The de Lohr Dynasty

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Brynner shook his head. “Not very long.”

  “Have you seen anyone come to, or leave, the castle?”

  Brynner’s expression turned impatient. “No one comes or goes from that place,” he said. “It is dead, like these moors. People live there, but they are dead, too. The whole place is dead.”

  “You speak as if you know this for certain.”

  Brynner thought, at that point, that he had probably given too much of himself away. He had tried not to but his head hurt and he wasn’t thinking clearly. But, then again, he rarely thought clearly these days, so it was inevitable that he falter. Now it was a matter of trying to cover for his foolish tongue.

  “I have grown up on these lands,” Brynner said. He was being deliberately vague and, in a smart move, turned the conversation away from him and on to them. “Where did you come from? These roads are not well-traveled. You must have been heading for the castle if you are on this moor. What business do you have at that place?”

  The Frenchman’s dark blue eyes settled appraisingly on Brynner before speaking. The wind, whipping around them, lifted his shaggy blond hair.

  “As you said, that is not your affair,” he replied. “You will not tell me yours and I will not tell you mine. We are at an impasse.”

  Brynner shrugged and turned away. “Good,” he said firmly. “Then there is no more to say to one another. I will wish you fair winds and Godspeed, then, and be on my way.”

  One of the men moved his horse so that Brynner couldn’t push past the animal. Boxed in and frustrated, Brynner turned to the Frenchman with a scowl.

  “Now what?” he demanded. “I have nothing more to tell you. My aching head and I would be grateful if you could allow us to pass.”

  The Frenchman leaned forward on his saddle, noticing a jug that had fallen to the side when the man had slid down the hill. It now lay half-buried in the wet heather. He dipped his head in the direction of the jug.

  “The root of your evils, mon seigneur?” he asked.

  Brynner turned to see what he was referring to, embarrassed that the evidence was there for all to see. He may have been a drunkard but it was a private affair as far as he was concerned. He didn’t like to go announcing it all over the place. In a huff, he stomped over to pick up the jug. Embarrassed or not, he wasn’t going to leave it behind.

  “It is the root of many evils,” he said, bending down to collect it. “May I go now?”

  The Frenchman’s gaze lingered on Brynner and, for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Behind those dark blue eyes, there was a good deal going on. Calculating. Now, he had an idea as to finding out what this man knew. Where he came from. Perhaps he could find out even more than he’d hoped for.

  As many times as he had come up to the moor, named for an ancient Saxon king, he’d never run into anyone like the man standing before him. All he’d come across were frightened peasants who could barely speak, people scraping the land, trying to scratch out an existence. But not this man; he was well-spoken and was seemingly intelligent. But he was also in a very bad state and the Frenchman could smell the alcohol on him, even at a distance. It was a weakness that the Frenchman wanted to exploit.

  Something told him he had a prime opportunity right in front of him.

  “What are you drinking?” he asked Brynner. “Whatever it is, I know where there is better drink. And large quantities of it.”

  Something flashed in Brynner’s eyes, something that foretold of great interest in the Frenchman’s words, but that flash of interest was quickly gone. What replaced it was something that could only be described as humiliation.

  Sorrow.

  “I have what I need,” he said, lifting the jug. “Move your men and I will be on my way.”

  “I will pay for your drink,” the Frenchman said quickly, not wanting to lose this opportunity. “You need not pay for any of it. I travel about with these three fools for companionship and it is rare to speak with a stranger. Come and drink with me. Your companionship is payment enough.”

  The thought of flowing wine was enough to cause Brynner to swallow any pride or fear he may have felt. He knew it was wrong; God help him, he knew it. He knew he could be placing himself in a horrible situation. But lured by the thought of endless alcohol, he couldn’t help the interest. Like a siren’s song, it called to him and he could not resist.

  It was stronger than he was.

  “Where?” he finally asked. “Where will we go?”

  The Frenchman pointed to the east, in the direction of the village of Ilkley. Nestled against the base of the soggy hills, it was a fairly bustling town with commerce.

