England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He stared at her, the impact of her words carving a blistering path deep into his soul. “You are truly afraid that they will be willing to sacrifice you in order to maintain the Feud?”

  She wasn’t. Her mother would never allow the life of her only child to be sacrificed for the worthlessness of a battered fortress and an ancient skirmish. But she couldn’t allow Christian to see the truth of it. She had to preserve the illusion of de Gare strength.

  “Nothing is more important than family integrity,” she said after a moment, her tears lessening.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Even the life of the heiress? That does not make any sense.”

  “Would your father sacrifice Eden for you?”

  His gaze held even for an eternity, ice-blue orbs against the deepest of blue. After a moment, he stroked the remaining moisture from her face with the most delicate of touches.

  “You and I are players in a grand theater, my lady. It is a performance that commenced seventy years ago and has yet to play itself out.” He sighed heavily, his expression softening into an emotional mien. “I am weary of this drama. When the sake of family honor becomes more important than the lives of family members themselves, it is time to re-examine the very reasons for our existence.”

  Calming, Gaithlin listened intently to his speech. He touched her hair as he spoke, the gentle man revealed within the guise of a Demon. When he finished, she shook her head faintly in response.

  “What are the St. Johns and de Gares without their Feud, Christian? It is as much a part of our heritage as the Angles and the Normans. It has become what we are.”

  He digested her words, the mood between them amazingly calm after the desperate madness that had consumed them not seconds before. After a thoughtful pause, he rose to his feet and gently pulled her with him. Still holding her hands, he shrugged vaguely.

  “I do not want to be a part of it. I do not want it to be a part of me,” his gaze raked over her as he spoke. “But I have no choice in the matter. And neither do you.”

  She knew that. And she was well resigned to the fact. “What will happen if my family rejects your father’s attempt at blackmail? What will become of me then?”

  He eyed her a moment before turning for his steed, grazing steadily by the side of the road. “We shall cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said quietly, grasping the animal’s reins. “For now, we are almost to our destination and I should like to arrive before nightfall.”

  Exhausted by her emotional upheaval, Gaithlin allowed him to seat her aboard his steed. Mounting behind her, he pulled her against him in a manner he was coming quite accustomed to, finding a good deal of comfort and orientation in the familiarity they were beginning to share.

  Gaithlin settled back against him as he spurred his charger down the byway, content in his arms in spite of the wild ride of sentiment that had constituted her temperament minutes before. Gazing into Christian’s beautiful eyes, listening to his words, she was convinced that he was a reluctant partner in his father’s grand scheme to achieve peace.

  Naïve though she might be, she was intuitive enough to realize that the Demon of Eden was not a living, breathing machine of war and hatred. Over the past four days, she had been witness to glimpses of an emotional depth within in his brilliant eyes that she could scarcely hope to comprehend; silent suggestions of the true man beneath the reputation. Even if her mother rejected Jean St. John’s attempt at blackmail, she knew Christian would not allow his family’s vengeance to harm her. The Demon would protect her.

  Snuggled contentedly in Christian’s arms, she observed the landscape surrounding them, the gently rolling hills shaded with hues of wild heather. The memories of panic and humiliation faded into the recesses of her mind as she drew in the tranquil scenery.

  “Where are we?”

  He heard her softly uttered question, knowing there was no longer any reason to keep her in mystery as to her destination.

  “Scotland, my lady.”

  “Scotland?” she repeated, perking up somewhat and glancing about with more of an interest. “My great-grandmother was Scots. From the Clan Douglas. Are we anywhere near their lands?”

  Christian felt a bolt of shock surge through him as the possibilities raged inside his head. Her great-grandmother was a Douglas. Good Christ, was it actually possible that she was related to him somehow? Although the Clan Douglas was a vast conglomeration of families and allies, they were all interrelated and intertwined to varying degrees.

