Lion of War

Book 2: Sons of de Lohr (De Lohr Dynasty)

by Kathryn Le Veque

Genres: Ancient World Romance; Medieval Romance; Viking Romance

Synopsis

The heir to Lioncross Abbey Castle makes his presence known.

Like all sons of de Lohr, Curtis de Lohr was born for war.

As the firstborn son of the Earl of Hereford and Worcester, England’s greatest knight during the reign of Richard I, Curtis grew up knowing what was expected of him and he thrived through the pressure. But the pressure was kept buried and, with all pressure, at some point it’s got to give.

With a reputation for being humorless, brutally honest, powerful, and fearless in battle, Curtis is the shining heir for the House of de Lohr. As the premier knight for Henry III, he performs flawlessly in every battle, every situation. When he is put to the test in Wales by laying siege to a castle that Henry wants very badly, the victory of that castle brings about a treaty of epic proportions – having a wife forced upon him in exchange for peace.

That changes everything.

Eira Avrielle “Elle” ferch Gwynwynwyn is a warrior woman in her own right. The daughter of the last ruler of Powys, she is a valuable commodity to the Welsh as well as to the English. She also happens to be a widow and since the death of her husband, she has fought in every battle against the English in his stead. That means she fought against Curtis in his quest to take her castle, something he wasn’t aware of. A woman of mystery, Elle carries many secrets that she keeps deeply buried. She has plans for her new husband.

One thing she didn’t plan on was falling in love with him.

And the feeling is very, very mutual.

Join Curtis and Elle in a dangerous game of politics and passion during a time when the slightest swing of the pendulum could mean life or death. It’s an all-out battle within the House of de Lohr to keep Curtis out of danger… and to keep Elle by his side when her natural instincts dictate otherwise. Can their love survive the ghosts of her past? Or will those ghosts consume them both.

Sometimes, the true enemy is within…


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Books in the House of de Lohr/Sons of de Lohr series (Christopher de Lohr line)

Rise of the Defender
Lion of Twilight
Lion of War

 

Read more

Release date: October 19, 2023

Publisher: Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

Print pages: 372

Sample

PROLOGUE

Year of Our Lord 1228

Brython Castle, Welsh Marches

“What, exactly, did he say?”

The question came from a man whose query was not meant to be ignored. Not even slightly avoided. Christopher de Lohr, the Earl of Hereford and Worcester, was making the demand in the middle of what had been a horrific siege. The English, led by de Lohr, had been trying to gain control of a much-coveted Welsh castle for almost a month on the command of Henry III. Henry wanted that castle to keep it away from the control of Llewelyn, who had defeated the family of a rival Welsh prince, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, to gain the castle and a foothold on the Welsh marches.

Brython Castle was that target.

That was what de Lohr was trying to negotiate. Standing in his open tent at the base of the hill that led up to Brython, he was surrounded by wounded men, raw sewage, mud, horses, and weary soldiers who had been at war for weeks on end. There had been conflicting reports before and during the siege that Llewelyn didn’t hold the castle at all, that it was some other Welsh lord who hated the English, hated Llewelyn, and was trying to make a name for himself. Whoever it was, the English had been battling for sixteen brutal days before finally damaging the sewers and water supply enough to make a difference. Now, seven days later and with no rain in sight, the castle was starting to falter. No water, no drainage, and, undoubtedly, any food supplies were dwindling.

But de Lohr kept up the barrage.

He was a man with decades of experience in battle, going all the way back to the days of Richard the Lionheart and his bloody crusades into the Levant. There wasn’t much Christopher had not faced in battle, and there wasn’t a battle commander anywhere who could outsmart him. Particularly not a Welsh. He kept up with the siege engines, which had been built from the fine ash forests near the castle and then rolled up to the moat, where they could hurl any number of projectiles over, and at, the walls. Sometimes they used tree stumps covered in oil and lit on fire, swinging those over the walls and hoping to catch something on fire.

They had been successful more than they had been unsuccessful.

In addition to the siege engines, Christopher had put his men to building pontoons and ladders to get across the moat and scale the walls. Led by his sons, his men hauled wood across the pontoons and built a scaffold against the side of the eastern wall because there was enough ground footing. Dozens of men could get up on that platform at once. Christopher had been wise enough to have his men soak the wood in water so nothing flaming could burn it down. The other walls were too close to the moat, and it was difficult for any of the ladders to gain a foothold, so the focus was concentrated on the eastern wall.

As the platform was built and the siege engines were swinging away, Christopher positioned two enormous trebuchets directly across the moat from the western wall and, using those terrible engines, flung boulders into the actual wall. One individual boulder wouldn’t do a lot of damage, but many boulders in successive order could do quite a bit. The western wall had holes and giant cracks as Christopher continued to beat the wall down with the boulders his men were bringing in from the nearby mountains—the rough-cut chunks of ancient black rock that could be hurled into the walls, hard enough to break the sandstone they were made from.

The holes in the western wall grew, but de Lohr’s patience wasn’t infinite. A month into the siege, he’d received word from Henry, demanding that he make short work of the siege by any means necessary. Also contained within that message was the suggestion that the castle not be demolished, and peace was often attained without use of flaming projectiles and swords. Hints were brought about that an alliance between de Lohr and the Gwenwynwyn family still living in the castle should be explored. Then the suggestion became plain—perhaps a marriage offer was in order.

