England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Fortunately, Malcolm had been neither judgmental nor remotely knowledgeable regarding the matters Christian had attempted to explain. The only factor of importance to him was a new tunic and the prospect of a journey that would take him out of the dank, moldering recesses of his native Wood. To a young boy whose life had drastically changed over the past few days, he was eager to sample all he could of this wonderful new world.

  Even now, Malcolm bristled with acceptance and pride as Christian moved past him, placing a giant mailed glove on his skinny shoulder as he made way towards his pink-cheeked betrothed.

  “I agree,” he said softly in response to her tender declaration, removing his hand from Malcolm’s shoulder in lieu of pulling Gaithlin into his armored embrace. “A perfect place for you and me to create a new beginning for both Eden and Winding Cross.”

  She smiled happily, relishing his tender kisses and laughing softly when his raised visor bumped her forehead. “I do believe I am kissing more of the helm than your flesh.”

  He returned her smile, fully content to indulge in the sweetly passionate kisses that had become an integral part of their daily existence. Since initiating Gaithlin into the tender powers of the sexual realm that morn, there lingered an added element of such gripping intensity that he couldn’t begin to describe. Knowing only that he was physically linked to Gaithlin in a way he had never before experienced, a link more powerful than generations of St. John loyalty or the threat of death.

  Which might not be out of the realm of possibility when his father discovered what he had done; gazing up at the aptly-named abbey, the reality of his decision weighed more heavily than ever before. But he refused to linger on the negative factors of the situation, choosing to focus instead on the joy of his selected circumstance. And it was a joy; he would make his father understand just how deeply the joy forged. Even if it killed them both.

  Releasing Gaithlin from his embrace, he enclosed her hand within one mighty fist and clasped Malcolm with the other. “Then, if we are ready to proceed, I believe we have an appointment with destiny.”

  Completely happy and utterly content within the grasp of her powerful Demon, Gaithlin dreamily followed him across the mossy stone walkway towards the main entrance to the abbey. She was only aware of the warmth of the vanishing sun, the twittering of the birds as they prepared to nest for the night. All other thoughts but the knowledge that she and Christian were to finally become man and wife were unimportant flotsam in her mind. Not Feud nor family nor the inherent danger they were about to face was able to disturb her euphoric state. Nothing was of more import than her forbidden love.

  The entrance to the abbey was marked by a tall, worn oaken door that had fallen victim to years of harsh elements. As Christian allowed Malcolm to announce their presence with the heavy iron knocker, Gaithlin leaned happily into the curve of the knight’s torso.

  “What if they deny us?” she whispered, a smile playing on her lips and not at all concerned with the answer to her question. She had become quite adept at the adult game of flirting, escaping the boundaries of her usually reserved nature, and she greatly enjoyed practicing her new talents on Christian. “What if they chase us away? What if they draw and quarter us when they realize we have indulged in the marriage bed before the actual ceremony?”

  He shushed her sternly as she giggled, though there was a distinct curve to his lips. “Quiet, foolish woman. Do you mean to give us away?”

  She nodded as her giggling grew uncontrollable. “We’re terribly wicked, Christian. We should be married by Devil-worshipping Druids rather than God-fearing priests.”

  He put his hand over her mouth, struggling with his own snickers as Malcolm worked the iron knocker vigorously. “Be still before I take you over my knee,” he commanded softly.

  Her silly laughter continued to bubble forth as she kissed the mailed gauntlet that covered her mouth with amorous fervor. “Do take me over your knee, Christian. Be wicked to me.”

  His eyebrows rose in astonishment at her titillating request. For a woman who had been untouched and completely naive until the introduction of the Demon, her inherent qualities of erotica amazed him. As if she knew, instinctively, how to drive him mad with want.

  “What do you know of wicked intentions?” he growled, his breathing gaining pace as he watched her lick his mailed finger. “Good Christ, Gae, don’t put your tongue on that. Put it where it will do the most good.”

  Although her giggles were fading, her smile was fixed and decidedly sultry. “And where would that be, sire?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I have to tell you? Use your imagination.”

