Christian indicated the same gesture across his shoulders and head, as did Gaithlin. Without further delay, the priest delved into the Catholic marriage mass that would forever join the house of St. John and de Gare.
“Ave Maria, gracia plena dominus tecum.”
Christian and Gaithlin crossed themselves again, muttering the proper response. “And also with you.”
Beside Gaithlin, Malcolm looked entirely baffled. Tugging on Gaithlin’s persimmon-colored gown, he whispered harshly. “Wha’ did ye say?”
Gaithlin shushed him, smiling apologetically to the priest as the man continued to read the ceremony in Latin. Quoting from the leather-bound book, he sang the words so quickly that Gaithlin could hardly distinguish one word from another. Christian, who was fluently educated in Latin, was having equal difficulty keeping up with the man’s swift delivery.
As the priest blessed the sacramental chalice that would favor their union, Christian continued to wallow in the mounting disbelief that he was actually marrying his most inherent enemy. All of the planning, the distractions, the fears and hopes and dreams were finally coming to an abrupt culmination and he could scarcely comprehend that in a very short moment, the beautiful woman he had seen swimming in the pristine lake those weeks ago would actually become his wife. Already, she was his love, since the moment he first saw her.
He didn’t realize how startled he would be to fathom the verity of the event as it bore down upon him. Speaking on the subject was one matter, but living the achievement was entirely another. He briefly wondered how Maggie was going to react to his marriage; in faith, he hardly cared. Maggie’s wants or emotions were of limited interest; they always had been. As far as he was concerned, the Lady Margaret du Bois no longer existed. Now, there was only Gaithlin.
He was jolted from his thoughts as the priest thrust the golden chalice at him, instructing him to drink from the cup. Taking a long, healthy swallow, Christian turned to Gaithlin to offer her the goblet when the distinct glimmer of moisture on her face caught him completely off-guard. She was crying.
“Gae?” he murmured, wiping her tears away as she accepted the chalice. “What’s wrong, honey?”
She shook her head, drinking deeply from the cup. As Christian continued to wipe at her cheeks, Malcolm’s eyes were wide on his lady friend.
“Why is she cryin’?” he demanded.
Christian smiled faintly, tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear as she returned the chalice to the priest. The man looked strangely at her as he collected the goblet.
“Why is she crying?” he looked questioningly to Christian.
He put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her gently as she struggled to compose herself. “Because she is happy, I would suppose,” he said, touched with her genuine show of emotion. “Please continue, father.”
“Happy?” Malcolm repeated as if he had never heard of such a concept. “Why would she cry if she’s happy? Mayhap she’s a-feared!”
“A-feard of what?” the priest continued the conversation with keen interest, looking to the mouthy lad before him.
Wide-eyed and innocent, Malcolm gazed up at the aging deacon. “A-feared of marryin’ th’ Englishman! He yells and bears a mighty sword and…”
“Malcolm!” Gaithlin snapped softly, sniffling as she wiped the remaining moisture from her face. Looking to the priest, she shook her head apologetically. “Christian was correct, Father. I am deliriously happy at the prospect of this union. Would you please continue?”
The priest’s brow was furrowed dubiously. “You must not be afraid to tell me the truth, child. If you are afraid….”
“Merciful Heavens, I am not afraid of anything!” Gaithlin replied irritably. “I am simply in love with this man and wish to be his wife. Can we continue please?”
Malcolm opened his mouth, but Christian put a massive hand over his lips that nearly covered his entire face. One eye plastered closed by a thick finger, Malcolm could easily read Christian’s menacing expression. After a brief moment of wordless implications relaying the pain of a tanned arse, Malcolm willing held silent when Christian removed his hand.
Although not entirely convinced the lady was being truthful, the tall priest hesitantly continued with the ceremony. In faith, there wasn’t a great deal more to be administered and when the deacon murmured the final blessing, scratching the image of a cross into the air above their lowered heads, the service was rightfully complete.
