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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Like I am dying,” Christopher croaked. “Two weeks?”

  “Aye,” Rob replied. “Are you one of Richard’s knights?”

  Christopher nodded once, weakly. “Aye.”

  He drifted off to sleep and Marianne shushed her husband when he tried to ask him another question.

  “Leave him be, Rob,” she admonished. “The man still has one foot in the grave, so let him sleep. He will answer your questions in time.”

  Rob stood up, a head shorter than the burly man next to him. “I wonder if he’s close to Richard,” he glanced over at the mail, sword and tunic in the corner that belonged to his guest. “What did he say his name was? Christian?”

  “Christopher,” the big man reminded him. “Christopher de Lohr. The name sounds familiar, Rob.”

  “Does it?” Rob gazed down at the massive man again. “I cannot place it. Well, we can do no more for him at the moment. We shall return shortly.”

  “Where are you going?” She stood up, brushing her thick auburn curls out of her face.

  Rob kissed her. “Business, love. Not to worry.”

  She pursed her lips in irritation. “Business. You mean robbery. Rob, no wonder John has labeled you an outlaw. All you do is steal and rob and burn.”

  Rob’s handsome face lost some of its humor and he put his vest on. “What do you expect? The man stole my castle and tried to kill me. He is to blame for the life I lead, not I.” He jerked his head in the direction of the man sleeping on the floor. “Mayhap that one can help us seek justice if he is one of Richard’s knights. Mayhap it was a good thing that Jonathan here found him when he did.”

  Marianne watched her husband strap on his arrow pack and sling his bow over one shoulder. Her face was still furrowed and Rob planted a kiss on her nose. “We shall return shortly, love. Take good care of Sir Christopher.”

  Marianne shook her head as Rob and Jonathan ducked out of the hut, wrestling with the hide flap. It was always the same with him – revenge, revenge, revenge. Would it end? Not until John was dead, most likely, or Rob had had a chance to seek audience with Richard and regain his keep. Aye, Marianne would certainly love to live at Tickhill again and not in these rotting little huts in the middle of Sherwood.

  “Take care of yourself, Rob of the Hood,” she muttered, turning back to her patient. “Somehow, you always manage to.”

  *

  Christopher did not come around again for another three days. But when he did, the fever was completely gone and he awoke remarkably clear-headed. He gazed at his surroundings, listening to the snoring inside the hut. He could pick out at least three, possibly more.

  He shifted a bit and was met with stiffness and soreness such as he had never known and decided to simply rest easy. His slight groan roused Marianne, who was immediately up and moving to his side.

  “Sir Christopher,” she exclaimed softly. “You are awake.”

  “Indeed, my lady,” he replied, his voice returning to the rich, soothing tone Dustin had loved so well. “But it would seem I chose the dead of night to awaken to.”

  Marianne smiled; she was a pretty woman, if not a bit plain. “ ’Tis an hour or so before dawn,” she replied. “My husband and his men will rise soon. How do you feel?”

  He raised an arm ever so slowly and lay his left hand on his forehead. “Not too terribly, actually,” he said. “Horrible compared to what I usually feel like, but better than I felt when I awoke earlier. But I am rather thirsty.”

  Marianne nodded quickly and rapidly drew a wooden ladle of water. She coaxed him to drink slowly, but he was so thirsty most of the water ended up running down his face and into his hair. Slaked for the moment, he thanked her.

  By this time, her husband had heard the voices as he was rising, pulling on his rough linen tunic.

  “Sir Christopher, you are awake,” he said as he rolled to his knees. “God be praised. How do you feel?”

  Christopher’s weak left hand found his unkempt beard. “As if I have just gone several bouts with Lucifer himself. Christ, I need a shave.”

  Rob and Marianne laughed, and big Jonathan bolted upright on his pallet at the noise. “What goes on?” he demanded. Then he noticed Rob and Marianne hovering over Christopher, who was quite awake. “Oh, my lord, you are come to life.”

  Chris let his hand fall to his chest. “That, sirrah, is a mere opinion. What is your name?”

