The de Lohr Dynasty

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  But there were plenty of them to go around. They hooped and hollered like animals as they ran and sometimes fought the soldiers and knights who were surrounding them. They were a dirty, verminous lot of scruff, peasants and rabble who populated border towns. Christopher felt as if he were herding a band of unruly children as he chased the swarthy men down and killed them mercifully.

  Surprisingly, their chaotic appearance seemed to be some sort of ploy to confuse and unbalance the English, hoping that the complete irrationality of their attack would throw them off guard, for they continued to stay and fight instead of escaping back across the border.

  Christopher fought off the dirty men who tried to charge him, using his huge feet to kick them away or a giant mailed fist to cave their faces in. He set up a perimeter around the church and, for the moment, the parish and her winter stores appeared to be holding. He was focused on driving the Welsh bastards back where they came from.

  Off to the side of the melee, standing near a line of trees, was Edward. He appeared to be observing the entire clash, occasionally fighting off anyone who ventured close to him, but for the most part he was not involved in the scuffle.

  Christopher was enraged; he had spoken with Edward, even practiced with the man and his knight showed every sign of returning to the competent warrior he had been before his injury. Confident in Edward’s recovery, Christopher had not pushed him in any way, but now to see Edward standing clear of the fight had infuriated him and he would not stand for it.

  He spurred his destrier toward Edward, running over several Welsh as he charged. Controlling the destrier with pressure alone from his thighs and knees, Christopher drew his sword and raised his shield. Edward saw him coming, merely watching Christopher approach. Yet, in hindsight, he should have known better when he saw the broadsword go up and the shield move into a defensive stance. He and Christopher had known each other since they had been pages and he never truly believed his friend would attack him, not even when he hit the ground in a painful crunch of bone and steel did he believe it still.

  Christopher loomed over Edward as he lay on the ground, grunting loudly with the shock of the fall.

  “You will raise your sword and plunge into that battle this moment, de Wolfe, or you can gather your things and be gone before the sun sets,” Christopher said icily. “I will coddle no bastard coward in my ranks.”

  With that, he was gone, leaving Edward who struggled to rise and struggled to come to grips with his phobia. He had never heard Christopher use that tone with him and he was as ashamed of himself as his liege was. Finally on his feet, he staggered to his destrier and mounted, swallowing hard before spurring his steed forward into the heat of the brawl. He knew he had no choice.

  Christopher forgot all about Edward as Max was taken down by several raiders who had ganged up on him. The destrier screamed as it went over on its side, trapping Max even as Christopher and Leeton fought their way to him. The man received a good pounding but was spared any real injury thanks to his armor. Back on his horse, he was distressed to see that the animal suffered a terrible gash above his fetlock and blood was gushing onto the hoof.

  “What did you say to Edward?” David reined his dancing charger alongside his brother.

  “Where is he?” Evasively, he answered his brother with a question of his own.

  “Fighting off a group of raiders, fighting as I haven’t seen him fight in a long time.” David’s helmet turned in the direction of Edward.

  Christopher felt a small amount of satisfaction, although he was still disappointed in his knight. He did not bother to turn and look. “Damnable bastards are heading for the church again,” he said, spurring his animal forward.

  The skirmish that should have been handled in mere minutes turned into a scuffle that lasted all afternoon. The Welsh were like crazed dogs, moving about in waves and vandalizing cottages and businesses more than actually destroying anything.

  It was frustrating to chase the wily bastards about and Christopher finally had enough; he sent to Lioncross for one hundred reinforcements and before the hour was up, they had the raiders turning tail for the border. He sent the majority of his knights chasing after them, not only to make sure they retreated across the border, but also to check the border garrison he kept manned. Max and Sir Guy accompanied him back to Lioncross.

  The very moment he entered the gates, Gowen was there to meet him.

  “It is Dustin, Chris,” he said as the man dismounted.

  Christopher ripped off his helm and nearly tore his head off with it. “What?” he asked, panicked. “What’s happened?”

  “Her pains started nearly three hours ago,” Gowen replied. “Griselda and Burwell are with her.”

  All of the color drained from Christopher’s face as he charged past Gowen, oblivious to everything in the world except the plight of his wife and child.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Pain on this magnitude was something entirely new for Dustin. Her pains had started slowly enough and she thought that mayhap giving birth was not such a terrible thing after all, but they quickly escalated and she rapidly decided she wanted no part of it.

  As vocal as she was, it was no time before she was panting loudly with each contraction and cursing everyone she made eye contact with. Burwell was simply in the room to view the birth; in his line of work he did not get much practice and Griselda was the very best to learn from. Dustin did not want him in the room and nearly got out of bed to bodily remove him.

  She cursed Christopher for not being at her side, for bringing the pain upon her, and for thinking that ridding the village of raiders was more important than the birth of his child. She was fully prepared to slug him in the jaw for his priorities, but the moment his pale face entered the room, she broke down into sobs.

  Griselda wouldn’t let him in the room with all of his armor on, and still wouldn’t let him near his wife without washing the grime off his hands. Then, and only then, was he allowed to comfort Dustin.

