“How do I know you speak the truth?” the Mother Prioress asked. “You have violated our sanctuary. You were denied entry yet you still entered by force.”
The knight’s voice was like ice. “I have a task to complete, madam,” he said. “No one stands in the way of my duties, not even God. And if you do not believe what I have told you, you will in about an hour when Henry’s men come. They will not be as kind as I have been.”
Not only was there fear of what had just occurred but now there was fear of what was coming. The Mother Prioress looked to the women huddled around her, uncertain and afraid. But something told her this knight was telling the truth. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but something inside her told her that he was being honest.
“I suppose I have no choice but to believe you,” the Mother Prioress finally said. “But God forgive you if you are lying to me.”
The knight sighed heavily, returning to full battle mode. “There is not enough forgiveness in the world to forgive me for all of the wrongs I have committed,” he said. Then, he gestured to the little priory with the vine-covered walls. “If I were you, I would simply vacate the priory altogether. If Henry’s men are angry enough about the lady not being here, they might do something you will regret. Flee into the woods and stay there until they leave.”
In spite of the fact that the knight had broken down their entry door, the Mother Prioress sensed that he was trying to help them. Moreover, she didn’t have much of a choice in the situation. She simply nodded her head, her anxious gaze on Alessandria, who looked at the Mother Prioress with a good deal of fear of her own. She was terrified.
“I will pray for you, Aless,” the old woman murmured. “Go with God, child.”
Alessandria didn’t have the chance to reply because the knight tugged on her again, yanking her after him as he headed for the tethered horses. As the nuns retreated to the priory to prepare to flee before Henry’s men arrived, the big knight let go of Alessandria’s hand, grasped her around the waist, and practically threw her onto the back of a fat charger with a wide arse. It made for comfortable riding but it was a very big horse.
As the other men around them mounted their own steeds, the knight who had wrested Alessandria from the priory very nearly leapt onto the saddle, seating himself behind her and putting a big arm around her to steady her as he took the reins of the excited animal. Alessandria clutched the saddle, praying she wouldn’t fall off.
“Go,” he commanded his men. “Ride east to Canterbury. We will seek shelter at my father’s home of Canterbury Castle.”
“With a moonless night like this, Henry’s men will see our torches like beacons,” another knight said. “We will be leading them straight to Canterbury, Chad.”
Sir Chadwick de Lohr knew that. As a son of the great House of de Lohr, warfare, as well as politics, was in his blood. This wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought of himself in their harried flight from London.
“Let them,” he said. “They cannot catch us. Let them follow us to Canterbury and discover the wrath of my father’s army. Henry depends so deeply on the de Lohr army that I doubt he will want to tangle with it.”
With that, he spurred his horse forward, the long, slender spurs digging into the horse’s side where it was scarred from repeated punctures. Chad was a man of action, and of battle, and the horse was a reflection of that vocation. He followed in a long line of warriors, generations of knights who fought, and died, for their king.
Only now it was different. The battle between Henry and Simon de Montfort made it different. Now, the de Lohrs were shifting loyalties because of family ties, as evidenced by the woman in Chad’s arms. She was his cousin, although by marriage, but she was still an important part of the de Shera family tree. And important enough heiress that the king himself had declared his want for her.
A hostage to force the House of de Shera to their knees.
It was a foolish move on Henry’s part considering the House of de Shera was full of accomplished knights and abducting one small lady would not bring them all to their knees. But it would bring her brother to his knees, potentially, as the man was now in control of the de Shera might and wealth in Chester at the death of his father. Aurelius de Shera was already on his way back to The Paladin, the de Shera fortress in Cheshire that had been home to the heart of the de Shera family for centuries. While Aurelius headed home to reinforce the castle against Henry’s vengeance, it was up to the House of de Lohr to protect the sister.
And protect they would.
Into the moonless lands they rode, made dangerous by the fact that there was so very little light to see by. Only a blanket of stars to light their way and torches that hardly burned holes into the blackness, but travel they must. They had to make it to Canterbury Castle before Henry’s men caught up with them.
