England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The horse nickered softly in response as if to apologize. Chuckling softly, Christian was interrupted by several soldiers, one bearing the body of the comatose woman captive. Smile vanished, he eyed the de Gare wench and emitted a harsh, grumbling sigh.

  “Put her on my saddle,” he growled, moving to check his bags for the final time; he had packed nearly everything of any value or import, stuffing the pouches strapped to his armored saddle until they were full to bursting. Since his isolation in the wilds of Galloway was to be for an unknown amount of time, he wanted to be sure he was prepared for every advent and he found himself repeating the list of items for the fourth time that day.

  Tally complete, he was in the process of resecuring a strap when his men obediently tossed the woman across his saddle in a brutal gesture; even in her unconscious state, she grunted. In spite of the fact that she was a de Gare, Christian cast his men a disapproving glance.

  “It would not do to mortally injure her before we achieve our goal,” he rumbled, giving the woman a shove on the bottom to better balance her and noticing how wonderfully supple and firm her buttocks were beneath his hand; he could feel her through the mail. However, he would not be distracted and secured his visor in preparation for mounting. “Return home and tell my father that our mission was a success. I am taking the woman into the Galloway territories and will send word as to our approximate location if I am able.”

  The soldiers nodded firmly. “The territories are a wide expanse of lands, my lord,” one man said. “Mayhap we should accompany you until you have settled, and then return to your father with the information.”

  Christian tightened his gauntlets and pushed the woman’s leg out of the way so that he could slide his foot into the stirrup. “Unnecessary. I am quite capable of sending word of my location when I am able.”

  He mounted the saddle, pushing the limp burden forward and struggling to find a comfortable position for them both. The boneless, limp captive nearly slithered to the ground during his movement, but Christian grabbed hold of her wonderful hair and managed to right her somewhat. Cursing and grunting, he put one arm around her slender torso while the other grasped the reins.

  “Waste no time,” he commanded in his deep baritone. “Return to my father with the victorious news. The de Gare wench is ours.”

  Digging his spurs into the pristine white sides of his charger, the horse thundered its way out of the destroyed vegetable garden and northward to the road. As Christian’s men watched, their liege disappeared down the well-traveled byway en route to the Scots border.

  “Sir Jean will be mightily pleased to hear that we have succeeded in capturing Alex’s daughter,” one of the men said, observing the faint outline of Jean St. John’s distant son.

  The men nodded in agreement, moving for their mounts and reveling in a triumphant mission against their hated enemy. Truthfully, there had been very little victory to rejoice over as of late and this particular mission, however small and bordering on blasphemous, was nonetheless an asset to their cause.

  Like most other men-at-arms in the midst of England’s realm, their fathers and grandfathers had devoted their lives to the same houses they themselves served. It was a tradition of loyalty passed on through the generations, and the seasoned men bearing the colors of the House of St. John took great pride in their vows of dedication. As with the tradition of service, another more powerful legacy also infected their way of life – the traditional hatred of the de Gares. The prisoner on Christian’s saddle was as important to them as it was to him.

  “I wonder what Christian is going to do with the wench,” a particularly seasoned soldier scratched at his dirty mail, then rubbed his nose with an equally dirty finger. “He’s got quite the reputation as a randy with the women.”

  “Not that woman,” the sergeant in charge shook his head, whistling loudly for the rest of the men to assemble. “She’s a de Gare and entitled to such treatment. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tied her to a tree and left her to the elements.”

  “Or deflowered her and begot her with his bastard,” the dirty soldier snickered.

  “Who’s to say she’s virgin?” the sergeant snorted, stressing his point. “I have yet to meet a pure de Gare.”

  As the final stragglers moved into formation, the sergeant counted heads and, satisfied, waved his men onward. As the horses cantered lightly across the trampled grass and met with the dirt of the road, he turned to the dirty soldier once again.

