CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Cree,” Jean enunciated the name as if it held the key to the Secret of Life. “He’s near Cree.”
Quinton and Jasper lingered in differing positions by the Lord of Eden’s massive oaken desk, varied expressions creasing their similar features. Since Maggie’s wickedly-intended utterances a few days prior, Jean’s fanatical hatred of the de Gares seemed to have gained intensity.
Maggie’s murder was a striking example of a man dancing a fine jig over the craggy edge of madness. Jean knew she had been involved in some manner of covert de Gare dealings, although he had no desire to fully delve into the workings of her deceptive thoughts. All that mattered was that, somehow, she had been linked to Alex de Gare, and for that reason alone she had been summarily executed.
No trial, no jury, no consideration of mercy or pardon. Jean would never know the extent or details of Maggie’s apparent scheme and he frankly wasn’t overly interested; whatever it was, the vile blossom of malicious deception had been quelled the instant Jasper had driven his broadsword deep into her chest.
Jasper and several dozen men-at-arms were the only parties harboring knowledge of the method behind Maggie’s demise and Jean was quite certain that they would take said information to their graves with due loyalty. Acutely aware of the fact that the House of du Bois would quite literally become hysterical and vengeful in their quest to discover who had murdered their beloved daughter, Jean was positive that no finger would point to the slain woman’s future relatives.
In fact, Jean was quite able to perform a powerful act of grievance when the time became necessary. Pretending to be sorrowed when, in faith, he was wondering what had taken him so long to accomplish the task. With Marble-head Maggie dealt with in an entirely proper and justifiable manner, Jean was forced to disregard his heir’s future wife in lieu of focusing upon the man himself; Christian had sent word of his whereabouts and Jean was nearly crazed with the need to discover the true extent of Maggie’s vicious ramblings.
Even if the woman had been a liar and a fraud, Jean had not been able to ignore the seed of doubt she had so skillfully sewn. In fact, the more he nurtured and fed the seed, the more powerful it had grown until the entire vine of uncertainty infiltrated his mind.
A vine that was slowly, steadily, turning him against his heir, his most beloved son, solely based on the testimony of a known prevaricator. And the message contained within the yellowed parchment written in Christian’s own hand did nothing to ease his doubt. More than ever, he couldn’t shake the feeling.
“Quinton,” Jean broke from his train of tumultuous thought, his voice soft. “You and Jasper will ride north into the Galloway territory. The village of Cree, as I recall, is lodged near the southwestern portion of the boundaries. You will proceed to locate your brother and determine the state of the situation.”
Quinton cast his massive cousin a long glance before replying. His father wasn’t drunk this day, as he had been the night he had ordered Christian bound and returned to Eden should the rumors of his disloyalty prove truth. Still, there was an unsettling gleam to Jean’s eyes that was unrecognizable; a developing madness that seemed to have taken hold the very moment Maggie had spouted her vile rumors. It was a madness that went beyond normal de Gare hatred.
But Quinton was unable to determine to what extent the hatred ran. In truth, he was fearful for Christian should the rumors prove to be true. But he could not dwell on the approaching horrors, the prospect of Jean’s lunacy that threatened to rip apart the very fibers of St. John existence. Instead, he chose to linger on the very real possibility that Christian had maintained the steadfastness of his St. John loyalty in spite of his cunning female captive.
Quinton refused to acknowledge a change for the worse. Until then, he vowed to defend his brother’s loyalties, even in the face of his deranged father.
“I am sure all will be well, Da,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “Knowing Christian, he’s probably kept her tied to a tree the entire time. God have mercy on the de Gare woman, for the Demon most certainly will not.”
Jean didn’t reply for a moment, the tension in the room thickening as Quinton’s assessment of his brother’s qualities lingered in the still air. Quinton looked to the floor as Jasper looked away, both men knowing that Jean did not share the opinion of his youngest son’s statement. But neither one of them were willing to succumb to the Lord of Eden’s suspicions; to them, Christian was as infallible as God and admired by the two of them mayhap more than any other living man. Maggie’s words could not be truth.
Please… don’t let them be truth.
“Jasper, if all is well, you will remain behind with the captive while Christian returns to Eden,” Jean reached for a pewter flask of wine and both men cringed inwardly; as volatile as Jean was without the influence of alcohol, he certainly didn’t need the added fuel for his already-raging fire. “Quinton, you will escort your brother home post haste. I have several questions for him.”
“Like what?” although intimidated by his father as he downed several large swallows of wine, Quinton still felt compelled to defend his brother. “He has done nothing. We have discussed this before; Maggie was obviously lying out of jealously. You are simply supporting her misplaced sense of vengeance by believing her slander.”
