The de Lohr Dynasty

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Dustin moved to undo her cloak. “Of course,” she said. “Where did Iris take Christin?”

  “Probably to show her off to the servants and then, I would imagine, she will settle her very close to your room.” He could see she was lost without her daughter and he smiled, kissing her on the cheek. “She is fine. Do not worry so much.”

  “I am not,” Dustin insisted with a shrug.

  He laughed softly at her and quit the room, leaving her feeling strange and alone.

  Sara quickly bustled over to Dustin and deftly helped her remove her things. But Dustin refused the girl’s offer to help bathe her, preferring to do it alone. The only person she ever allowed to bathe her was Christopher, and baths in general were a sore memory. He had so loved to bathe her.

  Alone in her new surroundings, Dustin slid into the great tub and washed her hair twice, soaping her skin until she was sure she had scrubbed herself raw. The tub was so big it would have been perfect for two people, and before she realized it, tears welled and fell, mingling with the warm water.

  “Why, Christopher, why?” she whispered painfully. “Why did you leave me? You promised you would return.”

  Soft sobs filled the room, not unheard by young Sara in the alcove. She had slipped in through a servant’s door to hang Dustin’s surcoats to rid them of wrinkles and had heard the heartfelt plea like a stab to her romantic heart. Distressed, she silently exited the room and ran immediately to find her mother. Iris sought out Marcus in mere minutes.

  There wasn’t a person at Somerhill that did not know of Dustin’s plight by dinner. Dustin showed up on Marcus’ arm for dinner, dressed in an apricot-colored silk he had purchased for her. She looked pale and tired, but was polite as she was introduced to the various occupants of the keep and hearing the stories of those who had been at Somerhill some length.

  Iris had been at Somerhill since she had been a young girl. The baron that had occupied it before Marcus had been the last of a long, distinguished line and when he passed away, he left no heirs and the property reverted to the throne. But Iris and two of the old man’s knights had stayed on to run the keep before Marcus took it over, and he had kept them.

  The knights that had come with the castle were older, seasoned men who had served King Richard’s father, King Henry, and spoke favorably of the man. Sir Alan Armstrong and Sir Nels McCullogh each had younger wives, Lady Margaret and Lady Emma, respectively, and five young children between them. As for the other knights Marcus had brought with him, Sir Stephen, Dud, and Sir Dalton le Crughnan, they were a respectful bunch and she had appreciated their professional attitude toward her on the journey.

  Dud had fought with Christopher on the quest and she found herself engaged in a pleasant conversation with him, listening to the exploits of her late husband with delight. At first, he had been very reluctant to speak of Christopher, but she had persisted and he obliged. Dud soon found himself telling Christopher’s tales for the entire table and they hung on every word. Dustin likened it to the days at Lioncross with Christopher and his men seated around the meal table, listening to Anthony or Max tell tall and wonderful tales. Those times would always have a special place in her heart and she missed them terribly. The de Velt twins were gifted story actors and had the ability to entertain greatly, even though Dud did well on his own as he told of their exploits in Jerusalem, and had his audience enthralled.

  All except Marcus. He had been there, and done it all, too. He found himself staring at Dustin’s turned back as she listened to Dud and the slow fire of jealousy crept surely into his veins. How in the hell could he compete with a dead man? The way Dud was talking, Christopher was an immortal god of war, not the mere mortal man Marcus knew him personally to be. He knew winning Dustin over was going to be difficult, but if tales of Christopher bombarded her ears every night, he’d never have her attention. Aye, Marcus was jealous of a dead man.

  Dustin enjoyed hearing Christopher’s legend from Dud’s point of view. She did not know why she wanted to hear talk of her husband when all she did was feel a stab of pain at the mere mention of his name, but suddenly she decided she wanted to hear Dud’s tales. When he had finished one particularly long story, he immediately begged off from any more, and she had no idea it was because Marcus was giving him the evil eye over her head. Still, she was satisfied, and she finished the remainder of her bread with Christin sleeping in her arms. She hoped Dud would tell her daughter and unborn son of their father’s great adventures.

