The Warrior Poet (26 page)

"You must be
mistaken, Maggie," he said as evenly as he could muster, struggling to
maintain his composure.

Wide-eyed, Maggie
watched Jean's wooden movements as he consumed yet another chalice of wine. The
man had always been quick of temper and not particularly rational at times, but
she had been fortunate enough of the years to never have become personally
acquainted with his wrath. To realize that she might not have been entirely
wise in her scheme or methods was not a factor she would entertain at the
moment; she had a task to complete. Knowing how desperately Jean St. John hated
the House of de Gare would work to her advantage. And she would carry out the
performance no matter how ugly the situation became.

"Christian
brought the girl to Kelvin's manse during a terrible storm," she said
quietly, eyeing the smoldering father. "Certainly, I do not know why the
de Gare woman was with him and I have little interest other than protecting the
strength of my marriage contract to your son. Kelvin will swear to the allegations
that Christian and his prisoner were most affectionate with one another."

"Christian
would never show affection towards a de Gare," Quinton scoffed, finding
the entire idea ludicrous. "Your jealousy has blinded you, Maggie. The
lady is Christian's captive, certainly not what you are suggesting. It's pure
foolishness!"

"I know what I
saw, Quinton," Maggie said, incensed. "I know fondness when it is
thrust into my face. In fact, Christian was more than willing to flaunt his
whore...."

"Enough,
Maggie," Jean put up a sharp hand, his face pallid with the level of
emotion he was experiencing. "I shall hear no more of this slander. The
Demon of Eden is loyal to the death and to even consider that he would show a
measure of tenderness towards a de Gare is purely imaginative. Clearly you were
mistaken."

Rebuked and mildly
insulted, Maggie stared at her primly folded hands. "There is one way to
find out," she said, her soft voice unmistakably biting. "Seek him
out and discover for yourself. I believe he told me he was taking the girl to
Scotland; certainly, you would know his location if he was acting on your
orders to abduct her, my lord."

Jean's ice-blue
gaze found her lowered head, wondering why he had ever agreed to a marriage
contract between Margaret du Bois and his eldest son at the first. Even those
years back, she had been a liar and a whore. For the first time in his life he
pondered the weight of her wealth against the hollowness of her soul. Until
now, the coinage had always overwhelmed her shortcomings. He wasn't entirely
certain that was still truth.

"How do you
know he was acting on my orders?" he asked.

Maggie smiled
faintly, preparing to prove her in-depth knowledge of the situation. By using
Alicia de Gare's mention of Jean's threatening missive, she would easily prove
her information and thereby add more support to her claims against Christian.

"You ordered
Christian to capture Gaithlin de Gare in order than you might use her against
Alex," she purred. "Your son has told me as much."

Jean met her gaze,
feeling some confusion. It wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility that
Christian would have told her of his plans; in spite of her cheating nature,
she was nonetheless devoted to him and he would have considered her
trustworthy. But even as Christian's disclosure seemed logical enough, he also
found himself wondering if there wasn't a shred of truth to Maggie's hostile
accusations. Had Christian shown more than mere humanity towards the de Gare
wench?
More importantly, if that was the case, then
why?

As Jean gazed into
her brown eyes, he was ashamed at his lack of complete faith in his eldest son.
Maggie had always been sly and treacherous and she could very well be lying out
of pure jealousy or a twisted sense of revenge. Considering Christian happened
across her at Kelvin Howard's manse where she professed to have been on a
visitation, it was more than likely she was engaged in any number of covert
activities with Kelvin himself and Christian had witnessed her treachery
first-hand. Mayhap she was angry with her intended for having come across her
in one of her many trysts.

Whatever the case,
Jean simply couldn't shake the unnerving doubts that seemed to plague his
common sense. He knew for a fact that his son was as deeply devoted to the St.
John legacy as he himself was; yet, Christian had also expressed a measure of
scorn at the continuance of a seventy-year-old feud. Was it possible that,
somehow, the de Gare wench had managed to soften his reproving stance even
further? Dear God... was it possible that somehow she had managed to quell the
Demon's drive?

He felt a distinct
need to know. Mayhap he would send Quinton to resume Christian's position as
the wench's captor, thereby recalling Christian to Eden and dousing his doubts.
But with that same thought, he realized Quinton was even weaker willed that
Christian.

