Denedor was listening with interest. “And he is the one who made you who you are,” he said quietly. “He set the example for you.”
Jax nodded faintly. “That is why the boughs and Christ and the Holy Spirit are all so odd to me,” he said. “I remember my mother being very pious. I do not ever remember hearing my father blame God for her death, but surely he must have. After her death, we never went to church again. Any mention of it would make my father angry, so it is something I have learned to ignore.”
Denedor could sense a vulnerability in Jax he’d never seen before. “And now you have a wife who wishes to celebrate the birth of Christ.”
“That is something we never celebrated while my father was alive, and even afterwards.”
The sound of a snapping branch startled Denedor’s horse and he reined the excited animal about, turning the beast for the road. But in doing so, he directed it close to Jax.
“What example will you set for your son, I wonder?” he asked the man. “A bright boy who will look up to you as if you are the greatest man alive. What will you teach him about life, Jax? Have you ever thought of that? Do you want him to learn to kill without thought and to have no compassion for mankind?”
Jax was staring off into the distance at that point, pondering his words. “I have asked myself that very question,” he said. “I want my son to grow up strong and fearless, and to take what he wants. But Kelli wants him to grow up generous and thoughtful, brave and noble. The boy will have the name de Velt and that name strikes fear into the hearts of men. They will expect a certain behavior from him.”
“Then you would have him kill and maim? Would that make you proud of him?”
Jax looked at him, then. “I thought so, once,” he said. “Now, I am not so certain. I know it would not make Kelli proud.”
“And you do want her to be proud.”
Jax nodded. “I want to make her happy.”
Denedor smiled faintly. “Use that as your guide,” he said. “That is how you will know to raise your son. Teach him good morals and values, and to experience the gratitude of a season such as this one. Just because he grows up brave and noble does not mean he is not your son. It means he is a greater man than you, and that is what every man wants for his son.”
With that, he spurred his horse towards the road where the soldiers were affixing the last of the boughs. They were beginning to move out, making the nearly six-mile trek back to Pelinom Castle. The snow was beginning to fall more steadily now and the cold wind was blowing harder than before.
As Jax watched the army depart, with Denedor following, he didn’t follow them right away. There was much on his mind, words from Denedor, words of his own, all of them trying to help him reconcile what his life had become. He was a man who had never truly experienced happiness in his adult life, and he could never honestly remember being content about anything.
But he was now.
He knew peace and had a wife who loved him, and he loved her in return. He even had a friend in Denedor, a true friend – not a servant who was trying to stay on his good side, or who wanted something from him, but a man who wanted nothing more than to be kind and help him adjust to this new world he found himself a part of.
It was true that he and Denedor had their share of tensions in the past. Denedor had once been offered Kellington’s hand by her father in order to get her away from Jax, but Jax wouldn’t surrender the woman he loved so easily. He’d fought for her and he’d won, and Denedor had been disappointed at the loss, but he hadn’t loved the woman. To him, she had only been a contract. He’d eventually found love with Kellington’s friend, Lavaine, and even now they were expecting a child in the summer. Men like Denedor baffled him because they weren’t trying to get something from him. They were friends with him for the simple sake of friendship. He appreciated the trust he was building with Denedor, but it still confused him.
Trust was something not easily developed in his world.
As the army headed north on the snowy road, Jax found himself wandering the trees, heavy with clumped snow even as more snow fell. He found himself gazing up at the trees, thinking on the season that held them so dear. His conversation with Denedor had him thinking of the child that Kellington carried.
His son.
The truth was that he was more excited about the child than he let on. The baby was kicking now and, at night, he would lay next to his wife with his hand on her belly, feeling the kicks, thrilled beyond measure at the life they had created.
How did he want to raise his son?
That had been a very good question from Denedor, and Jax had answered him honestly. He wanted the boy to be strong and fearless, as he’d said, but he also wanted him to be more than Jax himself was. Denedor had been right; Jax wanted his son to be greater than he was, but he wasn’t entirely sure he could raise such a son. He was a man who only understood death and destruction and warfare until recently. And now, he was struggling to comprehend a concept as simple as a Christian holiday.
Was he even worthy to raise his son?
He hoped so.
Everything was still and silent around him now as the army had left. Only the gentle pelt of the falling snow was left in their wake, including the cold breeze that would howl through the trees from time to time. It was quite magical and as Jax sat there and pondered his coming child, he couldn’t help the doubts that plagued him. He didn’t really understand this world he was part of at the moment; all he knew was that he wanted to make his wife happy and he wanted to raise a son to be proud of.
