The de Lohr Dynasty: Medieval Legends: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Familiar horses and familiar men immediately had her attention, and it took Liselotte a split-second to realize whom, exactly, she was seeing. Panic gripped her and she rushed away from the bronze mirror towards Daniel, her heart in her throat.

  “Daniel,” she gasped, grabbing hold of him and pointing to the street. “Those are some of Bramley’s men. They must not see Gunnar!”

  Daniel whirled about, seeing what had Liselotte in a panic, and the mood of their happy shopping day abruptly plummeted. It wasn’t unexpected to see Bramley’s men in town, considering what Daniel had been told about how the man covered the roads, but Daniel cursed himself for letting Gunnar out of his sight. That was his fault. Immediately, he sought to make amends.

  His knightly training kicked in, as did the cool and collected de Lohr manner. The entire family of men was bred for battle, unafraid to take up arms, unafraid of a fight, and as cool as a snow-frosted night when it came to facing danger. Men like Daniel and his father, uncles, and cousins had all been trained to understand that calm heads prevailed over all, and that strategy usually triumphed over brute strength.

  Strategy, of course, was what Daniel did best. He was a hellion in a fight, one of the best swordsmen that England had ever seen, but he was also able to get by on his wits where most men would have been stumped. Now, he was about to put that brilliance to the test.

  “Stay here,” he commanded quietly, firmly. “Stay back in this stall so they do not see you. I will go and get Gunnar and bring him back here.”

  Liselotte had terror in her eyes, utter terror when she looked at him. He could see that inherent fear that years of Bramley’s aggression had provoked. Gently, he touched her cheek in a comforting gesture before pushing her back to the bronze mirror where Glennie was still standing. It was back in the shadows, away from the entry. Holding up a hand as a silent gesture for her to remain, he bolted from the stall.

  It was busier now that the morning had advanced and there were many people on the avenue conducting business. Daniel kept his gaze on the two big knights and three or four men-at-arms that Liselotte had pointed out as Bramley’s men as he crossed the muddy street and rushed onto the livery property. Fortunately, those men were moving away from him, into the center of town, so he was able to move about with relative freedom. But he knew that could change in an instant.

  When Daniel finally entered the livery yard, he found Gunnar tucked back towards the barn, with two little goats in his arms. Daniel quickly made his way to the boy.

  “Gunnar,” he hissed, grabbing the lad around the waist and heaving him up. “We must go. We will come back for the goats, but right now, we must go.”

  Gunnar wasn’t at all happy about being taken away from his new best friends. “Why?” he asked. “Why must we go? You said I could have a goat!”

  Daniel was already moving out of the livery yard, heading for the avenue. “You can,” he said, swinging Gunnar up over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Now, lie still. Hang over my shoulder and do not move. Is that clear?”

  Gunnar had no idea what Daniel meant. He tried to get up, to push himself off of Daniel’s shoulder, but Daniel slapped him on the behind with a trencher-sized hand. Gunnar howled.

  “Go limp, I say!” Daniel hissed, louder.

  Frightened, Gunnar did as he was told, his entire body hanging limp over Daniel’s shoulder. He couldn’t have known that it was Daniel’s plan so the boy wouldn’t be recognized, his upside-down face planted into Daniel’s back. Daniel moved swiftly across the avenue, dodging wagons and people, before finally reaching the seamstress’ stall. Just as he moved for the entry, Glennie was coming out, heading for her guard.

  Daniel wasn’t concerned with Glennie in the least and therefore didn’t say a word to the woman as she passed him. He was more concerned with taking Gunnar to safety. He blew into the seamstress’ shop and took Gunnar from his shoulder, setting the boy down next to his apprehensive sister. Liselotte put her arms around the child, greatly relieved.

  “Thank God,” she breathed as she hugged Gunnar. Then, she looked at Daniel. “Did the men see you?”

  Daniel shook his head. “They did not,” he replied. “Even if they had looked at me, they would not have known me, for I have never seen any of them. It was a simple thing to rescue young Gunnar – again. What were you meant to call me today?”

