Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Pembridge Castle

De Lohr outpost, Welsh marches

Two years Later

"W here is he?"

A knight with a growth of dark beard and pale blue eyes asked another knight a question in a tone that conveyed pain. At Pembridge Castle, the last day had been one of excruciating pain and agony. No one was spared.

It was a castle on edge.

Pembridge was the southernmost outpost of the de Lohr empire, a castle built halfway down a slope amongst the verdant hills of the Welsh marches. Oddly, it didn't see much action from rebelling Welsh or English feudal wars, but when it did see conflict, it had historically been heavy and long. The situation it found itself in at the moment wasn't a conflict between adversaries, but rather an emotional conflict that was going to become worse before it became better.

If it ever became better.

The knight who had asked the question knew that. They all knew that. Sir Kyne de Poyer, a big knight with big hands and an immovable spirit, had asked the question of his associate, Sir Adrius de Gault. A mountain of a man with a shiny, bald head and, strangely enough, gold earrings in both ears had listened to the question with great sorrow.

"In his solar," Adrius replied quietly. "Why do you ask?"

"Has anyone spoken to him this morning?"

"Haven't you?"

Kyne shook his head. "Nay," he said. "He was so drunk last night that I thought he would sleep longer than he did. I was going to seek him now, in his chamber, but he was gone."

Adrius nodded his head, sighing heavily. "I saw him go to his solar," he said. "He has the missive in his hand, still."

"He slept with it."

Adrius simply shook his head sadly, his gaze moving to the castle around them as he pondered his thoughts. "Christ, Kyne," he muttered. "What are we going to do? What is he going to do?"

"There is nothing he can do," Kyne muttered. "There is nothing we can do, at least between the two of us, but help is arriving."

"What do you mean?"

"I sent word to Lioncross Abbey yesterday after we received the news," Kyne said. "Our scouts spotted a contingent from Lioncross Abbey on the perimeter of our lands."

"The earl himself?"

"Aye," Kyne said. "I'm sure Christopher de Lohr is coming along with his wife and one or more of Roi's brothers. The entire family is coming, and I was looking for Roi to tell him that. He will not be alone in this."

Adrius pointed in the direction of the solar. "Go," he commanded quietly. "Go and tell him before he starts drinking again and is a drunken mess before midday."

Kyne didn't have to be told twice. He passed through a shadowed portion of the bailey, cool and damp from morning dew, before continuing into the keep, which was part of the outer wall. Pembridge was built from the red sandstone so prevalent to the area, a solid and imposing castle that guarded the main road out of southern Wales into the midlands of England. The castle had belonged to Roi for many years, ever since his father's army had wrested it from a Welsh prince who wanted to use it to launch raids deep into England. Once de Lohr captured it, he had to wrest it further from the Earl of Gloucester, who made the argument that it was closer to his lands than it was to de Lohr. But that wasn't the truth.

De Lohr got what de Lohr wanted.

Yet the beautiful castle set within the bucolic hills of the marches had not been an entirely happy place for Roi. He'd been delighted when he was appointed the garrison commander. He'd brought his wife and son there, and both of his daughters had been born there. But his wife had also died there.

And now this.

Pembridge had become Roi's personal monument to tragedy.

The interior of the keep smelled of smoke and rushes, familiar smells in most castles. Kyne made his way to the solar door, which was in the entry, listening carefully to what might be on the other side of the door before rapping on the panel softly. When he received no answer, he rapped again and pushed the door open.

Even though it was midday, the chamber was mostly dark. No fire in the hearth, no glowing lamp. The only sounds were those from the bailey, filtering in on the soft spring breeze. Kyne finally spied Roi sitting near the darkened hearth, his head in his hands.

Kyne cleared his throat softly.

"My lord," he said quietly. "Our scouts report a party from Lioncross Abbey on the approach. They should be here within the hour."

Roi didn't stir. Unsure if the man had even heard him, Kyne took a few steps in his direction and tried again.

"My lord?" he said gently.

Roi twitched, which at least indicated he was alive. After several long moments, his head finally came up.

"My father?" he asked hoarsely.

"I would assume so, my lord," Kyne said. "I sent him word yesterday about the missive from Selbourne. I thought you would want him to know."