  “There is an inn called The Bridge and Arms in town,” he said. “I have supped there before. Good food and drink. Come and join me. It looks as if you could use a meal.”

  Brynner didn’t care about the meal. He only cared about the drink. Everything in his body was screaming for it. Yet, he was still thinking cautiously in spite of his need. He presumed that the men wouldn’t try to kill or harm him if they were in a public place with witnesses and even people who might give him protection. More than that, he was fairly certain he didn’t have a choice in this situation. They weren’t going to allow him to leave. But he wanted the drink so badly that he was willing to dance with the devil to get it.

  “I know the place,” Brynner replied. “I’ve not been there in years.”

  “Then come with me.”

  Brynner didn’t say a word. He simply started heading in the direction the four men had come from, to the road that would take them back down the hill to the road that ran north and south along the edges of the moor.

  To the drink that awaited him.

  As the sun crested the horizon and cast rays of light over the wet land, Brynner and his four new companions made their way down the moor to the road below, heading towards The Bridge and Arms. They slipped and slid in the mud all the way down the hill.

  All the while, however, Brynner kept wondering what these men wanted of him, but he was fairly certain he already knew. He was certain they were the same men who had been harassing Shadowmoor for years. Bramley and his men wanted Shadowmoor and wanted Liselotte, and they’d already abducted one l’Audacieux son. Brynner didn’t know that Gunnar had been returned the night before, however, and assumed that he was now the second abducted l’Audacieux male. In his own stupidity, they’d managed to corner him.

  But he was a different case altogether. He wasn’t a young boy, but a man and heir to the property Bramley sought. Once they found that out, and Brynner was more than likely sure they would once alcohol loosened his tongue, he wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t some kind of negotiation involved with him to try and gain the place.

  With enough alcohol, Brynner knew he’d agree to anything.

  And that concerned him.

  As for the Frenchman, he wasn’t quite sure what he had in the slovenly man but something told him that his fortune had been good this morning. At least, that was what he thought, but it wasn’t to be the case – he would miss the opportunity he should have been looking for less than an hour later when the object of his lord’s greed, a lovely woman with pale skin and bronze hair, left the gates of the destitute fortress and headed north. By that time, however, the Frenchman and his guest, a man whom he soon confirmed to be the brother of the sought-after woman, were well on their way to being drunk and making plans. The Frenchman discovered very quickly that his guest craved alcohol more than money, so it wasn’t a matter of a bribe.

  It was the matter of a promise.

  The situation was about to become quite interesting.

  *

  The stormy weather had cleared up and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. It was breezy as the sun rose, reaching fingers of gold and pink across the landscape, stretching out as far as the eye could see.

  It was a bucolic vision just after dawn and would have been quite perfect had it not been for the fact that man, beast, and land were a sopping, mudd
y mess. Everything was wet and the oversaturated ground was littered with massive puddles of water. As Daniel emerged out into the ward from the keep, he made sure to avoid those watery traps as he crossed the bailey and headed towards the stables.

  It was cold outside, too, a far cry from the warm room he had spent the night in. The very tiny room had been surprisingly clean and the bed had been mostly comfortable, so he really had nothing to complain over and he’d slept very well. He didn’t much equate comfort with this destitute fortress, but he’d been pleasantly surprised by Gunnar l’Audacieux’s small bed.

  Therefore, after a heavy sleep through the storming night, he’d awoken refreshed and proceeded to dress. Donning a heavy linen tunic that smelled like a dead body beneath his mail coat, because he’d not washed it in weeks, and then donning a heavy leather coat with fur trim around the neck and sleeves, he’d headed out into the coming dawn.

