The Warrior Poet (23 page)

She swallowed
contemplatively, pondering his words. "You consider my purity to be a
greater dowry?"

"Indeed."

She thought a
moment, her brow rippling with the course of her tumultuous concerns.
"But... but isn't it proper to deliver the dowry when the marriage takes
place?"

"Aye."

"Then it would
be reasonable to assume that if you take my innocence now, you will be
accepting my dowry
before
the actual wedding."

Immediately, he
could see where she was leading and he nearly groaned with the displeasure and
rightness of it. He sighed faintly, studying her face in the dim light.
"Technically."

"But you would
not take the monetary dowry before such time. Correct?"

He sighed again.
"Correct."

She cocked her head
and he swore he saw a twinkle of a smile flicker of her ripe lips. "Then
why would you take my innocence before that proper time if you consider it most
important?"

He raked his
fingers through his honey-blond hair, scowling at her accurate statement.
"You
wicked
enchantress. You unknowingly lure me
mindless and then have the audacity to point out the fact that I am a lustful
beast and completely incapable of controlling my actions without your level
wisdom."

She giggled softly,
winding her long arms about his neck and pulling him down to her. "My
virginity is
all the
dowry I have to offer you at the
moment," she whispered hotly against his ear. "It would make me happy
to deliver it at the appropriate time, not in the middle of the Scots
wilderness."

His massive arms
went about her, moaning softly with the torture of what he was about to endure.
Their gazes locked, faces intimately close, and Gaithlin could feel his heated
breath on her lips.

"Your
reasoning is sound. And if you wish to delay the deliverance of the dowry, as
you so delicately phrased it, until our wedding, then so be it. But I will
forewarn you that it will not be a comfortable delay for me," his eyes
raked her with such searing tenderness that her heart fluttered wildly against
her ribs. "How can I hold you in my arms and not possess every facet of
your sweetness?"

She smiled gently,
touching the sharp angles of his Nordic features. "By demonstration your
superior control," she teased softly.

He grunted
ironically, casting a long glance over her exposed breasts before again closing
his eyes tightly, turning his head from their delectable vision. "Even my
control has its limitations," he kissed her swiftly one last time before
pushing himself off of her, turning his attention elsewhere as she replaced her
half-undone gown.

Gaithlin rose,
fumbling with the last few stays of her dress. Christian caught movement out of
the corner of his eye, feeling comfortable enough to aid her with the task now
that her beautiful breasts were covered from his lusty gaze. Without another
word on the subject of dowries and weddings and a lack of self-control, he took
her hand, kissed it loudly, and led her from the thicket. There was work to do.

***

Malcolm was nowhere
to be found. Gaithlin searched a wide perimeter around their shelter as
Christian produced an axe and went about securing more wood for their heat and
repair needs. Although he pretended to be indifferent to the boy he chased away
in the heat of desire, it distressed him to hear Gaithlin's sensual voice
calling out the young lad's name every few seconds.

She sounded
saddened as she crept among the bramble looking for the orphan and Christian
paused in his wood chopping, leaning on his axe as she prowled the undergrowth
across the small, weed-choked clearing. Feeling his guilt increase by the
moment, he took a deep breath and resigned himself to assist Gaithlin in her
search. After all, it was his fault that Malcolm was missing in the first place
and it was only right that he lend aid to find him.

Laying the axe
down, he began to move toward the sound of her voice. He hadn't taken two steps
when Gaithlin suddenly let out a screeching yelp and the overgrowth began to
shake violently. Fear surged through Christian; he was racing towards
Gaithlin's screams before he could draw another breath, hurling his big body
across the cluttered clearing before he even thought to return to the shelter
for his sword.

Adding puzzlement
to his terror was the fact that he swore he heard barking as he approached.
Loud, fearful barking that was rapidly fading.
Just as he
reached the cluster of overgrowth, Gaithlin
came
shooting from the bushes and slammed against him with all of her might.

Grunting harshly,
he stumbled back, gripping her tightly even as he struggled to regain his
balance. It was only a moment later when he became aware that she was
superficially unharmed did he realize that she had bashed her forehead against
his jaw.

"Good
Christ," he gasped, ignoring the throbbing pain in his cheek as he
embraced Gaithlin with fierce protectiveness. "What in the hell...?"

