Rise of the Defender (115 page)

     “Easy, my lord, easy,” Came a male voice.
“Stop moving about like that or you shall re-open your wound.”

     Christopher struggled to speak.
“Who...where…?”

     “Shush, do not talk now,” the man said.
“You have got to use all of your strength to get well. Could you take some
broth?”

     Christopher opened his eyes a peep, his
lids felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds apiece. His focus was all out of
sync and he blinked several tunes to clear his vision. Two men and one woman
slowly came into view.

     “Who are you?” he rasped.

     One man smiled slightly, a nice-looking man
perhaps his own age. “My name is Rob,” he replied. “This lovely woman who saved
your life is my wife, Marianne. Can you tell us your name?”

     Christopher cleared his parched throat and
thought a moment; his mind was so muddled he could not seem to remember.
“Christopher de Lohr,” he finally said. “How did I get here?”

     “My man brought you here,” Rob indicated a
big, burly red-headed man standing next to him. “He found you in the trees
after the battle for Gowergrove. You were as good as dead, but he brought you
back anyway. Seems he took pity on you because you fought against John.”

     Christopher's eyes opened wider, though
they were red and crusty. His vision was a little clearer, but he was still so
bloody hot. “How long... long have I been here?”

     “You have been unconscious for over two
weeks, my lord,” Marianne replied, placing a cool compress on his head. “We
thought you were dead until just last night when your fever broke. It is not
gone completely, but it is certainly not what it was. How do you feel?”

     “Like I am dying,” Christopher croaked.
“Two weeks?”

     “Aye,” Rob replied. “Are you one of
Richard's knights?”

     Christopher nodded once, weakly. “Aye.”

     He drifted off to sleep and Marianne
shushed her husband when he tried to ask him another question.

     “Leave him be, Rob,” she admonished. “The
man still has one foot in the grave, so let him sleep. He will answer your
questions in time.”

     Rob stood up, a head shorter than the burly
man next to him. “I wonder if he's close to Richard,” he glanced over at the
mail, sword and tunic in the corner that belonged to his guest. “What did he
say his name was? Christian?”

     “Christopher,” the big man reminded him.
“Christopher de Lohr. The name sounds familiar, Rob.”

     “Does it?” Rob gazed down at the massive
man again. “I cannot place it. Well, we can do no more for him at the moment.
We shall return shortly.”

     “Where are you going?” she stood up,
brushing her thick auburn curls out of her face.

     Rob kissed her. “Business, love. Not to worry.”

     She pursed her lips in irritation.
“Business. You mean robbery. Rob, no wonder John has labeled you an outlaw. All
you do is steal and rob and burn.”

     Rob's handsome face lost some of its humor
and he put his vest on. “What do you expect? The man stole my castle and tried
to kill me. He is to blame for the life I lead, not I.” He jerked his head in
the direction of the man sleeping on the floor. “Mayhap that one can help us
seek justice if he is one of Richard's knights. Mayhap it was a good thing that
Jonathan here found him when he did. “

     Marianne watched her husband strap on his
arrow pack and sling his bow over one shoulder. Her face was still furrowed and
Rob planted a kiss on her nose. “We shall return shortly, love. Take good care
of Sir Christopher.”

     Marianne shook her head as Rob and Jonathan
ducked out of the hut, wrestling with the hide flap. It was always the same
with him -
revenge, revenge, revenge
. Would it end? Not until John was
dead, most likely, or Rob had had a chance to seek audience with Richard and
regain his keep. Aye, Marianne would certainly love to live at Tickhill again
and not these rotting little huts in the middle of Sherwood.

     “Take care of yourself, Rob of the Hood,”
she muttered, turning back to her patient. “Somehow, you always manage to.”

***

     Christopher did not come around again for
another three days. But when he did, the fever was completely gone and he awoke
remarkably clear-headed. He gazed at his surroundings, listening to the snoring
inside the hut. He could pick out at least three, possibly more.

     He shifted a bit and was met with stiffness
and soreness such as he had never known and decided to simply rest easy. His
slight groan roused Marianne, who was immediately up and moving to his side.

     “Sir Christopher.” she exclaimed softly.
“You are awake.”

     “Indeed, my lady,” he replied, his voice
returning to the rich, soothing tone Dustin had loved so well. “But it would
seem I chose the dead of night to awaken to.”

     Marianne smiled; she was a pretty woman, if
not a bit plain.             “'Tis an hour or so before dawn,” she replied. “My
husband and his men will rise soon. How do you feel?”

     He raised an arm ever-so-slowly and lay his
left hand on his forehead. “Not too terribly, actually,” he said. “Horrible
compared to what I usually feel like, but better than I felt when I awoke
earlier. But I am rather thirsty.”

     Marianne nodded quickly and rapidly drew a
wooden ladle of water. She coaxed him to drink slowly, but he was so thirsty
most of the water ended up running down his face and into his hair. Slaked for
the moment, he thanked her.

     By this time, her husband had heard the
voices as he was rising, pulling on his rough linen tunic.

     “Sir Christopher, you are awake,” he said
as he rolled to his knees. “God be praised. How do you feel?”

     Christopher's weak left hand found his
unkempt beard. “As if I have just gone several bouts with Lucifer himself.
Christ, I need a shave.”

     Rob and Marianne laughed, and big Jonathan
sat bolt upright on his pallet at the noise. “What goes on?” he demanded. Then
he noticed Rob and Marianne hovering over Christopher, who was quite awake.
“Oh, my lord, you are come to life.”

     Chris let his hand fall to his chest.
“That, sirrah, is a mere opinion. What is your name?”

     “Jonathan Blackwelder, sire,” he replied.
“I was the young earl's troopmaster.”

     “Young earl?” Christopher looked puzzled
and he saw Rob wave Jonathan off. “You are an earl? What…where am I, then? Are
we at your keep?”

