Chapter One
Pembridge Castle
De Lohr outpost, Welsh marches
Two years Later
“Where is he?”
A knight with a growth of dark beard and pale blue eyes asked another knight a question in a tone that conveyed pain. At Pembridge Castle, the last day had been one of excruciating pain and agony. No one was spared.
It was a castle on edge.
Pembridge was the southernmost outpost of the de Lohr empire, a castle built halfway down a slope amongst the verdant hills of the Welsh marches.
Oddly, it didn’t see much action from rebelling Welsh or English feudal wars, but when it did see conflict, it had historically been heavy and long.
The situation it found itself in at the moment wasn’t a conflict between adversaries, but rather an emotional conflict that was going to become worse before it became better.
If it ever became better.
The knight who had asked the question knew that.
They all knew that. Sir Kyne de Poyer, a big knight with big hands and an immovable spirit, had asked the question of his associate, Sir Adrius de Gault.
A mountain of a man with a shiny, bald head and, strangely enough, gold earrings in both ears had listened to the question with great sorrow.
“In his solar,” Adrius replied quietly. “Why do you ask?”
“Has anyone spoken to him this morning?”
“Haven’t you?”
Kyne shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “He was so drunk last night that I thought he would sleep longer than he did. I was going to seek him now, in his chamber, but he was gone.”
Adrius nodded his head, sighing heavily. “I saw him go to his solar,” he said. “He has the missive in his hand, still.”
“He slept with it.”
Adrius simply shook his head sadly, his gaze moving to the castle around them as he pondered his thoughts. “Christ, Kyne,” he muttered. “What are we going to do? What is he going to do?”
“There is nothing he can do,” Kyne muttered. “There is nothing we can do, at least between the two of us, but help is arriving.”
“What do you mean?”
“I sent word to Lioncross Abbey yesterday after we received the news,” Kyne said. “Our scouts spotted a contingent from Lioncross Abbey on the perimeter of our lands.”
“The earl himself?”
“Aye,” Kyne said. “I’m sure Christopher de Lohr is coming along with his wife and one or more of Roi’s brothers. The entire family is coming, and I was looking for Roi to tell him that. He will not be alone in this.”
Adrius pointed in the direction of the solar. “Go,” he commanded quietly. “Go and tell him before he starts drinking again and is a drunken mess before midday.”
Kyne didn’t have to be told twice. He passed through a shadowed portion of the bailey, cool and damp from morning dew, before continuing into the keep, which was part of the outer wall.
Pembridge was built from the red sandstone so prevalent to the area, a solid and imposing castle that guarded the main road out of southern Wales into the midlands of England.
The castle had belonged to Roi for many years, ever since his father’s army had wrested it from a Welsh prince who wanted to use it to launch raids deep into England.
Once de Lohr captured it, he had to wrest it further from the Earl of Gloucester, who made the argument that it was closer to his lands than it was to de Lohr. But that wasn’t the truth.
De Lohr got what de Lohr wanted.
Yet the beautiful castle set within the bucolic hills of the marches had not been an entirely happy place for Roi. He’d been delighted when he was appointed the garrison commander. He’d brought his wife and son there, and both of his daughters had been born there. But his wife had also died there.
And now this.
Pembridge had become Roi’s personal monument to tragedy.
The interior of the keep smelled of smoke and rushes, familiar smells in most castles.
Kyne made his way to the solar door, which was in the entry, listening carefully to what might be on the other side of the door before rapping on the panel softly.
When he received no answer, he rapped again and pushed the door open.
Even though it was midday, the chamber was mostly dark. No fire in the hearth, no glowing lamp. The only sounds were those from the bailey, filtering in on the soft spring breeze. Kyne finally spied Roi sitting near the darkened hearth, his head in his hands.
Kyne cleared his throat softly.
“My lord,” he said quietly. “Our scouts report a party from Lioncross Abbey on the approach. They should be here within the hour.”
Roi didn’t stir. Unsure if the man had even heard him, Kyne took a few steps in his direction and tried again.
“My lord?” he said gently.
Roi twitched, which at least indicated he was alive. After several long moments, his head finally came up.
“My father?” he asked hoarsely.
“I would assume so, my lord,” Kyne said. “I sent him word yesterday about the missive from Selbourne. I thought you would want him to know.”
Roi sat back in his chair, staring at the wall. He just sat there, staring, his ashen face set like stone.
