*
Malcolm was nowhere to be found. Gaithlin searched a wide perimeter around their shelter as Christian produced an axe and went about securing more wood for their heat and repair needs. Although he pretended to be indifferent to the boy he chased away in the heat of desire, it distressed him to hear Gaithlin’s sensual voice calling out the young lad’s name every few seconds.
She sounded saddened as she crept among the bramble looking for the orphan and Christian paused in his wood chopping, leaning on his axe as she prowled the undergrowth across the small, weed-choked clearing. Feeling his guilt increase by the moment, he took a deep breath and resigned himself to assist Gaithlin in her search. After all, it was his fault that Malcolm was missing in the first place and it was only right that he lend aid to find him.
Laying the axe down, he began to move toward the sound of her voice. He hadn’t taken two steps when Gaithlin suddenly let out a screeching yelp and the overgrowth began to shake violently. Fear surged through Christian; he was racing towards Gaithlin’s screams before he could draw another breath, hurling his big body across the cluttered clearing before he even thought to return to the shelter for his sword.
Adding puzzlement to his terror was the fact that he swore he heard barking as he approached. Loud, fearful barking that was rapidly fading. Just as he reached the cluster of overgrowth, Gaithlin came shooting from the bushes and slammed against him with all of her might.
Grunting harshly, he stumbled back, gripping her tightly even as he struggled to regain his balance. It was only a moment later when he became aware that she was superficially unharmed did he realize that she had bashed her forehead against his jaw.
“Good Christ,” he gasped, ignoring the throbbing pain in his cheek as he embraced Gaithlin with fierce protectiveness. “What in the hell…?”
“People,” she breathed before he could finish. “Two people in the thicket… they startled me!”
He swallowed hard, catching his breath. “And me,” he said wryly. “Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head, only just realizing that her forehead ached painfully. “Nay, but they… they barked at me.”
Both hands on her face, he tilted her head back to gain a better look at the lump already forming on her head. “I heard the barking,” he muttered, still breathless. “Was that them?”
She nodded, wincing when he touched the knot. “Oh, Christian, they were horrible-looking. I have never seen such dirty, scrawny people.”
He didn’t reply for a moment, scrutinizing her swelling nodule. “Like Malcolm?” he cocked an eyebrow, tearing his gaze away from her forehead in lieu of scanning their surroundings. “Mayhap he isn’t an orphan, after all. Mayhap he’s a scout for a group of filthy, scrawny, barking people.”
She frowned, wincing yet again when she touched her bump. “I cannot believe that Malcolm would betray us in such a manner. Moreover, these people barked like animals. Malcolm can speak fairly well.”
Christian was staring back towards their shack and his eyes abruptly narrowed. Gaithlin turned to follow the object of his focus, concerned and surprised when she beheld the source of his attention. Before she could speak, however, Christian was moving for Malcolm as the lad emerged from the trees.
“He’d better do a good deal of speaking if he is going to convince me he is not a traitor,” Christian growled.
Hand still to her head, Gaithlin dashed after Christian, grabbing hold of his arm. “Do not yell at him,” she admonished quietly. “You know how he reacts to you. Let me ask him.”
“I have no intention of yelling,” Christian sounded calm enough. “But I vow to get to the bottom of his presence.”
Gaithlin yanked on his arm, forcing him to look at her. When blazing pure-blue met with shards of ice, he came to a halt.
“Let me speak with him,” Gaithlin reiterated sternly. “You will only upset him.”
Christian sighed with exasperation, opening his mouth to refute her unfair statement when Malcolm suddenly marched up, his green eyes wide with apprehension.
“I heard ye yellin’!” he said to Gaithlin. “Did the English hound hurt ye?”
Both Gaithlin and Christian looked to him, their faces writ with surprise. After a moment, Christian’s brow furrowed with disgust at Malcolm’s suggestion as Gaithlin sank to one knee, gently grasping the boy by the arm.
“Where did you go?” she asked with concern. “I was looking for you.”
