Rise of the Defender (103 page)

     “I have already read Beowulf,” she told
him, unhappy.

     “I see,” he blinked thoughtfully. “Have you
read Song of Roland?”

     She nodded. “The Iliad, too.”

     He pretended to give her a stern, pondering
look. “Hmm,” he rubbed his chin. “I see that I shall have to make up my own
stories to keep you abed.”

     Her eyes lit up. “Tell me of your
adventures in the Holy Land.”

    
That will keep her busy for days
, he
thought as he sat on the bed next to her and drew her into the curve of his
torso.

     “So you want to hear of the Holy Land, do
you?” he said thoughtfully. “Well, now, where shall I begin.”

     “At the very beginning,” she insisted,
cuddling up against him and waiting expectantly. “Tell me of when Richard first
recruited you. Where were you serving?”

     He obliged her. He'd barely gotten to the
part where he was placed in command of a division before they sailed for Turkey
when he felt Dustin go limp beside him. When she began to snore, he smiled and
wrapped his free arm around her, his mind relaxing from its remembrance and his
eyes drifting to the window where freezing rain was spattering the sill.

     He eventually left Dustin sleeping in the
early afternoon and went downstairs to partake of the nooning meal. Even before
he entered the great dining hall he could hear his sister's bad temper as she
turned her nose up at everything Gowen was offering her. Deborah had such an
even temper that it was surprising to hear her get upset at anything at all,
and he and Gowen passed glances as he took his seat.

     “Deborah, with all of that complaining, you
are surely going to wake the dead,” Christopher told her as he reached for a
well-done knuckle of beef.

     Deborah turned a pouting face to him. “I am
not complaining,” she insisted unhappily. “I simply do not like beef and Gowen
is trying to force it down my throat.”

     “You had better eat something, else that
child will be born grossly underfed,” Christopher said sternly. “Griselda has
warned you.”

     “I know she has warned me,” Deborah
snapped, immediately contrite. She forced herself to calm.  “I am sorry, Chris,
I try to eat, truly I do. But nothing appeals to me.”

     “Then find something that does and eat only
that,” Christopher said with a mouthful of beef. “Surely there is something
that takes your fancy?”

     “There is,” Gowen announced loudly. “She'd
eat honeyed fruits all day long, the kind the cook makes with cinnamon and
nutmeg.”

     “Fine,” Christopher said decisively. “Then
I shall order the cook to make platefuls of the stuff and Deborah can eat until
she explodes.”

     Deborah made a face, letting them know
exactly what she thought of the both of them. Christopher snorted into his cup,
wondering if all women turned into such banshees when they were with child. He
never thought it possible of his mild-mannered sister.

     David, Edward, Leeton, and most of the
other knights save Jeffrey and Sir Nicholas entered the dining hall loudly,
dropping weapons and armor and bellowing loudly for food and ale.

     “Christ, shut up, would you?” Christopher
waved at them irritably. “You make more noise than a heard of stampeding
cattle.”

     “Look who's calling us loud,” Edward
sniffed as he sat. “The man that bellows orders so loudly that Philip Augustus
can hear him over in France.  Ah, what is on the menu this day?”

     The knights dug into their meal with the
usual enthusiasm, licking fingers and throwing the bones to the floor. Harold
and Alexander had a feast cleaning up their droppings. Outside, the weather
worsened and they could hear the thunder deep into the dining hall.

     “Jesus, this climate is terrible.” David
exclaimed. “I would take the searing sands of Jerusalem over this mess.”

     “This 'mess,’ as you call it is nothing you
have not dealt with before,” Christopher said dryly. “I think you are growing
soft in your old age, little brother.”

     David eyed his brother menacingly at the insult
but said nothing because his mouth was too full. “Where's Dustin?” he asked
after he swallowed.

     “Sleeping,” Christopher answered. “That's
all she does anymore. She's almost stopped eating, too.”

     “You see?” Deborah chimed in. “I am not the
only one.”

     Christopher was patient with her. “Aye,
sweet, but you are not as far along as my wife,” he said. “Our child is already
huge and grown and if she eats anymore, she will probably explode. Your babe
needs nourishment yet.”

     Properly put in her place, Deborah lowered
her head and picked at her boiled vegetables.

     The meal finished and the knights took the
opportunity to enjoy some fine wine that Gowen had purchased in Gloucester.
David and Max announced it was too sweet and promptly deemed it a woman's drink,
but Edward thought it delightful. Christopher raised his eyebrows at the lot of
his boisterous knights, thinking to take some of the drink up to his wife when
she awoke.

     Jeffrey and Sir Nicholas burst in through
the front doors with a violent slam, the elements howling and whistling around
them. They looked like huge, mythical beasts in their soaked armor and tunics
and the knights inside immediately yelled at them to close the doors.

     “My lord!” Jeffrey ignored the demands of
the others. “Raiders!”

     The knights were up, bellowing for their
armor, as Christopher rounded the table even as Darren was rushing at him.

     “How many?” Christopher asked.

     “A large party - as large as I have ever
seen,” Jeffrey actually sounded concerned and that, in turn, concerned
Christopher.

     “Raiding for winter supplies, no less,”
Christopher said as Darren competently pulled on his hauberk. “I was wondering
how long it would be before we had trouble.”

     “This winter promises to be fierce,”
Jeffrey agreed. “The Welsh are panicking early.”

     “Where will they go first?” Christopher
asked as his breastplate was latched.

     “Most likely the harvest stores at the edge
of the village,” Jeffrey replied as David, fully armored, dashed past him
outside and began shouting for the warhorses. “And the sheep. They love to
target the sheep.”