Curtis, Christopher’s eldest son and heir, was not married.

Henry wasn’t hinting. He was commanding.

Curtis de Lohr was slated for the sacrificial altar of peace.

Christopher had to think about that, long and hard. Curtis was his shining star, a knight with no equal. He was big, powerful, brave, tough, and everything that came with a man of his stature. War flowed through his veins. Even now, as the siege raged onward, Curtis was working on the eastern scaffolding, supervising the rebuild of the section knocked away by the Welsh the previous night. Christopher had put it on him specifically because he wanted Curtis out of the way while he tried to negotiate a peaceful end to a siege that threatened to go on for as long as the plucky Welsh could hold out.

God only knew how long that would be.

But now, with Curtis managing the scaffold, Christopher was faced with a Welsh scout who served him, a man who knew the language and customs and had shouted de Lohr’s offer to the Welsh commanders on the western wall.

The answer he received was not one that Christopher was willing to accept.

“Be plain,” Christopher said when the scout was too slow to answer. “What, exactly, did he say?”

The scout took a deep breath for courage. “I was told that the Lord of Castell Brythonig would rather—”

He was cut off by Christopher. “Call the castle by its rightful name in my presence.”

The scout nodded quickly. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “It is Brython Castle. But the Welsh will only call it by the Welsh name of Brythonig. After their ancestors.”

Christopher waved him off irritably. “Never mind that,” he said. “What, exactly, did the commander say?”

The scout seemed to hesitate. “Mind you, my lord, I am only the messenger,” he said. “I am told that the Lord of Co… I mean, the Lord of Brython would rather marry his daughter to a pig than an English knight.”

Christopher didn’t rise to the insult. He’d long learned to choose his battles wisely, because when he fought, he fought to win. He wasn’t going to acknowledge the insult dealt to him by men who were on the losing end of a castle siege.

“For decades, Gwenwynwyn ap Owain’s descendants had possession of this castle,” he said. “Since ap Owain was loyal to John and even Henry when he was younger, we left Brython Castle in peace. There was even a contingent of English soldiers here, and they have been for years. My scouts kept abreast of the castle’s activities, but it was never one of concern.”

The scout shook his head. “It was not, my lord.”

“As long as it did not harbor rebels, it was of no concern to me.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

Christopher eyed the scout, who had been with him for many years. “In fact,” he said, “you have been watching it from time to time, Glynn. Much of the information I received has come from you.”

Glynn ap Gower nodded shortly. “It has, my lord,” he said. “I received my information from my own family as well as from people in the nearby village, or those who had passed through, or…”

Christopher held up a hand to silence him. “I am not questioning the accuracy,” he said. “The entire reason we’ve come here is because the castle was lost to Gwenwynwyn’s enemy, Llewelyn. Henry wants it back.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“One question that has not been answered for me is where Gwenwynwyn’s descendants are,” Christopher said. “And by that I mean those who lost the castle to Llewelyn. The man has at least two sons that we know of. Why have we not seen them?”

Glynn shook his head. “No one can seem to answer that question, my lord,” he said, rather wearily. “The castle was lost to Llewelyn over a month ago, but no one seems to know what became of the man’s son.”

“He possibly has a second son, I’m told.”

Glynn lifted his eyebrows. “The Wraith?” he said. “No one that I know of has ever seen him. I do not know if he truly exists.”

That was true. Rumors of how many children Gwenwynwyn had were circulating still, even after many years. No one really knew. But they did know he had at least one for certain. In any case, Christopher simply shook his head.

“Regardless, we do know that Llewelyn himself is not in command of the castle,” he said. “Are we certain that his men are?”

Glynn shrugged. “As certain as we can be of anything right now, my lord,” he said. “I made your offer to the commander of Brython, and he would only say that his daughter would marry a pig first.”

“As we do not even know who the offer was made to.”

“Nay, we do not, my lord,” Glynn said. “But one thing is for certain.”

“What is that?”

“Whoever holds the castle is well placed in Llewelyn’s court,” Glynn said knowingly. “For a castle of this importance, one badly coveted by the Welsh and English alike, it is someone of wealth or ranking or both. Your marriage offer has not been made to a peasant.”

He was right. Christopher sighed heavily, pondering the situation as he grasped a wooden cup of watered wine and drank.

“This is a damn puzzling business,” he muttered. “Clearly, someone holds that castle, someone who has been able to hold me off for almost a month. Me. I would hazard to say that no one holds out against me, but that would sound arrogant.”

Glynn’s lips twitched with a smile. “It is the truth, my lord,” he said. “The man holding Brython against you must be clever, indeed.”

That didn’t make Christopher feel any better, and he scratched his head in a wearied gesture. His hair, blond and full in his youth, had mostly gone to gray. It was still thick, and he still kept it cut in the same fashion he’d always worn, but that silver hair was dirty from having been kept buried under a helm since the siege began. It was dirt fed by exhaustion that covered Christopher from head to toe. The siege was getting old, and he wanted to go home, but they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. He couldn’t even get a straight answer on who, exactly, was in command of Brython’s defenses or his offer of marriage. In truth, he’d only offered because Henry had demanded it, but Henry didn’t know warfare like Christopher did. Marriage offers weren’t exactly appropriate in the heat of battle, and he’d been loath to do it, but there were too many of Henry’s soldiers and knights within his ranks for him not to have obeyed a command from the king.

