Chapter Fifty #2
When the soldiers retreated and the camp grew quiet in the last couple of hours before dawn, Christopher slept a short time but arose quickly to depart.
Rob, Jonathan and Simon saw him off aboard his confiscated destrier, and Christopher had to be stern with Simon, for the boy was on the verge of tears the entire time.
Knights do not cry, he told him with gentle firmness, although it was a lie.
He had cried his share since he had met his wife.
His body tingling with excitement, he loped from the burned camp without a hind glance.
Christopher drove himself hard. His body was still weakened, but he forced it down as much as he could as he rode the endless green miles toward Lioncross. Evidence of spring was everywhere and he inhaled of it deeply, grateful to be alive.
It was the near the first of May. He had been injured around the beginning of February and found it difficult to believe he had been gone that long.
Had it truly been so long? Would he return to find all as he had left it, or would he discover his world had been turned awry?
He was excited and apprehensive, so desperately eager to return to his wife and tell her how very sorry he was that his death had been a mistake, and in the next breath tell her how very much he loved her.
He never told her often enough, in fact, hardly at all, but he would remedy that.
He had vowed once before to tell her he loved her until she was sick of hearing it. He would keep that vow.
He passed through Gloucestershire, a lovely portion of the country that he was fond of.
The mount beneath him had a pleasant gate that made it easier for him to stay in the saddle for lengthy amounts of time.
But eventually, he had to rest and eat, but he made sure it was no longer than absolutely necessary and then he was in the saddle again, riding for home.
A trip that should have taken six days took just over four.
The horse was hearty, fortunately, so he had been willing and able.
Christopher rode the crest that overlooked Lioncross and the little village, pausing a moment to drink in the sight.
It was strange how a year or two could change the way a man looks at life, he thought.
When he first came to Lioncross, he was only concerned with securing the mightiest keep in England. The wife, the village, the perks that came with it were secondary. How his priorities had changed was amazing; how his life had changed was beyond comprehension.
It was dark and the gates were closed. He rode up to the massive gatehouse and bellowed a greeting for the sentries. The moon was a sliver, offering the guards little light with which to view the caller, but they opened the gates anyway, as was customary.
Christopher smiled to himself as the gates opened and he was beckoned in, thinking they were in for one hell of a surprise. Jeffrey was the first man to see him, his angled face severe.
“Name yourself, man,” he said sternly.
“Defender of the Realm, and your liege,” Christopher replied. “Do not take that tone with me, Kessler.”
Jeffrey cocked an eyebrow, going for his sword, but something made him stop. The voice, by all that was holy… did he recognize the voice? As if in a nightmare, he washed with cold fear and stepped back from the horse and rider.
“Show yourself.” His voice was a whisper.
Christopher removed his helmet and fixed Jeffrey in the eye. The soldiers standing around him let out a collective gasp and instinctively jumped back, afraid that it was a phantom come to kill them. Christopher gazed around him with patience.
“I am not going to bite you,” he assured them, understanding their shock. “It is me. Truly.”
Jeffrey was as white as plaster. He was the only man brave enough to step forward and give Christopher close scrutiny.
“Can you see through me?” Christopher asked, holding up his hands. “Do I hover above the horse? Look at me, Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey did, meeting his eyes with astonishment. “What…?” he stammered. “I do not understand this.”
Christopher swung his leg over the charger and dismounted. All of the soldiers, save Jeffrey, jumped back a step when he hit the ground and Christopher scowled.
“Enough of this nonsense,” he scolded. “I am alive, I am whole, and I want to see my wife. Where is she?”
Jeffrey shook his head, trying to regain his reeling senses. “What happened to you, my lord?” he asked, awe and shock in his voice. “Anthony and the others said you perished in battle. They even buried you on a hill overlooking Gowergrove.”
“I was not killed, but I was severely wounded,” Christopher replied. “I fully realize that it appears I have returned from the dead, but I assure you, I am quite alive. Where is Dustin?”
