The Warrior Poet (49 page)

Gaithlin nodded.
“It was until yesterday,” she said. “Christian and I were married last night
and I became Lady St. John.”

Roger returned his
attention to her. “If I recall correctly, the House o’ de Gare and the House o’
St. John have feudin’ fer many years.”

“You know of it?”

Roger gave her a
wry grin. “We’ve heard tale o’ the war.
 
The north is a small place, m’lady. News travels.
 
I can remember me grandsire speakin’ o’it. Do
ye still fight?”

Gaithlin nodded,
thrilled and relieved that the man knew something of the history between her
family and Christian’s.
 
If he knew that,
then maybe he would understand the severity of the situation.

 
“Aye,” she nodded, feeling hopeful and
anxious. “Christian and I married to stop the bloodshed but Christian’s father
does not agree. He sent his men to take my husband back to Eden where he… he is
going to kill him.”

She was starting to
tear up and Roger peered closely at her. “Ye married the Demon of Eden without
his Da’s permission?”

She sniffled. “We
love each other.”

Roger’s brow
furrowed.
 
He thought on the situation a
moment before glancing back at his brother. “Did ye hear that, Macky? The Demon
is tryin’ tae stop the war with the House o’ de Gare but his Da doesna agree
wif ‘im.”

Mac shook his
shaggy head. “We saw the St. John army ridin’ north and being followed by
another army we dinna recognize,” he said, pointing to Alicia and her gang of
de Gare soldiers. “Now we find out that it’s the de Gare army and they are
bringin’ their war tae our lands.”

“That is not true,”
Alicia said; she could no longer remain silent. “We were following the St. John
army because we knew the Demon had abducted my daughter and was holding her for
ransom. We came to rescue her.”

“But yer daughter
says she married the Demon,” Roger pointed out. “The
lass
wants
peace.”

Alicia sighed
heavily as she nodded her head. “It is something we all want,” she admitted
hoarsely. “She told me that Jean St. John sent his men north to bring Christian
home to face his father for what he has done - marry the enemy. Jean will
surely kill him for marrying a de Gare.”

Gaithlin turned her
anxious gaze to Roger. “We must save him,” she whispered urgently. “Please let
us go so we can prevent Jean from killing him.”

Roger could see how
distressed she was, a young woman with her entire life in front of her, now
faced with the threat of losing her new husband.
  
He could feel her pain; it was evident in
everything about her.

“And how will ye do
this?” he wanted to know.

Gaithlin looked
resigned as well as anguished. “My mother is going to offer to surrender our
castle in exchange for Christian’s life,” she said. “If Jean wants total
victory over the House of de Gare, we will give it to him. We will give him
victory in this seventy year war. But at the price of his son’s life.”

Roger’s expression
was intense. “Ye would surrender yer home to the man?”

“I would surrender
everything if it would save my husband.”

Roger liked that
kind of courage and conviction; it was something he could believe in. In fact,
he was coming to like this strong, courageous woman who was willing to do
anything to save her husband. He admired that.
 
After a moment, he turned to his brother.

“It would seem we
have kin in need of assistance, Macky,” he said. “Perhaps if we ride inta
England with Lady St. John and her mother, Jean St. John might be more apt tae
listen tae their offer.”

Mac thought on that
a moment. “If he doesna, he would risk angerin’ the Douglas.”

“Not a healthy
state for any man.”

“’Tis true, ‘tis
true.”

“Ye
canna kill yer son fer lovin’ a woman.”

“Nay, but ye can
take a strap tae him.”

Roger waved his
brother off, grinning, as he focused on Gaithlin’s wide-eyed hopeful
expression.
 
He gestured at the hut.
    
“Go now and collect yer things,” he
told her, eyeing Malcolm. “And take yer little bodyguard with ye. We’ll ride
with
ye
tae help ye save yer husband.”

Gaithlin nearly
dropped Malcolm to the ground as she rushed at Roger, hugging him tightly.
  
He grinned, embarrassed, as she rushed off
towards the hut, relaying hurried orders to Malcolm as she went.
 
As Gaithlin hurried to gather her possessions
,
 
Roger
approached
Alicia and Quinton.
 
He seemed far more
interested in Alicia, the woman dressed as a knight.
 
He inspected her curiously before speaking.

“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’s 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 blinding 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 kill’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.