Page 15 of Lion of Thunder (De Lohr Dynasty: Sons of de Lohr #5)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T wo hours after sunrise on the following day, Lady Elysande du Nor became Lady Westley de Lohr. There was no great celebration or fanfare, but simply the priest from St. Andrew’s who had come at Harker’s request with a host of Massington soldiers as escort. Christopher, Dustin, Esther, and Marius witnessed their children marrying at the door to the great hall, as was tradition, before moving everyone inside to the great feast that awaited.

A feast that went on all day.

The incident from the previous day was all but forgotten and, strangely, seemed to draw Westley and Elysande closer together. The both grinned through the entire wedding mass, and with the feast to follow, they remained with one another rather than separate. Westley remained by Elysande’s side until the late afternoon when, suitably drunk on the fine wine that had kept Marius soused all these months, he wandered over to the table where the de Lohr escort was sitting and confiscated one man’s citole. Then he returned to the dais and played a couple of songs for his wife, who had no idea he knew how to play an instrument. Not only was Westley an excellent musician, but he also sang one of his standard off-the-cuff songs that had his mother demanding he stop before he even got started.

The song, entitled “No Fragrant Cats at our Summer Wedding,” was not a success for Dustin.

But Elysande loved it. She begged for the first verse and Dustin conceded, but warned her against any disappointment with the contents. As Westley held back laughter, the lyrics went something like this—

We are all enjoying my summer wedding,

No more fighting with my lady… for a week or two.

Full clouds and slippery arms at my summer wedding,

No more fragrant cats for me or for you.

Elysande clapped and cheered for his song, and even the de Lohr escort, who had been severely reprimanded for their gossip by Christopher, had stepped in to help him sing it. They were eager to make amends after the trouble they had caused. The song was bizarre and silly, which was usual with Westley, and he was laughing so hard by the end of the first verse that he couldn’t continue.

Elysande thought it was all quite charming.

In fact, the day itself had been nothing that she had ever imagined her wedding would be. Though she always knew that she would wed, as all young girls knew, she had imagined her wedding to be something austere and serious. She had imagined a faceless groom and a murky future, and even when she knew of her betrothal to Westley, she still couldn’t envision her wedding much more clearly.

Fortunately, the reality was much better than she could have hoped for.

As Westley continued his cat song, even as his mother demanded he stop, Elysande thought back to the day before. It had probably been one of the most eventful days in her entire life. She’d become acquainted with the man she was to marry and they’d even suffered through their first crisis. How he handled that crisis told her a good deal of his character. He was honest to a fault, which was something she was very grateful for. He’d never tried to talk his way out of it or lie his way out of it and, in fact, went out of his way to clearly explain what had happened and why. She was certain that a couple of the things he mentioned weren’t things that he had ever planned to tell her, like the fact that he had kept company with Cedrica regardless of their betrothal, but that was something that Elysande appreciated. Perhaps truth wasn’t easy to hear sometimes, but it was truth and therefore welcome.

Difficult or not.

After that, the rest of the day went smoothly enough even though it had been early evening. She probably should have gone to bed right after she’d finished her meal with Westley, but instead, she had gone back down the stairs to her mother’s solar, where the red silk dress was still lying in a state of disarray. She sat up half the night finishing the work she had started so that by morning, the dress was wearable even if her fingers were pricked to death. She wore the red dress to their wedding mass and would never forget the look of appreciation in Westley’s eyes as he gazed upon her for the first time.

She’d never had a man look at her like that before.

Truth be told, it was quite possible that she was in a bit of a daze as the wedding feast went on around her. Even her father was in attendance, which was unexpected, but he was also quite drunk and isolated himself from the rest of the wedding guests. He simply sat at one end of the dais and drank cup after cup of wine as he watched the festivities. At some point, Christopher went to sit with him and tried to engage him in conversation, which was difficult because Marius became combative when drunk. Christopher eventually gave up and went back to sit with his wife and Esther, because the two of them still weren’t getting along and Christopher was concerned that a wildfire could start between the pair at any time. Brielle and Christin were already heading home, back to husbands and children, so there were no daughters as a buffer.

