The Warrior Poet (16 page)

Exhausted by her
emotional upheaval, Gaithlin allowed him to seat her aboard his steed. Mounting
behind her, he pulled her against him in a manner he was coming quite
accustomed to, finding a good deal of comfort and orientation in the
familiarity they were beginning to share.

Gaithlin settled
back against him as he spurred his charger down the byway, content in his arms
in spite of the wild ride of sentiment that had constituted her temperament
minutes before. Gazing into Christian's beautiful eyes, listening to his words,
she was convinced that he was a reluctant partner in his father's grand scheme
to achieve peace.

Naïve though she
might be, she was intuitive enough to realize that the Demon of Eden was not a
living, breathing machine of war and hatred. Over the past four days, she had
been witness to glimpses of an emotional depth within in his brilliant eyes
that she could scarcely hope to comprehend; silent suggestions of the true man
beneath the reputation.
Even if her mother rejected Jean St. John's
attempt at blackmail, she knew Christian would not allow his family's vengeance
to harm her. The Demon would protect her.

Snuggled
contentedly in Christian's arms, she observed the landscape surrounding them,
the gently rolling hills shaded with hues of wild heather. The memories of
panic and humiliation faded into the recesses of her mind as she drew in the
tranquil scenery.

"Where are
we?"

He heard her
softly-uttered question, knowing there was no longer any reason to keep her in
mystery as to her destination.

"Scotland,
my lady."

"Scotland?"
she repeated, perking up somewhat and glancing about with more of an interest.
"My grand-grandmother was Scots.
From the Clan Douglas.
Are we anywhere near their lands?"

Christian felt a
bolt of shock surge through him as the possibilities raged inside his head.
Her
grand-grandmother was a Douglas.
Good Christ, was it actually possible that
she was related to him somehow? Although the Clan Douglas was a vast
conglomeration of families and allies, they were all interrelated and
intertwined to varying degrees.

Although acutely
interested in determining the proximity of their relationship, he refrained
from mentioning his excitement at the moment. If the St. Johns and the de Gares
were linked through unknown Scot ties, then his father would have to be made
aware of the fact. And with Jean's powerful sense of family loyalties and
bloodlines, it was not entirely inconceivable that he would reconsider his
blackmail towards the de Gares upon discovering that his beloved wife had
somehow linked him with his deadliest enemy.

The further he
pondered the quandary, the more excited he became. Unknowingly, Gaithlin may
have very well delivered the vehicle through which a seventy year old feud
would be quelled. Unknowingly, her innocent remark may have brought about the
beginning of the end.

He was so consumed
with his ideals that he hardly noticed when Gaithlin shifted in the saddle
before him, turning to see what he had not answered. His eyes were distant,
even when they abruptly focused on her.

She smiled weakly.
"Are we near Douglas lands?"

Vaguely, he nodded.
"We approach." Gazing into her exquisite eyes, he couldn't help
himself from repeated her innocent statement, exhaling a nearly-demanding
statement. "Your grand-grandmother was a Douglas relative?"

She nodded.
"My mother's grandmother was the daughter of Angus Alan Douglas, laird of
Clan Douglas. She married John Percy, a family relation to the Northumberland
Percys, and settled in North Yorkshire."

Christian stared at
her. He simply couldn't believe what he was hearing. His vow of silence on the
matter from moments before was dashed in a second. "My mother is also
descended from Clan Douglas," his voice was raspy with awe and surprise.
"Her grandfather was the son of Angus Alan Douglas, laird of Clan
Douglas."

Gaithlin realized
the blood ties perhaps even faster than he had. Her eyes widened. "Your
mother
is a Douglas relation?" she repeated in wonder. "But... if your
grand-grandfather and my grand-grandmother were...."

"Brother and
sister, so it would seem."

"Then that
makes us…."

"Related.
Second
cousins, in fact."

