Burwell looked thoughtful. “The babe was about as big as my thumb. Intact, I might add.”
Christopher swallowed at the distaste he felt at even asking the question, then hearing the answer. It bordered on disgust, but for some reason, he had to know. The fetus was his flesh and blood and a part of him, a part of Dustin.
“Was….what was it?” He hated himself for asking, for sounding so petty.
“A son,” Burwell’s voice was hushed.
Christopher’s eyes stung and he lowered his head. “I would appreciate a Christian burial for my son,” he said, his voice choked with emotion as he gazed on Dustin’s sleeping face.
Burwell merely nodded, closing the door softly behind him.
In the darkness of the room, with his wife sleeping and the world around him silent but for the crackling of the logs in the hearth, Christopher allowed himself the luxury of tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dustin’s recovery was terribly slow. With the loss of the babe, she seemed to have lost her spirit. She sat in the antechamber day after day, eating little and working on pieces of needlepoint. There were several of them; as she would become bored with one and move on to another. It was her only form of entertainment because she absolutely refused any visitors, including the knights and Deborah.
Christopher was miserable watching his wife waste away. Her beautiful hair had lost its luster and her lovely face was a constant pale shade, lacking any color whatsoever. The wide gray eyes were circled and lifeless. Even after the midwife said she was nearly physically recovered, Dustin refused to leave the apartments.
Christopher was in a very difficult position. John and Ralph were beginning to create a stir again, most notably with the party they held on the eve following Dustin’s accident for their closest friends. Rumor had it that it was a celebration for Christopher’s loss, and the knowledge drove him beyond rage. If Dustin were to hear of it, he knew she would lose her sanity for sure.
Missives had been coming from the continent regarding Richard’s whereabouts, and the justices were positive the man was alive, but they had no way of knowing where their king was. That portion of Christopher’s responsibilities began heating up, only adding to the tremendous burden of Dustin’s infirmary. He found his attention focused solely on her, and his concerns with Richard, although grand, paled in comparison. His one desire was to return his wife to her former wonderful self, and for the first time in his life, he was completely dedicated to something other than Richard.
A week or so after Dustin’s accident, Christopher cornered the midwife in the hallway outside his apartments. He was greatly concerned for his wife’s mental health and wanted the old woman’s opinion.
“My wife has not been the same since her mishap,” he said in a lowered voice. “Is this a normal occurrence with women when they lose children?”
“Aye, sire, ’tis perfectly natural,” the woman replied. “She feels unworthy and a failure, even though it was an accident. Give her time, my lord. She shall come around.”
He looked at the woman doubtfully, he so desperately needed reassurance. “But she mopes about and refuses to eat or leave the apartments. Her body is sound, is it not?”
The woman nodded. “She is a very healthy lass and her recovery has been remarkable.”
He crossed his arms with frustration, finally nodding. “Very well. Thank you for your advice, madam.”
The old woman’s eyes twinkled at him. “Do you want more advice, sire? Give her a few months or so, and then beget her with child as quickly as possible. Sometimes that helps ease the ache.”
“But will that be safe?” he wanted to know. “Christ, the woman nearly bled to death from the womb.”
“She will have healed completely by then, I assure you,” the midwife said. “Your wife is young and strong, my lord. She will bear you many children to come.”
Christopher nodded shortly, satisfied with the woman’s knowledge. “Thank you again, madam.”
The midwife curtsied and scurried several feet down the hall before pausing a moment and turning back to Christopher, who was just about to enter his apartments.
“My lord?” she called out to him. When he turned, she retraced her steps quickly. “There is but one more thing you can do to help your wife recover physically, though this task may prove to be unbearable to you.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Rubbing her breasts will help her womb contract and heal faster,” she said, motioning over her own breast with a circular pattern. “I recommend it to all of my patients.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Rubbing her breasts? Now why would I find that unbearable?”
The woman grinned. “Because you cannot bed her for another six or seven weeks, and some men find the duty, shall I say, painful.”
He nodded, a faint smirk on his face as she left him again. When he turned back to the door, he noticed a half dozen guards with smirks on their faces. Eyeing them all dangerously, he entered his apartments.
Dustin was sitting in her usual chair by the windows, playing with George. The monkey was dancing and doing flips in her lap and she watched the little beast without much enthusiasm. Christopher meandered up to her, watching the monkey’s tricks.
“The sun is out this day,” he said casually. “Would you accompany me on a walk?”
She shook her head. “I do not feel like walking.”
He knelt beside the chair, his eyes going to her pale face. “I miss you walking beside me,” he said. “You used to go everywhere with me.”
She didn’t look at him but continued to play with the monkey. “I do not want to go anywhere.”
He studied her features, so incredibly beautiful. The bruise on her forehead was fading. His heart was wrenching to see her so. “Please, sweetheart, come walk with me. How would you like to go into town?”
Abruptly, she stood up and the monkey fell from her lap. “Nay,” she snapped. “I told you I do not want to go anywhere and I would appreciate it if you would stop asking.”
