Chapter Forty-Three
The first thing Christopher was aware of was dull, aching pain.
And, Christ, he was so damn hot he could barely stand it.
His mind was groggy and muddy but he gradually became aware of voices around him and he was immediately concerned he had fallen into enemy hands.
He thrashed a bit but he was far too weak to do anything more.
Gentle, strong hands were holding him steady.
“Easy, my lord, easy,” came a male voice. “Stop moving about like that or you shall re-open your wound.”
Christopher struggled to speak. “Who…where…?”
“Shush, do not talk now,” the man said. “You have got to use all of your strength to get well. Could you take some broth?”
Christopher opened his eyes a peep, his lids felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds apiece. His focus was all out of sync and he blinked several times to clear his vision. Two men and one woman slowly came into view.
“Who are you?” he rasped.
One man smiled slightly, a nice-looking man perhaps his own age. “My name is Rob,” he replied. “This lovely woman who saved your life is my wife, Marianne. Can you tell us your name?”
Christopher cleared his parched throat and thought a moment; his mind was so muddled he could not seem to remember. “Christopher de Lohr,” he finally said. “How did I get here?”
“My man brought you here,” Rob indicated a big, burly red-headed man standing next to him. “He found you in the trees after the battle for Gowergrove. You were as good as dead, but he brought you back anyway. Seems he took pity on you because you fought against John.”
Christopher’s eyes opened wider, though they were red and crusty. His vision was a little clearer, but he was still so bloody hot. “How long… long have I been here?”
“You have been unconscious for over two weeks, my lord,” Marianne replied, placing a cool compress on his head. “We thought you were dead until just last night when your fever broke. It has not gone completely, but it is certainly not what it was. How do you feel?”
“Like I am dying,” Christopher croaked. “Two weeks?”
“Aye,” Rob replied. “Are you one of Richard’s knights?”
Christopher nodded once, weakly. “Aye.”
He drifted off to sleep and Marianne shushed her husband when he tried to ask him another question.
“Leave him be, Rob,” she admonished. “The man still has one foot in the grave, so let him sleep. He will answer your questions in time.”
Rob stood up, a head shorter than the burly man next to him. “I wonder if he’s close to Richard,” he glanced over at the mail, sword and tunic in the corner that belonged to his guest. “What did he say his name was? Christian?”
“Christopher,” the big man reminded him. “Christopher de Lohr. The name sounds familiar, Rob.”
“Does it?” Rob gazed down at the massive man again. “I cannot place it. Well, we can do no more for him at the moment. We shall return shortly.”
“Where are you going?” She stood up, brushing her thick auburn curls out of her face.
Rob kissed her. “Business, love. Not to worry.”
She pursed her lips in irritation. “Business. You mean robbery. Rob, no wonder John has labeled you an outlaw. All you do is steal and rob and burn.”
Rob’s handsome face lost some of its humor and he put his vest on.
“What do you expect? The man stole my castle and tried to kill me. He is to blame for the life I lead, not I.” He jerked his head in the direction of the man sleeping on the floor.
“Mayhap that one can help us seek justice if he is one of Richard’s knights.
Mayhap it was a good thing that Jonathan here found him when he did. ”
Marianne watched her husband strap on his arrow pack and sling his bow over one shoulder. Her face was still furrowed and Rob planted a kiss on her nose. “We shall return shortly, love. Take good care of Sir Christopher.”
Marianne shook her head as Rob and Jonathan ducked out of the hut, wrestling with the hide flap.
It was always the same with him – revenge, revenge, revenge.
Would it end? Not until John was dead, most likely, or Rob had had a chance to seek audience with Richard and regain his keep.
Aye, Marianne would certainly love to live at Tickhill again and not in these rotting little huts in the middle of Sherwood.
“Take care of yourself, Rob of the Hood,” she muttered, turning back to her patient. “Somehow, you always manage to.”
*
Christopher did not come around again for another three days. But when he did, the fever was completely gone and he awoke remarkably clear-headed. He gazed at his surroundings, listening to the snoring inside the hut. He could pick out at least three, possibly more.
He shifted a bit and was met with stiffness and soreness such as he had never known and decided to simply rest easy. His slight groan roused Marianne, who was immediately up and moving to his side.
“Sir Christopher,” she exclaimed softly. “You are awake.”
“Indeed, my lady,” he replied, his voice returning to the rich, soothing tone Dustin had loved so well. “But it would seem I chose the dead of night to awaken to.”