"People,"
she breathed before he could finish. "Two people in the thicket... they
startled me!"

He swallowed hard,
catching his breath. "And me,” he said wryly. “Did they hurt you?"

She shook her head,
only just realizing that her forehead ached painfully. "Nay, but they...
they barked at me."

Both hands on her
face, he tilted her head back to gain a better look at the lump already forming
on her head. "I heard the barking," he muttered, still breathless.
"Was that them?"

She nodded, wincing
when he touched the knot. "Oh, Christian, they were horrible-looking. I
have never seen such dirty, scrawny people."

He didn't reply for
a moment, scrutinizing her swelling nodule. "Like Malcolm?" he cocked
an eyebrow, tearing his gaze away from her forehead in lieu of scanning their
surroundings. "Mayhap he isn't an orphan, after all. Mayhap he's a scout
for a group of filthy, scrawny, barking people."

She frowned,
wincing yet again when she touched her bump. "I cannot believe that
Malcolm would betray us in such a manner. Moreover, these people barked like
animals. Malcolm can speak fairly well."

Christian was
staring back towards their shack and his eyes abruptly narrowed. Gaithlin
turned to follow the object of his focus, concerned and surprised when she
beheld the source of his attention. Before she could speak, however, Christian
was moving for Malcolm as the lad emerged from the trees.

"He'd better
do a good deal of speaking if he is going to convince me he is not a
traitor," Christian growled.

Hand still to her
head, Gaithlin dashed after Christian, grabbing hold of his arm. "Do not
yell at him," she admonished quietly. "You know how he reacts to you.
Let me ask him."

"I have no
intention of yelling," Christian sounded calm enough. "But I vow to
get to the bottom of his presence."

Gaithlin yanked on
his arm, forcing him to look at her. When blazing pure-blue met with shards of
ice, he came to a halt.

"Let me speak
with him," Gaithlin reiterated sternly. "You will only upset
him."

Christian sighed
with exasperation, opening his mouth to refute her unfair statement when
Malcolm suddenly marched up,
his
green eyes wide with
apprehension.

"I heard
ye
yellin'!" he said to Gaithlin. "Did the English
hound hurt ye?"

Both Gaithlin and
Christian looked to him, their faces writ with surprise. After a moment,
Christian's brow furrowed with disgust at Malcolm's suggestion as Gaithlin sank
to one knee, gently grasping the boy by the arm.

"Where did you
go?" she asked with concern. "I was looking for you."

Malcolm, his
eyebrows lowered in distrust, eyed Christian. "I din' want tae be
hit," he said truthfully, refocusing on Gaithlin. "Why did ye
yell?"

"Because I was
startled by two people I found to be hiding in the bushes," she said,
casting him a long, intense glance. "You wouldn't know anything about
them, would you?
People who barked like dogs?"

Malcolm nodded
without hesitation. "I know 'em. They live not far from 'ere."

Christian knelt
down beside Gaithlin, knowing the semblance of innocence when he observed it.
The lad was obviously guiltless of treachery and he was wise enough to
interpret the undeniable fact. "Who are they?" he asked.

Malcolm scratched
his lousy head. "I dunno know their names, but they are a man and his wife.
They bark like dogs instead of speakin'."

Christian digested
his words. "Are they trustworthy?"

Malcolm moved from
scratching his head to picking at his nose, an action Gaithlin quickly quelled.
"They'll steal anythin'. They were chased from the village because they
try to steal from the merchants."

Christian rose to
his feet, sighing heavily. "Just what we need," he said as he
scratched his head.
 
“Thieves
for neighbors.”

"They wouldn't
hurt anyone, would they?" Gaithlin asked softly.

Malcolm shook his
head. "They keep tae themselves, mostly. But I have seen 'em eat a rabbit
without killin' it!"

Gaithlin made a
horrified face, glancing to Christian to note his own grim reaction. As long as
Malcolm stated that the barking couple was incapable of harm, he would keep his
apprehension at bay. Still, he was unnerved by the entire situation of
dog-speaking, rabbit-eating, thievery-prone neighbors.

Since he had no
interest or intention of confronting the dog-people at the moment, he fully
intended to make use of the time and manpower at his disposal. Returning his
attention to Gaithlin and Malcolm, who were now standing hand-in-hand, he put
his hands on his hips and sized them up determinedly.

