CHAPTER TWO
Not surprisingly, the tiny convent of St. Esk was built to withstand a siege. As Christian watched his men take a battering ram to the heavy oaken door of the dark-stoned abbey, the fact that he was reluctant to violate the sanctuary of God’s holy house only added to the aversion of procuring the de Gare wench.
Still, he could scarcely believe the mindless folly his father had forced him into, using words of cunning and cruelty to coerce his reluctant son. No matter what Christian’s convictions, Jean bullied the much larger and much stronger man into compliance with the powerful weapon of family honor.
You are my son and will do as I say.
Certainly, he was the man’s son. But he was also a knight, and being a knight of the realm meant upholding the sanctity of the church. It was distressing to realize he was walking the fine line between sustaining his knightly vows and the loyalty of his family’s honor, not quite devoting his full allegiance to either. As he listened to his men grunt and curse in their efforts, he wished there was an easier way of going about his father’s objective. He wasn’t pleased with the compromise his dedications had taken.
Shifting impatiently on his massive legs, he let out a weary sigh; given the heavy losses Eden had sustained during her most recent siege of Winding Cross, he would have been entirely happy to rest and regroup before attempting the siege of St. Esk. But there was no time for respite, as Jean had sternly suggested. Better to gain the de Gare wench immediately and Christian had been sent north with all due speed.
Certainly, he was not looking forward to isolating himself with the woman while his father forced Alex de Gare to come to terms of surrender. Sequestered in the woods of Galloway Forest, he wasn’t warm with the thought of spending an indeterminate amount of time guarding a woman he could just as easily do away with.
His jaw ticked at the latter thought, realizing he was coming to think like his father more and more every day. Normally, he strenuously adhered to the moral and chivalrous codes of an honor-bound knight; women were creatures of grace and beauty and completely removed from the realm of violent thought or action. But when it came to a de Gare female, he found himself willing to make an exception and the idea greatly distressed him.
He wondered if close-quartered isolation with his mortal enemy would bring about the woman’s death regardless of his personal convictions; hatred had a strange way of clouding one’s moral beliefs.
He was jolted from his darker ponderings as a shout pierced the night air, indicating the main door to the abbey had been breached. Spurring his charger forward, he trampled across the wide garden of precious summer vegetables and ripped through a small wooden fence in his resolve to reach his destination. Dismounting with a purpose, he shoved past his excitable men and made his way into the depths of the convent.
There were dozens of St. John soldiers on his heel, armed to the hilt with weapons and mail and fully prepared to tear the structure apart in their quest to reach the intended target. But Christian’s broadsword remained sheathed as he surfaced into a wide common room; shadows of frightened nuns ducking for cover flitted across the dim walls and Christian’s advance came to a halt as he sized up the non-resistant situation.
“I would speak with the abbess!” he roared.
Certainly, there was no man in the realm louder or more terrifying that Christian St. John. King Henry remarked once that the man’s voice could bring a response from God himself and, without a doubt, he was used to complete obedience in all matters. But his sharp command was met with silence and his ice-blue gaze scanned the room with rising irritation.
“Bring me the abbess and no harm will come to this place. Deny my request and I shall burn it to the ground.”
He could hear faint splinters of hissed whispers, accompanied by the shuffle of feet. Jaw ticking as his annoyance grew, he opened his mouth to once again issue his demand when a slight, huddled woman emerged into the weak light. Christian focused his attention on the quaking gray form.
“Are you the abbess?”
The woman didn’t reply for a moment. “Wouldst thou violate our haven, my lord?”
“Gaithlin de Gare. I want her.”
Christian could see the woman’s average features in the soft illumination as they twisted with puzzlement. “The Lady Gaithlin… who art thou, my lord?”
He moved toward her, shoving aside a small table and setting it on end with a startling crash. “It does not matter,” he said. “Give her to me and I shall leave you in peace.”
