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CHAPTER TWO

“T here can’t be more than three or four hundred men in there, Curt.” A young knight with blond hair pulled into a ponytail at the back of his grimy neck was speaking. “I believe we’ve rounded up almost everyone. I’ve got more men heading into the keep and outbuildings to make sure.”

Sir Curtis de Lohr listened to the report from his brother with satisfaction. “Well done, Myles,” he said. They were standing in the open gatehouse, with the burned gates and lifted portcullis in front of them. Everything was twisted and burned, indicative of efforts of the English. “Nearly a month of siege, two hours of fighting once we breached the walls, and it’s all over. Seems almost a disappointment.”

Myles grinned. He, too, was looking at the gatehouse as de Lohr men moved in and gangs of prisoners were moved out. There was still some fighting going on in places, but for the most part, the castle had surrendered.

“I was hoping for more of a fight once we got in,” he said. “We’ve had no fight at all for a month, and other than building platforms and launching projectiles over the wall, it has been rather dull.”

Curtis was amused. “You can always punch a Welshman in the face as he walks by you on his way to being imprisoned.”

Myles shook his head. “It is no fun unless he fights back.”

Curtis chuckled at his younger brother. “Agreed,” he said. “Mayhap there is still a Welshman or two left who would be happy to continue the fight, but I’ll have to stand aside. My squire took my sword to be cleaned already, a sure sign of the end of battle. Who is in charge of sweeping the keep, by the way?”

“Roi and Sherry,” Myles said. “Sherry has Adam and Andrew and Gabriel with him, so they’ll make short work of the keep. I swear those boys are more frightening than their father ever was.”

Curtis snorted. “Look at who their mother is,” he said. “Our dearest sister Christin could take on an entire army by herself and probably win. How Alexander de Sherrington ever tamed our bold and terrifying sister is a mystery.”

Myles eyed him. “You do not favor a bold woman, eh?”

Curtis shook his head firmly. “Give me a lovely, sweet, well-bred daughter of an earl who will produce strong sons and never speak her mind,” he said. “ That is the perfect woman.”

“That is a boring woman.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Are you truly telling me you do not fancy a woman with a little fire?”

Curtis shrugged. “A spark, mayhap,” he said. “But I do not need an entire roaring blaze. In fact, did you see what happened to me earlier on the wall?”

Myles shook his head. “I did not,” he said. “But Amaro told me about it. Your knight told me that, somehow, you found yourself a Welsh warrior woman?”

Curtis sneered in distaste. “She found me ,” he said. “Just as I was coming over the wall, she hit me in the chest, and we both fell about ten feet to the platform below. Foolish woman could have gotten us both killed.”

“What did you do to her?” Myles asked, trying not to laugh at Curtis’ utter insult at having been knocked over by a woman. “Is she alive to tell the tale?”

Curtis grunted. “I took her to Papa,” he said. “Let him deal with her.”

“Who is she?”

“I do not know,” Curtis said. “She kept saying the castle was hers, so mayhap she can tell Papa everything he wants to know.”

Myles lifted his big shoulders. “He knows something about unruly women,” he said. “He has daughters like that. In fact, he married one. But if you tell Mama I said that, I will deny it to my grave.”

Curtis smirked. “I will not tell her,” he said. But his smile faded when he saw his brother, Richard, whom everyone called Roi, through the open portcullis. The man was out in the destroyed bailey gripping a sandy-haired man who seemed to have trouble walking. “Who is that with Roi?”

Myles spied them, too. “I do not know,” he said. “But I will find out.”

Curtis nodded. “Go,” he said. “I am heading back to the wall. The last I saw, there were still pockets of fighting up there, and I want to quell them.”

Myles was already walking into the bailey as he waved off Curtis, who turned toward the eastern wall. He hadn’t taken five steps when he heard someone shouting his name.

“Curtis!” a voice boomed. “ Uncle Curt! ”

Coming to a halt, Curtis turned to see his eldest brother, Peter, heading in his direction. Following Peter were his two eldest sons, Matthew and Aaron. Tall and raven-haired Matthew was close to being knighted, while Aaron was a few years younger, nearly as tall, but had a few more years of squiring ahead of him. Aaron was the fiercer of the two and looked more like a de Lohr, with his father’s blond looks, but he was quite disheartened to be a squire. Still. Walking behind them, and bringing up the rear of the group, was Peter’s brother-in-law, Asa ben Thad.

Curtis held up a hand in greeting.

“Well?” he said as the group drew near. “What kind of damage are we seeing on the western wall?”

