Rise of the Defender (85 page)

     “Wipe my wife from your mind, le Londe,” he
seethed, hearing William begging him to back off. “You will not look at her,
nor speak of her, nor even think of her or so help me, by all that is holy, I
will gut you like a pig to the spit.”

     Sir Dennis actually had the stupidity to
smile. “Mon frère, your passion for your wife is touching, but misplaced in
this case. I was simply voicing my concerns for her safety, nothing more.”

     Christopher went for his sword,
half-unsheathing it until William and the others grabbed hold of his arm and
wouldn't allow him to remove it any further. His eyes boring death into le
Londe, he was forced to release the hilt as Marshal and Longchamp pleaded
urgently beside him, beseeching him to control himself. In a flash of sanity, Christopher
reluctantly obeyed and let le Londe slip from his grip, although he knew not
why he should release the man.

     Sir Dennis adjusted his armor, not the
least bit disturbed by Christopher's display and now quite confident that the
way to destroy de Lohr had just been confirmed. With a sharp salute and an
equally taunting smile, he disappeared through the door behind John's throne.

     Richard's faithful watched him go,
realizing they had a problem on their hands in the form of Lady Dustin de Lohr.
If the woman could incite such behavior in her husband to the point of
irrationally, then John could use that against them. De Lohr out of control was
a terrifying sight to behold, and it had taken five of them to restrain him.
And even that would not have been enough if he hadn't cooperated.

     “Come on, Chris,” William was grabbing him
around the neck and pulling him toward the door.

     Christopher was shaken, tensed and angry
that he flew at Sir Dennis so easily. He tried to tell himself that it would
not happen again, but it was lie. The words of the mummer came floating back to
him, their inane songs and dance making sense to his furious mind. Dustin was
indeed his Achilles Heel, and now everyone knew it. He should have been
embarrassed, but he found he was not. She was his wife and he would let all
know he would kill without hesitation where she was concerned.

     The faithful of Richard marched down the
darkened corridor, not a word spoken between them. At the end of the hall where
it branched off, all of the men took their leave with the exception of
Longchamp, Marshal, and Christopher. Marshal dismissed the others with a
promised meeting to further discuss the subject come dawn, giving everyone time
to mull over the situation in their own mind and come to grips with it. At the
moment, he wished to discuss the predicament with Richard's two most trusted
men.

     Longchamp's apartments were the closest.
The three men settled themselves in, heavy doses of fine burgundy going around.
By this time, Christopher was in control again and waited patiently for William
to speak.

     “My gentle men,” he began softly. “'Twould
seem that we have problem.”

     Christopher thought he meant him until the
chancellor piped up.” Richard was a fool to leave the safety of his ship and
take to the continent,'' Longchamp grumbled. “What on earth possessed the man?”

     “Pirates, bad weather, who can say?”
William replied. “Richard never was fond of the sea. But what is done is done,
and we must think of a way to return our king to England.”

     “Queen Eleanor would know of this, sire,”
Christopher said, focusing on William. “Being French, she must carry some
weight with Philip.”

     William shook his head. “They despise her,
too, Chris, you know that. She is nearly as powerful as the king with all of
her holdings. Nay, we will notify Eleanor, but I am afraid she will be of no
use in gaining her son's release.”

     The silence that filled the room was heavy
and still. Christopher finished off his wine and poured him and Longchamp
another goblet.

     “Do you think John knows where they are
holding him?” Christopher asked.

     “I would tend to doubt it, considering the
man never could keep a secret,” William replied. “If he knew, he would have
told us.”

     “The little bastard,” Longchamp growled.
“He sees this as his golden opportunity to seize the throne. There's no telling
what he shall do now.”

     “My informants tell me that he has moved
his mercenary army north,” Christopher said. “Away from London and away from
me.”

     “North where?” Longchamp demanded. “York?
Durham?”

