edward shot angrily to stand.

  “Damnation!” Marcus shouted. “He brought that pole to bear on Chris’ head.”

  Edward furiously agreed. “Had he not ducked when he did, he would have had his head torn off.”

  “Jesus, his shoulder must be broken from that blow,” Marcus raged. “How does he look, Edward?”

  Edward was standing at the end of the platform, scrutinizing Christopher closely. His liege seemed to have righted himself adequately, but he could see that his left shoulder was bleeding through the mail.

  “He shall live,” Edward said reluctantly, turning back to his seat. “But that shoulder is going to need attention.”

  Dustin was still seated, her hands folded at her mouth and her huge gray eyes full of tears. Marcus gazed down at her, realizing they must have terrified her further with their shouting.

  “He’s fine, Dustin,” he said softly, sitting beside her. “Another pass and h
e shall have the bastard on his arse.”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes, wiping at the tears as quickly as they fell and trying hard to be brave. “I know,” she said with courage she did not feel.

  The field marshal and a few other officials were conversing with Christopher and they could see his head nodding faintly. John turned to gaze at Dustin, his eyes grazing over her.

  “I do hope your husband is well enough to continue,” he said. “’Twould be a shame to lose de Lohr. The competition wouldn’t be the same without him.”

  Dustin looked hard at the prince, sick and tired of his deceptions and games. “Why do you offer me such bold-faced lies? You hate my husband and would like nothing better than to see him dead.”

  Only Dustin and her forthright manner could get away with such blatant disrespect. John’s eyes widened with feigned surprise.

  “How untrue, Lady de Lohr,” he insisted. “I greatly respect your husband and his skills. To lose him would be to lose the Defender of the Realm and leave us all vulnerable.”

  Dustin’s face twitched with fury. “You are a liar, my lord, and a disgrace to the crown,” she snapped. “I should have listened to my husband when he told me to stay away from you.”

  Ralph turned on her savagely. “Any more from your mouth, madam, and I throw you in the dungeons for blasphemy.”

  Marcus and Edward were up, preparing to rip Ralph joint from joint but John put up a quelling hand. “Sit down, everyone, or I shall have you all removed.” His hand fell limply to the arm of the chair. “Emotions are high, especially with an injured comrade, which is why I forgive Lady de Lohr her words. Look, now; the marshal is moving to centerfield.”

  Dustin, her beautiful face dark, sunk back into her chair as Marcus and Edward regained their seats. The whole day had been draining on her and it wasn’t even noon yet, she could not even fathom what the afternoon might hold.