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.