Observing the
manner in which his youngest son gawked and fussed over Maggie, mayhap it
wasn't entirely wise to consider sending his feeble-willed second son if the de
Gare wench was as persuasive as Maggie seemed to indicate. Good Lord, if the
woman could wreak havoc over Christian's loyalties, there was no telling what
she could do to Quinton. Suddenly, nothing seemed wise or certain any longer.

Riddled with doubt
and misgivings, Jean forced himself to refocus on Maggie. "Since so few
know of my plans for surmounting the de Gares once and for all, I shall blame
you if my scheme becomes popular rumor," his voice was steady and
hazardous. "And as for Christian and Alex's daughter, I appreciate your
concern, but I am sure it is a baseless anxiety. You know Christian well enough
to know he would cut out his own heart before he would trust a de Gare."

Maggie eyed him a
moment before nodding submissively. "As you say, my lord," she said
softly, licking her lips daintily as she pretended to struggle for the courage
to form her question. "But... as Christian's intended, would you do me the
courtesy of telling me where he has gone? In case I should like to contact
him?"

"Any contact
can be made through me," Jean said shortly, demanding more wine. "I
shall be happy to relay your messages of well-being during this most trying
time."

Slightly
off-balance, Maggie again nodded graciously. The conversation had not
progressed entirely as planned and she was not certain as to how to turn the
situation to her advantage. She had not discovered Christian's whereabouts as she
had promised Lady de Gare and she had also seemingly been unsuccessful in
rallying Jean's wrath against his son.
 
If Christian was to be successfully separated from his captive, then
Jean and Alex would have to unite as a force of two outraged fathers with the
common goal to be dividing their children.

It never occurred
to her that she was attempting to unite the deadliest of enemies for a common
cause.
The only matter of import that her efforts were for
her
cause.

"Then I would
thank you for your attention, my lord," she said finally, feeling fatigued
and irritated and eager to be alone to re-think her scheme. "With your
permission, I will retire for the eve. It has been a trying day."

Jean nodded
faintly, turning his attention away as she excused herself. Sinking further and
further into the depths of anxiety, he seemed to lack the attention or the
focus to ponder any matter other than that of his eldest son. Even as the party
went on about him and the dancing continued into the night, he remained rooted
to his seat as if incapable of functioning as gracious host.

He shouldn't have
believed Maggie. She'd never given him any reason in the past to regard her
ramblings and he had no idea why he should decide the time was ripe to give her
prevaricating blather a measure of credence. What she was suggesting was
ludicrous at best. But, God help him, he simply couldn't shake the feeling.

What if she was
right?

'She was the Beauty of my passion.'

 
~Chronicles of
Christian St. John

Vl. XI, p. CLVI

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

"The moment we
receive word from Christian, I want you and Jasper to ride north and access the
situation. Is that clear?"

Quinton St. John
eyed his father. The man was drunker than he had ever been in his entire life,
sweating and pale-lipped and irrational. But, because he was an obedient son,
he nodded firmly.

"Aye, Da.
As you say."

Jean tried to set
his chalice down on the table of his solar, but he missed. The cup clattered to
the floor and Jean cursed softly, grasping the crystal decanter and drinking
from the neck.

"And if your
brother has been foolish enough to allow
himself
to
become entangled within the de Gare bitch's lies, you will truss him up and
return him to me for judgment. Do you understand?"

Quinton stared at
his father. The man's intoxication only seemed to fuel his hatred towards the
de Gares, a hatred that certainly did not require any additional support. But
if, perchance, Christian acted foolishly towards his de Gare captive as Maggie
had suggested, then Quinton had no doubt that their father's hatred would be
blind to the St. John bloodlines. A traitor knew no family ties.
Even the Demon.

In faith, he loved
his brother dearly and could not comprehend the notion that Christian would
willingly choose to disregard seventy years of family honor simply for the
virtue of a captive woman. But his brother was a rogue of legendary proportions
and Quinton would not be at all surprised if he had indeed bedded the wench, if
only to strip her of her dignity and bring her to bear on the fact that she was
a prisoner of the Demon of Eden.

Aye, Christian was
deeply loyal to the Feud. He had returned from the king's service to help Jean
and Quinton triumph over Alex de Gare once and for all, and to suggest that he
might be softening his stance in the hypnotic presence of Alex's daughter was
pure foolishness. No woman could make him forget his directive, and especially
not a de Gare.

At least... he
hoped not.

Jean rose from his
seat, clumsily dropping the crystal decanter in the process. The commotion of
breaking glass and loud curses broke Quinton from his train of thought and he
struggled to respond to the question put forth to him by his drunken father.