     Christopher shook his head. “Nay, not that
far north. Besides, his brother, Geoffrey, is in York and they loathe the mere
sight of each other. My guess is Nottingham, mayhap even planning to shield the
troops in Sherwood Forrest.”

     “Sherwood is haunted - everyone knows
that.” Longchamp spit out as if Christopher were a moron. “The men will not go
near it no matter how much John pays them.”

     “Nottingham Castle is large enough to
conceal a mighty army,” Marshal murmured thoughtfully. “Besides, Fitz Walter's
uncle is lord of the keep.”

     Christopher's face went hard and both men
immediately remembered the exchange earlier in the evening.

     “Your wife is indeed Ralph's cousin?”
William asked softly.

     “Aye,” Christopher nodded his head, running
his fingers though his hair with irritation. “'Tis all my fault, really. She
told me her grandsire lived in Nottingham when we were first married but I
never pursued the thought. I was too caught up with my own problems. Now I find
out the hard way that my wife's grandsire is Ralph's uncle.”

     “Has Lady Dustin ever met her grandfather?”
Longchamp asked.

     “Nay, never, and she never will,”
Christopher said firmly. “Dustin told me of things that the man did to her
mother... vile things. She's never going near the place.”

     William shook his head with regret after a
moment. “How is it that all of the Fitz Walter men are so foul? Ralph's father,
'tis said, had a taste for human flesh. Is there nothing more despicable than
that? 'Tis no wonder why Ralph is as evil as he is.”

     Christopher sat down, beginning to feel his
fatigue. “And yet Lady Mary, Dustin's mother, was the very epitome of feminine
grace and manners, a true lady,” he said softly. “'Tis still hard to believe
such a woman was bred of Lucifer's loins.”

     “All of the Fitz Walter men are Lucifer in
the flesh,” Longchamp said with a sneer. “Yet your wife must take after her
mother - a lovely and refined lady she is.”

     Christopher smiled for the first time.
“Lovely, yes, but she is certainly not the gentle soul her mother was,” he said.
“She takes after Arthur and his family, I think, though at times I have
wondered if she is not the devil's spawn.”

     “Arthur descended from King Harold, didn't
he?” William rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “A punchy man, but hardly the devil.
Now William the Bastard; now,
there
was a devil.”

     “My ancestor came over the channel with
Duke William, his top general, I might add,” Christopher said softly. “But my
family's roots are German and French, from the continent, although my mother
was from the house of du Reims. My uncle, her brother, was the Earl of East
Anglia.”

     William's eyes suddenly grew soft, catching
Christopher's attention. He thought he caught a flash of emotion in the faded
depths, but it was quickly gone.  “What?” he demanded softly of the marshal.

     William glanced at Christopher, a bit
embarrassed at his display of feeling. “'Tis nothing, really,” he said,
shrugging. “You did know that I knew your mother, didn't you?”

     “Aye,” Christopher said evenly. “Uncle
Philip told me you were in love with my mother, once.”

     William grinned. “Once, many years ago,” he
said. “I was newly knight at the time and  your mother, God rest her soul, was
part of a fighting force I was attached to. Never did I see a lovelier woman,
Christopher. Skin as pure as cream, hair like a golden fire. Aye, Val du Reims
was indeed a beauty.” He finally drew up a chair. “But she did not even know I
existed, especially after dashing Myles de Lohr came on scene. Lord, your
father was an imposing sight.”

     Christopher gazed at William steadily,
impassively listening to the man reflect. “I lost both of my parents when I was
fourteen years old, and David was ten,” he said softly. “I was squiring at
Derby, as was my brother. I had been a page there since I was six, so I
remember very little of my mother. But I remember her giddy laugh and her
endless affection towards David and me. We were the only survivors of five
births, you know, Deborah being the last.”

     William reflected on Val de Lohr, the woman
who had been allowed to fight like a knight, and a very good one, until she
married Myles de Lohr.  De Lohr had put an end to his fighting wife rather
quickly.

