Nunnery Brides

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “How old is your father now?” he asked.

  Allaston swallowed hard. “I… I am not exactly sure,” she said. “I believe he has seen fifty-eight or fifty-nine years.”

  “Does he still go to war?”

  She shook her head unsteadily. “Nay,” she replied. “He has not gone to war since I have been alive. I have never known my father to fight.”

  That seemed to surprise the knight, for his eyes flickered and she thought she saw confusion in the mysterious depths. There was puzzlement at the very least.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “I have seen nineteen years.”

  The knight’s sense of confusion seemed to increase. “Your father has not gone to war in nineteen years?” he asked as if astounded by the mere thought. “But he is a warlord. How is that possible?”

  Allaston wasn’t sure what all of these questions were about, but as long as she continued answering him, the knight seemed to remain calm. She was determined to keep him calm.

  “I do not know,” she said. “He… he did do some warring before I was born. I know because my mother told me, but I have never known the man to fight, even when his liege called for aid. My father sent his men but he did not go.”

  “Who is his liege?”

  “Yves de Vesci, Earl of Northumberland.”

  The knight just stared at her. His grip seemed to lessen as he pondered her words, but the confusion in his expression was soon replaced by suspicion.

  “Your father is the most wicked warlord ever to walk the earth,” he finally said. “His atrocities are legend. Surely you know this.”

  Allaston was perplexed by the path of the conversation but she was afraid to say the wrong thing. His grip on her arm had lessened, that was true, but she was positive it would grow brutal again the moment she said something he didn’t like. She could see it in his eyes, an edginess that bordered on madness.

  “I have heard of my father’s past,” she said honestly. “My mother has told us… things. But he has not done that in over twenty years.”

  The knight just stared at her. It was apparent that the entire conversation with her had him seriously mystified. Allaston gazed back at him, waiting for the next barrage of questions and fearful that she would say something to displease him. He’d already proven he would kill with the slightest provocation. She didn’t want to become his next victim. After several long seconds of staring at her, of perhaps mulling over his next move, his grip on her tightened once again and he dragged her over to one of the knights standing nearby. He thrust her at the man.

  “Take her,” he ordered. “No harm will come to her. Is that clear?”

  The knight reached out and grabbed Allaston by the arm. “Aye, my lord.”

  He began to walk away with her in his grip but Allaston dug her heels in. “Wait,” she said anxiously, craning her neck over her shoulder to look at the big knight. “Where are you taking me?”

  The knight with the bright blue eyes didn’t answer. He simply flicked his hand at the knight holding Allaston and the man yanked on her, pulling her away and back towards the bulk of the army. The knight with the bright blue eyes watched her go, watching her as she disappeared into the darkness and contemplating his next move. It wasn’t long in coming. He crooked a finger and motioned to the nearest knight.

  “Find me one woman and one woman only,” he said. “Make sure she is sane and speaks clearly. I have a message for her to deliver.”

  The knight with the big scar across his lip nodded. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “And the others?”

  The big knight’s gaze moved to the priory behind them, now burning solidly. Heavy, dense smoke spit into the night sky and the fire was spreading. Soon, it would hit the dormitory where the women had come from. He didn’t want to leave an entire herd of witnesses, witnesses who could come back to haunt him in more ways than he could comprehend. He was a man who tended to eliminate anything, or anyone, who could contest or oppose him. He was a man who had learned a long time ago the value of a human life; there was none.

  “Take them back into the church and lock them in,” he said, his voice low. “Make sure the doors are secured so they cannot get out. The fire will do the rest.”

  The knight with the scar nodded smartly and went on his way, muttering the orders to the other knights and a few soldiers standing nearby and, together, the group of them began herding the women back towards the burning priory. The women, realizing that they were being corralled to their doom, began to wail and plead for their lives. Before the big knight turned back for his charger, he saw a couple of his soldiers grab two or three of the women and pull them away from the pack. As he mounted his horse, he could hear the screams of those women being raped.

