Chapter Thirty-Three
Windsor was in an uproar. Between Deborah’s screams for help and Christopher’s men tearing up the place trying to find the Earl of Fenwark and his men, the entire castle was running for cover.
Sir Sean de Lara found Deborah quite safe but thoroughly shaken in a small room, well protected by several crown soldiers.
He returned her to Dustin’s apartments, whereupon he and David took a group of about thirty men-at-arms and went to meet up with Christopher, leaving the other thirty men guarding the women.
Alone and terrified, Dustin and Deborah busied themselves with packing.
Christopher was hell-bent. He had forced himself to be calm in the presence of his wife, but in faith, he was beyond fury.
It mattered not to him that the earl was loyal to John and was preparing to join him in the north; what mattered to him was that the earl had tried to kill his wife.
He was terribly angry for Deborah’s sake, too, but the outrage he felt on Dustin’s behalf was consuming.
The man dared harm his wife and he would pay for the action with his life.
He had seen the Lady Isobelle’s mutilated body and had been sickened by the fact that the same bastards had been chasing his wife.
He and three companies of troops, all of them his personal men that he had brought from Lioncross, went through Windsor like a violent storm in search of the earl.
Servants and residents alike scattered out of his way, terrified that the Lion’s Claw was obviously bent on blood and wondering who the unlucky man was.
Inevitably, it began to spread that he was looking for the Earl of Fenwark to kill him.
The earl knew Christopher was coming and was ready for him. By the time Christopher and his men reached the wing where the earl was housed, there were at least a hundred of the earl’s troops waiting and the clash that ensued could be heard all over the castle.
*
Back in Christopher’s apartments, Dustin and Deborah were busy packing away the last of Dustin’s things when Dustin’s two maids came scurrying in, their faces lit with apprehension.
“The baron has taken on the earl,” the fatter of the two managed to gasp. “The battle threatens to destroy the entire north wing.”
Cold fear clutched at Dustin, but she faltered only a split second before continuing her packing. “Then we must hurry and finish, for when the fight is over, we will be returning to Lioncross. Help Lady Deborah with the linens.”
In a nervous huff, the maids did as they were told.
Dustin eyed the ladies in her bedchamber, watching them as they quickly packed and cleaned, feeling their anxiety.
She was trying hard to remain cool, but the knowledge that her husband was engaged in a massive fight shook her to the core.
She knew it was coming, mayhap wondering if it had already occurred when the women had come barging in with the information that set her mind to swirling again.
She didn’t care about revenge, or of the bloody honor Christopher spoke of when discussing Richard.
True, he was fighting on her behalf now, but somehow Richard was ultimately responsible for everything that happened to her and her husband, and she hated the man for it.
Everything except for ordering Christopher to marry Arthur Barringdon’s daughter.
Dustin was thinking crazy, irrational thoughts in her attempt to remain calm, but she could slowly feel her composure slipping.
*
In the heat of battle, Christopher’s composure wasn’t damaged in the least. He was at home in a battle, more comfortable than most men were in their favorite chair.
Reinforcements had arrived to bolster his number and he found himself in a full-blown war.
With as many men as there were crowding the broad corridor, each fighting the other in such close quarters that men of the same army were cutting each other down, Christopher had yet to see the earl and suspected, correctly, that the man was behind barred doors.
Yet it was of no matter, he would tear the door from its hinges in his quest for revenge.
He shoved onward through the melee, cutting down enemy troops, using his armored arms to knock men down before slitting their throats, all in a raging attempt to reach the earl’s apartments.
The blood, the noise, the smell of battle and death were everywhere.
Pretty woolen rugs beneath their struggling feet were shredded.
He glanced over his shoulder to see David standing atop a chair, slicing one man’s head clean from his shoulder and kicking another man to the ground.
He always marveled at the energy his little brother exhibited in a crisis; David lived for a good fight.
He may have lacked the size of other knights, but by damn, if he wasn’t the quickest fury on two feet.