  The question was directed at the boy, who still wasn’t entirely pleased that he’d been pulled away from the goats. He sighed. “O Great One.”

  “You say that without enthusiasm.”

  “O Great One!”

  He shouted and Liselotte grinned, hugging her brother. “You have our thanks,” she said to Daniel. “Two of those men, the knights, are Bramley’s close companions. I am rather surprised to see them here without their liege.”

  Daniel pondered that particular bit of information. If what she said was true, then he wondered where, in fact, Bramley was.

  “Do they always travel together?” he asked.

  She nodded. “When I have seen them, they have been together.”

  Daniel glanced over his shoulder at the street beyond, half-expecting Bramley to make an appearance. “Who are those men?” he asked. “Do you know them by name?”

  Liselotte nodded. “The blond man is Jules la Londe,” she said. “He is Bramley’s most trusted knight. The other knight, with the darker hair, is Oliver de Witt.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Because they have come to Shadowmoor on more than one occasion, trying to negotiate for me,” she said. “At least, that is what they tried to do in the beginning. They were very polite. We came to know them by name. But when they did not get their way, we saw them for what they truly were. La Londe killed an entire herd of cattle we had. Killed them just because he could. He killed the men tending the herd, too.”

  Daniel’s gaze lingered on her as he digested the information. Knights like that were ruthless, indeed, so he made a mental note of what he was up against when it came to Bramley’s stable. He had a feeling he would be seeing them again at some point.

  “I have heard the name of la Londe,” he said. “I seem to recall my father telling a story about a la Londe he knew, long ago, but I cannot recall what it was. In any case, we are out of his sight for now. You remain here with Gunnar and I will go and see what those men are up to. We still have business to conduct in town and I do not want to be looking over my shoulder every minute.”

  Liselotte agreed, nodding her head firmly. “Be careful,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm. “Those men are not to be crossed.”

  Daniel grinned smugly, patting her hand. “Neither am I.”

  In spite of her fear, Liselotte returned his smile. She couldn’t help it; he had an infectious smile that invited her humor as well as her trust. It was difficult not to look into that face, that expression, and not believe everything he said. Daniel de Lohr had confidence that bordered on arrogance, but in his case, it was well justified. He meant what he said and he had the skill, and the intelligence, to support it. She was very glad he was on their side.

  She was very glad he was on her side.

  But that adoring moment was cut short when they heard raised voices in the avenue beyond the seamstress’ stall. Both Daniel and Liselotte turned towards the sound to see that not only had Bramley’s men returned, but now they were engaging Glennie in a conversation that had her escort intervening. Simply by the tone of the conversation, the tension was obvious. Something bad was happening.

  When the blond knight, still on horseback, made a swipe to get at Glennie by pushing one of her escorts aside, Daniel was on the move.

  The situation was about to get interesting.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bramley Castle

  16 miles south of Shadowmoor

  “It is not as if you need your property,” Roland was saying. “You have no army to defend it. You have nothing at all by which to hold it. All that Shadowmoor represents
to you is a derelict legacy. Why would you hold on to such a thing?”

  Brynner was well into his fourth big cup of wine, a very good wine that his host, introduced as Roland Fitzroy, Lord Bramley, had provided. Spanish wine, he’d been told. It was smooth and sweet, and he’d gulped it down. Now, his head was seriously buzzing and the familiar lethargy of drink filled his veins. But knowing who his host was, and what he wanted, Brynner was trying to stay on an even keel. He was deep in the heart of the enemy and trying to keep his head above water. The Spanish wine, however, was making it difficult.

  “Because it will be mine,” Brynner said with as much force as he could muster. “It is mine, left to me by my forefathers. Shadowmoor was not always so weak; it used to be the mightiest fortress in all of western Yorkshire. Back in the days after the Conquest, when the Normans came, Shadowmoor even had Norman troops stationed there. My ancestors knew how to keep their lands, even from the invaders, and I will not be the one to lose what they fought so hard to keep.”

