Prologue
The twelfth day of the month of July
Outside of Jerusalem
War was a terrible thing.
So much death, destruction, and misery; all for a bloody bit of sand in the middle of hell. Yet, ’twas the Holy Land he was thinking such vile thoughts of. God was particularly fond of this strip of hell, this bit of golden grit he had spent three years of his life quarreling over.
Sir Christopher de Lohr stood upon the battlements of the city of Acre, gazing at the carnage below.
He shifted his weight on his thick legs, from one to the other, sweating rivers underneath his plate armor.
It was always so goddamn hot here and he missed the cold winters of England like a stab to his heart.
Thank God that he was finally going home, and going home a new baron, no less.
At least there had been some reward to all of this madness.
The siege to the city of Acre had finally come full circle.
Today, July the twelfth, Saladin had surrendered the city and her garrisons.
Christopher had been beside Richard when Saladin turned over his sword and never had he been more proud of the glory that was England.
Years of vicious fighting had finally come to a complete end, and at this very moment the surrender terms were being drawn up and the Muslim rebels were discovering their place in the grand scheme of Christianity.
Yet Richard had had a tough time of it, a fact that didn’t surprise Christopher.
Although he dearly loved his king, the man was getting old for this kind of thing, even if he was only thirty-five.
In fact, several of Richard’s knights were older men and far too ancient for this sort of mess when they should have left the fighting to younger knights, stronger knights.
But it was the order of the knights that truly bore the spirit of God, muttering that the younger knights were more interested in the booty to be secured than the glory of Christendom.
Which was probably true. Christopher didn’t particularly care anymore.
True, he had spent a good deal of those first two years collecting anything of value and sending it home via caravans to trusted servants, but his heart wasn’t in looting anymore.
He simply wanted to go home, and at nearly the very moment Acre was secured Richard granted him his deepest wish.
With Richard indisposed at the moment, Christopher had command of the camp.
At his age, some considered him old. He was worth his considerable weight in gold, and Richard had become extremely dependent upon him, his brother, and their tight group of knights.
His uncle, Sir Philip de Lohr, was one of Richard’s closest advisors and had been with Richard from the inception of the quest. The House of de Lohr was a strong ally of the king.
Richard was known as Lionheart for his fierceness and bravery, yet it was Christopher who actually resembled a lion with his golden mane and massive frame.
And the fact that he was Richard’s fiercest and most powerful knight had earned him the nickname among ally and foe alike of Lion’s Claw because even a lion, or lion heart as it were, was only as powerful as its claws.
Christopher was a well-known sight to his men as well as his enemy.
He was exceedingly tall with a glorious crown of golden-blond hair.
His body was perfectly formed from the endless hours of fighting and strenuous work, and his strength was unequaled.
His face was ruggedly beautiful, his eyes were the deepest sky-blue under a heavy brow, and his jaw was hard and square as granite.
But his smile was his most outstanding feature; it was bright and distinctive, and showed nearly every perfect tooth in his head, but it was a rare sight indeed.
He was golden brown from three years under the harsh Middle-Eastern sun, an incredible golden glow that most of the knights had because in this hot climate, they took off their armor and protective clothing at every turn.
Christopher in particular would go for days half-naked until called to battle once again.
Richard often teased him about forgoing the armor and simply fighting nude, the enemy would think they were up against a Roman statue come-to-life.
As superstitious as they were, they’d turn tail and run.
He knew he was damn good on the battlefield, in fact, there were few who could keep up with him. He was, in a manner of speaking, the most arrogant man on the quest and didn’t consider his pride a sin, as God did. Had God not meant for him to be so prideful, he would not have made him so perfect.
“Chris!”
A shout roused him from his thoughts. He turned to see his brother, David, and another knight, Edward de Wolfe, jogging towards him.
They were both sweating profusely. David was three years younger, several inches shorter, but broad and muscular.
His short blond hair was standing straight up with perspiration as his sea-blue eyes sought out his brother.
“Richard has summoned you,” he said breathlessly as he came to a halt.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Christopher asked.
Edward’s dark-gold eyes were serious. “ ’Tis old Baron Barringdon, Chris,” he replied. “He is dying from that wound to his chest.”
