Moving across the clearing, Gaithlin glanced over her shoulder with a tolerant, entirely superior expression. “I heard you.”
He watched her as she winked at him, a gesture reminiscent of himself, and continued to make her way toward the stymied young lad as he struggled with the stubborn ox.
Without the benefit of further argument and supplication, Christian realized with resignation that the shack was indeed large enough for the three of them. Gaithlin had made her wishes known, and the Demon, naturally, would comply.
‘The Heart is a slave to the Soul’s desires.
And the Soul is a vicious master.’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. VIII, p. LI
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rougham Castle
Scotland
“God’s Holy Blood. When’s th’ last ye contacted th’ St. John?”
“I have ne’er contacted them. They dunna want tae hae any to do wi’ the Douglas.”
“But Da knew Henri and Jean, din’ he?”
Across the table from his broad, dark-haired brother, Roger Douglas nodded slowly. “He knew ’em. But th’ St. John are an arrogant lot. They dunna like tae be reminded o’ their Scot ties even though we all share th’ same great-grandsire.”
Mac Douglas stamped his big feet on the worn stone floor. Snorting with sarcasm and disbelief, he turned away from his older brother. “So th’ young St. John pup demands we deliver ‘is message.”
Roger stared at the tightly-secured vellum placed before him, sealed twice with the St. John signet in a muddle of cheap tallow and fat. “He asked my permission to lodge wi’in Galloway for reasons he dinna elaborate upon. More importantly, th’ messenger said th’ missive was in urgent need of being delivered tae Eden and not tae be delayed.”
Mac snorted again, shaking his head with the irony of it all. “Beggin’ yer sanction one moment and making’ demands th’ next. The pup is givin’ ye orders, Rake.”
“He’s makin’ a request o’ his kin.”
Mac’s mirth fled as he eyed his fair-haired brother; exceedingly tall and intelligent, he had ruled the Clan Douglas for nearly five years. Unassuming and somewhat mild in character for a Scots, he was an extremely steady force behind an otherwise volatile clan and the respect gained from his family and allies alike was a powerful, preserving bond.
“Th’ St. Johns were allied to us long ago, when Uncle Nolan’s daughter married inta their midst. Ye be foolin’ yerself tae believe th’ St. Johns still hold true tae that alliance.” Eyeing the missive lying still upon the table, he turned away in disapproval. “I say burn it. Show th’ St. John ye canna be used at their convenience, when they alone decide th’ time is right to remember their Scot brethren.”
Roger sighed, raking his fingers through his bright blond hair as he continued to stare at the source of their argument. Mac was correct, of course; the St. John had ignored the Scot ties for decades, instead choosing to vent their attention and monies on a long-standing English war that had occupied the vast majority of their focus. Clearly, Roger remembered on several occasions when his father had made an attempt to strengthen the allied link with his English cousins. And, clearly, Roger remembered the distinct rejection.
The St. Johns were not to be bothered with the barbaric, less-cultured Scots. A rejection that stung true, even now.
Gazing at the yellowed parchment, it wasn’t the first time Roger realized he and his father thought a good deal alike. Angus Douglas had been mild-mannered for a Scot as well, eager to maintain peace and build family strengths. Staring at the missive before him, Roger was aware that he too would like nothing better than to re-establish ties with their distant English cousins.
Not for monetary purposes, to be sure. But simply for the fact that the St. Johns were family, and family was supposed to be united. Not ignored and abandoned like a simpleton relative.
Reaching out, Roger grasped the parchment in his large palm, observing the careful seal. Mac was probably right; he should burn it in a fit of anger. How dare the St. John ask for assistance when they had spent the past several decades ignoring their northern relatives. But as he inspected the missive, Roger realized that the future hope of re-establishing communication was lodged within the fold of his palm; mayhap if he were to comply with the request, the St. John would view it as a favor well done. Then, mayhap, there would be hope for future bonding.
