Page 8 of Lion of Thunder (De Lohr Dynasty: Sons of de Lohr #5)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Massington Castle

T hey’d been pleasant to one another.

Not only that, Westley and Elysande had entered the great hall at the same time and gone to take their places at the dais with their respective parents without a word of complaint. No fighting, no arguing. Not even a nasty look. Westley told Christopher in confidence that a truce had been declared between the two of them, so the situation would be much more pleasant from now on.

Christopher could hardly believe it.

But the proof was before him. Not to say he doubted his son, because he trusted the man with his life, but in this situation, it seemed that this truce was all too simple. People didn’t simply surrender years and years’ worth of belief and resistance. It just wasn’t that easy. Therefore, he sat through the feast feeling suspicious of every statement, every move. He was mostly suspicious of the young woman at the other end of the dais because from what he’d seen earlier that day, he didn’t entirely trust her not to pull out a sword and come charging across the table.

That, he would have believed.

But this truce? It didn’t seem convincing.

However, they managed to make it through the feast that night without an incident, which was encouraging, but Christopher couldn’t help but notice that lady du Nor seemed almost as suspicious of the truce as he did. She, too, was watching her daughter carefully to make sure she wasn’t trying to lull the entire group into a false sense of security before she went on a rampage. Christopher had to admit that he was watching her for the exact same reason.

When the feast was over and they’d retired to bed, Christopher breathed a sigh of relief. Westley had passed out on one of the two beds in the chamber they shared and had promptly begun to snore. He hadn’t even taken his boots off as his long legs dangled over the edge of the mattress. It was Christopher who, with a heavy sigh, unlaced his son’s boots and pulled them off his stinking feet. He had to laugh because Elysande had mentioned that she could smell Westley from where she stood when they first arrived.

Christopher was convinced she wasn’t wrong.

She smelled his son’s feet.

Stench aside, Christopher still managed to fall asleep and awake before dawn. The sounds of the fortress coming alive as the horizon turned pink wafted through the windows. Heaving his old bones out of bed, he washed and dressed and slipped out into the dawn to check on the escort and the horses. Once he made sure all was as it should be, there wasn’t much for him to do, so he simply began to walk the bailey, looking at this enormous castle that would someday belong to Westley. He was over by some outbuildings when he noticed another person walking in his direction. It took him all of a split second to realize that Lady du Nor was coming in his direction.

He greeted her politely.

“Lady du Nor,” he said, pausing in his walk. “A good morn to you.”

Esther smiled weakly. “And to you, my lord,” she said. “How did you sleep?”

“Well enough, thank you. And you?”

“Terrible.”

His brow furrowed. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “Should I summon a physic?”

Esther sighed sharply. “Nay,” she said. “But you can help me.”

“How?”

“You can tell me what your son said about this alleged truce between him and my daughter,” she said. “Honestly, my lord, I am not sure if I trust her when she says it. It has kept me up all night. Even now, I fear she is plotting your son’s destruction, so I must know. Do you believe your son when he told you of this peace accord between them?”

Christopher suspected that might have been her trouble. He could tell last night that she was having difficulty with the concept of an instant truce between two warring parties, just as he was. But she seemed to be far more suspicious.

Probably with good reason, since her daughter had historically been the aggressor.

“Mostly, I believe him,” he said with a shrug. “At the very least, I believe he is being honest. But I share your concern. The two of them were so adamant about not marrying that this abrupt cessation of hostilities is… confusing.”

Esther grunted. “Concerning is more like it.”

Christopher eyed her. “Do you seriously think your daughter is lying about her feelings on the matter?” he said. “Have you spoken with her?”

Esther shook her head in exasperation. “Only at supper,” she said. “She went to bed shortly after leaving the hall and I did not have an opportunity to speak with her further, but like your son, she at least conveys a belief in this so-called truce. I can usually tell when she is lying, but this time… I am not certain.”

Two puzzled parents looked to each other for answers, but in this case, there were none to give. Christopher started walking again, this time with Esther falling in beside him. Nervous energy was working itself out as they paced the outer bailey.

“Let us review this logically, then,” Christopher said. “Last evening, they somehow came together before the feast. That is established.”

“But how?” Esther said. “I did not arrange it. In fact, I instructed my daughter to apologize to you and your son after I heard what she had done. I was expecting her in the hall.”