It was a race against time.
Or it would be a battle to the death.
CHAPTER ONE
Two days earlier
The Bloody Head tavern
London
“We are heroes!”
“We are more than heroes! We are the saviors!”
“The king thinks so; otherwise, I would not be so bloody rich. Rich, rich, rich.”
“You are already rich, you hag. What are you going to do with more money?”
“I am not a hag. Only women can be hags.”
“With your long hair, you look like a woman. Chad, why is your hair so long?”
Sir Chadwick de Lohr grinned at the knight who called him a woman, a gesture that looked very much like his father and grandfather. All of the de Lohr men had that same bright, big-toothed smile that women found irresistible.
“Find me a woman who tells me I do not look like a man,” he said, wavering because he was drunk. They all were. Suddenly, he unfastened his breeches and they fell to his knees. “Does this look like a woman? Tell me the truth! Have you seen this on a woman, ever?”
The knights around him were laughing uproariously as Chad took to flashing his bare arse to the patrons in the smoky, smelly tavern. Most of them cheered his display while a few of the women yelled proposals. Chad encouraged the rowdy group until a couple of the tavern whores approached him and propositioned him in graphic detail. Frowning unhappily, he turned his back on them and pulled up his breeches.
“Great Bleeding Lucifer,” he slurred. “It seems that my manhood is a magnet to everything ugly and fetid in this room. Did you see those vermin approach me? What gall! What nerve!”
Standing next to Chad was his younger brother, taller and skinnier, with the de Lohr blond hair and a rather stylish mustache that he was quite proud of. Stefan de Lohr shook his head at his eldest brother.
“If you flash your fishing tackle around like that, you are bound to have some bites,” he said, listening to the men around him roar. “I’ve never seen a man more apt to drop his breeches than you, Chad. Sooner or later, someone is going to cut something off that you may be in need of.”
Chad scowled at his younger brother. All of the men had been drinking, all seven of them, but no one could blame them. Having spent the past several months in various skirmishes, culminating in the biggest battle of all at Evesham, these were knights of the highest order, men upon whom the fate of a nation often hung in the balance. Drink was a way of alleviating that pressure, even if it was only for a short time.
Along with Chad and his brothers, Stefan de Lohr and the dark-haired, dark-eyed Perrin de Lohr, they were joined by Jorden de Russe, a mountain of a man with dark hair and a swarthy look about him, and also Rhun du Bois, a stunningly handsome young knight who possessed the bright blue eyes that the du Bois men were so famous for having.
Rhun’s father was Maddoc du Bois, a great friend of Chad’s father, Daniel, and a knight who had served Canterbury for many years. But Maddoc and his wife had returned to France when Maddoc’s father had passed away to oversee the lands and responsibilities of Rhys du Bois, a man who had been a close kin to the Duke of Navar
re. But when Maddoc had departed, he’d left his youngest son with Daniel, and Rhun was every bit the great knight his father had been.
All of these men were descendants of great knights, of men who had shaped England, but that was especially true of the men from the House of de Lohr. It was a name much like de Wolfe or de Russe or de Moray or de Winter or de Lara. These men were giants in the military circles of England during this turbulent time, men of benevolence but also men of power.
They were men who controlled the power of a nation that had just righted itself after Simon de Montfort’s defeat at Evesham those weeks ago. Now, these men were heading home with their armies, having done their duty for king and country. As their vast armies camped on the outskirts of London, awaiting orders to head home, those in command of those armies were in the tavern getting drunk and relaxing for the first time in months. It seemed like years and Chad, displeased with his brother’s attempts to control his behavior, dropped his breeches again and displayed his tight, white buttocks to the room again. Everyone cheered.
“Bloody Christ,” Stefan shook his head; he tended to be a brother without much humor, even when drunk. “We must get you home, Chadwick. Mother and Father will be anxious to see us and if you drop your breeches in front of our mother, she will not hesitate to take a stick to you.”