“Send Robert tae me,” his voice was soft, knowing that his compliance to the St. John request was already the recipient of his brother’s strenuous objection. Yet before Mac could voice his opposition, Roger put up a stern hand. “Not a word, Macky. We must prove tae th’ St. John that we are still a gracious ally in spite o’ their rejection. Mayhap they’ll not be willin’ tae spurn us so readily if they realize our forgiveness o’ their English pride.”
Mac stared at his older brother for a lengthy moment, biting off his words of refusal and disagreement. Roger was laird, after all; mayhap it befitted his position to possess the grace that others did not. Mac, for one, was still in favor of burning the missive and sending the ashes back to the St. John pup. But out of respect for his brother, he would not voice his disparity.
“As ye say, Rake. Wha’s th’ lad’s name?” he finally asked, sounding particularly belligerent in spite of his obedient manner.
“Wha’ lad?”
“Th’ St. John pup.”
Roger sighed, setting the missive to the table once more. “Christian.”
Mac nodded, eyeing the offensive parchment one last time. “Th’ lad has a nickname, I am told. A fearsome warrior.”
With popping joints, Roger rose from his chair in a decidedly weary gesture. “Th’ Demon, he’s referred tae. And yer callin’ th’ man a lad when he’s older than ye.”
Mac shrugged. Every man was “lad” to him. “So we do th’ Demon a favor. Question bein’, will he do us one in return?”
“I am not askin’ for favors returned. I am simply obeyin’ his request tae forward his missive tae Eden.”
“But yer hopin’ for a favorable response from Jean St. John. A thanks, me thinks. An’ a regrowth of th’ alliance.”
Roger lifted his shoulders. “Only good can come out of passin’ th’ missive on tae Eden,” he said quietly. Casting a final glance at the parchment, his expression was particularly pensive. “Th’ St. Johns are’na the only Sassenach allies we hae. Long ago, we were linked tae the Northumberland House of Percy.”
Mac thought a moment. “The house Calandra Douglas married intae?”
Roger nodded. “After th’ laird got ’er wi’ child.”
Mac nodded in recollection. “Alan publicly disavowed her after that.”
“But he ne’er forgot ‘her, bein’ his favorite daughter,” Roger pondered the distinct shame his family had once suffered, the darker alliance that bound them to the great Northumberland House of Gray. A link that had been forgotten almost the moment it had been forged. After a moment, he disregarded the distantly distressing train of thought in favor of more immediate concerns. “Out wi’ ye, little brother. Send Robert tae me.”
“I can take th’ missive tae Eden,” Mac said with resignation in his voice. “There’s nae need tae send young Robbie.”
“Robbie’s a better rider and a faster thinker than ye,” Roger insulted his brother, good-naturedly accomplished. “Move yer hide. Th’ Demon’s missive must be delivered.”
Insulted in addition to having his objections quelled, Mac quit the room in a mild fit. Roger listened to the fading bootfalls, wondering if his hopes would be fulfilled in the deliverance of Christian St. John’s imperative missive. Wondering if, finally, the House of St. John would give the Douglas their notice.
He didn’t know why he was so concerned with their approval. Mayhap because he had inherited the strong Douglas trait of family closeness; ties above all else, blood stronger than life itself. Mayhap he would succeed where his grandfather and father had failed. Maybe
he would re-establish the St. John bond.
He had no idea, of course, that the information contained within the yellowed folds would be enough to send Jean St. John into a hatred-induced vortex that would threaten to devour the very fabric of stability shared by the North. Had Roger known the extent of his actions, he would have taken Mac’s advice to burn the parchment without a trace of remains.
*
Gaithlin awoke, cold and alone, to the snorting bray of the ox. Directly across from her pallet of rushes and illuminated by the gray light of morning, Malcolm slept quite soundly huddled in a ball upon the icy dirt floor. The bed she had prepared for him of excess fabric and fresh rushes the night before had been ignored in lieu of his natural sleeping arrangements.
