England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She slept through their meal and through the noise from the subsequent bath Christian had forced Malcolm to endure. Boiling water in the smaller pot he had secured to the exterior tripod, he stripped the reluctant boy naked and proceeded to scrub him within an inch of his dirty little life. In faith, the lad was several levels beyond the acceptable boundaries of common filth and Christian took to wearing his heavy leather gloves for protection as he went about scraping the lad with a horse-hair brush and lye soap.

  Through the moaning and grumbling and protests of a lad being skinned alive by the brutal washings of a diligent knight, Gaithlin would have been proud in the manner with which Christian had dealt with Malcolm. Firmly but rationally, he finished scouring the lad and wrapped him in a length of wool from his saddlebags, boiling his ragged clothes to remove the dirt and vermin from them. As Malcolm sat by the fire and chewed noisily on a piece of tart cheese, Christian then set about determining what could be done about the boy’s hair.

  The blond tresses were literally crawling with pests. Quickly deciding there was nothing he could do and refusing to risk infecting himself with the futile attempt of removing the insects, he simply withdrew his long-edge shaving razor and proceeded to shave the boy bald. Then, with another dousing of lye soap and hot water, he was rather pleased with his sanitary measures.

  Malcolm didn’t seem overly concerned with his fleshy head or raw-scrubbed body; in fact, he seemed particularly happy with the attention from the massive warlord. He knew that proper knights were clean and shaved and he appeared to take that into account as Christian burned the dirty strands of blond hair.

  In fact, he couldn’t ever recall feeling so satisfied in his entire young life. Rapidly, he was coming to be a part of this peculiar little world in the middle of the Wood, coming to belong to the lady and her knight.

  Bald, fed and content, Malcolm had fallen asleep beside the fire in the midst of his most delightful thoughts.

  Cup of ale in hand, Christian sat by the crackling blaze into the still depths of the night, thinking that he, too, found a good deal of contentment and belonging in the wilds of Galloway.

  ‘Strange how the patchwork of life brings us together,

  creating an unbroken masterpiece from the disjointed remnants

  of Man’s supercilious existence.

  A fool believes himself complete

  until he realizes that which he has lacked.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. VII, p. XVI

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Did you have to shave him?”

  Christian had been listening to the same question for the past three hours. Since the moment dawn had crested and Gaithlin had screamed at the sight of the bald child inhabiting her hut. Plodding along on the charger toward the small village known as Cree, the hairless child that had once been Malcolm leapt and danced alongside the animal bearing his adopted companions as his newly-shorn scalp glistened in the weak morning light.

  “Gae, we’ve discussed this,” he said patiently to the woman seated across his massive thighs. “His hair was a nest of vermin. At least he’s clean now.”

  Unable to take her eyes off the happy young lad, Gaithlin shook her head with remorse. “Aye, clean and bald. He looks like the victim of torture. People will believe we have mistreated him.”

  “We’ve treated him better in the past two days than most children are handled in their entire life,” Christian replied. “And I did you a favor by bathing him. Surely you can thank me for my consideration and cease bemoaning his naked scalp.”

  “But his nude skull is blinding me. Merciful Heavens, he looks terrible.”

  Christian pulled her closer against him, his face nestled in her hair. “You and I are aware of his appalling appearance, but he is not. Do not frighten him with your cynical observations.”

  “My observations are not cynical. They are God’s honest truth.”

  He snickered softly. “Have faith, my lady. His hair will grow back and you will be spared any further horrors.”

  Gaithlin shook her head again, watching Malcolm as he jumped feet-first into a muddy puddle of stagnant water. Splashing about as any young boy would, he emerged onto the dry dust of the road and promptly came away with mud-shoes. Grinning gleefully at Gaithlin’s dismayed expression, he dashed down the road with unrestrained excitement of the prospects awaiting him in Cree.

  Gaithlin continued to watch the lad with a sickened expression as Christian snickered again. “Do not be so distressed,” he murmured in her ear. “He is quite happy about the whole thing.”

  Gaithlin observed the cavorting youth with a measured degree of doubt. “Mayhap so. But did you truly have to shave him?”

  “Aye, I had to shave him.”

  Sighing with resignation, Gaithlin tore her eyes away from the frolicking lad to drink in the wooded scenery around her. The trees were thick with moisture and smell of damp foliage infiltrated the canopy, a cloying yet not unpleasant scent. A heavy coverage of ground ivy crowded to the edge of the road, only to be completely halted by the pebbled dirt itself.

  Gaithlin watched the scenery go by, pondering the happenings of her world since she had fallen into a drug-induced stupor yesterday morn – a nearly-completed shelter, a shaved boy, and a captor who seemed intent on treating her as if they had never shared an argument or harsh moment during the short course of their relationship. As if all was right in the world.

