The Warrior Poet (40 page)

"You are
welcome to all we have, m'lord," the priest said softly, clutching the
money to him as if he feared its ability to sprout legs and run away.
"After your ceremony, you shall be served an evening meal and ushered to
our visitor's infirmary for the night."

A
common room.
Christian's heart sank somewhat at the prospect of
spending his wedding night in an open gallery, surrounded by strangers and
other travelers who had sought lodgings for the night. But he knew that most
holy structures had very little privacy and was not overly surprised. Still, it
was a distinct disappointment. He'd truly hoped to have his new wife all to
himself.

The sanctuary of
Sweetheart Abbey was long and slender, a lovely place compared to the rest of
the building. A bank of candles burned brightly on one end, illuminating a
carved stone altar decorated with an elaborate cloth. Clasping Gaithlin tightly
against him, Christian observed the intricacies of large room a moment before
moving into the chapel in pursuit of the taller priest.

The fat monk who
had met them at the door suddenly appeared out of the shadows bearing various
implements for the wedding ceremony. Gaithlin and Christian watched with
various degrees of apprehension and delight as the man settled a chalice and
wine upon the altar, followed by a leather-bound book and other wedding
necessities. The taller priest accepted the red mantle of office from his
colleague, kissing it reverently before draping the banner across his
shoulders. Making the sign of the cross before the intended couple, he folded
his hands in prayer.

Christian indicated
the same gesture across his shoulders and head, as did Gaithlin. Without
further delay, the priest delved into the Catholic marriage mass that would
forever join the house of St. John and de Gare.

"Ave
Maria, gracia plena dominus tecum."

Christian and
Gaithlin crossed themselves again, muttering the proper response.
"And also with you."

Beside Gaithlin,
Malcolm looked entirely baffled. Tugging on Gaithlin's persimmon-colored gown,
he whispered harshly. "Wha' did ye say?"

Gaithlin shushed
him, smiling apologetically to the priest as the man continued to read ceremony
in Latin. Quoting from the leather-bound book, he sang the words so quickly
that Gaithlin could hardly distinguish one word from another. Christian, who
was fluently educated in Latin, was having equal difficulty keeping up with the
man's swift delivery.

As the priest
blessed the sacramental chalice that would favor their union, Christian
continued to wallow in the mounting disbelief that he was actually marrying his
most inherent enemy. All of the planning, the distractions, the fears and hopes
and dreams were finally coming to an abrupt culmination and he could scarcely
comprehend that in a very short moment, the beautiful woman he had seen
swimming in the pristine lake those weeks ago would actually become his wife. Already,
she was his love, s
ince the moment he
first saw her.

He didn't realize
how startled he would be to fathom the verity of the event as it bore down upon
him. Speaking on the subject was one matter, but living the achievement was
entirely another. He briefly wondered how Maggie was going to react to his marriage;
in faith, he hardly cared. Maggie's wants or emotions were of limited interest;
they always had been. As far as he was concerned, the Lady Margaret du Bois no
longer existed. Now, there was only Gaithlin.

He was jolted from
his thoughts as the priest thrust the golden chalice at him, instructing him
drink from the cup. Taking a long, healthy swallow, Christian turned to
Gaithlin to offer her the goblet when the distinct glimmer of moisture on her
face caught him completely off-guard. She was crying.

"Gae?" he
murmured, wiping her tears away as she accepted the chalice. "What's
wrong, honey?"

She shook her head,
drinking deeply from the cup. As Christian continued to wipe at her cheeks,
Malcolm's eyes were wide on his ladyfriend.

"Why is she
cryin'?" he demanded.

Christian smiled
faintly, tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear as she returned the
chalice to the priest. The man looked strangely at her as he collected the
goblet.

"Why is she
crying?" he looked questioningly to Christian.

He put his arm
around her shoulders, squeezing her gently as she struggled to compose herself.
"Because she is happy, I would suppose," he said, touched with her
genuine show of emotion. "Please continue, father."

"Happy?"
Malcolm repeated as if he had never heard of such a concept. "Why would
she cry if she's happy? Mayhap she's a-feared!"

"A-feard of
what?" the priest continued the conversation with keen interest, looking
to the mouthy lad before him.

Wide-eyed and
innocent, Malcolm gazed up at the aging deacon. "A-feared of marryin'
th
' Englishman! He yells and bears a mighty sword
and..."

