Chapter Twenty-Six
Dustin’s recovery was terribly slow. With the loss of the babe, she seemed to have lost her spirit.
She sat in the antechamber day after day, eating little and working on pieces of needlepoint.
There were several of them; as she would become bored with one and move on to another.
It was her only form of entertainment because she absolutely refused any visitors, including the knights and Deborah.
Christopher was miserable watching his wife waste away.
Her beautiful hair had lost its luster and her lovely face was a constant pale shade, lacking any color whatsoever.
The wide gray eyes were circled and lifeless.
Even after the midwife said she was nearly physically recovered, Dustin refused to leave the apartments.
Christopher was in a very difficult position.
John and Ralph were beginning to create a stir again, most notably with the party they held on the eve following Dustin’s accident for their closest friends.
Rumor had it that it was a celebration for Christopher’s loss, and the knowledge drove him beyond rage.
If Dustin were to hear of it, he knew she would lose her sanity for sure.
Missives had been coming from the continent regarding Richard’s whereabouts, and the justices were positive the man was alive, but they had no way of knowing where their king was.
That portion of Christopher’s responsibilities began heating up, only adding to the tremendous burden of Dustin’s infirmary.
He found his attention focused solely on her, and his concerns with Richard, although grand, paled in comparison.
His one desire was to return his wife to her former wonderful self, and for the first time in his life, he was completely dedicated to something other than Richard.
A week or so after Dustin’s accident, Christopher cornered the midwife in the hallway outside his apartments. He was greatly concerned for his wife’s mental health and wanted the old woman’s opinion.
“My wife has not been the same since her mishap,” he said in a lowered voice. “Is this a normal occurrence with women when they lose children?”
“Aye, sire, ’tis perfectly natural,” the woman replied. “She feels unworthy and a failure, even though it was an accident. Give her time, my lord. She shall come around.”
He looked at the woman doubtfully, he so desperately needed reassurance. “But she mopes about and refuses to eat or leave the apartments. Her body is sound, is it not?”
The woman nodded. “She is a very healthy lass and her recovery has been remarkable.”
He crossed his arms with frustration, finally nodding. “Very well. Thank you for your advice, madam.”
The old woman’s eyes twinkled at him. “Do you want more advice, sire? Give her a few months or so, and then beget her with child as quickly as possible. Sometimes that helps ease the ache.”
“But will that be safe?” he wanted to know. “Christ, the woman nearly bled to death from the womb.”
“She will have healed completely by then, I assure you,” the midwife said. “Your wife is young and strong, my lord. She will bear you many children to come.”
Christopher nodded shortly, satisfied with the woman’s knowledge. “Thank you again, madam.”
The midwife curtsied and scurried several feet down the hall before pausing a moment and turning back to Christopher, who was just about to enter his apartments.
“My lord?” she called out to him. When he turned, she retraced her steps quickly. “There is but one more thing you can do to help your wife recover physically, though this task may prove to be unbearable to you.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Rubbing her breasts will help her womb contract and heal faster,” she said, motioning over her own breast with a circular pattern. “I recommend it to all of my patients.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Rubbing her breasts? Now why would I find that unbearable?”
The woman grinned. “Because you cannot bed her for another six or seven weeks, and some men find the duty, shall I say, painful.”
He nodded, a faint smirk on his face as she left him again. When he turned back to the door, he noticed a half dozen guards with smirks on their faces. Eyeing them all dangerously, he entered his apartments.
Dustin was sitting in her usual chair by the windows, playing with George. The monkey was dancing and doing flips in her lap and she watched the little beast without much enthusiasm. Christopher meandered up to her, watching the monkey’s tricks.
“The sun is out this day,” he said casually. “Would you accompany me on a walk?”
She shook her head. “I do not feel like walking.”
He knelt beside the chair, his eyes going to her pale face. “I miss you walking beside me,” he said. “You used to go everywhere with me.”
She didn’t look at him but continued to play with the monkey. “I do not want to go anywhere.”
He studied her features, so incredibly beautiful. The bruise on her forehead was fading. His heart was wrenching to see her so. “Please, sweetheart, come walk with me. How would you like to go into town?”