It was, therefore, a very small group that celebrated the wedding, and that group did not include Harker or Olan. No one knew exactly why, and Marius couldn’t give them an answer, so it was a big mystery. Usually, the knights of the house were considered an extension of the family and part of celebrations such as this. Only Esther seemed to give a moderately satisfying explanation, and that was the fact that both men were on duty during the daytime hours. At least that answer didn’t offend Christopher, and Westley didn’t care one way or the other if they were there.

His focus was where it should be.

On his new wife.

Frankly, he was glad that Olan wasn’t around. Although the knight had always gone out of his way to be kind to him, after what Elysande told him about their semi-romance, he didn’t want the distraction. He wanted his wife’s focus on him, and his on her, as it should be. And his was solely on her, because from the moment she’d come from the keep in the brilliant red gown, he’d been unable to take his eyes off her. In his opinion, the woman seemed to become more beautiful by the day, but it was more than her physical appearance. It was evident in her conversation and manner, too. The way she looked at him when she spoke to him. All little things that were endearing the woman to him as no one ever had been before.

And now, they were married.

He could hardly believe it.

One of the de Lohr escort offered to play the citole so that Westley and Elysande could dance at their wedding feast, and he thought it was a marvelous idea, but Elysande flushed a predictably bright shade of red and refused to do it no matter how much he tried to coax her. Evidently, she couldn’t dance, or didn’t remember what she’d been taught, and even Westley’s offer of teaching her as they went along couldn’t convince her. Therefore, he started dancing in front of her as the men in the hall cheered him on, showing her how it was done.

“This foot goes forward and then it goes backward,” he said, being quite sweet about it but also a little uncoordinated because he was drunk. “Then the person to your left will pass behind you and you must pass in front of them, like this.”

He showed Elysande what he meant by demanding one of his soldiers play the female part of the dance, so between the two of them, they showed Elysande how it was done.

She simply sat there and grinned.

“How can I convince you that not only do I not remember how to dance, but that I have three left feet and all of them going in the wrong direction?” she said. “I am not graceful like you are.”

Westley came to a halt and scowled. “I am not graceful,” he said. “I am two hundred and seventy pounds of bull meat, and if I were to take my boots off, then you would see my cloven feet. Honestly, I am not graceful, but I try to be. Will you not at least try?”

Elysande didn’t want to. She was terrified of humiliating herself in front of everyone. But she couldn’t resist Westley’s soft pleas, the gentle look in his eye that assured her he would never hurt her or shame her. He simply wanted to dance with his wife. Reluctantly, she put her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet, moving her away from the dais a little and instructing her on how to move as the soldier played the citole. They ended up twirling a bit before she tripped and they both started laughing.

From the middle of the dais, Christopher, Dustin, and Esther were watching closely.

“West was born a happy baby and he has always been a happy man, but I do not think I’ve ever seen him quite so happy as this,” Dustin said. “To think that only days ago he was fighting his brothers because they would not let him run away from this commitment.”

Christopher grunted in agreement as Esther looked over at her. “Why were his brothers involved?” she asked.

Christopher answered as he collected his cup. “Since your daughter tried to attack my son when he first came to Massington, I feel no shame in telling you that prior to our journey here, Westley was most intent to run off,” he said, sipping his wine before continuing. “West has five older brothers, all extremely accomplished knights. I called upon them to help me keep West from running away, and it was literally a battle to keep him from doing so.”

Esther wasn’t particularly surprised to hear that as she turned her attention back to the couple. “He does not seem so apt to run now.”

“Nor does she seem apt to attack.”

Esther fought off a grin. “Children can be foolish.”

“Foolish indeed.”

Even Dustin was grinning. Esther noticed her expression, and, for the first time, their irritation with each other seemed to fade. They nodded at one another in agreement over foolish children. But Esther’s smile faded as she looked to the end of the table where Marius was still sitting, very much alone. He was quite drunk at this point, leaning on the table to keep himself from falling over. She considered giving the man permission to leave the feast and retreat to his chamber. He didn’t want to be here to celebrate anything joyful—and, in fact, watching his daughter and her new husband laugh at one another was probably doing more harm than good. Marius had lamented more than once about his son never marrying, never having children.