"Now," he
said firmly. "There is much to do before the day sets. Gae, can you
transfer the contents of the iron pot into something else? Since I have no
buckets, I have a need for the pot."

She nodded.
"You brought several bowls and a smaller pot of your own. What do you need
the pot for?"

"To put mud
in," he looked to Malcolm. "I require your strength. Assist me in
collecting my mud and I promise you an evening meal fit for King Henry himself.
Then, on the morrow after we go to town, you can help me hunt. Is this
satisfactory?"

Malcolm's eyes were
wide with excitement and wonder. "Can I shoot the bow?"

Christian pursed
his lips. "That depends. Are you skilled?"

Malcolm didn't
hesitate, smiling from ear to ear. "I have never shot an arrow in me
life."

Gaithlin smiled
broadly, turning her head so that Malcolm would not see her humor at his bold,
innocent statement. Christian, too, fought off a grin and grunted harshly to
cover his amusement. Reaching out, he tore the boy from Gaithlin's grip.

"No matter,”
he said. “I shall teach you myself and you shall shoot finer than all the
knights in England."

Giddy with delight,
Malcolm was already dashing off for the shelter in order to gain the pot they
would use to collect the mud. Gaithlin and Christian watched him skip across
the grass, darting about with childish glee. After a moment, Christian turned
to his captive, watching as the gentle breeze stirred her silken hair and
feeling the familiar tug to his heart. A sensation he was coming to identify
with Gaithlin.

With a faint smile,
he reached out and gently took her hand, and in silence they began to walk
toward the hut.

'Contentment is a state of mind,

 
not
limited to physical hedonism.

 
True contentment
comes from within.'

 
~Chronicles of
Christian St. John

 
Vl. VI, p. CII

CHAPTER
TEN

Since the whistling
wind seemed inclined to approach from the west, Christian patched the western
wall first. Spattered with gray, clayish mud, he and Malcolm made steady work
between repairing the wall and returning to the stream for more materials. In
fact, they made an efficient pair and Malcolm seemed to be gradually overcoming
his fear and jealousy of the English warlord.

Working side by
side with the massive man, he endeavored to complete his task with excellence;
he was eager to hear a word of praise from the knight. A gesture of male
kindness he had never known, yet an instinctive need for the display all the
same. When he stopped hating the man long enough, he realized he very much
wanted to be like the Englishman; tall, strong and completely skilled in all he
attempted.

Christian knew the
boy's longing all too well. His father had been short on praise, quick to
condemn or correct. Watching Malcolm mimic his movements as he spread the clay,
or observing the lad's eager disposition as they trekked to the creek for more
mud, only served to remind him of his own discontented childhood. Thrust from
an unappreciative father into a fostering household of those unconcerned with
his mental stability had been nothing of a shock. He had simply learned not to
depend on praise or approval to satisfy his ego.

Instead, the lack
of support had forced him to strive for an inner perfection impervious to
praise or scorn of any kind. He was only concerned with his own standards, not
those of others, including his father. When his reputation had been solidified
at a very young age, he found himself well beyond the delight of his father's
pride. Jean was only concerned how the rest of England viewed him as the father
of the Demon; his true concern had never been in his son's achievements, only family
honor.

Watching Malcolm
work his little hands raw brought back the pain of the familiar young lad with
a sickly mother and an insensitive father. And because he knew the pain so
well, somehow he was determined that Malcolm not be subjected to the same
anguish.

So he lavished
praise on the boy for a job well done, casting Gaithlin a knowing wink now and
again as she helped keep the mud wet. The more he praised, the harder Malcolm
worked. Even when the sun set and Gaithlin lit two oil lamps so they could make
sense of the darkness, Malcolm continued to work as if he had no intention of
stopping.

The night
progressed and an exhausted Gaithlin was reduced to sitting on an upended
stump, wrapped in Christian's cloak and yawning profusely as Malcolm and Christian
continued their important work.

"If
th
' rain comes, won't it wash away th' mud?" Malcolm
wanted to know, smeared from head to toe with gray muck.

Christian finished
patching a particularly large hole. "I do not expect it to rain
tonight," he said confidently. "Tomorrow, we shall begin digging up
heaps of sod to cover the walls, and the sod shall protect the mud from the
rain."