He caught movement over Jeffrey’s shoulder and looked up to see Edward emerging from Lioncross, looking at Christopher as if he were looking at a ghost. His eyes were bugged and his face had the same strange pallor that Jeffrey’s did, and he seemed to have forgotten how to take stairs.
He tripped, recovered, and slowly continued his approach as if he were walking in a dream.
“Oh… my sweet God,” Edward breathed. “Is it really you?”
“It is really me,” Christopher said gently, smiling at his close and dear friend. “I am very much alive and in the flesh, and I have returned home.”
Edward stopped, swaying as he put his hand to his mouth. Christopher held out his arm. “Would you like to touch me to see if my rotting flesh is peeling from my bones?” he asked. “Mayhap you would prefer to address me as Beelzebub or Mephistopheles? Yet, I assure you, I will answer to Chris.’”
“This cannot be,” Edward gasped. “You are dead.”
“I am not dead,” Christopher said patiently, realizing he had collected quite an audience in the bailey.
“As I told Jeffrey, I was severely injured and it has taken me all of this time to recover from the wound. It is only now that I am able to ride a horse and return home. Honestly, I am not the walking dead.”
Edward took his hand from his mouth and approached him, still eyeing him with a great deal of disbelief.
“Where is Dustin?” Christopher asked softly.
Edward blinked and turned a darker shade of gray. “Oh, God, I think I am going to be ill.”
Christopher cocked an eyebrow at him and reached out to grab his arm. With a tug, he pulled him toward the keep. “Christ, Edward,” he swore softly. “When did you become such a weakling?”
They entered the dark and cool keep where Christopher went straight to Lady Mary’s old solar. There was wine there, on the heavy oak table, and he shoved a cup at Edward and forced the man to drink it. Edward did, all of it in two big gulps.
“Have some more,” Christopher poured Edward a second of wine. “Perhaps that will bring you to your senses.”
But Edward needed more than wine; he needed a slap in the face and someone to tell him he wasn’t dreaming. All he could do was stare at Christopher, absolutely astonished.
“I thought I was seeing a goddamn ghost when I saw you in the bailey,” he whispered. “Jesus Christ, Chris. You are supposed to be dead.”
“I very nearly was,” he replied. “But I shall go into that later. Where is Dustin? Do I have to ask again?”
Edward closed his eyes and took a long, hard swallow of wine.
“She is not here,” he said, closing his eyes and wondering how Christopher was going to react to the events since his alleged death.
When he opened his eyes again and saw Christopher staring back at him, as healthy and whole as when last he saw him, he rolled his eyes again and put his face in his hands. “My God, I am talking to a dead man.”
Christopher grabbed him roughly, pulling him to stand and leaving no doubt in Edward’s mind that he was, indeed, alive.
“Have no doubt that I am not dead, de Wolfe, but if you do not tell me where my wife is, you may find yourself in that very state,” he growled. “Where in the hell is Dustin?”
Edward finally relaxed, gazing back into his liege’s eyes. Perhaps that brutal action, small as it was, had convinced him that Christopher was indeed alive. There was so very much to say he did not know where to begin.
“She’s with Marcus,” he said. “He came to Lioncross when he heard of your death and took her back with him. They are probably married by now.”
Christopher let him go, anger and grief flashing in his eyes. “Marcus took her? And she went?”
Edward scratched his head and sank back into his chair; he was feeling distinctly weak.
“It is just not that simple, Chris. Dustin was… well, she was beyond devastated to hear of your death. Jesus, I have never seen anyone grieve the way she did. I think she quite literally went mad. She wasn’t the same person after she received the news. ”
Christopher’s eyes stung with tears and he found himself taking the seat opposite Edward. He looked down at his folded hands. “And I can never make it up to her for causing her so much pain. I’d sooner gut myself than hurt her like that, but it was out of my control.”
“I know,” Edward replied softly, still finding it hard to believe he was talking to Christopher.
“She wouldn’t eat, she took to wearing that peasant garb she was so fond of when you first married her, and she cried all of the time.
At one point, she broke a fragile vase and cut herself terribly with the shards. It was just awful.”
Christopher shut his eyes tightly and his eyelashes glistened with tears. “Christ, Edward….”