The de Lohr Dynasty: Medieval Legends: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She waited in her rooms for him to come. And waited. She sat tensely on her bed for nearly an hour before she heard a soft knock on her door. Jumpy as a cat, she shot up off the bed and bade whoever it was to enter.

  Christopher’s blond head appeared and he actually smiled at her. Dustin’s eyes widened, off-balance and bewildered that he was smiling. He had a devastating smile when he wanted to, enough to make her knees go weak.

  “I have a few moments to spare, my lady, and thought you might enjoy a trip into town,” he said.

  “For what?” she blurted, still waiting for him to come charging across the room and put her over his knees again.

  “To take the material to Mistress Rebecca, of course,” he stepped into the room. “My wife must be well-clothed at court.”

  She looked at him for a few long moments as his words sunk in. Then, her gray eyes widened. “I am going to court?”

  “Aye,” he nodded. “Actually, we are going to court. It seems that Prince John would have me there.”

  “And you are taking me with you?” she could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

  “Of course,” he said. “I would not leave you here.”

  She was speechless. Never in her wildest dreams did she ever imagine that she would go to London. Her life was simple and uncomplicated, and she never entertained dreams of rich courtly life. But now, with the impending prospect as the result of her marriage to a powerful baron, she found she was verily excited.

  “Truly?” she grinned, her big eyes on him to see if he were teasing her.

  He nodded, returning her smile. It was beautiful, bright and infectious. She clapped her hands together gleefully. “I have never been to London,” she exclaimed. “What is it like?”

  He feigned a thoughtful expression. “Full of greed, deceit, lust, and gluttony. It is a delightful place.”

  She laughed at him, her fear from moments earlier forgotten. Now, she was thrilled with the turn her future had taken.

  “London,” she said, turning away from him happily. Suddenly, her eyes fell on Caesar, sleeping lazily in the window bench, and she sobered. “But what of Caesar? Can he come, too?”

  Christopher stepped up behind her, eyeing the cat. “That may not be wise, Dustin,” he said honestly. “It will be a difficult journey for him, and he may run off. Cats like to stay where they are familiar.”

  She went over and petted the cat. “But I cannot leave him,” she said mournfully, her mood increasingly sad. “Who will take care of him? And what of my rabbits?”

  “Rabbits? What rabbits?” he asked.

  “I have several pet rabbits I keep by the kitchens,” she insisted. “What will happen to them?”

  Christopher looked thoughtful, catching himself before he suggested that they could eat them. Even in jest, the recommendation would not sit well with her.

  “The cat can take care of himself, I am sure.” Christopher, not wanting to spoil the mood, took her hand away from the animal and enclosed it in his big, warm palm. “As for the rabbits, surely there is a child or servant who can tend them. Come along, now. Let us take the fabrics to your friend.”

  She let him hold her hand. She didn’t know why she was letting him. Any other man who had ever tried to hold her hand had come away with a black eye. But she allowed him to lead her over to the other side of her bed where bundles of material were stacked. He let go of her hand and picked all the packages up himself.

  As she watched him, she was struck again with how handsome he truly was. When she had been standing out on the landing, listening to him talk with the prince’s man, he had been so controlled and powerful that her heart had swelled strangely. That strange, warm giddy feeling she was coming to associate with him. Knowing that he was her husband filled her with a sense of pride she had never known before. Even if he had spanked her, she found she wasn’t angry with him anymore. If she were to admit it, she deserved it.

  “Who was that man in the bailey?” she asked as she went to the door.

  Christopher followed, the bundles in his arms. “His name is Sir Ralph Fitz Walter. He is Prince John’s marshal.

  He said it with some disgust, enough to cause her to look at him. “You do not like him,” she observed.

  “No one likes him,” he replied, balancing the load as she opened the door. “The man is a snake.”

  Dustin watched him as he passed through the archway. “He called you by a title,” she said thoughtfully. “What was it?”

  “Baron?” he said.

  “Nay, something else,” she replied. “All I could hear was the word ‘Defender.’ What did he call you?”

  They made their way to the narrow spiral stairs and he descended them with some effort, squeezing his bulk down the shaft. He waited until they had exited the front door of the castle before answering her.

  “Defender of the Realm,” he said.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “It means that while Richard is away, I am his strength at home,” he said. “I answer only to him.”

  She looked surprised. “You do not even take orders from Prince John?”

  He shook his head. “Nay, only Richard,” he replied. “His troops are mine to command. Prince John may only use their strength if he gains my permission.”

  Dustin was stunned. Christopher de Lohr, her husband, was the king’s champion, Defender of the Realm. King Richard, of all England. Why hadn’t she known this? Her mind was reeling with the enormity and surprise of it all and she almost tripped on the front steps. He cautioned her and she found she could not take her eyes from him. She had heard the dark man call him by the title, yet because she was so fearful for her own hide, it had made no impact on her. She felt the impact fully now.

  “You have so much power?” she managed to ask, totally in awe.

  He glanced down at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Her mouth opened. “Because you are the Defender of the Realm and I did not even know it.”

  He shrugged, whistling to a soldier for his destrier to be brought around. Her mouth still hanging open, she walked around so she could look him in the face.