Jean cast his youngest son a long, heady look. “I did not ask for your advice or counsel on this matter. Certainly I can make my own judgments and I choose to suspect that Maggie is more correct than you are willing to give credence.” Bringing the wine to his lips, he sighed as the fortifying liquid coursed over his tongue. “Now, you will do me the courtesy of obeying my orders. Ride north and assess the situation. Either way, I want Christian home to answer to these charges cast upon him. If he is indeed innocent, then I shall duly apologize. If not, then he shall meet my wrath.”
Jasper drew in a deep breath, puffing his cheeks out with the disbelief of the entire situation. Quinton, too, emitted a long sigh, entirely despondent with his father’s attitude. “And what does that mean? That you’re going to kill him for succumbing to his lusty nature?”
“I am going to kill him for succumbing to a de Gare,” Jean replied evenly, without hesitation. As Quinton opened his mouth to fervently argue, he held up a sharp hand to effectively cut off his son’s contention. With Quinton properly silenced, he focused on his plainly dismayed nephew. “Jasper, if it is determined that Christian’s loyalties have been compromised, then it will be your duty to do away with the de Gare captive. Do you comprehend me?”
“Christ, Da,” Quinton moaned quietly, with repulsion. “What good will a dead captive do for our cause? She will be of more value to us alive.”
“Dead or alive, it is of no consequence. As long as Alex believes she is alive, our goal will be accomplished.” Taking another long swallow of wine, he eyed his nephew and his youngest son. Their expressions of distress and consternation did not overly affect his hardened, maddening heart. “There is nothing further to discuss, gentle knights. Ride north immediately and return Christian to me.”
Jasper knew better than to argue. He quit the room immediately, his sharp bootfalls echoing off the stone walls of the corridor, fading into nothingness. Only Quinton remained, his jaw ticking with the force of his emotions as he gazed headily at his father.
“You are wrong,” he finally muttered, a hissing rasp in a last attempt to defend his brother’s honor. “Christian is far more loyal than any of us.”
“Mayhap, Quinnie,” Jean took another long, forceful drink of wine. “But somehow I suspect that Maggie’s tales were not entirely false.”
Quinton rolled his eyes in exasperation, his gloved hand slapping helplessly against the oaken desk. “With all Christian has meant to Eden and to the throne of England, you would believe the ramblings of a whore before you’d have faith in your own son’s established character?”
Jean held up a quelling finger, his Nordic-blue eyes glittering. As Quinton watched, his father seemed to come alive with torment, bleeding from his soul into the very air they breathed. Suddenly, the flicker of madness smoldering within the icy orbs had never been more pronounced and Quinton involuntarily stepped back, as if afraid he too would be touched by the madness.
“I did not divulge the entire contents of the missive, Quinton,” Jean’s voice seemed to echo strangely. “Before you defend your brother’s character, you will know that he has mentioned his discovery of a blood-link to the House of de Gare. Apparently, he has succeeded in acquiring knowledge to the effect that the de Gares and the St. Johns are distantly linked through the Clan Douglas and he asks that I consider this information before proceeding with my plans.” Watching Quinton’s face take on an odd gray cast, he nodded faintly in support of his theory. “Tell me; would the Christian you have come to know suggest any such mercy towards our most inherent enemy?”
Quinton swallowed hard, obviously struggling with his shock and confusion. “But… but if we are indeed related by blood to the House of de Gare, then mayhap he has a point. Mayhap we should…?”
“You will not support his treacherous suggestion!” Jean bolted to his feet, the alcohol already beginning to affect his manner. “Can you not see what has happened? The de Gare bitch has somehow discovered our Douglas ties, conveniently mapping her own heritage in order to save her life. And he believes her, Quinton. He believes her!”
Shaken and groping for some semblance of control, Quinton averted his gaze from his father’s maddening expression. Refusing to acknowledge that, somehow, Jean might possibly be correct. Mayhap Maggie had been right all along. Closing his eyes tightly as if to ward off the impending verity of the situation, he turned away from his agitated father.
“Simply because he mentioned the newly-discovered knowledge of mutual Douglas ties doesn’t mean he believes her,” he said hoarsely, fighting off the rising nausea. Dear God, what if Christian has indeed been swayed by the wench? “He merely believes he is doing his duty by relaying the information to you. Mayhap there is some truth to it.”
Jean suddenly slapped Quinton across the side of the face, bringing a stream of blood from the man’s lip as his signet ring grazed deep into the tender flesh. His ice-blue eyes, wild and unnatural, bore into Quinton’s astonished brown orbs.