He’d been forced into it.

Still… something had to be done to end this siege, or he’d grow old and die here. Perhaps if a marriage offer didn’t work, something else would. Anything to end this mess. He was just about to comment on that when a soldier abruptly appeared in the open tent flap.

“My lord,” the soldier said breathlessly. “Curtis and his men have managed to bridge the gap between the scaffold and the top of the wall. We have breached the castle!”

That had everyone in the tent, including Christopher, running out and heading toward the eastern wall.

A chaotic day was only going to grow worse.

CHAPTER ONE

The Saesneg bastard tried to take her head off.

They were pouring over the eastern wall because they’d managed to get the platform repaired and ladders up, even though her men had done their best to dislodge them. They couldn’t burn the platform down because the English had been clever—they’d soaked the wood with water. Flame couldn’t take hold. Every time they tried to dislodge the ladders, the English archers would fire at them. She’d already lost several men because of those damnable archers.

Damn, damn, damn!

Now, the wall was breached, and she was fairly certain there was no way to stem the tide of English soldiers and knights crowding onto the wall walk. They were armed and looking for blood. That being the case, she did the only thing she could do.

“Bylchu!” she cried.

Breach!

The alarm was sounded. The Welsh in the bailey below began to run for the wall with anything they could use for a weapon—clubs, swords, broken pieces of wood. One man even had an iron rod from the blacksmith’s forge. They were rushing to protect what they believed to be rightfully theirs, a castle that had seen its share of English and Welsh ownership. But Castell Brythonig, or Brython Castle, was built upon a mount that, legend said, was a gate to the Otherworld where the ancestors of the Welsh had risen from. What the English didn’t understand was that not only were they dealing with a prize castle that controlled a major road in and out of Wales, but they were dealing with a locale that ancient legend spoke of as a sacred site.

Brython wasn’t the castle’s real name. The real name had been lost to time because there had been a fortress on that exact location since the time of the Romans. Some thought the real name of the castle was Arallfyd, meaning Otherworld, but somehow over the centuries, Arallfyd and Otherworld became Brython for the sacred place the Brittonic people had come from. They were only legends, really, but legends the Welsh had always taken seriously. The location meant more to them than it did to the English.

And that was why she wasn’t going to let the English gain control of the castle.

Again.

And the woman had been charged with that task. Unfortunately, her resolve wavered when she saw big, powerful knights with thousands of weapons leaping over the wall. It seemed as if they had a thousand weapons, but it was possibly more like only one or two. She, too, was armed, but in spite of her command capability and skill with a blade, even she wasn’t sure she could win in hand-to-hand combat with the English knights, who were making short work of the Welsh soldiers trying to stop them.

“Lady!” someone was shouting at her. “Elle! Come down from there! You will be killed!”

Enid Avrielle ferch Gwenwynwyn heard her name being called, knowing who it was before she even looked. She knew her commander’s voice, the very loud and steady voice of Gethin ap Guto. The same man who had rejected the English offer of a marriage of truce. He was frantic to get her off the wall.

But Elle wouldn’t listen.

No one told her what to do. She’d established that early in her life when she didn’t even like the sound of her own name and insisted on being called Elle because it sounded stronger than what her mother had saddled her with. Ignoring Gethin’s shouts, she unsheathed her sword, summoned her courage, and charged forward along the wooden fighting platform that now constituted most of the wall walk around Brython. The bombardment by the English had managed to damage most of the fighting platforms and put big holes in the stone wall walks, but there were still places where one could move around on the wall.

This was one of them.

But it was a perilous wooden platform at best. In fact, most of Brython was perilous from the damage the English had inflicted, but she wasn’t going to let them know just how badly they were hurt. More and more English were pouring over the wall, and her men were being thrown down to the bailey below, most of them with holes in them made by English weapons. Elle simply wasn’t going to stand for it. She’d been fighting this battle from the beginning and she was going to fight it until the end.

With a roar that sounded more like a scream, she charged.

A particularly big knight was coming over the wall, and she ran at him like a bull, lowering her head and ramming him right in the midsection as he came over the top. Her momentum threw him off balance, and he instinctively grabbed hold of her. Together, they went toppling back over the wall and crashed into several men who were coming up the ladders. The English knight had her in his iron grip, and from the way he was falling, he was taking all of the concussions.

She hardly felt a thing.

But she did know they were falling.

For a woman who suffered from an inherent fear of heights, she had to admit that tackling the knight as he came over the wall hadn’t been the smartest move. As they hit the platform about ten feet below the top of the wall, she ended up falling onto her right arm and shoulder. In the process, her head hit the platform, and the helm she was wearing, which was too big for her, tumbled off her head. Blonde hair, braided, spilled out, and it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that a woman, dressed in mail and leather, was in their midst. Realizing that she had somehow lost her broadsword in the tumble, Elle began to punch the knight in his lowered visor as hard as she could.

“You… bastard!” she yelled, raining a furious barrage of punches on his face and neck. “I will kill you, do you hear? This is my castle! I will kill every last one of you Saesneg dogs!”