  Marcus slept in the chamber next to hers. There was an adjoining door which had made Dustin wary in the beginning, but she purposely left it unlocked to prove to Marcus that she trusted him. She did not think she’d be able to sleep in the great, strange bed, but the moment her head hit the pillow, she was asleep. Marcus, on the other hand, spent most of the night sitting in a chair staring at the adjoining door. Lord God, he wanted her so badly he could hardly stand it. To have her so close, yet untouchable, was cruel torture at the very least.

  He slept in the final hour before dawn and then was up again as the sun cleared the eastern horizon.

  The days were getting longer as spring bore down on the north, and Dustin grew more and more comfortable with her new surroundings. As lovely as the countryside was around Lioncross, she grew to love the gently rolling hills of the north and truly loved the view of the river from the turrets of the castle. Marcus would take her up there every evening at sunset and they would speak of trivial things as they watched the sky turn colors together, and it became an integral part of the process of healing and contributed toward becoming intricately acquainted with one another.

  True to his word, he did not pressure her in the least. He let Dustin make her own timetable, as hard as it was for him, but was rewarded at the end of the second week when she took his hand for the first time without him touching her first. A small step, but one he lived on. To have Dustin’s affection was all he strove for.

  The people of his keep came to like Dustin a great deal, and Christin was the most popular person there. She was a crawling, sitting, gurgling bundle of joy and Marcus adored her as if she were his own flesh. Even as much as he loved the baby, he could not help wishing for a child of his own from Dustin. He wondered how long it would be before she agreed to marry him and admit him to her bed.

  But he found the more time he spent with her alone, the more he wanted everything from her. At one time he would have been satisfied with her companionship and fondness, but he was greedy now and wanted more; he wanted her love. He wanted to see Dustin look at him the way she had looked at Christopher. He wanted her devotion, her adoration, everything.

  But he would have to be patient, and that did not come easily to him. He hoped that time would prove to work in his favor.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  By the sixth week, Christopher was able to stand without assistance. But stand was all he could do; walking was painful and still and it took both Rob and Jonathan to help him. But he was driven to stand and walk alone, and almost exactly two months from the day of his injury, he was able to stand and walk from the hut unassisted.

  He had gotten to know Rob’s people bit by bit over the past weeks, and was pleased when he was able to meet them standing on his own feet. They, of course, knew exactly who he was and he found himself the object of worship. The people knew that the Defender would help them regain their stolen lands and possessions and they were as determined as he was to help him regain his strength again. Christopher had no shortage of assistance.

  Rob and some of the other men had built Christopher his own little hut and he was grateful. Also, he knew that Marianne would be glad to have him out from underfoot, and he and Jonathan had laughed about that. His hut was complete and he was able to at least hold his own weight on his legs. His attention then turned to regaining his fighting form and he knew without a doubt that he was in for the biggest challenge of his life.

  Christopher had lost a great deal of weight during his infirmary. A
t six feet and six inches, he usually carried about two hundred and seventy pounds on his big frame, but he was well below his fighting weight. His muscles had atrophied a bit from sheer disuse and he set forth the very day he could walk without shaking to get himself back in shape. He knew that he would have to build up to swinging a sword again, so his first order of business was to chop wood. It would help loosen the damaged muscles in his torso and begin to strengthen him.

  Every day, he would chop enough wood for the entire encampment. From dawn to dusk, he chopped and chopped. Rob and his men would go out on “errands”, as they called them, and Christopher would watch them go with envy, wishing he were strong enough to ride a horse all the way home.

  His heart, his mind, his body ached for his sweet wife and he had many sleepless nights wondering what had become of her. Had David returned to marry her in his absence? What of Richard; had he married her off to someone else? Or, his worst nightmare would come to light and he would wonder with agony if she had taken her own life. God only knew what Dustin had gone through over the past months and he shuddered to think of her reaction when she saw that he was indeed alive. Would she hate him for being such a cruel prankster?