Christian didn’t have to be told to kiss his new bride. With the greatest of delight, he gathered Gaithlin into his arms and kissed her far more passionately than he should have under God’s watchful servants. Responding instinctively to his forceful attention, Gaithlin forgot her tears, oblivious to the priests gawking at the newly-wed couple’s amorous exchange. Surely the abbey had not seen such adoration since the very days of Lady Dervorgilla. Surely, she was smiling upon them from her stone crypt directly underneath their feet.
Lips disengaging with the greatest reluctance, Christian and Gaithlin smiled happily at one another. They would have been content to gaze into one another’s eyes for the remainder of eternity had Christian not realized that they were not alone in their joy. Clearly, they had an audience.
Malcolm was standing beside Gaithlin, beaming up at the lady and her knight and chewing his nails in the process. The priests, a few feet away, couldn’t quite seem to overcome the fact that a very lustful kiss had been delivered right before their very eyes. His cheeks flushed warm with delight, Christian couldn’t help but grin at the two astonished holy men as they pondered the carnal delights of such an unrestrained action.
“Don’t look so entirely shocked,” he admonished the priests happily, displaying far more delight than he had exhibited in years. “It is called Sweetheart Abbey, is it not?
“I never thought to know a love
as I have come to know you.’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. X, p. XXI
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The village was larger than Quinton remembered, though in faith, he hardly remembered it at all. ’Twas Christian who possessed a magnificent memory, not the younger, duller brother. As he and Jasper and their company of fifty English soldiers moved onto the well-traveled avenue of the busy little berg of Cree, Quinton was immediately aware of the fearful, mistrusting gazes.
A fear that settled about the Englishmen in the guise of uncertain silence as the citizens of Cree scrutinized their uninvited guests. Glancing about the faces that were trained upon him in wordless suspicion, Quinton could literally read their apprehension and dismay.
“A friendly group,” he muttered to Jasper.
His cousin grunted in agreement. “Let’s not delay. Find a responsible party from the midst of this rabble and see if we cannot discover what they know of Christian’s location.”
Nodding vaguely in agreement, Quinton began to search the customers and merchants alike for an expression that appeared remotely intelligent and preferably unhostile. Progressing further into the town, he began to wonder if locating a hospitable Scots was entirely possible when his questing gaze came to rest on a fat merchant standing idly beside his large stand.
The Scotsman’s eyes were somewhat bright and curious upon the horde of English warriors and Quinton immediately reined his charger to a halt.
“You there,” he said authoritatively. “I am seeking information.”
The round merchant immediately drew straight, his eyes wide as he responded obediently to the demanding knight. “What… what information might tha’ be, m’laird?”
Jasper drew alongside his cousin, gazing impassively upon the pudgy peasant. “An Englishman, like ourselves,” his voice was low. “Have you seen such a man in this town?”
The merchant immediately nodded. “Aye, m’laird. He an’ his wife were here only a day ago.”
Quinton and Jasper stared at the merchant, the impact of the man’s innocent reply settling deep into th
e bosom of their souls. Quinton fought down a crippling surge of nausea as he focused on the Scots. Christ… were they indeed speaking of the same man? “What did this Englishman look like?”
“Very large. Largest man I have seen in these parts,” the merchant looked thoughtful. “An’ pale blue eyes. His wife was th’ most beautiful woman I have ever witnessed. Kind, too.”
Jasper cast Quinton a long, foreboding glance before turning away entirely, directing his charger back towards the company of English soldiers. Quinton, however, was far too shaken and sickened to drop the subject quite so easily. Dear God, he was hearing his very worst suspicions.
Struggling against his resistance of the situation, he drew in a deep, calming breath in an ineffectual attempt to calm his quaking nerves. Realizing, indeed, that they were referring to the same man but struggling in the same breath to disbelieve undeniable facts.
“Did the Englishman introduce this woman as his mate?” he asked. “Did he actually use the word wife?”