  Although acutely interested in determining the proximity of their relationship, he refrained from mentioning his excitement at the moment. If the St. Johns and the de Gares were linked through unknown Scot ties, then his father would have to be made aware of the fact. And with Jean’s powerful sense of family loyalties and bloodlines, it was not entirely inconceivable that he would reconsider his blackmail towards the de Gares upon discovering that his beloved wife had somehow linked him with his deadliest enemy.

  The further he pondered the quandary, the more excited he became. Unknowingly, Gaithlin may have very well delivered the vehicle through which the seventy year old Feud would be quelled. Unknowingly, her innocent remark may have brought about the beginning of the end.

  He was so consumed with his ideas that he hardly noticed when Gaithlin shifted in the saddle before him, turning to see why he had not answered. His eyes were distant, even when they abruptly focused on her.

  She smiled weakly. “Are we near Douglas lands?”

  Vaguely, he nodded. “We approach.” Gazing into her exquisite eyes, he couldn’t help himself from repeating her innocent statement, exhaling a nearly-demanding statement. “Your great-grandmother was a Douglas relative?”

  She nodded. “My mother’s grandmother was the daughter of Angus Alan Douglas, laird of Clan Douglas. She married John Percy, a family relation to the Northumberland Percys, and settled in North Yorkshire.”

  Christian stared at her. He simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His vow of silence on the matter from moments before was dashed in a second. “My mother is also descended from Clan Douglas,” his voice was raspy with awe and surprise. “Her grandfather was the son of Angus Alan Douglas, laird of Clan Douglas.”

  Gaithlin realized the blood ties perhaps even faster than he had. Her eyes widened. “Your mother is a Douglas relation?” she repeated in wonder. “But… if your great-grandfather and my great-grandmother were….”

  “Brother and sister, so it would seem.”

  “Then that makes us….”

  “Related. Second cousins, in fact.”

  They continued to stare at each other in stunned silence. Gaithlin was first to rediscover her lagging tongue.

  “The St. Johns and the de Gares are linked, Christian,” she whispered with incredulity. “We have been linked for years and never knew it.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. In the brief span of time that had been encompassed with the shock of discovery, he found himself pondering a most impacting ideal. Suddenly, he knew how to end the Feud. As Gaithlin de Gare lived and breathed before him, he was more aware of the possible cessation of seventy years of bloodshed than he had ever been in his entire thirty-three years. Good Christ, he knew how to end it all.

  “We know it now, don’t we?”

  ‘Duplicity is the weak man’s truth.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. V, pg CLVI

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The parchment was new and bright, the ink perfectly stroked in the lines of communication. But to Alicia de Gare, it was the ugliest, most horrendous missive she had ever laid eyes on.

  Clad in a simple gown of gray wool, covering the heavy black boots she habitually wore, Alicia had been pondering the contents of the missive for the better part of the day. Alone in her husband’s solar, she could scarcely function beyond breathing and reading. Her shock, her terror of events both past and future, cleaved a painful path deep into her chest. She was so involv
ed with her turmoil that she failed to hear a soft knock at the solar door.

  Another rap sounded moments later, louder than the first. Alicia’s head came up from the worn table before her and she hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks, struggling to compose what was left of her shattered control. Only then did she ask the caller to enter.

  A man dressed in aged, worn armor entered the room with measured hesitance. His face appeared older than his thirty-odd years, creased with concern and fatigue. He approached the leaning table, his non-descript brown eyes riveted to the short woman seated at the splintered edge.

  “What did the missive say, my lady?”

  Alicia focused on the knight, one of only two remaining to protect Winding Cross. As Sir Eldon Barkley’s father had served Alex and Glenn de Gare, so did his son. A tradition of service that continued even into the depths of poverty and ruin.

  Sometimes Alicia wished she could dismiss the young man, allowing him his freedom to pursue a life of fortune and triumph. But in faith, she needed his services and was reluctant to part with his skills. And there were times when his services went beyond those of knightly talent and she took comfort in his delicate attentions in the bedchamber. Aye, she needed him.