     “Your mother passed away when Deborah was
very young, as I recall,” William said quietly.

     Christopher nodded. “My parents were quite
old when I was born, older still when David and Deborah were born,” he said,
thinking back. “My mother passed away when Deborah was less than a year old and
my father passed away shortly after her.  A fatal disease, the physic told us. 
‘Twas a malady of the lungs that took them both.  Fortunately, the physic
spirited Deborah away before she could catch it. She was raised in Bath.”

     “I remember hearing of the tragic
circumstances,” William replied quietly, his eyes warm with remembrance. “Aye,
Val de Lohr will always remain the most beautiful woman I ever had the fortune
to gaze upon. You remind me a great deal of her, actually. Sometimes when you
smile, I see her. David is a duplicate of your father, I think.”

     Christopher shrugged, sitting back in his
chair. “I would hope so. My father was a great knight.”

     “He was indeed, Chris, he was indeed,”
William agreed passionately. “You must forgive me for wandering. We are far
from the subject at hand.”

     “Indeed we are,” Longchamp interjected with
a bit of sarcasm. “Let's return to Richard, shall we?”

     Christopher glanced at the taciturn man.
Longchamp was bitter, stubborn and aggressive and Christopher held little like
for the man other than he was able to deal with John on the prince's own level.

     “My apologies, my lord,” he said, not
meaning it. “As for Richard, mayhap it would be best to wait until we receive
word from Leopold as to his demands. Truthfully, there is nothing more we can
do until we have more information.”

     “Chris is right,” William agreed, yawning.
“We must play the waiting game and send word to Eleanor in the interim.”

     Longchamp drained his glass and set it down
heavily. “I must say, you are all being rather calm about the whole thing.” he
said.

     “Richard is being held captive and either of
you barely raise your voice. Are you truly unconcerned or is it a grand act for
John's sake? Well?”

     “What would you have us do, William?”
Marshal asked.

     “Scream? Rage? Shout to the rooftops that
Leopold and the Lion will suffer greatly for their acts? We knew Richard was in
danger and have already had time to accept it; now we finally know the result
of the danger. 'Tis not a matter of remaining calm, but of keeping of clear
head to better deal with events. But you are correct in your assessment that we
remain collected for John's sake; unfortunately, the man is gaining advantage
as we speak and I will allow him no opportunity to exploit our weaknesses.
Whatever happens, we must remain strong and united or Richard's throne is
lost.”

     Longchamp's agitated gaze visibly relaxed.
“You are right, of course,” he said with resignation, rising. “Then it would
seem we should retreat for the remainder of the night and see what the morrow
brings. I will call the justices together after the morning meal and we will continue
this conversation to include them.”

     Christopher was up, moving for the door,
his mind rapidly moving from Richard to Dustin. “Then good-sleep to you, my
lords.”

     “Sleep well, Chris,” Marshal said after
him.

     With the Defender gone, Longchamp faced
Marshal.

     “Will he survive this?” he asked softly.

     William shrugged. “He's the best knight who
has ever lived, William, and we are mightily fortunate that he fights for
Richard. But John will try to seize the throne by force, and Christopher will
be compelled to defend his king's holdings.” He sighed wearily, feeling older
than his years. “I hope he survives whatever John is planning, for with
Christopher gone, we will be hard-pressed to defend ourselves.”

     “Civil war is imminent, William, we both
know that,” Longchamp said flatly.

     “I know,” Marshal turned a distant gaze out
of the grand windows in Longchamp's antechamber, smelling the freshness that
was his beloved England. He had served two kings, knowing his service had aged
him beyond his years. Yet his duties had been administrative for the most part,
not field oriented as Christopher's were. As hard as the justices worked to
maintain Richard's throne, it was nothing compared to the physical toll the
Defender was in for. The governing body would make the decisions from a
comfortable chair, and Christopher would enforce them with a thirty pound blade
in his massive hand.