She watched the bald little lad as he sniffled and shivered in his slumber, thinking he would have indeed been happier sleeping in accustomed surroundings as Christian had suggested. Yet, because she had demanded the lad sleep with them, he had obediently complied. Observing Malcolm as he wriggled and twitched upon the damp earth, she was forced to admit that, mayhap, she had been wrong. He didn’t seem any more content within the confines of their shelter than he did outside in the harsh elements.
Sighing with resignation, she decided to allow Malcolm to sleep wherever he desired and to the Devil with her petty, motherly demands. After all, she had always been prone to a good deal of fret and was chagrined to realize she had, mayhap, overreacted to the boy’s situation. Indeed, mayhap he was fine without her interference.
Since Christian had vacated their bed, there was no point in dozing away the last few darkened moments before the breaking sun signaled the commencement of a new day. Gaithlin rolled wearily into a sitting position, gazing at the vacated length of wool that Christian usually occupied. Her fingers lingered over the fabric a moment as she pondered their sleeping arrangements; over the past several days, she had come to relish his heat in the chill early morning, snuggling close to him and listening to his grunts of lustful frustration.
His agreement to refrain from claiming her “dowry” until they were properly wed was proving thus far to be an extreme test of his willpower; Gaithlin had been admirably proud of his restraint until she realized that her newly-learned passion within the arms of the Demon was a consuming force. Suddenly, she found herself greatly in need of her own self-employed willpower, a concept that baffled and thrilled her at the same time.
The more he touched and fondled, the more she wanted him to claim her in every sense of the word. Although purely virgin in the literal sense, she had a basic knowledge of coupling and mating rituals and was not entirely ignorant of what, exactly, her body was craving. Still, there was an aura of mystery and fear surrounding her uncontrollable needs and as of last eve, she found herself wondering if her demands to deliver the dowry on the day of their wedding to be an entirely wise decision. She realized that she wanted it as badly as he did.
Gaithlin had never been one to daydream of love or endless devotion. All that had existed in her dream world was the fervent hope that, someday, she would be rescued from her impoverished plight. There was no time for silly dreams of adoration that were unlikely to become reality within the realm of her destitute situation, and being an inherently reasonable woman, she was unwilling to torture herself with the impossibilities.
Until now. With every word from Christian’s mouth, she found herself relishing each distinct sound. With every glance from his piercing blue eyes, she found herself quaking with emotion and glee. And with every touch from his massively gentle hands, she found herself willing to surrender all that she was.
Love. An interesting concept; a fool’s dream of fleeting emotions. At least, that was how her father had described love. Her mother had mostly refused to answer the inquisitive questions of adoration from a young girl’s curious mind. In her younger days, Gaithlin had wondered why her mother was so evasive when it came to the discussion love and emotion, knowing how desperately her mother had loved her father. But as she grew older, she began to realize that Alicia’s refusal to deliberate sentiment was a protective mechanism; as if she had come to realize that love was a foolish emotion when it was not returned in kind.
Alex de Gare had never loved his wife. He had loved the Feud, the de Gare legacy, and all items pertaining thereto. When Alicia de Norville had married the strapping young Alex, she firmly believed she could convince the man that loving her was far more rewarding than the passion he held for his tumultuous heritage.
But she had been wrong, and Gaithlin had seen the result of that mistake. A woman immersed in constant pain, bestowing what little affection she could on her only child for fear that once again her love would prove to be a self-destructive force. Because of the inherent lack of affection, Gaithlin had learned to view love as an unreasonable farce until she met the Demon. Strange how her most hated enemy would show her the meaning of true adoration.
Aye… she knew she loved him. Even if she had never experienced the true meaning of love within her short lifetime, she knew without question that she was in love with him. Surely there was no other explanation for the wondrous, giddy emotions surging deep within her heart.
Breaking from her warm thoughts, Gaithlin rose from her chilled bed. Passing a concerned eye over her young border, she proceeded to wrap the shivering young lad in a thick woolen blanket, smiling gently when he subconsciously kicked the cover off. Making a second such attempt, she wrapped him tighter than before and was pleased when he was unable to dislodge the blanket entirely.