“Then she must have seen Westley before she entered the hall and apologized,” Christopher said. “He did not leave my sight until he stepped out to find the garderobe. Come to think of it, he was gone for some time. Mayhap he wandered and they happened to find one another?”

Esther shrugged. “Possibly,” she said. “I have a suspicion she was trying to find the courage to enter the hall when she came across Westley.”

Christopher nodded. “That must be what happened,” he said. “They crossed paths and, knowing this is not something that will resolve itself without effort, had a conversation and came to a truce.”

Esther didn’t speak for a moment. “Does it not seem strange that they have so suddenly stopped their hostilities?” she said. “They were mortal enemies until last night. Is it possible a simple conversation stopped everything?”

“Or they want us to think it stopped everything.”

Esther came to a halt, her eyes wide at Christopher. “A ruse!”

“Anything is possible.”

“Do you think that is the case?”

Christopher sighed heavily. “I truthfully do not know,” he said. “Where is your daughter now?”

Esther gestured toward the south side of the castle. “Near the troop house,” she said. “You may as well know that since her brother died, she has been training as a warrior. She spends her days with the knights.”

Christopher frowned. “Why does she do this?”

Esther lowered her gaze. “My son’s death devastated his father,” she said. “The man has spent nearly every day since drunk because he cannot deal with the pain. Ella has trained as a warrior to somehow lift her father’s spirits, to somehow be seen by him. He hardly acknowledges her. She does it to please him.”

Christopher appreciated the insight into Elysande, something that was clearly not easy to speak of. “The death of a child is a shattering experience,” he said. “Particularly an heir. I am sorry that your daughter feels a need to step into her brother’s boots.”

Esther shrugged. “Marius has made us all invisible since our son’s death,” she said, trying to appear brave about it. “Truthfully, I hope that Westley’s appearance might bolster Marius. That he might return to the man he was before Emory’s death.”

“Does he even know Westley is here?”

“He knows,” she said. “I told him yesterday when you arrived. What he does not know is that Ella attacked Westley upon arrival. In fact, this returns us to what we were just speaking of. Whether or not their sudden truce is a ruse.”

Christopher grunted as the subject came around again. “I certainly intend to question West about the situation, to be sure. Or…”

“Or what ?”

He held up a hand for patience. “Bear with me while I think this through,” he said. “I promised my wife that I would see Westley wed as soon as I arrived. If we were to suggest an immediate marriage, that might show us the truth of any truce. If there truly is such a thing, then they will be amenable. But if there is not…”

“Then it shall come out in the open,” Esther said with satisfaction. “Honestly, my lord, I can fight my daughter when I know what I am fighting. It is when she is hiding something that the trouble starts.”

Christopher glanced at the hall behind him, the keep. “Then let us not allow them to start any further trouble,” he said. “Summon a priest and we shall have the mass said in the hall tomorrow. Let us move forward with this marriage and be done with it. No more refusals, no more resistance.”

Esther liked that idea. “Agreed,” she said. “I will tell Ella. I am curious to see her reaction.”

“As I am curious to see Westley’s,” Christopher said. Then he scratched his chin thoughtfully. “If there is not truly a truce, then the marriage may be just what they need. I will confess that my wife and I fought when we first met. Neither one of us wanted the marriage, but we were bound to it. We were forced into it. As it turns out, it was the best thing I’ve ever done. It is a hope that West and Elysande will feel that way, with time.”

Esther shrugged. “Or they will kill each other and we will only have ourselves to blame.”

Christopher snorted. “Let us hope it does not come to that.”

Esther couldn’t share his optimism, though she was trying. “Aye,” she muttered. “Let us hope.”

Christopher didn’t think she seemed too convinced.

Truth be told, neither was he.

*

Oddly enough, he felt the same way this morning as he had last night.

That was surprising.

Westley hadn’t been exactly sure if he would hold the same opinion of Elysande that he had last night, but he was shocked to realize that he did. He’d awoken to an empty chamber, as his father was gone, so he found himself lying there for several long minutes, pondering the conversation he’d had with Elysande the day before.

He could still hardly believe that it had happened.