  It made no impression on him. Nothing in life ever did. He had a mission and he had since he’d been five years of age. Nothing was going to stop him in his quest to see his mission completed and now he had what he had come for. After years of planning, of suffering, and of hard work, his scheme was about to come to fruition as he’d hoped. He finally had a de Velt.

  Now, he would set the trap.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lioncross Abbey Castle

  Hereford, Welsh Marches

  Three weeks later, the month of June

  The Earl of Hereford and Worcester was a man known throughout England. Much like William Marshal or Hubert de Burgh, Christopher de Lohr had the reputation of power, wisdom, and connections to the crown but, unlike the other two, when it came to the de Lohr dynasty, there was much more fear and admiration in the mix. The man, and his brother, David, had seen much service in the name of Richard, much of it in The Levant and in France, and that made them more experienced warriors than most. The de Lohr war machine was legendary.

  It was a legendary status that came with responsibility, however. The de Lohrs had held the Marches for years, and quite ably, so when there was trouble along any stretch of the Welsh Marches, all roads seemed to point to de Lohr as a source of aid. However, the most recent trouble experienced along the northern stretch of the Marches in Shropshire was something different from the usual raiding or isolated skirmishes. This had the earmark of conquest, much as a similar surge several years ago had. As Christopher had read the missives from the north, from the Earl of Shropshire no less, he couldn’t help the sense of foreboding that had swept him. He didn’t want to think about the potential for another devastating surge against the borders, but that’s exactly what this seemed to be. What’s more, Shropshire seemed to put a name to all of the chaos – de Llion. Christopher had recognized the name and immediately sent for someone he suspected might have more information on it.

  Christopher sat on Shropshire’s missive for eight days, the time it took for him to send a missive to Whitebrook, in Wales, and for the man he sent for to make his way to Lioncross. But once that man appeared, Christopher had convened all of his knights with the exception of his brother, who was in Kent, to discuss the missive from Shropshire.

  It was a bright afternoon in late May when de Lohr assembled his men in his richly appointed solar in the bowels of Lioncross. The old castle had stood on that location longer than any other structure on the border. It had once been a Roman outpost and a church before it had been incorporated into a castle. Therefore, the walls around them held more of a sense of experience and doom than most.

  All of them men could feel it, particularly the man that had ridden from his home in Wales just due west of Gloucester. Sir Rod de Titouan, a handsome man with black hair and lively blue eyes, wasn’t exactly sure why he had been summoned by the great de Lohr, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Something was brewing and Christopher evidently wanted him to be a part of it. Having arrived from Wales only an hour before, he was seated in the solar with a cup of good wine and a platter of food at his fingertips. The knights who wandered in to join him in their wait for de Lohr were all men he had fought with. He liked seeing his old friends again.

  �
�De Titouan,” Edward de Wolfe, Christopher’s right-hand man, smiled warmly at Rod as he entered the room. A tall man with golden-hazel eyes, he was brilliant and politically savvy, and it was rare that Christopher made a move without him. He reached out to clap Rod on the shoulder. “It has been a long time since I last lay eyes upon your ugly face.”

  Rod grinned. “A year, at least,” he said. “It was last February, I believe. I have been fifteen months without your hideous hide and I have considered myself blessed.”

  Edward laughed loudly and moved to take a second cup of wine from the pitcher on the table next to Rod. “Blessed, indeed,” he scoffed. “You have missed me terribly. Admit it.”

  Rod, still grinning, took a long drink of wine. “Never,” he said staunchly. “But, because I do not wish to see you weep like a woman, I will say that I am somewhat pleased to see you.”

  Edward clinked his earthenware cup against Rod’s, in a toasting gesture. “As am I,” he said quietly, taking a long drink. “How is it at Bronllys Castle these days?”

