The Warrior Poet (32 page)

To her left, a cluster of quail suddenly bolted from the
underbrush, startling the excitable chargers. Maggie's palfrey executed a
nervous side-step, quickly soothed by her feminine rider. Just as the delicate
animal collected her jittery senses, the underbrush once again came alive with
noise and chaos. This time, however, it was not the result of flighty birds.

Foaming destriers were upon them.

Jolted with astonishment, Maggie was nearly pitched off
her small horse as shouts and echoes abound amongst the densely-foliaged trees.
Seized with the urge of self-protection, she was prepared to gore her mare
forward in a mad dash for safety when she suddenly recognized one of the
chargers.

Jasper St. John blocked her path.

Gasping with relief and fright, Maggie gulped for air at
the sight of Christian's massive cousin. "Jasper!" she cried.
"My Goodness, you scared the life from me! What are you doing so far
north?"

Jasper didn't reply for a moment. Steering his destrier
towards the fragile, foaming palfrey, he easily blocked the animal's escape.
His reply, heavy with sarcasm and disgust, cloaked the air like a cloying stench.

"I have a better question, m'lady,” he said. “What
were
you
doing at Winding
Cross?"

Maggie stared at the man. His visor was down, his
question laced in a tone that was nothing short of terrifying. At that moment,
she thought of many things; the fact that her actions had been discovered and
the undeniable fact that she had been trapped within the duplicity of her own
foolish scheme. She would have laughed at her moronic mistake had the impending
consequences not been veined with lethal intentions.

Still, she was unwilling to succumb to the mounting
panic. Gazing into Jasper's menacing faceplate, she struggled to maintain an
even expression.

"Surely you jest, Jasper," she said with as
much disapproval as she could muster. "Who told you such slanderous
lies?"

Beneath his visor, Jasper smiled. He'd never liked the
Lady Margaret du Bois, even on days when he was feeling particularly amiable.
Lacking in intelligence though he might be, he was uncannily sharp when it came
to the human character; coming to know Maggie over the past several years,
hearing the rumors and seeing evidence of her infidelities that Christian had
so blatantly disregarded, he had come to recognize a very petty, very vain
woman.
God, how he was going to enjoy this.

"No one told me, m'lady," his voice was low.
"I saw the evidence myself. You see, Uncle Jean doesn't trust you. He
never has. When you fabricated the story of Christian's failing loyalties, Sir
Jean suspected that the true treachery lay within your black little heart and he
demanded I follow you when your party left Eden this morn. And I must say I was
not surprised to realize where the trail led."

Maggie knew her cheeks had drained of all color; the
world began to sway dangerously and she gripped her gilded saddle for support.
"'Tis not what you think, Jasper," she said quietly, her clever mind
working furiously to formulate an acceptable excuse for her actions.
A lie to save her life.
Jasper was dim-witted, was he not?
Surely he would believe whatever story she could supply.

Please...
you will believe me!

"The Lady... Lady de Gare is a distant friend of my
mother's and...
oh
, posh, I promised I would not tell,
knowing how Sir Jean and Sir Alex are enemies. I traveled to Winding Cross to
relay word of my mother's illness to Lady de Gare, as my mother requested. It is
a secret, Jasper, and you surely mustn't tell. Christian doesn't even know. I
promise it will be the last time I visit Winding Cross."

Jasper listened patiently to her lie, knowing it was a
fabrication of the utmost attempt. Yet before she had finished uttering the
last prevaricating strains, he was dismounting his snappish charger and moving
for the petite woman with the silky brown hair. His orders, after all, were
specific.

Grasping Maggie by the arm, he yanked her off the
palfrey and hauled her off the road, into the moldering woods. Behind him, his
legion of fifty men were
already in the process of engaging
Maggie's escort of twenty. A match not long in the running, for there would be
no witnesses left behind.

Screaming and gasping, Maggie realized his intentions
and blind panic set in.
 
Dear
God...she was going to die.

Her lies had failed. If her mission to separate
Christian from his captive was intended for heady success, she would never know
the extent of her victory. In fact, she realized with sickening certainly that
she was about to pay for her twisted sense of revenge with her very own
mortality.

"Please, Jasper, have mercy!" she cried as he
pulled her through a thicket and into a small clearing. "Surely you do not
believe that I am allied with Alex de Gare?"

Jasper's grip was so tight that she swore he had broken
her arm. Pausing under the dusky sky, he gazed impassively at the small woman
who would never live to see another sun set.

"It does not matter what I believe," he said.
"All that matters is that you were seen entering Winding Cross, retreating
from the castle less than an hour later. By setting foot upon enemy soil, you
signed your own death warrant regardless of your reasons for being there. Do
you understand this?"

Pale and sweating, Maggie's brown eyes were wide with
terror and confusion. "You... you would kill me simply for daring to enter
de Gare territory?"

"Uncle Jean was specific. All traitors are to be
killed, no matter what the reason behind their betrayal."

Swallowing hard, Maggie whimpered when Jasper unsheathed
his broadsword in one clean move. "But... but what of Christian? He has
endeared himself to his de Gare captive. Does that not make him a traitor
too?"

Veiled by the menacing visor, she didn't see Jasper's
expression falter, confusion and pain rippling across his features. "That
is for Uncle Jean to decide if, in fact, your lies bear some merit." The
broadsword gleamed in the weak light of the setting sun and Maggie tugged against
Jasper's mighty grip, struggling wildly to break away. "As for you, the
treachery and lies and humiliation end here. Your body and the bodies of your
escort will be discovered and it will appear as if you have been robbed and
killed by bandits. This, madam, is the sentence for your betrayal."

"I never betrayed the House of St. John!"
Maggie cried. "Kelvin Howard will vouch for my loyalties and
intentions!"