“Aye, m’laird,” the merchant replied confidently. “They bought a good deal of supplies before returnin’ home. Do ye know the man, then?”
Do ye know the man? Quinton felt the question like a blow to his gut. Christ, I used to know him. Now I am not so sure. I am not sure of anything anymore. “I know him,” he found himself nearly choking on his reply. “Can… can you tell me where they live?”
The merchant scratched his triple-chins. “They left down the southern road,” he gestured in the same direction from whence the English had come. “There are a few homesteads down th’ highway. I would suppose they live in one of ’em.”
Quinton nodded shortly, eager to be done with the conversation. The confirmation of his brother’s treachery substantiated by an impartial source, a simple merchant who had conducted business with an English knight and his beautiful lady wife. A peasant who had no vested interest in the mysterious English warrior other than he had sold him a measure of goods and services. A man who had no idea of the chaos he had corroborated.
God help them all.
“I thank you for your information,” Quinton’s voice was barely audible as his quivering hands tossed the man a coin for his troubles. “What is your name?”
“Lutey, m’laird,” the man replied, offering a timid smile in response to the offered payment. “ ’Twas m’pleasure.”
Quinton doubted the conversation would have been so pleasurable had the round merchant realized the critical nature of his innocent answers. Plagued with emotions and nerves and nausea, Quinton reined his steed to the waiting group of English soldiers. Loyal St. John soldiers.
“God’s Blood, Quinton,” Jasper hissed as the man came into range. “What are we…?”
Quinton held up a sharp, trembling hand to silence his witless cousin. “We must find him before we leap to any hasty conclusions,” he said, his voice strained. “The merchant could have been mistaken.”
Jasper shook his head, the action laced with sorrow and doubt. “What will it take for you to believe, Quinnie? You just heard your father’s suspicions confirmed by a neutral source.”
Pale and tight-lipped, Quinton gathered his reins and deftly motioned his men in the opposite direction. “I will not believe until I hear the blessed truth come forth from Christian himself,” he replied staunchly, praying that all of the clues, the innuendos, and the innocent remarks had been incorrect. Surely the Demon was not a traitor to his own family, lured into betrayal by the feminine wiles of his worst enemy. Surely his father and the merchant had been wrong.
God… please don’t let it be true.
“We will find him,” Quinton’s teeth were clenched as he spoke, indicative of his volatile emotions. “We will find him and I will ask him myself. Until then, he is still the Demon of Eden and will be afforded due respect. Do you comprehend me, Jasper?”
Jasper nodded faintly. He, too, was reluctant to believe what all evidence was leading to explain. But, unlike Quinton, he was not willing to turn a blind eye to the indisputable facts. If the Demon of Eden had turned sympathetic to the de Gare cause, then as with any traitor, he would be handled accordingly. No matter how painful the necessary task.
*
“Intruders, Rake. Two entire armies o’ intruders.”
Roger stared at his younger brother as if the man had gone completely insane. “Intruders?” he repeated. “Who on earth would be violatin’ Douglas lands? We’re at peace wi’….”
“Not Scots. Sassenach invaders.”
Roger’s eyebrows rose in a gesture of distinct interest. “Sassenach? Mother of God, wha’ would they be doin’ here?”
Mac drew in a long, deep breath. “I recognized St. John standards. But I dinna recognize th’ second army, nearly two hours after the first.”
Roger’s brow furrowed with concern. “Bandits? Mayhap they mean tae ambush th’ St. John forces.”
Mac shook his head. “They dinna look tae be common bandits, though they were a might scruffy and worn about th’ armors and steeds. But they did appear tae be followin’ th’ St. John soldiers.”
Roger gazed at his brother a lengthy moment, trying to determine what was transpiring upon the rich earth of his beloved territory. He wasn’t entirely surprised with the incursion of the St. John soldiers considering the missive he had delivered to Eden a few days ago, but he was increasingly concerned with the mysterious second army in apparent pursuit. Clearly, it made no sense whatsoever and he rose from his chair, pacing the floor in pensive silence.
