The Splendid Hour: The Executioner Knights Book 7

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Peter, that’s not true.”

  His hands came away from his face. “Aye, it is,” he said strongly. “I will not inherit your title. I should be the Earl of Hereford and Worcester because I was born thirteen years before Curtis was but, instead, the title goes to him and I am given a consolation title of Lord Pembridge. I’m a damned Executioner Knight, Papa. I’ve proven myself time and time again, but still, I get nothing from you but a courtesy title. Nothing that truly makes me a de Lohr or part of your world other than your name, but I suppose I’m not even really entitled to that. When I first came to live with you, my name was de Vries and you changed it. What’s one more strike against me should I convert to Judaism? What, exactly, am I leaving behind or sacrificing should I do that? Is it simply the fact that you don’t want such a black mark against your good name?”

  He was on his feet by now, pacing and shouting. Christopher watched him carefully. “If I cared about a black mark against the de Lohr name, I would have never acknowledged you as my son,” he said. “And nothing you say is true.”

  Peter came to a halt, glaring at him. “Isn’t it?”

  “Nay,” Christopher said. “You are my eldest son and part of this family as much as I am or Dustin is, or Curtis is. You are our child.”

  “If that is true, then have Dustin legally adopt me and declare me her son.”

  Christopher’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “You heard me. Have her legally adopt me and make me your heir.”

  Christopher stared at him a moment. “Are you serious?” he hissed. “You have never once expressed any desire to legally be her son. She has never treated you any differently than the others, Peter. Never.”

  Peter knew what he had asked was horrible and unreasonable. He was essentially taking away Curtis’ inheritance because he was being petty and spiteful. It broke his heart to realize that and to see the expression on his father’s face but, then again, this entire situation had him reeling.

  His eyes filled with tears.

  “Nay, she has not. But the truth is that I am not a full member of the family, not really,” he said, his lower lip trembling. “But if I convert to Judaism to marry the only woman who has ever touched me in a way I have never known, then I will destroy what privilege I do have. I know you do not want me as your heir. That belongs to Curtis. You are the only family I have, but even so, I am an outsider. I have been an outsider since the day I was born. You don’t understand that because you have never had to live with it.”

  Christopher watched Peter crumble in front of him. It had gone beyond the issue of a marriage between Christian and Jew. Now, it had gone into the subject of the isolation Peter had felt his entire life. Christopher and Dustin had always gone out of their way to make Peter feel as if he were one of their family and, for years, they thought he felt the same way. But it was clear that the marital issue had brought up deeper-seated issues as far as Peter was concerned.

  Christopher felt as if he’d just had a dagger plunged into his gut.

  “Nay, I do not understand,” he said hoarsely. “I have tried very hard to understand and I have done all I can to make you feel as if you belong to me. You are my son, Peter. You know that your mother did not tell me that she was pregnant with you. Had she told me, the situation would be markedly different. I would have married her in spite of the fact that her father, the Earl of Chaumont, did not want a lowly knight for his daughter. Please know that is the truth.”

  Peter nodded, wiping his eyes, embarrassed at his outburst. “I know,” he said. “But you did not love her, did you?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then I was not conceived in love like the rest of my siblings.”

  Christopher closed his eyes and hung his head. “I do not know what you want me to say,” he murmured. “I did not love your mother, but I was very fond of her. She was a kind and good woman, and mayhap with time, I would have fallen in love with her, but we were never given that chance. Her father had hopes for a great marriage with her and, at the time, I was not a great prospect. Were you conceived in love? Nay, you were not, but I cannot change that and if it makes you feel different, know that I would do anything in the world to change how you perceive yourself. I never knew until this moment that you felt as if you weren’t truly part of this family and to have that knowledge guts me. It truly guts me.”

  Peter could hear the pain in his voice. He knew he was making his father feel guilty for something that had happened all those years ago and he knew that it was wrong of him. He was hurting, so he wanted his father to hurt.

  It was so very, very wrong of him.

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to sound spiteful and foolish. I’m not, you know. And I’m sorry to make you feel guilty for your relationship with my mother. I should not have done that. But all my life, I have had the bastard stigma follow me and now that I see happiness within my grasp, to have someone who will belong only to me… to know that cannot happen unless something drastic happens is disheartening.”

  “I know,” Christopher said, feeling deeply hurt for his son. “If I could help, I would. Do you want me to go and speak with her father?”

  Peter shook his head, moving out of Christopher’s way when the man came over to comfort him. He wasn’t ready to be comforted yet. He was embarrassed and unsettled.

  “Nay,” he said. “I do not want you involved at all. Please, Papa. This is my problem and I must deal with it in my own way.”

  “You do not have to deal with your problem on your own. That is what I am for.”

  Peter knew he meant it. But years of feeling like an outsider were difficult to shake. Now, he wanted a marriage that he, an outsider, couldn’t have because of family – and vocation – repercussions. He was hurt, confused, and dipping his toes in a sea of grief because of it. When his father moved closer, he simply held up a hand and stepped away.