  “Where is Uriah?” she asked softly, referring to Winding Cross’ second knight.

  Eldon moved to stand by the end of the battered desk, his vaguely-handsome face calm. “Outside seeing to repairs,” he answered. “He’ll be along shortly. What did the missive say?”

  Alicia’s jaw ticked as she looked to the parchment on the table, biting back the sting of tears once again. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her rounded figure from the chair in a futile attempt to bolster her bravery.

  “I knew when I married Alex that the Feud was the most important factor in his life,” her voice was low and sultry. “And I married him in spite of his preoccupation because I loved him. After a St. John arrow felled him those long years ago, I continued his battle because I was well aware of the importance it held within the scheme of the de Gare legacy.”

  She paused by the end of the table, listening to the sounds of construction in the bailey beyond the covered lancet windows. She looked far older than her thirty-seven years, with cat-shaped eyes of deep blue, reminiscent features of her only child that were tight and drawn with fatigue and grief.

  “I have endured starvation, poverty, hellish winters and endless sieges all in the name of the de Gare honor,” she whispered weakly, so very weary of her difficult existence. “I have survived far more than I should have all for the sake of this foolish war that has continued for seventy long, anguished years. I have been dealt more than my share of heartache, Eldon. But there has come a point where I refuse to suffer any longer.”

  Eldon pensively lowered his big body to the edge of the scrubbed, worn desk. “What’s happened, Alicia?” he hissed. “What do the St. Johns have to say?”

  She pondered his question, turning away from the stained oilcloth over the long windows to glance once more at the vellum on the table.

  “I am curious,” she said. “How did they deliver this message? Certainly, they didn’t march to our doorstep in a gesture of grand announcement.”

  Eldon shook his head. “Nothing so bold, no. A small party flying the Flag of Truce deposited it on the edge of the moat. Our bridge was raised and we were in no immediate danger; therefore, we allowed them to retreat unmolested.”

  She nodded vaguely in understanding, rubbing at her tense shoulder with one hand. “You should have killed them all, Eldon,” she turned away once again, her worn boots pacing the cold floor. After a moment, she paused long enough to fix him in the eye. “They have Gaithlin.”

  Eldon leapt from the table’s edge, his eyes wide and his body tense. “Impossible!” he gasped. “I delivered her to St. Esk myself and…!”

  She shook her head, feeling her emotions surge. “Somehow they were able to discover that we had removed her from Winding Cross in anticipation of the Demon’s assault.” Tears were in her eyes again, a desperate anguish that threatened to destroy her. “They sacked the abbey and abducted my daughter. They have my Gaithlin.”

  Eldon’s young face was a frightening shade of ashen and his mouth hung agape as he struggled to form a rational thought. “But….” Unable to continue, he plopped heavily to the table once again, listening to it crack and groan under his weight. His entire body was flooded with shock as he pondered the stunning news. “I took her there myself, Alicia. How could the St. Johns have discovered her whereabouts? How?”

  “I do not know,” her voice was hoarse. “There are several possibilities, as you are aware. Spies, or paying our servants for information… there is no way to know. But one matter is for certain; Jean is in possession of her and, as his missive states, he intends to use her to his advantage.”

  Eldon was silent, pondering the dim shadows of the room as his thoughts reeled in sickening progression. “When they kidnapped Glenn de Gare, they simply killed him. How do we know she is still alive?”

  “Because she is,” Alicia snapped softly, wrapping her arms about her bountiful torso as if to keep from falling apart completely. “I refuse to believe that they would harm her at this early stage; a dead hostage would be of no use to their cause.”

  Eldon dropped his head in a gesture of resignation, raking his fingers through his dirty brown hair. “Poor Gaithlin,” he murmured, nauseated by the thought of Alicia’s beautiful daughter in the hands of their most vile enemy. A woman of such magnificence that he shuddered to think of the abuse she had undoubtedly already suffered at the hands of her captors. Certainly, the St. John dogs would not allow such beauty to go untouched.