Chad was too drunk to care at the moment, unusual for the man who usually kept himself tightly under control. He found that he liked it when the room cheered for his naked arse.
“Stefan, you’ve not had enough to drink or you would not be speaking like that,” Chad said. “Why so serious, brother?”
Stefan threw a thumb at their youngest brother, Perrin. “Because Perry is drunker than you are,” he said. “One of us has to keep a level head or all of us will end up stripped and beaten in an alley somewhere. I should not like for that to happen.”
Chad made a face at his brother before looking to Jorden de Russe, who was standing next to him. All of the men were standing around a table near the corner of the room that they could just as easily be sitting at, but it was such a habit with them to be ready to move at a moment’s notice that none of them seemed to realize that they could actually sit and relax. They preferred to stand as if surveying the room, presenting their powerful and armored presence for those in the tavern to worship.
“Where do you go now, de Russe?” Chad asked his friend. “You have often spoken of your home at Clearwell Castle. Do you intend to return?”
Jorden was a handsome man with a quiet manner. But he was also more apt than any of them to snap a man’s neck at the least provocation. He was into his third cup of ale, his gaze distant as he thought on Chad’s question.
“I suppose so,” he said. “I have not seen my father in months and I should like to see him again. But then… I was thinking that I might like to travel. After the hell of the past few years, I feel as if I want to get away from everything. I have always wanted to see Rome. Mayhap I shall make the trip there.”
Chad cocked his head thoughtfully. “I hear they have full women and delectable food,” he said. “But that is provided Henry lets you go. You know that our fight is not over with, Jorden. The younger Simon de Montfort has an army and all sources indicate he will continue his father’s fight. I would not yet leave the country if I were you. We may have need of your mighty sword, my friend.”
It was a sobering statement that dampened their revelry. They all knew that regardless of Henry’s victory, and of their celebration this night, the fight to secure the throne of England was not over. It was wishful thinking on de Russe’s part to suggest he could travel out of the country. None of them could. The mood around the knights began to weigh heavily, no longer that of laughter and reflection. Now, their thoughts returned to the battle on that great and terrible day.
“What of Davyss?” Rhun du Bois asked. “Has anyone spoken to de Winter since the battle? With what happened to Simon….”
Oddly enough, Chad didn’t seem so drunk as he answered. “Everyone knows that Simon de Montfort was the best friend of Davyss’ father,” he said, looking into the dregs at the bottom of his cup. “De Montfort was Davyss’ godfather, for Christ’s sake. Davyss was very fond of the man. And the way he died… I have no love for de Montfort but what Prince Edward’s men did to him was dishonorable at best. No man deserves to die the way de Montfort did.”
“Roger Mortimer took his head,” Perrin de Lohr said quietly, nearly weeping into his cup. He was the sensitive brother. “He took his head and I heard Davyss say he wanted to buy it back. Has anyone even seen Davyss or Hugh? I worry what has happened to them.”
Chad grunted unhappily. Draining what was left in his cup. “Our cousins went with Davyss and Hugh,” he said. “They are not alone because they would get into trouble with Henry if no one was there to advise them. The House of de Winter serves the crown of England but the heart of the de Winters is with de Montfort. They want his body back and that is not going to happen, I fear. It is a tragic situation, indeed. Therefore, our cousins went with Davyss and Hugh to ensure something terrible does not happen to them.”
“Your cousins?” Rhun du Bois clarified. “The sons of Curtis de Lohr?”
Chad nodded. “Aye,” he said. “I realize there are a good many de Lohrs that sprang from the mighty Christopher de Lohr’s loins, but I speak of the current Earl of Worcester’s sons. Chris and Arthur and William have been shadowing Davyss and Hugh to make sure they do not end up in any trouble. In fact, they were to bring Davyss and Hugh to this tavern. I am surprised they have not arrived by now. We were all going to meet here, have a final drink together, and leave for home. I hope they haven’t run into any trouble.”