Malcolm's brow
furrowed. "But how will
th
' sod stick?"

Christian gazed
down at the boy, an uncharacteristically gentle smile on his face. "We
shall keep the mud damp, which shall cause the sod to stick. Eventually, the
roots from the grassy sod shall dig into the mud and anchor it to the
walls."

Malcolm nodded
seriously. "How d' ye know this, Englishman?"

"Because it's
been done for centuries," he replied, rinsing his hands in the smaller pot
that Gaithlin had filled with clear water. "Don't tell me that there
aren't any sod houses around here."

Malcolm shrugged,
running his hands slowly over the smooth mud.
"There
arna' many houses in th' Wood."

On her perch,
Gaithlin yawned again and interrupted their conversation. "It's late,
Christian. Malcolm needs to sleep."

Christian cast
her a
glance, wiping his hands on his tunic to dry them.
"What you mean to say is that you can hardly keep your eyes open any
longer."

She smiled
sheepishly, sleepily, and his smiled broadened. Hands on his hips, he watched
Malcolm swipe a last few strokes of mud before putting his hand on the boy's
shoulder.
"Enough for tonight, Malcolm.
You have
done a very fine job."

Malcolm beamed,
observing his work. "If we start early enou' on the morrow, we shall
finish by night."

Christian nodded,
scrutinizing the entire wall. "Indeed. However, Lady Gaithlin and I plan
to go into Cree on the morrow which shall take up most of the morning. We shall
finish the house when I return."

Malcolm's smile
faded somewhat and he wiped his muddy hands on his tattered breeches. "I
shall wait for
ye
."

Rising from her
stump, Gaithlin made her way over to the two muddy men. "But you're coming
with us to town, Malcolm." She didn't give a second thought to Christian's
massive arm beckoning her, and without hesitation she folded into his warm
embrace. "I want to purchase some fabric to make Malcolm new clothes.
Don't you agree, Christian?"

His arm wound about
her shoulders, Christian gazed down into her deep blue eyes. "Truthfully,
I hadn't thought on any other purchases beyond buying our supplies and a new
pair of boots to replace your worn ones."

Tucked against
Christian's torso, she smiled. "But Malcolm has completed a hard day's
work for you. Hard work that is worth a new pair of hose and a tunic, I should
think."

Christian continued
to gaze at her, matching her smile. After a moment, he pecked her tenderly on
the end of her pert nose. "Your wisdom and foresight awes me, my lady.
Malcolm shall indeed
have
 
new
clothing in payment for his services."

Malcolm's eyes were
wide as he watched the two of them. "Wha's wrong with me clothes?"

Christian and
Gaithlin tore their eyes away from one another long enough to gaze at the
scruffy young lad. From an orphan's perspective, Malcolm believed his clothes
to be perfectly livable and saw no need for 'new' clothing. Christian' cleared
his throat softly and cast Gaithlin a long glance, silently inviting her to
explain her intentions to the confused boy. With a slight wiggle of her
eyebrows in response to his wordless summon, she knelt in front of the lad.

"Your clothes
are well suited for a parentless child living in the wilds of Galloway,"
she said evenly. "But as of this morn, you became an overlord to Sir
Christian and
I
. And overlords wear finer clothing
than mere peasants. Moreover, you accomplished a fine job today helping Sir
Christian patch the shelter and we should like to repay you. Will you accept
our payment?"

Malcolm blinked in
thought, moving to pick his nose purely from habit. Gaithlin gently grasped his
wrist, pulling the filthy appendage away from the equally filthy face as the
boy pondered her words. "I... I kin do tha'," he said after a moment,
looking to Christian. "What do I git for me work tomorrow?"

Christian grunted
as Gaithlin laughed softly, rising to her feet only to be captured once again
by his massive embrace. "We shall discuss that when the time comes,"
he replied. "For now, we must get a good night's rest if we are to be
ready for the town on the morrow."

Malcolm nodded,
racing around the edge of the shelter as Gaithlin and Christian collected the
oil lamps. When they emerged from the west side of the shack into the clearing,
the entire area spread before them was completely still and silent. Malcolm had
utterly disappeared.

"Malcolm?"
Gaithlin called softly.