It was probably time to let him retreat into his world of grief once more.

Rising to her feet, she was heading over to the end of the table when Harker entered the hall. That brought Esther to a halt, but only momentarily. Any sighting of Harker had her full attention, but in this case, it was misplaced. There wasn’t much she could do about it. It wasn’t as if she could run to the man. Therefore, she continued to Marius, preparing to tell him that he should seek his bed, but Harker was heading for her husband.

His handsome face was tight with concern.

“My lord,” Harker said, addressing Marius directly, “we have a visitor at the gatehouse demanding entry.”

Marius was nearly unconscious with the amount of drink in his system, barely coherent enough to answer.

“Who is it?” he asked, speech slurred. “Who is demanding entry to my home?”

“Fitz Walter,” Harker said grimly. “Samson Fitz Walter. He said he has heard of Lady Elysande’s marriage and demands entry or he will lay siege.”

Christopher heard him. “Samson Fitz Walter?” he said with surprise. “He is here?”

Harker turned to look at him. “He is, my lord.”

“And this is not a regular occurrence, I take it?”

“Nay, my lord,” Harker said. “He has only come because he heard of the marriage.”

Christopher frowned. “But how did he know about it?” he said. “More importantly, why should he care?”

“Because he offered for Ella’s hand,” Esther answered for her husband because his mind was too muddled to reply. “He has been steadily pressing for a betrothal even though he was aware she was pledged to Sir Westley, so I can only imagine he is here to create problems.”

This was all news to Christopher. “I had not known he offered for Elysande,” he said. “Why was I not told?”

Esther looked at Marius to answer, but the man was still lingering on the fact that Samson Fitz Walter had arrived and not why he had arrived. Frustrated, she answered for her husband again.

“It seemed trivial, my lord,” she said. “Elysande has had other interest and we did not tell you of that, because it does not matter. Her betrothal is to Westley and now she is married to Westley. That is all that matters.”

Christopher didn’t agree with her. “If you know Samson Fitz Walter, then you know that he has an unnatural hatred of me, erroneously pointing the blame at me for things from the past,” he said. “I have even cautioned Westley from straying to the north, near Hell’s Forge, because Fitz Walter would like nothing more than to take his hatred out on my son. Realize, Lady Ledbury, that there is a problem with your neighbor and it has come to your doorstep.”

Esther appeared both concerned and surprised. “What shall I do?” she said, looking at Marius, who wasn’t coherent enough to comment. “What shall we do, my lord?”

Christopher came around the table to where Marius was sitting. He got in front of him so he was in the man’s line of sight.

“Marius?” he said. “Are you listening to this? Trouble is at your door, man. What do you want to do?”

Marius blinked, looking up at Christopher as if only just noticing him. “Do what?”

“Samson Fitz Walter has arrived.”

It took a moment for that news to sink in, and when it did, Marius frowned. “What does he want?”

“He knows your daughter was to marry Westley,” Christopher said. “If you do not admit him, he threatens to lay siege.”

Marius had to process that. The more he understood what was happening, the angrier he appeared. “Tell that bastard he’ll not have my daughter,” he said. “She is to marry Westley de Lohr.”

Christopher sighed sharply, looking to Esther. “My lady,” he said, “if you wish for me to take charge of this situation, then say so and I shall be happy to comply.”

Esther nodded quickly, fearfully. “Of course, my lord,” she said. “Do what you will.”

With that, Christopher swung to Westley, who was still twenty feet away, dancing with his new wife and not paying any attention to the conversation over at the far end of the dais.

“West!” Christopher boomed. “To me. Now!”

That command had Westley looking at his father in confusion before moving swiftly to the man’s side. One did not ignore a command like that. He had Elysande by the hand, however, as both of them ended up next to Christopher.

“What is it?” Westley said.

Christopher looked at him, his expression grim. “We have a problem,” he said. “Do you recall I told you of Samson Fitz Walter?”