  “Is there any other titles I should know about?” she asked, half irritated. “Mayhap, did God himself grant you a title you have failed to tell me of?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not that I am aware of,” he told her. “And I have no other titles. Except for one, which really isn’t a title, simply a nickname.”

  “And what is that?” she demanded, thinking it was mayhap something even more auspicious than the titles she already knew of.

  “Lion’s Claw,” he said, turning to watch his destrier being brought forth. “Saladin’s men called me the Lion’s Claw.”

  She gazed at him, her irritation fading. “Why?”

  His attention went back to her, and he found himself drawn to the pretty style in which her hair was arranged. A bit careless, but pretty nonetheless.

  “Everyone knows how powerful a lion is, but even a lion is limited without his claws,” he said. “The Saracen’s believed Richard to be the force, the power if you will. Yet I was his most deadly weapon, his claws.”

  This knowledge brought new respect to the man, in her eyes. She stared back at him as she absorbed the information, her mind completely overwhelmed with the knowledge. This man, whom she had struck, yelled at, baited, and struggled with at every opportunity was nearly the most powerful man in the kingdom.

  Along with the new awareness came a new set of worries. No wonder he didn’t want to marry her; a mere baron’s daughter, she was not worthy of him in the least. The Defender of the Realm should have a refined, worldly wife, not a naive little waif with a bad temper and a stubborn streak. She struggled with insecurities she never knew she had, confused and overcome as she was, wondering why the man had even lowered himself to speak with her much less marry her. She felt self-conscious and unworthy to even be near him.

  “Did you want Lioncross so badly?
” she murmured as he loaded the items onto his charger.

  He glanced at her. “What did you say?”

  She just stared back at him, not sure if she wanted to repeat herself, unsure as to why she said it in the first place. But she suddenly knew one thing, she could not go to London and embarrass him. When the prince and his fine court people saw the champion’s new bride, it would surely make him the laughing stock of London. She could not do that to him.

  “Nothing,” she was backing away. “I….I mean, I forgot something. You go on head; you do not need me.”

  She turned and bolted for the castle, hearing him shout her name but not stopping for one moment to respond. Once inside, she raced through the great hall, into the kitchens, and out through the back door and into the small kitchen yard that contained the buttery and the cold house.

  There was a small, fortified gate in the wall. She yanked it open, slamming it behind her as she continued to tear out into the soft green countryside. Her legs pumped and her heart pounded, and tears of bitterness streamed down her face. She didn’t know why she was so upset, but she was. For her and for him. The marriage was a disaster from the very beginning and it would only get worse.

  She raced down a small incline and into a bank of trees, coming through on the other side and on into another dense bank of trees. She ran and ran until she could run no more, until her muscles burned and she had to stop or she would collapse.

  There was a small pond to her right. She veered for it drunkenly, sobs rising in her throat until she finally flopped down into the soft, cool grass, crying her heart out for so many reasons. She could not stop to grasp just one.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Christopher had followed her into the castle, being informed by a serving wench that she had passed through the kitchens and had run out the back. Racing back out to his destrier, he mounted the animal and tore from the gates, reining around the side of his fortress until he came to the small tunnel that led from the fortified gate. A glance in the distance showed his wife running like the wind, disappearing into a heavy grove of trees.

  She was not difficult to follow, but he made sure she did not know he was behind her. When she finally collapsed in a heap at the edge of a small lake, he kept his horse shrouded in the dense brush until he was sure she wasn’t going to take off running again. Slowly and quietly, he dismounted and made his way over to her.

  She was sobbing as if her heart was broken and he stood there for a long while, watching her and wondering what had upset her so. He knew she was surprised with the information that he was the king’s champion, but he could not imagine that it would drive her to tears.

  He should have simply let her go, but for some reason he could not. He had to know what was upsetting her.

  “Dustin,” he whispered.

  Her head came up like a shot, her gray eyes wet with tears. “What…?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you,” he said softly, obviously. “Why are you crying?”

  She pushed herself up into a sitting position, facing the lake, deeply ashamed. “You wouldn’t understand, my lord,” she said hoarsely.

  She heard his armor creaking as he came and stood next to her, finally sitting slowly. She kept her eyes riveted to the water, now shades of orange and yellow from the setting sun. It was peaceful and serene, and the bugs were beginning to buzz about as night drew near.

  “Would you tell me even if I would not understand?” he asked finally, his voice soft.

  His tone disarmed her and she fought to maintain her control. When he was gentle like that, she could feel all of her self-protection dissolve. She was terrified to give in to the feelings he provoked.

  “I am a silly girl, my lord,” she said after a moment. “It matters not why I cry. I cry all the time, mostly for foolish reasons. I am sorry you felt you had to follow me.”

  He was gazing across the water as well, listening to the deep gulp of the bullfrogs. “I followed you because you are my wife and because I wanted to make sure you came to no harm,” he said, then slowly turning his head to look at her. “And you are not a girl. You are a woman, and a beautiful one at that.”

  Shivers shot up her spine at his seductive tone and her chest throbbed with a curious dull ache. Why did he say such things when they simply weren’t true? He had Lioncross, why did he still feel the need to speak sweet words to her? She stood up, wiping her eyes.