Mac observed his brother with lagging impatience, trying to determine the man’s thoughts and speculations. Roger was usually quite secretive with his plans and ideals, but Mac was certain they were pondering the very same options at this moment.
The English had invaded their turf.
“Macky,” Roger said after an endless span of deep thought. “We canna have th’ English fightin’ their wars on our soil. If th’ second army means tae do th’ St. John harm, then we canna allow it.”
“Agreed. Do we ride after them?”
Roger nodded faintly, scratching his stubbled cheek. “We do. But only tae determine th’ situation, not tae cast our army inta the middle of an English battle. If they plan tae do fightin’, we shall chase ’em homeward. They’ll not destroy my Galloway.”
Smelling the invigorating scent of an approaching battle, Mac couldn’t help the faint smile that touched his lips. Ever-ready for the feel of a sword and mace in his hand, he looked forward to the potential skirmish even if Roger was clear that their presence should be neutral, not combative. Once the first arrow was launched, it didn’t matter if their intentions were neutral or not.
“Shall I mount th’ men?” he asked his older brother.
Roger nodded, still partially absorbed in thought. “Mount ’em immediately. We must pursue the foolish Sassenach tae see what they are up tae.”
Turning on his heel, Mac vacated the solar with an aura of purpose. Roger glanced at his younger brother as the man faded from view, knowing his hot-headed soul was itching for a proper fight. But knowing, just the same, that a fight would be avoided at all costs. Unless, of course, it was in defense of his St. John relations.
Roger pondered the matter of defending the St. John army from their secretive pursuers, the more encouraged he became at the prospect of lending aid to his distant kin. Coupled with his willing deliverance of Christian St. John’s missive, the added support of armed assistance would further substantiate his willingness to reestablish clan ties with his English cousins. Mayhap then Jean St. John would realize the value of his remote Douglas kith, enough to willingly explore the possibilities. Enough to re-secure family ties after generations of separation.
Roger suddenly found himself agreeing with his brother. Mayhap there would be the added event of a skirmish – to aid the St. Johns against their adversaries.
A call to arms. Kin to kin.
*
Nothing had been touched. Christian could hardly b
elieve his eyes as he wandered about their encampment, inspecting every sack of stored grain and every lug of the wagon’s wheels. Even the ox had been left tethered beside the stream in a patch of knee-high summer grass. Surrounding their sod-house lodged deep into the Wood, everything remained as it should.
As they had left it.
Gaithlin smiled smugly as Christian paced about, examining every miniscule inch of their cozy home. Not a thread moved, not a grain of wheat shifted. All was as it should be and Christian could scarcely comprehend that his wife had been correct in her assessment of the dog-people’s character.
“Are you satisfied that my judgment was true?” she asked confidently as he examined their food stores in the small alcove off the main room.
Emerging from the room, bent severely at the waist due to his excessive height, Christian nodded in agreement. “Good Christ, I can hardly believe my eyes. Nothing is disturbed in the least.”
Moving from her arrogant stance resting against the doorjamb, Gaithlin put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him soundly. “As I told you. Mayhap there is hope for our neighbors, after all.”
“Or mayhap they understood the length of my blade far better that your logical reasoning,” he couldn’t resist jabbing at her cocky manner.
Gaithlin cast him a threatening gaze, yelping with delight as he swatted her backside. Moving out into the late afternoon sunlight caressing their familiar clearing with a fading warmth, Christian held his wife’s hand tightly as his eyes roved the area in thought.
“I suppose we should grind the grain for the bread I promised Malcolm,” he said, his mind moving from their untouched possessions to the chores that lay ahead. “Considering we were rightfully distracted yesterday morn, we never did get around to preparing the necessary flour.”
Deliriously happy and content, Gaithlin snuggled against her husband’s magnificent torso. “Nay, dearest, we made love instead. Far more satisfying.”
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 195
