Christopher’s features stiffened and he moved for him once more, but David stopped him.
“No more,” he said quietly. “You shall kill him if you do.”
Christopher looked at David, who nodded his head slightly in Dustin’s direction. He looked to her, crying against Marcus, and knew it would not be a good thing to commit murder in front of his wife. As it was, she had to witness a sound beating on top of seeing her puppy dismembered. He forgot all about Ralph.
“De Lohr!” John came rushing down the stairs. “Leave him alone, I say. How dare you lay a hand on someone of higher rank!”
Christopher swung on the prince. “I wouldn’t have had to lay a hand on him if you disciplined him once in a while. Unfortunately, your lack of control has forced Ralph to learn a very hard lesson, one I will repeat gladly, if needed.”
John began to shake and twist, and all present could see a fit coming on. His face grew quite red and he began to froth at the mouth. From that point on the man was incoherent, and Christopher turned his back on him as he fell to the ground in great convulsions of rage.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said gently, taking her from Marcus. “Let’s go back to the apartments.”
She was sobbing pitifully, like a child, clutching Harold to her chest. “Alex,” she managed to choke out.
“Where’s the other one?” Christopher looked around, as did Marcus and David.
“He’s here, sire.” Lady Gabrielle stood on the edge of the platform and handed Alexander down to David.
Christopher looked up at the woman, her pretty face pale and tear-streaked. “Thank you,” he mumbled, eyeing her for a moment. “Where is your husband, my lady? Do you have an escort back to your rooms?”
“Aye, sire,” she nodded, pointing to the older man several feet away from her.
Christopher recognized the earl and, nodding shortly, handed the other puppy to his wife and led her gently away. His knights followed in a group, with Marcus bringing up the rear. He had been watching John throw a fit next to Ralph’s limp body, disgusted to the bone that his greed and envy had caused him an alliance with the man. Again, he could only pray that Richard was in a forgiving mood when he informed him of his treasonous act.
Practice was over for the day.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dustin was exhausted and ill by the time they reached their apartment. She gently set the puppies down on the floor and wandered into their bedchamber, too distraught to do anything more than throw herself on the bed and curl up into a ball.
Christopher threw a few table scraps on the floor to keep the pups occupied and followed his wife into the bedchamber, unlatching what remained of his armor and letting it clatter to the floor by the door. All the while, his eyes were riveted to his wife as she lay in a shaking heap upon the bed, and he silently cursed Ralph again for his dastardly act.
He tore off his tunic and went over to the bed, lying carefully on the bed next to Dustin. Although her hysterical crying had ceased, she continued to hiccup and sob and chewed her nails absently. His heart ached for her and he found himself stroking her head gently, pulling her hair back away from her face and tucking it behind her ear, watching the colors in the dim light. He didn’t say anything because he knew what she needed at the moment was simply to be comforted, and he hoped his soft touch and warm body pressed against her back at least offered some.
He watched her pale face, her eyes becoming heavy-lidded as she lay there. She was such a strong and independent woman that it were moments like these where her true vulnerability came through; she was as fragile as a flower. This was the Dustin that needed him the very most.
The monkey suddenly appeared on the pillow above her head. Christopher continued to stroke her hair as he watched the monkey, blinking rapidly and moving its little beard crazily. The little monkey inched forward, resting on its haunches, then inched forward again. He continued to watch it, wondering what it was going to do, until it was practically sitting on top of Dustin’s head. He found himself tensing, waiting for the beast to go crazy again, when a tiny little hand shot out and began rubbing Dustin’s hair rapidly, mimicking Christopher’s much longer strokes.
He smiled broadly at the monkey. “That’s right, George. Be sweet to my lady, she has had a difficult day.”
“What’s he doing?” Dustin whispered, a finger between her teeth.
“Comforting you,” Christopher replied, leaning over and kissing her cheek softly.