Marianne smiled; she was a pretty woman, if not a bit plain. “ ’Tis an hour or so before dawn,” she replied. “My husband and his men will rise soon. How do you feel?”
He raised an arm ever so slowly and lay his left hand on his forehead. “Not too terribly, actually,” he said. “Horrible compared to what I usually feel like, but better than I felt when I awoke earlier. But I am rather thirsty.”
Marianne nodded quickly and rapidly drew a wooden ladle of water. She coaxed him to drink slowly, but he was so thirsty most of the water ended up running down his face and into his hair. Slaked for the moment, he thanked her.
By this time, her husband had heard the voices as he was rising, pulling on his rough linen tunic.
“Sir Christopher, you are awake,” he said as he rolled to his knees. “God be praised. How do you feel?”
Christopher’s weak left hand found his unkempt beard. “As if I have just gone several bouts with Lucifer himself. Christ, I need a shave.”
Rob and Marianne laughed, and big Jonathan bolted upright on his pallet at the noise. “What goes on?” he demanded. Then he noticed Rob and Marianne hovering over Christopher, who was quite awake. “Oh, my lord, you are come to life.”
Chris let his hand fall to his chest. “That, sirrah, is a mere opinion. What is your name?”
“Jonathan Blackwelder, sire,” he replied. “I was the young earl’s troop master.”
“Young earl?” Christopher looked puzzled and he saw Rob wave Jonathan off. “You are an earl? What…where am I, then? Are we at your keep?”
“Nay.” Rob’s usually pleasant face was suddenly morose. “For I no longer have a keep, my lord, at least in the personal sense. John has it.”
“John?” Christopher repeated. “What is the name of your keep?”
“Tickhill,” Rob replied quietly.
Christopher stared at him a moment, slow understanding coming over him. He remembered the battle for Tickhill all too well, even with his haze-clouded mind. “You are the Earl of Longdon?”
Rob’s head came up to Christopher. “You are familiar with my keep? Were you at the siege of Tickhill?”
Christopher closed his eyes. “Aye, my lord. ’Twas I who led the crown troops against John’s mercenary army.
” His voice was weak again, weak with defeat.
He hated admitting his failure to the man who had saved his life.
“We arrived too late to save your fortress, sire, and I am sincerely sorry for it. By the time we arrived, there was little to do.”
“You led the crown troops?” Rob glanced at Jonathan. “Are you the knight they call the Defender?”
Christopher nodded weakly. “Hard to believe, is it not?”
“Richard’s Defender?” Jonathan said with wide eyes. “The man they call the Lion’s Claw?”
Christopher nodded again, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Marianne and Rob and Jonathan exchanged astonished glances; the man lying in their modest little hut was the all-powerful Defender of the Realm.
“We are honored by your presence, sire,” Marianne stammered.
Christopher gazed kindly at her. “ ’Tis I who am honored, my lady, and forever in your debt. Will I heal completely?”
She nodded, lifting the bandages on his left side.
“Your wound was terrible, sire, to say the least. Never have I seen a man with such a gaping hole live. But I’d venture to say that since you have survived thus far, you should heal completely.
You have an amazing will to live, sire. ’Tis the only explanation other than God’s divine grace. ”
“I have everything to live for,” Christopher replied quietly. “A wife and daughter await me at home. ’Twould it be possible to get word to them?”
Rob and Jonathan exchanged glances. “That may not be possible at all, sire. John has placed a price on my head and on the heads of my associates. To send a message would be to possibly reveal our whereabouts.” He looked genuinely sorry.
“The only way your wife will receive a message is if you take it to her yourself. We could not risk one of our men being followed.”
Christopher sighed heavily. “I see,” he said sadly. “And what was this heinous crime you committed to warrant a bounty? Stick your tongue at the prince? Mayhap, given him a less than polite expression?”
Rob smiled again. “I see you understand John too well. Nay, sire, my only crime was trying to defend my keep and killing four of his elite guards in the process. But he has deemed me an outlaw, and my people and I eke out an existence in Sherwood waiting for the opportunity to present itself so that I might return home.”
“You mean that as a result of John, you truly are an outlaw now,” Christopher said. “Forced to steal to live.”
“We could become farmers, but why?” Rob shrugged.
“John has declared us outlaws, and outlaws we will be. But only against his loyalists; we only rob and steal from those we know are loyal to the prince. We may be small in number, but we are as pesky as a horde of fleas. Annoying to the point of distraction.”