She had been… pleasant . More than pleasant, she’d actually shown a sense of humor. She’d shown interest in his conversation. He was still having trouble believing that she’d been so compliant, but given the fact her mother had dealt her an evidently swift beating because of her earlier behavior, perhaps that had been enough to convince her that hostility would no longer be tolerated. He truly hoped that common sense was gaining a foothold with her because he honestly did not want to fight the woman for the rest of his life.

He could only hope that she felt the same way this morning, too.

Rising from his lumpy bed, he realized that he had fallen asleep in his clothing, but that was nothing new with him. He often wore the same clothing for weeks at a time, something his mother would constantly harass him about. You smell like a goat, she would say. Perhaps that was true, but it wasn’t as if he had anyone to smell good for, and his friends certainly didn’t care, so more often than not, he simply laughed at her.

Dustin had never taken well to that.

With thoughts of Elysande on his mind, he went to pull his boots on and caught a whiff of his feet, which made him stop and think. Yesterday, Elysande had mentioned that she could smell him from where she stood, and, given the stench coming from his boots, he realized what she meant. She wasn’t wrong. He took a good, long sniff of each boot and realized just how bad they smelled. Then he began to sniff his tunic and his armpits and realized that he did, indeed, smell bad.

Perhaps his mother and Elysande hadn’t been wrong.

He had to do something about it.

His father’s saddlebags were in the small chamber, which was lodged into one of the towers close to the keep. Male guests weren’t usually housed in the keep if there were women inside, so he took no offense to the fact that he and his father, a great earl, had been relegated to a neighboring tower. Seeing his father’s possessions stored neatly under the bed, Westley pulled out one of the smaller satchels. He knew what his father usually traveled with and, as expected, came across hair combs, soap, and a razor, among other things. Westley had never traveled with those things and, quite honestly, wasn’t even sure he owned a comb, but he knew that today was a day that he should probably use such a thing. He didn’t want to look, or smell, like a goat any longer.

Pulling out the soap and the other things, he went to the door and summoned hot water.

He didn’t have to wait long for the servants to bring him a basin and a couple of buckets of steaming water. Westley proceeded to strip down and wash himself in the hot water using his father’s soap. It was some of the finest that money could buy, made in Castille, and it smelled strongly of rosemary and thyme. Westley scrubbed himself from top to bottom, hopefully removing all of that horrible smell, and that included his feet. He actually sat on the floor to wash his feet before dousing his entire body with one of the buckets of hot water.

He was fairly certain he had scalded the skin right off his body.

Next came his face. He always had a bit of a beard, like his father did, but in his case it was simply because he was too lazy to shave. Today, he was going to make an exception, and he used the soap and his father’s razor to shave off a rather scraggly beard. He also proceeded to wash his hair, something he didn’t do nearly as often as he probably should, and scrubbed until he was positive his scalp was bleeding before rinsing out the soap with the rest of the water. The wood floor was now covered with water, but he didn’t care. He’d have the servants dry it up before his father returned. After combing his hair and feeling rather naked now he didn’t have a beard on his face, he dried off using one of the linen sheets on the beds and then stole some of his father’s clean clothing so he would have something fresh to wear.

And with that, he was ready.

For what, he wasn’t sure, but he was ready for anything that came his way. Perhaps a certain young woman he’d only seen in the darkness last night, even in the great hall, or camouflaged in a helm and protection when she’d attacked him. Truthfully, other than shadowed views, he’d never seen her clearly in the light of day. He was rather curious to see if his first impressions of Elysande were correct.

Off he went.

The morning had a hint of haze in the air, although the sun was desperately trying to burn it off. The ground was wet and muddy from the damp night as the soldiers around him went about their business. The first thing Westley did was check on the horses that had pulled the carriage the day before, just to make sure there were no swollen tendons or other concerns. He found the animals, all four of them, in a small corral outside of the stables, eating from buckets of grain. A nearby stable servant told him that his father had already been there, so Westley continued on out into the bailey, looking for his father amidst the activity.

Although he didn’t catch sight of Christopher right away, he did see something going on over near the south side of the bailey. Upon closer inspection, he could see men gathered around a pair that seemed to be fighting.

Curious, he headed in that direction.

