Chapter Twenty-Five #2
By the time Christopher barreled back to his apartments, the entire corridor was lined with soldiers and various knights, all parting out of his way like the Red Sea to Moses.
David was with him, for it was he who went to find Christopher after Marcus had stumbled into the apartments with Dustin squeezed against him, her arms flopping about loosely and her neck hung over his arm.
Christopher could not even think. His mind was a black bog of terror and anguish, only knowing that his wife had been injured in some way but not much else.
Marcus had been nearly incoherent in his explanation to David and the others.
All they knew was that she was badly injured and a surgeon had been summoned.
All of his knights were in the antechamber, their eyes wide with concern as Christopher and his brother bolted into the room.
Christopher’s eyes immediately found Marcus, standing near the bedchamber door.
Marcus knew what had happened and Christopher would tear the man apart if the explanation was not clear and forthcoming.
“What in the hell happened?” he roared at Marcus.
Marcus was coming apart, desperately trying to control himself. “She fell down a flight of stairs, Chris. I tried to save her, but I was too far away.”
Christopher let out a strangled cry and put two huge hands over his mouth to prevent any more sounds from escaping. He was breathing so hard and so fast he was nearly hyperventilating.
“What stairs?” he asked through his hands.
“The flight at the end of the hall; the servant’s well,” Marcus whispered in reply, closing his eyes and turning away in agony.
Christopher could only stand there and stare at his friend’s dark head. He was incapable of moving or speaking while his frenzied mind sorted out the information.
“Who’s with her?” he choked.
“Burwell and his assistant,” Leeton supplied. Marcus was too devastated to speak. “They have been in with her for a while now.”
As if on cue, Burwell came bursting out of the room and dashed to the front door, completely ignoring the occupants of the antechamber. He yelled to a few of his men out in the hall to retrieve a midwife and slammed the door shut again, only then noticing Christopher and the others.
His ruddy face was intense to the point of anger, but it softened when his eyes fell on the baron.
“How is she?” Christopher demanded.
“She is injured, my lord, injured,” he said. Burwell was not the great communicator, but he was an extremely competent surgeon.
“How injured?” Christopher could hardly bring himself to ask.
Burwell approached him, his gruff manner easing as he reluctantly met Christopher’s eye.
“No broken bones, I think, but she is bruised and battered.” Then, much to everyone’s concern, put a beefy hand on Christopher’s shoulder.
“There will be other babes, my lord, for she is young and strong. But my biggest concern at this moment is stopping her hemorrhaging, for she is losing too much blood for my taste.”
His assistant said something to him and Burwell turned into the gruff and crusty physician again.
He dropped his hand from Christopher and began ranting about something or another, storming back into the bedchamber and slamming the door, leaving Christopher standing in the middle of the room in shock.
After an eternal minute, he sank slowly into a chair. Gripped with grief, he hung his head.
No one knew quite what to say to him. David moved over to the chair but his tongue caught in his mouth and he could think of nothing that would be remotely comforting.
“I am sorry, Chris,” he said quietly. “But there will be more children and….”
Christopher shot out of his chair, his face red and his body as tight as a spring.
“Goddammit, I do not care about the baby. My wife is in there bleeding to death and that is all I am concerned with.” He staggered about aimlessly, dragging his hands over his face.
“Christ, why did this happen? Why did this have to happen to the only good thing that has ever come into my life? What have I ever done to deserve this grief?”
His speech was as passionate and moving as any of them had ever seen him. The silence that met with his plea was deafening, for he wanted answers to questions no one was able to give.
“God is wise and merciful, Chris,” Marcus said in a strange, hoarse voice. “You must trust that He will pull Dustin through.”
“To hell with God!” Christopher snapped with fury and force, whirling on Marcus. “And to hell with you, too. This is all your fault, Burton. What was she doing on the stairs? And why were you there? Why are you always around my wife?”
“Because you ask it of me.” Marcus pushed himself off the wall and glared at Christopher. “You ask me to protect her, remember? And I didn’t push her down those stairs; she tripped. It was a goddamn accident!”
Edward was up, pushing Marcus away from Christopher as the two men came dangerously close to one another.
“Sit down, Marcus,” he said with quiet firmness. “David, pour your brother a cup of wine and set him down.”
David gripped Christopher’s arm to steer him toward a chair but he pulled away roughly. “I do not need wine,” he barked. “I need to see my wife.”
The door to the apartments opened and a small, old woman came through, escorted in by one of Christopher’s soldiers. She curtsied to the roomful of agitated men.
“My lords, I am Griselda Warwick, the midwife,” she said. “Burwell sent for me.”
Christopher moved forward and grasped the woman by the arm. “In here,” he told her.
He pulled her toward the bedchamber and opened the door. It became apparent that he intended to follow the woman in, and Edward reached out to grab him.
“Where are you going?” he asked with concern. “Leave them to work on your wife alone. You shall do no good in there.”
Christopher glared at Edward and yanked his arm away. To Edward, it almost looked as if the baron was about to cry for his eyes took on a most unfamiliar haze. Without a word, he lowered his gaze and pushed forward into the bedchamber, closing the door behind him.
The room was dim. The midwife rushed over to the bed where Burwell and his assistant were administering to Dustin, swathed in a disarray of linen sheets and other bedclothes.
Her legs were up and her thighs parted, just as they parted for him when she drew him down into her.
His eyes immediately went to her face; she was as white as the sheets and there was a bandage on her forehead, misshapen and crude.
Christopher’s breath caught in his throat at the sight. Never in his life had he felt more helpless or anguished over anything. His chest twisted painfully, making it difficult to breathe as he took halting steps toward her.
“Get out,” Burwell spat at him, moving aside to give the midwife better access.
Christopher ignored him, moving to the head of the bed and falling to his knees beside his wife’s head. The bed had been lowered at the head and the foot of it raised high with chairs. He noted the angle of the bed as he raised a shaking hand and touched Dustin’s forehead tenderly.
Burwell stood there and alternately glared at Christopher and paid close attention to what the midwife was doing. “I gave her something for the pain, baron. She is asleep and I do not want you upsetting her.
“I won’t upset her,” he whispered, gently stroking her head, his gaze compassionate on her sleeping face.
Dustin suddenly twitched and her eyes fluttered open. Immediately, she let out a groan of pain and everyone put their hands on her body to still her twisting.
Christopher threw his huge arm across her chest. “Be still, my love, be still,” he whispered urgently. “I am here.”