Even Christian
looked about for the boy, wondering where he could have vanished to so quickly.
Ducking into their hut, he could see quite clearly that Malcolm was not inside.
Setting the oil lamp onto the floor
beside
their
bedding, he re-emerged from the small shelter.

Gaithlin was
standing by a cluster of bushes, holding the lamp high as if to peer into the
cloaking darkness. Christian went to her, gently grasping her arm.

"He is not
inside, Gae," he said softly. "He must have dashed home. Come along,
now. You're tired."

"He does not
have a home, Christian," she said, her voice laced with concern. "I
want him to sleep here, with us."

He tugged at her,
pulling her toward the shack.
"Mayhap in time, honey.
He is used to being alone and we mustn't force him to accept our company."

Reluctantly, she
followed Christian to their little shack, casting a final glance over the dimly-lit
landscape as he gently ushered her inside. Listening to the splintered door
close behind them, she sighed heavily with sorrow. Christian eyed her as he
moved to stoke the hearth, noting her slow movements as she shuffled towards
their bed.

"He'll be
fine," he said after a moment, stirring up the embers and hoping they
wouldn't catch the dry roof on fire. "You worry overly."

She sighed again,
settling her bottom on the woolen blanket covering the rushes. "He is just
a little boy," she said, her voice faint.

Christian moved
from the hearth to his over-laden saddle bags, kneeling down beside them as he
began to rummage about. "He's been living on his own for a long time, long
enough to know how to keep himself safe and warm. In some ways, he's not a young
lad at all."

She pondered his
statement a moment, reluctant to admit that he made a certain amount of sense.
Without another word, she toppled over onto her side amidst the musty wool and
prickly boughs.

He smiled at her
over his shoulder, knowing how concerned she was for the young boy. But he was
convinced that he was correct about Malcolm; the lad had survived thus far
without their help and it was obvious that he was heartily independent.

Moreover, Christian
was else occupied with other concerns at the moment; he had business to attend
to before he could retire at Gaithlin's side and considering their conversation
earlier in the day, he was constrained to concede the fact that he was
reluctant to place himself so close to Gaithlin with the full knowledge that he
had promised not to molest her until they were legally married.
Even his control has its limitations, e
specially
where it pertained to her.

Forcing his
thoughts away from the torturous night that surely await him, he continued to
dig about in his satchel. Eventually coming across the objects of his search,
he drew them forth from the leather sack and lowered his bottom onto the floor,
pulling the oil lamp closer.

Gaithlin, her eyes
half-closed, watched him with as much curiosity as she could muster. "What
are you doing?"

Christian carefully
unwrapped what looked to be a book. Cut into squares, it was laced together
with fine hide strips into a thick, sturdy pad and he drew back the cloth-bound
wooden cover, exposing the vellum beneath. Near his thigh he had settled a
quill and a wooden vial filled with dark liquid, both obviously well-used from
the stains that plagued them.

"I am
writing," he said softly, carefully turning the pages until he found the
place he had left off. "Go to sleep, honey. I shall be to bed
shortly."

Truthfully,
Gaithlin was exhausted. But her curiosity was piqued by Christian's
material-bound album and she raised her head, attempting to gain a better look
at his activities. Education, something she had never been exposed to in an
organized sense, was a mysterious, fascinating thing and she was deeply
impressed by Christian's obvious schooling. It was almost enough to cause her
to forget her fatigue.

"What are you
writing?"

He dipped the long
quill into the black ink, shaking off the excess. "Nothing that would
concern you," the air scratched with the strokes from his quill as he
began to letter. After a moment, he realized Gaithlin was still watching him
intently and he raised his eyes from the vellum, meeting with wide blue eyes.

He couldn't help
but smile at her blatant awe. "I shall only be a moment, truly. Go to
sleep."

She returned his
smile, her respect for his talents obvious as she stared at his materials.
"I did not know you could write. What do you write about?"

She was so
genuinely curious that he lowered the quill in favor of gazing into her
magnificent face.
"Observations, mostly.
I like
to chronicle my day to day happenings, writing about events or feelings or
politics. General items, really."

"Are you
writing about what has happened today?"

He snorted softly,
with amusement. "I haven't made an entry since I abducted you from St.
Esk. To record what has happened since then would take weeks at best."