  A tangible gloom settled about the room, thick and cloying. Alicia could scarcely move through the thick fog of melancholy, refusing to imagine the worst as Eldon was allowing himself to envision. She could not allow herself to visualize Gaithlin at the hands of Jean St. John, her daughter’s naturally reserved and fearless nature being put to the ultimate test of strength.

  The torture of a young woman who had known her share of hardship. Isolated, poverty-bound, knowing little joy and more than her share of pain. Although Alex and Alicia had tried to nurture and educate their daughter as best they could, their preoccupation with the Feud had prevented them from bestowing more attention on their daughter than they were able to spare.

  Little Gaithlin had been raised knowing the names of various weapons as well-bred young ladies should have been learning the arts of needlework or music. She could ride a horse as well as any man, or mend a kink in a coat of mail. But she could not sew a garment if her life depended on it and knew very little in the ways of delicate women.

  An unfortunate, cruel twist of fate. Considering Gaithlin had blossomed into a beauty of exquisite proportions, the fact that she knew little of lady-like manners was a true travesty indeed. She could be sullen and moody, dry of humor and sharp of wit, and she had a distinct tendency to trip over her own feet when she should have been completely able to walk a straight line.

  All of these odd, magnificent characteristics combined to create the de Gare heiress, a woman whose strength and inner courage had sustained the entire fortress through the hardest of times. When there was virtually nothing to eat, Gaithlin would make sure the old soldiers and her mother were fed before she would even consider consuming her own meager portion. When the dead of winter brought bottomless cold, she would scrape and struggle for anything remotely flammable. And when the strain of their scanty existence grew difficult to tolerate, her encouragement was solid.

  As Alicia struggled with her grief and guilt, she found herself fervently praying for Gaithlin’s well-being. There was nothing more important than her daughter, as her failed attempt to protect the woman within the walls of St. Esk had proven. Surely there was nothing of more significance than Winding Cross’ heiress, the sole survivor of generations of de Gares, now in the hands of the enemy.

  “Did they make any demands
in the missive?” Eldon’s voice was weak upon the musty atmosphere of the solar.

  “Nay,” Alicia replied quietly. “Not yet. They simply wished to announce their crowning achievement. But the demands will come and I can only speculate as to what they may contain.”

  Eldon’s gaze found her once more. “Surrender?”

  Alicia refused to look at him. “Mayhap,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to the tanned leather scroll, partially unraveled. “The missive was addressed to Alex. Jean still believes him to be alive, you know.”

  “I know,” Eldon nodded faintly. “Do you suppose he will request Alex’s presence at the bargaining table?”

  Alicia raised her eyebrows in an unknowing gesture. “I will be forced into a most unpleasant position if he does. How do you think Jean St. John will react upon learning that he has battled a woman for the past ten years? It should be enough to drive him insane with fury and I shudder to think how his mood will reflect upon Gaithlin.”

  Eldon was reluctant to ponder that scenario as well. Rising from the table yet again, he attempted to move toward his mistress when the door to the solar abruptly opened, spilling forth the other knight sworn to Winding Cross’ legions.

  Sir Uriah de Royans stomped across the worn stone, short and compact with all the grace of a rabid dog. Bearded and unkempt at forty-three years of age, his face was flushed with exertion.

  “We have a visitor, my lady,” he said breathlessly. “A young woman who wishes to meet with you.”

  Alicia’s brow furrowed delicately. “A young woman?” she repeated. “I am not expecting any guests this day. What is her business?”

  Uriah looked between Eldon and Alicia, his aged face lined with disbelief and shock. “She says she bears news of Lady Gaithlin,” his voice was considerably softer. “I told her to go away, but she insists on meeting with Alex.”