Westley nodded. “Of course,” he said. “The man who blames you for his uncle’s death.”

“Exactly,” Christopher said. “I have also just been told that he has been trying to solicit a betrothal between himself and your lady wife for quite some time, and news of your marriage has evidently reached his ears. He is, therefore, at the gatehouse demanding entry.”

Westley’s expression grew serious. “What does he want?”

“Entry,” Christopher repeated. “He said that if he is not permitted to enter, he’ll lay siege to Massington.”

“Do you believe him?”

Christopher nodded without hesitation. “Very much so,” he said. “Since Marius is incapable of making a decision in this matter, it has fallen to me.”

Westley glanced at his father-in-law as the man slumped at the table. “Then it is good that you are here,” he said. “What would you have me do, Papa?”

Christopher sighed heavily, looking at the women in the hall. His wife, Elysande, Esther… He didn’t want them to be part of whatever was coming. He thanked God that Brielle and Christin had already departed, though he would miss their counsel. In any case, Fitz Walter’s hatred was directed at him, and he didn’t want the women exposed to it. Evidently, Samson thought there was something to hash out, so hash it out they would.

He lowered his voice.

“Send the women to the keep and have them lock it up tightly,” he said. “They are not to open it to anyone except you or me or the Massington knights. No one else.”

Westley nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “Then what?”

Christopher paused a moment, thinking, before turning to Harker. “Once the women are secure, you will bring me Fitz Walter,” he told the knight. “ Only Fitz Walter. He is not allowed to bring anyone with him.”

Harker nodded smartly. “Aye, my lord.”

As Harker headed out, Christopher turned to Westley once more. “Send two of our men for Lioncross,” he said. “They are to summon my army and any of your brothers still at the castle. I want the army immediately, as quickly as they can muster it. I have a feeling we may need a show of strength, so let’s give it to Fitz Walter.”

Nodding quickly to his father’s command, Westley was on the move. He had to get his wife and mother and mother-in-law to the safety of the keep and, surprisingly, none of them argued with him as he relayed Christopher’s orders. Not even Elysande. Before she could ask to fight with him, which he was fearful she might do, Westley asked her to take his mother and her mother to the keep and secure the structure. That gave her a sense of purpose for the moment, and a distraction, as he went to the de Lohr men and told them what his father’s orders were.

Danger was looming.

And the de Lohrs were in charge.

*

“How much longer are you going to keep me waiting?” Samson demanded. “You will open these gates and admit me. I have business with Lord Ledbury.”

Olan was at the gatehouse. A light rain had started, with clouds gathering low and creating halos of mist around the torches. Only one out of the two portcullises was closed and he was standing just inside the iron grate, Samson on the other side of it with about two hundred men, Alend included. Samson knew who Olan was after Alend reminded him, because he honestly didn’t know the man on sight, but now that he knew who Olan was, he felt brave enough to make more demands.

“Do you hear me, knight?” he said. Then he lowered his voice. “Open this portcullis and admit me and my men or I will tell Ledbury that you spy for him.”

That comment drove Olan away from the grate, which hadn’t been Samson’s intent. He began to call to him, shouting at him and generally creating a ruckus. It had been that way for the twenty minutes it took for Harker to go to the hall and return. By the time he came back, Fitz Walter was shouting something to his men that Harker couldn’t quite hear. As Harker and Olan approached the portcullis, one of Fitz Walter’s men must have told him, because he whirled around to face them.

“Well?” he demanded, nearly charging the portcullis. “Admit me immediately!”

Harker well remembered Fitz Walter from his visits to Massington when he was trying to convince Marius to break the de Lohr betrothal. He remembered the man’s fits when Marius wouldn’t do it. He didn’t like the man or his manner, so it was a struggle to remain professional with him.

“Lord Hereford has granted you permission,” he said. “But only you. Your men are to wait out here.”

That wasn’t the answer that Samson wanted. His face contorted in outrage. “Hereford?” he repeated. “Where is Marius?”