They continued to
stare at each other in stunned silence. Gaithlin was first to re-discover her
lagging tongue.

"The St. Johns
and the de Gares are linked, Christian," she whispered with incredulity.
"We have been linked for years and never knew it."

He couldn't take
his eyes off her. In the brief span of time that had been encompassed with the
shock of discovery, he found himself pondering a most impacting ideal.
Suddenly, he knew how to end the Feud. As Gaithlin de Gare lived and breathed
before him, he was more aware of the possible cessation of seventy years of
bloodshed than he had ever been in his entire thirty-three years. Good Christ,
he knew how to end it all.

"We know it
now, don't we?"

'Duplicity is the weak man's truth.'

 
~Chronicles of
Christian St. John

 
Vl. V, pg CLVI

CHAPTER
SEVEN

The parchment was
new and bright, the ink perfectly stroked in the lines of communication. But to
Alicia de Gare, it was the ugliest, most horrendous missive she had ever laid
eyes on.

Clad in a simple
gown of gray wool, covering the heavy black boots she habitually wore, Alicia
had been pondering the contents of the missive for the better part of the day.
Alone in her husband's solar, she could scarcely function beyond breathing and
reading. Her shock, her terror of events both past and future, cleaved a
painful path deep into her chest. She was so involved with her turmoil that she
failed to hear a soft knock at the solar door.

Another rap sounded
moments later, louder than the first. Alicia's head came up from the worn table
before her and she hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks, struggling to
compose what was left of her shattered control. Only then did she ask the
caller to enter.

A man dressed in
aged, worn armor entered the room with measured hesitance. His face appeared
older than his thirty-odd years, creased with concern and fatigue. He
approached the leaning table, his non-descript brown eyes riveted to the short
woman seated at the splintered edge.

"What did the
missive say, my lady?"

Alicia focused on
the knight, one of only two remaining to protect Winding Cross. As Sir Eldon
Barkley's father had served Alex and Glenn de Gare, so did his son.
A tradition of service that continued even into the depths of poverty
and ruin.

Sometimes Alicia
wished she could dismiss the young man, allowing him his freedom to pursue a
life of fortune and triumph. But in faith, she needed his services and was
reluctant to part with his skills. And there were times when his services went
beyond those of knightly talent and she took comfort in his delicate attentions
in the bedchamber. Aye, she needed him.

"Where is
Uriah?" she asked softly, referring to Winding Cross’ second knight.

Eldon moved to
stand by the end of the battered desk, his vaguely-handsome face calm.
"Outside seeing to repairs," he answered. "He'll be along
shortly. What did the missive say?"

Alicia's jaw ticked
as she looked to the parchment on the table, biting back the sting of tears
once again. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her rounded figure from the chair
in a futile attempt to bolster her bravery.

"I knew when I
married Alex that the Feud was the most important factor in his life," her
voice was low and sultry. "And I married him in spite of his preoccupation
because I loved him. After a St. John arrow felled him those long years ago, I
continued his battle because I was well aware of the importance it held within
the scheme of the de Gare legacy."

She paused by the
end of the table, listening to the sounds of construction in the bailey beyond
the covered lancet windows.
 
She looked
far older than her thirty-seven years, with cat-shaped eyes of deep blue,
reminiscent features of her only child that were tight and drawn with fatigue
and grief.

"I have
endured starvation, poverty, hellish winters and endless sieges all in the name
of the de Gare honor," she whispered weakly, so very weary of her
difficult existence. "I have survived far more than I should have all for
the sake of this foolish war that has continued for seventy long, anguished
years. I have been dealt more than my share of heartache, Eldon. But there has
come a point where I refused to suffer any longer."

Eldon pensively
lowered his big body to the edge of the scrubbed, worn desk. "What's
happened, Alicia?" he hissed. "What
do
the
St. Johns have to say?"

She pondered his
question, turning away from the stained oilcloth over the long windows to
glance once more at the vellum on the table.