  Shadowmoor’s box-shaped keep was surrounded by its own moat, a ditch dug around the structure while the structure itself was slightly elevated. It was cold; the eastern horizon turned pastel shades and breath hung in the air in foggy puffs. Daniel looked at his surroundings as he headed for the stables, finding some interest in Shadowmoor in general. People were about at this early morning hour, scrounging for firewood for cooking fires, and the smell of smoke was already heavy in the air. He looked at the faces as he passed them; everyone looked tired and hungry, wrapped in their meager rags against the freezing temperatures. The inability to create work for themselves or trade with neighboring villages, all of these things prevented by Bramley, had taken their toll. Daniel thought that everyone looked very much like the walking dead.

  Hopeless.

  But there was more to it than even that. As he neared the stables, it occurred to him that there were, literally, no animals at all at Shadowmoor – no dogs, no chickens, and he realized when he’d been in the stable the day before that he’d only seen two other horses. No animals because they had all been eaten by starving people. Although he’d had mutton the night before, he recalled that it tasted old and he thought it was perhaps because Lady Liselotte had been trying to stretch the meat. Perhaps because that was all they had left.

  It was a rather pathetic thought but it underscored the desperation of the people of Shadowmoor, desperation that idiot Bramley had forced them into. After a good night’s sleep, Daniel was feeling more compelled than ever to help these people although, even after his explanation on his reasons to Etzel the previous night, there really wasn’t any true factor why he should. He hadn’t particularly made an enemy out of Bramley, or at least he didn’t think he did in the long run, but he’d used it as an excuse to stay and help. Something was pulling him towards this destitute, hopeless place… or perhaps someone was pulling him towards it.

  That was more than likely the answer.

  Liselotte.

  A woman with pale skin and bronze-colored hair. There was something sorrowful about her due to her circumstances but beneath that sorrow, he could see the fight and determination. She may have been persecuted but she hadn’t given up. He hadn’t spoken to her a tremendous amount yesterday but in the brief conversations they’d had, he’d sensed a good deal of strength in her. She wanted to fight, and she wanted to win, even though her circumstances had prevented much of that. Still, she didn’t surrender, but there had been something in her manner that suggested she was very happy to have help in her fight, help in the form of Daniel.

  Perhaps he simply liked the idea of being her savior, of coming to the aid of people who had nowhere else to turn. Or perhaps he liked the idea of being her savior alone; he wasn’t sure. It was a matter of pride, too – he had found a purpose he could be proud of. Or perhaps the simple fact of the matter was that he wanted a beautiful girl to be indebted to him, to admire him and to show her gratitude.

  Perhaps this entire endeavor was ego and nothing more.

  But he would have to figure it out later because he had tasks to complete on this day. Just as he entered the stables, he nearly ran headlong into Etzel and Liselotte and Gunnar. Ares was saddled, as were the two other horses in the stable, and it looked to Daniel as if everyone was waiting for him. The horses were ready, and so were Liselotte and Gunnar. They were both heavily wrapped in wool clothing and Liselotte wore an old faded cloak, lined with fox fur, that must have been very beautiful, once. Daniel came to a halt when he saw the crowd and his eyebrows lifted.

  “So I am the lazy one today?” he asked. “You are all eager to go to town and I am the one who could not drag my carcass out of bed? I am ashamed.”

  Gunnar laughed; even Liselotte and Etzel grinned. “We wanted to be ready to depart when you were, my lord,” Liselotte said. “We have not been waiting long.”

  Daniel’s gaze lingered on Liselotte in the early morning light. She was dressed in faded clothing, but on her, they were the garments of a queen. She held herself regally, with pride, and her hair was pulled into a braid that draped elegantly over one shoulder. Truthfully, Daniel could have stared at her all day.

  “Forgive me for making you wait at all,” he said, “but I found that I slept so solidly that before I realized it, morning had come.”

  “Here!” Gunnar was suddenly in front of him, thrusting something in his face. “To break your fast!”

  Daniel had to step back in order to see what Gunnar was so excited to show him. He could see that it was a piece of bread from last night, now hard and crumbly. It was a rather large piece and he hesitated before accepting it.

  “This is quite kind of you,” he said, looking at the boy. “Have you broken your fast this morning?”