Roi sat back in his chair, staring at the wall. He just sat there, staring, his ashen face set like stone.

"My father has never lost a son," he finally said. "He will not know how to comfort me."

Kyne was very careful in what he said, unwilling to provoke the man at this time. Roi was known for a quick temper, and Kyne didn't want to find himself on the wrong end of a grief-driven sword.

"Would you prefer he not come, my lord?" Kyne said. "I can ride out to meet him and tell him to return to Lioncross if that is your wish."

Roi simply shook his head. "Nay," he muttered, sounding defeated. "Did you tell him what happened?"

"That is your privilege, my lord," Kyne said. "I simply sent word that there was an accident and your son had been killed."

Roi sat there for a moment, still staring at the wall before falling forward and putting his head in his hands again.

"An accident," he said, muffled. "My brilliant, strong, noble son was killed by falling from a horse. We've all fallen from a horse. All of us. I've fallen off or been thrown off a hundred times in a hundred different ways, only Beckett landed on his head. And that is the end of my son's future. It is the end of everything."

Kyne watched him as he suddenly stood up and went to the table behind him, the one that contained wine and cups. It was always in the solar. But it had been drained yesterday, along with several other containers of wine, and the servants hadn't yet filled it. Realizing this, Roi hurled the pitcher against the wall, shattering the earthenware. Kyne backed away, toward the door.

"I'll have the servants bring you wine, my lord," he said. "Do not fret. I'll have it brought right away."

The wine was immediate.

A little more than an hour later, the gatehouse of Pembridge opened the wooden and iron portcullis, heaving it up on the old ropes that held it. When the party from Lioncross Abbey Castle, seat of the mighty Earl of Hereford and Worcester, passed beneath the opening, Kyne and Adrius were there to greet them.

Leading the Lioncross group were two big knights who turned out to be sons of Christopher de Lohr, brothers to Roi. Curtis de Lohr, his eldest brother, was astride a massive silver charger, while his youngest brother, Westley, was riding a muscular blond warhorse that kept tossing his head and throwing froth. There were about fifty soldiers with them, all of them mounted, all of them circled around a big carriage that came lurching into the bailey of Pembridge. It was a fortified carriage, one used to transport the family comfortably, but it was also virtually impenetrable. It was like a fortress on wheels. As the carriage came to a halt, Kyne and Adrius went to meet Curtis and Westley.

"My lords," Kyne greeted both men as they began to dismount from their steeds. "We did not expect you so soon, but I am very glad to see you nonetheless."

Curtis de Lohr, the heir to the earldom, was an enormous man, like his father, with a blond beard and shoulder-length blond hair he pulled into a ponytail. He removed his helm, handing it off to the nearest man who had also taken the reins of his horse.

"We came as soon as we received your message," he said, his sky-blue eyes dull with anguish. "What happened, Kyne?"

Kyne wasn't keen to answer him. "I told your brother that it was his privilege to tell you, but I am not entirely certain he will," he said. "The man has been drinking heavily since we received the news from Selbourne."

"Then you tell me. How did Beckett die?"

"Thrown from a horse, my lord," Kyne said quietly. "The new one that your brother gave him for his birthday. The white one."

Curtis suddenly looked at him in horror. "The white beast with the black mane?"

"I would assume so, my lord. We were told he was thrown from his new horse."

Curtis looked as if he'd been hit in the stomach. "Christ," he gasped. "I sold him that horse. It was too much horse for me, and I did not have the patience to… He gave it to Beckett?"

Kyne nodded, seeing the guilt sweep across Curtis' face. "Aye, my lord," he said. "Beckett was here a few months ago for his birthday, and the horse seemed to like him a great deal. The lad begged for it, and Roi gave it to him."

Curtis closed his eyes, tightly, realizing what had happened. He put his hand over his mouth in dismay as his brother, Westley, walked up beside him. Shorter than most of the unusually tall men in the de Lohr family, he was nonetheless built like a bull, with flowing blond hair that had enraptured many a maiden. Westley de Lohr was a god among men. He'd caught the tail end of the conversation and looked between Curtis and Kyne curiously.