  “Do not say those things to me,” she snapped. “I do not want to hear them.”

  He watched her stiff back as she paced away from him. “Say what? That you are beautiful? ’Tis the truth, and I speak it.”

  She turned swiftly, her eyes flashing. “You do not have to say them anymore,” she said. “Lioncross is yours and there is nothing to gain by flattery. I hate it when you say such things because I want to believe them.”

  Her voice suddenly trailed off to a strangled whisper and she whirled back around, appalled at what she had said. Her cheeks were flushing brightly, she knew it, and she wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

  But it was an eye-opening statement. Christopher understood a great deal in that outburst. As beautiful as Dustin was, she didn’t know it. That was why she chased off suitors and men with honeyed words. She didn’t believe herself to be the least bit attractive, and she thought the men were liars because she knew Lioncross to be the real prize. Fact was, Christopher wasn’t so sure Lioncross was the real prize anymore.

  He stood up. “Dustin, listen to me,” he said softly. “I never say anything that I do not mean. You are beautiful, and I have seen a great many women enough to know that. And I do not flatter, for I am not a charming man and I do not enjoy trivial romantic games. Look at me now.”

  It took a few moments, but she reluctantly complied and he could see that her cheeks were a pretty shade of pink. She looked completely miserable and it touched him.

  “Lioncross is indeed mine, but so are you,” he went on, softly. “ ’Tis true, I married you to gain the fortress, but over the past few days I have come to acquaint myself with a remarkable woman whom I should like to know better, I think.”

  The setting sun behind him gave him an ethereal-like quality. Dustin sighed and lowered her gaze, inexplicably feeling the need to tell him her thoughts. She tried to control her mouth, to think of a smooth and believable explanation as to her actions, but she could not. She finally gave up.

  “Do you want to know why I was crying?” she asked quietly. “ ’Twas because I feel myself unworthy to be the Defender of the Realm’s wife. I am unworldly, unmannered, unsophisticated and unrefined. Now you would take me to London with you and I will do naught but embarrass you. I know nothing of court.”

  His face turned hard. “Unless you are planning a temper tantrum in the middle of the audience chamber, think not that you could ever embarrass me,” he said pointedly. “In fact, I will be the envy of every man there because I have the most beautiful wife in the country. As for those other qualities you mentioned, you are nothing of the kind, and if I thought you unworthy of me I would have annulled the marriage by now. No fortress would be worth the grief you mentioned.”

  She gazed up at him as he approached. “I want to believe you, my lord, I do. But I cannot, not when I know how silly I am.”

  His hand caught her under the chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Naive, yes, but you are not silly,” he said firmly. “I would never lie to you, Dustin. You will believe me.”

  She wanted to but she could not, at least not at this moment. She was still far too unsure of herself and still unsteady with the entire situation. “I shall try,” she whispered.

  The hand that was on her face began to caress her skin, timidly moving up her jaw until it reached her cheek. She could feel the warmth radiating down her neck, jolting through her spine, turning her limbs to mush.

  “Your hand is as big as my head,” she giggled, her warm feelings bringing foolish words to her lips.

&nb
sp; As if to see her point, he brought up his other hand and effectively captured her whole head in his grasp. They grinned at each other.

  “You are right,” he said. “You fit most nicely in my hands.” Christ, he wanted to kiss her, but he remembered his vow and it was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. If she wanted affection in the marriage, then she would have to establish it. He dropped his hands from her head, but his vow did not prevent him from holding her hand in his.

  “Come, it grows late,” he said, leading her back to his horse. “We shall seek out your friend tomorrow.”

  “Then you still want me to go?” she asked.

  “Of course, Dustin,” he said, reaching the animal. “I want you with me. You are my wife.”

  He lifted her up and sat her on the saddle and she winced, shifting on her sore bottom. He grinned. “Still hurting?”

  “Aye,” she said, eyeing him. “And do not look so pleased with yourself.”

  He mounted behind her. “You caused your own grief, my lady.”

  She made a wry face as he reined his horse around. “I shall be smarter next time. Or faster.”

  Grinning, he held her close to him the entire, leisurely ride back to the keep.

  *

  Later than night, it was well after midnight when Christopher heard the door to his room open quietly. Immediately alert yet remaining still, his right hand felt for the hilt of his sword and gripped it tightly, listening to careful footfalls crossing the floor, coming closer.

  The footsteps stopped a moment, he guessed a few feet from his bed and then commenced once more, again very carefully, walking around the side of the bed. His eyes were mostly closed but he could see the figure in the dark as it rounded the bed and drew close to him. It was difficult to make out anything at all in the darkness of the room, and the muscles in his arm contracted as he prepared to strike.

  Suddenly there were hands reaching down at him and he was forced into action, bringing up his sword with lightning speed to ward of his attacker.

  Christopher was skilled, so skilled in fact that he purposely turned the blade flat side out to simply knock his accoster away as opposed to flat out killing him. Had he turned the sword a quarter inch more and lashed out with the sharp edge, he would have cut the intruder’s head off.