Abruptly, she stood up and the monkey fell from her lap. “Nay,” she snapped. “I told you I do not want to go anywhere and I would appreciate it if you would stop asking.”
He rose on his massive legs, trying to maintain a calm manner with her. “I am only thinking of you, Dustin. You have been holed up in these rooms for over a week and it would do you good to get out and move around.”
She swung her great mane of hair angrily and bolted past him into the bedchamber. “I do not want to move around,” she said angrily. “I do not want to walk.”
He followed her, his irritation growing. “Why are you being like this?”
She flopped on the bed. “Go away.”
“I will not,” he said with annoyance. “What is the matter with you?”
“What is the matter with me?” she repeated, incredulous. “In case you have not realized it, I killed your son. How can you ask me that question?”
He sighed heavily, trying to bank his anger once again. “You did not kill the babe, Dustin,” he said softly. “We have been over this a thousand times. You tripped, and you fell, and I am extremely grateful for your very life. We can always have another child, but there will never be another you.”
“No more children,” she frowned, frustrated. “No more. I do not want anymore.”
“Why?” he asked.
She simply shook her head hard, wallowing in self-loathing and self-pity. He approached the bed.
“Why not?”
“Because….no more dying.” Her voice was reduced to a whisper. “They die; everything I love dies. My mother, my father, Rebecca, my child… I cannot love anything else and watch it die.”
“You love me and I am not dead,” he said softly, sitting carefully on the bed beside her. “I shall never leave you, Dustin. I swear it.”
“You almost did,” she said, meeting his gaze painfully. “I watched you go down in the joust and I thought you were dead too.”
He took a deep breath, reaching out deliberately to clasp her hand. He rolled it over, inspecting it, before bringing it back to his lips.
“I will not compete in any more tournaments,” he said softly. “I do not want to worry you needlessly. I have a wife to think of now; ’tis no longer simply me.”
Dustin’s eyes widened. As magnificent as he was, as powerful and as skilled, for him to make that statement spoke incredible volumes as a testimony to his devotion to her.
“But…but you are the champion,” she insisted, turning the tables in the conversation and focusing on him. “You are the best, Chris. For you not to compete is a waste of your talent.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I thought you would applaud my decision.”
She lowered her gaze and shrugged. “I cannot ask you to stop doing what you do, Chris. You are a soldier, and the very best in the realm. You must maintain that reputation in spite of my worries. You said yourself that I worry overly, and I do.” She put her hands up to his face, rubbing his stubble affectionately.
“I am very proud of you, husband. And I love you dearly.”
He put his hand over hers, dwarfing it. “I am getting too old to compete, anyway. I would leave it to the younger men who have not yet established a reputation.”
She shook her head. “You are not too old.”
He chuckled at her, remembering what she had said when she found out how old he was. She grinned, too, remembering her words as well.
“Walk with me,” he said in a low tone.
Her smile faded and she pulled her hands away. “Nay, Chris. I do not want to.”
He reached out and pulled her to him before she could crawl off the bed.
“Why, Dustin? You cannot keep yourself locked up in here the rest of your life. David and Marcus and the others are very distressed that you will not allow visitors; they miss you. And Deborah is reduced to tears every time I see her. Why do not you want to see them?”
“Because I do not.” She struggled against him, trying to loosen his grip. “I do not want them looking at me, thinking about what happened, because I will see it in their eyes and I do not wish to be reminded of it endlessly.”
“ ’Tis only their sympathy you will see in their eyes,” he said quietly.
“I do not want it,” she said snappishly. “I do not want their pity.”
He looked at her but she would not meet his gaze. She was still clutched against him, stiff and uncooperative, but he leaned close and kissed her cheek anyway.
“They do not pity you as a weakling or as a failure, Dustin,” he murmured. “They simply wish to tell you how very sorry they are for our loss. They are our friends, our family, and they love us. They love you.”
Her eyes filled with tears that spilled over in little rivers down her cheeks. Her angry, defiant stance dissolved and she relaxed, falling against him. He held her tightly, comforting her, kissing her, loving her.
“I cannot,” she sobbed quietly.
“It’s all right, my love, you do not have to do anything you do not want to,” he assured her. “If you want to stay in these apartments and rot, then so be it.”
Her tears turned to choked giggles. “Do not tease me.”