  “Jonathan Blackwelder, sire,” he replied. “I was the young earl’s troop master.”

  “Young earl?” Christopher looked puzzled and he saw Rob wave Jonathan off. “You are an earl? What…where am I, then? Are we at your keep?”

  “Nay.” Rob’s usually pleasant face was suddenly morose. “For I no longer have a keep, my lord, at least in the personal sense. John has it.”

  “John?” Christopher repeated. “What is the name of your keep?”

  “Tickhill,” Rob replied quietly.

  Christopher stared at him a moment, slow understanding coming over him. He remembered the battle for Tickhill all too well, even with his haze-clouded mind. “You are the Earl of Longdon?”

  Rob’s head came up to Christopher. “You are familiar with my keep? Were you at the siege of Tickhill?”

  Christopher closed his eyes. “Aye, my lord. ’Twas I who led the crown troops against John’s mercenary army.” His voice was weak again, weak with defeat. He hated admitting his failure to the man who had saved his life. “We arrived too late to save your fortress, sire, and I am sincerely sorry for it. By the time we arrived, there was little to do.”

  “You led the crown troops?” Rob glanced at Jonathan. “Are you the knight they call the Defender?”

  Christopher nodded weakly. “Hard to believe, is it not?”

  “Richard’s Defender?” Jonathan said with wide eyes. “The man they call the Lion’s Claw?”

  Christopher nodded again, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Marianne and Rob and Jonathan exchanged astonished glances; the man lying in their modest little hut was the all-powerful Defender of the Realm.

  “We are honored by your presence, sire,” Marianne stammered.

  Christopher gazed kindly at her. “ ’Tis I who am honored, my lady, and forever in your debt. Will I heal completely?”

  She nodded, lifting the bandages on his left side. “Your wound was terrible, sire, to say the least. Never have I seen a man with such a gaping hole live. But I’d venture to say that since you have survived thus far, you should heal completely. You have an amazing will to live, sire. ’Tis the only explanation other than God’s divine grace.”

  “I have everything to live for,” Christopher replied quietly. “A wife and daughter await me at home. ’Twould it be possible to get word to them?”

  Rob and Jonathan exchanged glances. “That may not be possible at all, sire. John has placed a price on my head and on the heads of my associates. To send a message would be to possibly reveal our whereabouts.” He looked genuinely sorry. “The only way your wife will receive a message is if you take it to her yourself. We could not risk one of our men being followed.”

  Christopher sighed heavily. “I see,” he said sadly. “And what was this heinous crime you committed to warrant a bounty? Stick your tongue at the prince? Mayhap, given him a less than polite expression?”

  Rob smiled again. “I see you understand John too well. Nay, sire, my only crime was trying to defend my keep and killing four of his elite guards in the process. But he has deemed me an outlaw, and my people and I eke out an existence in Sherwood waiting for the opportunity to present itself so that I might return home.”

  “You mean that as a result of John, you truly are an outlaw now,” Christopher said. “Forced to steal to live.”

  “We could become farmers, but why?” Rob shrugged. “John has declared us outlaws, and outlaws we will be. But only against his loyalists; we only rob and steal from those we know are loyal to the prince. We may be small in number, but we are as pesky as a horde of fleas.
Annoying to the point of distraction.”

  Christopher smiled. “My lord, I think I like you already.”

  “That is good,” Rob replied. “For someday I may need your help to explain my actions to Richard. I do intend to regain my keep, but I shan’t be able to do it as an outlaw.”

  Christopher’s smile faded. “I can promise you I will do everything in my power to persuade Richard to return your holdings. He’s returned to England now and I can only assume he will be taking back England fortress by fortress.”

  “He has returned from the quest?” Rob repeated; he had been out of touch a long time. “God be praised; now mayhap England can return to some normalcy.”

  “One can only pray,” Christopher replied softly.

  Rob scratched his scalp and buttoned his tunic. “Well, I must be running along. Our spies tell us that the Earl of Dorset is on the road this day with a load of cash and other valuables destined for John at Nottingham. I think I shall relieve him of his burden.”

