England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The door loomed high and heavy before them; before they reached the stoop, several household servants in the Howard colors of gray and yellow emerged from the manse, intent on serving their newest arrivals. Gaithlin eyed the haughty house servants, far removed from the simply serving wenches and old men they employed at Winding Cross. Certainly, the servants of Forrestoak were clad in finer garments than she even owned.

  But the sight of the well-dressed serfs was not enough to deter her from the subject at hand and she continued to linger on their conversation a moment, even as the fanciful employees rushed forward in their haste.

  “Have you decided what you are going to call me?” her voice was soft as she observed the approaching horde.

  He, too, was scrutinizing the cluster of servants. “You will answer to whatever comes forth from my lips,” he told her.

  Before them, the great manse of Forrestoak loomed and they were sucked forth into the warm, welcoming bosom.

  The interior of the great fortified manse was very warm, the heat of the blaze in the foyer hitting Christian and Gaithlin in the face like a slap. As Christian removed his helm, Gaithlin lowered her hood, observing her surroundings with wide-eyes; surely the halls of Heaven weren’t any less grand.

  A massive tapestry hung resplendent against one wall, an intricately designed rug that depicted a scene from the Crusades. Ignoring the hovering servants, Gaithlin wandered in the direction of the magnificent piece, studying the mail-clad knights in crimson tunics as their ladies fair bid them a fond farewell. Helm and gauntlets removed, Christian moved to stand behind her, appraising the work he’d seen before.

  “King Richard the Lion Heart is in the middle,” he pointed to the center of the artwork. The men depicted were the very heart of the St. John – de Gare Feud, he couldn’t help but notice. “See? His brother John and advisor William Marshall watch the king’s departure from the Tower.”

  Gaithlin nodded, intently studying the scene. “And that must be Berengaria,” she gestured to the delicate lady with the towering wimple. “She was lovely.”

  Christian’s gaze moved from the tapestry to Gaithlin’s mussed hair, dry and tousled from their ride. He caught himself before he could compliment her beauty again, but his superior control could not prevent him from putting his hand to her disheveled hair in an ineffectual attempt to smooth it. Untidy and weary, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Gaithlin felt his hand; startled, she instinctively put her hand to her head and their fingers touched, inadvertently intertwining, and Christian removed his hand from her hair only to find her slender appendage entangled in his massive fingers. Deep blue, almond-shaped eyes met with Nordic jewels of pure ice.

  “Your hair was out of place,” he felt like a fool even suggesting his consideration in her appearance. Yet the experience of her silken hand within the fold of his palm was almost worth the chagrin.

  But she jerked her hand from his grip before he could further relish the feel, her cheeks flushing a faint pink as she ran her fingers through her tangled mess. “I do believe that everything on my person is out of place at the moment.”

  Sounds of the gallery wafted on the warm, fragrant air and Gaithlin turned her attention in the direction of the grand room. She could catch a glimpse of a page now and again, young boys running about to serve the knights and master. As a fat wolfhound wandered from the rounded Norman archway, she suddenly found herself extremely apprehensive to attend a formal meal in her unkempt state.

  Although she shouldn’t have given her image a second thought in lieu of the fact that it would be St. John allies she would be sharing a meal with, the same innocent girl who was so desperately confused over Christian’s presence was equally excited and eager to eat her first meal outside of the walls of Winding Cross. With the exception of the meager feasts St. Esk had to offer, she spent her entire life supping from the worn oak table in the thinly furnished gallery of her ancestral home.

  Listening to the gentle music and soft laughter emitting from the smoke-hazed room, she found herself wanting to know how the wealthy and affluent lived.

  Christian was unaware of her dilemma as he motioned to a well-dressed steward with a bowl-shaped haircut. After a few muttered phrases to the little man, in which he mentioned words to the effect that his company was to be a surprise to Kelvin, he cast a lingering glance at Gaithlin. She tore her eyes away from the gallery entrance long enough to meet his gaze, her expression steady. After a lengthy moment of staring into the deep blue depths, Christian pursed his lips.