Malcolm, his eyebrows lowered in distrust, eyed Christian. “I din’ want tae be hit,” he said truthfully, refocusing on Gaithlin. “Why did ye yell?”
“Because I was startled by two people I found to be hiding in the bushes,” she said, casting him a long, intense glance. “You wouldn’t know anything about them, would you? People who barked like dogs?”
Malcolm nodded without hesitation. “I know ’em. They live not far from ’ere.”
Christian knelt down beside Gaithlin, knowing the semblance of innocence when he observed it. The lad was obviously guiltless of treachery and he was wise enough to interpret the undeniable fact. “Who are they?” he asked.
Malcolm scratched his lousy head. “I dunno know their names, but they are a man and his wife. They bark like dogs instead of speakin’.”
Christian digested his words. “Are they trustworthy?”
Malcolm moved from scratching his head to picking at his nose, an action Gaithlin quickly quelled. “They’ll steal anythin’. They were chased from the village because they try to steal from the merchants.”
Christian rose to his feet, sighing heavily. “Just what we need,” he said as he scratched his head. “Thieves for neighbors.”
“They wouldn’t hurt anyone, would they?” Gaithlin asked softly.
Malcolm shook his head. “They keep tae themselves, mostly. But I have seen ’em eat a rabbit without killin’ it!”
Gaithlin made a horrified face, glancing to Christian to note his own grim reaction. As long as Malcolm stated that the barking couple were incapable of harm, he would keep his apprehension at bay. Still, he was unnerved by the entire situation of dog-speaking, rabbit-eating, thievery-prone neighbors.
Since he had no interest or intention of confronting the dog-people at the moment, he fully intended to make use of the time and manpower at his disposal. Returning his attention to Gaithlin and Malcolm, who were now standing hand-in-hand, he put his hands on his hips and sized them up determinedly.
“Now,” he said firmly. “There is much to do before the day sets. Gae, can you transfer the contents of the iron pot into something else? Since I have no buckets, I have a need for the pot.”
She nodded. “You brought several bowls and a smaller pot of your own. What do you need the pot for?”
“To put mud in,” he looked to Malcolm. “I require your strength. Assist me in collecting my mud and I promise you an evening meal fit for King Henry himself. Then, on the morrow after we go to town, you can help me hunt. Is this satisfactory?”
Malcolm’s eyes were wide with excitement and wonder. “Can I shoot the bow?”
Christian pursed his lips. “That depends. Are you skilled?”
Malcolm didn’t hesitate, smiling from ear to ear. “I have never shot an arrow in me life.”
Gaithlin smiled broadly, turning her head so that Malcolm would not see her humor at his bold, innocent statement. Christian, too, fought off a grin and grunted harshly to cover his amusement. Reaching out, he tore the boy from Gaithlin’s grip.
“No matter,” he said. “I shall teach you myself and you shall shoot finer than all the knights in England.”
Giddy with delight, Malcolm was already dashing off for the shelter in order to gain the pot they would use to collect the mud. Gaithlin and Christian watched him skip across the grass, darting about with childish glee. After a moment, Christian turned to his captive, watching as the gentle breeze stirred her silken hair and feeling the familiar tug to his heart. A sensation he was coming to identify with Gaithlin.
/>
With a faint smile, he reached out and gently took her hand, and in silence they began to walk toward the hut.
‘Contentment is a state of mind,
not limited to physical hedonism.
True contentment comes from within.’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. VI, p. CII
CHAPTER TEN
Since the whistling wind seemed inclined to approach from the west, Christian patched the western wall first. Spattered with gray, clayish mud, he and Malcolm made steady work between repairing the wall and returning to the stream for more materials. In fact, they made an efficient pair and Malcolm seemed to be gradually overcoming his fear and jealousy of the English warlord.
Working side by side with the massive man, he endeavored to complete his task with excellence; he was eager to hear a word of praise from the knight. A gesture of male kindness he had never known, yet an instinctive need for the display all the same. When he stopped hating the man long enough, he realized he very much wanted to be like the Englishman; tall, strong and completely skilled in all he attempted.