The woman visibly swallowed and Christian could hear more hissed whispers, presumably directed at her. She was obviously terrified, confused with uncertainty, and he took another step in her direction to hasten her compliance.
“My patience grows thin,” he growled. “You will deliver the woman to me or face my wrath.”
The nun took a step back, nearly tripping over her woolen robes. “I… thou hast violated God’s house, my lord. Punishment will be severe.”
Christian’s jaw ticked again, hearing his own thoughts in the woman’s shakily-uttered threat and he found himself again wishing he had refused to do his father’s bidding. Nonetheless he had been foolish enough to come and refused to leave without his objective. Irritated with himself as well as the resistant nun, his manner hardened.
“Where is she!” It was a demand, not a question.
The woman’s courage was rapidly failing. “She has sought sanctuary, my lord. Thou art forbidden her company.”
“I have not ravaged your door only to be denied the object of my endeavor. I will not ask you again.”
More urgent whispers came from the shadows and the slight nun was growing increasingly agitated. Although she was rightly terrified of the massive knight before her, Christian lacked the patience to extend the understanding he was capable of demonstrating; instead, he moved toward her with deadly assurance and the woman stumbled away from him, falling to her knees and raising her hands as if to ward off his evil. Her fear, her abject panic, was a palpable entity as she cowered at his feet.
“Up the stairs!” she cried, her voice quivering with terror. “In the communal infirmary!”
“Nay!” Another nun came screaming from the shadows, her palms extended to Christian as if to physically stop him. “You have no right! The woman is under God’s protection!”
He raised a dark-blond eyebrow at the woman, his expression impassive. “She is mine and you will not interfere.”
The nun was older, wiser, and far less terrified of his mighty presence. Instead, she seemed deeply angered at the intrusion and after a lengthy pause, she forcibly calmed as if to realize that paralleling the knight’s fury and power was an improbable feat.
“Are you from Eden?” she asked.
Christian was momentarily caught off-guard as he faced off against the seasoned woman; his icy stare glittered in the weak light. “What do you know of Eden, other than the Biblical reference?”
The nun met his gaze evenly, perhaps knowingly. Calming further, she cocked a worn eyebrow. “I am told that a demon resides there. At least, according to Gaithlin de Gare. Are you perchance that demon, my lord?”
His irritation with the situation faded somewhat as he gazed into intelligent, shrewd eyes. “To some.”
The woman’s attention lingered on him a moment and he heard her sigh heavily; with a touch of resignation, mayhap. “I have granted the lady sanctuary and I will repeat my subordinate’s denial of your request,” she said evenly. “You may not have that which you seek and I beg you to leave us in peace.”
Christian realized that he might be forced to carry out his violent threat and he was loathed to do so. Issuing his own heavy sigh, his massive gauntlet rested on the hilt of his sword. “I will leave you in peace if you turn the woman over to me.” Almost as an afterthought, he added: “I will not harm her, I swear it.”
Clearly, the nun was unconvinced. “But you are her enemy, Devil. You are our enemy as well, which you have proven by raiding our sanctuary.”
“I am not your enemy nor am I a raider. Were I either, your abbey would presently be on fire and your nuns would be fodder for my men. As you have witnessed, I am attempting to gain my ends with the least violent means possible. Whether or not I commence with my threats is your choice alone.”
“There is no choice to be had. If you leave now under peaceful conditions, I shall not mention your violation to my superiors. I vow the entire event will be forgotten.”
Christian sighed again, feeling his fatigue and disgust all over again. After a moment, he turned to one of his men and rumbled a series of orders. The man promptly disappeared, retreating to the waiting horses outside while the standoff in the common room remained brittle. When the soldier eventually reappeared, he thrust a small parcel at his liege before falling back into the ranks of heavily armed warriors.
Christian slowly unbound the top of the silken pouch. Eyeing the elder nun, he motioned for her to step closer. With a good deal of reluctance, she did as she was bade and gasped with fear and surprise when he grasped her arm.
