David came to Dustin, taking her shaking arm. “Time to pack, Lady de Lohr.”
Christopher broke away from his private conference with Edward to see his wife and brother off. “I shall meet up with you later,” he told his brother, then affectionately stroked his wife’s cheek. “Are you going to have enough trunks? God only knows how much we have acquired since we have come to London.”
“I shall manage,” she replied wearily, exhausted to the bone and still frightened for Deborah. Yet her husband, remarkably, had remained fairly calm throughout the entire occurrence and she wondered about it. “Are you going to help Deborah now?”
Christopher wasn’t looking at her as he put his gauntlet back on again. “I have men going to Deborah’s rescue, Dustin. She will be amply protected. You will make sure she packs her things, as well. And try to limit the baggage to four trunks for each of you, if you please.”
He was talking casually, yet there was no mistaking his tense manner. Dustin eyed him warily. “Where are you going?” she asked.
He put his helmet back on, adjusting his mail hood beneath it. “To pay a call on the earl.”
Dustin’s eyes widened. She wanted to protest, to beg that he simply go with her and that they leave this place, but she could not and she wouldn’t. Christopher was a soldier, the best in the realm, and fighting was his vocation. She hated the thought of him fighting for any reason, wishing he were a simple scholar so she wouldn’t have to worry about him so, but in faith, she loved his strength and his power. He was the Defender, and she loved him more than life. As afraid as she was for him, she would never ask him to be less than he was.
“Are you going to kill him?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
He didn’t answer her, instead bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it sweetly. “I shall see you later.”
He turned abruptly and she cried after him, rushing to him when he paused. Tired and scratched and damp, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him through his helmet.
“I love you, husband. Be safe,” she whispered.
He stroked her cheek with a mailed hand and was gone.
David took her arm gently. “How are we going to pack George?” he wondered aloud as he led her away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Windsor was in an uproar. Between Deborah’s screams for help and Christopher’s men tearing up the place trying to find the Earl of Fenwark and his men, the entire castle was running for cover.
Sir Sean de Lara found Deborah quite safe but thoroughly shaken in a small room, well protected by several crown soldiers. He returned her to Dustin’s apartments, whereupon he and David took a group of about thirty men-at-arms and went to meet up with Christopher, leaving the other thirty men guarding the women. Alone and terrified, Dustin and Deborah busied themselves with packing.
Christopher was hell-bent. He had forced himself to be calm in the presence of his wife, but in faith, he was beyond fury. It mattered not to him that the earl was loyal to John and was preparing to join him in the north; what mattered to him was that the earl had tried to kill his wife. He was terribly angry for Deborah’s sake, too, but the outrage he felt on Dustin’s behalf was consuming. The man dared harm his wife and he would pay for the action with his life.
He had seen the Lady Isobelle’s mutilated body and had been sickened by the fact that the same bastards had been chasing his wife. He and three companies of troops, all of them his personal men that he had brought from Lioncross, went through Windsor like a violent storm in search of the earl. Servants and residents alike scattered out of his way, terrified that the Lion’s Claw was obviously bent on blood and wondering who the unlucky man was. Inevitably, it began to spread that he was looking for the Earl of Fenwark to kill him.
The earl knew Christopher was coming and was ready for him. By the time Christopher and his men reached the wing where the earl was housed, there were at least a hundred of the earl’s troops waiting and the clash that ensued could be heard all over the castle.
*
Back in Christopher’s apartments, Dustin and Deborah were busy packing away the last of Dustin’s things when Dustin’s two maids came scurrying in, their faces lit with apprehension.
“The baron has taken on the earl,” the fatter of the two managed to gasp. “The battle threatens to destroy the entire north wing.”
Cold fear clutched at Dustin, but she faltered only a split second before continuing her packing. “Then we must hurry and finish, for when the fight is over, we will be returning to Lioncross. Help Lady Deborah with the linens.”
In a nervous huff, the maids did as they were told.