     “Nay,” Rob's usually pleasant face was
suddenly morose. “For I no longer have a keep, my lord, at least in the
personal sense. John has it.”

     “John?” Christopher repeated. “What is the
name of your keep?”

     “Tickhill,” Rob replied quietly.

     Christopher stared at him a moment, slow
understanding coming over him. He remembered the battle for Tickhill all too
well, even with his haze-clouded mind. “You are the Earl of Longdon?”

     Rob's head came up to Christopher. “You are
familiar with my keep? Were you at the siege of Tickhill?”

     Christopher closed his eyes. “Aye, my lord.
'Twas I who led the crown troops against John's mercenary army.” His voice was
weak again, weak with defeat. He hated admitting his failure to the man who had
saved his life. “We arrived too late to save your fortress, sire, and I am
sincerely sorry for it. By the time we arrived, there was little to do.”

     “You led the crown troops?” Rob glanced at
Jonathan. “Are you the knight they call the Defender?”

     Christopher nodded weakly. “Hard to
believe, is it not?”

     “Richard's Defender?” Jonathan said with
wide eyes. “The man they call the Lion's Claw?”

     Christopher nodded again, opening his eyes
to stare at the ceiling. Marianne and Rob and Jonathan exchanged astonished
glances; the man lying in their modest little hut was the all-powerful Defender
of the Realm.

     “We are honored by your presence, sire,”
Marianne stammered.

     Christopher gazed kindly at her. “'Tis I
who am honored, my lady, and forever in your debt. Will I heal completely?”

     She nodded, lifting the bandages on his
left side. “Your wound was terrible, sire, to say the least. Never have I seen
a man with such a gaping hole live. But I'd venture to say that since you have
survived thus far, you should heal completely. You have an amazing will to
live, sire. 'Tis the only explanation other than God's divine grace.”

     “I have everything to live for,”
Christopher replied quietly. “A wife and daughter await me at home. 'Twould it
be possible to get word to them?”

     Rob and Jonathan exchanged glances. “That
may not be possible at all, sire. John has placed a price on my head and on the
heads of my associates. To send a message would be to possibly reveal our
whereabouts.” He looked genuinely sorry. “The only way your wife will receive a
message is if you take it to her yourself. We could not risk one of our men
being followed.”

     Christopher sighed heavily. “I see,” he
said sadly. “And what was this heinous crime you committed to warrant a bounty?
Stick your tongue at the prince? Mayhap, given him a less-than-polite
expression?”

     Rob smiled again. “I see you understand
John too well. Nay, sire, my only crime was trying to defend my keep and
killing four of his elite guards in the process. But he has deemed me an
outlaw, and my people and I etch out an existence in Sherwood waiting for the
opportunity to present itself so that I might return home.”

     “You mean that as a result of John, you
truly are an outlaw now,” Christopher said. “Forced to steal to live.”

     “We could become farmers, but why?” Rob
shrugged. “John has declared us outlaws, and outlaws we will be. But only
against his loyalists; we only rob and steal from those we know are loyal to
the prince. We may be small in number, but we are as pesky as a horde of fleas.
Annoying to the point of distraction.”

     Christopher smiled. “My lord, I think I
like you already.”

     “That is good,” Rob replied. “For someday I
may need your help to explain my actions to Richard. I do intend to regain my
keep, but I shan't be able to do it as an outlaw.”

     Christopher's smile faded. “I can promise
you I will do everything in my power to persuade Richard to return your
holdings. He's returned to England now and I can only assume he will be taking
back England fortress by fortress.”

     “He has returned from the Quest?” Rob
repeated; he had been out of touch a long time. “God be praised; now mayhap
England can return to some normalcy.”

     “One can only pray,” Christopher replied
softly.

     Rob scratched his scalp and buttoned his
tunic. “Well, I must be running along. Our spies tell us that the Earl of
Dorset is on the road this day with a load of cash and other valuables destined
for John at Nottingham. I think I shall relieve him of his burden.”

     His manner was so carefree and light that
Christopher thought he sounded much like a naughty boy, not at all like an
earl. As Rob and Jonathan left the tent, a pretty maid entered bearing a
steaming bowl. Her soft brown eyes immediately fell on Christopher and she
flushed, handing the bowl to Marianne. Marianne was not daft; she saw the look
on the maid's face.

     “Lizabetha, be pleased to meet Sir
Christopher de Lohr,” she said. “We must make him well so that he might return
to his wife and child. My lord, this is my niece, Lady Lizabetha du Bois.”

     Christopher glanced at the woman, she was
very young, younger than his wife, and pretty. She blushed virginally and
lowered her gaze.
Very practiced
, Christopher thought. Seeing the girl
made him long for Dustin all the more.

     Marianne chased Lizabetha out and fed
Christopher herself, a rich beef broth. He was hungry and ate the whole bowl,
feeling the fuel in his veins already. He watched Marianne put the bowl away
and prepare another compress for his healing wound.

     “My wife must think I am dead,” he said
softly.

     Marianne raised her face to him. “No doubt
that she does, sire, I am sorry we cannot risk sending a message.”

     Christopher shook his head. “Nay, madam, I
did not mean to imply that I was insistent upon sending her word. I understand
your husband's situation, and I understand John. It is just that…well, it pains
me deeply to know that my wife believes I am dead.”

     Marianne began to change his bandages. “I
can only imagine her torment, my lord, and yours. But you will not be able to
leave until your strength has returned, and that could take weeks. To travel
any sooner will surely do further damage.”

     He glanced down at the wound in his side,
purple and puckered and scabbed. It was just below his ribcage. “I ought to
have a lovely scar.”

     Marianne smiled. “Hopefully, these herbs
will lessen the scarring.”