Peter, though the eldest de Lohr brother, was not the heir. He was his father’s bastard who had come to live with the family before Curtis was born. Though no one had ever treated him differently, and he was very much a member of the family, the truth was that Curtis was the heir. Eleven years younger than Peter, he was the one who would inherit everything from his father, including the earldom, though Peter had earned quite an empire in his own right. Ludlow Castle was his property, among a few others, and he had wealth and prestige and a gorgeous wife, born a Jewess, though she had converted in order to marry Peter. Asa was Liora de Lohr’s brother, and Peter and Liora had several children and a happy life together.

There was no one on the marches more respected than Peter de Lohr.

“The western wall has folded,” Peter announced. His helm was off, his cropped blond hair streaked with dirt and sweat. “My men were able to get grappling hooks into the holes we opened up and have pulled themselves through. I came to see the damage from inside.”

Curtis swept his arm in the direction of the gatehouse. “Go,” he said. “I’m going to take a look at the wall walk. There was still some fighting when last I saw.”

“’Tis a fine victory, Curt,” Asa said, his blue eyes gleaming with the thrill of battle. “I shall long remember the damage of those rocks as they pounded into the western wall. Magnificent!”

He was grinning as he threw up his arms, mimicking the concussion of rocks and dust when the projectiles damaged the wall. Then he charged off toward the gatehouse with Matthew and Aaron behind him. Curtis and Peter watched him go, various stages of amusement on their faces.

“For a man who was not trained as a knight, I have never seen someone more enthusiastic about battle,” Curtis muttered, grinning. “I will never go into a fight again without Asa. The man is fearless.”

Peter chuckled. “He got a late start, that is for certain,” he said. “He would not come to fight with us until his father passed away, God rest his soul. All Haim wanted was for his son to follow in his footsteps and become a jeweler, but all Asa wanted was to become a knight. He is a man of two different worlds more than most.”

“He fights like he was born to it.”

“He was not born to it.”

Curtis knew the story. Asa had been born Jewish, like his sister, but the man had been a fighter from a young age. It became a point of contention as he grew older between him and his elderly father, who had married quite late in life, so in order to keep the old man happy, Asa turned away from any hope of becoming what he really wanted to be—a knight—to become what his father wanted him to be. Haim ben Thad had passed away five years ago, and Asa showed up at Ludlow Castle shortly thereafter, asking to be trained as a knight.

It was his dream.

As it turned out, he was a very fine warrior, and although he’d not yet been formally knighted, and would not be unless he converted to Christianity, it didn’t matter to Asa. He fought with the knights, lived with them, and served with them.

And he loved every minute of it.

“He’s a good man to have,” Curtis said, having grown to appreciate Asa. “Every time the siege engines launched, he cheered as if he had just witnessed the greatest event of all time.”

Peter grinned. “He loves it all,” he said. “Speaking of greatest events, surmounting the wall was a brilliant move on your part. You have ended this awful siege, and I, for one, am grateful.”

Curtis dipped his head in thanks. “When will you be heading home?”

“Soon,” Peter said, scratching his head wearily. “You?”

Curtis moved his gaze to the hulking bastion of Brython, his mood sobering. “I think I am home,” he said after a moment. “Papa has mentioned that he wants to garrison Brython, and he wants me to assume command. He’s fearful of the Welsh tide that will undoubtedly return to reclaim it.”

Peter waggled his eyebrows in sympathy, slapping Curtis on the shoulder. “I do not envy you, Curt,” he muttered. “In fact, I think I am going to—”

They were cut off by a shout, and they both turned to see a soldier approaching, one of the men who served Christopher personally. The man was calling Curtis by name, so Peter left him to head to the interior of the castle while Curtis went out to greet the man.

“My lord, your father has summoned you,” the soldier said. “If it would not be inconvenient, he asks that you come now.”

Curtis glanced at the top of the wall, where he could only see his men now. The platform, full of frenzied men less than an hour ago, was now calm as soldiers moved up and down at a careful pace. He emitted a piercing whistle between his teeth, catching the attention of most of the men in view.

“Is there fighting still?” he shouted.

The men waved him off. “No more, my lord,” one of them shouted. “We have them subdued.”

Curtis nodded. “Where are my knights?” he asked. “Amaro and Hugo?”

Several soldiers were pointing to the north end of the wall. “Organizing the prisoners,” the same man answered. “Shall I summon them?”

Curtis waved them off. The wall was being handled by two men sworn to him, Amaro de Laraga and Hugo de Bernay. They were seasoned men from good families who served him at Lioncross Abbey, giving him his own command within his father’s command. He even had five hundred soldiers that were sworn only to him. They were good men, all of them, and they were the more elite soldiers out of his father’s army. Even now, they were on the wall with Amaro and Hugo, and Curtis knew they would secure the wall. He wasn’t needed.

He followed his father’s soldier back to the man’s tent.