  Christopher’s injury had been so severe that he wasn’t surprised when his stamina did not return quickly. But it did, eventually, show itself and within three weeks of starting his new regime, he could already see a marked difference. His muscles were beginning to resume their natural shape and grow, and he began taking long walks in the forest to strengthen his big legs.

  The walks turned into runs, and every child in the camp wanted to join him. He thought he looked rather like the Pied Piper with dozens of children running after him on leaps and bounds through the forest. He began to enjoy his runs a great deal, delighting in the innocence of the children who accompanied him. He could not even remember his childhood, yet these children somehow brought him closer in touch with it.

  Yet with every step, he drew closer to Dustin and prayed to God that she hadn’t forgotten him. He truly had no idea what to expect. He hoped, of course, that nothing had happened and everything remained as it was. But somehow he knew in his heart that the great Lion’s Claw’s wife would not be left alone. There was no one to blame, of course, so he tried to prepare himself for any situation, yet he knew with deadly certainly one particular fact. Dustin was his wife and his alone, and no man, nor king, would keep them apart.

  He liked the nights in the camp best. Christopher had mingled with kings and nobles, yet with the salt of the earth, he found a likable peace. Their life was hard, no doubt, but they were a happy bunch without the political turmoil he was so accustomed to. They had an easiness about them, a simplicity that he found comforting. True enough, Rob was the Earl of Longdon, but he did not act like it. He was much more in his element with these outlaws than in the trappings of his title. Christopher envied the man that he had the ability to relax and accept his situation, waiting for the time to present itself to reclaim what was his, in the interim, making life as miserable as possible for John and Ralph.

  Christopher would have liked nothing better than to help Rob and his hoods antagonize the prince and the sheriff, but he lacked the strength yet and was bent on focusing his entire attentions to his recovery. And he furthermore had suspicions that if John and Ralph knew he were alive, they would stop at nothing to get to him. He could be Rob’s greatest strength, or his deadliest weakness. He suspected Rob knew that, also.

  One morning, early, Christopher was distracted by his wood chopping by Rob’s young son, Simon. The boy was ten years of age, impish and quick, and was a great admirer of the Defender. He’d been fishing with the boy a couple of times and liked him.

  Simon was fairly shaking with excitement as he watched Christopher rip apart a large stump, and even when Christopher stopped chopping the boy continued to twitch. Finally, Christopher leaned against his axe and eyed Simon.

  “What is it with you?” he asked, not unkindly. “You are dancing around here like you have termites in your breeches. What is it?”

  Simon flushed and kicked at the ground. “Sire, I was….well, I mean, we were all….I was wondering when you were going to practice with your sword?”

  Christopher fought off a grin, trying to look stern. “Is that why you are as jumpy as a rabbit? Because you want to be the first in line to fight me?”

  “Nay!” The boy looked terrified, but recovered with a hard swallow. “I was wondering…if… well, if….”

  “Speak out, Simon, for Christ’s sake,” Christopher said. “I cannot understand you when you mumble. Knights of the realm do not mumble.”

  Simon stiffened and he fixed Christopher in the eye. “I want to see you practice with your sword, sire.”

  Christopher did smile then, and he put his huge hand on Simon’s shoulder and nearly swallowed up half the boy in his grip.

  “You do, do you?” he said. “Well, I was thinking about working with my sword today, as a matter of fact. Do you suppose that you read my mind?”

  Simon smiled eagerly. “Shall I go fetch it?”

  “Wait,” Christopher admonished him as he tried to dash away. “We need to prepare the field if I am going to practice. It will take time between the two of us to accomplish this, for I need a thick log, and preferably a quilt or some batting, and….”

  “We all will help,” Simon announced and, on cue, there were suddenly a dozen boys coming out of the trees toward them, all smiling like fools.

  Christopher grinned at the boys. “Why am I not surprised?” He tousled Simon’s hair. “Very well, Simon. Retrieve my sword and send your knaves to find me suitable dummies to practice against.”