  “I shall be quite curious to learn what Christian’s betrothed has to say to the fact that he’s taken another woman to Scotland,” he laughed softly at the thought. “Marble-head Maggie won’t be pleased in the least.”

  The men who heard the comment snorted loudly with humor as the horses thundered down the rocky thoroughfare. The dirty soldier picked at his nose again. “Marble-head Maggie,” he repeated with a longing sigh. “Every man who looks at her grows hard for the woman.”

  “Why do you think they call her Marble-head?” the sergeant replied over the roar of the hooves. “She can bring a man’s head to marble without even trying. And I hear she pleasures Christian with her talents all the time.”

  The men nodded and snorted their agreement as the dirty soldier spoke loudly so that all would know of his intimate knowledge of their liege’s activities. “My own daughter says she’s seen Christian and Maggie in the alcove in the great hall, her mouth to his member. She’s a delightful trollop, Maggie is.”

  “I know I would like a piece of her,” the sergeant growled, casting a knowing glance at his subordinates. “I hear she even swallows.”

  His men appeared rightly awestruck, gasping their surprise and pleasure at the thought of a woman who swallowed a man’s seed as he spent his ecstasy, allowing him uninterrupted enjoyment until his convulsions had ceased. Reaching a new level of lust and wonder with the mysterious aura of the Lady Margaret du Bois, they allowed the conversation to linger a moment on that highly erotic note.

  “She left Eden a week ago for Grayburn Fortress,” one of the men practically groaned after the lengthy pause, still lingering on the previous revelation. “She and Lady Carolyn Howard are the best of friends.”

  “The Lady Carolyn is another high-bred trollop,” the dirty soldier said firmly. He liked to believe he knew everything about everybody. “She’s spent too much time in France, learning their lustful secrets. Maggie probably went to Grayburn to discover more of Carolyn’s methods to use against Sir Christian.”

  The sergeant shook his head slowly as they entered a particularly dense collection of trees. “Maggie already knows all there is to know about pleasuring a man. She went to Grayburn to fornicate with Kelvin Howard.”

  “But Sir Kelvin doesn’t live at his father’s castle,” the dirty soldier said, appalled that he had not been the first to hear of the relationship between Kelvin and Maggie. “He resides at Forrestoak.”

  The sergeant cast him a knowing glance. “A half-day from Grayburn. I have heard Maggie spends the majority of her visits to Carolyn at Kelvin’s manor.”

  ’Twas of no concern for a man to be unfaithful to his betrothed, but it was an entirely different matter if the woman was indulging in acts of betrayal. The conversation came to an uneasy, thoughtful end as the horses thundered down the deserted thoroughfare, each man pondering his private, if not amorous, thoughts.

  Eden beckoned nearly two hours away and the company made haste with their message of victory. With Sir Christian guarding the wench, she was as captive as Lucifer in Hades and already they could smell the panic soon to infiltrate Alex de Gare’s soul. A panic that would lead him to his own demise.

  ‘The first I gazed into her eyes…

  Heaven glimpsed!

  And then I beheld the battle for my soul

  and knew that I was no more.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. IV, p. LIV

  CHAPTER THREE

  Christian knew his way to Scotland only too
well. His memory had always been an amazing source of talent; with one glance at a missive, he could recall the entire message to the letter. When instructions or names were relayed into his conscious, he could remember to the very last detail. He never forgot a name or a face, and he never required a second explanation or request. His memory was like a vise as it sank intelligent teeth into the smallest of facts, never to let go.

  The road north of Carlisle was dusty and vacant, being slightly past the nooning hour. He had been riding well over two hours with his unconscious burden who, he suspected, had been lucid for quite some time. But she had elected to remain still, draped over the armored saddle in a most uncomfortable position, and Christian realized that he would find himself in possession of a wildcat the moment her head cleared completely and she saw her way to resist his control.