Sunset was approaching, and the campfires, which had burned all day, were now being stoked by squires. The cooking fires, manned by sergeants, cooks, and servants, were being stoked to epic proportions at the rear of the encampment. Food was already on the spits, being turned by young servant boys who followed the army as workers. The smell of smoke was in the air, blending in with the dampness of the coming night.

To Curtis, it was the smell of victory.

But he suspected why his father had summoned him. Probably something to do with the wench he’d dumped on him earlier. Perhaps his father had discovered something. Or perhaps he wanted to verbally swat Curtis for leaving off the banshee in the first place. As Curtis approached the tent, he removed his helm, revealing close-cropped hair soaked with sweat. He was about to enter the tent when his father emerged and caught sight of him.

Christopher came out to meet him about ten feet from the tent.

“Well?” Christopher said. “What is the report?”

Curtis handed his helm off to the nearest soldier and proceeded to remove his gloves. “Brython is ours,” he said, handing the gloves over to the man who held his helm. “The Welsh are subdued and currently being gathered. Congratulations on the victory, Papa.”

Christopher smiled faintly. “Victory is yours, Curt,” he said. “You commanded the battle. I was simply an observer.”

Curtis grinned modestly. “I did nothing without your direction and approval,” he said. “I would say that makes the victory yours.”

Christopher put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Then well done, us,” he said, jesting softly as he patted Curtis affectionately. “As usual, we performed flawlessly, but my report to the king will be that you commanded the victory. He will be pleased.”

“Good,” Curtis said. “Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

Christopher shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I have something else, something serious that I did not wish to discuss with you whilst we were in the midst of battle. But now that it is over, a more important situation must be addressed.”

“What is that?”

Christopher cleared his throat softly, wanting to approach this conversation carefully. Curtis wasn’t a fool, but he was stubborn and obstinate when the mood struck him, and that could happen quickly. Christopher needed the man’s compliance.

“Primarily this,” he said. “The king has told me to garrison Brython, and I shall. The castle is yours, Curt. The tributes, the lands, and the taxes all belong to you. Anything Brython possesses has now become yours. Congratulations, lad.”

Curtis had known that was coming, but he was pleased to hear the confirmation. “Thank you, Papa,” he said, turning to look at the hulking structure behind him. “I wish you’d told me that before this all started. Mayhap I wouldn’t have been so brutal with the siege engines, because there is a good deal of repair work to do now.”

Christopher chuckled. “You can make her stronger than before,” he said. But he quickly sobered. “However, there is a stipulation along with assuming Brython’s command.”

“What stipulation?”

This was where Christopher had to break the terrible news, the news that would change Curtis’ life, so he tried to be gentle about it. “We have seen Brython go back and forth between the English and the Welsh for too long,” he said. “Even as I give you the command, you know what you will be facing with this place. The Welsh will want it back. We must do all we can to discourage that because I do not want to see Brython become a never-ending battle on the marches. I want it to know peace and prosperity, as I am sure you do, as well.”

Curtis was listening intently. “Of course I do,” he said. “But what is the stipulation?”

Christopher gestured to the gray-stoned castle. “As it turns out, Llewelyn did not have command of the castle,” he said. “It was still in the hands of Gwenwynwyn’s children.”

“Oh?” Curtis said, very interested. “Who told you that?”

Christopher tipped his head in the direction of the tent. “The woman you brought me,” he said. “She is Gwenwynwyn’s daughter. Her brother, she says, is in the vault of Brython, so make sure you free the man. He is sympathetic to the English.”

Curtis looked at him in surprise. “ She’s Gwenwynwyn’s daughter?” he repeated. “I did not know the man had a daughter, only two sons, including one that no one has really seen.”

Christopher shook his head. “There is no second son,” he said. “According to the lady, she is the one that we’ve heard rumors of. She is the one known as the Wraith.”

Curtis was genuinely astounded. “God’s Bones,” he muttered. “And you’re sure of this?”

Christopher shrugged. “That is why I want you to find the brother she says is down in the vault,” he said. “I want to hear his confirmation that she is who she says she is, because if she is truly Gwenwynwyn’s daughter, then she will be the stipulation for you taking command of Brython.”

Curtis wasn’t following him. “Why?” he asked, frowning. “What does she have to do with it?”

Christopher fixed on him. “Because we need Brython to be stable and secure for generations to come,” he said. “Henry wants a marriage, Curt.”

Curtis was still frowning. “Whose marriage?”

“Yours.”

Curtis stared at him for a moment, an expression on his face suggesting he hadn’t heard correctly. “Mine?” he repeated. “But I am not getting married.”

Christopher sighed faintly. He could see that Curtis wasn’t understanding what he was saying, more than likely due to exhaustion rather than resistance, so he needed to be plain.