He rose on his massive legs, trying to maintain a calm manner with her. “I am only thinking of you, Dustin. You have been holed up in these rooms for over a week and it would do you good to get out and move around.”
She swung her great mane of hair angrily and bolted past him into the bedchamber. “I do not want to move around,” she said angrily. “I do not want to walk.”
He followed her, his irritation growing. “Why are you being like this?”
She flopped on the bed. “Go away.”
“I will not,” he said with annoyance. “What is the matter with you?”
“What is the matter with me?” she repeated, incredulous. “In case you have not realized it, I killed your son. How can you ask me that question?”
He sighed heavily, trying to bank his anger once again. “You did not kill the babe, Dustin,” he said softly. “We have been over this a thousand times. You tripped, and you fell, and I am extremely grateful for your very life. We can always have another child, but there will never be another you.”
“No more children,” she frowned, frustrated. “No more. I do not want anymore.”
“Why?” he asked.
She simply shook her head hard, wallowing in self-loathing and self-pity. He approached the bed.
“Why not?”
“Because….no more dying.” Her voice was reduced to a whisper. “They die; everything I love dies. My mother, my father, Rebecca, my child… I cannot love anything else and watch it die.”
“You love me and I am not dead,” he said softly, sitting carefully on the bed beside her. “I shall never leave you, Dustin. I swear it.”
“You almost did,” she said, meeting his gaze painfully. “I watched you go down in the joust and I thought you were dead too.”
He took a deep breath, reaching out deliberately to clasp her hand. He rolled it over, inspecting it, before bringing it back to his lips.
“I will not comp
ete in any more tournaments,” he said softly. “I do not want to worry you needlessly. I have a wife to think of now; ’tis no longer simply me.”
Dustin’s eyes widened. As magnificent as he was, as powerful and as skilled, for him to make that statement spoke incredible volumes as a testimony to his devotion to her.
“But…but you are the champion,” she insisted, turning the tables in the conversation and focusing on him. “You are the best, Chris. For you not to compete is a waste of your talent.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I thought you would applaud my decision.”
She lowered her gaze and shrugged. “I cannot ask you to stop doing what you do, Chris. You are a soldier, and the very best in the realm. You must maintain that reputation in spite of my worries. You said yourself that I worry overly, and I do.” She put her hands up to his face, rubbing his stubble affectionately. “I am very proud of you, husband. And I love you dearly.”
He put his hand over hers, dwarfing it. “I am getting too old to compete, anyway. I would leave it to the younger men who have not yet established a reputation.”
She shook her head. “You are not too old.”
He chuckled at her, remembering what she had said when she found out how old he was. She grinned, too, remembering her words as well.
“Walk with me,” he said in a low tone.
Her smile faded and she pulled her hands away. “Nay, Chris. I do not want to.”
He reached out and pulled her to him before she could crawl off the bed. “Why, Dustin? You cannot keep yourself locked up in here the rest of your life. David and Marcus and the others are very distressed that you will not allow visitors; they miss you. And Deborah is reduced to tears every time I see her. Why do not you want to see them?”
“Because I do not.” She struggled against him, trying to loosen his grip. “I do not want them looking at me, thinking about what happened, because I will see it in their eyes and I do not wish to be reminded of it endlessly.”
“ ’Tis only their sympathy you will see in their eyes,” he said quietly.
“I do not want it,” she said snappishly. “I do not want their pity.”
He looked at her but she would not meet his gaze. She was still clutched against him, stiff and uncooperative, but he leaned close and kissed her cheek anyway.
“They do not pity you as a weakling or as a failure, Dustin,” he murmured. “They simply wish to tell you how very sorry they are for our loss. They are our friends, our family, and they love us. They love you.”
Her eyes filled with tears that spilled over in little rivers down her cheeks. Her angry, defiant stance dissolved and she relaxed, falling against him. He held her tightly, comforting her, kissing her, loving her.
“I cannot,” she sobbed quietly.
“It’s all right, my love, you do not have to do anything you do not want to,” he assured her. “If you want to stay in these apartments and rot, then so be it.”
Her tears turned to choked giggles. “Do not tease me.”
He grinned. “I am not. If you want to stay here and become part of the fixtures, I shall not stop you. But can I bury you if the dogs start gnawing on your rotting corpse?”
She let out a cry of disgust and slapped playfully at him. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“So sorry,” he said with mock sincerity.
She eyed him, wiping her eyes. “You are not.”
He stroked her dull hair, watching her compose herself. “Will you at least bathe this morn and don a clean surcoat? It might make you feel better.”
She glanced down at herself, her dirty shift and robe. She suddenly wondered how Christopher could have stood her appearance for an entire week.
“Aye, I shall do that,” she nodded.
He had the delightful duty of bathing his wife. She was still rather weak and needed his help to wash her thick hair, but she insisted she was quite capable of soaping her own body. He ignored her statements and ran soapy hands all over her skin until he was fully engorged and bordering on miserable. She had lost a substantial amount of weight during her infirmary, her stomach completely flat and her breasts somewhat smaller, but her body was as incredibly luscious and desirable as it had ever been.