  Bracing for that eventuality, he skirted the edge of the bustling city and headed through wooded Cumbrian territory en route to the Borders. He was on Howard land, a large and prestigious northern family alongside the Northumberland Percys and the Border Grays. The Percys had long been considered Kings of the North and the St. Johns had always been loyal supporters whilst their mortal enemy, the de Gares, had always managed to align themselves with the more prominent families of Southern England.

  The outskirts of the Holy North Woods could be seen in the distance and Christian slowed his charger to a jaunty trot, purposely bouncing his captive to see if she would be prone to displaying any signs of life. He was well aware of her conscious state, for her breathing had increased within the past half-hour, and he was determined to release her from her state of silence so he could berate her for her defiance at the abbey.

  The harder the horse bounced, the more frustrated he became with her lack of response. With thinly-veiled patience, he waited. But his tolerance would not last indefinitely; brushing against his abdomen were her hips, her wool-covered buttocks gracefully saluting the sky as she folded neatly over his saddle.

  He eyed her buttocks, thinking that if she would not respond to the horse’s jostling trot, she would most definitely respond to the stinging palm of his hand. In fact, he was sure of it. And the action was not far in coming.

  He bided his time.

  *

  In spite of the fact that the destrier’s gait was intent on cracking several ribs, Gaithlin was not about to reveal her lucidity. The very last she remembered, she had been engaged in mortal combat with several soldiers who had breached the sanctuary of the abbey.

  She’d not been able to catch a glimpse of their colors as they bore down upon the front door of the convent, and truthfully had no idea who would be intent upon violating tiny St. Esk. For all she knew, they were marauding bandits or thieves come to confiscate what wealth they could from God’s holy house.

  The possibility that they were seasoned St. John soldiers sent to sniff out the unmistakable aroma of a de Gare had never occurred to her; she assumed, at the abbey, she would be safe from those who would seek to harm her. But from the active noise transpiring on the moist lawn of the convent, there were those not even the sanctity of the church could repel.

  Certainly, it was not out of the realm of possibility. In the northern wilds far away from the organization of London, quite a bit of sacrilege and lawlessness took place without an over amount of surprise or fanfare. It was simply the way of the chaotic northern territories and Gaithlin had grown used to the anarchy. In fact, she had been a part of it.

  Whether or not England’s crown was, at the moment, relatively peaceful, she had never known a moment’s reprieve from warfare. Since she was old enough to recall, the St. Johns had been waging battle on her ancestral home and she had grown accustomed to the constant raids, the death, and the destruction.

  Never sent away from her native fortress to foster for fear of falling into St. John hands, Gaithlin had lived an extremely sheltered life within the confines of Winding Cross. Her father had been terrified that his only child would somehow become fodder for his most hated enemy and had therefore sentenced his daughter to a life of utter friendlessness and isolation. With only her mother and a few servants for companionship, Gaithlin de Gare had lived a short life of unending, complete solitude all because of the St. Johns.

  Eden was a large barony, far larger than Winding Cross and understandably more powerful. Yet the fortress of Winding Cross had been built for fortification and protection, explaining why the St. Johns had never been able to breach her walls. Year after year of raids and skirmishes and fighting had failed to determine a decisive winner; Eden may have been more powerful, but Winding Cross was laden with tenacious fighters unwilling to concede defeat.

  Back and forth the struggle went until Gaithlin assumed that all young women were as sheltered and isolated as she was. Other than a stolen jaunt outside of the walls to swim or walk, experiencing a degree of freedom she considered a stolen ration of Heaven, her entire life had been spent within the moldering dark stones of her native fortress. She never realized her loneliness, however, for her sequestered continuance was the only means of existence she had ever known. Certainly, there was nothing else in life than one’s family and household, and the need to hate the St. Johns. She’d never known any other way.

  Even now, she cursed the St. Johns as the mighty charger plodded over the dusty, rocky road. It was because of the St. Johns she had been forced to seek sanctuary at St. Esk; catching rumor that none other than the fabled Demon of Eden had returned from the Welsh border for the specific task of quelling the House of de Gare once and for all. Gaithlin’s mother had been forced into a desperate move.