  “Just… leave me alone for now, please,” he said. “I have a good deal of thinking to do on the course my life will take from this point forward. But I want you to know that I love you, Papa. I love Dustin and I love my brothers and sisters. I do not want you to think that I do not. But come what may, I must make the decision I feel best for me. However, whatever that decision is, know that I will not marry Agnes de Quincy. I am very sorry her father has threatened you, but I have done nothing wrong and I will not marry his daughter.”

  Christopher watched his son move away from him and it broke his heart. “Nay, you will not marry her,” he said. “I will not give in to a threat, but I do believe that de Quincy has learned his lesson the hard way about that.”

  Peter paused and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  Christopher scratched his head casually. “I mean to say that the man has several missing teeth and broken ribs that suggest to him that threatening me was not the right thing to do,” he said. “Before you ask, I never touched him. But there were others more than willing to deliver my message.”

  Peter’s eyebrows lifted and a gleam came to his eyes as he understood what his father meant. “Never threaten a man whose allies are Executioner Knights.”

  Christopher merely shrugged and turned away. “I suspect he will think twice before doing so again,” he said. “But even so, Agnes de Quincy shall not be your wife. This I swear.”

  Peter watched the man as he turned back to his table cluttered with missives and maps. He was moving more slowly than he had been earlier, the weight of a country and an unhappy son bearing down on him. He’d done just what Marcus asked him not to do – he gave his father more worry than he already had.

  Perhaps it was best that his father not be involved in this situation at all.

  That would be the kind thing, the magnanimous thing to do. Marcus was right – Christopher’s burdens were great. He was, without question, one of the most respected warlords in England and he was, largely, the architect of the rebellion. Not the sole architect, of course, but he’d had a bi
g hand in it. His directives moved mountains, men, and kings. If William Marshal was the driving force, then Christopher was the wheels. And now he had a son who was unhappy with his lot in life.

  Peter knew it wasn’t fair of him, any of it.

  Going to his father, he put his arms around him and kissed him on the head.

  “Thank you, Papa,” he said softly, releasing him. “And for everything else… I am sorry if I have disappointed you in any way. But I do have a great deal to think about.”

  Christopher turned to his son, patting him on the cheek. “We both do.”

  Peter wasn’t sure what that meant, but he forced a smile before quitting the solar. Lost in thought, he hit the first step of the mural stairs when his younger brothers, Douglas and Myles, came rushing out of the shadows and grabbed him by the legs with the intention of taking him down. Myles was nine years of age and Douglas had seen five years, so they were old enough to be strong and devious. Peter gripped the wooden railing on the stairs, the one so elaborately carved with lions, as his brothers tried to topple him.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t last long when Myles pounded on his fingers, causing him to lose his grip, and down he went into a pile on the floor. Myles and Douglas were relentless, trying to steal his coin purse, daggers, and anything else of value on him until he got the upper hand and wrestled both of them over to a lovely, embroidered chair in the entry.

  Nearby hung a tapestry with silken cords that could draw it up and down, and Peter yanked off one of those silken cords. He managed to get both boys into the chair and, using the cord, tied them up to the chair as they fought and kicked. Douglas was even biting. It was exhausting and hilarious, but in the end, Peter had them both tied onto the chair, with Myles sitting upright and Douglas upside-down because in his battles, that was the direction he ended up. Out of breath, Peter stood back and surveyed his handiwork as Myles and Douglas yelled and growled.

  “There you go, you nasty little thieves,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’m going to leave you to rot.”

  “I’m going to cut you when I get out of here!” Douglas said, his face turning red because he was hanging upside-down. “Let me go!”

  “Never,” Peter said. “Today is my victory!”

  More kicking and growling until Myles kicked Douglas in the head and the boy began to wail. Peter just stood there and laughed as he felt a presence come up beside him. He turned to see his father standing there, looking at his sons bound to the chair.

  “They tried to rob you again?” he asked in resignation.

  Peter held up the red fingers on his left hand. “They tried to smash my fingers and steal my money.”

  “Then you are justified.”

  As the boys begged for their father to release them and Christopher calmly explained that they deserved to be punished for their thievery, Peter found himself thinking of Asa. That pebble-shooting, boy-sized hoodlum. He wondered how well Myles and Douglas would get along with another boy who was just as ruthless as they were and the thought made him smile. He thought it was quite a pity that two Christian boys and a little Jewish boy couldn’t be playmates. But then again, perhaps it was better this way. If those three joined forces, no one in London would be safe ever again.

  Leaving his father to deal with the bandits he had raised, Peter headed up the stairs, to his chamber that overlooked the river from the eastern side of the house. Thoughts of Asa turned to thoughts of Liora. Liora, a woman he’d just met, but Liora, a woman he couldn’t get out of his mind. Sweet, untouched, pragmatic, beautiful Liora. Now, he had to decide what was important to him – flying in the face of two religions to court a woman that he was told he couldn’t have, or turning away and continuing on with his life, such as it was.

  There were times that people touched his life that he would never forget – his father and Dustin, for example. He hadn’t known them all his life, but he felt like he had. No matter what he’d said about feeling like an outsider, he couldn’t imagine his life without them. And then there was Liora – with a look, a smile, and a few brief conversations, somehow, she had gotten under his skin.

