“We saw yer armies earlier today,” he said. “If the St. John army has come tae take the Demon, it canna be long since they left.”
Alicia shook her head. “An hour or two, mayhap less. We came right after they departed, evidently.”
“If we ride hard, we could catch up tae them.”
“That is true.”
Roger’s gaze lingered on the pretty, round woman a moment before turning his attention to Quinton. He pointed at him.
“Who are ye?” he demanded.
“Quinton St. John,” Quinton replied evenly. “Christian is my brother.”
Roger looked perplexed. After a moment, he shook his head; the situation was too complicated for him to try and understand. “De Gare women and St. John men everywhere,” he said, throwing up his arms as he turned back for his men. “Macky, gather the men up! We ride!”
Alicia and Quinton moved to their respective mounts but not before Alicia had two de Gare soldiers wrap up Eldon’s body in preparation for taking the man back to Winding Cross. She said a prayer over him and kissed his cold, dead lips one last time before watching the men pack him away on his charger. She was grieved and deeply saddened, but the prospect of facing Jean St. John one last time had her sufficiently distracted. The end of the Feud was in sight; at least, she hoped so. Like her daughter, she was willing to do what was necessary in order to secure an accord. Already, this Feud had taken too many lives.
She wondered if the Demon’s life would be added to that long and distinguished list.
‘Pain and sorrow, well worth the cost,
To feel her skin, smell her hair, my memory does not do it justice.
My heart longs for her as the sparrow longs for spring,
And my arms ache to hold her as Death’s sickly bellows call for me.’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. XI, p. CXXI
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The massive chamber in the corner of the third floor of the keep had always been his refuge. Big, well appointed, warm and comfortable, he had spent many satisfying years in the chamber and it only held good memories for him. Now, as he sat at his desk, writing his thoughts and feelings down on careful pages of yellowed vellum, he tried to ignore the fact that the chamber had become his prison.
Since their arrival back to Eden the day before after a very hard two-days ride from Scotland, Christian had been locked in the chamber. His father hadn’t gone so far as to lock him in the vault, but Christian knew it was only a matter of time. Jean had been furious enough to punch him in the face when he had arrived on that quiet misty morning but had surprisingly refrained from berating him or questioning him. When he saw Christian tied up, with Jasper holding on to him, all he did was slug him. And then he had walked away.
Which was probably for the best. Jean was so volatile that he might very well shove a dagger into his ribs before he realized what he was doing, so Christian was glad that his father had stayed away. It was best for both of them.
So Christian had pulled out one of his older volumes of writing, one that was only partially finished, and began scribing words and thoughts in it. He had been writing for most of the day and night with his big steel and bone quill, his fingers cramping and stained with black ink as he put to vellum all of the thoughts in his head. Still, all of the words in the world couldn’t do justice to the pain in his heart. For the first time in his life, he felt very alone and very betrayed. It was difficult to keep the steely stabs of sorrow away the more time passed, especially since he didn’t know the fate of Gaithlin. It was all he could think about. Had Quinton shown mercy? Had he not? It was torture not knowing. He’d never known so much blinding, twisting pain in his life.
It was a pain made worse because his brother had not yet returned from Scotland. He was nearly crazed with worry, wondering what was keeping Quinton. The first several hours after returning home, he had paced the floor with worry, trying to figure out how he could climb from the window and escape even though the window was far too small for his frame. He’d actually tried to squeeze out of it just to make sure. When the pacing had finally died down, that was when he had turned to his precious volumes of writings. There was nothing else he could do.
Hunched over his writing table, he was in the midst of telling the story of how he and Gaithlin met when he heard the lock on the chamber door rattle. Someone was tampering with it. He paused in his writing but only briefly before resuming, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. It could only be his father at the door and he braced himself for a battle. His heart began to pound and his palms to sweat as the chamber door finally lurched open.
Jean entered the bower, his gaze fixed on his eldest son. Christian was facing away from him, seated at his writing table, and had not bothered to turn and see who had entered his room. The show of disinterested set the tone for the meeting and Jean’s irritation, something he’d been wrestling with for two days, threatened to return. He eyed Christian’s lowered head.
“I wonder what you are writing about today, Christian,” he said as he made his way over to his son. “Are you writing about your sorrows at having betrayed your family? Or are you writing of your disregard for all you ever stood for. I wonder?”
Christian wouldn’t rise to the bait. He quietly set his quill down and turned to his father. “Is that what you really think?” he asked softly. “That I have betrayed my family? Me, the Demon of Eden, with a reputation larger than anyone or anything this family has ever bred? Do you truly believe in your heart that I would do anything to damage my family? If you do, then you do not know me at all, Father. I find that astonishing.”
Jean’s irritation took a hit. He regarded his son a moment, with a hint of uncertainty, before lowering his gaze. He moved towards the slender lancet window that overlooked the bailey.
“Then tell me what it is you believe you have done for the good of this family,” he said. “I am listening.”
Christian studied his father intently. It took him a moment to answer. “Nay,” he finally said.
