Rise of the Defender (127 page)

     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, and the mount beneath him had a
pleasant gate that made it easier for him to stay in the saddle for lengthy
amounts of tune. 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 over looked 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 Beelzubub or Methasophiles? 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 had 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?”

     The 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's 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....”

     Edward was feeling a bit more in control as
he talked. “Marcus arrived to express his condolences, but there was no
mistaking his intent,” he continued softly. “He came for Dustin and he would
not be dissuaded. I tried and he threatened me. David and Richard arrived
nearly a week after Marcus did and our king was pulling David and Marcus apart
at every turn; it was a nightmare, totally chaotic.” He poured Christopher some
wine. “Richard was in a foul mood with your death and John's rampages, David
and Marcus were at each other's throats, and Dustin was crazy. I have never
seen such madness.”

     Christopher's head came up, his eyes wet with
tears. “Did Marcus force her to go with him?”

     “Yes and no,” Edward replied.  “Her mind
was brittle and Marcus, as you know, can be persuasive. He convinced her that a
change of scenery would be the best thing for her, and he furthermore wasted no
time in declaring his intentions. I think he simply overwhelmed her.”

     “Bastard,” Christopher growled. “Has he so
little respect for me that he would not even allow Dustin to grieve? And what
did Richard say to this?”

     “Marcus respects you, Chris, but he loves
Dustin more,” Edward replied. “Richard gave him his blessing to take Dustin and
marry her. David was livid.”

     Christopher's jaw ticked. “So David
returned, did he? I knew he would.”

     “Your brother was in agony, Chris,” Edward
told him softly. “He was consumed with guilt for what had happened between you
two and he was as protective of Dustin as a lioness. He only left Marcus alone
when Richard ordered him back to Canterbury.”

     Christopher sighed, running his hand over
his face. “This is all so overwhelming.”

     “I know how you feel,” Edward said
ironically, watching Christopher as he absorbed the events of the past few
months. “Now, tell me - what in the hell happened to you?”

     Christopher looked at Edward a long moment
before fumbling with his armor and mail. He pulled everything aside and yanked
his tunic up to allow Edward a glimpse of the large, purple scar on his torso.
Edward visibly paled.

     “That,” Christopher said softly, “is the
result of a mercenary spear. I was gored like a wild pig and left to die on the
outskirts of the battle when a man found me and took me back to his village.
There, I was tended by a woman and her husband and nursed back to health. Hell,
Edward, I did not regain consciousness for two weeks. They thought I was dead,
too.”

     Edward shook his head. “Could you get no
message to us, to let us know you were alive?”

     “Nay,” Christopher replied regretfully.
“The village was a den for outlaws. John is seeking these people and they could
not risk letting their place be known. There was no way to send word. The only
way to let you know I was alive was to tell you myself, so, here I am.”

     Edward was beyond overwhelmed; he was
having difficulty grasping the entire event. He wiped his hand over his face.
“This is incredible. I simply cannot believe any of it.”

     “Believe it,” Christopher murmured.
“Christ, Edward, now I have to go north and fight Marcus to get my wife back?
Life gets more complicated all the time.”

     “Indeed,” Edward agreed fervently. “But I
warn you, Chris; Marcus will not let Dustin go easily. He was quite adamant
when he came here for her, like a man possessed.”

     Christopher ground his jaw. “She's
my
wife, Edward. He has no choice but to return her to me. If he doesn't, then he
will die.”

     Edward averted his gaze, the clash between
Christopher and Marcus was bound to tear up the north. He had seen the look in
Marcus' eye when he came for Dustin; the man would die for her. So would
Christopher.

     “Chris,” Edward ventured after a moment.
“Do you think it wise to go charging up to Somerhill to retrieve you wife? I
mean, there is no doubt in my mind that Marcus will do everything in his power
to keep her, which will only result in a full-scale war. Do you think that wise
for Dustin to witness? After all, the shock of seeing that you are alive will
be strong enough without witnessing the ensuing war. And then, suppose, you do
not survive; how do you think she will react?”