  “I suppose I should offer you my arm so that we may enter the gallery as a companionable pair,” he said with a hint of disgust. But the aversion in his tone was forced; as if he was required by the nature of their relationship to offer a customary show of distaste.

  Even Gaithlin sensed that he was not entirely repulsed by the thought of her company on his arm. Odd, she thought, that she too was not entirely repulsed by the idea of accepting his escort. But she would play the Disgust Game as well, so he would not note the fact that she was more comfortable with his suggestion than she should have been.

  “Since when have a St. John and a de Gare been companionable?”

  Christian’s intense eyes gazed at her a moment before meeting the tapestry behind her. “Since before the days of that man,” he tilted his head in King Richard’s direction. “Once, the two families were quite companionable.”

  She turned to glance at the intricate needlework, large enough to cover two beds with ease. Pondering the king and his Crusaders for a moment, she shrugged and turned away. “One would have been led to believe that we began the Feud the day Lucifer split from the Heavenly Horde.”

  Christian’s gaze lingered on her a moment, the familiar feelings of waste and foolishness coming to bear as he pondered the state of their families’ relations. More than ever, he believed the Feud to be a senseless attempt to maintain the family honor. Two families sentenced to live and die by a grossly distended argument that had lurched out of control until the true sense of righteousness had been lost.

  The noise level in the gallery increased, breaking Christian from his thoughts as a pair of dogs appeared in the doorway, fighting over a large bone. Without another word on the Feud that had been a part of their mutual existence since before their birth, he extended his arm to Gaithlin and she placed her slender hand on his forearm.

  As he led her toward the warm, hazy room, he caught her rapid movements as she attempted to make herself more presentable from the corner of his eye. They were frantic actions from a woman who had spent the entire afternoon being battered or abused, one way or the other.

  “Stop your fretting,” he growled. “Your worries are for naught.”

  Smoothing at her hair, Gaithlin’s wide eyes met with the soaring gallery as they emerged through the doorway. “I look like a street urchin.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, casting her an intolerant glance as the heat and cooking smells from the grand hall assaulted them both. “You are acceptable enough,” placing his free hand over hers in a most companionable gesture, she suddenly found herself pulled tight against his torso. “Remember to address me as My Dearest. Do you comprehend?”

  She sighed with frustration. “I am not daft, Dem… I mean, My Dearest. You have already informed me of the role I am to play and I shall not disappoint you.”

  His eyes on the large table at the far end of the cavernous hall, he raised a threatening eyebrow purely for Gaithlin’s benefit. “You’d better not.”

  Gaithlin would have scowled at him had the sharp smell of burnt meat and dog feces not embraced her like a glove. Wrinkling her nose at the pungent aroma, she allowed Christian to lead her through the smoke and pages and various inhabitants of the hall in their advance to the head table.

  She was so consumed with the atmosphere and sights about her that she failed to notice the change of expression on Christian’s face. From expectation to suspicion to disbelief, the
very next thing she was aware of was her escort coming to a complete halt and his entire body went rigid with rage and astonishment.

  For certain, surprise did not seem to encompass the depths of his reaction. The dishonor of his pride was evident in naked proportions.

  ‘Betrayal is a repulsive philosophy;

  unless, of course,

  it is committed with the Purest

  of Intent.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. V, pg. XXII

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Maggie!”

  Dogs scattered as ladies shrieked their fearful reaction to the booming shout. The musicians on the balcony above the gallery came to an unharmonious ending as the entire hall came to a startled halt. Gaithlin, her eyes wide, gazed at Christian in complete surprise.

  He was looking directly at the head table and before Gaithlin could draw another breath, he was marching for the long, cluttered slab of wood, his expression nothing short of lethal. In the very center of the feasting table, an auburn-haired man and a lovely dark-haired woman had been sitting conspicuously close; at the sight of Christian, they peeled apart faster than the human eye could comprehend and made great haste to put distance between themselves and the Demon of Eden.