"I understand
completely," he replied quietly, praying that he would not be facing such
a situation. Christian was a far better fighter than he and he did not relish
the idea of meeting his angry brother in arms should he be required to enforce
his father's directive. "But if I bring Christian here, what of the
woman?"

"The
bitch?"
Jean snarled mockingly, looking about for another flask
of wine. "Kill her. Then you will cut off her head and bring it to me for
delivery to Alex de Gare."

Shocked, Quinton
gazed uncertainly at his father. "You... you cannot be serious, da. To
kill a wo…."

"You will not
dispute me!" Jean roared, jerking around to face his youngest son and
nearly losing his balance in the process. Even as Quinton reached out to steady
him, he angrily batted the younger man's hands away. "She's a de Gare, an
animal, a beast! God help Christian if he had allowed the whore to sway him.
God help him!"

Quinton watched his
father stumble about, listening to the curses and fury venting high to the
rafter of the solar. Knowing that even though the man was dead drunk, his
hatred and threats were very real. Although the alcohol magnified the
mannerisms and lack of control, it did not add to the already-substantial
loathing. An inherent malice reserved only for those unfortunate enough to bear
the de Gare name.

And his threats
towards Christian were very real as well. If the Demon had somehow softened his
stance towards the enemy, Jean was correct when he pleaded for God's
assistance. God help them all should that be the case.

"We should be
receiving word from Galloway soon," Quinton struggled to keep his manner
calm. "The moment we receive direction, I shall ride north and have a look
for myself."

Jean snorted,
having located a pewter flask of harsh Scotch Whiskey. Taking a healthy
swallow, he choked and sputtered as the fire liquid coursed down his throat.
"God damn Christian if he has shown mercy towards the bitch.
I shall kill him myself and take great pleasure in his pain."

Quinton didn't
reply for a moment, feeling more despondent with each passing word. "You
realize that it's entirely possible that Maggie has lied. You're condemning
Christian before you
have
seen verity of her
tales."

Jean, his lids
half-closed, sat at his desk a moment, whiskey flask in hand. His ice-blue eyes
found his youngest son. "You're entirely correct, of course. I don't trust
her as far as I can spit. But I know Christian when it comes to women, and if
by some outlandish chance he has taken a fancy to this one, then...."

His voice trailed
off, his anger easing in lieu of a gripping depression. Taking another massive
swallow of liquor, tears sprang to his eyes and coursed down his cheeks.
Quinton absorbed the scene, quite caught up in his own anxieties. After an
enteral span of silence, he put his hand on his father's shoulder in a
comforting gesture.

"Not to worry,"
he said hoarsely. "Christian has not defected to the enemy. I shall see to
it."

Out in the phantom
recesses of the dark hall, a shadowed figure huddled against the cold stone
listening to the conversation between Jean and Quinton. Barely breathing, barely
moving, the form nonetheless possessed the energy to smile.
A
bright and sinister smile.
Eavesdropping always had possessed a great
deal of advantage.

Not that it had
taken a great deal of intuition to suspect that the seed of doubt planted
within the mind of Jean St. John had grown roots and a will of its own.
Burgeoning into a disturbing vine of unbelievable destruction as the wispy
tendrils of doubt took firmer and firmer hold within the fickle thoughts of a
wearily aging man.

Maggie knew this
all too well; intensely clever, she had intended that the doubt should grow and
spread. Quinton was feeling the doubt, as would Jasper soon enough.
As would the rest of the St. John family.
Doubt
that would cause Christian to give up his whore and retreat to the bosom of his
heritage in the desperate struggle to convince them that he was not a traitor.

Her smile grew as
Quinton marched past her, handsome and regal, though not nearly so elaborate as
his brother's beauty. Faded into the flickering shadows, Maggie watched the
youngest St. John march down the hall and fade into the darkness, no doubt with
a myriad of doubts plaguing his mind, doubts of the Demon's loyalties.

Aye, her scheme was
working admirably. She had succeeded in sowing great misgivings in Jean St.
John's sanity against his mighty son, and she had furthermore succeeded in
discovering the location of her errant fiancé. A location she would be more
than happy to relay to all interested parties. After all, she had made a pact
with the de Gares; a pact she fully intended to fulfill.

Galloway....

***

The fog was like a
thick blanket, heavy and cloaking and completely obliterating the landscape.
Gaithlin had awoken to the hazy curtain at dawn, alone and cold within the
confines of the small shelter.