“For your troubles,” he said, his deep voice considerably softer. Opening the woman’s palm, he proceeded to dump the contents of the purse into her hand.
Several gold coins glistened in the soft illumination, flickering their wicked intentions as loudly as if Christian had shouted the bribe. It was more money than the poverty-bound abbey had seen in a great while and the ancient nun licked her lips with unconscious glee as she examined the monetary persuasion before her.
Torn between the desperate need for the coinage and the sanctuary she had granted a despairing woman, she could scarcely isolate her thoughts; she could purchase enough supplies for years to come with the shimmering trinkets in her hand and the thought of sustaining her abbey through harsh winters and bleak years alike worked a powerful magic in her heart. But in the same breath, she was undermining the very purpose of God’s law of sanctuary by considering the bribery that was soiling her palm.
It was a cruel dilemma. The nun licked her lips again, praying God would forgive her for weighing the needs of her abbey over the preservation of a single woman. After all, the towering knight had promised no harm would come to her; but could she trust the word of a knight who would violate the haven of the church simply to gain his objective? A knight who was willing to bribe her for her own sinful considerations in the matter?
“I await your answer, sister,” Christian’s deep, melodious voice drifted upon the stale air like a symphony. “Certainly my donation will make compensation for your troubles.”
Distracted from her desperate thoughts, the woman struggled to swallow away her guilt. Aged eyes met with those of ice-blue. “Are you aware of what you are asking?”
“I am.”
“You are being most unfair with your solicitation. Wealth such as this will feed my people for years.”
“I realize that.”
The woman swallowed again, her indecision ripping her apart. Her gaze moved to the gold coins once again, feeling strangely like Judas Iscariot as her beliefs were strongly swayed by the scent of money.
“How, may I ask, am I to explain my weakness to her family?”
Christian took her softly uttered plea for a positive response to his resourceful inducement. “You will not,” his voice was soft, incredibly soothing. “You will tell them that she mysteriously vanished and you have no knowledge of her whereabouts.”
Turning on his heel, he silently ordered half of his men to mount the stairs to the second floor. With a subsequent gesture, he sent the rest of his soldiers to the foyer to restore the battered door as best they could while their liege went about acquiring his goal. Leaving the nuns shaken and pondering what sins had managed to infiltrate their isolated abbey in the form of forty gold crowns, Christian found his way to the deserted corridor on the upper level of the structure.
It was dim and still as the soldiers sent on ahead examined chambers in sequence, searching for the common infirmary. Opening and slamming heavy oak panels, their exploration was not a quiet endeavor and Christian harshly admonished his men not to destroy the abbey in their haste. But the scent of a de Gare was a strong intoxicant, feeding their bloodlust and hatred, and they were determined to find the woman no matter who, or what, suffered in the process.
At the end of the corridor was a large door, heavy and worn with use. Logically, Christian assumed that a larger door would threshold a larger room, mayhap the common infirmary they were seeking. Without hesitation, he enclosed the latch in his gloved hand and threw his shoulder into the panel to force it open. As the door flew wide and slammed against the old stone wall it was anchored against, Christian stomped into the room with the full expectation of coming face to face with his intended victim.
But his triumphant expression was cut short as the wind was slammed from his chest by a blow of such force that he swore his ribs had been caved in. The powerful explosion sent him reeling in spite of his heavy armor, stars dancing before his stunned eyes. In his shock and agony, he realized it would be easy to relent to unconsciousness as he stumbled to the floor.
On his knees as the room spun recklessly, Christian struggled to regain his footing. Dimly aware of the shouts of his men, he managed to halfway unsheathe his sword when another blow caught him on the shoulder, sending him sprawling. Smacking his helmed head against the wooden floor, the comforting darkness beckoned stronger than before but Christian staunchly resisted. He could not relent to the black realm of nothingness if he was going to survive.