"I am curious,”
she said. “How did they deliver this message? Certainly, they didn't march to
our doorstep in a gesture of grand announcement."

Eldon shook his
head. "Nothing so bold, no. A small party flying the Flag of Truce
deposited it on the edge of the moat. Our bridge was raised and we were in no
immediate danger; therefore, we allowed them to retreat unmolested."

She nodded vaguely
in understanding, rubbing at her tense shoulder with one hand. "You should
have killed them all, Eldon," she turned away once again, her worn boots
pacing the cold floor. After a moment, she paused long enough to fix him in the
eye. "They have Gaithlin."

Eldon leapt from
the table's edge, his eyes wide and his body tense. "Impossible!” he
gasped. “I delivered her to St. Esk myself and...!"

She shook her head,
feeling her emotions surge. "Somehow they were able to discover that we
had removed her from Winding Cross in anticipation of the Demon's assault."
Tears were in her eyes again, a desperate anguish that threatened to destroy
her. "They sacked the abbey and abducted my daughter.
They have my Gaithlin
."

Eldon's young face
was a frightening shade of ashen and his mouth hung agape as he struggled to
form a rational thought. "But…." Unable to continue, he plopped
heavily to the table once again, listening to it crack and groan under his
weight. His entire body was flooded with shock as he pondered the stunning
news. "I took her there myself, Alicia. How could the St. Johns have
discovered her whereabouts?
How?"

"I do not
know," her voice was hoarse. "There are several possibilities, as you
are aware.
Spies,
or paying our servants for
information... there is no way to know. But one matter is for certain; Jean is
in possession of her and, as his missive states, he intends to use her to his
advantage."

Eldon was silent,
pondering the dim shadows of the room as his thoughts reeled in sickening
progression. "When they kidnapped Glenn de Gare, they simply killed him.
How do we know she is still alive?"

"Because she
is," Alicia snapped softly, wrapping her arms about her bountiful torso as
if to keep from falling apart completely. "I refuse to believe that they
would harm her at this early stage; a dead hostage would be of no use to their
cause."

Eldon dropped his
head in a gesture of resignation, raking his fingers through his dirty brown
hair. "Poor Gaithlin," he murmured, nauseated by the thought of
Alicia's beautiful daughter in the hands of their most vile enemy. A woman of
such magnificence that he shuddered to think of the abuse she had undoubtedly
already suffered at the hands of her captors. Certainly, the St. John dogs
would not allow such beauty to go untouched.

A tangible gloom
settled about the room, thick and cloying. Alicia could scarcely move through
the thick fog of melancholy, refusing to imagine the worst as Eldon was
allowing himself to envision. She could not allow herself to visualize Gaithlin
at the hands of Jean St. John, her daughter's naturally reserved and fearless
nature being put to the ultimate test of strength.

The
torture of a young woman who had known her share of hardship.
Isolated,
poverty-bound, knowing little joy and more than her share of pain.
Although Alex and Alicia had tried to nurture and educate their daughter as
best they could, their preoccupation with the Feud had prevented them from
bestowing more attention on their daughter than they were able to spare.

Little Gaithlin had
been raised knowing the names of various weapons as well-bred young ladies
should have been learning the arts of needlework or music. She could ride a
horse as well as any man, or mend a kink in a coat of mail. But she could not
sew a garment if her life depended on it and knew very little in the ways of
delicate women.

An
unfortunate, cruel twist of fate.
Considering Gaithlin had blossomed into a beauty of
exquisite proportions, the fact that she knew little of lady-like manners was a
true travesty indeed. She could be sullen and moody, dry of humor and sharp of
wit, and she had a distinct tendency to trip over her own feet when she should
have been completely able to walk a straight line.