That was a very real possibility and the mood of the men plummeted further. Chad went so far as to set his cup down. He just didn’t feel like drinking anymore as thoughts of Evesham tumbled upon him. He’d been trying to forget what he saw.
Chad had been there when Roger Mortimer, among others, had cut down Simon de Montfort and he had held Davyss de Winter back when Henry’s loyalists went mad and carved up de Montfort’s body. Mortimer took the head while the hands and feet were cut off the body as prizes. Worse still, someone castrated the corpse and gave over the bloody trophies to Mortimer, who swore to take it home to his wife.
In all, it had been a horrific scene as Chad had comforted his friend, Davyss, who had been genuinely distraught. But even as he kept de Winter from doing anything foolish, he was very concerned for his de Shera cousins who had been fighting with de Montfort. Gallus de Shera, Maximus de Shera, and Tiberius de Shera had sided with de Montfort along with several other major barons, and Chad had been told that his cousins, the grandsons of the great Christopher de Lohr, had covered the de Shera rear as the beaten army retreated to Coventry.
In all, it had been a complicated mess and Chad was simply glad it was over for now. Still, a little voice inside of him told him the worst was yet to come. Years of experience in battle gave him that insight.
He prayed he was wrong.
“I have never understood why the House of de Winter served the crown when their dearest friend was de Montfort,” de Russe said, rousting him from his thoughts. “That never made any sense to me.”
Chad shrugged, his gaze moving out over the crowded, smoky common room of the tavern. “Because much like the House of de Lohr, the House of de Winter has historically supported the crown of England,” he said. “I suppose when it came to make that choice, either support de Montfort or Henry, Davyss’ father went with the traditional choice for his family’s legacy. But let us be truthful – it is never in anyone’s best interest to side against the king. That never ends well in most instances. De Winter did what he felt was right for his family.”
That was as good a reason as any and de Russe went back to his ale. The whole de Montfort/de Winter relationship was very convoluted and, as some whispered in the inner circles, it had very much to do with Davyss de Winter actually being de Montf
ort’s bastard. But those were just rumors from idle tongues, men who spewed untruths before they had a chance to think about what they were saying. As the knights stood there and mulled over the situation, and Chad ignored more calls from the prostitutes to drop his breeches, the door to the tavern jerked open and men began to pour in.
From the angle of their table, Chad and his knights couldn’t see who was coming in the front door until they were already well into the room. They watched that door closely, watching all who entered and left, so when the latest group of armed men entered, Chad recognized them immediately. He called out across the room.
“Chris!”
Sir Christopher de Lohr, named for his famous grandsire, turned in the direction of his shouted name. A big man with shaggy blond hair and a blond beard, he also looked a good deal like the man he was named for. Heir apparent to the Earldom of Worcester, he made his way across the crowded tavern floor, kicking aside anyone who didn’t move out his way fast enough. He was followed by four other knights, including two that Chad instantly recognized. He struggled to shake off his drunkenness at the sight.
“Davyss,” he hissed.
Davyss de Winter and his brother, Hugh, were being effectively pulled along by the younger brothers of Chris de Lohr. Chad moved swiftly towards the group, grasping at Davyss, who was in the grip of Arthur de Lohr. Only when Arthur saw that someone else had hold of Davyss did he let go.
“Do not release your grip, Chad,” Arthur said to his cousin. “He has been trying to escape us for the past several hours. That is why it took us so long to meet you.”
Chad fixed on Davyss, who was a pale and angry shadow of himself. “If I truly wanted to escape you, I could,” he said. “No man could stop me.”
Chad could hear the defiance, the anguish, in the man’s voice, which was unlike Davyss. He eyed the man’s broadsword strapped to his right leg. Lespada, it was called, the hereditary weapon for the firstborn males in the de Winter family. The sword was more famous than the entire family, in fact, an exquisite combination of function and beauty. No one knew how old it really was, only that it was at least one hundred and fifty years old, but it was so well-made, and so well-tended, that it looked nearly new. Chad knew that if Lespada were unsheathed, they’d have real trouble. He sought to ease Davyss’ agitation.
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