“My father has never lost a son,” he finally said. “He will not know how to comfort me.”
Kyne was very careful in what he said, unwilling to provoke the man at this time. Roi was known for a quick temper, and Kyne didn’t want to find himself on the wrong end of a grief-driven sword.
“Would you prefer he not come, my lord?” Kyne said. “I can ride out to meet him and tell him to return to Lioncross if that is your wish.”
Roi simply shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered, sounding defeated. “Did you tell him what happened?”
“That is your privilege, my lord,” Kyne said. “I simply sent word that there was an accident and your son had been killed.”
Roi sat there for a moment, still staring at the wall before falling forward and putting his head in his hands again.
“An accident,” he said, muffled. “My brilliant, strong, noble son was killed by falling from a horse. We’ve all fallen from a horse.
All of us. I’ve fallen off or been thrown off a hundred times in a hundred different ways, only Beckett landed on his head.
And that is the end of my son’s future. It is the end of everything. ”
Kyne watched him as he suddenly stood up and went to the table behind him, the one that contained wine and cups.
It was always in the solar. But it had been drained yesterday, along with several other containers of wine, and the servants hadn’t yet filled it.
Realizing this, Roi hurled the pitcher against the wall, shattering the earthenware. Kyne backed away, toward the door.
“I’ll have the servants bring you wine, my lord,” he said. “Do not fret. I’ll have it brought right away.”
The wine was immediate.
A little more than an hour later, the gatehouse of Pembridge opened the wooden and iron portcullis, heaving it up on the old ropes that held it.
When the party from Lioncross Abbey Castle, seat of the mighty Earl of Hereford and Worcester, passed beneath the opening, Kyne and Adrius were there to greet them.
Leading the Lioncross group were two big knights who turned out to be sons of Christopher de Lohr, brothers to Roi.
Curtis de Lohr, his eldest brother, was astride a massive silver charger, while his youngest brother, Westley, was riding a muscular blond warhorse that kept tossing his head and throwing froth.
There were about fifty soldiers with them, all of them mounted, all of them circled around a big carriage that came lurching into the bailey of Pembridge.
It was a fortified carriage, one used to transport the family comfortably, but it was also virtually impenetrable.
It was like a fortress on wheels. As the carriage came to a halt, Kyne and Adrius went to meet Curtis and Westley.
“My lords,” Kyne greeted both men as they began to dismount from their steeds. “We did not expect you so soon, but I am very glad to see you nonetheless.”
Curtis de Lohr, the heir to the earldom, was an enormous man, like his father, with a blond beard and shoulder-length blond hair he pulled into a ponytail. He removed his helm, handing it off to the nearest man who had also taken the reins of his horse.
“We came as soon as we received your message,” he said, his sky-blue eyes dull with anguish. “What happened, Kyne?”
Kyne wasn’t keen to answer him. “I told your brother that it was his privilege to tell you, but I am not entirely certain he will,” he said. “The man has been drinking heavily since we received the news from Selbourne.”
“Then you tell me. How did Beckett die?”
“Thrown from a horse, my lord,” Kyne said quietly. “The new one that your brother gave him for his birthday. The white one.”
Curtis suddenly looked at him in horror. “The white beast with the black mane?”
“I would assume so, my lord. We were told he was thrown from his new horse.”
Curtis looked as if he’d been hit in the stomach. “Christ,” he gasped. “I sold him that horse. It was too much horse for me, and I did not have the patience to… He gave it to Beckett?”
Kyne nodded, seeing the guilt sweep across Curtis’ face. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “Beckett was here a few months ago for his birthday, and the horse seemed to like him a great deal. The lad begged for it, and Roi gave it to him.”
Curtis closed his eyes, tightly, realizing what had happened.
He put his hand over his mouth in dismay as his brother, Westley, walked up beside him.
Shorter than most of the unusually tall men in the de Lohr family, he was nonetheless built like a bull, with flowing blond hair that had enraptured many a maiden.
Westley de Lohr was a god among men. He’d caught the tail end of the conversation and looked between Curtis and Kyne curiously.
“Who begged for what?” he said. “What are we talking about?”
“Beckett,” Curtis said, muffled through his hand. “The white Belgian warmblood I sold Roi.”
“I know the horse. What about it?”
“He gave it to Beckett.”
Westley wasn’t following him. “And?”