Brides of the North

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “We are trying,” Christian grunted as he tightened the reins, calming the animal with a soothing clucking noise.

  “Come on, lady!” Malcolm held his hand up to her. “I’ll show ye the town!”

  Thinking that it would be wise to remove herself from the excited horse, Gaithlin slipped from the saddle and nearly pitched herself to her knees in the process. Regaining her unsteady balance, she was barely recovered when Malcolm was rushing at her, grabbing her hand enthusiastically.

  “Come on!” he tugged at her as she gathered her voluminous skirt. “The musicians are playin’!”

  “Musicians?” Gaithlin cocked her head. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I do,” Christian said, stroking the charger’s white neck as the horse visibly calmed. “Sounds like a lyre and flute.”

  “Flute and lyre?” Gaithlin repeated as Malcolm yanked her down the road. Dragged behind the eager boy, she cocked a thoughtful ear and listened to the moist air intently. “Aye, I believe I hear them.”

  Behind her, Christian had managed to calm his steed and the massive white beast danced a slow, excited trot as they progressed down the road. Seated like a Centaur, Christian rode the animal effortlessly as he watched the luscious sway of Gaithlin’s curvaceous backside.

  Indeed, as much as he relished her presence seated across his thighs when they traveled, observing her before him as she strolled down the thoroughfare had distinct advantages as well. Clean and groomed and completely confident in her manner, surely there was no finer sight that the willowy, delectable vision of Lady Gaithlin de Gare.

  A vision, however, he was forced to divert his attention from as they entered the outskirts of Cree. Remembering the village from his childhood with his customary clarity, he was not surprised to see that the berg had not changed overly in the past twenty-five years. Other than a few more buildings and an added conglomeration of huts and other livable structures, it appeared basically the same.

  The atmosphere of the bustling town created a tangible air of excitement; there were people in every habitable area, moving about on their daily business as if the advancement of the very world depended upon their fortitude. Near the edge of the main thoroughfare next to the blacksmith’s shed, a band of musicians parlayed a lively collection of songs to any and all who would listen. Before them sat a beaten bowl of some metal to accept any generous offerings for their talents.

  The abundance of round-faced, inherently scruffy villeins chatted and laughed as they conducted their affairs, abruptly pausing in awed silence as the massive knight astride the magnificent white charger entered their private little realm. Even though a very beautiful woman strolled beside him in the hand of a familiar local orphan, all eyes were drawn to the massive, undeniably frightening English warrior with the same prevalent thought.

  Is there a reason for his presence?

  Christian was aware of the stares and whispers over the squawk of chickens and the brays of burdened beasts. Clusters of children raced past him, screaming and laughing, their clamor cut short when they realized a full-fledged English warlord to be within their midst. As Christian progressed deeper into the bustling village, the rumors of his company spread throughout man and woman alike like a raging tide of untamed wildfire.

  Even Gaithlin was aware of the wonderment and palpable fear of Christian’s appearance as Malcolm directed her onto the main business avenue. Glancing about at the startled faces, she was not surprised with their reaction; certainly, Christian had received the same reaction from her when first they met.

  But as she observed the consternation and, in some cases, loathing, she found herself wanting to defend Christian against the ignorant villeins who only saw the superficial Angel of Death within their assembly, not the flesh-and-blood man beneath the fearsome facade. Clearly, the populace was uncertain over the appearance of an English warrior and she became increasingly anxious to ease their simple minds.

  After all, there were literally hundreds of Scot peasants observing Christian as he traversed the roadway. Enough people to substantially harm him should their fear get the better of their common sense.

  “Do you know most of these people?” she whispered to Malcolm, leaning close to his bald head.

  Malcolm nodded, too young to sense the turmoil brewing. “I’ve lived here me whole life.”

  Gaithlin looked about her, watching as one young mother gathered her three small children in a panic and rushed into the trees. “Who is the town leader?”

  Malcolm thought a moment. “There’s no leader,” he replied, then pointed to a large listing stand filled with indigenous vegetables. “But tha’s Lutey. He’s th’ richest man in town.”