"Who begged for what?" he said. "What are we talking about?"

"Beckett," Curtis said, muffled through his hand. "The white Belgian warmblood I sold Roi."

"I know the horse. What about it?"

"He gave it to Beckett."

Westley wasn't following him. " And ?"

"The horse threw him and killed him."

Now, Westley was getting it. His eyes widened and his jaw went slack as he understood what happened. But an older couple was walking up behind them, and he kept his mouth shut as the Earl and Countess of Hereford and Worcester made an appearance. Having come from the overly cushioned carriage, Christopher no longer rode his warhorse for longer distances. As he told everyone, he'd earned the privilege to ride more comfortably in his twilight years, but the truth was that he had an affliction of the joints, age-related, that made it difficult for him to ride astride or grip the reins for long periods of time.

Christopher was in his eighth decade of life, a massive man with blond hair that had long gone to gray and a beard that was snow-white. He was fixed on Kyne, who bowed his head in respect as the mighty earl came before him.

"My lord Hereford," he said. "We are honored by your visit. I wish the circumstances were better."

Christopher sighed, conveying the depth of his grief. "You will tell me what happened to Beckett."

Kyne glanced at Curtis, who was still struggling. "He was thrown from his horse, my lord," he said. "According to de Nerra of Selbourne Castle, they were departing the stables and the horse spooked. He did not know why, but Beckett was tossed on his head and broke his neck."

Christopher was old, that was true, but he'd never truly shown his age until that moment. Suddenly, he looked very old and very sad as Curtis spoke up.

"The horse I sold him, Papa," he said grimly. "The white Belgian, the one that was difficult to handle. He'd already thrown Arthur, if you recall. I did not want him any longer, but he was well bred and expensive. Roi purchased him, but I did not know he'd given the horse to Beckett. I had no idea."

Christopher looked at his firstborn and could see the shadow of guilt all over the man's face. "Roi knew the horse was difficult when he bought him, did he not?" he said. "You never made any secret of that."

Curtis shook his head. "I did not, but that does not matter now, does it?" he said. "The horse I sold him has… My God… What have I done?"

"You did nothing." Dustin, who had been standing quietly next to her husband, spoke softly. "Curtis, you did nothing. You sold your brother a horse. That was all you did. 'Twas the horse who threw Beckett, not you. You had no hand in it."

That might have been true, but Curtis was wrestling with unbelievable horror. He turned away from his parents and struggled to reconcile himself with what had happened. His parents watched him go, concerned, but Christopher soon returned his focus to Kyne.

"Where is Roi?" he asked quietly.

"In his solar, my lord," Kyne said. "He… he has been drinking. You should be prepared."

Christopher simply nodded. Reaching out, he took Dustin's hand, and the two of them began to head toward the keep. When Westley tried to follow, Christopher held him off.

"Nay," he said quietly. "Stay with your brother. He may need you while he regains his composure. That will give your mother and I time to speak with Roi alone."

Westley agreed, watching his mother and father continue their walk of sorrow toward the keep. But it was more than sorrow that they were feeling—the sense of loss was tremendous. While Curtis had eight sons, Roi, their second-born son, had only been blessed with one. Beckett had been his shining star.

Roi, their son named for Richard I, had been Christopher's close friend. When he'd been quite young, the family called him Richie until he decided that was the name for a baby. The name "Roi" came from a close friend, a man who was Roi's godfather. Marcus Burton, a great northern warlord, had once called Roi " Petit Roi Richard " because of who he was named after, and the name "Roi" stuck. He'd been about seven years old at the time.

He'd gone by Roi ever since.

Their quick-tempered, blindingly brilliant son whose keen intellect could outshine everyone in the family was suffering through yet another tragedy in a life that had seen several. Roi fought hard, loved hard, played hard, and grieved hard. It had taken him ten years to recover from Odette's death fourteen years earlier.

But they both knew he would grieve Beckett to his grave.

There was no overcoming the death of a child.

"Let me speak to him first," Dustin said as they neared the keep. "If he has been drinking, he will be more emotional than usual. Let me talk to him before you do."

"Why?" Christopher looked at her. "I am capable of dealing with my son."

