Medieval Master Warlords (33 page)

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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.”