Dustin sighed raggedly, closing her eyes. Christopher began to rub her shoulders and arms therapeutically as George progressed beyond stroking her hair to picking it apart, inspecting her scalp for vermin. Christopher laughed softly at the monkey, undoing the stays on his wife’s surcoat and loosening it to allow his caressing hands better access. Her muscles were tight and her whole body tensed, but she was gradually relaxing under his expert hands. After several long minutes, she fell into a fatigued sleep.
He continued to touch her even though he knew she could not feel him simply for the pleasure and comfort it brought him. George, finding nothing of interest on Dustin’s scalp, took to playing with her hair.
Christopher pulled the coverlet up over his wife and quietly admonishing the monkey to be silent, gathered his armor and moved into the antechamber. The puppies had curled up on one of the rugs and had fallen asleep, exhausted after their busy day. He walked past the sleeping dogs and opened the front door, ordering one of the soldiers in the hall to summon his squire.
Dustin slept through the afternoon. Christopher checked on her every few minutes, keeping himself busy in the antechamber with various things in preparation for the tournament on the morrow. David came up to sit with him, lounging about like a gentleman of leisure when they both knew he could be out in the arena practicing. Edward and Leeton, Dud and Trent all came by at various times with various excuses for their visit, but Christopher knew they had come to see how Dustin was, and he told them frankly that she was exhaustedly sleeping. Since it seemed his knights could not practice without him hanging over their shoulders, Christopher sent each man about on a particular errand for the morrow.
Late in the afternoon, Marcus called. His handsome face was grim as he pulled Christopher into a private corner.
“John is out for blood, Chris,” he said quietly. “He is spreading the word that any man who mortally wounds you in the tourney tomorrow will be awarded ten pieces of gold.”
Christopher shrugged. “So?”
Marcus looked hard at him. “And I have heard from reliable sources that if you are killed, John intends to auction Dustin off to the highest bidder.”
Christopher met his gaze for a moment before raising his eyebrows in an unconcerned gesture. “Then make sure you or David are the highest bidder.”
“You are not upset?” Marcus asked, surprised. “Hell, I was livid.”
Christopher crossed his arms confidently. “Marcus, legions of Saladin’s men could not kill me. There is no possible way in the world that an English knight, no matter how good, is going to kill me. However, were you competing against me tomorrow the odds would have been considerably higher. Quit worrying.”
“I am not, I am simply informing you of the latest from the den of jackals,” Marcus said. Then he shifted the subject. “How is Dustin?”
“Sleeping,” Christopher replied, moving back into the room.
Marcus sat in a chair, trying to move his right arm to a comfortable position. “I saw Edward working with the jousting poles down by the arena,” he said. “He’s mounting the new crow’s foot tips on them instead of the spears.”
“I know, I told him to,” Christopher replied. “ ’Tis too easy to kill someone with those spear tips; I simply want to unseat them. Most everyone is mounting their poles with crow’s foot.”
“So I have seen,” Marcus replied. “But ’twill be easy to pick out the men who have in mind to kill you tomorrow; I suspect they will be the ones that still bear the spear tips.”
Christopher smiled flatly. “I shall bear that in mind.”
The sun was low in the sky and it was just the two of them, sitting comfortably before a glowing hearth. The events of yesterday, of the morning, seemed years away. The silence was comfortable, thoughtful.
“There will be civil war,” Marcus said softly, staring at the dying embers.
Christopher rubbed his beard. “ ’Tis hard to say,” he replied. “I have been back in England for over a month and have yet to feel the true pulse of favor. You seem to think England divided from your trip to the north. I simply do not know yet.”
“Do you intend to send word to Richard soon?” Marcus inquired.
“And tell him what?” Christopher gestured with his hand. “Nay, Marcus, I will not waste Richard’s time with gossip and rumors. I must have more solid evidence before I send him a missive.”
Marcus leaned on his good arm, letting out a heavy sigh. “John will start a civil war, you know. He’s already amassing a mercenary army, which he thinks is a secret.”
“And he has already bled the coffers dry so I cannot imagine what he expects to pay the army with,” Christopher replied.