"I know," she said. "But he was always attached to my apron strings more than our other children. I know we are not supposed to have favorite children, but if we did, Roi might be mine. You had Curtis and Myles and Douglas and Westley all worked up to be men among men, and Roi always thought of me first, came to me first. Just… let me speak to him first. Give me a few moments before you come in. Please?"

They had entered the keep by that time, and Christopher shrugged, letting her continue on to the solar. The door was shut, but she quietly opened it, sticking her head in and immediately spying her big, auburn-haired son near the hearth with his head in his hands.

Silently, she entered.

For a moment, Dustin simply watched his lowered head. He was sniffling. She could also see a pitcher on the table next to him, the wine he'd undoubtedly tried to find solace in. Roi had been such a sensitive child who had grown into a sensitive man, feelings he'd learned to keep well hidden. Sometimes Dustin felt as if Christopher had been too hard on Roi because he perhaps felt that his son wasn't as strong, emotionally, as he needed to be. It had been an age-old disagreement between Dustin and Christopher when it came to Roi—she thought Christopher should have shown more compassion with him because he was so sensitive, and Christopher thought he simply needed to toughen the lad up.

And that was why she needed to see Roi first.

She needed to see her sensitive son.

"When your father and I were first married, I became pregnant almost immediately," she said softly, watching his head lift at the sound of her voice. "I was not quite midway in the pregnancy and I had a terrible accident. I fell down a flight of stairs and lost the child, but I nearly lost my life in the meantime. The entire time, however, all I could think about was the son I had lost. It was indeed a boy. Before Curtis, there was the child your father and I never speak of. But sometimes I think about him and wonder what he would have been like. Would he have been strong and noble? Or ruthless and ambitious? I have always wondered."

Roi turned to her, relief in his eyes at the sight of her. "I did not know that."

Dustin smiled faintly. "I know," she said. "There was no reason for you to. But now… I thought you should be aware that your papa and I know what it is like to lose a child. We lost ours before he had a chance to breathe, and we never got to know him. But you… you knew your son. You were able to raise a fine and strong young man. I will not go as far as to say what happened to Beckett was God's will, but it was most certainly an accident, and Beckett would not want you to grieve overly. He would want you to remember his life with pride and joy."

Roi was looking at her with doubt and grief, combined into a cloud that hung over him. It was in everything about him. He breathed it and bled it.

"I do not know if I can, Mama," he finally said, standing up to face her. "I do not know if I can survive this."

Dustin went to him and took his hands. "I know how you feel," she said softly, squeezing his big fingers. "I know that this shocking loss seems insurmountable. But I promise you that it is not. Beckett was a man to be proud of, and we were all proud of him. You must honor your respect and love for him by being strong. It would destroy him if you were to collapse."

Roi's eyes were filling with tears. "I miss him."

"I know, sweetheart."

"I miss his laughter," he said, breaking down. "I miss the way he would grab my head and kiss me and then taunt me when I tried to swat him."

The tears streamed down his face, and Dustin put her hand to his cheek, trying very hard not to weep right along with him. "Then speak of that," she said tightly. "Speak of those humorous stories or those annoying stories. Speak of your memories and of the good times. That is how you keep him alive, Roi. As long as you continue to speak of him and remember him, he will never truly die."

Roi sobbed as the tears kept coming. "I do not understand why this happened," he said. "I cannot understand why God would take my only son. Were it not for him, I would not have survived Odette's death."

Dustin was wiping away his tears with her hand. "There is your answer," she said. "Don't you see? He has gone to take care of Odette now. He took care of you all of these years after she left us, and now it is time for him to take care of her. She is no longer alone, Roi. What a joyful moment that must have been in heaven when Beckett appeared to her. She was waiting for him, you know. He'd not seen his mother in fourteen years. Can you imagine her happiness? Can you imagine his?"

Roi shook his head, looking at his mother in a way that utterly broke her heart. "I know he missed her."

"Of course he did."

"But I was not ready to lose him."

