Chapter Four
Lioncross Abbey Castle
The castle known as Lioncross Abbey was something of a legend in the disputed Marches of Wales and England.
Originally, portions of it had been built by the Romans as an outpost back in the days of the Great Empire but when the Romans left and the Dark Ages came about, the Roman ruins were transformed into a Cistercian abbey by holy men from Kildare.
They lived there in relative peace until the Normans came.
Noting the prime spot on a massive, flat-topped rise overlooking the River Arrow to the north, the Holme Marsh valley to the east, Wales to the west, the Normans decided that it was a perfect spot for a garrison.
A man by the name of d’Evereux and his army stormed the abbey, chased off the priests, and claimed it for his own.
Such was the Norman way when it came to acquiring real estate.
But d’Evereux had a plan. He began to build, using the old Roman ruins that had been transformed into the abbey as the basis for his castle.
He attached a cavernous three-storied keep to it unlike any of the keeps that were being built at that time.
He put the great hall in the keep, attached the kitchens to it, and then built a semi-tower with living quarters that was attached to all of that.
Everything ended up in one contiguous building.
The result was a very big structure that had corridors, mural staircases, and multiple rooms on every level.
D’Evereux also put a massive wall around the place, enclosing a massive ward that included a section used for training soldiers.
Because his family’s crest was a lion holding a cross, the great and mighty fortress of Lioncross Abbey Castle was born.
D’Evereux was very proud of his mighty castle and had acquired quite a reputation for himself, so much so that he married a great Norman warlord’s daughter and she bore him seven daughters and one son, but the son had died soon after birth, leaving d’Evereux with no heirs.
His eldest daughter, a fine and true woman, married a Saxon man of noble origins named Barringdon, and Lioncross Abbey remained in the custody of the House of Barringdon for three generations until the Barringdon heiress, named in the family Bible as Lady Dustin Mary Catherine Barringdon, married the great Sir Christopher de Lohr in eleven hundred and ninety-two.
Lioncross Abbey had therefore been held by the House of de Lohr for one hundred and sixty-five years, making it part of the fabric of the family.
The old stone walls were in de Lohr blood and de Lohr blood was in the walls.
The name Lioncross or “The Abbey” was synonymous with the de Lohr name.
In the great hall of Lioncross, seat of the de Lohrs, the current earl now sat.
Henry de Lohr, Earl of Worcester, sat impatiently awaiting the appearance of his son, whom he’d not seen in almost a year and a half.
His son had only been home for four days and in that time, Alexander had mostly slept.
The man was exhausted and Henry, thrilled that his son was back under his roof, had let the man live his life the way he wanted to, and if that meant sleeping most of the time, he would permit it.
But the truth was that he was very eager to speak with his son and as the days passed and Alexander remained in seclusion, Henry was having a very difficult time of it.
His wife, a Teutonic princess named Elreda Augustine von Anhalt, had begged him to be patient with Alexander considering the man had been away for so long and was more than likely well due his rest.
So Henry waited, sitting in his usual chair on this cold evening as the snow outside blew in great cloud bursts, hoping that Alexander would wake up from his three-day-long nap and come to see his father.
It wasn’t often that Henry was able to see one of his children, considering both daughters were married and his youngest son, Baxter, was in France somewhere with Prince Edward much as Alexander had been.
At least he had his eldest son home and he was nearing the limits of his patience to speak with the man.
“Here,” Lady Elreda said in her heavy Germanic accent, coming up behind him and setting a cup of wine in front of him. “Drink. Alexander will be here soon.”
Henry grunted in disagreement as he picked up the cup and drank deeply of the sweet red wine. He smacked his lips.
“Why has he slept so much?” he demanded. “Why is he so exhausted? He acts as if he crawled all the way from France on his hands and knees.”
Elreda patted him on the shoulder patiently. “It was a long journey,” she said. “And the weather is terrible. He has probably hardly slept at all.”
Henry made a face at her. “That is not why,” he said.