  She matched his cocked eyebrow, a thoughtful gesture, and Christian watched with mounting desire as she decided lifted her lips to meet his own. Feasting on her mouth, tasting her honeyed essence, he abruptly pulled away with a painful groan.

  “Don’t do this to me,” he rasped, his mailed fingers in her silken hair. “This armor is most restrictive for a man in my present state.”

  She gazed seductively at him, licking the taste of him from her lips. “I do not understand. What state is that?”

  His features twisted drolly. “A most swollen state. Engorged, even. Rigid and hard for the want of you.”

  Naive though she might be, a glimmer of understanding appeared in her eye. Although she had scarcely had a chance to view Christian’s throbbing manhood as he repeatedly claimed her earlier that day, she understood through sheer factual inference that his condition was acute beneath his ungiving armor. As she had come to realize over the past several days, a man’s organ became grossly swollen when his desire was aroused and observing his uncomfortable face, she began to giggle again. Only this time, it was a gesture of delight and adulation.

  “You… you would take me again? Now?”

  He rolled his eyes sardonically. “Good Christ, woman, what a foolish question.” Pretending to ignore her flushed, eager expression, he struggled to focus on Malcolm. “Well? Have the priests not answered yet?”

  Turning away from the massive door, Malcolm’s hand was still feverishly working the knocker. “Not yet. Should I open th’ door meself?”

  Christian shook his head, wincing ticklishly when Gaithlin thrust her finger playfully into his open visor, brushing his ear. Attempting desperately to ignore his heated condition, he moved towards the ancient door with Gaithlin still clinging to his torso, fully intent on pounding out a response from the negligent priests. The sooner he wed the searing bit of flesh lodged against his body, the sooner he could do with her as he pleased.

  Fortunately for the both of them, their wait was proceeding towards a definitive end. Just as Christian raised his mailed hand against the aged oak, the door suddenly shifted and popped as the bolt from the other side was released. Giving the impending priest a wide berth, he took a step back and pulled Malcolm with him as they wait with mounting anticipation to announce their presence.

  “The last time you stood before an abbey door, the situation was quite different,” Gaithlin whispered as another noisy bolt was thrown, muffled by the thick wood.

  His eyes on the door, Christian nodded faintly. “Quite. But I most assuredly do not regret my actions.”

  Smiling with delirious contentment, Gaithlin laid her head against his cold armor. “Nor do I, my dearest Demon.”

  He fought off a grin, quelling it completely as the foreboding door slowly creaked open. Suddenly, the dim archway was filled by a fat priest a few inches taller than Malcolm himself. The man’s head was shorn respectfully and he was clad in coarse brown wool. His gaze was wide and curious on the three individuals converging on his front stoop. Before Christian could politely introduce their purpose, Malcolm stood boldly before the round monk and openly scrutinized him.

  “Are ye th’ priest?” he demanded. Before the man could answer, Malcolm pointed imperiously at Christian and Gaithlin. “They need tae be married!”

  Shocked, Gaithlin moved forward to firmly pull Malcolm
aside as Christian cleared his throat loudly. “My apologies,” he said, moving into the spot recently occupied by Malcolm the Brazen. “You must forgive the impudent nature of a young boy.”

  The priest’s expression had gone from curious to baffled as he gazed up at the massive English knight. “I… he is your son, m’lord?”

  “Nay,” Christian replied.

  “Aye,” Gaithlin countered at the same moment.

  As the priest’s brow furrowed, Christian cast Gaithlin an exasperated look. She met his gaze evenly, staunchly, and his jaw ticked with acute irritation. Sighing heavily, he returned his attention to the priest in a fervent attempt to clarify the matter.

  “He… he is my adoptive son. Our adoptive son,” he gestured weakly towards Gaithlin, who clutched Malcolm protectively. “And he is entirely correct. My lady and I wish to be married.”

  The priest’s brow lifted in confusion. “He is the adoptive son of the two of you, yet you are not married?”