Dustin eyed the ladies in her bedchamber, watching them as they quickly packed and cleaned, feeling their anxiety. She was trying hard to remain cool, but the knowledge that her husband was engaged in a massive fight shook her to the core. She knew it was coming, mayhap wondering if it had already occurred when the women had come barging in with the information that set her mind to swirling again.
She didn’t care about revenge, or of the bloody honor Christopher spoke of when discussing Richard. True, he was fighting on her behalf now, but somehow Richard was ultimately responsible for everything that happened to her and her husband, and she hated the man for it. Everything except for ordering Christopher to marry Arthur Barringdon’s daughter.
Dustin was thinking crazy, irrational thoughts in her attempt to remain calm, but she could slowly feel her composure slipping.
*
In the heat of battle, Christopher’s composure wasn’t damaged in the least. He was at home in a battle, more comfortable than most men were in their favorite chair. Reinforcements had arrived to bolster his number and he found himself in a full-blown war. With as many men as there were crowding the broad corridor, each fighting the other in such close quarters that men of the same army were cutting each other down, Christopher had yet to see the earl and suspected, correctly, that the man was behind barred doors.
Yet it was of no matter, he would tear the door from its hinges in his quest for revenge. He shoved onward through the melee, cutting down enemy troops, using his armored arms to knock men down before slitting their throats, all in a raging attempt to reach the earl’s apartments. The blood, the noise, the smell of battle and death were everywhere. Pretty woolen rugs beneath their struggling feet were shredded.
He glanced over his shoulder to see David standing atop a chair, slicing one man’s head clean from his shoulder and kicking another man to the ground. He always marveled at the energy his little brother exhibited in a crisis; David lived for a good fight. He may have lacked the size of other knights, but by damn, if he wasn’t the quickest fury on two feet. Opponents often underestimated David’s strength because of his stature, and that was often their last mistake before seeing the fields of paradise.
Edward and Leeton were fighting around him, engaging as many as three soldiers at one time. Leeton fought so easily that it looked as if he were bored by the conflict, as if it were no test for his skills. Edward, however, fought each man as if he were fighting the greatest warrior in England. He grunted and groaned with his efforts, always victorious but acting as if it had taken all his strength to emerge successful. Christopher had decided a long time ago that Edward would make a fine earl when his father passed on, for he would rather tend to more gentlemanly pursuits than brandish a weapon.
Christopher pushed on with Sir Nicholas and Sir Guy close on his flanks where he could watch them in an out-an-out battle. Practices and tournaments were one way of surmising a knight’s talents, but there was no substitution for a good fight. Christopher was pleased to see that these men were exceedingly efficient and capable. Just as they worked their way through a group of particularly zealous soldiers, they came upon Sir Sean as he gored his opponent with a hearty yell. He grinned enthusiastically at Christopher as he withdrew his sword before starting in on the next unfortunate man.
Christopher smirked, shaking his hea
d at the knight’s zeal. But his smile was cut short by a heavy sword against his back, smashing against his helmet. He turned and defeated his opponent within three stokes of his sword, but his ears were ringing and he could feel the unmistakable warmth of blood from his split scalp. Cursing himself for being stupid enough to allow himself to be caught from behind, he moved toward the door at the end of the hall.
The earl’s door was bolted from the inside, but Christopher and Sir Nicholas made short work of the locked panel. The door swung open with a crash and Christopher was the first man through, his eyes settled on the earl at the far end of the room. The earl had surrounded himself with a few dozen men, all fighting with ardor as the baron and his troops poured in through the shattered doorway, but even that number of men would not be enough to save the earl from the wrath of the Lion’s Claw.
In spite of his advanced years, Charles de Havilland was an accomplished fighter and met Christopher’s sword without hesitation. Furniture went up on end and furnishings were destroyed as the baron and the earl went head on. Christopher knew he would beat the man without a doubt, wondering how such a distinguished-looking man could be such a brutal, cold-blooded beast. To send his wife to whore with such a devil of a man was an inconceivable horror to Christopher. With the anger of that thought, he brought down his sword so hard that the earl lost his grip on his own blade and the steel went clattering to the floor.