“Shall I tell you what he has been doing? He has been with Gates de Wolfe and they have been leaving a trail of soiled women all the way from Paris. How many little French bastards am I to have on my doorstep come spring? How many fathers will I have to pay off simply to keep them from roping my son to a stake and burning him to cinder?”
Elreda continued to pat his shoulder. “You worry overly,” she said. “Alexander is not like Gates, although you know you love Gates as you would a son. Why must you speak so poorly of him?”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Because he is a wild, vain creature who has no control when it comes to women,” he said.
Then he shook his head and grumbled. “The Dark Destroyer, they call him. He is dark and destructive, all right, and all of his bad habits have spilled over onto Alexander. I shudder to think just how many women Alexander has compromised since he has been away.”
“At least one hundred.”
Henry and Elreda turned sharply to see Alexander entering the great hall. He looked sleepy but alert, and there was a big smile on his face as he approached his parents, seated at the scrubbed feasting table.
“Is that what you have been doing since I’ve been away?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Speaking terribly of me? Slandering your own son?”
Henry stood up and hugged his boy tightly.
It was a great, satisfying embrace. “Since when is the truth slander?” he asked, kissing his son on both cheeks.
“And is it really one hundred women? Must I worry about one hundred irate fathers trying to burn my castle down in their attempts to get to you?”
Alexander snickered as he sat down, patting his mother’s arms when she came up behind him to embrace him.
“More than likely,” he said. “But you have an iron portcullis that they cannot burn, so I would not worry overly. Still, how much money do you have in the coffers? We had better make plans now.”
Henry glanced at his wife, a droll expression on his face. “And this is the child you told me not to drown at birth,” he said. “I should not have listened to you.”
Elreda laughed softly. “Sit, Henry,” she said. “Sit and shut your mouth before you make a fool of yourself. I will send for food. Alexander, you must be famished.”
Alexander nodded, raking his fingers through his blond hair. “I am,” he admitted. “I am sorry I have slept so much. I did not realize I was so exhausted until I lay down on my childhood bed. Then, it was as if I could not keep my eyes open.”
Henry smiled at his son, suddenly no longer so irritated with him, and pushed the half-empty cup of wine at him.
Alexander gladly took it and drained it.
“Not to worry, my son,” Henry said. “Surely your trip from France was quite difficult and you have had little sleep as a result. Your mother and I understand.”
Elreda, hearing her words echoed in Henry’s statement, rolled her eyes at his falsity. The man had been as impatient as a cat for three long days, now pretending he had been relaxed the entire time. Still, she kept her mouth shut as she sat down next to her husband.
“It was difficult,” Alexander said as servants began to appear from a door at the far end of the hall with food and drink. “The past fifteen months have been quite difficult. Father, I assume you have heard what happened at Poitiers?”
Henry nodded. “A traveling merchant who sought shelter here one night told us what he had heard in London,” he said. “Were you there?”
Alexander nodded. “I was,” he said. “So was Baxter.”
Elreda suddenly grasped Henry’s arm as if terrified. “And your brother?” she gasped. “He is well?”
Alexander could see her fear and he nodded quickly, “Aye, Mama, he is well the last that I saw of him,” he assured her. “That was two days after the battle and he was with Salisbury’s men. You know that he serves de Montacute now?”
Elreda really didn’t but Henry nodded. “I do,” he said. “Baxter wrote to us and told us that Oxford, his former liege, gifted him to de Montacute in payment for a debt. So you saw your brother and he is well?”
The parents needed reassurance that their youngest son was fine and Alexander nodded again.
“He was very well the last time I saw him,” he said.
“I am sure he will be home soon to tell you himself. There is much change in France currently and many English are coming back home. It has been a very long campaign the past year. Long indeed.”
Servants were placing food and drink in front of him so he quieted for a few moments as wine, bread, butter, stewed apples and brawn beef were placed in front of him. He began stuffing his face before speaking again.
“Before you ask, Father, suffice it to say that the battle at Poitiers was very terrible and very bloody,” he said, chewing.
“I will tell you more later but to be truthful, I have spoken all I wish to speak about it to Jasper de Lara. The man demanded battle stories every damnable night when I was there. I am sick to death of speaking of it right now.”