“Indisposed, my lord.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he is indisposed,” Harker said, edged with sarcasm. “You may come in alone or not at all. Make your choice.”

That caused Fitz Walter to bare his teeth. With a growl, he turned on his heel, marching away in anger before swiftly turning around and nearly running back to the portcullis. There was a good deal of nervous energy in his movements as he slammed a fist against the iron grate.

“Very well,” he said. “Let me in. Do it now.”

Eyeing him warily, because he didn’t trust the man, Harker ordered the portcullis lifted about three feet. Enough for a man to slide under but not big enough for an army to come through. Samson was forced to crouch low and drag a knee in the mud before coming through, straightening up and furiously brushing at his clothing. Given that it was already dirty and torn, that was a ridiculous action, but he’d done it based on the principle of the situation. He shouldn’t have had to duck under the iron grate. The portcullis was quickly lowered behind him as both Harker and Olan escorted him out into the rain, heading for the great hall.

Samson wasn’t merely walking. He was marching. Marching straight to the hall to give Hereford, and any other de Lohr ally, a piece of his mind. He hadn’t seen Christopher in years, so he was mentally preparing for such a meeting. He was prepared to take the upper hand. He was prepared to shout and curse and bully everyone until he got his way. But just as he reached the great hall entry, he was stopped from entering by a very big body in his path.

Hereford had made an appearance.

“You’ve not changed, Fitz Walter,” Christopher said in a low voice. “Still spoilt and demanding and unwelcome. What possible business could you have with Ledbury that it requires the threat of military action?”

Already, the tables were turning against him as Samson found himself blocked from entering the hall as a soft mist fell on his face. For a moment, he studied the man before him. Enormous, imposing, a head full of neatly combed gray hair and a beard to match.

He’d recognize Christopher de Lohr anywhere.

“You, of all people, should understand the threat of military action,” he replied after a moment. “Truthfully, I thought you would be dead by now. You’re quite old.”

“I will outlive you, Samson.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“We shall see.”

“Aye, we shall.” Fitz Walter paused, eyeing Christopher suspiciously in the torchlight. “This is not your home. Why do you block my entry?”

“I’ve come to ask you what your business is.”

“That is between Marius and me.”

“Marius is not in command at this moment,” Christopher said. “I am, so state your business or I will have you thrown out.”

“Where is Marius?”

“Indisposed.”

Christopher wasn’t going to give him any more answer than that, and Fitz Walter’s irrigation was growing. “My business with Marius is about a proposal I presented to him,” he said. “It involves his daughter, so this is none of your affair.”

The soft hum of a broadsword being unsheathed filled the air. It came from behind Samson, and, startled, he turned to see an enormous knight standing several feet behind him and behind Olan and Harker, who were still on either side of him. Since the torchlight didn’t go that far, all he could see was an outline and the unmistakable glint of a metal blade.

Samson went for his own sword.

Harker and Olan were on him in a minute, confiscating the sword he tried to present. But not without a fight—Samson didn’t want to relinquish it, so it turned into a bit of a battle until Olan finally got it away from him. But Samson was in fighting form now.

He was positively furious.

“You have a knight pull a sword on me, yet you will not allow me to defend myself?” he nearly shouted. “How dare you treat me with such contempt! My business with Marius is none of your affair! I have told you so!”

Christopher pointed to the shadowed warrior several feet away. “I would like to introduce you to my son, Westley,” he said. “Marius’ daughter is now his wife. If you have come about her, then you must discuss any business with him. And he does not seem to be too happy about your presence, so I suggest you state your business quickly.”

Those words seemed to cool Fitz Walter off at astonishing speed. He stared at Christopher a moment before turning again to Westley, who hadn’t moved. He was just standing there, sword in hand.

Waiting.

“The privileged son,” he finally muttered. “The privileged son of a father who achieved his wealth and success through greed and murder. There are many men in England who will not shed a tear when your father dies, young Westley. I will be one of them.”

Westley didn’t say anything, but Christopher did. “That does not sound like business, Fitz Walter,” he said. “State what you were so frantic to state and get on with it. The sooner you leave, the sooner we’ll be able to get the stench of your visit out of our nostrils.”