Opponents often underestimated David’s strength because of his stature, and that was often their last mistake before seeing the fields of paradise.
Edward and Leeton were fighting around him, engaging as many as three soldiers at one time.
Leeton fought so easily that it looked as if he were bored by the conflict, as if it were no test for his skills.
Edward, however, fought each man as if he were fighting the greatest warrior in England.
He grunted and groaned with his efforts, always victorious but acting as if it had taken all his strength to emerge successful.
Christopher had decided a long time ago that Edward would make a fine earl when his father passed on, for he would rather tend to more gentlemanly pursuits than brandish a weapon.
Christopher pushed on with Sir Nicholas and Sir Guy close on his flanks where he could watch them in an out-an-out battle.
Practices and tournaments were one way of surmising a knight’s talents, but there was no substitution for a good fight.
Christopher was pleased to see that these men were exceedingly efficient and capable.
Just as they worked their way through a group of particularly zealous soldiers, they came upon Sir Sean as he gored his opponent with a hearty yell.
He grinned enthusiastically at Christopher as he withdrew his sword before starting in on the next unfortunate man.
Christopher smirked, shaking his head at the knight’s zeal.
But his smile was cut short by a heavy sword against his back, smashing against his helmet.
He turned and defeated his opponent within three stokes of his sword, but his ears were ringing and he could feel the unmistakable warmth of blood from his split scalp.
Cursing himself for being stupid enough to allow himself to be caught from behind, he moved toward the door at the end of the hall.
The earl’s door was bolted from the inside, but Christopher and Sir Nicholas made short work of the locked panel.
The door swung open with a crash and Christopher was the first man through, his eyes settled on the earl at the far end of the room.
The earl had surrounded himself with a few dozen men, all fighting with ardor as the baron and his troops poured in through the shattered doorway, but even that number of men would not be enough to save the earl from the wrath of the Lion’s Claw.
In spite of his advanced years, Charles de Havilland was an accomplished fighter and met Christopher’s sword without hesitation.
Furniture went up on end and furnishings were destroyed as the baron and the earl went head on.
Christopher knew he would beat the man without a doubt, wondering how such a distinguished-looking man could be such a brutal, cold-blooded beast. To send his wife to whore with such a devil of a man was an inconceivable horror to Christopher.
With the anger of that thought, he brought down his sword so hard that the earl lost his grip on his own blade and the steel went clattering to the floor.
The earl froze, his face one of haughty contempt. He waited patiently for the final blow, but instead, Christopher lowered his sword and raised the faceplate of his visor. Icy sky-blue eyes met brown ones, each man feeling nothing but hatred for the other.
“You tried to kill my wife,” Christopher said in a low, slow voice. “I know why. But I have trouble dealing with the idea that you actually believed you could get away with it. Do you know your assassins followed her all the way to the training ground? Now, tell me; how intelligent was that?”
“Apparently not intelligent enough,” the earl said evenly. “Had my men been armed with a crossbow, your precious Dustin would now be as cold as the winter ground. ’Tis my only regret, baron. My only one.”
Christ, but the man was cool in the face of death. Christopher’s anger threatened to flare, but he contained himself.
“I hear that Lady Gabrielle is now John’s whore,” Christopher said with disgust. “I am curious as to how a man of your status could damn your lovely young wife to a life of misery.”
The earl raised an eyebrow. “You have come here to talk of women? What of Richard and John? Surely you must realize that John is the rightful king of England. His father, our illustrious Henry, wished for John to ascend him and not his brother.”
“What Henry wished and what birthright declared are clear, my lord,” Christopher retorted. “Richard is the rightful heir.”
“I beg to differ, baron, but you are fighting on the wrong side,” the earl said. “As our king, Henry had every right to choose who would succeed him, and he did not wish it to be Richard.”
“Ridiculous,” Christopher responded. “The king cannot choose his successor, only birthright can establish rule. I will discuss this with you no further; Richard is our rightful king.”