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?”