Page 22 of Lion of Thunder (De Lohr Dynasty: Sons of de Lohr #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

H is conversation with Samson didn’t go as planned.

Now, he was locked up.

After his initial introduction to Samson, Westley had remained in the chamber with the man for quite some time. Samson spoke very little because Westley was trying to convince the man that he’d never wanted to marry Elysande in the first place, but Westley was starting to think he’d laid it on too thick. He’d been too obvious in his resistance to the marriage. He’d overplayed his hand and Samson had caught on.

After too much conversation and even some arguing, Samson had left the chamber sometime before dawn, taking the raven with him, and he’d bolted the chamber door once he left. That left Westley in that cold, cluttered chamber with no fire, no food, and no bed. He also needed a physic to tend the wound on his head because it was swollen and his head ached a great deal. All he wanted to do was sleep.

Lying on the floor, he tried to get comfortable.

Sleep came.

But for how long, he didn’t know. He was awakened by the sound of the bolt on the outside of the door being thrown, so he struggled to push himself into a sitting position to face what was possibly another round of Samson’s demented gloating. The man clearly had a huge hatred for Christopher, and it was difficult for Westley to sit through that and not react, but he was trying to present the image of a well-behaved captive because, chances were, Samson would let his guard down at some point.

He could only hope.

The door opened, sticking on its old and rusted hinges, revealing the other man who had been in the chamber with Samson. Westley didn’t know his name, but he did remember throwing water at him. Therefore, he eyed him warily.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The man stood by the door, ready to run and slam it in case he needed to. “I came to see to your head,” he said nervously. “Fitz Walter does not want you to drop dead just yet.”

Westley snorted softly. “Just yet , is it?” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position against the wall. “He is saving my death for something more spectacular?”

The man didn’t reply, just entered the chamber. He was carrying a tray with a collection of items on it and set it down on an old, leaning table near the hearth. Just as he was organizing the things on the tray, a poorly dressed servant entered carrying a bucket of what turned out to be kindling and peat. As the servant tended to the hearth and started a meager fire, the man carrying the tray handed Westley a compress.

“Put this on your wound,” he said. “It will help.”

Westley looked at the compress, a tightly folded cloth. It was damp and heavily rubbed with something. He could see the bits of petal and leaf. He sniffed it.

“What is this?” he asked.

The man gestured at Westley’s head. “A paste of golds,” he said, referring to a medicinal flower that was commonly used for wounds. “Put it on your injury.”

Westley did. He figured he had nothing to lose at this point. Gingerly placing the compress on the wound, he held it there, watching the man as he fussed with things on the tray. An odd sort of silence settled, one of apprehension and perhaps even a little fear. There was something heavy in the air, something that made Westley uneasy.

The unknown always did.

“What will happen now?” he asked.

The man picked up a cup. “You will eat.”

“That is not what I meant.”

The man handed Westley the cup, which turned out to have some kind of stew in it. Westley didn’t recognize the meat, but he didn’t care. He was starving and began to slurp it down. As he was doing so, the servant who had been at the hearth slipped out, closing the door behind him. That left Westley alone with Samson’s man.

A man who moved closer to him now that they were alone.

Westley noticed his movements and was mentally preparing to defend himself. He had no idea why the man should move closer to him, but he could guess. Perhaps he was an assassin. As Westley anticipated taking the man’s legs out from beneath him and then pouncing on him, the man came to a halt just outside of the range of Westley’s feet. He simply stood there, watching.

Waiting.

Westley tensed, preparing for what was to come.

“Listen to me and listen well,” the man whispered. “I want to know that if I help you escape, will your father see to it that I have a position of safety within his house?”

Westley stopped slurping the stew. He was still tense, still waiting for the first blow in a fight, but the seconds ticked away and nothing was forthcoming. After several long seconds of pause, he resumed eating.

“Whatever you are doing, it will not work,” he said.

“What will not work?”

“I will not agree to let you help me escape only for Fitz Walter to be waiting for such an attempt,” Westley said. “It would give him an excuse to execute me.”

The man shook his head. “He will not know,” he said with quiet urgency. “I know you do not trust me, but I beg you to at least listen to me. My name is Alend. I have served Fitz Walter for many years, and each day of my life that I spend in his presence could be my last. I want to leave as much as you do. Probably more. I have never had the opportunity to leave, but with you, I see that opportunity. Will you assure me of a place within the de Lohr household if I help you escape?”

Westley finished the stew and set the cup down. “As I said, I will not fall for your trick.”

“It is not a trick, I swear.”

“Go back to Fitz Walter and tell him I am not as stupid as he thinks I am.”

Alend sighed sharply. “If you want to live, you will listen to me,” he said. “Fitz Walter has an unnatural hatred for your father and your family. He fully intends to kill you in revenge for your father killing his uncle many years ago. He views it as a reckoning. An eye for an eye, as it were. And then he intends to lay siege to Massington and collect your wife as a spoil of war.”

“I am not listening to you.”

“If you do not, you will die.”

The man said it with some conviction, enough that Westley looked up at him. His position was starting to waver, just a little, mostly because he had no other choice. He was locked up deep in a castle he didn’t know and there was no one else to help him. He was alone.

Except for Fitz Walter’s servant.

Still, he was quite wary.

“So you want to help me escape if I will promise you a position with my father when we leave?” he said.