  Christopher had never been around a laboring woman before and he was the first to admit it scared the hell out of him. He was doubly terrified that the babe was almost five weeks early, but Griselda did not seem overly concerned. She assured him that everything was progressing nicely and by the morning, he would be holding his son.

  Dustin did not want to wait that long. She wanted the babe out that very minute and was rolling with the contractions as best she could. She then plead with them to tie a rope around the babe and pull him out. They had all laughed at her, but she did not think it was the least bit funny.

  He rubbed his wife’s back and massaged her shaking legs, stopping every time she had a contraction and closing his eyes as if by sheer force of will he could absorb her pain. He could not stand to see Dustin in so much pain, even though he had known full well what he had been in for. Finally, toward midnight, Griselda gave Dustin a drink of poppy that seemed to take the edge off her contractions and make her very sleepy. With her tensions relaxed, he was able to relax a bit, too.

  Her contractions worked all night and into the morning, dissolving Griselda’s prediction that the babe would come by sunup. Instead, the poppy potion was making Dustin sick and she would vomit it up every time she tried to take it, rendering her pains merciless and causing her to scream with agony every time a wave would roll over her. Seventeen hours into her labor, Christopher was ready to climb the walls.

  “What is taking so long?” he demanded in a harsh whisper, making sure his wife could not hear him.

  “Patience, sire, patience,” Griselda assured him. “Some women take longer than others, that’s all. She is progressing slowly but everything appears fine. Why, I have seen women in labor for three days, and their children were perfectly healthy.”

  Haggard and unshaven, Christopher glanced at his wife. “The child is early, mistress.”

  The child wasn’t early and Griselda knew it, but obviously the baron did not. ’Twas not her place to involve herself in
the puzzling situation.

  “The child is large and I am sure will be fine, sire,” she said. “Now do not fret so. Why do not you go and eat something? We will still be here when you return.”

  He started to refuse but Burwell clapped a meaty hand on him. “Come, baron, let the women do their work, and let you and I do ours on a plate of venison.”

  Dustin had another contraction and moaned loudly, too weak to do the screaming she had been doing earlier. Christopher closed his eyes briefly, sickened with her necessary pain.

  “All right,” his voice was a whisper, but then he said rapidly “but I shall be right back.”

  Griselda nodded, waiting before the door was closed before moving back to Dustin and swabbing her clammy brow.

  Christopher was met downstairs by every one of his knights and Gowen, all clamoring to pester him with questions. Christopher ignored them for the most part, weary to the bone as a serving wench placed a trencher of food before him. He did not even realize he was hungry until the smells filled his nostril, and then he ate everything on the plate.

  His men and vassals were waiting quite impatiently as he finished the last of his bread and downed the remainder of his fruited water.

  “How is she?” David could stand it no longer.

  Christopher wiped his mouth and looked at his brother. “She is in labor, David. Not exactly a party atmosphere.”

  “No babe?” Leeton asked, his face pale and Christopher suddenly remembered what had happened to the man’s wife in childbirth.

  “Not yet,” he said, a little less snappish. “But Griselda assures me all is well. At any rate, Dustin is miserable but coping.”

  “We could hear her screaming down here,” Leeton said. “It sounds as if she is being beaten.”

  Christopher made a wry face. “Mayhap that would be preferable.”

  The other knights began assaulting him with questions but Leeton simply looked away. He was reliving a nightmare and not at all pleased. He knew the screams of childbirth all too well, and he had seen what bearing a new life had done to his beloved Rachel. Abruptly, he quit the hall.

  Christopher watched him leave, a twinge of sorrow for the man. Now that he was experiencing the same action that had taken Leeton’s wife from him, he could relate to the man’s pain completely. Leaving his men for a moment, he found Leeton in Gowen’s office.

  The knight was sitting in a hide-covered chair, staring out across the dismal compound. A low fire crackled in the hearth, making the room rather cozy.

  “Leeton,” he said quietly.

  The knight turned to look at him, quickly dashing away the tears on his cheeks. Christopher was miserable for him. “What is it?”

  “You asked me once, a long time ago, that if anything ever happened to Dustin, would I ever be the same. Do you remember?” he asked.

  Leeton nodded, trying to compose himself. “I remember.”

  Christopher fixed him with a gentle, unguarded look. He seemed hesitant to go on, but he did. “The answer is no. If my wife dies as a result of this, I will not be the same. For the fact that you have maintained your life and character in the face of the death of the woman you loved, I admire you greatly. I do not believe I am that strong.”

  “Aye, you are,” Leeton said, his voice faint. “You are stronger than you know, Chris. You have no weaknesses.”

  “Yes, I do,” Christopher looked up to the ceiling as if he could see his wife through the mortar and stone. “She’s a slip of a woman whom I love with all of my heart and soul.”

  He turned and left, leaving Leeton coming to grips with his terrible memories yet, somehow, stronger with them. Mayhap it was the fact that time was passing and easing his pain, or mayhap it was Christopher’s understanding. Whatever the case, he did not feel quite as desolate as he had when he had entered the room.

  Christopher fully intended to return to his wife when he came head-to-head with Burwell at the base of the stairs. The physician smiled at him, instantly throwing Christopher on his guard.