  Indeed, all appeared to be more than pleasant in their private little realm as Christian had been eager to prove since the sun rose. Even though her pains were gone and her eighteen-hour sleep had proved to be wonderful and utterly restful, he had insisted on cooking the morning meal of soft wheat porridge and a bit of honey. Gaithlin had been provided the luxurious pleasure of a wonderful meal and a jailor who seemed intent on acting her manservant. And a completely, unmistakably bald child.

  Christian had laughed at her reaction; so had Malcolm. But it wasn’t funny in the least. She could scarcely sit through the meal without staring at the boy in total awe; the only indication that her familiar Malcolm was seated before her was in the evidence of his fearsome appetite. Had she not been privy to his barbaric table manners, she would have thought him to be some sort of forest brownie. An elf, even. Certainly not her Malcolm.

  As the meal progressed, her dismay deepened and she realized that she had to regain control of her growing shock lest she completely upset herself and the boy. To divert her horror away from the hairless lad, she willingly accepted Christian’s suggestion that she clean up and change her surcoat before venturing into the village. In fact, it was a splendid idea and she delved into the task with enthusiasm.

  With a pot of warm water and a cake of hard-milled soap, she started with a simple washing that progressed into a full-body lathering. Even her hair, dirty and stringy and unkempt, was the recipient of a harsh scrubbing. Rinsing and cleansing and drying, she had never felt so refreshed in her entire life, as if the past several days of dirt and turmoil and confusion had been washed away in a stream of dissolving suds and cooling water.

  An obvious ambience Christian noted the moment he saw her emerge from the shelter clad in a beautiful gown of peach-colored wool. Her drying hair was slicked back on her head, reminiscent of the first time he had ever seen her, wet and nude and completely unhindered. A recollection as clear as if it had happened an hour ago and his heart thumped madly against his ribs, reminding him of the adoration he held so dearly for her.

  Gazing at her smiling, scrubbed face as she dried her hair over Malcolm’s open flame, he was seized with a fervent desire to marry her this day, to make love to her until they were old and gray. He would make love to her on their bed, on the floor, in the water she so obviously loved. He would pound her with proof of his adoration and desire until she became at one with his thoughts and mind and dreams. Until their bodies were of one heart, one soul, one life.

  But his amorous thoughts would have to wait
for the moment. A hefty schedule of tasks filled the day and he would be sorely amiss not to focus his attention on their needs at hand. Aboard his charger loaded with everything he had brought of value so the possessions would not fall into the hands of the dog-people, he and Gaithlin and Malcolm had set out for Cree.

  In spite of Gaithlin’s recurring horror at Malcolm’s appearance, it had been a lovely jaunt. The heady tinge of early autumn filled the air and the summer-green leaves were starting to show a hint of color. Smelling like the fresh essence of soap and water, Gaithlin leaned against Christian with customary familiarity, relishing the feel of his arm about her just as he was intent on savoring the presence of her supple body against his own. Up ahead, Malcolm danced and skipped the length of the thoroughfare, delighted in every way to be a part of the English knight’s world.

  “When we return to England, Malcolm will come with us,” Gaithlin said softly, gazing fondly at the bald head.

  Jolted from his train of thought, Christian’s brow furrowed as he pondered her wish. “I do not know if that would be particularly wise, Gae,” he said softly. “You and I are going to be facing a good deal of adversity. ’Twould not be fair to thrust Malcolm into the middle of it.”

  She turned in the saddle, eyeing him in the soft illumination of the overhead canopy. He wore his armor this day, creating a more powerful atmosphere about him than was usual. However, the plates of tempered steel were superfluous in her opinion; the pure size and strength radiating forth from his mighty presence was far more threatening than the hazard of battle armor. The suit of protective metal was an enhancement to his aura, not a staple. The Demon of legend.

  “Would you prefer to leave him in the wilds of Galloway, vulnerable and alone?” she cocked an eyebrow, returning her focus from his mighty appearance to the subject at hand. “Merciful Heavens, Christian, you have all but adopted the boy over the past two days. He has become your shadow and he adores you. I cannot imagine returning to England without him, Feud or no.”

  He sighed, noting her brilliant blond hair and exquisite features under the shaded sunlight. Thinking her to be the most beautiful, sensuous and demanding creature he had ever laid eyes on.

  “At least he would be safe here,” he muttered, knowing it to be a weak excuse even as it came forth from his lips. “I will have too many worries once we return home without the added burden of a child.”

  Gaithlin opened her mouth to protest when Malcolm suddenly burst forth from the bramble, startling the charger and causing the animal to snort and snap. Gaithlin struggled to keep her balance as Christian calmed the startled beast.

  “Th’ village is just ahead!” Malcolm announced excitedly, oblivious to the fact that he had jolted the mighty warhorse into fits of agitation. “Hurry!”

  “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.”