With Malcolm satisfactorily tended, Gaithlin mummified herself in the long length of Douglas Tartan Christian had purchased the day before. Deliciously savoring the warmth of the fine wool, she stepped forth into the misty Scot morn in search of her elusive Demon.
He was not difficult to locate. Christian was seated on an upturned log, his favorite chair, as Malcolm’s exterior fire smoked and crackled lazily at his feet. His diary was open in his lap and as Gaithlin approached, she noted his concentration as he carefully scribed each letter. Smiling softly, she was careful not to jostle him as she reached out to touch his silken hair.
“Good morning,” she murmured hoarsely.
His head came up from the book, an instant smile on his face. Grasping hold of her hand, he pulled her close and kissed her lips tenderly. “Good morning,” he responded. “Is Malcolm awake?”
She shook her head and he cautiously put the book aside, pulling her onto his lap. Wrapping his arms about her bundled body, he cast a long glance over the yards of Douglas fabric.
“You are to make a gown from this, not use it as a blanket,” he said.
“But it’s warm and wonderful,” she sighed, laying her head against his. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not long,” he replied, feeling her warmth against his chilled skin. “Just enough time for me to scribe a few thoughts and notations.”
“Like what?”
“Like our trip to town,” he glanced over his shoulder at the slumped figure tied to the tree several feet away. “And our visitors. I was surprised when his wife did not return last night in an attempt to free him.”
Gaithlin looked to the dog-man as well, huddled and cold and menacing against the pine. “Have you tried to talk to him?” she asked.
Christian shook his head. “I do not believe he understands spoken language. I have tried English, French, even Gaelic. He does not respond to any of it.”
She continued to observe their captive, shaking her head with genuine sorrow. “Merciful Heavens, Christian,” she sighed. “Is it possible that he is more animal than human? Is it possible he’s never known how to speak our language, but has spent his entire life barking like a beast?”
“It’s possible,” he eyed her as she rose from the warm huddle on his lap, her attention drawn to the captive. “What are you going to do?”
Pulling the woolen length more tightly about her shoulders, she shrugged uncertainly. “Speak to him. Feed him. Mayha
p I can communicate with him.”
Christian rose stiffly, stretching in the early morning chill. “If anyone can communicate with him, you can. But take heed; his mood is foul.”
She heard Christian’s bootfalls behind her as she made her way toward the quivering captive. The dog-man’s eyes were wide and malevolent, and he snarled harshly as she drew near. Sensing his terror more than his obvious hostility, Gaithlin halted her advance and pondered the course of her actions for a moment. Then, as Christian watched curiously, she disappeared inside their shelter only to re-emerged moments later clutching a wedge of yellow cheese.
The dog-man continued to growl as she approached bearing food, thrashing in his ropes when she knelt before him. Deep-blue eyes riveted to those of murky, non-descriptive brown, Gaithlin smiled encouragingly.
“My name is Gaithlin,” she said softly, her sultry voice low and soothing. “Would you like to eat?” She indicated the cheese.
The man continued to rumble and snap for a few moments until she waved the cheese in front of his nose. Torn between the lure of food and his natural sense of defiance and anger, it was apparent that he could not decide which course of action to take.
His wild eyes darted between the blond woman and the food she held, uncertain and fearful, until the physical need for sustenance overwhelmed his apprehension. He sniffed the air hungrily as the cheese made another pass in front of his face.
“Don’t get too close, honey,” Christian warned softly.
“I have to if I am going to feed him,” she replied. “He cannot feed himself with his hands tied.”
Christian grunted in disapproval, observing closely as she broke off a large piece of cheese and held it up to the dog-man. Like a frightened animal, he sniffed and whimpered, still too frightened to allow himself to accept the morsel, yet feeling the stabs of a powerful hunger weaken his increasingly-lagging resistance. The more Gaithlin smiled and murmured encouraging words, the more feeble his defiance ran.
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 190