“Aye, my lord.”

Westley smiled thinly. “What a perfect way to plant a Fitz Walter spy next to my father.”

Alend’s eyes widened at the implication. “Nay, my lord, that is not what I mean at all,” he said. “I do not have to serve with your father. I can serve anywhere in the de Lohr household. I can even serve with an ally so long as the man is fair.”

Westley waved him off and turned his head away, effectively ending the conversation, but Alend was desperate. He’d been thinking of this proposal ever since the visit to Massington when Samson was badly beaten by Westley. Alend had to admit that he’d found fiendish delight in every blow Westley delivered to Samson. When Westley was captured, with Olan’s help, no less, Alend saw an opportunity. He was so tired of living in fear and in filth, serving a madman. He was afraid he’d never have another chance like this.

If only he could convince Westley that he was sincere.

“My lord,” he said, hoping desperately to catch Westley’s attention, “I was trained as a knight. My father was a very minor nobleman, so my opportunities were limited. I trained at a small castle in Cornwall, Trematon. It is a relatively insignificant castle in the grand scheme of things, which meant when I earned my spurs, my choices were limited. I met Fitz Walter in London, at a church festival. I did not know him, or what he was like, and when he offered me a position, I took it instantly. I did not even think about it. And that has been the greatest regret of my life, because Samson Fitz Walter is an evil man with evil intentions. I have lived with the threat of death hanging over my head since I swore fealty to the man. I do not know if I can ever live without fearing my liege, but I want to try. I cannot live like this any longer. I am asking for your help.”

By the time he was finished, Westley was listening seriously. Alend was trembling, his voice quavering and his eyes welling. The man looked like a nervous wreck. Either it was extremely good acting or it was the truth.

Westley’s stance was wavering further.

Given the fact that he was the captive of someone who hated his father deeply and made no secret of it, he knew he was in a bad position. And, frankly, Fitz Walter didn’t need an excuse to execute him. He already had an excuse, given the fact that Westley was Christopher de Lohr’s son. That made his theory that Alend’s help would lead him into a trap a moot point. Given that logic, perhaps the man was serious.

It wasn’t as if Westley had any other choices in escape routes at the moment.

“Why haven’t you left before if it was so terrible here?” he asked. “Why not return to Cornwall, where you trained?”

Alend seemed surprised that his plea had elicited an actual response that didn’t include a refusal. “I… I suppose I could return to Lord de Vautort,” he said. “I simply wanted to do something bigger and better than a small castle in a wild land.”

“So you came to Hell’s Forge.”

“I did, my lord.”

Westley paused a moment, wondering if he could trick the man into betraying his true intentions, to reveal if Fitz Walter really was behind this little scene. He might not have any other escape choices, but he still didn’t trust this short, rather meek knight. Truthfully, he couldn’t believe a man such as this actually was a knight.

He seemed like more of a slave.

“If you are so fearful here, then why did you not leave long ago?” Westley said. “If you feel as if Fitz Walter is going to ram a sword into your chest every day, why stay?”

Alend shrugged. “Because I was happy to be here, at first,” he said. “My cousin serves at Massington and I could be near him. We could be proud in our service together, side by side with allied castles. My father could be proud. If I ran, my father would be shamed and so would my family.”

“Who is your cousin?”

“The man who brought you here. Olan.”

Westley’s eyebrows lifted. “De Bisby?” he said, feeling his anger rise. “Olan de Bisby is your cousin?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Westley snorted rudely. “The man betrayed me,” he said. “What makes you think I will trust his cousin?”

“I did not have to tell you that he was my cousin, my lord.”

Alend had a point, but Westley was still feeling his rage. “When I see your cousin next, I am going to kill him,” he said. “Now are you still so eager to help me escape?”

Alend nodded. “I am,” he said. “Because I would escape with you and serve at a house far greater than anything Olan could serve. My lord, you know why he betrayed you, don’t you?”

“Because of my wife.”

“Exactly,” Alend said. “Because of a woman. Your wife. Olan has been in love with Lady Elysande for a very long time. Of course he did not want you around. Fitz Walter gave him the opportunity to rid himself of your presence and he took it. I have no such need to be rid of you.”

He had another point, but Westley was still wary. “I trusted your cousin and it was a mistake,” he said. “I cannot say I am in any hurry to trust you.”

Alend nodded. “I realize that,” he said. “But if you do not, you will die. Every second that ticks away is a second where Fitz Walter may decide to kill you and send your body back to your father. I am certain your father would not react well to that.”

That vision settled Westley down a little. “Nay, he would not,” he agreed quietly. “Nor would my mother. Or my wife, I suspect.”

Alend turned and went back to the tray on the table, collecting a cup. He returned to Westley, crouching down in front of him as he extended the cup.

“I know you do not want to trust me,” he said quietly. “I do not blame you. But I swear to you upon my oath as a knight that I mean what I say. We can escape together and return to your father. I am trusting that you will advocate on my behalf for your father to accept my fealty. Westley, we must both trust each other if we are to survive this.”

He addressed Westley informally, giving his final plea some impact. If Westley didn’t trust him, then the future was probably short and bleak. But if he did…

There was a chance.

“Very well,” Westley muttered, reaching out to take the cup of watered wine. “What did you have in mind?”

Alend told him.