Jean looked at him. “Nay?” he repeated. “What do you mean by that? Do you have nothing to say to me?”
Christian remained calm. “I mean that you are not, in fact, listening,” he said. “Already, you have made your mind up about what I have done. You do not want to hear the truth; you want to linger in your own hate, building it up so that everyone and everything around you is the enemy, including me. All you have is your hatred for the House of de Gare, Father; without it, you cease to become Jean St. John. Your hatred is more important to you than your family is, otherwise I would not be locked in my own bower with the threat of execution hanging over my head. If you were not so filled with hatred, you would be willing to truly listen.”
Jean’s expression was wrought with disappointment, doubt, and remorse. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to all of that because there were many elements of truth in it. “Tell me what you have done, Christian,” he muttered. “Is it true? Did you love the de Gare wench?”
Christian sighed faintly; he could see the belligerence in his father’s expression. He sat back in his chair.
“Did Maggie tell you that?” he asked quietly.
“Does it matter? I simply want to know if it is true.”
Christian regarded him for a long, painful moment. “I will ask you a question, Father, and you will be truthful,” he said. “Why do we fight the House of de Gare? In other words, what is our ultimate goal?”
Jean’s expression hardened. “To kill them all.”
“Why?”
Jean’s jaw ticked. “Because they are our enemy!”
Christian nodded patiently. “I realize that, but do we fight them simply to fight? Simply to hate? Or do we fight them to triumph so that, ultimately, we will know peace?”
Jean moved towards him, his pale eyes blazing. “We fight them to kill them,” he hissed. “We fight them to destroy them.”
“And after they are destroyed,
then what? Do we know peace or do we find someone else to fight and hate? Is that all we will ever know – war and hatred?”
“What are you driving at, Christian?”
Christian sat forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on his father. “I always believed that our ultimate goal in fighting the House of de Gare was so that we would know peace,” he said. “Father, I have spent my entire life in warfare one way or the other but the older I become, the more I realize that there is more to life than fighting and dying. I want to know peace in my lifetime; I want my children to know it. Clearly, we have spent seventy years battling the de Gares and so far we have yet to destroy them. When I took Lady Gaithlin from St. Esk, I found out why; they are a very strong people. We could fight them for another seventy years and still not defeat them. I do not want to die fighting an old family Feud that should have been finished years ago.”
Jean’s jaw was ticking furiously. “Are you telling me that your family’s honor isn’t good enough for you to fight and die for?”
Christian shook his head. “That’s the saddest part,” he was becoming passionate in his speech. “There is no family honor at stake. This Feud started because one family supported Richard the Lionheart and the other family supported Prince John. Those people who opposed one another are dead, Father, and all they left us was a legacy of unreasonable hatred. I do not want to hate anymore; I want to know peace. What is so wrong with that?”
Jean was at a crossroads; Christian’s words made sense but he didn’t want to admit it. He was confused, and he was angry. He hated that his son sounded so much more intelligent than he did. Infuriated, he balled his right fist and punched it, hard, into his left palm.
“When did you become such a coward?” he hissed. “You have a reputation to uphold, Christian, and all I hear spouting from your lips is talk of peace and surrender. Is that what the de Gare bitch did to you? Turn you into a coward?”
Christian’s even temperament fractured. “You will not call her that.”
Jean was building into a righteous steam. “Call her what? A bitch? An enchantress who has managed to cast a spell over you, turning you into a fool?” He was very quickly veering out of control. “Do you know what I told Jasper and Quinton? I told them to kill the bitch and bring her head back to me. I want to see the face of this… this creature that has bewitched you!”
Christian was struggling with his fury as he rose on his muscular legs. “She has not bewitched me,” he said steadily. “She is a woman of great beauty, wit, and intelligence, and I am not ashamed to admit that I love her. I love her deeply, so much so that I married her. We married for love but we also married to cement a peaceful alliance between Winding Cross and Eden. She is a worthy wife, Father; I wish your hatred hadn’t blinded you to all that is good and peaceful in this world.”
“She is dead now,” Jean seethed, jabbing a finger at his son. “She is dead and I will hear no more talk of peace between Winding Cross and Eden. You will purge this woman from your mind and reclaim your family loyalties, Christian, or I will kill you. So help me, I will do it.”
Christian could see, at that moment, that his father was truly mad. His stance had nothing to do with family honor and everything to do with his irrational hatred of the House of de Gare. He wanted to kill it for killing’s sake, destroy it for destroying’s sake. There was no reasoning with a mad man.
But it also underscored something else; if Jean was truly going to kill him, then he more than likely would have done it already. Jean didn’t want to kill his son, his Demon, and the man he respected most in the world… he simply wanted control of him again. As he probably saw it, Gaithlin had control of Christian now that they were married. Jean wanted that control back. With that knowledge, Christian began to calm somewhat and regain his confidence.