As Westley drew nearer, he could see that it was more of an instruction than an actual fight. Harker of Kent was instructing a pair of warriors, at least one of them being a knight. Westley could tell by the way the man moved. He came to a pause and watched, realizing very quickly that Elysande was the other fighter. Harker was trying to convince her that emotion was deadly in battle, something that seemed elementary, but that she clearly thought would work to her advantage. She was arguing with the man strongly on it.

Westley thought it was all rather comical.

“He is right, you know,” he said loudly. “Emotions in battle will get you killed.”

All heads turned to see Westley standing back behind the gathered crowd, mostly taller than everyone else. He had a booming voice that carried a mile. But he was smiling as Elysande removed her helm.

“Can you not use them to your advantage?” she called back to him, unwilling to back down. “Emotions feed the soul. If you are in the heat of battle, the soul must survive. Can emotions not fuel that?”

Westley was still smiling as he shrugged, coming closer to the center of the action. “I understand what you are saying,” he said. “But most men cannot control those emotions. They become reckless with them. That is what Harker is trying to teach you. If you are to use your emotions, you must manage them. Can you manage them?”

Elysande gazed up at him, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “I can,” she said confidently.

Westley grinned. In the light of day, she was absolutely spectacular. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman of such beauty and brightness. There was nothing about her face that wasn’t perfect, and coupled with that bright smile and long, glorious hair, he had to admit that he wasn’t disappointed. Quite pleased, actually.

This wasn’t the same runt he’d known those years ago.

“Let’s see,” he said, turning to the knight she’d been sparring with. “May I use your blade, my lord?”

The knight nodded, handing over the heavy weapon. “You may,” he said. “Mayhap you will have better luck with it against her than I have had.”

Westley snorted softly. “Somehow, I doubt it,” he muttered. “I do not mean to overstep, but it’s apparent I must make my point. I do not mean to usurp whatever you were doing.”

The knight grinned and removed his helm. “Not in the least,” he said. “Mayhap you will have better luck with her. She does not want to seem to listen to me or Harker.”

“Your name?”

“Olan de Bisby, my lord.”

Westley simply nodded, turning to face Elysande as she fought off a smile. She was several feet away, fully armed, wearing protection that didn’t exactly fit her, but she had tried to make it work. She was sweaty, and a little dirty, so it had been clear that she’d been out here for a while. He wasn’t sure if this was work or play, but when it came to swords and battle, he took everything seriously.

“I do not recall that you trained with the men at Warwick,” he said.

She shook her head. “I did not,” she said. “But since the death of my brother, I have asked Harker to train me as a warrior.”

“Why?”

Her smile faded. “Because I am the only du Nor left,” she said. “If we have trouble, then I must be prepared to defend my family’s home.”

Westley looked at Olan, at Harker. “You have knights for that, do you not?”

She was beginning to get exasperated. “Are you going to talk or do you want to fight?”

Westley fought off a grin at her impatience, looking at the sword in his hand. “’Tis a fine weapon,” he said, looking back at Olan. “Yours?”

Olan nodded. “It belonged to my father.”

Westley took a second look at it. “Quite fine,” he said. Then he turned to Elysande. “When it comes to emotion in battle, the only one you should have is courage. Courage is simply fear mixed with determination. Determination that you should not fail because if you do, you will die. Others will die. If you bring any emotion to battle other than courage, then you are risking everyone around you. Have you been taught that?”

His eyes flicked up to Harker, who was sitting on the perimeter of the group. The older man nodded slowly.

“I have told her,” he said. “Mayhap you should reinforce it.”

Westley’s focus returned to Elysande. She was watching him, completely off her guard, listening to his words with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. From the brief conversation he’d heard between her and Harker, he could see how stubborn she was. Stubborn and confident that she was in the right.

“Lady,” he said slowly, “if you are not listening to your trainer, then you are already dead.”

Her chin went up. “I do listen to him,” she insisted. “But there are things I do not agree with.”

Westley cocked his head. “And you base your opinion on what?” he said. “Your endless years of fighting battles? Your already-extensive training? The fact that you have watched a man die on your sword?”

The men gathered around began to laugh, and Elysande’s expression lost all humor, all defiance. Now, she was growing angry.

“It does not take vast experience or years of battle to know some things,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like… like motivation in battle,” she said, her cheeks growing red with embarrassment because the men were still laughing. “I can use my fear and anger as motivation and it has nothing to do with courage. Anger is courage.”