  Gaithlin looked to the shabby merchant’s shelter, scrutinizing the fat, dwarf-like man behind the piles of vegetables. Thinking quickly on how to ease the situation, she delved into immediate action. “Malcolm, go to Lutey and tell him that he has a customer,” she swatted the lad lightly on the behind to kick-start his motivation. “Hurry, now. Tell him who we are.”

  As the bald boy immediately dashed off, she moved to Christian with a certain degree of trepidation. “Malcolm says that man over there is the richest, most powerful merchant in town,” she pointed to the leaning structure of goods. “Mayhap we should buy our supplies from him.”

  Beneath his raised visor, Christian frowned. “What does it matter if he is the richest man in town? I will purchase my goods from the merchant with the best price.”

  Gaithlin cocked an eyebrow, feeling the tension surrounding her like a suffocating vise. “These people do not trust you, Christian. It is evident that they are startled and frightened by your presence, and unless you want to become the victim of a frenzied mob, I suggest you do your business dealings with the most powerful man in town so that the ignorant populace can observe your peaceful and prosperous intentions,” she put her hand on his gauntlet. “Moreover, I suspect that the merchant will be more than happy to spread rumors of your amicable manner when you show your generosity by purchasing his goods for a lavish price.”

  His gaze was even as he listened to her sound, rational words. After a moment, he cocked an eyebrow as his gaze trailed to the large merchant’s stand where Malcolm was presently dancing about with anticipation. “Your reasoning, as always, is sensible,” he said softly. “Very well, then. We shall purchase our supplies through this merchant in order to guarantee me a nonviolent reputation.”

  She smiled at his agreement and he cast her a bold wink, refusing to let go of her hand even as they made their way towards the large produce stall. Dismounting into a thick puddle of rancid mud, he ignored the slime coating his boots in lieu of making sure Gaithlin avoided the same muck. Tucking her hand into the fold of his elbow, he approached the quivering, rotund merchant.

  “Good day to you,” he said in his rich, booming voice. “My name is Sir Christian St. John. I understand that you sell the finest produce in the entire village and would hope to be able to conduct my business with you.”

  The merchant, sweaty and submissive to the point of over-reactive, bowed hastily in Christian’s direction. “M’laird,” he said, his burr thick with nerves. “Yer new ta Cree?”

  “I am,” Christian nodded, removing his helm to prove that there was a human lodged inside the fearsome armor, not simply a war machine. “My wife and I are relatives of Clan Douglas.”

  Lutey’s eyes widened, the rolls of fat that constituted his chin quivering. “Clan Douglas?” he pronounced the clan title as ‘Doog-liss’, his burr heavy. But the fact that Christian had mentioned the overlords of the territory seemed to bear substantial credence and a bit of color reappeared in the man’s cheeks. “Douglas, ye say? Ye dunna look tae be dark like th’ Douglas.”

  “My father is fair,” Christian replied, eager to maintain a civil conversation. Gesturing to the goods piled about on the merchant’s booth, he moved towards the stacks. “We are in need of a great many things. Your stock appears to be very fine.”
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br />   It was all the encouragement the rotund shop-keeper required. Immediately, he began to declare the superiority of his goods, making certain that Christian understood that he was supplied by several hard-working and knowledgeable farmers. Gaithlin was already inspecting the vegetables and dried goods, her experienced eye roving the stock with talent. When Christian cast her an encouraging wink, silent permission to proceed with the selection of their supplies, she commenced her duties with relish.

  Lutey and his two sons soon had their hands full with Gaithlin and her shopping skills. From turnips to carrots to summer crops of leeks and onions, she inspected each and every bit of produce before deciding it to be worthy of their table. Christian stood aside with Malcolm as Gaithlin and the merchants gently argued over the finer qualities of the fresh produce.