Fitz Walter nodded as if happy to comply. “Very well,” he said. “Marius promised me that he would consider my offer for his daughter. He promised me that he would consider breaking your contract. I have a claim on the lady, you see.”

Westley didn’t wait for anything more to be said. He marched up on Samson as the man stood his ground, reaching out with his free hand and grabbing the back of his neck. Then he started to drag the man back to the gatehouse as Samson resisted. The fists began to fly.

Westley’s sword clattered to the ground.

It was a brawl as Westley dragged Samson toward the gatehouse. Samson was tall, but he didn’t have nearly the strength that Westley had. Still, he seemed to be holding his own in a fight against a muscular opponent. Harker, Olan, and even Christopher followed. Harker went to intervene but Christopher called him off. If Westley was to be lord of Massington someday, then the rules had to be established.

Westley had to prove himself unbeatable.

The soldiers on the walls were watching the fight as it unfolded. They saw, clearly, when Westley grabbed Samson by the hair and flung him in the direction of the gatehouse. The man hit the ground heavily and slid several feet in the muck. As he tried to get to his feet, Westley was on him again, grabbing him and continuing to toss him toward the gatehouse. The second time, however, Samson got to his feet faster and managed to land a heavy blow on Westley’s face before Westley laid the man out with a devastating right-handed punch to the head. Samson went down and stayed down. Wiping blood from his nose, Westley ordered the portcullis lifted.

“Get him out of my sight,” he said as blood and rain poured down his face. “Olan, you and Harker escort him back to his men and make sure they depart.”

Harker nodded, grabbing Samson by one arm as Olan grabbed the other. Together, they dragged him underneath the half-lifted portcullis and dropped him at the feet of his stunned men. Harker went back inside the gatehouse, but Olan remained. He watched Alend and a few others pick Samson up and try to bring him around. When he finally regained his awareness, he began striking the men around him in anger, Alend included.

In order to avoid more embarrassment, Alend moved the army down the road so the men wouldn’t see how soundly Samson had been beaten. That left Samson trying to shake the bells out of his ears with Olan standing a few feet away, monitoring the situation. When Samson caught sight of Olan, he jabbed a finger at him.

“This is not over,” he snarled. “I will have my vengeance. Mark my words. And I will have your hide for your betrayal!”

Olan didn’t react to the threat. “Leave now and there will be no more violence,” he said steadily. “I am not entirely sure what you expected when you came as you did. You cannot take what you want by force, you know.”

Samson was picking himself up off the road, shoving Alend aside when the man tried to help him.

“I have been betrayed,” he said, coughing because Westley had somehow also managed to hit him in the throat during the struggle. “Marius knew I wanted to marry his daughter. I had presented the idea to him for a year—a long year—before he told me that she was pledged to a de Lohr. He led me to believe that a marriage between me and his daughter was possible. Did you know that? He misled me! And Hereford… The man has wronged me one too many times. He is a greedy, murdering bastard and deserves as much pain and anguish as God and his angels can deliver!”

Olan didn’t know much about the dealings between Samson and Marius, but he did know that Samson had been a frequent visitor, once—at least every couple of months. He would bring wine and pretend to be a good ally when what he was really doing was trying to buy Marius’ daughter. Buy her with wine and good behavior and pledges of taking care of the Massington properties. That much information had trickled down.

In truth, Olan felt guilty because he’d sent word to Samson about Westley’s arrival. He was the one who had caused this scene, in essence. He’d hoped that Samson could separate the couple, or stop the marriage at the very least, but he’d come too late. The marriage was set. And the only way to separate Elysande from her husband now was death.

Westley’s death.

Olan sighed heavily, glancing over his shoulder to see that everyone at Massington was standing far enough back that they couldn’t hear the conversation. That was good, because he didn’t want anyone to hear what he had to say. He had to make a choice now—either stay on the path of the morally righteous or head down the road of the damned. Unfortunately for Olan, the darker road was more attractive to him. He found himself heading down into the darkness because his love for Elysande was blinding him to the ways and means by which he could legally and morally have her. Or, at the very least, so she would be unattached. It was nothing personal against Westley.

