Page 18 of Lion of Thunder (De Lohr Dynasty: Sons of de Lohr #5)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Two days later

H is head was killing him.

That was the first thing Westley was aware of. A throbbing, dull, sickening ache. When he tried to open his eyes, one eye would open but the other one wouldn’t. He seemed to be blind in his left eye.

And he had no idea why.

He didn’t even know where he was.

Where in the hell am I?

It was a question with no answer.

“So?” came a voice from the darkness. “You are finally awake? I was wondering if you ever would be.”

Westley shifted around, finding it difficult to move because his head felt as if it weighed more than a horse. He could hardly lift it. But with his good eye, he could see that he was on a floor. Somebody’s floor.

He grunted in pain.

“Where am I?” he rasped.

“You are with me,” a man said. “Do you recognize me?”

Westley could hardly keep his good eye open. “I cannot see you,” he said. “Who are you and where am I?”

The man came around to the front of him. Westley could hear the footsteps. “Think, de Lohr,” the man said. “What is your last memory?”

Westley genuinely had no idea. He lay there, on his back, eyes closed and his stomach lurching. He bent a knee up, changing the position of his right leg to take some of the strain off his back, as he lay there and suffered.

“I do not know,” he said, sighing heavily. “Massington. I was at Massington.”

“You were married.”

“I was.” Suddenly, Westley was struggling to sit up in a panic. “My wife. Where is my wife?”

Someone kicked him in the left shoulder, shoving him back to the floor. “She is not here,” the man said. “If she were here, she would belong to me, not you. You stole something from me.”

Westley was in agony. He hit his head again when he fell back, and stars were dancing in front of his eyes. Both eyes, so he knew he still had sight in the eye he couldn’t currently see out of. His mind was muddled, but it was working. He lifted a hand to touch the closed eye, realizing he had blood or mud or something caked on it. All the while, however, he was thinking on the man’s words.

You stole something from me.

That gave him a final clue as to where he was.

“Fitz Walter,” he said after a moment. “I’m at Hell’s Forge.”

“You are.”

“I was told you wanted to speak with me,” Westley said. “What is the meaning of all of this? What have you done to me?”

Samson gazed down at Westley, sprawled out on his solar floor. “You have figured out who I am,” he said, avoiding the questions. “I wondered if you would.”

“What am I doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“If it was, I would not have asked.”

Samson grunted. “Then you are as stupid as your father,” he said. “He is a murderer and a thief, you know. I should not be surprised that his son is also a thief.”

“What did I steal?”

“My wife.”

“I did not steal Elysande,” Westley said, struggling with his temper. “She was never yours to begin with.”

Samson drew back a booted foot and kicked Westley in the left thigh. Westley grunted, but he didn’t flinch. He simply lay there, listening to Samson move around him.

“My offer to Marius was fair,” Samson said, sounding irritated. “But he tricked me. I think he used my offer to coerce a more lucrative offer from your father.”

Westley groaned as he sat up unsteadily, waiting for another boot to come flying at him. “I will not speak of your betrothal offer,” he said, hand to his aching head. “I want to know why I am here. I was told you wanted to speak with me and I was told you wanted a truce. That you regretted your actions at Massington. I came to your gatehouse and…”

“And I dropped a stone on your head,” Samson said.

Now things were starting to make sense. “So that’s what happened,” Westley muttered. “I remember riding up the gatehouse and then… nothing.”

“That is because we saw you coming and were prepared.”

“To kill me?”

“To capture you.”

There was a long pause as Westley digested that. “Then you lied to Olan to get me here.”

“Nay,” Samson said. “Olan lied to you .”

Confused, Westley tilted his head back to look at him. “ He lied to me?”

Samson eyed him. “He does not want you married to Lady Elysande any more than I do,” he said. “After you so unfairly beat me at Massington, Olan promised to bring you to me. He wanted you away from the lady, and I was happy to comply. I want you away from her, too.”

Now, everything was laid clear to Westley. He could see what had happened and silently cursed himself for being so bloody stupid. He’d trusted a knight he didn’t know—a knight he knew to be in love with his wife, no less—and tried to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Olan had seemed sincere, as if he truly wanted to help Westley protect Elysande against Fitz Walter’s threat.

But he didn’t want to help Westley at all.

He wanted to hurt him.

Damn…

Now, Westley was in a bind. He was a prisoner of a man who hated his father and had for many years. More foolish still was the fact that he’d walked right into it. He’d been too gullible, which wasn’t a trait he usually possessed. He’d developed a keen sense of caution over the years, one that had served him well, but in this case, he’d let a knight talk him into something he was unsure of to begin with.

He should have gone with his gut.

Damn!

If he was going to survive this, he was going to have to think of something and think fast. He was going to have to be cleverer than the people who’d duped him, although given where he found himself, that might be a monumental task because he’d walked right into this with his eyes open. Now, he was going to have to think like they did—or try. He was going to have to get himself out of a situation that could very well mean his end.

“So I am away from her now,” he finally said. “Give me some water to wash off the blood before you decide what to do with me. At least let me see death when it comes.”

Samson’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he motioned to Alend, who had been standing by the door the entire time. The man went darting off to find water for the prisoner as Samson stood over by his table, by the raven who had been watching the event with its beady eyes, and watched Westley struggle.

“Now,” Samson said, “you and I are going to have a serious discussion.”

“What about?”

“About you signing your death confession.”

Westley frowned, tilting his head back to look at the man. “What confession?”

Because Westley was looking at him, Samson picked up a cup of wine and took a healthy swallow. He knew Westley must have been very thirsty, and hungry, so he was going to make it hurt.