“There is no truth,” he hissed, grabbing Quinton by the hair and shaking him brutally as if to punctuate his unquestionable statement. “We are not related to the de Gares by man or nature or God. They are our inherent enemies and as with all our natural foes, should be eradicated from the face of the earth. Do you comprehend?”
Lip bloodied and eyes glazed with shock, Quinton could barely nod. There was no arguing with the madness. “Aye, Da,” his voice was a whisper.
Jean gazed at his youngest son a moment longer before kissing his bloodied mouth, releasing his hair. Disoriented and trembling, he turned towards his desk and the flask of fine wine. “Ride north, Quinnie. Ride north and bring Christian home.”
Pale and quaking, Quinton struggled desperately against the overload of revelations that had constituted the past several minutes. Wanting to support his brother, yet distinctly baffled by the apparent contents of Christian’s missive. Knowing definitively that nothing would be settled until he rode north and assessed the situation himself and seeing the proof with his own eyes.
Watching his father drain the flask of wine, he was suddenly very eager to verify the entire circumstance. The sooner the truths were revealed, the sooner Christian could be vindicated or condemned.
Sighing heavily, Quinton raked his gloved fingers through his hair and turned for the door. “If we ride all night, we should reach Galloway by late tomorrow,” his voice was barely audible; he almost didn’t care if his father heard him or not. “Christian and I will return within four days at the most.”
Jean didn’t reply and Quinton did not wait for an answer. The sooner he rode north into the wilds of Scotland, the better for all.
Marching down the smoke-laced corridor, Quinton couldn’t decide if his love for his brother went beyond the hatred he sometimes felt for his father. Christ, if he could only determine which was greater, mayhap he could make a rational decision regarding Christian’s situation. Certainly, if the accusations were true, he didn’t want to return his errant brother to Eden to face certain death. But his loyalties to his family and ancestral beliefs held inherently strong against the incursion of the de Gare woman’s persuasion.
He was weak, he knew. Too weak to truly help his brother, too weak to truly defy his father’s convictions. The only matter of certainty he was able to perform at the moment was conforming to superior orders, as all good knights were required to do. Obeying his father’s directive to ride northward.
Northward into the gaping jaws of Christian’s future.
*
“They’ve launched themselves to Scotland,” Eldon’s voice was grim. “Our troops are ready and awaiting your command.”
Clad in chain mail and snug portions of plate armor that fit her voluptuous body poorly, Alicia managed a faint nod. “How long since they’ve left?”
“At least an hour and a half,” Eldon replied. “It’s taken that long for our spies to return from Eden. Apparently, Quinton and Jasper St. John are leading the company personally.”
Alicia’s steady gaze met with Eldon’s brown orbs for a lengthy moment before focusing on the broadsword clutched within her hand. “If Quinton and Jasper are heading the party, then it will make our task that much more formidable.”
Sighing delicately, she sheathed Alex’s heavy sword against her thigh and squared her shoulders in a futile attempt to bolster her sagging courage. God, how she wished there was another way to go about Gaithlin’s rescue; facing Christian, Jasper and Quinton St. John in battle was certainly not the most attractive prospect. But there was no other alternative; she’d known that from the first. The only chance for the successful reclamation of the de Gare heiress was to meet her abductors with full force and pray that Gaithlin would be easily extracted while her captors were occupied in battle.
It was Alicia’s only hope. One that was weakening by the moment as she pondered the prospects of facing Jean St. John’s most powerful knights within the confines of Galloway. But she maintained the firm opinion that there was no other alternative and she struggled to support a confident, determined attitude under her lover’s intense stare.
Forcing a weak smile purely for Eldon’s benefit, she met his scrutinizing gaze with a brave expression. “Then the order is given, Sir Eldon. We follow Eden’s party into Galloway to rescue my daughter.”
In spite of her courageous facade, Eldon could feel her apprehension, mingling with his own. Not only would their rescue incursion be forced to deal with the mighty Demon of Eden, but with his powerful brother and cousin as well. It was an element they had not fully anticipated, although the possibilities had always been present. But neither Alicia nor Eldon honestly expected that Jean would send his two most powerful knights into the wilds of Galloway to support the Demon’s position.
“It’s a trap,” Uriah stood at the entrance to the solar, his aged face grim. “I told you that woman is setting us up for destruction. She and Jean are working together in this, of that I am sure.”
Alicia gazed at the older warrior, his words splintering her frail wall of bravery. “Be that as it may, we have no other choice. Gaithlin is in trouble and she needs our assistance.”