  “What are you doing here?” Christian was focused on the raven-haired lady. When she stared at him with the expression of a frightened doe, he jabbed a massive finger at her. “Answer me, Maggie, or God help me, I shall not be merciful in my punishment. What are you doing here?”

  The Lady Margaret du Bois could scarcely believe the vision before her. Bottomless brown eyes stared at her betrothed with a huge degree of shock as she struggled to force a reply from her dry lips. But as she wrestled with her fear and astonishment, her gaze came to rest on the disheveled woman in the dark cloak and her expression took on a distinct shade of indignant fury.

  “Who is she?” ignoring Christian’s demand completely, she imperiously indicated Gaithlin.

  Although cornered in his own right by being discovered with an unknown female companion, Christian refused to allow his trapped fiancée to change the subject. Ignoring Gaithlin completely, he moved toward Maggie, toppling a chair in his haste. A wounded dog yapped its way into the shadows as Christian focused on his intended.

  “Damnation, Maggie, answer me,” he demanded. “What are you doing with Howard? I thought you were visiting Carolyn.”

  Swallowing hard, Maggie tore her eyes off Gaithlin to focus on the ice-blue orbs of her betrothed. “I… I am,” she insisted. “Carolyn is here, darling. We have been here for two days, visiting her brother.”

  Christian’s jaw ticked. “From the affection between you and Kelvin, I would say you were doing more than visiting.”

  For the first time, his gaze moved to his friend; standing tall and lanky at the opposite end of the table, Christian gestured the man to him with a crooked finger. A slow, deliberate gesture. With a good deal of reluctance and fear, Kelvin complied.

  The entire room was deathly silent as the lord of Forrestoak approached his lover’s betrothed. Tensions rose to explosive proportions, biting into every occupant of the hall as if their very lives were at stake. Certainly, with the Demon of Eden verging on a rage, the likelihood of a bloodless conclusion was slim.

  Coming within arm’s range of his seething friend, Kelvin smiled weakly. “Greetings, Christian. What a… surprise to see you. I have not seen you in years.”

  Christian’s face was like stone, the veins on his neck throbbing. “Did you know that Maggie is betrothed to me?”

  Kelvin, a handsome man with bright green eyes, licked his lips and forced a brave smile. “Of course. The entire province knows,” he gestured to the table. “We were sharing a meal, nothing more. Please, sit and we shall…”

  Christian was suddenly in the man’s face, his voice as low as God’s mighty rumble. “If I know you, you have shared more than a meal with her. And if I know Maggie, which I do, she was a willing party,” his gaze lingering on his fiancé and her lover, he turned away in a gesture of complete, utter aversion.

  “You’re mad, Christian,” Kelvin pleaded loudly. “We have done nothing but..!”

  Christian came to an abrupt halt, returning his gaze to the lord of Forrestoak. His eyes were like razor-edged splinters of ice. “Do you take me for a fool, Kelvin? Why would you deny the obvious in lieu of accepting responsibility for your actions as a true man would?”

  The heir to the Forrestoak met Christian’s blazing orbs as steadily as he could manage. To say that he had been surprised by the man’s appearance would have been a gross understatement; he found himself praying that he was somehow having a nightmare, tossing and turning on his feathered mattress after a night of too much sex and rich foods. If it was a dream, he realized that now would be a very good time to awaken. The dream was very quickly becoming his worst nightmare.

  He actually blinked, hoping to clear his eyes and mind. But Christian’s image reappeared, as menacing as ever, and he was painfully aware that the man before him was no dream. It was the Demon in the flesh.

  Reclaiming the brave smile that had faded somewhat, he simply shook his head in a vague gesture. Lie or no, he was unwilling to admit the fact that he had been happily bedding Christian’s intended for the better part of two days.

  “Certainly you are no fool, my friend,” he said. “You are a wise, reasoning man, and you will believe me when I say that nothing has gone on between Lady Margaret and myself. She and my sister are simply here to pay me a visit.”