  The woman had been fighting in her husband’s stead for nearly ten years, a fact that even the St. Johns were not aware of, and she had battled against them long enough to realize that the return of Eden’s heir was not an asset to the well-being of Winding Cross. Suspecting that her husband’s beloved fortress might very well indeed meet its end at the hand of the mighty Demon, she had been dealt little choice in sending her daughter to the small convent of St. Esk in hopes of preserving her young life.

  As her ribs cracked and her stomach lurched, Gaithlin cursed the St. Johns for her predicament. Had the rumors of their imminent attack not spooked her normally-collected mother, she would not have been forced into religious sequestration. And she would not, at this very moment, be a prisoner of those unscrupulous enough to sack an abbey.

  The horse stumbled and recovered harshly, causing Gaithlin to grunt as her body was slammed brutally against the saddle. From hanging upside-down, her heart was already pounding in her ears and with the added violent motions, she wondered if the next step in her discomfort wouldn’t be to experience the embarrassment of vomiting up her breakfast.

  “Do you think me for a fool, wench? I know you are alert.”

  Gaithlin briefly considered ignoring her captor; however, from the tone of his voice she was able to deduce that he was already grossly irritated with her. Unwilling to provoke him further until she could discern her situation, she sighed with resignation.

  “I do not know you. How would I know if you were foolish or not?”

  Christian reined the destrier off the road, down an embankment into a cluster of trees. The warm September air infiltrated the canopy without the slightest hint of autumn as he dismounted, electrified with the anticipation of coming face to face with his captive. In faith, he’d not yet been able to catch a glimpse of her sure-to-be monstrous features for the simple fact that her long hair had obscured her from view.

  But now, watching her struggle to right herself on the charger in preparation for dismounting, he could scarcely contain his curiosity and apprehension. Finally, he was to gaze upon the visage of Hell.

  Gaithlin was aware that he was standing behind her, an enormously large man from the very size of the legs that she had become acquainted with. Up-righting herself on the saddle, she groaned softly as the world spun recklessly and her temples throbbed with ache, grasping hold of the saddle as best
she could to keep herself from slithering to the ground. But her strength wasn’t enough against her discomfort, and with a yelp she plummeted off the destrier to the hard earth below.

  Christian watched her fall without moving a muscle to lend aid. Wild masses of silken blond hair covered her from the top of her head to her buttocks as she wrestled with the unruly strands in an attempt to push them from her face. She was obviously shaken and ill, but he maintained his callous attitude as she struggled to compose herself.

  “Lady Gaithlin de Gare,” his voice rumbled like thunder. “You are now my captive and the slightest show of resistance will be forcefully met. Do you comprehend me?”

  Swallowing the bile in her throat from fear as much as from her aching head, Gaithlin ceased her attempts to rise to her feet. Seated on her bottom beside the massive legs of the great white destrier, she swept the remains of her disorderly mane aside.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He still couldn’t see her face; she was looking to the ground and his irritation suddenly spiked. “Look at me when I speak to you, wench. Your bestial de Gare manners will not be tolerated.”

  Sharply, her head came up and Christian found himself gazing into huge, almond-shaped eyes of the most amazing blue. Deep, rich, captivating blue. The blue of the pond.

  It took him a moment to realize the verity of what his disbelieving mind was attempting to convey. He heard his breath escape in a sharp, forceful blow; the longer he gazed into the enchanting eyes and utterly beautiful face, the more difficult it became for him to catch his breath.

  The cruelty of Fate was almost more than he could grasp and he found himself struggling against the perfect memories of her magnificent body, her graceful movements, the pure femininity of her presence as she had displayed her aura within the privacy of the isolated lake. Never had he met with such perfection. But the fact remained that she was a de Gare.