"Malcolm!"
Gaithlin snapped softly, sniffling as she wiped the remaining moisture from her
face. Looking to the priest, she shook her head apologetically. "Christian
was correct, Father. I am deliriously happy at the prospect of this union.
Would you please continue?"

The priest's brow
was furrowed dubiously. "You must not be afraid to tell me the truth,
child. If you are afraid…."

"Merciful
Heavens, I am not afraid of anything!" Gaithlin replied irritably. "I
am simply in love with this man and wish to be his wife. Can we continue
please?"

Malcolm opened his
mouth, but Christian put a massive hand over his lips that nearly covered his
entire face. One eye plastered closed by a thick finger, Malcolm could easily
read Christian's menacing expression. After a brief moment of wordless
implications relaying the pain of a tanned arse, Malcolm willing held silent
when Christian removed his hand.

Although not
entirely convinced the lady was being truthful, the tall priest hesitantly
continued with the ceremony. In faith, there wasn't a great deal more to be
administered and when the deacon murmured the final blessing, scratching the
image of a cross into the air above their lowered heads, the service was
rightfully complete.

Christian didn't
have to be told to kiss his new bride. With the greatest of delight, he
gathered Gaithlin into his arms and kissed her far more passionately that he
should have under God's watchful servants. Responding instinctively to his
forceful attention, Gaithlin forgot her tears, oblivious to the priests gawking
at the newly-wed couple's amorous exchange. Surely the abbey had not seen such
adoration since the very days of Lady Dervorgilla. Surely, she was smiling upon
them from her stone crypt directly underneath their feet.

Lips disengaging
with the greatest reluctance, Christian and Gaithlin smiled happily at one
another. They would have been content to gaze into one another's eyes for the
remainder of eternity had Christian not realized that they were not alone in
their joy. Clearly, they had an audience.

Malcolm was
standing beside Gaithlin, beaming up at the lady and her knight and chewing his
nails in the process. The priests, a few feet away, couldn't quite seem to
overcome the fact that a very lustful kiss had been delivered right before
their very eyes. His cheeks flushed warm with delight, Christian couldn't help
but grin at the two astonished holy men as they pondered the carnal delights of
such an unrestrained action.

"Don't look so
entirely shocked," he admonished the priests happily, displaying far more
delight than he had exhibited in years. "It is called Sweetheart Abbey, is
it not?

“
I never thought to know a love

as
I have come to know
you.'

 
~Chronicles of
Christian St. John
   

 
Vl. X, p. XXI

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

The village was
larger than Quinton remembered, though in faith, he hardly remembered it at
all.
'Twas Christian who possessed a magnificent memory, not
the younger, duller brother.
As he and Jasper and their company of fifty
English soldiers moved onto the well-traveled avenue of the busy little berg of
Cree, Quinton was immediately aware of the fearful, mistrusting gazes.

A fear that settled
about the Englishmen in the guise of uncertain silence as the citizens of Cree
scrutinized their uninvited guests. Glancing about the faces that were trained
upon him in wordless suspicion, Quinton could literally read their apprehension
and dismay.

"A friendly
group," he muttered to Jasper.

His cousin grunted
in agreement. "Let's not delay. Find a responsible party from the midst of
this rabble and see if we cannot discover what they know of Christian's
location."

Nodded vaguely in
agreement, Quinton began to search the customers and merchants alike for an
expression that appeared remotely intelligent and preferably unhostile.
Progressing further into the town, he began to wonder if locating a hospitable
Scots was entirely possible when his questing gaze came to rest on a fat
merchant standing idly beside his large stand.

The Scotsman's eyes
were somewhat bright and curious upon the horde of English warriors and Quinton
immediately reined his charger to a halt.

"You
there," he said authoritatively. "I am seeking information."

The round merchant
immediately drew straight, his eyes wide as he responded obediently to the
demanding knight. "What... what information might tha' be, m'laird?"

Jasper drew
alongside his cousin, gazing impassively upon the pudgy peasant. "An
Englishman, like
ourselves
," his voice was low.
"Have you seen such a man in this town?"

The merchant
immediately nodded.
"Aye, m'laird.
He an' his
wife were here only a day ago."