The bath did indeed seem to perk up her spirits and they deteriorated to throwing suds on each other. After receiving two hefty bombardments of white froth, Christopher grabbed her to him, wet and all, and kissed her hard. He was miserable when she responded intensely, pressing her naked breasts against his shirt until he had to let her go or go mad.
She smirked at him from her perch in the tub. “You started it.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, wiping his hands on a towel. “Started what? Oh.”
She was pointing at his swollen crotch and he turned around so she would not see him. “Get out.”
She laughed. “No. Turn around.”
“No,” he said flatly. “Get out of the tub before you catch chill.”
She leaned on the edge of the tub, her gray eyes glittering up at him. “No. Turn around and lower your chausses.”
His head snapped around and he looked at her wanly. “No, Dustin.”
“Then I shall get out and lower them for you,” she said seductively.
He gazed at her with disbelief. “Dustin….no. We cannot you are still weak and….”
She reached out and managed to grab hold of his breeches, tugging him toward her. “Come here.”
He could have easily pulled free of her grip, but instead found himself responding to her. He didn’t want to, but it was as if some invisible force was pushing him forward, moving for him and he was powerless to respond. He watched his wife unfasten the stays on his chausses and release his great organ, helpless to stop her but anticipating her actions with more excitement that he could imagine.
Her warm, wet hands fondled his great size eagerly and when, with an evil grin, her hot mouth plunged down on him, he was completely lost.
He never knew he could climax so quickly. It could not have been more than a couple of minutes and he was erupting convulsively, his hands entangled in her wet hair and he heard himself murmuring her name over and over again.
When it was over, he swept her from the tub and wrapped her in a giant linen towel. Cradled against him, he carried her over near the fire and began to dry her off vigorously. She was still grinning at him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
She shrugged, not answering. He slowed his rubbing. “Why are you grinning?” he asked.
Again, she shrugged saucily and he fought off a grin, returning to toweling her hair. “You will tell me why you are smirking so or I will wrap you up in this towel and throw you in the hearth.”
She gave him a look that let him know she didn’t believe him. “I was simply thinking how wonderful you are, that’s all,” she replied. “And how much I like making you submit to me.”
He gave her his own disbelieving look. “Is that so? Do you intend to abuse your power, lady?”
“Never,” she replied, closing her eyes as he combed out her hair. “Chris?”
“What, sweetheart?”
“I would take that walk with you now,” she said softly. “Can we go into town to the baker’s? I have a craving for a sticky bun.”
He smiled with relief. “Of course we shall go. But we will ride if you want to go into town.”
“Can David and Deborah and the others go, too?” she asked.
Mildly surprised at her turn of heart, he spun her around to face him. “If you wish it, of course. Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Aye.”
He smiled and kissed her head. “David and Edward and Leeton should be at the training grounds,” he said thoughtfully, setting the comb down. “But I do not know where Marcus is. I shall send someone….”
“No,” she said firmly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I do not want Marcus to come with us,” she s
aid, her joviality slipping as she turned away from him and toward the wardrobe.
He observed her stiff back. “Why not?”
Her eyes met his insistently. “Because I do not…I do not want to see Marcus Burton ever again. I hate him, so leave it at that.”
He put his hands on his hips. “I will not leave it at that.” His eyes narrowed. “Does this have something to do with your accident?”
She didn’t answer him as she went to the wardrobe and began fumbling with a surcoat. He approached the wardrobe. “Answer me, Dustin. Does this have something to do with your fall?”
Her head snapped up to him, her face dark. “He was there.”
“Aye, he was there, at the base of the stairs,” Christopher agreed. “He is not responsible for what happened.”
She turned around and ripped a pair of slippers from the wardrobe. “I do not want to see him ever again, Chris. Tell him, or I will.”
“I do not think you are being fair, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “Marcus is devastated over what happened. He feels terrible.”
“He should,” she snapped, but clamped her mouth shut and pulled her shift over her head.
Christopher watched her angry, jerky movements a moment. For some reason, she blamed Marcus for her loss but he could not understand why other than the fact that the man simply happened to be there when it occurred. He wondered if she blamed him because he did not, or more correctly, could not help her.
Whatever the reason, he knew Dustin to be somewhat reasonable and knew that with time, she would forgive and forget.
At least, he hoped so.
*
They made quite a caravan. Christopher, in full armor along with David, Edward, Leeton and Dud, escorted Dustin and Deborah into London simply because Dustin was dying for a sticky bun. To be out in the fresh air, although quite freezing, was refreshing nonetheless and Dustin’s pale face received color simply from the icy chill that turned her nose and cheeks red.
Michaelmas was upon them and the streets were lined with decorations and happy people. Old snow congregated in the gutters and stank with the sewage, but Dustin was feeling much better with her outing. In fact, she actually felt like shopping, much to Deborah’s delight. Christopher would have bought the bloody White Tower for her if she wished it, anything to raise her spirits.