  “Leave the women to their work, my lord,” he said firmly. “You shall be of no help up there now. Come, let’s enjoy a game of Fox and Hounds to pass the time.”

  Christopher’s face was set. “I promised Dustin I would return, and I shall. Get out of my way.”

  Burwell shook his head. “Son, at this point you will simply distract her, and she needs all of her concentration to birth that enormous child of yours.” He put his thick hands on Christopher and attempted to turn him around. “You will do now as men have done for centuries; you will wait and drink and see your child after it is born. If you tend her now, you shall do more harm than good. You must allow Griselda to work.”

  A shadow of a doubt crossed Christopher’s mind as he thought that Burwell’s words made sense. He wanted to be with his wife; well, not really, but he was scared to leave her alone to face the impending birth, terrified that something would happen and he would not be there if she needed him. But, in faith, he had had just about all of the pain and moaning he could take from her. He hated feeling so helpless.

  Feeling like a dumb animal, he allowed Burwell to turn him around and steer him toward the grand hall. The healer began bellowing for wine and the game pieces to be brought forward, and in spite of the misgivings tormenting his heart, Christopher allowed himself to be swallowed up by his company of knights as they sat around the massive table.

  Christopher was very good at keeping track of time. Although he played a couple of games with Burwell, he was acutely aware that the hours were passing and nothing was happening. His anxiety was running rampant and he took to pacing the cold floor of the hall absently, listening to his men as they played their games to pass the time but not really hearing. His heart, his mind, his soul, everything but his body, was up in the bedchamber with his wife.

  Several times during the afternoon he tried to push his way upstairs, but he was thwarted every time by Burwell and a host of knights. He tried threats, intimidation, reasoning, and finally pleading, but they would not let him pass the stairs. Frustrated and frayed, he sank into a heavily padded chair by the hearth and put his head in his hands. He knew without a doubt he was going insane with worry.

  Dustin’s two maids had joined in the waiting, helping Griselda with her every need so that the midwife could focus her complete attention on Dustin. Thirty-two hours into her labor, the baby’s head was finally beginning to crown. After two hours of hard pushing, even Griselda was growing concerned, but when she saw the dark little head forcing its way into the world, she felt a certain amount of relief.

  “The child’s head is appearing, my lady,” she encouraged Dustin. “Push as hard as you can with your next pain.”

  Dustin was spent. She had been spent for hours and hours but there was no mercy for her weary body. She, the bedclothes, and the mattress were absolutely soaked with perspiration and fluids. When the next unbelievable pain hit, she grunted loudly and tried to push, but she honestly did not think she could. She’d been pushing for hours, or was it days, and nothing had happened. She was so very, very tired that she did not care at this point if she died or not.

  But this contraction did not subside like the others had, it continued until Dustin was shrieking with agony. She could hear Griselda’s matronly voice, light and reassuring, encouraging her onward, but she has ceased to hear her words long ago. She was wrapped up in her own world of agony until the pain suddenly subsided a bit and she felt a great, slippery rush and the pressure diminished substantially.

  “Is…is it born yet?” she breathed heavily, feeling one of the maids swab her clammy brow.

  “Almost,” Griselda said. “Another push and ’twill be free.”

  Dustin seemed to snap out of her lethargy then; one more push. She began to live for that one more push and when the contraction came, she bore down with her remaining strength and was rewarded with a tremendous sense of relief. Almost instantaneously, she heard a thin wail.

  More alert
than she had been in over a day, she struggled to sit up to see the babe as Griselda and the maids fussed over the infant.

  “Well? Is he all right? Is he healthy?” she demanded.

  Griselda smiled and suddenly there was a fat, squalling, red infant displayed for Dustin to see. “Your daughter is fine,” she said. “Look how big and strong she is.”

  Dustin was immediately entranced. She realized that she did not care that it wasn’t a boy; it was a beautiful, healthy daughter and she reached out and touched the tiny, sticky fingers. Tears of relief and joy coursed down her cheeks.

  “She is big, isn’t she?” she whispered. “Oh, give her to me, please.”

  Griselda cleaned the infant a bit and wrapped her in warm, clean swaddling. Dustin had never experienced anything so sweet as holding her daughter in her arms for the first time. She cooed to the baby, examining her tiny hands and touching her little face, all the while completely unaware that she was crying. All of the pain and exhaustion from the past day and a half was suddenly worth the effort.

  Griselda and the maids stood back a moment, watching the new mother with her new daughter, smiling happily between them. But Dustin was very pale and very weak and needed her rest; the babe would still be there when she awoke. Sending one of the maids for the wet nurse enlisted from the village, she gently took the babe from Dustin and handed it off to the other maid for more serious cleaning.

  Dustin protested weakly at her child being taken away, but Griselda shushed her firmly. “You will be holding that child for years to come, my lady. Now we must take care of you.”

  With that, she bade Dustin to drink a nourishing concoction that tasted terrible, but settled her stomach. Now that the newness of the moment had passed, Dustin began to quiver as if terribly cold and Griselda bundled her up in layers of coverlets and furs.

  Warm, bone-tired but elated, Dustin was asleep before she even realized it.