All of these odd,
magnificent characteristics combined to create the de Gare heiress, a woman
whose strength and inner courage had sustained the entire fortress through the
hardest of times. When there was virtually nothing to eat, Gaithlin would make
sure the old soldiers and her mother was fed before she would even consider
consuming her own meager portion. When the dead of winter brought bottomless
cold, she would scrape and struggle for anything remotely flammable. And when
the strain of their scanty existence grew difficult to tolerate, her
encouragement was solid.

As Alicia struggled
with her grief and guilt, she found herself fervently praying for Gaithlin's
well-being. There was nothing more important than her daughter, as her failed
attempt to protect the woman within the walls of St. Esk had proven. Surely
there was nothing of more significance that Winding Cross' heiress, the sole
survivor of generations of de Gares, now in the hands of the enemy.

"Did they make
any demands in the missive?" Eldon's voice was weak upon the musty
atmosphere of the solar.

"Nay,"
Alicia replied quietly. "Not yet. They simply wished to announce their
crowning achievement. But the demands will come and I can only speculate as to
what they may contain."

Eldon's gaze found
her once more.
"Surrender?"

Alicia refused to
look at him. "Mayhap," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to
the tanned leather scroll, partially unraveled. "The missive was addressed
to Alex. Jean still believes him to be alive, you know."

"I know,"
Eldon nodded faintly. "Do you suppose he will request Alex's presence at
the bargaining table?"

Alicia raised her
eyebrows in an unknowing gesture. "I will be forced into a most unpleasant
position if he does. How do you think Jean St. John will react upon learning
that he has battled a woman for the past ten years? It should be enough to
drive him insane with fury and I shudder to think how his mood will reflect
upon Gaithlin."

Eldon was reluctant
to ponder that scenario as well. Rising from the table yet again, he attempted
to move toward his mistress when the door to the solar abruptly opened,
spilling forth the other knight sworn to Winding Cross' legions.

Sir Uriah de Royans
stomped across the worn stone, short and compact with all the grace of a rabid
dog. Bearded and unkempt at forty-three years of age, his face was flushed with
exertion.

"We have a
visitor, my lady," he said breathlessly.
"A young
woman who wishes to meet with you."

Alicia's brow
furrowed delicately. "A young woman?” she repeated. “I am not expecting
any guests this day. What is her business?"

Uriah looked
between Eldon and Alicia, his aged face lined with disbelief and shock.
"She says she bears news of Lady Gaithlin," his voice was
considerably softer. "I told her to go away, but she insists on meeting
with Alex."

Alicia and Eldon
looked to each other, stricken with shock and a rising apprehension. Before
Alicia could respond, Eldon was already moving for the solar door. As he
brushed roughly past Uriah in his attempt to vacate the room, the older knight
watched him leave with a mixture of confusion and irritation.

"Where is he
going?" he demanded, turning to his mistress.
"First
the St. John missive, and now a mysterious woman demanding to speak with Alex
de Gare.
What in God's Bloody Realm is going on?"

Alicia eyed the
older man, a knight who had served her husband for over twenty years. Forcing
herself to rein her mounting anxiety, she drew in a deep calming breath.

"You will mind
your language in my presence." She'd lost track of how many times she had
relayed the very same warning. "Eldon will inform you of our dilemma when
he is able. Frankly, I have not the strength at the moment."

Uriah lowered his
head like a scolded dog as he always did when met with Lady Alicia's reprimands.
"Forgive, my lady. I didn't mean to offend."

She didn't reply;
his excuse was always the same. Pacing the floor beside the aged and worn desk,
Alicia struggled to maintain her composure as she
wait
for Eldon to return.

"Tell me,
Uriah. Did this mysterious young woman have a name?"

He nodded,
unlatching his battered breastplate where it met with his shoulder protection.
The constant chaff had left a wound that hadn't healed correctly in five years.
"A Lady Margaret du Bois.
I have never heard of
her."

Alicia shook her
head. "Nor have I," she said softly, morosely. "I wonder what
news she brings of my
Gaithlin?
"