He simply didn’t want the man around.

“Will you bring your army and lay siege now?” he asked. “That is what you threatened if you were not admitted. Is that what you intend to do?”

Samson waved a hand at him, nearly throwing himself off balance. “I will not tell you,” he said. “You will tell Hereford.”

Olan shook his head. “I will not tell him anything,” he said. “You may not be aware of the fact that I did not want Elysande to marry Hereford’s son either. If anyone should feel betrayed, it should be me.”

Samson scowled at him. “ You? ” he demanded. “Why?”

“Because I love her,” Olan said simply. “I have loved her since the day I met her, yet she married another today. You do not love Elysande so you would not understand. But you do understand what it is when the person you want is taken by another.”

Samson stared at him. A few long seconds passed before he cocked his head curiously. “You are in love with Marius’ daughter?”

“Aye.”

“Then you must want vengeance as much as I do.”

Olan shrugged. “To be truthful, I was hoping you would stop this marriage today,” he said. “But you came too late.”

Samson conceded the point. “Why did you not stop it yourself?”

“Because I would not last long against Westley de Lohr,” Olan said. “You saw how he handled you. He would break me in two.”

Samson turned his face toward the mighty walls of Massington. “Oh, would I love to subdue that bastard,” he muttered. “Subdue him and watch his father beg mercy for his son. I can do nothing against Hereford, but give me his son and I can control the man. My great nemesis. Hurt the son and you will hurt the man.”

Olan could hear something in Samson’s ramblings, something that sprouted a seed of thought. Samson hadn’t prevented the marriage, but it was possible that there were other avenues to pursue that would separate Elysande from her new husband.

Hurt the son and you will hurt the man.

That gave Olan an idea.

“Your quarrel is with Hereford, is it not?” he asked.

Samson grunted, still looking at the walls of Massington. “He killed my uncle,” he said. “Killed the man in cold blood. I would do anything to tear Hereford’s heart from his chest and watch him bleed.”

“And if I bring Elysande’s husband to you, what would you do with him?”

Samson did look at him then. “Bring him to me?” he repeated, confused. “Why should you bring him to me?”

“So Elysande would be free.”

“Free for you or free for me?”

“Me,” Olan said. “But how badly do you want to hurt Hereford?”

Samson didn’t have to think hard on that question. “Badly,” he muttered. “My hatred of him is embedded into the very earth I walk upon, the very air I breathe. I cannot move without that hatred to give me strength.”

“Then I will give you the son,” Olan said quietly. “I care not what you do with him, or how you exact your revenge from Hereford, but Elysande is mine. That is the price you will pay for the vengeance you seek. And when I marry Elysande, you and I will be close allies.”

He had Samson’s attention. “How close?”

“I will give you the run of Massington and a portion of her wealth.”

“And the duchy?”

“The title will be mine, but I will pay you a stipend from the properties.”

If Samson couldn’t have Elysande, then the deal Olan was offering was quite generous. Even he knew that. But the best thing of all was the ultimate vengeance against Christopher de Lohr. For his Uncle Ralph, the former Sheriff of Nottingham and close aide to King John, Samson was willing to agree to the terms, if only to satisfy his uncle’s memory.

If only to satisfy that old blood feud.

His father would have been proud.

“Very well,” Samson finally said. “Bring Hereford’s son to me. Do what you must do in order to bring him to me, but do it immediately. I will be ready and waiting.”

“And you will surrender any claims on Elysande?”

“I will. Providing you give me something in exchange.”

Olan nodded. And with that, he waved both hands at Samson in a sweeping motion so that anyone watching would think he was chasing the stubborn man away. When Samson started limping down the road, where Alend was waiting far down the way, Olan turned back for the gatehouse. The portcullis lifted for him and he slipped underneath, all the while his mind working, thinking, churning.

Processing the deal he’d just made with the devil himself.

For Olan de Bisby, a rather disloyal creature and an apathetic knight, the future was about to take a deadly turn.