  Good Christ, Christian muttered inwardly. The situation was rapidly deteriorating and he sought to gain a firm handle before it spiraled further out of control. “The lad is an orphan whom my betrothed and I have adopted,” he explained, musing drolly that Malcolm had, more likely, adopted them. “And to complete our proper family unit, the lady and I would like to be married immediately. Who may I speak with regarding such transactions?”

  The priest eyed the trio, his expression returning to its original curious guise. Somewhat in better understanding of the situation, he stood aside and motioned the small group forward. “Inside, if you will. Leave all weapons at the door.”

  Christian’s broadsword was strapped to his saddle, but he obediently removed a small dagger from the fold between his breastplate and shoulder protection and handed it to Malcolm, who eagerly returned the weapon to the arsenal attached to the war saddle. Christian cast a final glance over his stocked saddle as Malcolm returned from replacing the weapon, knowing that his great white charger would prevent anyone from looting his possessions. Without further hesitation, he followed Gaithlin and Malcolm into the cool, musty interior.

  The foyer of the abbey was dim, lit by fatty candles and torches soaked in oil. The heavy smell of mold and smoke emitted from the very walls as the fat brother led them down a short corridor and into a broader common room. Indicating his visitors to sit upon the rough wooden stools that furnished the barren room, he abruptly disappeared into the shadows.

  Perched stiffly upon a leaning stool, Gaithlin glanced about the dingy surroundings with open curiosity. “I expected an abbey to be better appointed.”

  Christian’s gaze roved the bare walls, the swept floor. “They will be amply fortified to furnish their rooms when I pay handsomely for our ceremony.” He suddenly glanced at her over his shoulder, his expression bordering abruptly on intolerance. “Which brings me to a subject you have refused to discuss since leaving our shelter. I shall go broke if we have to replace all of the possessions left behind should your dog-people decide to raid our camp while we’re gone.”

  Gaithlin averted her gaze deliberately. “They’ll not steal anything, Christian. They understand that we mean them no harm and I believe I have won the man’s loyalty.”

  He shook his head, his jaw ticking as he once again thought on the argument they had shared before setting forth on the road to the abbey. After the amazing pinnacles of passion they had achieved that morn, the bitter exchange had been most unexpected. “I cannot believe I allowed you to convince me not to load the wagon and bring all of our possessions with us. The dog-man didn’t understand one word you said; what leads you to believe that our camp will remain untouched by his raiding habits?”

  She continued to stare at the floor, feeling like a scolded child. How could she explain her trust in a couple who had so far proven to be sly and destructive? Even though she knew he hadn’t understood her attempts at reasoning, still, an inner sense had convinced her that the dog-man and his equally undomesticated wife realized that the cozy, organized encampment was off-limits to their usual escapades. ’Twas a feeling she had, and a foolish one at that.

  “If you were so convinced that I was wrong, then why did you do as I asked?” she countered quietly. “I did not force you.”

  He rolled his eyes in a weary gesture. “Nay, you did not physically force me, but you certainly made it clear that I was to be given little choice.”

  His gaze lingered on her lowered head a moment, his heart softening at her rebuked mannerisms. Good Christ, he shouldn’t be reprimanding her for his own weakness; in faith, he hadn’t been brutally forced to bend to her will. He had given in without a struggle.

  Sighing, he turned away from her lest he find himself begging forgiveness for succumbing to her will. The situation was past and there was no reclaiming the decision made; still, he was annoyed that he had weakened against her demands so easily, even when he knew better. Certainly, she had that effect on him.

  “You’d better hope our possessions are still intact upon our return,” he grunted in a weak show of male supremacy. “If there is even one solitary item missing, I shall hire you out as a slave and cook until you have repaid the stolen worth.”

  Her head came up from the stone, knowing he was jesting with her. Certainly, she did not expect to be witness to an apology or admission of guilt, but his vague attempt at humor was his way of saving his pride. She knew he had bowed to her demands; and he was fully cognizant of the fact as well.

  A faint smile creased her lips. “As you say, my dearest.”