Christian knew the boy’s longing all too well. His father had been short on praise, quick to condemn or correct. Watching Malcolm mimic his movements as he spread the clay, or observing the lad’s eager disposition as they trekked to the creek for more mud, only served to remind him of his own discontented childhood. Thrust from an unappreciative father into a fostering household of those unconcerned with his mental stability had been nothing of a shock. He had simply learned not to depend on praise or approval to satisfy his ego.
Instead, the lack of support had forced him to strive for an inner perfection impervious to praise or scorn of any kind. He was only concerned with his own standards, not those of others, including his father. When his reputation had been solidified at a very young age, he found himself well beyond the delight of his father’s pride. Jean was only concerned how the rest of England viewed him as the father of the Demon; his true concern had never been in his son’s achievements, only family honor.
Watching Malcolm work his little hands raw brought back the pain of the familiar young lad with a sickly mother and an insensitive father. And because he knew the pain so well, somehow he was determined that Malcolm not be subjected to the same anguish.
So he lavished praise on the boy for a job well done, casting Gaithlin a knowing wink now and again as she helped keep the mud wet. The more he praised, the harder Malcolm worked. Even when the sun set and Gaithlin lit two oil lamps so they could make sense of the darkness, Malcolm continued to work as if he had no intention of stopping.
The night progressed and an exhausted Gaithlin was reduced to sitting on an upended stump, wrapped in Christian’s cloak and yawning profusely as Malcolm and Christian continued their important work.
“If th’ rain comes, won’t it wash away th’ mud?” Malcolm wanted to know, smeared from head to toe with gray muck.
Christian finished patching a particularly large hole. “I do not expect it to rain tonight,” he said confidently. “Tomorrow, we shall begin digging up heaps of sod to cover the walls, and the sod shall protect the mud from the rain.”
Malcolm’s brow furrowed. “But how will th’ sod stick?”
Christian gazed down at the boy, an uncharacteristically gentle smile on his face. “We shall keep the mud damp, which shall cause the sod to stick. Eventually, the roots from the grassy sod shall dig into the mud and anchor it to the walls.”
Malcolm nodded seriously. “How d’ ye know this, Englishman?”
“Because it’s been done for centuries,” he replied, rinsing his hands in the smaller pot that Gaithlin had filled with clear water. “Don’t tell me that there aren’t any sod houses around here.”
Malcolm shrugged, running his hands slowly over the smooth mud. “There arna’ many houses in th’ Wood.”
On her perch, Gaithlin yawned again and interrupted their conversation. “It’s late, Christian. Malcolm needs to sleep.”
Christian cast her a glance, wiping his hands on his tunic to dry them. “What you mean to say is that you can hardly keep your eyes open any longer.”
She smiled sheepishly, sleepily, and his smiled broadened. Hands on his hips, he watched Malcolm swipe a last few strokes of mud before putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Enough for tonight, Malcolm. You have done a very fine job.”
Malcolm beamed, observing his work. “If we start early enou’ on the morrow, we shall finish by night.”
Christian nodded, scrutinizing the entire wall. “Indeed. However, Lady Gaithlin and I plan to go into Cree on the morrow which shall take up most of the morning. We shall finish the house when I return.”
Malcolm’s smile faded somewhat and he wiped his muddy hands on his tattered breeches. “I shall wait for ye.”
Rising from her stump, Gaithlin made her way over to the two muddy men. “But you’re coming with us to town, Malcolm.” She didn’t give a second thought to Christian’s massive arm beckoning her, and without hesitation she folded into his warm embrace. “I want to purchase some fabric to make Malcolm new clothes. Don’t you agree, Christian?”
His arm wound about her shoulders, Christian gazed down into her deep blue eyes. “Truthfully, I hadn’t thought on any other purchases beyond buying our supplies and a new pair of boots to replace your worn ones.”
Tucked against Christian’s torso, she smiled. “But Malcolm has completed a hard day’s work for you. Hard work that is worth a new pair of hose and a tunic, I should think.”