Struggling with every ounce of his fading consciousness, he rolled to his back in time to see a woman descending upon him with a long iron candle sconce wielded high above her head. Unsheathing his sword with amazing speed considering his compromised senses, he brought the weapon up to counter the blow that was undoubtedly aimed at his face.
Meeting with his heavy broadsword, the woman shrieked with frustration as a horde of stunned St. John soldiers managed to halt her attack. Kicking and struggling like a lion in a snare, the avenging female was removed from Christian as he attempted to regain his balance. Struggling against one hundred pounds of armor that was usually weightless on his powerful frame, he rose on knees that had developed the consistency of jelly.
Even if the woman had been prevented from attacking him again, she was not subdued in the least. Striking out with a booted foot, she caught one of her captors in the groin and sent the soldier to the floor. Grunting like a man, she twisted and threw her body weight about in a wild attempt to dislodge the hands that held her.
Although in the grip of substantially stronger men, she succeeded in pulling one of her arms free. Swinging a balled fist at the nearest soldier, she caught the unfortunate simpleton in the nose and blood sprayed in all directions as she turned her frenzied attentions to another soldier. Fortunately, the man possessed enough sense to step out of her frantic range.
As Christian stood on unsteady feet, the soldier who had moved away from the crazed woman suddenly lashed out a mailed fist and caught her on the side of the skull. Instantly, she collapsed in a heap, ending several long seconds of a most brutal situation. As quickly as it started, the assault was sharply concluded.
The room that had been filled with harsh grating gasps and shuffles of violence was instantly hushed. The shocked St. John soldiers looked to each other in uncertainty, unbelieving that a single woman had managed to catch them off-guard with her ferocious assault and brutal tactics.
“Good Christ,” Christian hissed, raising his visor and taking a deep, steadying breath. “What banshee is this?”
Ignoring the men with the bloodied nose and violated groin, the remaining St. John soldiers shook off their surprise, and embarrassment, as they joined their liege in observing the prostrate woman. Masses of long, glittering blond hair covered the floor and a good portion of her body, obscuring her face.
“It has got to be the de Gare bitch,” one of the soldiers rumbled. “There is no one in this room but her.”
Christian passed a rapid glance about the long room; except for a few crumbling cots, it was vacant and hardly furnished. Returning his attention to the unconscious woman, he found himself taking a hard, long look at the deeply-hated enemy. He’d never seen a de Gare at close range and could scarcely believe she was actually within his midst; finally, he was beholding the object of seventy years of powerful loathing. He had her.
“She’s a big one,” another soldier commented. “Tall and strong.”
“And stupid,” came yet another voice. “She will be severely punished for her transgression against Sir Christian.”
Ears ringing but his balance somewhat restored, Christian ignored the comments of his men and motioned to the two soldiers standing closest to her. “Pick her up,” he commanded softly. He was already moving for the door, anxious to be gone from the abbey he had technically desecrated with his harsh presence and bribery. Now that he had obtained his objective, he was eager to put the entire distasteful episode of acquisition behind him.
Christian made his way down the corridor and took the stairs with his customary grace. Several of his soldiers had finished rehanging the nearly splintered door and he passed a lingering glance at the handiwork, concerned that the repair had been completed correctly. Behind him, the soldier bearing the unconscious woman reached the bottom of the stairs and Christian wasn’t surprised when the ancient nun who had accepted his monetary graft emerged from the musty shadows.
Her aged face was wide with concern as she observed the young woman slung over the warrior’s shoulder like a sack of grain. Her long blond hair dragged along the floor and her lanky arms drifted bonelessly as the nun tore her horrified gaze away from the sight and focused on the mighty knight.
“You promised you would not hurt her!”
Christian’s expression was impassive. “I assure you that she contributed to her own injury. My men were merely defending themselves against her onslaught.”