  It was an exacting task and Christian was immensely pleased with her abilities to not only select high-quality goods, but to barter for the price in such a fashion that she did not appear aggressive or uninformed of the current rates. Yet he knew her skill was bred from a lack of money; when the times occurred that she had been able to purchase supplies for Winding Cross, she had to make sure she received the very best bargain for her limited monetary support.

  A talent for bargains that had developed from pure necessity. Even with Christian’s nearly unlimited wealth, Gaithlin carefully haggled the merchant to such a price that even Christian thought she was intent on robbing the man blind. In lieu of their earlier conversation when she had suggested he pay the man a generous sum for his wares in exchange for his support of the newest member of Cree’s community, Christian calmly entered the negotiations to interject his sensible opinion.

  Ten minutes and several barrels of supplies later, Christian and Gaithlin had enough goods to last them for months. And Lutey was quite convinced he had procured enough money fit for a king.

  Since Christian had no wagon to secure his goods, Lutey directed him to a livery at the edge of the village where he was able to purchase a satisfactory rig and a relatively healthy ox. With four barrels stuffed to the hilt with vegetables and sacks of grain, not to mention three wheels of creamy, tart cheese, he allowed a giddy Malcolm to steer the beast of burden down the thoroughfare as they went in search of a suitable cobbler for Gaithlin’s shoes.

  Since the massive English knight had made him rich with his excessive purchases, Lutey bravely decided to accompany Christian as he became acquainted with the town; the fat merchant with the small hands waddled next to the armored warrior as the entire group moved down the avenue, pointing out various shops and objects of interest. There was even a small tavern, run-down and barely habitable, but loaded with rabble. It was loud and exciting.

  Gaithlin found the entire concept of a gay tavern intriguing, as did Malcolm. But Christian assured them both that there were far better establishments elsewhere, promising to pay a visit to finer inns someday should time and situation allow. Although Lutey assured him that the tavern, bearing a hand-scratched sign with the name ‘Sword and Sheaf’ over the door, was in all actuality a fine hostel, Christian was not prepared to agree. It looked like a nest of filth and he went to great lengths to convince both Gaithlin and Malcolm that they would regret any visit to such a place.

  Fortunately for Christian, Gaithlin’s attention was diverted by a merchant’s shop bearing great bolts of woolen materials and she immediately leapt into the midst of the goods. While Christian, Lutey and Malcolm stood by, she rapidly succeed in acquiring several portions of fabric highly suited for an active little boy. The price for the goods, however, was more than she was willing to pay and she nearly left the stall without her material and notions had Christian not assured her that he was undisturbed by spending such amounts of money. It was, after all, for a fine job done.

  Reluctantly agreeing, Gaithlin paid for the goods with Christian’s money, acutely aware that she had spent more money this day than she had spent in her entire lifetime. The more she pondered her frivolous spending of Christian’s funds, the more depressed she became. In fact, ’twas not her money she was so free in dispensing; it was Christian’s hard-earned capital and she felt exceedingly guilty for her lack of control.

  Christian, however, was coming to know her well enough to suspect she was disturbed with the passage of money from hand to hand, knowing she had survived thus far with very little in the way of monetary goods or procurement. Suspecting, incorrect though it was, that mayhap she was wishing some of the money to be spent on her, he sent Malcolm and Gaithlin and Lutey on their way towards the cobbler while he lingered at the dry-goods merchant, purchasing a measurement of expensive rose brocade that was not particularly good in quality but lovely in color, and another measurement of woolen tartan fabric bearing the Douglas colors of brown, dark blue, and green.

  Bearing his burdens, he deposited them in the wagon without being noticed by his three distracted companions. Feeling rather pleased with his clever and sly intentions to present his captive with unexpected material treasures, he moved towards Gaithlin and the others only to discover that she was looking at a myriad of feminine products imported from France and points beyond. Displayed along a wide shelf in the very front of a particularly well-kept shop, she was enthralled with the delicate wares.

  Certainly the material he had purchased could not compare to expensive perfumes and oils and pretty jewelry. Leaving an impatient Malcolm and an eager-to-be-of-service Lutey standing guard over their goods in the newly purchased wagon, he practically dragged Gaithlin inside the small, cluttered shop.

