Chapter Thirty-Six #4
In spite of the fact that she was unworthy to be a de Lohr, he acted as if it mattered not. A man who was feared by the entire realm for his fierceness and unforgiving manner was gentle and compassionate with his loved ones, and she was entirely undeserving in her opinion.
“Thank you,” she whispered again, wishing she could demonstrate her thanks somehow.
He waved her off with a slight smile, simply relieved she was back with them once again. Convinced his sister was in good hands, Christopher left her to those more knowledgeable and ordered a huge meal in celebration of his sister’s recovery.
The day outside had grown black as coal and as he went to his bedchamber, he noticed that it had begun to rain.
*
And rain it did, for days on end. Deborah grew stronger, Dustin grew fatter, and between the two of them Christopher was quite possibly going insane.
Neither one of them were in the best of moods, even in the best of times.
Deborah’s strength returned and so did her pregnancy sickness.
If she wasn’t vomiting, she was laying down.
Gowen was miserable with her sickness and sought solace with the knights whenever he could.
In spite of the fact that the man wasn’t a warrior, he fit in quite well with the knights and enjoyed their camaraderie. Christopher even began to trust him with the records of the estate as well as the records of the border revenues, and the keep ran more efficiently than it ever had.
Gowen was brilliant and had a mind for numbers, and Christopher was grateful to have him.
True, he had accepted Gowen much faster than was usual with him, for he was a man whose loyalties and friendships were long cultivated.
He honestly did not know why he had let Gowen come to know him as rapidly as he had.
Mayhap it was because he felt guilty for the actions that led to the marriage of Deborah and Gowen, and then the subsequent attempted suicide of Deborah.
In a sense he felt as if he were making up for what he had inadvertently caused, but he would rather cut off his head than admit it to anyone, especially to himself.
By mid-September, the weather had turned bitterly cold and the rain was almost constant.
The midwife had confined Dustin to bed because she had grown so enormous and had begun to indicate to Christopher that she was considering inducing her pains in the near future.
Terrified for his wife, Christopher avoided the midwife, as if not seeing her would somehow erase the problem.
Foolish, he knew, but he did it just the same.
’Twas the twentieth day of September when he entered the castle from the bailey, a bluster of icy wind following close behind him.
He let out a grunt as the chill swept over him, shaking himself like a dog.
Cold did not usually bother him, but the day was particularly bitter as he shirked his helmet and portions of armor into Darren’s waiting hands.
Instructing the boy to clean his armor and then report to Leeton for sword practice, he was intending to seek his bedchamber to see his wife when Gowen stopped him.
“Chris, this missive came in not an hour ago. We tried to find you.” Gowen handed over a scrolled piece of vellum.
Christopher eyed the parchment, reading the seal. “It is from Longchamp,” he murmured as he broke it. “I was out behind the keep, in the clearing where David and I plan to build a troop house and practice arena.”
Gowen watched Christopher’s face as he read the missive, but could see no particular emotion. After a few minutes, Christopher rolled the parchment back up.
“How much money do we have in the coffers?” he asked.
Gowen blinked. “A substantial amount,” he replied. “Are you interested in coinage or overall wealth?”
Christopher chewed his lip thoughtfully, looking at the rolled vellum. “Longchamp demands money for Richard’s ransom. Henry and Leopold have demanded one hundred thousand marks of gold for his release.”
Gowen’s eyes widened. “My God, Chris, even we do not have that much. Surely the justices aren’t demanding…?”
Christopher cut him off. “Nay, they are not looking for me to pay all of it.” He shook his head, leading them both into Gowen’s small office which used to be Lady Mary’s solar.
“Damnation, with everything I have done for them, they should be paying me. Nay, they simply want to know how much I can donate.”
Gowen pondered the question a moment, moving around his cluttered desk. “Dustin’s dowry is fairly hefty, Chris. You could donate that to Richard’s cause and leave the rest untouched, including your own individual wealth acquired from the quest.”
Christopher looked at him. “She came with two thousand marks of gold plus an assortment of heirlooms and jewels. What is the total worth?”
Gowen shrugged. “Offhand, I would say ten thousand marks if the jewels were sold on the market. An extremely hefty donation.”
