Chapter Twenty #4
“The rumors will spread like wildfire,” Dustin agreed. “At least for today, they will believe it. Only when they see me with Christopher will they become confused and then, eventually, discover our game.”
“Are you really good with a dagger?” Marcus teased. “You are damn good with a mace.”
“Oh? You noticed, did you?” Dustin shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. “I can handle a dagger, too, I suppose. Why? Do you want me to follow through on my threat?”
He laughed. “No, truly, you have done quite enough.”
Something over Dustin’s shoulder caught Marcus’ attention and he stiffened. Dustin saw his expression and whirled around to see the prince and Ralph mounting the stairs to the lists, surrounded by a dozen elite guards.
Marcus rose, his face like stone as he watched John and Ralph make their way to their seats, a few feet from where he and Dustin sat. As Ralph and Marcus glared daggers at each other, John extended his hand graciously to Dustin.
“Lady de Lohr, how lovely you look.” he loudly exclaimed.
“I’m so pleased your husband allowed you to grace me with your company.”
Dustin realized she was shaking as she rose and placed her hand in the prince’s, watching him with veiled disgust as he kissed her palm.
But the prince didn’t bother her nearly as much as Ralph did; standing a mere few feet away, she felt his presence like a harsh December wind.
Every time she looked at him her leg began to throb unbearably, reminding her of what happened last night.
Ralph’s face was one massive bruise. He stopped glaring at Marcus long enough to focus his beady eyes on Dustin.
“My lady,” he greeted skeptically, his eyes roving her body. “You look entirely healthy and whole.”
Dustin, twitching, could not hide her contempt. “No thanks to you, sheriff, but at least I am alive.”
Marcus, seeing an invitation for an explosion, gently grasped Dustin by the arms and pulled her down to sit once again.
John eyed Marcus. “You know, for my champion, you do not seem to be inclined to wear my colors.”
“I wear no colors today, sire, for I am not competing,” Marcus replied steadily.
“Yet you sit with Lord Christopher’s wife,” the prince pointed out.
“As do you, my lord,” Marcus returned.
John pulled back a bit, rethinking his strategy. He scrutinized Marcus once more before leaning back in his chair in a relaxed motion.
“I must say I was quite disappointed to learn of your injury,” he said without sincerity. “In fact, I found myself searching for another champion right away and although I found no one of your caliber of skills, I was able to find a suitable replacement.”
Marcus gazed back impassively, wondering who had been foolish enough, besides himself, to champion the prince. “Anyone I know, sire?”
“Possibly.” John let his gaze wander out over the arena until it came to rest on a group of men underneath a massive oak tree just outside the perimeter of the field.
Marcus and Dustin followed his eyes, immediately spying the black and green colors of the prince. Beside her, Marcus visibly stiffened.
“Good Christ,” he muttered.
Before Dustin could ask him what he meant, John glanced over at the two of them, looking rather pleased with himself. “His name is Sir Dennis le Londe.”
“Dennis the Destroyer,” Marcus hissed. “The man is no champion, sire, he’s a butcher.”
“And he’s worth every penny,” John shot back. “Although I paid him far less than what I paid you, Burton. He and two of his men, along with three of my elite knights, will be competing for my glory.”
Mercenaries. Marcus felt his chest swell with disgust and anxiety. Dustin, her eyes wary, tugged at his arm.
“Who is that man?” she asked.
Marcus controlled himself, for Dustin had only recently quelled her fears and anything he said could send her off on another fit of terror. “A mercenary, Dustin,” he said quietly. “He fought with the French in Palestine a year or so back and was known for his….aggressive fighting.”
What he didn’t tell her is that the man single-handedly destroyed two Muslim settlements, mostly women and children, under the guise of peace. He was a completely brutal, unscrupulous man and Marcus wished to God he were fighting in these games for the simple pleasure of humiliating the bastard.
He didn’t know if Christopher was aware of Dennis’ presence, but one thing was certain; Christopher was going to have his hands full. If the baron believed these games to be an easy victory, the stakes had suddenly changed.
“Is he good?” Dustin’s voice broke into his train of thought. “He cannot beat Christopher, can he?”
Marcus’ jaw ticked. “No.”
Ralph came alongside of John, taking a seat to the left of the prince and placed himself nearly next to Dustin.
“What did you expect, Burton? The prince must have a champion, and a fine one can be bought for the right price,” he said.
“And after Lord Christopher rendered me quite unable to compete yesterday, I was forced to make other arrangements.”
Marcus bit back several harsh retorts, cursing himself for ever becoming involved with these two jackals. “So you hire three bloodthirsty mercenaries to compete in a field of honorable knights.”
“Exactly,” Ralph said with a fake smile. “I would wager to say that de Lohr will have to fight for his trophy, don’t you think? ’Twill not be the easy ride he would have believed it to be.”
Marcus’ big body tensed and he fought down the urge to rant and yell and destroy everything within his reach. Dustin, however, had not caught on to his concern as she continued to watch the prince’s champion prepare.
“Look at his helmet, Marcus,” she said, leaning into him. “It has horns on it. And his horse’s armor has spikes all the way around.”
Marcus’ cobalt blue eyes were as dark as midnight. “I know.”
He glanced at Dustin after a minute, her beautiful face openly surveying the field.
He was so thankful that his fears had not rubbed off on her, but he found himself more and more apprehensive by the moment.
Jesus, what if Christopher were indeed killed in front of her?
As ruthless and conniving as le Londe was, anything was possible.
Christopher had told him, in jest, to be the highest bidder should he in fact perish and Dustin was put on the block.
He knew now that if anything did happen, Somerhill be damned.
He would take Dustin and flee the country.
The marshals were taking the field and the stands were filled to overflowing.
The air fairly bristled with excitement now as the knights were beginning to form two lines in anticipation of the pageant of colors that would begin the tournament.
Dustin could see her husband’s knights but she did not see him.
“Where’s Chris?” she asked Marcus, pointing to the knights.
Marcus, still under a cloud of doom and gloom, managed an ironic chuckle.
“He doesn’t like the pageantry or the pomp, so he lets David and the others soak up the adoration,” he said, then turned to Dustin.
“But just you wait; it has been over three years since the population has seen Chris in a tournament and they will welcome him back with open arms; they love him.”
Dustin, with a look of surprise, looked back over the stands at the hundreds of people waving their hands and kerchiefs and yelling for their favorite champion.
“Truly?” she faced front again. “I didn’t realize he was so popular.”
“Oh, Dustin, there is none more so,” Marcus said fervently. “Chris has been the reigning champion of the joust and hand-to-hand since he was twenty-two. Only in his absence have there been others, but the king has returned to regain his crown and the crowd will go mad for him.”
Dustin smiled faintly, a prideful smile. “What about you? How well did you do?”
He shrugged and looked over the field again. “I have fought Chris seven times on the field,” he said. “I have beat him twice in the joust and thrice with my sword. I am the only one who’s ever come close.”
“And you are very good,” she said agreeably, eyeing his bandaged arm underneath the mail. “I am sorry you will not have a chance to improve your record.”
“If I improved my record, it would be at your husband’s expense,” Marcus reminded her with a smile.
She brushed a stray bit of hair off her face, openly studying his arm again. “Will you ever be able to use it again?”
“Only God can say for sure,” he replied. “The feeling is there and the bones will heal. ’Twill be up to me to work it back to strength.”
She shook her head, her hand lingering on his arm for a moment longer before she folded it in her lap and turned her attention back to the field. Marcus stared at her until the trumpets heralded the start of the games and the crowd roared with enthusiasm.