Christian continued to gaze at her, matching her smile. After a moment, he pecked her tenderly on the end of her pert nose. “Your wisdom and foresight awes me, my lady. Malcolm shall indeed have new clothing in payment for his services.”
Malcolm’s eyes were wide as he watched the two of them. “Wha’s wrong with me clothes?”
Christian and Gaithlin tore their eyes away from one another long enough to gaze at the scruffy young lad. From an orphan’s perspective, Malcolm believed his clothes to be perfectly livable and saw no need for “new” clothing. Christian cleared his throat softly and cast Gaithlin a long glance, silently inviting her to explain her intentions to the confused boy. With a slight wiggle of her eyebrows in response to his wordless summons, she knelt in front of the lad.
“Your clothes are well suited for a parentless child living in the wilds of Galloway,” she said evenly. “But as of this morn, you became an overlord to Sir Christian and I. And overlords wear finer clothing than mere peasants. Moreover, you accomplished a fine job today helping Sir Christian patch the shelter and we should like to repay you. Will you accept our payment?”
Malcolm blinked in thought, moving to pick his nose purely from habit. Gaithlin gently grasped his wrist, pulling the filthy appendage away from the equally filthy face as the boy pondered her words. “I… I kin do tha’,” he said after a moment, looking to Christian. “What do I git for me work tomorrow?”
Christian grunted as Gaithlin laughed softly, rising to her feet only to be captured once again by his massive embrace. “We shall discuss that when the time comes,” he replied. “For now, we must get a good night’s rest if we are to be ready for the town on the morrow.”
Malcolm nodded, racing around the edge of the shelter as Gaithlin and Christian collected the oil lamps. When they emerged from the west side of the shack into the clearing, the entire area spread before them was completely still and silent. Malcolm had utterly disappeared.
“Malcolm?” Gaithlin called softly.
Even Christian looked about for the boy, wondering where he could have vanished to so quickly. Ducking into their hut, he could see quite clearly that Malcolm was not inside. Setting the oil lamp onto the floor beside their bedding, he re-emerged from the small shelter.
Gaithlin was standing by a cluster of bushes, holding the lamp high as if to peer into the cloaking darkness. Christian went to her, gently grasping her arm.
“He i
s not inside, Gae,” he said softly. “He must have dashed home. Come along, now. You’re tired.”
“He does not have a home, Christian,” she said, her voice laced with concern. “I want him to sleep here, with us.”
He tugged at her, pulling her toward the shack. “Mayhap in time, honey. He is used to being alone and we mustn’t force him to accept our company.”
Reluctantly, she followed Christian to their little shack, casting a final glance over the dimly-lit landscape as he gently ushered her inside. Listening to the splintered door close behind them, she sighed heavily with sorrow. Christian eyed her as he moved to stoke the hearth, noting her slow movements as she shuffled towards their bed.
“He’ll be fine,” he said after a moment, stirring up the embers and hoping they wouldn’t catch the dry roof on fire. “You worry overly.”
She sighed again, settling her bottom on the woolen blanket covering the rushes. “He is just a little boy,” she said, her voice faint.
Christian moved from the hearth to his overladen saddle bags, kneeling down beside them as he began to rummage about. “He’s been living on his own for a long time, long enough to know how to keep himself safe and warm. In some ways, he’s not a young lad at all.”
She pondered his statement a moment, reluctant to admit that he made a certain amount of sense. Without another word, she toppled over onto her side amidst the musty wool and prickly boughs.
He smiled at her over his shoulder, knowing how concerned she was for the young boy. But he was convinced that he was correct about Malcolm; the lad had survived thus far without their help and it was obvious that he was heartily independent.
Moreover, Christian was else occupied with other concerns at the moment; he had business to attend to before he could retire at Gaithlin’s side and considering their conversation earlier in the day, he was constrained to concede the fact that he was reluctant to place himself so close to Gaithlin with the full knowledge that he had promised not to molest her until they were legally married. Even his control had its limitations, especially where it pertained to her.
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 181
