Rise of the Defender (91 page)

     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 it
looked as if he was 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 more gentlemanly pursuits that
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. And 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 set
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, and 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.”

     “There are many who feel otherwise,” the
earl replied tightly. “Richard is driving England to civil war by not turning
rule over to Henry's chosen. Why do you insist upon serving a man who had never
actually ruled a day from English soil? Richard is monarch en absentia, de
Lohr. John may not be the best choice for king, but at least he loves England
enough not to leave it.”

     Christopher stiffened. “John drives England
to civil war with his greed and petty jealousies. Were he to rule from the
throne, he would destroy this country and every man with it.”

     “You are a fool,” de Havilland hissed in
the first real show of emotion. “Cannot you see that? Your loyalties are
misplaced.”

     “My loyalties lie with the true king of
England,” Christopher snapped quietly. “Now, earl, returning to the reason I am
here. You made an attempt on my wife's life, and for that, you shall pay
dearly.”

     The earl wasn’t impressed. “Is that the
only reason you are here? It could not possibly be because you know I am loyal
to John, and because of the information my sister relayed to your wife?” The
earl shook his head, trying to provoke Christopher, to unbalance him. “Are you
going to kill me because of one small, insignificant woman? She is nothing in
the scheme of the world, de Lohr, as you would do well to remember. The only
thing of importance is England and her rule.”

     Christopher cracked a dangerous smile.
“Nay, my lord, 'tis you who would do well to remember that the only thing of
importance is my wife. England and her rule come secondly.” He stood back from
the man and motioned with his sword. “Retrieve your blade. I do not strike down
an unarmed man.”

     The earl eyed him for a moment before
mechanically picking up his sword. Before raising the weapon in a defensive
posture, he shook his head with genuine confusion.

     “You are a bigger fool than I ever thought
you to be,” he said. “How can you place any value on a woman? From what I had
heard and seen of you, you were Richard's most devoted servant. When you tore
Windsor apart to get to me, I was confident it was because I was riding to
John's aid. And now you tell me it is because I had my men chase your wife?
‘Tis madness, de Lohr. How can you tell me your wife comes before your king?”

     Christopher lowered his visor and raised his
sword. “Because she does, as I am about to demonstrate. Defend yourself, my
lord.”

     The earl promptly raised his sword. “You
are a pathetic excuse for a Defender, de Lohr, if you would use your strength
to protect a woman, a woman who was unfaithful to you, no less.”

     “And now you add slander to the charge of
attempted murder,” Christopher said. “'Twill be a pleasure to dispense
justice.”

     “Then I thank God Marcus Burton isn't here,
lest I'd be fighting off the two of you on Lady de Lohr's behalf,” de Havilland
snorted cruelly. “'Tis beyond me how the two of you could be bewitched by the
bitch.”

     Christopher brought the sword down, every
ounce of power in his body surging to his arms as he slammed into the earl with
unearthly strength. The earl brought his sword up, the force of the blow so
powerful that it drove his own sword backward and buried it into the soft flesh
of his neck.

     The earl stumbled back, his windpipe cut
and the horrible rasps of a man dying filling the room. He knew we was going to
die and his eyes were wide as Christopher loomed over him again, raising his
sword and delivering the merciful deathblow that severed his head from his
body.

     Christopher's fury was beyond rational. He
stood over the earl's body, shaking with all of the raging emotions he was
feeling, his breathing coming hard and fast. Behind him, there were still
pockets of fighting in the room and he suddenly reached down and grabbed the
earl's head by the hair, raising it high above his head.

     “It is over!” he roared, reverberation
through the walls loud enough to be heard by every soldier involved.

     He pushed through the room with his grisly
trophy held above him, scattering the earl's men like rabbits. Out in the
corridor, he shouted his words again and the fighting immediately stopped. All
eyes turned to the Lion's Claw and his prize.

     The battle was indeed over.

***

     The soldiers guarding the door would not
allow Dustin from her rooms to see what was transpiring with the skirmish.
Wise, seasoned men that they were, they listened empathetically as she pleaded
and begged, but there was no possible way she was going anywhere, especially
out to find her husband, and the men in charge tried to reason with her. Dustin
had stopped trying hours ago to control her fear for Christopher, and she even
tried tears to sway the soldiers. It didn't work.

     When she eventually tried to bully her way
out, the lrish sergeant picked her up and bodily placed her back in the
antechamber, closing the door politely behind him as he went back out into the
corridor. Dustin was too concerned about her husband to fight anymore, knowing
it would be futile, and took to pacing the floor of the room nervously while
Deborah and her maids pretended to be busy with other things.

     Dustin was close to hysterics. He'd been
gone the entire afternoon and she was sick with worry for him. Surely if he had
been victorious, he would have returned to her immediately. Yet if the earl was
triumphant, then... Dustin squeezed her eyes shut at the thought; she wasn't
able to pursue it. She would have to trust Christopher and know he would return
to her. Lord, with him taking his army north tonight, she would have endless
days of this worrying to look forward to. The sooner she learned to control her
anxiety, the better.

     Eventually she grew tired of pacing and sat
while Deborah read aloud from a bible that she had brought with her. Dustin was
disinterested, her mind was drifting across the compound to the north wing,
reaching out as if she could see Christopher if she tried hard enough. Deborah
droned on and the maids finished packing quietly, retreating to Deborah and
David's apartments to pack their items. Dustin sat and waited, her anxiety
being replaced by a sort of numbness she was becoming accustomed to. There was
naught else to do but sit and wait.

     The sun had set and she knew supper would
be served shortly in the grand dining hall. Her stomach rumbled but she wasn't
hungry. One of her maids returned long enough to stoke the hearth in both the
antechamber and the bedchamber before hustling back to her duties. Dustin had
lost track of tune as it grew dark outside and she waited for her husband to
return.

     A peculiar droning sound permeated the room
and Dustin turned to look curiously at Deborah, who lifted her head from her
reading and gazed back at her sister-in-law questioningly. Then, at the same
time and without a word, they both looked to the front door of the apartments.

     Dustin was a second faster than her
sister-in-law. She rushed to the door and threw it open, met by a host of
surprised male faces.

     “What's going on?” Dustin demanded of the
soldiers congregating in the hall. The lrish sergeant looked down at her; he
was a great stocky man with a bushy red mustache. “News of your husband, my
lady.”

     “What news?” Dustin jumped on him.

     He looked at her a moment as if debating
whether or not to tell her. “He fared well in the skirmish, 'tis all,” he said
steadily. “He lost only four soldiers, a fine statistic.”

     She raised a well-arched brow at him. “Who
cares about a bloody statistic. Where is he?”

     “I do not know, my lady,” he said
truthfully. “But I am sure he will return soon.”