  The enthusiastic smile faded from Gunnar’s face and he suddenly appeared uncertain. “I… I did not,” he said, glancing to his father and sister over his shoulder. “But I am not hungry. This is for you.”

  Daniel smiled faintly at the boy, putting his hand on the blond head. “You are more than generous, but I, too, am not hungry,” he said, suspecting that the family had gone without food that morning so they could give it all to their guest. “If you do not eat this, it will go to waste.”

  Gunnar was quite uncertain now, lowering the chunk of bread in his hand and looking to his father and sister for guidance. Daniel could see the indecision and he patted the boy on the head before removing his hand and turning to his horse.

  “Hurry and eat it, young Gunnar,” he said. “Otherwise, my horse, who is a glutton, will smell it and he will want to eat it. I would rather see you have it than him. Were the horses fed, by the way?”

  Etzel nodded. “They were fed dried grasses, my lord,” he said. “I am sorry that I do not have grain to offer your horse. He is a very fine animal.”

  Daniel nodded, slapping the beast on his shiny black neck before mounting. “Aye, he is,” he said. “His name is Ares and he is like a brother to me. We have seen much together, he and I. It looks as if he has been brushed.”

  Etzel nodded, moving to help Liselotte mount her horse. “He has been,” he said. “My stable master loves horses. He sleeps with them, in fact, so they are never alone. I am sure he took great pleasure in grooming your steed.”

  Daniel slipped his boots into the stirrups and gathered his reins. “And I am equally sure that Ares took pleasure in being groomed,” he said. “He loves attention and if he does not get enough of it, he will kick and snort until someone pets him. And if he is not petted the correct way, he will bite. He is very spoiled.”

  The horse threw his head as if to agree and Daniel grinned, directing the horse out of the stable yard. Liselotte was on a small mare that had seen better days, an old animal with a sunken back. Etzel picked up Gunnar, with the piece of bread still in his hand, and put him on the animal behind his sister. As Gunnar held fast to his sister’s slender waist, the horse followed Daniel out of the stable yard at a leisurely pace. Etzel followed.

  “I have thought much on our conversation last night, my lord,” Etzel said to Daniel, “about headi
ng north to find a messenger, and I do believe the village of Siglesdene would be the best place for you to go. When you leave Shadowmoor, go west to the main road and then north. That road will take you right into Siglesdene.”

  Daniel was listening, closing tight his gloves against the cold temperatures. “How far?”

  “It will take you about three hours, less if you move swiftly.”

  “If Bramley’s men are watching the roads, then I want to move swiftly.”

  Etzel understood. “They usually watch Shadowmoor but since they abducted Gunnar, they stopped watching,” he said. He was hesitant to say anything more but knew that he must. “Now that my boy is returned, it is quite possible they will be watching Shadowmoor again, knowing you have brought him home. Be vigilant, my lord – they will want what you have.”

  Daniel looked at him. “What is that?”

  Etzel glanced at Liselotte. “My daughter,” he replied. “That is all they want.”

  Daniel turned to look at the woman, riding silent and lovely atop the old mare. He considered what Etzel said before pulling Ares to a halt. “Then get her off that mare and put her on with me,” he said. “I am sure the mare will run much faster with just Gunnar’s weight on it and Ares is very strong. He can easily carry two people swiftly.”

  Etzel was already on the move, shifting the horseback passengers until Liselotte was seated behind Daniel and Gunnar had the old mare all to himself. The young boy was quite thrilled, actually, for now he could pretend to be a knight on his mighty steed, just as Sir Daniel was. Once Liselotte was situated and Daniel could feel her soft hands holding on to his torso for support, he spurred Ares forward again.

  “How many men does Bramley usually have out and about,” he asked Etzel as they approached the iron-web main gate. “Do they travel in patrols?”

  Etzel nodded to the question. “They travel in patrols of two or three men,” he said. “I have seen as many as four patrols out at one time but as of late, there have been less. However, as I said, that may have changed since Gunnar was returned to us yesterday.”