  Even if he turned away now, Peter wasn’t entirely sure he could, or would, forget her. She would always be the one he would wonder about – wonder how his life would have been with her by his side. Wondering if he would regret not standing up for what he wanted against what he was told he couldn’t have. His whole life had been dictated for him, planned for him, everything out of his control. Well, this was one thing he could control.

  He wanted to control.

  Reaching the upper floor, he ended up going down the back stairs, the one that led to the kitchens and beyond that, the stables. Liora had told him not to come around tonight, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to tell her about Rabbi Judah and about the discussions with his father. He wanted to see if, in the end, all of this would be worth it. He couldn’t make a decision based on only knowing someone for a couple of days, but he was willing to try if she was willing. Perhaps something astonishingly beautiful was waiting for them if they would only show the courage to stand up to convention.

  As the sun began to wane in the west, Peter headed off for London again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Hold still, Father!” Agnes begged. “If you do not hold still, the surgeon cannot pull the root out!”

  Walter was being held down by two of the surgeon’s men while the surgeon used a slender pair of pliers and a hammer and chisel to remove the roots of two teeth that had been broken off at the gumline when he’d been beaten within an inch of his life after leaving Lonsdale.

  And he knew by whom.

  That’s what had him so angry.

  Yelling in pain and rage, he strained against the men holding him down as the surgeon removed the roots of the teeth, butchering his mouth in the process. Walter bit down on already-bloodied rags to stop the bleeding, shouting at the surgeon and his helpers to get out. Gladly, the surgeon packed up his grimy tools and shuffled out with his burly helpers, leaving Walter exhausted from pain.

  He lay on his bed, grunting, drooling blood and saliva all over his linens.

  “Is there anything else I can do, Father?” Agnes asked with concern. “Anything you need?”

  Walter just lay there and groaned, staring at the ceiling. He finally pulled the damp, bloodied rag from his mouth.

  “Those bastards,” he said, his speech odd because he was missing his front teeth. “This is what Hereford’s men did to me. He thinks to stop me from telling what I know about his son, but he is wrong!”

  Agnes was trying to mop up the blood and saliva that was flying from his lips as he moved around on the bed, restlessly. He was agitated, and in pain, but the words out of his mouth were purely about revenge. He had told her how he’d tried to blackmail Hereford with regards to Peter and the jeweler’s daughter and he was convinced that his beating was in retaliation for that.

  But Agnes wasn’t so sure.

  “If it was Hereford, then it was a warning,” she said. “He is a powerful man. No marriage is worth your life, Father. Mayhap we should try something else.”

  Walter grabbed her by the arm. “What else is there?” he said. “I must be close to the truth if he is willing to threaten my life.”

  “If you were close to the truth, I am certain you would be dead.”

  Walter’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before releasing her. “His son is engaged in espionage and he does not want me to speak of it,” he said through swollen lips. “And the Jewess… she could have no other interest in Peter than to press him for secrets because her father has the ear of the king.”

  Agnes had been listening to this inane drivel since her father had been brought back to the London townhome of their cousin, who had seen Walter’s injuries, listened to the madness he was spouting, and promptly left the home. The Earl of Winchester held no belief in Christopher de Lohr being behind a beating his cousin had received and considering the man ha
d lost his purse and several expensive pieces of jewelry in the ambush, it was clear that robbers had set upon him.

  But Walter seemed to have a different opinion.

  Winchester didn’t want to hear it.

  “Father, it is also possible that Hereford had nothing to do with what happened,” she said, picking bloodied rags off the floor. “You did not see who ambushed you – you said so yourself. Given that men are robbed all the time outside of London, that is more than likely what happened to you. You cannot blame Hereford for that.”

  Walter didn’t like the fact that Agnes didn’t seem to be on his side. “Plain and stupid Agnes,” he said, eyeing her with contempt. “Ever ready to defend de Lohr, aren’t you? You do realize the family does not want you. Peter does not want you. If he did, I would not have to resort to great lengths to marry you into that family.”

  Agnes’ cheeks flushed a dull red as she put the rags into a bowl for the servants to take away. There was a second bowl with ingredients for a compress, including arnica. She began to pack the ingredients into a soft, clean cloth.

  “I am not defending the family,” she said. “But seeking revenge against de Lohr does not work in our favor. Do you think he is going to cower to you? Of course not.”

  “He will cower to me when I go to the warlords and tell them that de Lohr’s precious son is a traitor,” he snarled. “I will tell them that… wait… wait just a moment…”

  He was on to something. Agnes could tell by the tone of his voice and she turned around, watching him with trepidation as he lay there, staring at the ceiling with the bloodied rag to his mouth.

  “What is it?” she asked hesitantly.

  Walter held up a finger. “Telling the rebels that Peter is a traitor will not have the desired result,” he said thoughtfully. “That will only cause confusion, and anger, and Hereford will be forced to send Peter away for his own good.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if I was Hereford, I would send my son away if he was accused of treachery,” he said. “I would send him away to remove him from the situation and let suspicions cool. Nay… we do not want him sent away. We want him here, with us, because if he is sent away, arranging a marriage would be difficult. It is not Peter we need removed, but Peter’s problem.”