  His manner was so carefree and light that Christopher thought he sounded much like a naughty boy, not at all like an earl. As Rob and Jonathan left the tent, a pretty maid entered bearing a steaming bowl. Her soft brown eyes immediately fell on Christopher and she flushed, handing the bowl to Marianne. Marianne was not daft; she saw the look on the maid’s face.

  “Lizabetha, be pleased to meet Sir Christopher de Lohr,” she said. “We must make him well so that he might return to his wife and child. My lord, this is my niece, Lady Lizabetha du Bois.”

  Christopher glanced at the woman, she was very young, younger than his wife, and pretty. She blushed virginally and lowered her gaze. Very practiced, Christopher thought. Seeing the girl made him long for Dustin all the more.

  Marianne chased Lizabetha out and fed Christopher herself, a rich beef broth. He was hungry and ate the whole bowl, feeling the fuel in his veins already. He watched Marianne put the bowl away and prepare another compress for his healing wound.

  “My wife must think I am dead,” he said softly.

  Marianne raised her face to him. “No doubt that she does, sire, I am sorry we cannot risk sending a message.”

  Christopher shook his head. “Nay, madam, I did not mean to imply that I was insistent upon sending her word. I understand your husband’s situation, and I understand John. It is just that…well, it pains me deeply to know that my wife believes I am dead.”

  Marianne began to change his bandages. “I can only imagine her torment, my lord, and yours. But you will not be able to leave until your strength has returned, and that could take weeks. To travel any sooner will surely do further damage.”

  He glanced down at the wound in his side, purple and puckered and scabbed. It was just below his ribcage. “I ought to have a lovely scar.”

  Marianne smiled. “Hopefully, these herbs will lessen the scarring.”

  “Nay, madam, I am worried over no scar. I am simply grateful for my life,” he replied, greatly fatigued again.

  Marianne watched his strong, handsome face as he drifted off to sleep once again. She could hardly believe his identity and she said a quick prayer to Fate. Fate had brought Jonathan to the wood’s edge that day in search of battle souvenirs, instead finding a dying man. Why had he brought him back? Even Jonathan hadn’t truly known the answer to that, but she knew Fate had brought him here so that she could heal him. The Defender, in thanks for his life saved, surely would help her Rob get his fortress back. Hope soared within her bosom; aye, Fate was to thank for this.

  Christopher slept until noon. He was roused by a gentle voice, knowing it wasn’t Marianne’s and not surprised to see Lizabetha hovering over him, a smile on her pretty face.

  “My lord, I have brought food and a razor,” she said softly. “Marianne said you lamented about needing a shave. If you will allow me, sire, I shall both feed and shave you.”

  He nodded, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He allowed Lizabetha to prop him up with a few blankets so that he was sitting up a bit. After the world stopped spinning, she fed him the broth of a stew that had been made from the remainder of their beef. It was thick and delicious and he ate the entire bowl, gratefully accepting a cup of watered ale to wash it down.

  The entire time, Lizabetha said not a word but smiled endlessly. He was polite but cool, for he did not want to encourage the girl and her obvious infatuation.

  She lay him back once again and carefully shaved his face. He made sure she left the beard, but she cleaned it up a great deal. She even washed his hair with a bit of soap and dried him gently with a towel. He knew he looked much more presentable when she blushed. He could not help but grin.

  “Your assistance is appreciated,” he said, rubbing his hand over his smooth neck. “Amazing that something as simple as a shave can improve one’s spirits.”

  Her blush deepened as she collected the bowl and razor. “You are welcome, my lord,” she said. Then, her gaze lingered on him, daring to look him in the eye. “Is there anything else you require?”

  It was a leading question, one that made him slightly nervous. “Nay,” he replied evenly. “You have been a great help and I appreciate it.”