“But they are amassing nonetheless and when he strikes, ’twill be your duty to quell him in the name of Richard,” Marcus reminded hm. “That, my friend, constitutes civil war.”
Christopher sat, deep in thought. Marcus was right, although Christopher refused to be an alarmist. Civil war was a long way off, in his opinion. But he, too, felt it was inevitable and the thought depressed him.
“Tell me,” he said, changing subjects. “When do you intend to inspect this great fortress of Somerhill?”
“Whenever circumstances allow me to leave,” Marcus replied. Then, he grinned. “John is really furious about that, isn’t he? He wasted a perfectly good baronetcy on a crippled knight.”
Christopher snorted humorously. “Score another victory for Richard’s cause.”
They snickered and insulted John, sharing a carafe of wine between them as the sun sank lower in the fall sky. Days were growing shorter and colder, signaling the onset of winter’s approach.
As the conversation faded, Christopher noticed a swaying figure in the doorway to the bedchamber. Dustin was standing there, her loosened surcoat all but falling off as she rubbed her eyes sleepily. Christopher set down his goblet and rose.
“So you decided to wake?” he teased gently. “Did you sleep well?”
She nodded, yawning. “George is still asleep on your pillow,” she said. “Hello, Marcus.”
Marcus waved with his good hand. “Good morn.”
Christopher pulled up the sagging dress at her shoulders. “Are you hungry? We were just contemplating going down to supper.”
“Aye, I could eat,” she said. “I shall change my surcoat.”
She stumbled back into the bedchamber with Christopher in tow. Marcus turned back to the fire, to his wine, darkly wishing that it could be him in the bedchamber helping Dustin change her surcoat and disgusted with himself in the same breath. Christopher had been right of one thing during his earlier tirade; Marcus was guilty of breaking the tenth commandment.
Christopher came back out after a few minutes, acknowledging Marcus’ questioning glance. “She will be out in a minute,” he said.
Marcus noticed his liege wore a fresh tunic and his hair was combed. Muscled legs bulged through dark breeches and disappeared into black leather boots. Marcus felt quite ill-dressed in his dirtied tunic and worn boots. But there was no time to change, for Dustin emerged from the bedchamber a few moments later dressed in a wine-colored surcoat of brocade with gold leafing that hung off her exquisite shoulders and molded to her torso. It was exquisite and rather indecent.
Christopher did a double-take at his wife. “Is that one of your mother’s surcoats?”
She looked defiantly back at him, fussing with a slipper. “Aye, it is, and you approved of it. And you just fastened the stays not a minute ago and said nothing about it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I must have been drunk. ’Tis too tight.”
“It fits me well, thank you,” Dustin insisted. “I am not going to change again. What do you think, Marcus?”
Marcus glanced at Christopher before forming a carefully-worded answer. “ ’Tis a lovely surcoat, my lady.”
“You are no help,” Christopher muttered, then looked at his wife again. “Well, then, I suppose it is a good thing you have both Marcus and myself for escorts, considering we will be beating the entire male population of Windsor away from you.”
She giggled and he held out his arm to her. When Marcus stood beside her she instinctively reached out to take his arm, as well, but clutched bandages instead. “Oh, Marcus, I am sorry.” She snatched her arm away. “Did I hurt you?”
“Nay, dear lady,” he said as he opened the door. “You could not if you tried.”
There were still over a dozen soldiers in the hall and Christopher took half with them down to the great dining hall where supper was already being served in high fashion. Leeton and Edward were there, but David and the rest of the knights were attending to the final details for the tournament as Christopher seated Dustin and then took the chair next to her. He didn’t bother to glance at the head table to see if Ralph was there; he hoped the man had died of a hemorrhage.
Dustin seemed to be in good spirits. Mummers were moving about the room, making fun of the guests and doing acrobatics. Dustin had seen mummers, once, when she had traveled with her father to Bath as a young girl and was fascinated by their tricks and brightly colored costumes. One fool wore lively bells on the end of his three-cornered hat that jingled wildly.