Swathed in
Christian's cloak, he couldn't recall falling asleep the night before. All she
could recollect was a good deal of crying, of desolation and hopelessness like
she had never experienced. Of knowing that the warm discovery she had been so
willingly to succumb to had been abruptly cleaved due to her own foolish
mistake. By admitting that Alicia de Gare had managed to hold off the brilliant
Jean de John and his legendary son had been enough to send Christian into
seizures of fury.

Fury
that had kept him away from her all night.
A wise move to remove himself from
her presence, she suspected; had he remained, she sincerely wondered if she
would have seen the light of morn. A furious Demon was not a particularly
healthy thing, especially for a de Gare.

Although she tried
not to linger on what the day would bring, it was difficult as she forced
herself to rise and wash her face, mechanically preparing for the morning meal.
Lighting the hearth had proven difficult with her freezing hands, driving her
to tears at one point. And when she put the small pot of lentil stew to warm
over the flaming embers, a fairly persistent cramping in her groin and lower
back told her that the misery of her day was to be made complete.

Of
all time for her menses to be upon her.
The tears of self-pity and
apprehension continued as she warmed the stew, hoping that the smells would
bring Christian out of his hiding place. She didn't know what she was so eager
to see him, to confront his anger once again, but she was desperate to gaze
upon his magnificent face again and to apologize for withholding the truth.

The smells of smoke
and stew did indeed bring forth a male, but not the one she was hoping for.
Malcolm burst into the hut, dirty and wide-eyed and shivering, eager for his
morning feast. Gaithlin tried not to let her melancholy mood show as she fed
the boy, vaguely answering his questions as to Christian's whereabouts.
Instead, she focused on the orphaned lad in an attempt to discover where he
himself had spent the night. She received as vague an answer from him as he had
from her regarding Christian's location.

Malcolm ate a hefty
portion of stew but Gaithlin refrained from eating all together, preferring to
save the remaining portion for Christian should he ever decide to return. But
as the morning gained speed, it became apparent Christian was intent on staying
away.

Gaithlin struggled
against her deepening despair and mounting cramps as she went about her morning
work, rummaging through Christian's saddlebags and planning meals from the
supplies he had brought. Somewhere in the midst of her forced-activities, she
realized that Christian's diary and writing implements were missing.

They had been on
the floor when Christian had left the hut, of that she was certain. She
recalled seeing them through her haze of tears. But they were most definitely
missing and she became cognizant of the fact that Christian must have returned
for them sometime during the night. One of the oil lamps was missing, too.

The knowledge that
he had returned sometime during the darkened hours filled her with a good deal
of relief. But it also managed to supply her with a certain degree of anger, an
irritation knowing he had entered their hut without bothering to speak to her.
A foolishness
in wishing he had roused her from a deep sleep
simply to yell at her once again.

In spite of her
inane thoughts, she knew he had not left her.
Even if he
was
furious.
The white destrier was still tethered to a soaring Scot Pine
and except for his diary and quill, all of Christian's belongings remained.
Standing at the open doorway of their hut as a cloying mist of fog blanketed
the landscape with tangible gloom, Gaithlin wondered miserably where on earth
he could have gone.

It was a longing
Malcolm did not share. Determined to continue with his chore of patching up the
hut with or without his English associate, he was already busy carrying the
large pot to the stream for the first batch of clay-like mud. Gaithlin would
have helped him had she not been rapidly succumbing to crippling cramps,
eventually distracting her from her depression and confusion over Christian's
absence. By the time Malcolm returned from the stream dragging the first pot
full of mud, Gaithlin was lying in a fetal position inside the hut and praying
for an early death.

Malcolm wondered
what was wrong with the beautiful woman, going so far as to ask her. She simply
mumbled an evasive reply and told him to go about his chores. Obedient and
eager, he gladly began progress on the southern portion of the hut.

Although the lad
had no concept of time, he knew it had taken him a measure of duration to
plaster nearly one-eighth of the southern wall. When he entered the hut to tell
the lady of his return trip to the stream, he had been concerned to find her on
her back with her knees raised, tears streaming from her closed eyes. When he
had asked her what the matter was, she had ignored him completely, clutched her
stomach, and rolled onto her side. Perplexed and wondering heavily on her
mystery illness, he had proceeded to the stream.

He almost didn't
see Christian as he reached the banks of the simmering brook. Seated on a large
bolder, the Demon's face was the color of the fog; pale and colorless. A large
book sat in his lap as he pondered the noisy water, not bothering to glance up
when Malcolm lowered the pot onto the moist, mossy earth.