Dustin smiled as she continued to wipe his face. "You did not lose him," she said, putting a hand over his heart. "He is here, with you. He will always be with you. You take a piece of Beckett with you everywhere you go. But now, he shall take care of Odette, and they shall both watch over you from heaven. Instead of one guardian angel, you now have two. Rejoice that they are together, Roi. You will see them someday, but until you do, you must continue to watch over Adalia and Dorian. They need you very much. We all need you very much. You still have great things to accomplish in this life."

Roi had stopped openly sobbing. Now, he was just standing there as his mother wiped away his tears.

"I have seen forty years and three, Mama," he said. "I think I have accomplished everything great that I was ever going to accomplish. I always thought of Beckett as my greatest accomplishment, and now that is gone."

"He is still your accomplishment," Dustin said. "His death does not take that away."

Roi took a deep breath, trying to compose himself after his outburst. "I suppose," he said. "You know, he was to be married this summer. He was very much looking forward to it. Now I must send word to le Bec that there will be no marriage."

There was a knock on the door, interrupting their conversation, and they both looked up to see Christopher sticking his head in the door.

"May I come in?" he asked.

Roi nodded. "Come in, Papa, please."

Christopher stepped inside, moving straight to Roi as Dustin held the man's hands. He essentially pushed her out of the way so he could hug his son tightly.

"Above all else, I love you and your mother loves you," Christopher murmured into his ear. "We are here to help you, whatever you should need. But know how very sorry we are that we have lost Beckett. He was a remarkable young man."

Roi was back to tearing up. "Thank you, Papa," he said as his father released him. "Mama and I were just speaking of Beckett and how he has now gone to Odette. It gives me comfort to think of them together."

Christopher nodded, his hand still on Roi's shoulder. "I hope so," he said. "Odette loved her son deeply, and he loved her. It was very hard on him when she passed on."

Roi wiped at the remaining moisture around his eyes. "It was hard on all of us," he said. "But Beckett… Papa, I am not certain I can overcome this. I will try, but right now, I feel as if all hope is lost for me. I feel… empty."

Christopher simply patted his shoulder, quietly instructing Dustin to sit him down. As Dustin directed Roi into the nearest chair and then sat beside him, Christopher went to the open door and summoned a servant for food. When the servant went running off, he returned to the solar.

"Where is the missive de Nerra sent?" he asked.

Roi pointed to the table, a large table that was neatly arranged except for an open vellum envelope lying on the top. Christopher picked it up and read it carefully, twice, before sighing faintly and setting it down again.

"He says that he is sending Beckett home," he said quietly. "I would assume he meant immediately, which means he should arrive in a couple of days. He cannot be too far away."

"I think so," Roi said. "Papa, may we bury him at Lioncross?"

"You do not wish to bury him with his mother?"

Roi shrugged. "When Odette passed, her father begged to bring her home, and I allowed it," he said. "I do not wish to be buried in Cumbria, and I do not know why I allowed her to be, only that her father seemed so desperate about it. But Beckett should be buried at Lioncross. It is where he was born."

"Whatever you wish, of course," Christopher said. "I will send West back to Lioncross tomorrow to make the arrangements."

Roi looked at him with as much curiosity as he could muster. "West is here?"

Christopher nodded. "He and Curtis came with us," he said. "Roi… I must ask before Curtis comes in, but the horse that Beckett was riding when he was killed… Curtis fears it is the one that you purchased from him."

Roi nodded. "The big Belgian warmblood," he said. "I gave it to Beckett for his birthday."

Christopher lifted his eyebrows, an expression of regret. "Your brother is outside punishing himself over that," he said. "He fears you may hold him responsible. Whatever happened, Roi, I hope you understand that it was not Curtis' fault."

Roi stood up immediately. "Of course not," he said. "I must go to him. Where is he?"

Christopher held up a hand. "He will be in shortly," he said. "I just wanted to make sure there would be no bad blood between you two."

Roi shook his head, genuinely perplexed. "Between Curtis and me?" he said. "No brothers are closer than we are. I would never blame him for something that he had nothing to do with."

"Good," Christopher said sincerely. "You will tell him that, please."

"Of course I will."

Christopher was clearly relieved. The last thing he needed was for his sons to be at war over an accident. As they waited for the food, he went to see if there was anything left in the pitcher.