The knight was nearly three times her size. He was also heavily armed. His sword was in its sheath at his side, and he had daggers along the belt at his waist. When Elle realized this, she made a grab for the daggers, but he grabbed her wrists with a grip of iron. He also moved out from underneath her as she tried to kick him, since he had her hands trapped. With ease, he stood up and pulled her with him as she fought back with everything she had. The knight just held on to her wrists, making no move to strike her. He did stop the next knight passing by him, however, as the man prepared to mount the ladder to the wall above.

“Take her,” the knight said, shoving her at the man with his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. “Take her to my father. Tell him she’s one of the soldiers.”

“I am not a soldier,” Elle shouted, managing to kick him in the armored shin. “This is my castle. Send your men away before I kill them all!”

The man with his foot on the ladder snorted. “You take her,” he said. “I have my fight waiting for me. I think you’ve found yours.”

With that, he slipped up the ladder, leaving the enormous knight hanging on to a wildcat of a woman. Elle swore she heard him sigh sharply, clearly displeased, before releasing her wrists and grabbing her by the braids.

He had moved like lightning.

One moment, he had her arms, and in the next, he was holding her hair and wrapping it around his gloved hand. In fact, his grip on her hair bloody well hurt, and she winced, but she didn’t stop fighting. But her resistance had no effect on him, as he somehow managed to get her up over his shoulder and take the ladder down to the next platform, where he took yet another ladder down to the ground.

Elle fought and twisted the entire way, but it was difficult when he had her head so tightly trapped. In fact, she couldn’t move her head or neck in the least, and she had to admit his grip was badly paining her. With her slung over his shoulder, but quite awkwardly because of the way he was holding her, he ended up on the pontoon bridge that the English had strung across the moat. He was halfway across when Elle twisted enough to throw her thigh into his head, knocking him off balance.

Into the moat they both went.

The knight landed on his feet, but Elle landed upside down, her head and face in the brackish water. She had water up her nose and in her mouth because she’d been unprepared for the plunge into the water, and, caught off guard, she started to inhale it. The knight didn’t notice she was in the water until he was nearly to the edge of the moat, when he suddenly flipped her right side up and tossed her, nearly unconscious, onto the shore.

The knight rolled her onto her right side, pounding on her back as water poured from her mouth and she began coughing up that horrible moat water. But the near-drowning experience had washed the fight out of her for the moment, and he heaved her onto his shoulder again, dazed and limp, and marched with her to the English encampment just beyond the tree line, about a quarter of a mile away.

Elle was coming around by the time they arrived, but barely. She was gradually aware that they were heading into a tent as the knight, far more gently this time, pulled her off his shoulder and put her on a cot or a bed of some kind. Elle didn’t even know what it was, and she hardly cared because she was still struggling to breathe. There was still water in her lungs. Off to her left, she could hear someone speak.

“I thought you might be interested in this one,” the knight said. “She threw herself at me as I came over the wall, and we fell back to the platform. She’s fortunate we didn’t fall all the way to the ground.”

Another voice, deep and serious, answered. “What happened to her?” he said. “Why is she wet?”

“She was fighting me and we fell into the moat,” the knight replied. “You might want to have the physic take a look at her. I think she swallowed a good deal of water.”

“Who is she?”

“That is for you to find out, Papa,” the knight said. “She says this is her castle.”

Elle suddenly came alive, still dazed, but the fight was returning. “I’ll kill you both,” she said, her eyes rolling around to the back of her head as she tried to sit up. She balled her fists, putting them in front of her. “Do not think that just because I am a woman, I cannot fight. I will fight you with one hand tied behind my back. I’ll fight you with my eyes closed and I’ll win. I’ll kick you to death!”

As if to emphasize her point, she tried to kick out, but ended up knocking herself onto the floor. That brought the knight and the man he’d been speaking to right to her side. They lifted her up and put her back on the cot, but she slapped at their hands and tried to kick one of them. She didn’t care which one—whoever was closer. But the knight pushed her back on the bed.

“Lie down and behave yourself, lady,” he said. “You’ve done enough fighting for one day.”

“Never,” she said. “I’ll never submit to you Saesneg hounds.”

“I do not think you have a choice.”

That wasn’t what Elle wanted to hear. She kicked and swung her fists again and ended up on the floor once more. But this time, she crawled under the cot before they could grab her, so they didn’t try. They simply backed off and left her alone. Somehow, being under the cot seemed to calm her down because it was a false sense of protection. She huddled underneath the cot as the older man with thick gray hair turned to the knight.

“Continue with your duties,” he said. “I will tend to the lady.”

“I do not need tending!” she shouted.

“Shut up,” the knight barked at her, irritated.

“I will not!”

“You will if I come over there and put a gag over your mouth.”

“Try it and I’ll bite your fingers off!”

The knight started to move in her direction, but the older man stopped him. “Go,” he told him, softly but firmly. “I will take care of the lady.”

“I do not need to be taken care of!” she declared.

The knight waved an annoyed arm at her as if to wash his hands of her for good. He was finished arguing with a fool. As he marched from the tent, the older man moved over to a table that had a pitcher and cups on it. He poured himself some wine as Elle crouched under the cot and shivered.

“Shall I tell you what is happening to your castle now?” he finally said.

He had a fatherly, deep, and gentle voice. Elle coughed again, still clearing her lungs, but she realized her teeth were chattering.