“Do as you must,” he said, reclaiming his seat and collecting his bone-and-steel quill. It was a big instrument he had purchased in London, with a spectacular sharp end that beautifully dispensed the ink. “If you feel you must kill me then I suppose there is nothing more I can say. But know this; we are related to the House of de Gare not only by my marriage to Gaithlin, but also through the Douglas Clan. My mother is descended from Nolan Douglas who was the brother of Alan Douglas, Gaithlin’s great-great grandfather. We all share the same blood, Father, and I am sorry if that is a shock to you. If you really want to be angry with someone, mayhap it should be Mother for linking us to the de Gare’s in the first place.”
Jean lost his composure. “You will not speak of your mother in such a way!” he screeched. “She is beyond reproach. It is you who have shamed us, Christian, not your mother!”
Christian was going back to his writing. He couldn’t deal with his father’s irrational behavior because he knew at some point, the fists were going to fly and he would be on the receiving end of a mad man’s flailing fists. If that was to occur, he would defend himself, which would only enrage his father more. At the moment, he was wishing Quinton would return very quickly, not only so he could find out about Gaithlin, but also because Quinton must have surely known Jean had somehow, someway, gone mad in the past several days.
This was not the Jean St. John they all knew. This was a fiend, and Christian was more than concerned about it. On top of all of his other horrific worries, now he was concerned with a father who had a finite grasp on reality.
“I have done nothing of the sort,” he said as he dipped his quill in the inkwell. “I married Gaithlin de Gare to secure peace between our families and you will accept it. I realize you ordered Quinton to kill her, but I am equally sure that he has not. Even now, I am sure he is riding to Eden with my wife at his side. You will meet her, you will be polite to her, and you will be thankful that she will bring peace to us all. Do you understand? And another thing… there is something else you should know, something very important.”
Jean was twitching and seething. “I cannot imagine what is more important than you marrying the enemy.”
Christian lifted his eyebrows. “Ah, but there is. You should know that Alex de Gare died ten years ago.”
If he thought it possible for his father to become any more shocked or outraged, he was wrong. Jean went positively crimson. “What’s this you say?” he nearly screamed. “Alex de Gare is… is dead?”
“Indeed he is,” Christian said, almost casually. “He was killed ten years ago courtesy of a St. John arrow. Do you know who you have been fighting all along? Alex’s wife. She took up arms in her husband’s stead. When I told you the de Gare’s were a strong bunch, I meant it. The women are the strongest of all. How does it feel knowing you have spent the past ten years fighting a woman who has quite ably held you at bay? I wonder who’s feeling the most shame now, Father? It certainly isn’t me.”
Jean went mad. He hurled himself across Christian’s desk, his clawed hands reaching for his son’s neck. As the inkwell splashed everywhere, Christian was fast enough to dodge his father’s hands but he ended up falling back over his chair in the process. As he fell backwards, Jean threw himself onto his son, his fingers straining for Christian’s throat.
Christian, however, still had the big quill in his hand and as his father came down on him, the quill was between them. Jean ended up impaling himself on the big steel and bone quill, the razor-sharp tip of the instrument driving deep into Jean’s chest. It pierced the skin, passed through the ribs, and plowed straight into the man’s heart. Jean’s heart was torn, blood gushed into his chest cavity, and he was dead in an instant.
Christian felt the quill pierce his father and felt the man go limp. The quill was still in his hand even though it was embedded in his father’s chest. Horrified, he yanked the quill from his father’s body and bright red blood poured out all over him. With a gasp, he rolled his father off of him and onto the floor.
“Da?” he whispered, grief filling him even as he could see that his father was very, very dead. “Good Christ… Da? Can you hear me?”
He was met with
utter silence. Rising to his knees, Christian gazed down at his father, his hand flying to his mouth as the gravity of the situation settled in. All he could do was stare at the man, tears filling his eyes. The shock was overwhelming.
“Oh… God,” he gasped. “What have I done? What have I done?”
He lurched to his feet, his horrified gaze still on his father. A sob escaped his lips and then another, but he fought them off, struggling to clear his mind as he realized, with certainty, that he had just killed his father. It had been an accident; a horrible misfortune that had been completely unforeseen. Jean, in his madness, had ended up killing himself. Christian could hardly believe it. Given his relationship with his father over the past few days, he fleetingly wondered if anyone else would, either.
But he had to get control of himself. He was a man of supreme calm, even when all else around him was unsettled and wild. Everything could be crumbling to dust but Christian St. John would remain like a rock. He drew on that strength, struggling to pull himself together. He tore his gaze away from his father; he couldn’t even look at the man, knowing what he had done. He had baited him, he knew, with talk of Alex de Gare’s death. Jean was already brittle and that information had thrown him over the edge. Wiping away his tears, he marched to the chamber door and threw it open only to find two soldiers standing guard in the corridor outside.
“You,” Christian jabbed a finger at one of the soldiers. “Find Jasper. Now.”
The soldier didn’t hesitate; when the Demon gave a command, it was meant to be obeyed. As the man ran off, Christian struggled to compose himself, leaving the door open as he wandered back into the room and stood over his father’s body. He was still standing there when Jasper entered.
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 202