All he could do was his best.
With a sigh, he reined his steed between a pair of enormous pines that had been stripped at the bottom of their branches and greenery. More wind was howling and, somewhere, Jax thought he heard a snap, like one of those big ice clumps breaking off from high above. They had been doing it all afternoon, but he didn’t give it much thought. He was thinking of heading home and of seeing his wife’s face as they brought in all of the greenery she wanted.
But that was his last coherent thought before something heavy hit him on the head and everything suddenly turned to black.
Part Three: An Angel Found Me In The Snow
He could hear the wind screaming and a fire gently cracking.
As Jax slowly emerged from unconsciousness, he was aware of those two sounds. He thought he also heard voices but when he stirred, the voices stopped. Blackness claimed him again and then he abruptly awoke to more of the howling winds.
Opening one eye, he could see that he was on the floor, but he wasn’t laying on the dirt. He was on a hide of some kind because the fur was tickling his nose as he lay on his belly, nearly face-down into it. He stirred again, this time to roll onto his side, but the moment he turned his head, pain began throbbing madly in his skull. Closing his eyes, he lifted a big hand and put it to his head.
“Are ye awake?”
He opened his eyes again only to come face-to-face with big blue eyes and a freckled nose. Blinking, he pulled back slightly to see the entire picture; it was a lad, and a young one, with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen and a gap-toothed grin.
He blinked his eyes again.
“I am not sure,” he said thickly, his tongue dry.
The boy looked at him with confusion. “But ye’re talking!”
“That does not mean I am awake.” He grunted as he tried to move again. “I could be dead and you could be a devil. What is your name, Devil?”
The boy sat back on his heels, eyeing him. “Andrew. Who are ye?”
Jax sighed heavily, as his head was killing him and he genuinely had no idea what had happened. As he struggled with the boy’s question, a man appeared next to the boy.
“I’m Andrew’s father,” he said, peering down at Jax with concern. “I’m Albie. We found ye out in the forest, lying in the snow, and brought ye back tae our home. Can ye move, man?”
Jax managed to open his eyes again, looking at the man next to Andrew. He w
as small, wiry-looking, with big eyes and a mat of dark hair on his head. The hand on his head began rubbing at it.
“Found me in the snow?” he repeated, trying to recall his last coherent memory. “I was attacked, then.”
Albie shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “The ice from the trees hit ye. Hit ye so hard that it dented yer helm. We had a time getting it off of ye.”
Jax struggled through the cobwebs in his mind. He could recall the village and stealing the Christmas decorations, and he also remembered Denedor making him give them back. Damn Denedor. And he remembered telling his men to strip boughs from the trees to return to Pelinom, but nothing after that. He began to look around.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Late,” Albie said. “It was dark long ago. We were wondering if ye were going tae wake up at all. Ye’ve got a lump on yer head the size of a hen’s egg.”
Jax began running his hand over his head, immediately feeling the bump on the right side of his head, almost at the top of it. It hurt like the devil and he winced.
“God,” he muttered. “Where is my helm?”
Andrew bolted to his feet and raced somewhere that Jax couldn’t see before returning with a heavy helm of the latest fashion.
“See?” the boy said excitedly, pointing to the substantial dent. “Here!”
Jax could see it and it was, indeed, impressive. Reaching out, he took the helm from the boy and inspected it as much as his aching head would allow. Setting it down beside him, he closed his eyes with a grunt, understanding now why he was in so much pain. His memory was returning somewhat and he recalled hearing the great ice clumps breaking from the trees and falling to the ground like boulders.
Aye, things were starting to make some sense.
“So you found me in the snow,” he said. “Where am I?”
Andrew was in his face again. “We dragged ye all the way back here,” he said. “But we couldna do it alone, so we tied ye tae a horse! The horse dragged ye all the way here!”
He was very excited about what was clearly an adventure for him and Jax opened his eyes again, looking at the boy. “A horse?” he repeated. “My horse?”
Albie shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I saw no sign of yer horse. We used mine.”
As Jax looked at the man, Andrew spoke again. “Yer eyes,” he said, clearly noticing Jax’s dual-colored eyes. “They look like the water.”
Both Jax and Albie looked at the boy. “What do you mean they look like the water?” Jax asked.