     “Waste no time, then,” Christopher motioned
to his men, strapping on his sword. “They will not raid my village.”

     As the knights blew out of the hall, Gowen
and Deborah were left sitting at the massive table, flabbergasted with the
speed in which the men had mobilized and moved out. They looked at each other,
a bit dazed, before Gowen picked up a honey-crystalized raisin and placed it in
his wife's mouth, smiling weakly.

     The rain was fierce as the knights rode out
of Lioncross with about fifty men-at-arms, armed to the teeth with crossbows
and swords. Christopher, too, carried a crossbow on the back of his saddle. The
raiders were not much for confrontations and he doubted he would have the
chance to use his sword, so most of the defending would be done from a
distance.

     Jeffrey led the way to the southwestern
portion of the village, where the church stood. Even as they arrived, the Welsh
raiders were intently attacking the place of worship and Christopher grabbed
his crossbow, taking aim at the five or six bandits who were charging the front
door. A well-armed arrow from him and from Leeton took down two of the villains
while the rest fled in terror.

     But there were plenty of them to go around.
They hooped and hollered like animals as they ran and sometimes fought the
soldiers and knights who were surrounding them. They were a dirty, verminous
lot of scruff, peasants and rabble who populated border towns. Christopher felt
as if he were herding a band of unruly children as he chased the swarthy men
down and killed them mercifully.

     Surprisingly, their chaotic appearance
seemed to be some sort of ploy to confuse and unbalance the English, hoping
that the complete irrationality of their attack would throw them off guard, for
they continued to stay and fight instead of escaping back across the border.

     Christopher fought off the dirty men who
tried to charge him, using his huge feet to kick them away or a giant mailed
fist to cave their faces in. He set up a perimeter around the church and, for
the moment, the parish and her winter stores appeared to be holding, and he was
focused on driving the Welsh bastards back where they came from.

     Off to the side of the melee, standing near
a line of trees, was Edward. He appeared to be observing the entire clash,
occasionally fighting off anyone who ventured close to him, but for the most
part he was not involved in the scuffle.

     Christopher was enraged; he had spoken with
Edward, even practiced with the man and his knight showed every sign of
returning to the competent warrior he had been before his injury. Confident in
Edward's recovery, Christopher had not pushed him in anyway, but now to see him
standing way clear of the fight infuriated him and he would not stand for it.

     He spurred his destrier toward Edward,
running over several Welsh as he charged. Controlling the destrier with
pressure alone from his thighs and knees, Christopher drew his sword and raised
his shield. Edward saw him coming, merely watching Christopher approach. Yet,
in hindsight, he should have known better when he saw the broadsword go up and
the shield move into a defensive stance. He and Christopher had known each
other since they had been pages and he never truly believed his friend would attack
him, not even when he hit the ground in a painful crunch of bone and steel did
he believe it still.

     Christopher loomed over Edward as he lay on
the ground, grunting loudly with the shock of the fall.

     “You will raise your sword and plunge into
that battle this moment, de Wolfe, or you can gather your things and be gone
before the sun sets,” Christopher said icily. “I will coddle no bastard coward
in my ranks.”

     With that, he was gone, leaving Edward
struggling to rise and struggling to come to grips with his phobia. He had
never heard Christopher use that tone with him and he was as ashamed of himself
as his liege was. Finally on his feet, he staggered to his destrier and
mounted, swallowing hard before spurring his steed forward into the heat of the
brawl. He knew he had no choice.

     Christopher forgot all about Edward as Max
was taken down by several raiders who had ganged up on him. The destrier
screamed as it went over on its side, trapping Max even as Christopher and
Leeton fought their way to him. The man received a good pounding but was spared
any real injury thanks to his armor. Back on his horse, he was distressed to
see that the animal suffered a terrible gash above his fetlock and blood was
gushing onto the hoof.

     “What did you say to Edward?” David reined
his dancing charger alongside his brother.

     “Where is he?” Evasively, he answered his
brother with a question of his own.

     “Fighting off a group of raiders, fighting
as I haven't seen him fight in a long time,” David's helmet turned in the direction
of Edward.

     Christopher felt a small amount of
satisfaction, although he was still disappointed in his knight. He did not
bother to turn and look. “Damnable bastards are heading for the church again,”
he spurred his animal forward.

     The skirmish that should have been handled
in mere minutes turned into a scuffle that lasted all afternoon. The Welsh were
like crazed dogs, moving about in waves and vandalizing cottages and businesses
more than actually destroying anything.

     It was frustrating to chase the wily
bastards about and Christopher finally had enough; he sent to Lioncross for one
hundred reinforcements and before the hour was up, they had the raiders turning
tail for the border. He sent the majority of his knights chasing after them,
not only to make sure they retreated across the border, but also to check the
border garrison he kept manned. Max and Sir Guy accompanied him back to
Lioncross.

     The very moment he entered the gates, Gowen
was there to meet him.

     “It is Dustin, Chris,” he said as the man
dismounted.

     Christopher ripped off his helm and nearly
tore his head off with it. “What?” he asked, panicked. “What's happened?”

     “Her pains started nearly three hours ago,”
Gowen replied. “Griselda and Burwell are with her.”

     All of the color drained from Christopher’s
face as he charged past Gowen, oblivious to everything in the world except the
plight of his wife and child.

CHAPTER
THIRTY SIX

     Pain on this magnitude was something
entirely new for Dustin. Her pains had started slowly enough and she thought
that mayhap giving birth was not such a terrible thing after all, but they
quickly escalated and she rapidly decided she wanted no part of it.