“How do you define that?”

“Because you use it as motivation to fight.”

“Anger and fear will paralyze you.”

“I do not believe that.”

Westley didn’t say anything. He was looking at his sword again. But suddenly, the sword was up and he was charging Elysande like a runaway bull. He had been about twelve feet from her, and by the time she realized he was moving, he was nearly upon her. She screamed in fright and lifted her sword, clumsily backing away and trying to escape a truly large man with a sword that moved like the wind.

Sword still up, but in a very precarious position, Elysande ended up tripping over her own feet. As she fell back, Westley was on top of her, sword arcing, and she gasped again as the blade came down right next to her head. She tried to roll out of the way, but the sword came down again on the opposite side. Furious, and terrified, she began swinging her sword at him indiscriminately, and all he had to do was take one good swing and knock it from her grip. Then he swung his sword over her head again, about two inches from her face, and she came to a horrified halt, frozen in fear, eyes shut tightly. She was waiting for the next strike to slice her. But there was no next strike.

Westley had made his point.

“That,” he said quietly, “is what I mean by fear paralyzing you. I could have killed you and there was nothing you could have done about it. The point is that emotions do not help you. They hinder you. And in battle, you must suppress all of them except for courage. That is the only emotion that will do any good at all.”

Elysande opened her eyes. Westley was standing over her, and she could see Olan and Harker come up on either side of him. Olan looked rather sad while Harker seemed to have no emotion at all. When Westley moved from his dominant position over her, Harker reached down and pulled her to her feet.

“Now do you see?” he said, his voice low and unsympathetic. “You do not listen, Ella. Do what I tell you to do and if you ever go into battle, you may survive.”

Humiliated, and verging on tears, Elysande quickly moved away, heading back to the armory where she stowed her gear. Olan, wanting to be sympathetic to her embarrassment, turned away and dispersed the men, chasing them back to their duties. Only Harker was left with Westley.

“Although I do not know the circumstances as to why the lady was partaking in swordplay, I think she should know this is not a game,” Westley said. “She could be seriously injured or worse if she does not listen to you.”

Harker turned in his direction. “She has spirit,” he said. “And she never thought it was a game. She is very serious about learning how to fight.”

“Not serious enough.”

Harker’s brow furrowed. “How can you judge that?” he said. “You have been here less than a day. You do not know her enough to make that statement.”

There was an edge to his voice. Westley could hear it. “I did not mean to offend,” he said. “I simply meant she does not seem to take your advice seriously.”

“You do not know enough to make that statement, either.”

There was a bit of a challenge in that assertion. Westley had been trying to be kind, but he didn’t like an old knight who wanted to tell him what he felt or what he knew. His polite manner was suddenly not so polite.

“I know enough to know that yesterday, she charged me the moment I walked through the gatehouse,” he said. “It was a stupid move at the very least. Reckless was more like it. I could have seriously injured her if I’d wanted to. Her recklessness is because all of the men she spars with will take pity on her—and if you are serious about training her, then that is something that should be drilled into her head. Show no mercy and treat every man as if he wants to kill you. If you are going to train her, train her correctly.”

Harker’s bright blue gaze moved over Westley, studying him. “And you think that because you come from the House of de Lohr, you can dictate what is correct and what is not correct for all of us?”

That statement was most definitely a challenge. Harker had taken offense to Westley’s words and manner, but Westley didn’t have time for an old man who had his feelings hurt easily. Facing Harker, he took a few steps in the man’s direction.

“Aye, I do,” he said. “My father is the greatest knight of his generation and I have five older brothers who are all exceptionally accomplished. I know more about training and warfare than almost anyone in England, you included, so this is not an area I am inexperienced in. Moreover, no more training for Lady Elysande. We are to be married and I do not want my wife lifting a sword, so her schooling with you ends here. Thank you for your expertise, but your services are no longer needed.”

With that, he turned away, heading in the direction that Elysande had gone and leaving Harker standing there with the remnants of his pride bleeding out into the dirt. He wasn’t a great warrior and he knew it. Training and managing men was all he had. He didn’t like the de Lohr whelp making it plain that he wasn’t a better man than most.

The lines, between Harker and Westley, had been drawn.