  Rod shrugged. “I spend my time between Bronllys with my grandfather and Whitebrook with my mother,” he said. Then, he sobered dramatically as sad memories came to the forefront. “She is not the same since Rhys’ death, you know. Nothing brings her comfort except for Rhys’ son. Maddoc seems to be the only one she will warm to these days. My father is very worried for her.”

  Edward’s expression softened. “Your brother was a great man,” he said, deep sorrow in his tone. “I still cannot believe… that is to say, I keep expecting him to walk through the door at any moment. The man was so big and powerful and vital. I cannot accept that he is gone. I cannot accept that Lawrence is gone, either. That raid on Ludlow last February was a particularly devastating one. We lost two of the best knights I have ever known.”

  Rod nodded faintly, thinking on his older brother, Rhys du Bois. He was his half-brother, actually, a massive man of uncanny strength and skill. Last year, Rhys had been entrusted with a mission of vital importance and ended up falling in love with the woman he had been sworn to protect. He has lost his life trying to keep her safe. At least, that was the story everyone knew. The accepted truth was that Rhys and his lady-love had died after being captured by opposing forces, but the reality was something much different. The only people in the entire world who knew the real story were David de Lohr and Rod, and they would take that secret to the grave with them. The secret was that Rhys, in fact, had not died on that misty morning. He had escaped, as had the lady, and were now living in anonymity in France. But, in a sense, Rhys du Bois had died that day, at least, the man they remembered had.

  But Rod shook himself from that secret, fearful that he might say something to inadvertently suggest he knew something more to the story. Instead, he sought to change the subject and tried not to be too obvious about it.

  “I miss Lawrence,” he said, pouring himself more wine. “As frightening as the man was, I still miss him.”

  Edward was back to smiling, a lopsided gesture. “He was as gentle as a kitten,” he said, “provided one did not anger him.”

  Rod was back to smiling also as he drank his wine, glad to be off the subject of his brother. “True enough,” he said. “Now, tell me, why am I here? What has happened that the great and mighty de Lohr has sent for me?”

  It was a given fact that whatever Christopher knew, Edward knew, so Edward didn’t try to brush off the question. In fact, he thought to give Rod a bit of a warning so that he wouldn’t be blindsided by Christopher’s interrogation. Setting his wine cup down, he drew up the nearest chair.

  “Trouble in Shropshire,” he said quietly. “We received word from Robert de Boulers, Earl of Shropshire, that there is a mighty army sweeping through his lands, conquering or destroying everything in their path. They laid siege to Clun Castle and Knighton, badly damaging the castles and stripping them of nearly everything of value before moving to the Marches and taking Cloryn Castle. Then, they moved north where they raided Dolforwyn Castle, moved north into Shropshire, and burned Alberbury Priory to the ground.”

  Rod was looking at him with great concern. “Burned Alberbury?” he repeated, incredulous. “God’s Teeth, what army is this?”

  Edward was grim. “Mercenaries from what we are told,” he said. “The army has literally come out of nowhere, although there is rumor that they came by cog from Ireland and landed in Liverpool. They went south from there and ended up on the Marches.”

  Rod’s eyebrows lifted. “Irish mercenaries on the Welsh Marches?” he spoke in disbelief. “Are we certain of this?”

  “Nay, not entirely certain. It is only rumor.”

  It was startling information. Rod grunted. His astonishment was evident. “We have heard of the siege of Cloryn Castle,” he said. “It is north of Bronllys Castle, about a two days’ ride, and we heard from a passing merchant that the castle had been taken but he did not know by whom. This is the first I have heard of a mercenary raiding party moving along the Marches and it is definitely the first I have heard of a priory being burned.”

  Edward was shaking his head. “This is no ordinary raiding party,” he said softly. “There is a pattern to this madness, evidently. De Boulers has been watching it closely because most of the activity has been along his borders, but Cloryn is not that far from where we sit. Therefore, Chris is watching the activity closely as well. This not only affects Shropshire but it affects Hereford as well. Think about it, Rod; Cloryn Castle taken? Clun and Knighton raided? Sweeping onward towards Montgomery and Powis? Think on your history, man. We have seen this before. What does this say to you?”