Christopher let out a hiss. “Damn,” he muttered.
Barringdon was one of the most intelligent men in their army, a distant cousin of Richard’s.
But he was very old, at least 12 years older than Christopher.
He was too old to fight and should have never come, but he did for Richard’s sake.
And Richard, who should now be seeing to terms of surrender, was distracted with a dying cousin.
“And another thing,” Edward said in a low voice, “Duke Leopold is demanding that his banners be unfurled when we ride into the city. Richard is in a mood because of it, so take heed and do not mention the duke in Richard’s presence.”
Christopher grunted in disapproval. “Leopold lost many men when he made his initial attempt to take the garrison but retreated like the coward he is, so in that respect I do not blame Richard in the least,” he said, securing his sword.
“The man wishes to share in glory that he does not deserve. Well, who’s tending to the treaty, then? ”
“Philip Augustus and Lusignan,” David replied. “The French have their hands all over the vellum, hoping to inject their own wording and stipulations and leave the English out of it.”
Christopher raised an intolerant eyebrow at the suggestion, when they all knew it was Richard that brought the city to its knees. “Take the watch for me, then,” he said, forcing aside his frustrating thoughts of the politics of the conquest. “Richard and Arthur await.”
Leaving his men on watch, Christopher made his way across the burning sand to a large, leaning tent that he knew to be Barringdon’s.
When he passed through the tent flap, it was like a steambath inside, and smelled rotten and moldy.
He controlled his urge to rip off every stitch of clothing as he moved toward the men huddled by the worn and collapsible cot.
Richard’s weathered face was the first to look up.
King Richard the Lionheart, King of England, looked older than his years. His features were weathered, the dark eyes weary. There was such sorrow on his face, as if the weight of the world had somehow come down to this one man who lay dying on the cot. His human side was seeping through.
“Come here, Chris,” he said hoarsely, extending a hand. “Arthur, Christopher has come. Here he is.”
Christopher let the king guide him next to the cot where he had to kneel in his heavy armor.
Sir Arthur Barringdon lay sweating atop the linens, the wound to the middle-left portion of his chest seeping through the linen bandages.
The wound stank something fierce and Christopher resisted the urge to back away.
“Chris?” Arthur’s voice was scratchy and faint.
“Here, my lord, next to you,” Christopher replied softly.
Arthur coughed violently before turning his head and opening his eyes. His gray eyes focused and he smiled faintly.
“My friend,” he murmured, “The greatest warrior in all of England. And you are going home, lad?”
“Aye,” Christopher smiled back, taking the old man’s offered hand.
“Do you remember I told you of my daughter and my wife?” the baron rambled on.
“Aye, I do,” Christopher replied knowingly. “Your wife is Mary, and your daughter is, uh…”
“Dustin,” Arthur supplied, “Dustin Mary Catherine. She is nineteen years old now.”
“Of course, Dustin, how could I forget?” Christopher chided himself on his forgetfulness. “Nineteen, did you say? She is a woman grown.”
“Aye, she is,” Arthur coughed again, bringing up blood. “But I will never see her again, Christopher, and I must beg you a favor from the heart of a dying man.”
His voice was urgent and Christopher hated to see him like this. Arthur had been a good friend.
“Anything, my lord, simply ask it,” he replied soothingly. “I am your loyal vassal.”
Arthur’s eyes sought out his king, standing over Christopher’s shoulder. Christopher should have been suspicious when the king began to bring forth Arthur’s request, but it didn’t occur to him to be wary. It was his undoing. When the king began to speak, Christopher’s guard was down completely.
“Christopher, Arthur is greatly concerned for his daughter’s future,” Richard said softly. “Since Arthur has been here, with me, for over three years, he has not had the chance to make provisions for Dustin.”
“Provisions, my lord?” Christopher turned to look at his king.
“Aye,” Richard scratched at his faded red beard. “Dustin is his only child and stands to inherit the baron’s fortress, Lioncross Abbey. She is an heiress, lad, and a wealthy one.”
Christopher nodded intently. “He wishes for me to find her a husband upon my return,” he stated, knowing the request or so he thought. “I will be happy to.”