Her situation was not improving.

“Nothing is happening to it,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “My men are stopping your army from coming over the walls. You will go home empty-handed, Saesneg.”

The older man lifted the cup to his lips and drank. “I think not,” he said after a swallow. “As we speak, my men are in your bailey. They will soon be lifting the portcullis, and after that, the castle is ours. I’m afraid your men will all be prisoners within the hour. If, in fact, the castle really is yours.”

Elle didn’t want to admit that his scenario was very likely going to happen. She hadn’t even let herself entertain the thought until this very moment. She couldn’t stomach swallowing the reality of defeat, not after all of the fighting and planning she’d done. Not after everything she’d sacrificed.

It can’t happen!

“It is just as likely that my men will repel your men,” she said, trying to sound brave. “We have the advantage.”

“What advantage is that?”

“We want it more than you do.”

The older man shrugged as if that was, indeed, a possibility. “Mayhap,” he said. “But before we continue, may I introduce myself? I am the Earl of Hereford and Worcester. My name is Christopher de Lohr. May I know your name, my lady?”

That brought a reaction from Elle. She knew very well who the Earl of Hereford and Worcester was. Everyone on the marches did because he was a very important man. In fact, knowing who he was emboldened her. She wasn’t going to hide behind mystery, because her name, her family, had always stood for something strong and true. She was proud of the name. She was proud of her heritage. If this really was the moment of her defeat, perhaps being forthright with the enemy would do more good than calling him names and resisting him. To be perfectly honest, she knew that de Lohr was perhaps the one man in England other than the king who could give her back the castle.

Perhaps if she was honest with him.

Perhaps if he understood her.

She came out from underneath the cot.

“I know you to be a man of honor, my lord,” she said. “I know you by reputation. So did my father.”

“Who is your father?”

She hesitated. “If I tell you, will you bargain with me?”

“I will listen to you.”

She wasn’t sure if that meant he was willing to negotiate with her, but she was willing to take the chance. At this point, pragmatically speaking, she had nothing to lose.

According to him, she’d already lost.

“Do I have your word?” she asked.

He nodded. “You have my word that I will listen with respect to every word you say.”

That was enough for her. Since she was dealing with the man at the top and not one of his subordinates, she would tell him what he wanted to know.

“Gwenwynwyn ap Owain,” she said.

Elle thought that made him stand a little taller. De Lohr had been on the marches for as many years as her father, and they’d most certainly fought at one time or another. They were not strangers to each other, and, truth be told, there was respect for a good adversary. Elle could only pray that de Lohr felt that for her father as he’d felt it for Hereford.

“I know he had a son,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Two sons, I believe. Gruffydd and a second son that no one knows much about. The English call him the Wraith.”

“Gruffydd is my brother.”

“And your name?”

Her eyes glittered at him in the dim light of the tent. “I am Enid Avrielle ferch Gwenwynwyn.”

He cocked his head curiously. “I have lived here for many years and I’ve never heard of a daughter,” he said. “Who was your mother?”

“Margaret Corbet.”

He pondered that news. “I knew her father,” he said. “The Corbets hold Caus Castle and are, in fact, Norman. If you are being truthful with me, that makes you half English.”

Her hands found their way onto her arms as she embraced herself, trying to keep warm. “I am being truthful with you,” she said. “You have given me your word, and I shall give you mine.”

He studied her. “Then I believe you,” he said. “But there is something more I wish to know.”

“What is that?”

“Where are your brothers? Are they fighting as well?”

She shook her head. “Gruffydd is not fighting.”

“What about the second brother?” Christopher asked. “Does he lead this battle?”

“There is no second brother. Only me.”

“And you have been fighting this battle?”

“I have.”

He paused a moment, thoughtfully, before continuing. “I would assume this is not your first battle.”

“Hardly.”

“Do you always fight?”

“I have been fighting since I was a child.”

Christopher was a sharp man. He studied her for a moment, mulling over her reply and suspecting what she was telling him. There was something in his eyes that suggested he was onto her and everything she stood for. This lass, with her dirty blonde braids, clad in clothing that only warriors would wear. She had taken on a man significantly larger than she was when she charged him on the wall. She had been doing the fighting.

This pale wisp of a girl.

Pale wisp…

“You are the Wraith,” he said quietly.

Elle nodded in confirmation. Truthfully, there was no use in denying it because she was hoping that her honesty would get her what she wanted in the end. In fact, she’d easily confessed everything to him, things she kept hidden from most, but she’d done it for a reason. Evasiveness most certainly would not win the trust of a man like de Lohr, something she evidently had earned. She wanted to keep it. Moreover, she had been fighting a battle against the English for almost a month, and even she knew when the fighting had to stop and the negotiating could begin.

This was the moment.

“The name Enid means spirit to my people,” she said. “The tales of Gwenwynwyn’s Wraith… That is how it came about.”

There was a hint of approval in his eyes. “I see,” he said. “Then ap Owain has a daughter who fights, not another son.”

“That is correct.”

“Where is Gruffydd, Lady Enid?”

Elle shook her head. “I am not called Enid,” she said. “I have always been known by a version of my middle name—Elle. That is what I will answer to.”