"If Kelvin Howard is involved in your lies, then
his days are surely numbered as well."

Jasper tightened his grip and Maggie shrieked, knowing
his blade was imminent. Seized with panic, her knees gave way. "Where is
Quinton? He will believe me!"

"Quinton is back at Eden with no knowledge of your
father's directives to me," Jasper's voice was quiet. "Being a
foolishly smitten lad, Uncle Jean did not fully advise him of the treachery he
suspected. Only I am immune to your sluttish charms and capable of carrying out
your execution for crimes against the House of St. John."

"Prithee mercy, Jasper!"
Maggie sobbed, her composure vanished. "I am
innocent!"

Jasper raised the blade, listening to Maggie's shrieks
and grunts of terror. "Beg mercy from God, madam," his voice was
hoarse, laced with emotion and a fervent desire to be done with his task.
"Only He can purge thy soul of sin. Only He has interest in your
supplication for grace. I care not, m'lady, for your transgressions against the
House of St. John are transgressions against me."

Bright, red blood
,
 
brighter
than life and redder than
death, spilled from Maggie’s chest as his broadsword plunged deep.

Jasper had never seen it flow with greater ease.

***

Gaithlin realized she was actually glad to return to the
cozy little shack lodged deep in the Wood, a home that she and Christian had
shared for five days. Strolling through the light bramble with Malcolm in hand,
Christian was several feet away from her, leading his great white charger by
the reins.

It was early afternoon as they returned from their
morning trip into the village. They had their supplies and goods, and Gaithlin
was saddled with enough frivolous luxuries to last her the rest of her life;
perfumes, oils, and other feminine pleasures Christian had been insistent she
own. And the boots that he had been so intent on purchasing for her would be ready
on the morrow, so promised the skilled cobbler with one good arm. Gaithlin
wondered how in the world the man was able to excel in his craft with only one
useful hand, but Malcolm has assured her that he was a master with leathers and
soles.

The ox and wagon transporting their goods followed them
down the road as Malcolm held on to the rope that attached to the animal’s nose
ring.
 
The entire trip home had been
filled with warm glances and bold winks, saucy smiles, and flirtatious
gestures. The entire world of courting was completely new to Gaithlin and she
found quite early on that she enjoyed the game immensely.

Outside of Christian's influence, her only experienced
with adult diversions had been the perverse sport Kelvin Howard had been intent
to force upon her. She had been frightening and anxious within the unwanted
company of her would-be accoster, but she found the gentle flirting Christian
so easily employed a true joy to behold. The two men were a world apart in
manners and techniques and Gaithlin was upswept in Christian's charming,
roguish distractions; in faith, there was no comparison between the two.

He possessed charms that she responded to readily,
though she was new and unsure in the deliciously spirited world.
 
The mood was light and delightful, the air
somehow purer and the birds somehow sweeter. As Malcolm trudged beside her in a
pair of boots Christian had managed to purchase off another peasant boy about
his own size, the happy young lad kept up a running conversation that went
entirely ignored by the smitten adults.

Gaithlin would have been content to walk for the rest of
her life, absorbing Christian's grins and winks and silent kissing gestures.
Unfortunately, however, they were drawing close to their lodgings and she was
loathed to realize that their engaging little game was coming to a close for
the time being.

Just as she reluctantly resigned herself to the end of
the enticing exchange, Christian suddenly seemed particularly distracted by the
approach of their encampment. Barely visible through the line of trees, she was
startled when he came to an abrupt halt.

"Good Christ," he hissed, releasing the
charger and unsheathing his sword from the carved scabbard strapped against the
magnificent saddle. Broadsword glistening in the weak light, his ice-blue eyes
blazed at the familiar clearing looming through the trees.

"What's wrong?" Gaithlin demanded, suddenly
frightened. "What do you..?"

He hushed her sternly, huddling behind a bank of thick
brush. His icy orbs glittered intently in the weak light and Gaithlin moved up
beside him curiously, only to be grasped firmly and pulled to her knees.

"Christian..?" she began, but he clapped a
gauntleted hand over her mouth.

"Hush," he whispered harshly. Removing his
hand, he gestured through the leaves and branches into the heart of their
encampment. "Look. I would hazard to guess that your dog people have
returned. Malcolm?"

The lad was between them, his green eyes wide on his
bald head. In the distance, two slovenly forms were busy inflicting severe
damage on the sod house as they sifted the area for anything of value.
"Aye, tha's them," suddenly, he shot to his feet in outrage.
"They're tearin' apart our work!"

Both Gaithlin and Christian shushed him loudly, pulling
him down to his knees once again. As Gaithlin put her arm about his skinny
shoulders in a comforting gesture, Christian darted back to his charger and
deftly removed his double-catapult Welsh crossbow from its secures. Entrusting
Malcolm a broadsword that weighed more than the lad himself, he efficiently
loaded the wicked-looking weapon.

"Are you going to shoot them?" Gaithlin
whispered, wide-eyed with concern.

One eye on the clearing and the other on securing two
long-headed arrows, Christian fastened the last projectile and moved towards
the edge of the foliage.

"Nay," he said softly. "But I intend to
make it so that they never bother us again."

Gaithlin and Malcolm watched, eyes bulging with
apprehension, as Christian skirted the edge of the clearing, guiding his
armored-body through the bramble and shadows. Keeping himself hidden, he managed
with surprising ease to make his way towards the center of activity.

The dog people were oblivious to the impending threat,
busy ripping asunder the entire structure of the shack in their quest for
valuables. Twice, the man paused in his search to sniff the air and Christian
froze, waiting until the wind shifted before advancing once more. Closer and
closer he edged, prepared to frightening the life from the scruffy dog-like
humans.