She devoured her meal of capon and venison with a plum sauce, watching with bright eyes as the mummers danced, oblivious to the conversation her husband was having with Marcus over the top of her head. She was thoroughly enjoying herself until she glanced away from the fools and caught sight of Lady Gabrielle sitting a few tables away with her husband and sister-in-law.
The smile of greeting that was forming on her lips turned to horror when she saw that Lady Gabrielle’s face was bruised and her lip was swollen. The woman averted her eyes when she saw Dustin, turning back to her trencher and Dustin went stiff with distress. She turned to her husband.
“Chris, look at Lady Gabrielle over there,” she pointed as discreetly as she could manage. “Look at her face. She looks to have been in an accident.”
Christopher glanced nonchalantly at the lady. It took him all of two seconds to see that the woman met with no accident, unless she mistakenly threw herself on her husband’s fists. He turned back to his own food, disgusted at a man who could beat his wife.
But Dustin wanted his opinion. “What do you think happened? Can I at least speak with her for a moment?”
“That would not be wise,” he said quietly, suspecting that Lady de Havilland’s husband disciplined his wife for consorting with an enemy’s wife. “Leave well enough alone, Dustin.”
She looked at him curiously. “Leave what alone?”
“Lady Gabrielle,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t even look at her if I were you.”
She was thoroughly puzzled by now. “For God’s sake, why not? What’s the matter?”
Christopher put down his spoon, wondering how he could delicately phrase his answer so his wife wouldn’t fly into a frenzy.
“I told you that her husband was sympathetic to John,” he replied. “After what happened this afternoon with Ralph, I can only deduce that the earl punished his wife for befriending you. Anymore contact between you and it could result in more than a beating for her.”
Dustin’s eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly, but she didn’t look back at the woman. Instead, she looked quickly down at her trencher. “He hurt her?” she whispered. “But…she did nothing. Why did he have to hurt her?”
Christopher picked up his wife’s hand and kissed it, returning to his own food. “I do not know, sweetheart. Some
men do not think twice about beating a female.”
Dustin was sick. She sat back in her chair, trying desperately not to look at Lady Gabrielle but wanting to comfort the woman somehow. She was such a nice lady and Dustin was quickly becoming distraught on her behalf.
Suddenly the mummers were in front of her, two effeminate men in tight little costumes, dancing and cavorting in front of her. They leap-frogged over each other a few times, singing some sort of crazy song. Minutes earlier, Dustin would have been thrilled but at this moment she wanted nothing to do with them.
The first mummer, a little man with graying hair, hopped up to the table and gave Dustin a wild-eyed look.
“ ’Tis said the Lion’s Claw married the most beautiful woman in the realm,” he began. “The man who single-handedly tamed Saladin finds himself tamed by a mere slip of a girl with enough hair to weave a rug.”
The two of them bounced around crazily as the tables closest to them laughed at Christopher and Dustin’s expense. Dustin frowned impatiently as the second mummer bobbed forward.
“Eyes like silver, hair like gold, will she tarnish when she grows old?” he blurted in a silly fashion, rolling his eyes. “The face of an angel and fists of steel, will she be the Claw’s Achilles heel?”
Christopher sat quite calmly, his gaze never wavering and his expression never changing. Dustin, however, wasn’t so adept at hiding her emotions.
“Go away,” she snorted as the first mummer rolled forward for his turn.
His face fell exaggeratedly. “Oh, my lady doesn’t appreciate our humor. Should we use smaller words?”
It was a blatant insult, unusual for mummers. Christopher suspected the prince had paid these fools well for a daring chance. Before he could stop his wife from reacting, she stood up and smashed a half-eaten custard tart into the mummer’s face.
“Obviously you do not understand words at all, otherwise you would have respected my wishes,” she snapped. “Get out of my sight before I do more than rub custard in your face.”
The de Lohr Dynasty Page 42