"Where is the horse, by the way?" he asked. "Is he returning home with Beckett?"

Roi shrugged. "I would assume so," he said. "I don't really know. But if you are thinking to ask for it, the answer is no. I am going to sell that horse to someone I do not know and be rid of it. I do not need a constant reminder of what has happened."

Christopher couldn't disagree with him. As the door to the solar opened and servants began entering with trays of food, Christopher moved over to sit with his son as Dustin went to direct the servants.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked. "Anything else you need?"

Roi shook his head. "Nay, Papa," he said. "Just having you here is a great comfort. But mayhap… mayhap you can have West arrange for a fine crypt for my son, something to bury him in. I'd like to place him in the back of the chapel at Lioncross, where the windows are. I would like some light to fall upon him in the morning when the sun rises."

Christopher smiled faintly. "I think that can be arranged," he said. "But mention of the chapel brings up something else."

"What is that?"

"You asked if Beckett could be married there this summer."

Roi nodded. "I mentioned that to Mama," he said. "Robin le Bec was adamant that our children marry this summer, and now I have the unhappy duty of telling the man there will be no marriage. While I am certain he will be grieved, he will also be furious. He has been counting on this marriage for two years."

Christopher held up a hand. "I will handle le Bec," he said. "I know the man. He is greedy, but he is not heartless. It is possible that I can appease him with another de Lohr offspring."

Roi frowned. "My son's memory is so easily pushed aside with another de Lohr son?" he said. "Is that a reminder that I only had one son and Curtis has several? That Myles has…?"

Christopher shut him down quickly. "I did not mean it the way it sounded," he said. "Forgive me for being clumsy. I simply meant that I would be willing to offer the man whatever he wishes in order to keep our alliance. I hate to sound callous, Roi, but that must be considered."

Roi knew that, though he didn't like to hear it. "All I care about is the loss of my son, not some damnable alliance," he said. "Nay, Papa, I will send word to Robin myself. This must come from me. It was my son, after all. I am his father. I will do my duty."

Christopher didn't press. Roi had always had a strong sense of duty, and he wasn't about to shirk it, even in his moment of grief. That showed his strength of character, and Christopher was proud of his son in an overwhelmingly difficult situation. But he also thought that the man was rather calm for someone who had just lost a son—until it occurred to him that Dustin had spoken to him first. In private. Mother to son. Like salve to his spirit, she'd apparently worked wonders.

He was glad.

As Christopher pondered life for Roi now without his son, and without a wife, Dustin brought over a couple of bowls with bread and cheese and stewed fruit. She gave one to Roi first, then to her husband, as the solar door opened again to admit Curtis and Westley. While Westley went straight to Roi and put his arms around the man, Curtis hung back, mired in uncertainty.

Curtis and Roi were born so close together that it had always been the two of them, like twins. They'd even fostered together. He'd never been without his brother in his entire life, except for the times when Roi had gone off to fight for Henry. But even then, Roi would return and it was as if they'd never been apart. The bonds were unbreakable.

So Curtis hoped.

Roi sensed that. He didn't even have to see his brother to know the man was there. He lifted his head from Westley's embrace to spy Curtis over near the door, looking at him with apprehension and grief. Gently pushing away from Westley, Roi went over to Curtis as the man stood there and trembled.

"Roi," Curtis breathed softly. Then his face began to crumple. "I am so sorry. Forgive me, brother. Forgive me for my role in all of this. If I could…"

Roi put his hands on his brother's face, stilling him. "This was not your fault," he said huskily. "It was no one's fault. That beautiful horse is simply a dumb animal that had no ill will towards Beckett. I do not want you to feel guilt over this, Curt. If you do, that will end now."

Curtis simply nodded, but there were tears in his eyes. "As you wish," he murmured. "But I am still so very sorry."

Roi put his arms around his brother, and they hugged one another tightly as Christopher, Dustin, and Westley looked on. In fact, all Christopher could do at that moment was whisper a prayer of thanks—thanks that there would be no animosity between his eldest sons, thanks that they could move forward and grieve Beckett as he deserved to be grieved without any additional drama with the situation.

It was bad enough as it was.

Little did Christopher know that it was about to get much, much worse.