The woman reached out and touched the silken blond hair with a wrinkled hand, silently begging forgiveness for the results her sinful actions had caused. Christian watched the old nun closely.
“I would gather this is the Lady Gaithlin de Gare? I did not confiscate the wrong woman?”
The nun shook her head slowly, turning away from the limp woman with a painfully remorseful expression. She could scarcely fight down the guilt that threatened to consume her.
“It is her.”
Christian felt a great deal of satisfaction at the confirmation. Without delay, he swept from the devastated abbey in a great form of mail and power, strength and might. The mission had been a success and he was eager to send word to his father in that regard. With Gaithlin de Gare captive, Jean would be able to coerce her father to attractive surrender terms. He could smell victory already.
The great white destrier was grazing on the myriad of uprooted vegetables that populated the nearly-razed garden. Christian whistled sharply to the beast and the animal immediately broke from his feeding frenzy, his mouth full of greens as he tried to eat around the massive bit.
“I sincerely hope those leaves are not poisonous,” he admonished the steed as if the horse could understand him, pulling bits of stem from the huge lips. “ ’Twould serve you right, you gluttonous beast.”
The horse nickered softly in response as if to apologize. Chuckling softly, Christian was interrupted by several soldiers, one bearing the body of the comatose woman captive. Smile vanished, he eyed the de Gare wench and emitted a harsh, grumbling sigh.
“Put her on my saddle,” he growled, moving to check his bags for the final time; he had packed nearly everything of any value or import, stuffing the pouches strapped to his armored saddle until they were full to bursting. Since his isolation in the wilds of Galloway was to be for an unknown amount of time, he wanted to be sure he was prepared for every advent and he found himself repeating the list of items for the fourth time that day.
Tally complete, he was in the process of resecuring a strap when his men obediently tossed the woman across his saddle in a brutal gesture; even in her unconscious state, she grunted. In spite of the fact that she was a de Gare, Christian cast his men a disapproving glance.
“It would not do to mortally injure her before we achieve our goal,” he rumbled, giving the woman a shove on the bottom to better balance her and noticing how wonderfully supple and firm her buttocks were beneath his hand; he could feel her through the mail. However, he would not be distracted and secured his visor in preparation for mounting. “Return home and tell my father that our mission was a success. I am taking the woman into the Galloway territories and will send word as to our approximate location if I am able.”
The soldiers nodded firmly. “The territories are a wide expanse of lands, my lord,” one man said. “Mayhap we should accompany you until you have settled, and then return to your father with the information.”
Christian tightened his gauntlets and pushed the woman’s leg out of the way so that he could slide his foot into the stirrup. “Unnecessary. I am quite capable of sending word of my location when I am able.”
He mounted the saddle, pushing the limp burden forward and struggling to find a comfortable position for them both. The boneless, limp captive nearly slithered to the ground during his movement, but Christian grabbed hold of her wonderful hair and managed to right her somewhat. Cursing and grunting, he put one arm around her slender torso while the other grasped the reins.
“Waste no time,” he commanded in his deep baritone. “Return to my father with the victorious news. The de Gare wench is ours.”
Digging his spurs into the pristine white sides of his charger, the horse thundered its way out of the destroyed vegetable garden and northward to the road. As Christian’s men watched, their liege disappeared down the well-traveled byway en route to the Scots border.
“Sir Jean will be mightily pleased to hear that we have succeeded in capturing Alex’s daughter,” one of the men said, observing the faint outline of Jean St. John’s distant son.
The men nodded in agreement, moving for their mounts and reveling in a triumphant mission against their hated enemy. Truthfully, there had been very little victory to rejoice over as of late and this particular mission, however small and bordering on blasphemous, was nonetheless an asset to their cause.
Like most other men-at-arms in the midst of England’s realm, their fathers and grandfathers had devoted their lives to the same houses they themselves served. It was a tradition of loyalty passed on through the generations, and the seasoned men bearing the colors of the House of St. John took great pride in their vows of dedication. As with the tradition of service, another more powerful legacy also infected their way of life – the traditional hatred of the de Gares. The prisoner on Christian’s saddle was as important to them as it was to him.