The earl froze, his face one of haughty contempt. He waited patiently for the final blow, but instead, Christopher lowered his sword and raised the faceplate of his visor. Icy sky-blue eyes met brown ones, each man feeling nothing but hatred for the other.
“You tried to kill my wife,” Christopher said in a low, slow voice. “I know why. But I have trouble dealing with the idea that you actually believed you could get away with it. Do you know your assassins followed her all the way to the training ground? Now, tell me; how intelligent was that?”
“Apparently not intelligent enough,” the earl said evenly. “Had my men been armed with a crossbow, your precious Dustin would now be as cold as the winter ground. ’Tis my only regret, baron. My only one.”
Christ, but the man was cool in the face of death. Christopher’s anger threatened to flare, but he contained himself.
“I hear that Lady Gabrielle is now John’s whore,” Christopher said with disgust. “I am curious as to how a man of your status could damn your lovely young wife to a life of misery.”
The earl raised an eyebrow. “You have come here to talk of women? What of Richard and John? Surely you must realize that John is the rightful king of England. His father, our illustrious Henry, wished for John to ascend him and not his brother.”
“What Henry wished and what birthright declared are clear, my lord,” Christopher retorted. “Richard is the rightful heir.”
“I beg to differ, baron, but you are fighting on the wrong side,” the earl said. “As our king, Henry had every right to choose who would succeed him, and he did not wish it to be Richard.”
“Ridiculous,” Christopher responded. “The king cannot choose his successor, only birthright can establish rule. I will discuss this with you no further; Richard is our rightful king.”
“There are many who feel otherwise,” the earl replied tightly. “Richard is driving England to civil war by not turning rule over to Henry’s chosen. Why do you insist upon serving a man who had never actually ruled a day from English soil? Richard is monarch in absentia, de Lohr. John may not be the best choice for king, but at least he loves England enough not to leave it.”
Christopher stiffened. “John drives England to civil war with his greed and petty jealousies. Were he to rule from the throne, he would destroy this country and every man with it.”
“You are a fool,” de Havilland hissed in the first real show of emotion. “Cannot you see that? Your loyalties are misplaced.”
“My loyalties lie with the true king of England,” Christopher snapped quietly. “Now, earl, returning to the reason I am here. You made an attempt on my wife’s life, and for that, you shall pay dearly.”
The earl wasn’t impressed. “Is that the only reason you are here? It could not possibly be because you know I am loyal to John, and because of the information my sister relayed to your wife?” The earl shook his head, trying to provoke Christopher, to unbalance him. “Are you going to kill me because of one small, insignificant woman? She is nothing in the scheme of the world, de Lohr, as you would do well to remember. The only thing of importance is England and her rule.”
Christopher cracked a dangerous smile. “Nay, my lord, ’tis you who would do well to remember that the only thing of importance is my wife. England and her rule come second.” He stood back from the man and motioned with his sword. “Retrieve your blade. I do not strike down an unarmed man.”
The earl eyed him for a moment before mechanically picking up his sword. Before raising the weapon in a defensive posture, he shook his head with genuine confusion.
“You are a bigger fool than I ever thought you to be,” he said. “How can you place any value on a woman? From what I had heard and seen of you, you were Richard’s most devoted servant. When you tore Windsor apart to get to me, I was confident it was because I was riding to John’s aid. And now you tell me it is because I had my men chase your wife? ’Tis madness, de Lohr. How can you tell me your wife comes before your king?”
Christopher lowered his visor and raised his sword. “Because she does, as I am about to demonstrate. Defend yourself, my lord.”
The earl promptly raised his sword. “You are a pathetic excuse for a Defender, de Lohr, if you would use your strength to protect a woman, a woman who was unfaithful to you, no less.”