Christopher nodded, tossing the vellum onto Gowen’s desk. “Sizable enough for their needs,” he said. “I shall ask that you prepare the donation, then, and I shall send my men to London with it.”
Gowen looked at him, then chuckled. “How can you so easily part with that amount of money? I realize, of course, that it is for Richard’s release, but ten thousand marks is more money than most people see in a lifetime.”
Christopher nodded. “I realize that, and I also realize that I am depleting my wealth by one-third, but the king must be ransomed for the sake of England,” he said, scratching under his coarse mail. “I must make sure there is a future for my family, and for yours.”
Gowen raised his eyebrows in agreement as his liege quit the room.
As Christopher mounted the stairs, he found himself remembering a time when all he cared about was money and material wealth.
Within a year his priorities had changed so drastically that it was almost as if he did not know the Christopher before Dustin; the almost-mercenary warrior committed to only himself and Richard.
He was still the same man, but he had acquired many new characteristics that he had considered himself incapable of at one time, and the person responsible for that change was a petite blond woman with the unlikely name of Dustin.
Fact was that he did not care if he had grown the least bit soft and sentimental, as long as she and his close friends were the only ones who knew it.
He opened the bedchamber door fully expecting to be greeted by her smiling face and was concerned to find the bed empty.
He called her name, searching a small adjoining solar but finding no trace of his wife.
His concern turning to irritation and his bellows for Dustin lifted the roof off the castle.
The entire place was in an uproar searching for the errant wife when the kitchen servants told their master that his wife had passed by them on her way to the small bailey outside of the kitchen. Enraged, he stormed outside, knowing exactly where she had gone.
Wrapped in a heavy cloak and swathed in yards of heavy material, Dustin stood next to the rabbit hutch, clutching two of the fuzzy creatures as her husband marched up beside her.
He was fully prepared to ream her for her disobedience and foolishness, but when he saw her sweetly holding the rabbits and changing their bedding, he felt himself go soft.
He knew she had been concerned about her bunnies, and even though she had a peasant boy caring for them, she still fretted.
Beside her, Hal and Alex sat wagging their tails, looking for handouts.
“What are you doing?” He sounded almost calm, certainly not like the man who had nearly torn the castle apart just moments before.
Startling her, he could read the guilt in her eyes. “I came to make sure they were warm enough,” she said quickly. “With the weather so bad, I was concerned.”
He gazed at her sternly, his hands on his hips. “Dustin, the boy is doing a fine job with these rabbits. I see him out here daily.”
Her lips molded into a pout. “If he’s doing such a fine job, then how come I am missing three of them?” she demanded. “Three of my biggest.”
He peered inside the hutches. “Are you sure? How can you tell? There must be thirty or forty rabbits in there.”
“Only thirty-eight,” she said with a pout. “I had forty-one.”
“Forty-one,” he repeated, shaking his head with some exasperation. “Mayhap they escaped, sweetheart. ’Tis not unusual for rabbits to slip out of tiny holes.”
She frowned sadly, replacing the rabbits she were holding and securing the cage. “I think the boy is stealing my rabbits. I want you to find someone else to tend them.”
He eyed her, crossing his arms. “If you are positive he is stealing them, then I will cut his hand off. And then I will find someone else to tend them.”
Dustin gasped, her wide gray eyes the exact color of the storm clouds above. “I do not want you to cut his hand off. I simply want you to find someone else to tend them.”
“Stealing in my baronetcy will not go unpunished, Dustin,” he said sternly. “If the boy has stolen your rabbits, then he shall pay the price.”
She eyed him, glancing back at the hutch again. “Mayhap I miscounted,” she said after a moment. “They do look to be all here, don’t they?”
“You shall not count them again,” he said. “You must return to bed immediately.”
“But my legs ache from lying about all day,” she whined, taking a step back from him. “I need to walk about, Chris. I simply cannot lie still all of the time.”
He scowled. “You can and you will until this child is born,” he said firmly, his fists on his hips. “I shall sit on you if I have to, Dustin. Your health and the health of my son mean everything to me.”
“But I am bored out of my mind,” she insisted. “I can only sew so much, and Caesar and George offer minimal entertainment. I hate it. I want to be out and about.”
He was not unsympathetic and his manner softened.