Quinton and Jasper
stared at the merchant, the impact of the man's innocent reply settling deep
into the bosom of their souls. Quinton fought down a crippling surge of nausea
as he focused on the Scots.
Christ...
were
they
indeed speaking of the same man?
"What did this Englishman look
like?"

"Very
large.
Largest man I have seen in these parts," the merchant looked
thoughtful. "An' pale blue eyes. His wife was
th
'
most beautiful woman I have ever witnessed.
Kind, too."

Jasper cast Quinton
a long, foreboding glance before turning away entirely, directing his charger
back towards the company of English soldiers. Quinton, however, was far too
shaken and sickened to drop the subject quite so easily. Dear God, he was
hearing his very worst suspicions.

Struggling against
his resistance of the situation, he drew in a deep, calming breath in an
ineffectual attempt to calm his quaking nerves. Realizing, indeed, that they
were referring to the same man but struggling in the same breath to disbelieve
undeniable facts.

"Did the
Englishman introduce this woman as his mate?” he asked. “Did he actually use
the word wife?"

"Aye,
m'laird," the merchant replied confidently. "They bought a good deal
of supplies before returnin' home. Do ye know the man, then?"

Do ye know the man?
Quinton felt the
question like a blow to his gut.
Christ, I used to know him. Now I am not so
sure. I am not sure of anything anymore.
"I know him," he found himself nearly choking on his reply.
"Can... can you tell me where they live?"

The merchant scratched his triple-chins. "They left down the
southern road," he gestured in the same direction
from whence the
English had come. "There are a few homesteads down
th
'
highway. I would suppose they live in one of 'em."

Quinton nodded
shortly, eager to be done with the conversation. The confirmation of his
brother's treachery substantiated by an impartial source, a simple merchant who
had conducted business with an English knight and his beautiful lady wife. A
peasant who had no vested interest in the mysterious English warrior other than
he had sold him a measure of goods and services. A man who had no idea of the
chaos he had corroborated.

God help them all.

"I thank you
for your information," Quinton's voice was barely audible as his quivering
hands tossed the man a coin for his troubles. "What is your name?"

"Lutey,
m'laird," the man replied, offering a timid smile in response to the
offered payment.
"'Twas m'pleasure."

Quinton doubted the
conversation would have been so pleasurable had the round merchant realized the
critical nature of his innocent answers. Plagued with emotions and nerves and
nausea, Quinton reined his steed to the waiting group of English soldiers.
Loyal St. John soldiers.

"God's Blood,
Quinton," Jasper hissed as the man came into range. "What are we...?"

Quinton held up a
sharp, trembling hand to silence his witless cousin. "We must find him
before we leap to any hasty conclusions," he said, his voice strained.
"The merchant could have been mistaken."

Jasper shook his
head, the action laced with sorrow and doubt. "What will it take for you
to believe, Quinnie? You just heard your father's suspicions confirmed by a
neutral source."

Pale and
tight-lipped, Quinton gathered his reins and deftly motioned his men in the
opposite direction. "I will not believe until I hear the blessed truth
come forth from Christian himself," he replied staunchly, praying that all
of the clues, the innuendos, and the innocent remarks had been incorrect.
Surely the Demon was not a traitor to his own family, lured into betrayal by
the feminine wiles of his worst enemy. Surely his father and the merchant had
been wrong
..

God... please don't
let it be true.

"We will find
him," Quinton's teeth were clenched as he spoke, indicative of his
volatile emotions. "We will find him and I will ask him myself. Until then,
he is still the Demon of Eden and will be afforded due respect. Do you
comprehend me, Jasper?"

Jasper nodded
faintly. He, too, was reluctant to believe what all evidence was leading to
explain. But, unlike Quinton, he was not willing to turn a blind eye to the
indisputable facts. If the Demon of Eden had turned sympathetic to the de Gare
cause, then as with any traitor, he would be handled accordingly.
No matter how painful the necessary task.

                        
***

"Intruders,
Rake.
Two entire armies o' intruders."

Roger stared at his
younger brother as if the man had gone completely insane.
"Intruders?" he repeated. "Who on earth would be violatin'
Douglas lands? We're at peace
wi
'...."

"Not Scots.
Sassenach
invaders."

Roger's eyebrows
rose in a gesture of distinct interest.
"Sassenach?
Mother of God, wha' would they be doin' here?"

Mac drew in a long,
deep breath. "I recognized St. John standards. But I dinna recognize
th
' second army, nearly two hours after the first."