  Roland was listening carefully. Seated in his solar, the one that smelled of the expensive furnishings he surrounded himself with, he’d spent the past three hours trying to reason away Shadowmoor from the drunken heir. He’d never met the man before but based upon where his men had found him, and based upon the man’s admission as Brynner l’Audacieux, eldest son and heir of Etzel, Roland couldn’t have been more pleased. It was everything he wanted – well, nearly everything – dropped right into his lap. The sting of losing the youngest son, the little blond-haired lad, the day before was far lessened with the event of the eldest, who had been captured wandering drunkenly on the moors.

  It was an answer to his prayers.

  So Roland sat across the table from Brynner, plying him with as much fine wine as the man could drink, poured into a big golden cup, and attempting to seriously break him down. These l’Audacieuxs were a foolish bunch, he’d come to the conclusion, and now with the eldest, who was clearly besotted with drink, Roland was certain that he could gain what he wanted from the man. No more useless attempts to control Shadowmoor and gain the lord’s daughter; no more small game in the abduction of the youngest son in an attempt to extract what he wanted. No more games, no more attempts, at all.

  Now, he had what he wanted.

  But it wasn’t as easy as all of that. Roland, coming to see that the heir to Shadowmoor was sharp even with drink filling his mind, was quite certain that he had to promise the man something equal in exchange for that broken-down fortress. He’d been thinking that for the past hour; l’Audacieux wasn’t simply going to hand over his legacy and trying to convince the man that he had no more use for Shadowmoor didn’t seem to work, either. Roland, seeing the weakness for alcohol, was coming to think he knew what would. It didn’t take a scholar to figure it out.

  Therefore, the tactics were changing. If he couldn’t get it one way, he’d get it another.

  “When you inherit Shadowmoor, what then?” he asked. “It will still be broken-down. Do you intend to live in squalor the rest of your life?”

  Brynner’s red-rimmed eyes gazed steadily at the man. “Why do you want it so badly?” he countered. “It will still be just as derelict if I turn it over to you. Why is it so important to you?”

  Roland tried to sound very logical. “Because it adjoins my lands,” he said. “When I acquire Shadowmoor, I will be the largest landholder in this area. The towns will be mine and so will their tariffs. The roads will be mine to tax as I see fit. Why else should I want it?”

  Brynner snorted. “For those very reasons, I suppose,” he said. “Greed is a bold and aggressive thing, you know. You have been showing such greed for my property for four years. I may not associate much with my family, but by virtue of the fact that I live at Shadowmoor, I know what is going on. I have heard that you want my sister and the castle, and will do anything to get them both. I have seen how you have cut off Shadowmoor from the rest of the world, trying to starve us out. It has not worked in four years. Now you have run out of options so you have your men capture me to negotiate for my legacy? You must want it badly, indeed.”

  Roland smiled thinly. “Mayhap I do,” he said. “I have the money and the resources to restore Shadowmoor. You and your foolish people scratch by an existence up on that rocky hill, bereft members of a once-great society. Do you think I want to live in this tiny castle for the rest of my life? Of course not. I want the big fortress on the mountain. All things must evolve, l’Audacieux. It is time for Shadowmoor to evolve. It is time for you to let someone else make it great again.”

  All Brynner could hear was the arrogance of a man who believed he could do anything he pleased. There was no humility or goodwill in his statement; only the greed that Brynner had spoken of. He may be a drunkard, but Brynner knew people. He knew men like Roland only understood the material things of life and would stop at nothing to get them.

  “It takes more than money and resources to make something great,” he said. “It takes a love of the land, a connection to it.”

  “Do you have that connection to it, other than your heritage?”

  Brynner didn’t reply at first. He turned to his drink, slurping at it, contemplating the question. The answer was obvious. “Nay,” he finally said, bitterness in his tone before he could stop it. “It was where I was to raise my own family but that will not happen. Shadowmoor will die out when I do.”