  Lizabetha’s gaze lingered on him, suggestively, but she said nothing more as she quit the hut. Christopher kept his gaze averted until she left, only then daring to look at the door to make sure she had truly gone. Even then, he could only roll his eyes and pray the infatuation was a passing thing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Dustin and Christin had sat with Richard and the knights for most of the evening, listening to the fighting men tell tales of battle upon the sands of the Holy Land and stories of valor involving Christopher. Even though Christin couldn’t understand the stories. Still, Dustin wanted the baby there, basking in the aura of her father’s memory. It was as if he were holding her once again, so strong and vivid the tales. He was there, in spirit if not in body.

  It had been evident since the meal commenced, however, that David and Marcus were deeply at odds. Edward sided with David and Marcus seemed to be on his own island of righteousness, defensive when it came to Edward and David, yet warm and accommodating when it came to Dustin.

  He told his own stories of Christopher. Some involved Christopher, David, himself, and Christopher’s cousin on his mother’s side, a knight by the name of Kieran Hage. Another great knight on the quest, he had been killed by assassins before the quest had been complete. Christopher and David had grieved long for the man who had been like a brother to them. When Marcus brought up his name, even Richard grew saddened.

  “War is the widowmaker and kings the executioner,” he muttered philosophically. “I have seen many good men fall, all in the name of religion or conquest. I do not believe that Christopher had gotten over the death of Kieran.”

  David reflected on his massive and intelligent cousin. “Nor I,” he said softly. “To lose him as we did, to assassins no less, was tragic.”

  “We never recovered his body, did we?” Richard said before he could think. “The last I was told, he was tracked to Nahariya, but after that, he all but vanished.”

  David and Marcus, rather anxious, passed glances at Dustin, who was sitting next to Richard, with the baby sitting on the table in front of her. Richard realized they were on to a very bad subject and quickly shifted focus.

  “My lady, I understand your mother is a Fitz Walter,” he said the first thing that popped to mind, watching David wince. Another bad subject. “I… I never met your mother. Arthur spoke very fondly of her.”

  Dustin looked up from the baby, whom she was playing patty-cake with. The subject of Christopher’s cousin’s missing body did not escape her; much like her own husband, they had nothing to bury. That was all she could seem to focus on. She was struggling not to linger on those morose thoughts as Richard attempted to engage her in other conversation.

  She smiled weakly at the king. “My mother and father were married for over twenty years,” she said. “They were quite fond of
each other.”

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  She shook her head. “Only me,” she said. “If my father wanted a son, he never said so. He was very attentive to my mother and me.”

  Richard was growing worried; there didn’t seem to be many safe subjects with Lady de Lohr except for the baby. That one seemed safe enough. When Christin squealed happily as her mother played with her, Richard was glad for the diversion.

  “The child is good natured,” he said. “You are very blessed.”

  Dustin smiled at her daughter as the little girl slapped at her hands. “She is a happy lass.”

  The baby was animated, finding a used spoon from her mother’s trencher and putting it in her mouth. Marcus, across the table, made little clucking noises and Christin turned to look at him. He smiled at the baby and she grinned back, broadly. Marcus set down his cup and reached across the table, pulling her into his arms.

  He tickled the baby and made loud kissing noises on her fat little hands. Christin was delighted, but seated next to Marcus, David was clearly unhappy. He continued to watch as Marcus played with Christin until the baby grew fussy and Dustin called for Griselda. The old woman whisked the baby from the hall and they could hear her crying upstairs, unwilling to settle down for sleep. As the sounds of her sleepy and unhappy daughter faded away, Dustin sat next to the king and sipped on her wine, thinking back to the stories of her husband’s valor and trying not to miss him too much. It was a difficult struggle.

  And it was not a struggle missed by David or Marcus. They were watching her as Richard was watching them. Now that the baby was gone, the tension at the table was increasing. They had behaved for the sake of the baby but now that she was gone, there was no longer any reason for good behavior. They ended up glaring at each other over the rim of their cups. Finally, Richard reached his limit.

  “Enough of this,” he snapped quietly. “This behavior will end. Am I clear?”

  Marcus averted his gaze but David continued to stare the man down. Richard slammed his cup on the tabletop to get David’s attention.