Christopher dipped his head as if to apologize for addressing her incorrectly. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “And thank you for your honest answers to my questions. I will not tell anyone you are the Wraith if you do not wish for me to.”

That brought a look of surprise from Elle. “You would keep such a secret?” she said. “Your men will want to know that my father did not have two sons. Two sons can mean more trouble than a man with a daughter who learned to fight from an early age.”

Christopher went back to the wine and poured a second cup. He went over to Elle, extending it to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it and sucked it down greedily.

“Not necessarily,” he said. “The Welsh breed strong women warriors as well as men. But you did not answer my question.”

“What is that?”

“Where is your brother, Gruffydd?”

That was a question she didn’t want to answer. She’d avoided it, now for the third time. As much as she would have liked to have remained evasive, the truth was that the English would discover what happened to her elder brother eventually. They would comb through Brython, search every chamber, every shadow, and eventually, they would find him. Gruffydd would have no hesitation in telling them about his sister.

Better that de Lohr hear it from her.

“In the vault of Brython,” she said quietly.

If that answer was surprising to Christopher, he didn’t show it. Not really. A flicker in his eyes perhaps suggested it, but that was quickly gone.

“I see,” he said. “May I ask why?”

Elle extended her empty cup to him, a silent plea for more. He took the cup and poured it to the rim before handing it back to her. As he waited patiently, she drained it again, and it occurred to him that starving out the castle might have done its job. She was very thirsty and probably hungry, so he went to the tent flap to summon food and more drink. But until then, he’d continue to fill her cup and hope that a tipsy daughter might spill more secrets.

He wondered if she was aware of that.

“Would you like some dry clothing?” he said. “My wife is about your size, and there are times when she has come on a battle march with me. I could see if there is something of hers, somewhere, for you to wear.”

Elle shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “You are polite to offer, but I will stay in my own clothing. This is who I am, wet or dry. I will not change it.”

“Nor would I,” Christopher said, pouring the last of the wine into the cup in her outstretched hand. “But I will admit that I am curious why your brother is in the vault. Will you tell me?”

The full cup was almost to her lips again when she paused. She wasn’t looking at him, but rather had a distant gleam to her eye.

“Because he was going to betray us,” she said simply.

“What do you mean?”

She took a big gulp of wine before replying. “Precisely that, my lord,” she said, her tongue loosening with the amount of wine she’d ingested in a short amount of time. “Gruffydd and my father shared the same loyalty.”

Christopher wasn’t going to play dumb when he already knew. “To England?”

“Aye.”

He was careful as he continued, because he wanted information only she could supply. “We had it on good authority that Llewelyn had taken Brython from your brother,” he said. “That was not true?”

“Nay,” Elle said before taking another drink. “But I did.”

His brow furrowed. “You took it?” he said, trying to clarify. “But it already belonged to your family.”

She tipped her head back and gulped down the rest of the wine. “Do you not understand, my lord?” she said. “My brother and father were fools. They were forsaken of everything the Welsh stood for. They pandered to the English. To warlords like you. They were subservient to the king.”

“And you are not?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “I serve Wales,” she said. “Not Llewelyn or my father, but Wales. An independent Wales.”

“And you have been trying to achieve that in this battle?”

“I have,” she said firmly. “I was doing well enough until your knights mounted the walls. I’ve managed to hold you off for an entire month, and I’m sure not many can make that declaration. Does that shock you?”

Frankly, it did, because he was coming to see that this slip of a woman had held off an entire English army. Worse still, she’d held off him. Him! Truthfully, he didn’t know how he felt about that, but, for some reason, he smiled. Then he started to laugh as if realizing he’d been the butt of a great joke.

He could hardly believe it.

When Elle realized he was laughing, her eyes narrowed at him. “Why are you laughing?” she demanded. “Have I said something humorous?”

He waved her off. “Nay, you have not,” he said. “But you remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“My wife,” he said. “You think you are the strongest, toughest woman on the marches? Think again. When I first met my wife, she fought me like a banshee until I married her. She did it to gain peace. I did it to gain a castle. I also have a daughter who has fought with men. More than that, she used to be a spy. So you see, my lady, strong women do not shock me. Not in the least. I am surrounded by them.”

Elle’s irritation took a dousing. “Ah,” she said, eyeing him with uncertainty as he continued to snort. “But what is so funny?”

He shook his head. “The fact that you, an untrained warrior woman, have held me off for an entire month,” he said. Then he started clapping, his eyes glimmering with mirth. “Da iawn, my lady. Well done. You have my respect.”

The wine and his reaction fed her courage. “Then will you call off your attack?” she said. “I want my castle back.”

Much to her surprise, he looked as if he was actually considering it. “If I do, what will you do with it?”

The question puzzled her. “Live there, of course.”

“In peace?”

“If the Saesneg leave us alone, then I will not bother them.”

“But what if your allies call upon you?” he asked. “Will you answer the call if it was to fight against the English?”

“Of course I would.”

The food arrived. Christopher tossed back the flap to admit servants bearing trays of boiled beef and a stew of vegetables. The smell of fresh bread filled the tent almost immediately. Standing over by the cot, wet and dirty, Elle felt her mouth begin to water, and her stomach, so empty these past several days, began to growl and twist. She actually put her hand to her belly as if to comfort her own stomach at the sight of so much food. The smell was making her lightheaded.