  He grunted again, refusing to look at her. With the subject of the dog-thieves’ questionable loyalties aired and settled, irritated though he might be with his weakness towards Gaithlin’s requests, he forced his attention to the approaching ceremony. The flabby brother was certainly taking his time in seeking the proper authority and Christian’s irritation shifted focus, mounting towards the unfortunate priest instead of lingering on his own fallibility.

  Fortunately, their wait was coming to a close. As Malcolm explored the shadowed recesses of the musty room, faint footsteps were heard approaching from the distant corridor and Christian focused on the mouth of the hall, waiting impatiently for the incoming parties. Malcolm scurried to Gaithlin’s protective presence, somewhat fearful of the spooky sounds and smells of the dim place as the footfalls drew near.

  Abruptly, the fat monk and a taller, more slender man emerged from the smoky-hazed corridor. Christian fixed his intimidating gaze on the taller man, assuming he was the figure of superiority.

  “I am Father Hardey, the Deacon of Dulce Cor,” the taller brother said, his voice soft and high-pitched. “I understand you wish to be wed?”

  Christian was unwilling to traverse the negotiation that usually accompanied such requests. Impulsive weddings were considered foolish and unwise by the church, preferring instead to indulge in lavish, well-planned affairs where both parties were well-known and spiritually established. But Christian knew that money spoke volumes to the people of the cloth; their vows of poverty were not as stringently adhered to as they would hope to pretend. And as he had undoubtedly proven at St. Esk, money could even purchase the life of his most vicious foe.

  “We do,” Christian held up a leather purse containing a good deal of money. He shook it once, demonstrating the sheer weight of the bulky package. “I believe this shall accommodate your services.”

  Both priests eyed the pouch of coins. After a moment’s hesitation, the taller priest moved forward to gingerly accept Christian’s offering. Gaithlin and Malcolm observed apprehensively as the priest opened the purse, expertly scanning the contents. With a faint nod, he re-secured the pouch and returned his attention to the English knight.

  “Follow me.”

  Gaithlin leapt up from her stool, nearly tripping over her feet in her haste to respond to the priest’s beckon. Christian reached out to steady her, gripping her arm tightly as Malcolm managed to wedge himself between them, verging on apprehensi
on. The dark abbey with its sharp smells and strange sounds was becoming increasingly frightening and he had no intention of being separated, literally, from Christian or Gaithlin. Although still an adventure for the bright young lad, he had been far more comfortable on the approaching journey amongst the familiar woods and meadows. This place scared him.

  “The money is also meant to purchase a meal and board for the night,” Christian said as they followed the priest into a wide corridor off the common room. “We have made a long journey this day and will need to rest before our return on the morrow.”

  “You are welcome to all we have, m’lord,” the priest said softly, clutching the money to him as if he feared its ability to sprout legs and run away. “After your ceremony, you shall be served an evening meal and ushered to our visitor’s infirmary for the night.”

  A common room. Christian’s heart sank somewhat at the prospect of spending his wedding night in an open gallery, surrounded by strangers and other travelers who had sought lodgings for the night. But he knew that most holy structures had very little privacy and was not overly surprised. Still, it was a distinct disappointment. He’d truly hoped to have his new wife all to himself.

  The sanctuary of Sweetheart Abbey was long and slender, a lovely place compared to the rest of the building. A bank of candles burned brightly on one end, illuminating a carved stone altar decorated with an elaborate cloth. Clasping Gaithlin tightly against him, Christian observed the intricacies of the large room a moment before moving into the chapel in pursuit of the taller priest.

  The fat monk who had met them at the door suddenly appeared out of the shadows bearing various implements for the wedding ceremony. Gaithlin and Christian watched with various degrees of apprehension and delight as the man settled a chalice and wine upon the altar, followed by a leather-bound book and other wedding necessities. The taller priest accepted the red mantle of office from his colleague, kissing it reverently before draping the banner across his shoulders. Making the sign of the cross before the intended couple, he folded his hands in prayer.