  Rod thought very hard on the question but before he could answer, the solar door opened and a massive man stepped into the room.

  Christopher de Lohr, Lord Warden of the Marches, Earl of Hereford and Worcester, looked directly at Rod as he entered. A massive man with a crown of thick blond hair and a neatly trimmed blond beard, he indeed resembled a lion. His nickname during the time of Richard had been the Lion’s Claw because he had been Richard’s champion. Much of the politics of England during Richard’s reign had been directly attributed to de Lohr and his ability to hold the throne for a king who had spent very little time in England. Even now, as the man stood in the room, it was as if he had sucked all of the air out of it. One was left to gasp in awe. Men such as de Lohr were living legends.

  “Rod,” Christopher said, greeting the man with an outstretched hand, which Rod rose to take in friendship. “The last time I saw you, it was in battle in the snow. You are looking considerably warmer.”

  Rod shook his hand firmly before releasing it. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, eyeing Edward. “Mayhap I am warmer, but de Wolfe thinks I have only grown uglier. I will grant you that I am not as handsome as my brother was, but I suffer not when it comes to feminine attention.”

  Christopher grinned, revealing straight, white teeth. “Edward has always been jealous of your beauty, so pay him no attention,” he teased. “The sons of Orlaith de Llion are beauteous lads, indeed.”

  Rod laughed softly. “My mother is a beautiful woman, so that would stand to reason,” he said. “Although I believe my father might claim some credit, at least for me and my younger brother. We are de Titouan, after all. De Llion is only on my mother’s side and they tend to be a motley bunch.”

  Christopher nodded, a grin on his lips, but he soon sobered. There was no more time for pleasantries as far as he was concerned. “I heard Powis and Montgomery mentioned as I came in the door,” he said, shifting the focus to the subject of Rod’s visit. “I would assume that Edward has told you about the missive from de Boulers?”

  Rod sobered as well, reclaiming his seat as Christopher confiscated a chair near the hearth. “He has,” Rod said. “I have not heard of most of this, except we did hear about Cloryn Castle.”

  Christopher eyed Edward. “Did you tell him everything?”

  Edward shook his head. “Only of the pattern of destruction,” he said
. “We did not discuss anything beyond that.”

  Christopher grunted, collecting his thoughts for a moment. When he spoke, it was with the intrinsic seriousness of a man who had seen much death and destruction in life.

  “Since Edward has told you the gist of what has gone on, I will come to the crux of it,” he said. “There is a mercenary army raiding through the mid-Marches following the pattern that Ajax de Velt set out twenty-five years ago when he blew through the Marches and confiscated six castles and burned countless others. I was not at Lioncross Abbey during that time and my wife, who grew up here, does not remember the fear of that time because she was too young, but I have spoken with local lords who well recall that terror. De Velt, as you know, was like nothing England or Wales had ever seen. The man was from the depths of Hell itself in both tactics and ferocity.”

  Rod’s expression was very serious. “I know,” he said. “I remember it, too, simply because my mother’s brother was the garrison commander of Four Crosses Castle at the time. That is up north, towards Powis Castle, if you recall. I remember my grandfather, my mother’s father, speaking of de Velt impaling his son on a spike for all to see and leaving the man’s body at the entrance to the castle for about six months before they finally took him down and buried him. My uncle had a family as well, a wife and two children, but they were lost in the destruction. The entire family was killed and my grandfather still harbors the hatred and fear of that time. I have heard him speak of it.”

  Christopher’s gaze lingered on the man, thoughts rolling through his sky-blue eyes as he looked steadily at Rod. He chose his next words carefully.

  “There is now another army doing the same thing de Velt did,” he muttered. “Only this army has done something de Velt did not do – burn Alberbury Priory. But they did not burn it at random. They went there with a goal in mind.”