  Christian’s expression transformed from a taut gesture to one of repugnance and disgrace. He knew Kelvin was lying to save his hide; the entire room was aware of his unavailing attempt. Disgusted with the man’s lack of honor, his head wagged back and forth in a gesture of complete loathing.

  “You lying bastard,” he growled, not without a hint of remorse. “You must think very little of me.”

  Kelvin struggled to maintain his front. “I think a great deal of you, my friend, a great deal,” he insisted, his voice oddly strained. “Please, let us not argue over this misunderstanding. There is a good deal of food and drink to be had.”

  Christian continued to stare at him, a pitiful wretch of a liar. In truth, there was nothing more to say and he was certainly in no position to cast the first stone, entering the room as he had with Gaithlin on his arm. He had been privy to the rumors regarding Marble-head Maggie and Kelvin Howard for some time, though she had denied his query for truth vigorously. Although he didn’t believe her for an instant, he never asked again. Even when the rumors thickened.

  But seeing the tangible proof before his eyes sickened him. It wasn’t the humiliation of betrayal that turned his stomach; Maggie did as she pleased and he was well aware of the reality. The fact that he had been made a fool of in front of a room full of vassals and allies planted a considerable dent into his enormous arrogance.

  “Christian,” Maggie’s voice was pleading, sweet. “Truly, darling, there is nothing to be angry over. Carolyn is here and we have been hunting all day with Kelvin. My presence here is certainly not what you are thinking.”

  Gaithlin eyed Christian apprehensively as he turned away from both Maggie and Kelvin, making his way toward her with slow, deliberate steps. From the gist of the conversation, she came to understand that the lovely raven-haired woman was to be Christian’s wife, and Christian was understandably grieved with the unexpected surprise awaiting him at Forrestoak.

  Somewhat embarrassed in her own right that she and Christian had stumbled onto a secret indiscretion, she was nonetheless startled by a fierce protectiveness she felt for the Demon of Eden. Merciful Heavens, she had no idea why she should feel any sort of sheltering instinct for the hated St. John heir; regardless of her life-long convictions, however, she felt a good deal of pity for her captor and an abundance of condemnation for his trampy betrothed.

  Christian, for his part, was doing an excellent job of controlling his fury in sp
ite of the shocking circumstances. Even as he ignored Maggie’s plea, the dark-haired woman leapt off the dais in an attempt to purse him.

  “Listen to me, Christian, and stop being foolish,” she ordered weakly. But the moment her gaze rest on Gaithlin’s beautiful face, her expression turned threatening. “But you, it would seem, are in the position to answer my questions as well. Who is your bedraggled slave?”

  To Christian’s surprise, Gaithlin remained silent in the face of Maggie’s insult. The heat from the gallery had returned the color to her lovely cheeks, but the hazard simmering within the deep blue eyes was nothing short of deadly and Christian found himself more than willing to defend her.

  In fact, being sharp of wit, he saw how he could turn the situation to his advantage. Having caught Maggie in the throes of indiscretion with a lover, he would measure her a hefty dose of the same humiliation.

  “A cousin,” he lied deliberately, relishing the fact that he was lying to the bitch he was supposed to marry. “On my mother’s side.”

  Maggie knew he was fabricating a story to cover the fact that he, too, had been caught with his lover. But she’d never seen the girl before and was understandably curious; Christian’s lovers were too innumerable to count and his tastes usually ran to high-bred widows or skilled, youthful whores. The tall woman swathed in black did not meet his usual criteria.

  The fact that her intended husband took lovers had never bothered her; in fact, she too had unnatural appetites for sex. Christian was a beautiful man with a muscular, sculpted body she took great delight in, and she could hardly have expected a man of his reputation and aggressive personality to remain faithful to one solitary woman.

  In faith, the only link between them was a physical attraction and the fact that they had betrothed when Maggie was six and Christian, sixteen. Little emotion, virtually no attachment, and certainly no love. They were resigned to the fact that they would live out their lives as man and wife and determined to exploit their unwed status until the very moment their vows bound them.