Roger's brow
furrowed with concern.
"Bandits?
Mayhap they mean
tae ambush
th
' St. John forces."

Mac shook his head.
"They dinna look tae be common bandits, though they were a might scruffy
and worn about
th
' armors and steeds. But they did
appear tae be followin'
th
' St. John soldiers."

Roger gazed at his
brother a lengthy moment, trying to
determined
what
was transpiring upon the rich earth of his beloved territory. He wasn't
entirely surprised with the incursion of the St. John soldiers considering the
missive he had delivered to Eden a few days ago, but he was increasingly
concerned with the mysterious second army in apparent pursuit. Clearly, it made
no sense whatsoever and he rose from his chair, pacing the floor pensive
silence.

Mac observed his
brother with lagging impatience, trying to determine the man's thoughts and
speculations. Roger was usually quite secretive with his plans and ideals, but
Mac was certain they were pondering the very same options at this moment.

The English had
invaded their turf.

"Macky,"
Roger said after an endless span of deep thought. "We canna have
th
' English fightin' their wars on our soil. If
th
' second army means tae do th' St. John harm, then we
canna allow it."

"Agreed.
Do we ride after
them?"

Roger nodded
faintly, scratching his stubbled cheek. "We do. But only tae determine
th
' situation, not tae cast our army inta the middle of an
English battle. If they plan tae do fightin', we shall chase 'em homeward.
They'll not destroy my Galloway."

Smelling the
invigorating scent of an approaching battle, Mac couldn't help the faint smile
that touched his lips. Ever-ready for the feel of a sword and mace in his hand,
he looked forward to the potential skirmish even if Roger was clear that their
presence should be neutral, not combative. Once the first arrow was launched,
it didn't matter if their intentions were neutral or not.

"Shall I mount
th
' men?" he asked his older brother.

Roger nodded, still
partially absorbed in thought. "Mount 'em immediately. We must pursue the
foolish Sassenach tae see what they are up tae."

Turning on his
heel, Mac vacated the solar with an aura of purpose. Roger glanced at his
younger brother as the man faded from view, knowing his hot-headed soul was
itching for a proper fight.
But knowing, just the same, that
a fight would be avoided at all costs.
Unless, of
course, it was in defense of his St. John relations.

Roger pondered the
matter of defending the St. John army from their secretive pursuers, the more
encouraged he became at the prospect of lending aid to his distant kin. Coupled
with his willing deliverance of Christian St. John's missive, the added support
of armed assistance would further substantiate his willingness to reestablish
clan ties with his English cousins. Mayhap then Jean St. John would realize the
value of his remote Douglas kith, enough to willingly explore the
possibilities. Enough to re-secure family ties after generations of separation.

Roger suddenly
found himself agreeing with his brother. Mayhap there would be the added event
of a skirmish - to aid the St. Johns against their adversaries.

A
call to arms.
Kin to kin.

***

Nothing had been
touched. Christian could hardly believe his eyes as he wandered about their
encampment, inspecting every sack of stored grain and every lug of the wagon's
wheels. Even the ox had been left tethered beside the stream in a patch of
knee-high summer grass. Surrounding their sod-house lodged deep into the Wood,
everything remained as it should.

As
they had left it.

Gaithlin smiled
smugly as Christian paced about, examining every miniscule inch of their cozy
home. Not a thread moved, not a grain of wheat shifted. All was as it should be
and Christian could scarcely comprehend that his wife had been correct in her assessment
of the dog-people's character.

"Are you
satisfied that my judgment was true?" she asked confidently as he examined
their food stores in the small alcove off the main room.

Emerging from the
room, bent severely at the waist due to his excessive height, Christian nodded
in agreement. "Good Christ, I can hardly believe my eyes. Nothing is
disturbed in the least."

Moving from her
arrogant stance resting against the doorjamb, Gaithlin put her hands on his
cheeks and kissed him soundly.
"As I told you.
Mayhap there is hope for our neighbors, after all."

"Or mayhap
they understood the length of my blade far better that your logical
reasoning," he couldn't resist jabbing at her cocky manner.

Gaithlin cast him a
threatening gaze, yelping with delight as he swatted her backside. Moving out
into the late afternoon sunlight caressing their familiar clearing with
a fading
warmth, Christian held his wife's hand tightly as
his eyes roved the area in thought.