“I received a missive from Henry,” he said evenly. “He wanted the battle at Brython to end because he wants this castle to be part of the line of English castles on the marches. You know how important Brython is. He told me that I was to offer the Welsh commander of Brython a marriage between you and the commander’s daughter, whoever that may be, to secure peace. But the garrison commander seems to have been a woman, a daughter of Gwenwynwyn, and you will marry her to strengthen the alliance with Gwenwynwyn and his descendants and secure peace along the border. Is that clear enough now?”

By the time he was finished, Curtis was gaping at him. “You mean…” he said, stammering. Then he pointed in the general direction of the castle. “You mean that… that wildcat who crashed into me on the wall?”

“The same young woman I have been speaking to, aye.”

Curtis closed his mouth as he realized his father was quite serious. “Papa,” he said, eyeing the man with horror. “You must be jesting.”

“Do I look like I am jesting?”

“Then you have gone mad!”

Christopher was weary—too weary to argue with Curtis in any fashion, and that made his patience thin. He wasn’t going to manipulate and cajole Curtis as he’d done with Elle.

He was going to get straight to the point.

“Listen to me and listen well,” he said, lowering his voice. “A man’s life is full of sacrifices so that he and his family may have a better and more peaceful life. Do not forget that I married your mother, quite against my will, simply to gain a castle and wealth. I did what I had to do, and so will you. If you argue with me or refuse to comply, know that it will not go well for you. I am, therefore, going to tell you this one time—you will do your duty as you are instructed to, Curtis. You will marry Gwenwynwyn’s daughter.”

The words were harsh, and the look in Christopher’s eye was nothing short of intimidating. Curtis wasn’t usually the arguing type—he was blindly obedient when it came to his father—so the tension between them at the moment wasn’t usual. But Curtis could see that his father was deadly serious, and, truth be told, he knew better than to question the man because he was quite certain his father took no joy in the directive. He could see that in his expression. It was true that they hadn’t spoken much of marriage over the years, mostly because Curtis had always declared he would choose his own bride, so this wasn’t a subject either of them had much experience with.

And Christopher wasn’t going to take anything less than complete surrender.

What Henry wanted, Henry got. Even Curtis knew that.

His heart sank.

“My God,” he breathed, staring at his father. “Papa, I cannot—”

Christopher cut him off. “You can and you will.”

“ But— ”

“It was my fate to marry a woman to gain a castle,” Christopher interrupted him. “It shall be yours also. There is no more honorable reason to marry, Curtis. For peace. For safety. You understand this, so you will not disobey me.”

Curtis was feeling increasingly desperate. He didn’t want to argue with his father, but he sincerely didn’t want any part of this. He started to huff and puff. “Do I not have any recourse in this?” he asked, incredulous. “Nothing at all?”

“Nay,” Christopher said. “If you refuse, then I will command Roi to do it. How do you think your brother will look upon you, knowing you shirked your duty and he was forced to assume it? Do you think any of your brothers will respect you ever again if they know you refused to do your duty? Think carefully before you answer me. They will see you as weak and cowardly. Is that the legacy you wish to have with men who would die for you?”

It was a brutal, horrific slap in the face of the facts of the situation, but Curtis knew that nothing his father said was untrue. Absolutely nothing. If he were to refuse to marry Gwenwynwyn’s daughter, the ramifications were endless. He would lose the respect of his brothers, for certain. He would lose the respect of anyone else who knew the truth. No one would follow him into battle ever again. Days like this, victorious days where he had commanded a great victory, would be at an end.

He would lose everything.

With sickening realization, he knew he had no choice.

After a moment, he hung his head, a gesture of defeat. There was nothing more he could say or do about it, so like any seasoned warrior, he simply had to accept his fate. And that was what this was—his fate.

His destiny.

God help him.

“Does she know?” he finally asked, hoarsely.

Christopher could see that Curtis had accepted the situation, at least on the surface, and he was sorry. So very sorry he’d been rough with him, but in his opinion, he’d had little choice. There was no room for negotiation, and Curtis had to know that from the start.

And here they were.

Resigned.

“She does not know it is you,” he said after a moment. “But I told her—at least, I strongly suggested—that she must marry for peace. It is what Henry wants. If you wish to go into the tent and speak with her, that might be a good start. She is frightened and upset and weary.”

Curtis snorted. “So am I.”

Christopher’s lips tugged with a smile. “So am I ,” he said. With a sigh, he softened, putting his hand on Curtis’ arm. “Curtis… I love you more than life. You are my heir, my shining star. If I did not think this was an important move for you, I would have fought Henry on it. But I believe it is important, lad. I have made my mark on the marches. Now, it is time for you to make yours.”

Curtis was still looking at his feet, still mulling the whole thing over. But after a moment, he nodded reluctantly. He knew his father was right.

He was struggling not to be angry with him for it.

Without another word, he entered the tent.