And Christopher knew it.

“Would you like to eat, my lady?” he asked.

Elle nodded, trying not to look too eager. But Christopher didn’t invite her to sit down, not yet.

He had a plan.

“Lady Elle, since you seem to know a good deal about warfare, you know that there is never truly a victory in battle, nor is there ever truly a surrender,” he said. “Any battle takes compromise and negotiation, so that both armies know their place. Not everyone gets everything they want, and most especially the losing army. Would you agree with that?”

Poor Elle was starting to tremble. She only had eyes for the food, but she nodded to his question. “I would,” she said. “That is the nature of war.”

“Exactly,” Christopher said. “You have asked for your castle returned to you, and I am willing to do that. With a compromise.”

She looked at him then. She’d been shockingly adept at keeping her emotions in check, but when he said that, her eyes widened.

“You would?” she gasped.

“With a compromise.”

“What is it?”

He went over to the table where the food was sitting, fragrant and hot, and sat down. He still hadn’t invited her to sit. Reaching out, he tore a hunk of meat off the boiled knuckle and bit into it as she watched.

“The truth of the matter is that you are my prisoner,” he said, chewing. “I am the victor and you are the loser. If you do not agree to my compromise, know this—I will imprison every one of your men, strip the castle of anything that suggests the Welsh were even there, and put an army of a thousand English there. None of your allies or enemies could dislodge them, because if you try, I will summon my own allies and have fifteen thousand men at Brython to overrun the countryside. I will punish anyone who attempts to take the castle from me, and I will kill anyone who helps them. Am I clear so far?”

Elle’s trembling was growing worse. “Why are you threatening me?”

He swallowed the bite in his mouth. “Because I want you to know how serious I am about this,” he said. “I have the sense that you are not agreeable to the English, in any way, and I am telling you that if you do not learn to live and work alongside us, peacefully, you will have a difficult and short life. No one will remember your name after you are gone. Battle is not about killing the enemy with no end in sight. It is always about fighting for your cause but understanding that there is, indeed, an end in sight, and that end is peace. Peace is achieved by cooperation and negotiation. Do you understand me?”

Elle was watching him put more food in his mouth. “I understand,” she said. “What do you want from me?”

“Are you married?”

She shook her head. “Nay.”

“Then you will take an English husband,” he said, chewing. “I will not imprison you or your men, but allow you to live freely at Brython—but you will marry an Englishman, and he will bring his army to the castle as my garrison. You will live in peace and learn the ways of your enemy, as he will learn your ways. It is a compromise.”

Elle wasn’t so hungry or tipsy that she didn’t understand what he was saying. He’d been kind to her, and had lulled her into a false sense of security until this very moment, when he lowered the hammer. She’d foolishly fallen for it. Realizing the tables had been turned on her, for she had thought she was the one being so clever, she widened her eyes and staggered back.

“Nay!” she roared. “I will not!”

Christopher abruptly stood up, slamming his fist on the tabletop and sending the food jumping in all directions. “Refuse me and I will send you to London and the king,” he said. Gone was the gentle father, replaced by a snarling and terrifying warlord. “Let Henry do what he wishes with you, for I do not care. But I can tell you that you will never see Wales again, lady. If this is what you wish, then by all means, refuse me. I dare you.”

Elle was so shocked, so terrified, that she couldn’t even speak. She took another step back and ended up falling onto the cot behind her. She was shaking so badly that she couldn’t maintain her balance. She was starving, full of wine, and de Lohr had played his game to his advantage. She was no longer in a position of respect, but in one of surrender. And that was exactly what he was demanding.

Her surrender.

It had come to that.

She struggled to push herself up from the cot.

“You cannot ask this of me,” she said hoarsely, her voice quivering. “I shall not—”

He cut her off. “Shall not what?”

She swallowed hard, frightened by the man. “You cannot—”

He cut her off again. “I can do anything I wish,” he said. “I am the victor. Bear in mind that I do not need your permission for this. I can simply do it.”

She ended up on her feet, but it was shaky. “How would you feel if someone was treating your wife the way you are treating me?”

“What makes you think I did not treat her like this when I first met her?”

“And she still married you?”

“She had no choice. Nor do you.”

He was right. God help her, he was right. She knew it and he knew it. Distraught and unable to conceal it, Elle turned her back to him. The tears began streaming down her face, but she didn’t lift her hand to wipe them because she didn’t want him to know how badly he’d upset her.

Everything was at an end.

Nothing he said was untrue. Brython was falling to the English no matter how hard she tried to keep up the defenses. God, she’d tried so hard. The truth was that she only had about four hundred men to de Lohr’s thousands. They were able to hold as long as the English didn’t get over the wall, but they had. The portcullis was probably already lifted and the English were probably already in possession of the castle. Gruffydd had probably already been released. Everything she’d fought for…

It was gone.

“I put my brother in the vault because he said the same thing,” she said, unable to hide the fact that she was weeping. “He wanted me to marry an English warlord and create an alliance. He is allied with the English king, much like my father was, and he expected me to be complicit in their betrayal of my country. But I cannot do it. I cannot do it for him or for you.”