“And now you add slander to the charge of attempted murder,” Christopher said. “ ’Twill be a pleasure to dispense justice.”
“Then I thank God Marcus Burton isn’t here, lest I’d be fighting off the two of you on Lady de Lohr’s behalf,” de Havilland snorted cruelly. “ ’Tis beyond me how the two of you could be bewitched by the bitch.”
Christopher brought the sword down, every ounce of power in his body surging to his arms as he slammed into the earl with unearthly strength. The earl brought his sword up, the force of the blow so powerful that it drove his own sword backward and buried it into the soft flesh of his neck.
The earl stumbled back, his windpipe cut and the horrible rasps of a man dying filling the room. He knew he was going to die and his eyes were wide as Christopher loomed over him again, raising his sword and delivering the merciful deathblow that severed his head from his body.
Christopher’s fury was beyond rational. He stood over the earl’s body, shaking with all of the raging emotions he was feeling, his breathing coming hard and fast. Behind him, there were still pockets of fighting in the room and he suddenly reached down and grabbed the earl’s head by the hair, raising it high above his head.
“It is over!” he roared, reverberation through the walls loud enough to be heard by every soldier involved.
He pushed through the room with his grisly trophy held above him, scattering the earl’s men like rabbits. Out in the corridor, he shouted his words again and the fighting immediately stopped. All eyes turned to the Lion’s Claw and his prize.
The battle was indeed over.
*
The soldiers guarding the door would not allow Dustin from her rooms to see what was transpiring with the skirmish. Wise, seasoned men that they were, they listened empathetically as she pleaded and begged, but there was no possible way she was going anywhere, especially out to find her husband, and the men in charge tried to reason with her. Dustin had stopped trying hours ago to control her fear for Christopher, and she even tried tears to sway the soldiers. It didn’t work.
When she eventually tried to bully her way out, the Irish sergeant picked her up and bodily placed her back in the antechamber, closing the door politely behind him as he went back out into the corridor. Dustin was too concerned
about her husband to fight anymore, knowing it would be futile, and took to pacing the floor of the room nervously while Deborah and her maids pretended to be busy with other things.
Dustin was close to hysterics. He’d been gone the entire afternoon and she was sick with worry for him. Surely if he had been victorious, he would have returned to her immediately. Yet if the earl was triumphant, then… Dustin squeezed her eyes shut at the thought; she wasn’t able to pursue it. She would have to trust Christopher and know he would return to her. Lord, with him taking his army north tonight, she would have endless days of this worrying to look forward to. The sooner she learned to control her anxiety, the better.
Eventually she grew tired of pacing and sat while Deborah read aloud from a bible that she had brought with her. Dustin was disinterested, her mind was drifting across the compound to the north wing, reaching out as if she could see Christopher if she tried hard enough. Deborah droned on and the maids finished packing quietly, retreating to Deborah and David’s apartments to pack their items. Dustin sat and waited, her anxiety being replaced by a sort of numbness she was becoming accustomed to. There was naught else to do but sit and wait.
The sun had set and she knew supper would be served shortly in the grand dining hall. Her stomach rumbled but she wasn’t hungry. One of her maids returned long enough to stoke the hearth in both the antechamber and the bedchamber before hustling back to her duties. Dustin had lost track of time as it grew dark outside and she waited for her husband to return.
A peculiar droning sound permeated the room and Dustin turned to look curiously at Deborah, who lifted her head from her reading and gazed back at her sister-in-law questioningly. Then, at the same time and without a word, they both looked to the front door of the apartments.
Dustin was a second faster than her sister-in-law. She rushed to the door and threw it open. She was met by a host of surprised male faces.
“What’s going on?” Dustin demanded of the soldiers congregating in the hall. The Irish sergeant looked down at her; he was a great stocky man with a bushy red mustache. “News of your husband, my lady.”
The de Lohr Dynasty: Medieval Legends: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 63