  “How about my Dada?” one boy called, and they all screamed with laughter.

  Christopher shook his head. “Nay, not that kind of dummy,” he snorted. “Two or three logs, about my height, if you can find them. Waste no time, lads. Go.”

  By the time Simon returned with Christopher’s sword, the entire camp was made aware that the Defender was preparing to bear arms again. When Simon returned to the clearing, he did not return alone.

  Christopher was a little embarrassed at all of the people who had turned out to see him practice for the first time. He wasn’t sure just how good he would be and he wished Simon had kept his excitement to himself, but he could understand the thrill.

  Lugging thirty odd pounds of broadsword, Simon could barely lift it to Christopher’s outstretched hand. But the moment Christopher took hold of the hilt, he felt the familiar magic and raised it as if it were made of feathers.

  Rob and Jonathan turned out to see Christopher, smiling broadly and commending themselves on doing a fine job of healing. The day was surprisingly warm and Christopher stripped off the rough linen tunic he had been wearing, revealing his magnificent body. His skin was faintly tan and smooth, his muscles well-formed even if they weren’t quite as bulky as they once had been. He was sweating lightly and the newly-warm sun glistened on his skin. The only flaw in an otherwise perfect form was the puckered, purplish scar just underneath his ribcage on the left side of his torso. It was the size of an apple, and even then it had shrunk considerably.

  “Sir Christopher, do you intend to show us ignorant wretches what true swordplay should be?” Jonathan quipped.

  Christopher rubbed the blade with a rag. “Can you swing a sword, man? If so, you will be my sparring partner.”

  Jonathan guffawed loudly. “Me? Go against the Defender of the Realm, the Lion’s Claw? Never!”

  Christopher snickered, rubbing out a few faint marks on his blade. He needed a rougher polishing cloth for the others, but this would do for now. Christ, he hadn’t realized how much he has missed having his sword in his hand until now. Standing underneath the warm sun preparing for a practice bout made him realize just how lucky he was to be alive.

  “And you, my lord?” he addressed Rob. “Surely you are skilled with such an instrument?”

  Rob shrugged. “Of co
urse. But I won’t fight you, either.”

  Christopher raised his eyebrow at the two of them. “Well, somebody should or else you will have a camp full of disappointed people. They are expecting a battle.”

  Jonathan turned away as if he had better things to do. “They will not get it from me. No, sir; not me.”

  Rob chuckled, watching as Christopher became reacquainted with the grip on the sword. “Jonathan said that when he found you, you had that sword clutched to your chest as if you were fearful someone would take it. It is a beautiful piece, indeed.”

  “It was my father’s,” Christopher said, inspecting a nick closely. “And it survived three years on the quest with me. It means a great deal to me.” He lowered the sword and focused on Rob with a twinkle in his eye. “Are you still going to play the coward, my lord? Even in front of your son?”

  Rob glanced over at Simon, eagerly helping his friends steady one of the logs Christopher had asked for. “Are you trying to provoke me, sir knight?” he cocked an eyebrow.

  Christopher snorted. “Not at all,” he said. “By the way, I am a baron by title. Not as great as an earl, but I consider it an accomplishment beyond a mere knight.”

  Rob looked stricken. “God’s Bones,” he said. “We have been sorely insulting you all this time by calling you ‘sir’ instead of ‘lord’. I must certainly practice with you to make up for our lack of manners.”

  Christopher smiled and lowered his blade. “A pleasure, my lord.”

  Rob shot him a fearful glance, knowing Christopher was going to take advantage of the situation. Leaving the clearing, Rob returned shortly bearing a blade. It was a magnificent piece of work with a gilded pommel and jewels set into the hilt. Even Christopher was impressed.

  “Where did you get this?” he said, carefully examining the sword.

  “Stole it from one of John’s elite troops after I killed him,” Rob replied, not particularly proud of the fact. “I lost my own sword in his chest, so I took his.”