Christopher could hear the defeat in her voice. She was no longer the stubborn, hysterical woman who had first entered this tent. Too much drink and no food was breaking her down, as he’d intended, though he had to admit he felt some pity for her. He wasn’t cruel to women by nature, but she was an exception. She would probably ram a dagger into his chest given the chance. He had a fighter of a woman he’d married, as he told her, so he knew how to deal with them.

At least, he hoped so.

He’d had some practice.

“Then what is your choice for the rest of your life, my lady?” he asked, not unkindly. “To be a prisoner? Because that is what you will be if you do not agree to my terms. You will be kept by the king and, more than likely, married off against your will. You’ll find yourself in France or Aragon or somewhere east. You will never see Wales again, but if this is a life that suits you better than my offer, then I will ensure you receive it. The choice is yours.”

Again, he was making it seem as if she had options in this. Whatever decision she made, it would be on her head even though there was no real choice in front of her. It was hell or even greater hell. Those were her selections. The tears began to come again, no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

“You are asking me to betray my country,” she whispered tightly. “You are asking me to surrender everything I am.”

He shook his head. “I am asking no such thing,” he said. “My lady, you seem intelligent. If you have held off my army for a month, then you are not only bright, you are clever. I want you to think about this situation from a different perspective. Can you do that?”

“Why should I?”

“Because it is important. Will you try?”

“Speak, then.”

Christopher wasn’t sure he had her cooperation, but he was going to try. “As the wife of a prestigious warlord, you will be in a unique position,” he said. “Your men, your vassals, will see that you are willing to work toward a peaceful coexistence with England, a country that is not going away. We are not going to disappear tomorrow. We, and you, and even the Scots, live on a land surrounded by oceans, and it is ours to protect. There are so many enemies who have tried to do us harm, but we are the keepers of this glorious and unique land. Wales is glorious and unique, as is England. Separately, we are weaker than we would be if we were all united. United under one king to protect everything we have. Does that make sense?”

Elle was still tearing up, quickly wiping at her eyes because she was embarrassed that she couldn’t seem to control her emotions. “I suppose it does,” she said. “But Wales is smaller than England. Why should the English covet it so much?”

He began to tear apart the bread, which was cooling by now. The smell of it arose fresh as he broke off the end of the loaf. “We wish to bring peace,” he said simply. “Peace for all.”

“We do not need the English to bring us peace.”

He cocked a blond eyebrow. “Then you can bring it amongst yourselves?” he said, his tone cynical. “Because the Welsh have been fighting amongst themselves since the world began. You still fight among yourselves. There will never be one king to unify you because you cannot agree on who it should be. Look at England—we have one king. No small, bickering kingdoms. We are united under one king, and that is what makes us stronger than Wales and Scotland. We are trying to bring that peace to you, but you are warmongers. You think war is the only way, and that is a horrible existence. Do you really want to be at war for the rest of your life?”

She had stopped weeping for the most part, knowing he was, again, correct in his assessment of the Welsh. They did fight each other quite a bit. There was no unifying king, nor was there any hope for one. Even she knew that. She could smell the fresh bread, and it was weakening her resistance, killing her resolve.

The concept of surrender was becoming easier and easier.

“I do not want to be sent away,” she finally said. “To never see my home again would be worse than death.”

Christopher took a knife off the table and buttered his piece of bread. “Then it would be reasonable to accept the offer of a marriage to an English warlord,” he said. “You could remain here, at Brython, and you could teach your children about their Welsh blood, and your husband could teach them about their English blood. They will be children of two worlds, and they will be the seeds of peace, my lady. Your children would do great things in the history of our countries. Would that not make you proud?”

Elle was watching him butter the bread with longing in her eyes. His words made sense, but they were confusing her because she’d only been raised to understand conflict. Understanding peace… That was a difficult concept.

“I… I do not know,” she said honestly.

Christopher could see that she was put off balance by his question. “Having such children would be leaving your mark upon the history of Wales far more than fighting and dying for Brython,” he said. Then he stood up and went to her, holding out the piece of buttered bread. “Peace is always the better way, my lady. I believe you can become a great lady if you will only understand that.”

The bread was too close, and she was starving. She couldn’t even remember when she last had bread. Her pride collapsed and she took the bread, shoving it into her mouth as he directed her toward the table. Like a dumb animal being led to the slaughter, she let him guide her to a chair even as he put more food in front of her, all the food she could eat. All the food she’d been denied since the siege began. Food and drink was hers for the taking as Christopher poured wine for her himself, leaning down so he was closer to her ear.

“If you are to play a man’s game, then you must remember this,” he said quietly. “In battle, there is always a winner and always a loser. In this case, you have lost. This loss will be what you make of it—it can change your life to one of gratitude or one of misery. Choose gratitude, my lady. You cannot always have everything you want in life. Teach your husband about the Welsh. Show him the good things, not the hatred and resistance. Give him a reason to help you fight for your people, should it come to that. Give him a reason to defend you.”

With that, he finished pouring and headed over to the tent flap as Elle continued to shovel food in her mouth, which was so full that she could hardly chew. Christopher kept an eye on her as he muttered to a soldier outside the tent. When the soldier fled, Christopher reclaimed his seat across from Elle and watched her eat.

Like a woman starving.

Perhaps it had been a dirty trick to play on her, withholding food when she was clearly very hungry, but he thought his tactic might have worked. At least he had her thinking.

Now, he had to get the other half of this equation thinking, too.