  The rectangular enclosure smelled of flowers; heady, rich, and consuming as Christian all but shoved Gaithlin before him, gently demanding that she look about. Twice, she attempted to escape the stall, but he would simply laugh low in his throat and divert her attention with a pretty piece of finery.

  Embarrassed and reluctant to spend any more of his money, especially on herself, she struggled against her interest and delight as Christian pointed out several lovely items she would be more than willing to accept. But ever so reluctant to express an interest in, knowing his money would be serving to flatter her silly whims. Whims she had never had the opportunity to indulge until now.

  “Truly, Christian, I do not think…,” she protested weakly when he thrust a lovely pewter comb under her nose.

  “I do not want you to think,” he interrupted firmly but gently, holding up the comb’s companion, a matching polished mirror. “I want you to select whatever your lovely little heart desires. Buy everything in the shop if you wish.”

  Her cheeks flushed with frustration and longing, she gingerly accepted the mirror from him, hesitantly gazing down onto the shiny surface. An exceptionally beautiful woman gazed back, her cat-shaped eyes of deep blue wide and expressive. Having only seen her reflection occasionally in pools of still water or other reflective, distortive substances, she was enthralled by the relatively clear picture of her face.

  Christian saw her brow furrow in awe, watching with reined delight as she ran her long fingers over the surface as if to confirm the stunning image. Completely riveted to the magnificent reflection of her features, she was startled when a massive hand suddenly invaded the tranquility of the silver scene.

  Christian stroked her cheek, grinning when she raised her wonder-filled eyes. “You have never witnessed your own beauty, have you?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head, returning her astonished focus to the mirror. “Not like this,” she murmured. “I’ve seen my reflection in water, and when I was young my mother had a hand mirror made of Venetian glass. But I broke it.”

  Still smiling, Christian gestured to the hovering shopkeeper and his plump wife. “We’ll purchase this set,” he indicated both the mirror and the comb. As Gaithlin’s startled expression met with his twinkling eyes, he merely cast her a knowing wink. “You must see your beauty every day, as I do. Moreover, I may wish to look at myself now and again.”

  She wanted to protest; Merciful Heavens, she could
not justify this extravagant expense in any fashion other than to express her sincere delight in coming to see her features for the very first time. The color of her eyes, the pert rise of her nose, the gentle curve of her cheeks… characteristics she had never truly come to know.

  Aye, she wanted to protest the luxury of a mirror and comb. But gazing into Christian’s smiling face, she could not seem to form the words. Selfish! she scolded herself harshly, a mental scolding and nothing more. She wasn’t about to refuse his gift. Certainly she was selfish and petty, allowing him to spend his money on her vanity.

  But a measure of her self-control gained strength, a bitingly sensible portion of her personality and she looked away from the mirror, setting it down on the table beside her. The sensible portion of her personality that realized the excessive cost of the small mirror and comb would be able to feed them for two months.

  Certainly, if she starved to death there would be nothing to look at in the glistening pewter depths of the exquisite mirror.

  “We cannot purchase these things,” she said softly, turning away. “We must find the cobbler, Christian. Lutey says that….”

  Smile faded, Christian grasped her wrist with one hand and collected the mirror and comb with the other. “We can purchase these things and we will.” Gripping her tightly, he handed the pewter set to the balding merchant before returning his attention his mildly-struggling captive. “What else would you like? I demand you select something.”

  She attempted to yank her wrist free of his iron-grip, but the effort was futile. Sighing heavily, she averted her eyes from his intense gaze. “The mirror and comb are enough,” she said softly, though she was unable to avoid the vision of perfume vials from the corner of her eye. “Please do not….”

  “Do not what?” he demanded, more gently. Pulling her against him, he captured her tenderly in his iron embrace. “Do not spend my money on you? Do not purchase finery for the woman I am to marry? I want to do this and you cannot stop me.”