“A confession that you deliberately stole Elysande from me,” he said. “A confession that your father colluded with Marius to steal her from me.”

“What do you need something like that for?”

Samson took another swallow. “To take to the king,” he said as if Westley were an imbecile. “I want the king to see how the great Earl of Hereford and Worcester wronged me and wronged my entire family. My hatred for your father goes way back, Westley. Far, far back. I want the king to know the character of the man he trusts so much, and from his own son, no less.”

Westley thought the man sounded deranged. Samson Fitz Walter wasn’t a rational man. He was speaking of old grudges and imagined thievery, which meant Westley couldn’t really contest him. It would only drive the man to anger and perhaps even something desperate. Westley had to recover a little before he could take Samson on physically, which meant he had to stall. Perhaps he even needed to feed the man’s fantasies, anything to keep him from going mad and trying to kill him.

Westley had one thing in his favor—he wasn’t in the vault. He was in a chamber, unguarded, and he intended to keep that status. He was going to have to do what he needed to do in order to survive.

He hoped his father and wife would forgive him.

“Thank God,” he muttered.

Samson eyed him. “Why are you thanking God? He has done you no favors by allowing you to end up here.”

Westley grunted, long and deep. “I thank Him because you see what I see,” he said. “No one ever sees what I see, but you have. Truthfully, I did not even know about you until I was forced to come to Massington. Forced into a marriage I wanted no part of. Why did you simply not abduct Elysande and marry her? If you had, I would not have had to.”

Samson stared at him for a few moments, warily. “What are you talking about?”

“Just that,” Westley said loudly, smacking his hand against the floor. “It is your fault I had to marry Elysande. I never wanted to. I tried to run but my brothers captured me, and then I was transported to Massington in a fortified carriage I could not escape from, where I was forced to marry Ledbury’s daughter. I never wanted that!”

He was speaking so passionately by the time he was finished that Samson was mildly taken aback. But he was also greatly suspicious.

“Do not lie to me,” he snarled.

“I am not lying,” Westley insisted strongly. “If you do not believe me, ask anyone at Massington what happened when I arrived. Elysande attacked me with a sword. She tried to fight me. Do you think I want to marry someone like that? If you think so, you would be mad. Nay, good sir, you are more than welcome to Elysande. Let me escape to France or Flanders, and you can tell everyone you killed me and then marry her—but I warn you, she is not worth the trouble. She will try to kill you when you sleep because the woman is mad.”

Samson eyed him unsteadily. “Is this true?” he said. “I can easily find out if this is true.”

Westley jabbed a finger at him. “Then I suggest you do,” he said. “All of it is true. I was brought to Massington in a cage and Elysande attacked me when I arrived. Whatever source you have at Massington, because clearly someone is giving you information, ask them. They will confirm what I have said.”

Samson was slowly sliding into confusion. He had not expected this kind of reaction from a man he’d just abducted. Westley seemed more than happy to let him have Elysande.

Nay, he hadn’t expected that at all.

Alend chose that moment to return bearing a bowl of water and rags. He tried to hand them to Westley on the floor, but Samson ordered him to put Westley at the table. Alend put the water and rags on the table before pulling Westley to his feet and helping him stagger into a chair. As Westley picked up the rag and began cleaning his face off, Samson stood back by his raven and frowned.

“Then I shall discover the truth,” he said, watching Westley use the water to soak away the crusted blood on his eye. “If you have lied to me, your punishment shall be swift.”

Westley looked up at him, the rag over one eye. “And if I am telling you the truth, I would be more than happy to bring Elysande to your doorstep,” he said. “I never wanted this to begin with. I’ve got another lady I’m fond of over in Daventry, and she’s the one I would rather wed.”

Alend was standing nearby—Westley could see him out of the corner of his eye. He thought that, perhaps, he’d better show that he was sincere and in control, not cowering and hoping Samson would believe his lies. He had to play the game. With a growl, he threw the water bowl in Alend’s direction, spraying water all over the wall.

“Get me clean water,” he demanded. “And bring me some food!”

Given that Westley was big, and muscular, and the least bit frightening, Alend fled to do as he’d been ordered. But Samson remained over by the table that contained his writing kit, empty cups, junk, and that old raven. He simply stood there and watched, trying to figure out if Westley really was lying to him.

Trying to figure out if he should kill the man where he sat.

But he wouldn’t. At least, not now. In spite of his doubts, Samson was rather interested in how Westley reacted to all of this. In fact, a thought occurred to him as Westley painfully peeled off some of the dried blood from his eyebrow.

“If you did not want this marriage and all is as you say, why did you attack me when I came to Massington?” he said. “I had come to speak to Marius. You did not need to involve yourself.”

Westley winced as he pulled away a rather large blob of dried blood. “Because you were threatening my father,” he said. “In spite of the marriage, he is still my father.”

Samson absorbed that statement. Westley was more agitated than he had been, his faculties returning along with his rage. And perhaps even his fear. Samson touched his jaw where Westley had hit him back at Massington, feeling the familiar ache and remembering the pledge he’d made after he was beaten and humiliated.

I can do nothing against Hereford, but give me his son and I can control the man.

Hurt the son and you will hurt the man.

Now he had exactly what he wanted in front of him. He had the son of his nemesis, and if Westley was to be believed, there was a crack in the foundation that was Hereford. The youngest son, possibly rebellious against his father? It had been known to happen. Kings often had sons that were against them. So did great earls, evidently.

It was possible.

Perhaps this would be better than Samson had planned.