Uriah’s ancient eyes glared at Alicia for a long moment, his expression bordering on sedition. He simply couldn’t believe that his mistress was willing to descend into the Fires of Hell when a trap had been so obviously laid. Even if the bait was Winding Cross’ very own heiress, there were other ways to go about retrieving their native daughter.
“Have you even considered any other alternatives?” his voice was pleading and condescending at the same time. “Or are you so completely convinced that Lady Margaret is truthful that you would simply accept her word without hesitation?”
By Alicia’s side, Eldon’s brown orbs glittered dangerously at the man who had trained him since childhood. “You will not use that tone with her, Uriah,” he growled. “Lady Alicia is doing as she sees best and it is not your duty to question her decision.”
“Someone needs to question her!” Uriah snapped brusquely. “She’s leading us all to our deaths!”
“Then you are free to remain behind if you feel so strongly,” Alicia replied evenly before Eldon could throttle the man. Grasping her younger lover by the arm in a quieting gesture, her gaze remained focused on her husband’s loyal knight. “Uriah, if I felt there were any other alternatives, then I would have gladly considered them all. But there is no other choice. We must follow Eden’s troops into the wilds of Scotland if we are to locate my daughter. And if we die in the process, then I suppose it is the Will of God. We must trust Him to protect us in our most vulnerable hour.”
Mottle-cheeked underneath his scratchy beard, Uriah glared at Eldon and Alicia for a long moment before turning away in an attempt to control his anger and fear. Alicia’s calm reasoning and superior intellect always provided a relaxing effect upon his naturally agitated demeanor; the further he pondered her words, the more resigned he became. Whether or not he agreed with her willing trust in a strange woman bearing the promise of assistance, it was not his place to question his seasoned mistress. As always, he was sworn to obey.
Emitting a heavy sigh, he slapped his helm onto his bushy head and deftly secured the stays as he turned towards his lady. “The men are ready, m’lady,” he said quietly. Reconciled to his fate. “We await your presence.”
Alicia smiled faintly, grasping her own helm from Eldon’s extended hand. “Thank you, Uriah,” she replied softly. “We will delay no further. Gaithlin is waiting.”
Uriah was the last man out of the solar. Wondering if it would be his final glimpse of the beloved, moss-covered room.
*
Sweetheart Abbey was founded in 1273 by Lady Dervorgilla after her husband, John Balliol, was killed by Robert the Bruce in the battle for the Scot throne. Gazing at the red-walled abbey, Christian remembered his mother’s recitation of the sad and poignant story of a lady so entirely devoted to her husband’s memory that she would dedicate an abbey to his honor.
In faith, he had not considered marrying in the Dumfries abbey simply because he was hopeful to find a cloister or monastery closer to their Galloway encampment. Although it had taken over six hours for them to reach the lovely little church, Christian realized that Sweetheart Abbey, or Dulce Cor as it was known locally, was indeed the perfect place to seal their union.
He and Gaithlin drew in the sight of the gentle Norman structure with a mixture of awe and excitement, listening to Malcolm’s endless commentary of the view of the Firth of Solway lingering in the distance. The hills were lush with the green ambience of early fall, casting a delightfully pristine aura over the landscape. Gaithlin dismounted the snappish charger with her gaze riveted to the brilliant scenery, slapping distractedly at the animal when it gnashed its teeth in her direction.
“It’s lovely,” she murmured, hearing the creak of Christian’s armor as he dismounted behind her. “After the story you told me regarding its legacy, ’tis a perfect place to marry.”
Moving to dislodge his purse from his saddlebags, Christian gave the red structure a long glance. “ ’Twas said that Lady Dervorgilla kept her husband’s embalmed heart close to her, always. When she died, both she and Lord Balliol’s heart were interred beneath the floor of the sanctuary. Together for all eternity.”
Gaithlin tore her eyes away from the structure long enough to cast Christian a look of pure, unrestrained warmth. “A perfect place, sire,” she repeated for his ears alone. “A perfect place for us.”
As Christian and Gaithlin predictably lost themselves in the midst of tender, meaningful gazes, Malcolm leapt eagerly off the rear of the charger. Having ridden happily behind the English warlord and his lady all the way from their wooded encampment, he was oblivious to the passionate aura surrounding him. Clad in the new tunic that Gaithlin had basted together, he was wildly excited with his very first trip out of Galloway.
Appearing reasonably clean and healthy, the joyful young lad was most anxious to be witness to a ceremony, as Christian had explained vaguely, that was a mere formality; although he and Gaithlin were man and wife in mind and body and spirit, the church was nonetheless required to legalize the arrangement.
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 apprehension. 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.
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?