  Roland capitalized on the man showing some weakness. “Then why wait so long?” he demanded. “Why not let me have it and you can go and spend money and travel to your heart’s content? Do you not understand, man? I am offering you money if you will only do me one small favor. Give me Shadowmoor. Let me have this thing you care nothing about.”

  Brynner looked at him. “I did not say I did not care for it,” he said. “It is still my legacy.”

  “But it is a dead legacy.”

  “It is all that I have.”

  “I will pay you so that you can buy another one!”

  Brynner shook his head. “Money cannot buy what I want.”

  Roland would not give up. He was a bargainer by nature, and a bad one most of the time, but it was still his inclination. He wanted something very badly and he wasn’t going to give up. He looked to the wine in his cup, swirling it, putting together the pieces of his final proposal. His mind was working quickly.

  “My father’s family is from France,” he said casually. “I inherited a small chateau from my father in Lire, in the Loire Valley. That is wine country, my friend. The chateau produces a good deal of fine wine every year. Wouldn’t that be worth more to you than a broken fortress on a desolate moor?”

  Brynner was interested. God help him, he really was and was trying not to show it. It was quite possible that Lord Bramley was lying but it was equally possible that he wasn’t. Still, Brynner had some semblance of restraint. Not much, but a little.

  “You said your father is King John,” he said. “If you are truly his son, then why did he leave you only a small chateau? The son of a king should inherit an earldom, at least.”

  For the first time since Brynner appeared in Roland’s lavish solar, Roland’s confidence took a bit of a hit. He shrugged, smiling coyly.

  “I said that my sister, Joan, is John Lackland’s bastard daughter,” he said. “Joan and I have different fathers, but we are siblings. It is through her that I am related to the kings of England. My real father, my mother’s husband, died years ago. ’Tis his chateau I have inherited. I will give it all to you if you will do something for me.”

  Brynner could see that Roland had stretched the truth a bit when they first met because, clearly, he’d said that he was the son of a king. That’s what Roland had told him. Now, that fact had changed slightly. It made Brynner distrustful of the man all the more but the fact that Roland had an excellent wine cellar kept him from taking his leave of Bramley Castle altogether. He hadn’t had wine like this in years. More than that, he suspected he couldn’t leave – the four men tha
t had brought him to Bramley Castle were still here, lingering in the shadows, and watching everything.

  Men with swords.

  It occurred to Brynner that his host wasn’t going to let him leave at all, at least not until he had what he wanted. A promise, a bargain, a vow to turn over Shadowmoor. That’s what this was all about and Brynner supposed he had known that from the start. But the lure of wine was stronger than concern for his life and property, so he’d allowed himself to become a captive guest of Lord Bramley. If he wanted to leave, which he did eventually, then he would have to play Roland’s silly game. There was little choice.

  Truth be told, however, Bramley’s offer intrigued him and he couldn’t even hate himself for being weak.

  The chateau produces a good deal of fine wine every year….

  “Then you are offering me this chateau?” Brynner asked.

  Roland nodded, a gleam in his eye. “I am,” he said. “It produces great quantities of excellent wine every year, wine you could just as easily keep for yourself or sell if you had a mind to do so. It would be yours to do with as you please.”

  My own wine. Brynner had to admit that it was very appealing. The suspicion that the man was lying was overshadowed by the thought of copious amounts of wine at his disposal, forever. Even on the remote possibility that it was true, Brynner thought that it was worth the risk. He could listen to the man’s entire proposal at the very least. Perhaps he was, indeed, a fool clinging to a derelict fortress with no real meaning to him other than it was his legacy.

  His tomb.

  Perhaps it really was time for Shadowmoor to evolve.

  “Very well,” Brynner said, draining the last of the wine in his cup. “I am listening.”

  Roland sat forward, so swiftly that he nearly knocked over the nearly-empty pitcher of wine. “You will accept my offer, then?”

  “I said that I was listening. I am waiting to hear your terms. Whether or not I agree is another matter.”