“I wonder what Christian is going to do with the wench,” a particularly seasoned soldier scratched at his dirty mail, then rubbed his nose with an equally dirty finger. “He’s got quite the reputation as a randy with the women.”
“Not that woman,” the sergeant in charge shook his head, whistling loudly for the rest of the men to assemble. “She’s a de Gare and entitled to such treatment. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tied her to a tree and left her to the elements.”
“Or deflowered her and begot her with his bastard,” the dirty soldier snickered.
“Who’s to say she’s virgin?” the sergeant snorted, stressing his point. “I have yet to meet a pure de Gare.”
As the final stragglers moved into formation, the sergeant counted heads and, satisfied, waved his men onward. As the horses cantered lightly across the trampled grass and met with the dirt of the road, he turned to the dirty soldier once again.
“I shall be quite curious to learn what Christian’s betrothed has to say to the fact that he’s taken another woman to Scotland,” he laughed softly at the thought. “Marble-head Maggie won’t be pleased in the least.”
The men who heard the comment snorted loudly with humor as the horses thundered down the rocky thoroughfare. The dirty soldier picked at his nose again. “Marble-head Maggie,” he repeated with a longing sigh. “Every man who looks at her grows hard for the woman.”
“Why do you think they call her Marble-head?” the sergeant replied over the roar of the hooves. “She can bring a man’s head to marble without even trying. And I hear she pleasures Christian with her talents all the time.”
The men nodded and snorted their agreement as the dirty soldier spoke loudly so that all would know of his intimate knowledge of their liege’s activities. “My own daughter says she’s seen Christian and Maggie in the alcove in the great hall, her mouth to his member. She’s a delightful trollop, Maggie is.”
“I know I would like a piece of her,” the sergeant growled, casting a knowing glance at his subordinates. “I hear she even swallows.”
His men appeared rightly awestruck, gasping their surprise and pleasure at the thought of a woman who swallowed a man’s seed as he spent his ecstasy, allowing him uninterrupted enjoyment until his convulsions had ceased. Reaching a new level of lust and wonder with the mysterious aura of the Lady Margaret du Bois, they allowed the conversation to linger a moment on that highly erotic note.
“She left Eden a week ago for Grayburn Fortress,” one of the men practically groaned after the lengthy pause, still lingering on the previous revelation. “She and Lady Carolyn Howard are the best of friends.”
“The Lady Carolyn is another high-bred trollop,” the dirty soldier said firmly. He liked to believe he knew everything about everybody. “She’s spent too much time in France, learning their lustful secrets. Maggie probably went to Grayburn to discover more of Carolyn’s methods to use against Sir Christian.”
The sergeant shook his head slowly as they entered a particularly dense collection of trees. “Maggie already knows all there is to know about pleasuring a man. She went to Grayburn to fornicate with Kelvin Howard.”
“But Sir Kelvin doesn’t live at his father’s castle,” the dirty soldier said, appalled that he had not been the first to hear of the relationship between Kelvin and Maggie. “He resides at Forrestoak.”
The sergeant cast him a knowing glance. “A half-day from Grayburn. I have heard Maggie spends the majority of her visits to Carolyn at Kelvin’s manor.”
’Twas of no concern for a man to be unfaithful to his betrothed, but it was an entirely different matter if the woman was indulging in acts of betrayal. The conversation came to an uneasy, thoughtful end as the horses thundered down the deserted thoroughfare, each man pondering his private, if not amorous, thoughts.
Eden beckoned nearly two hours away and the company made haste with their message of victory. With Sir Christian guarding the wench, she was as captive as Lucifer in Hades and already they could smell the panic soon to infiltrate Alex de Gare’s soul. A panic that would lead him to his own demise.