The boy put his fingers up, waving them. “Ye know,” he said. “When the sun is upon a stream and many colors come forth? That is what yer eyes look like. Many colors. How did ye make them that way?”
“I did not make them that way. I was born that way.”
Andrew began pulling at his eyelids. “I want tae make my eyes like that,” he said, looking at his father. “Can ye do that?”
Albie wasn’t sure what to say. He was quite certain the enormous knight wasn’t pleased with Andrew’s personal observations, so he put a hand on the lad’s head.
“Enough,” he said quietly. “Go tell yer mother our guest is awake. She wants tae know.”
Andrew bolted to his feet and dashed away, out of Jax’s line of sight. When he was gone, Albie smiled apologetically.
“He’s a good lad,” he said. “He doesna mean any harm.”
Somehow, Jax sensed that, but he didn’t comment. He never did when it had to do with the color of his eyes. He tried to lift his head, to sit up, but he felt woozy when he did, so he laid his head back down again, staring at the ceiling.
“I cannot stay,” he said. “I must return home.”
“Where is home?”
“Pelinom Castle.”
Albie’s eyebrows lifted. “Pelinom?” he repeated. “Do ye serve Coleby, then? I heard the castle now belongs tae a warlord.”
He was referring to Kellington’s father, Keats Coleby, who had possession of the castle until last summer when Jax laid siege and took it from him. Considering he was at the mercy of these people for the moment, Jax didn’t want to tip them off as to who he was. He might find that he would have to defend himself and he wasn’t in any shape to do that.
“It does,” he said after a moment. “He is a fearsome man, not to be trifled with.”
Albie’s expression was grim. “I heard what he did,” he said. “He put men on poles and left them tae die. ’Twas a terrible thing for him tae do.”
“It is a way of ensuring the defeated army does not rise again.”
Albie thought on that a moment. “Then it is true.”
“It is.”
“Did ye see it?”
“Aye.”
“How did ye avoid being put on a pole yerself?”
Jax had to think on his reply. Because I was the one giving the orders. “I served a purpose,” he finally said. “Everyone must serve a purpose. What is your purpose, Albie?”
He was subtly changing the subject, hoping the man was easy enough to manipulate. Albie stood up, turning away from him and made his way over to a big bucket near the hearth as he pondered his question.
“I sell wood tae those in town who dunna have the means tae cut it themselves,” he said. “Like my father before me, I’m a woodsman. Andrew will be, too. I’m teaching him tae earn his way.”
Jax turned his head a bit, looking at his surroundings and seeing that he was in a simple hut. It wasn’t particularly large and it was cluttered with a table, chairs, and piles of wood in the corners. The floor was dirt but it was covered with hides, no doubt from the animals Albie hunted for food. It was clear that these people lived a primitive existence and, with that knowledge, he began to discreetly feel around his body for weapons and other valuables he knew he had on him.
“It is good for a man to teach his son what he knows,” he said as he casually felt his coin purse, still tucked in his belt, and the daggers he normally had tucked around his body. “All the better for him to become a better man than his father.”
He was repeating Denedor’s words, making them sound as if they were his own and being rather proud of that. Now, maybe Albie wouldn’t think he was part of the warlord’s army who took over Pelinom, a wicked man who put men on stakes as part of his conquest. He would think him a wise and benevolent man, and considering Jax could feel that the possessions he had on his body were where he’d left them, nothing had been stolen. He was at ease somewhat. He stopped patting his body when Albie returned from the bucket near the hearth, bearing a wooden cup dripping with water.
“Here,” he said. “Have some water. Ye must be thirsty.”
Jax was, in fact. Albie helped him lift his head and he drained the cup. “My thanks,” he said, licking his lips. “Help me to sit up.”
“Mayhap ye should wait. ’Tis a nasty bump on yer head.”
“I will be better if I can sit up.”
There was no use arguing with him. As Albie struggled to pull a very big man into a sitting position, Andrew emerged from a small door near the hearth with a frail-looking woman in tow. The lad was excitedly pulling the woman along as she shuffled along behind him, clutching a tattered shawl around her skinny shoulders.
“Here he is, Mam!” Andrew cried happily. “He is awake!”
The woman was clutching the nearest chair for support as she smiled at her son. “Ye did well, Andy,” she said. “Ye saved a man’s life. Proud of ye, I am.”
Andrew beamed at his mother as Jax took a closer look at the woman; she wasn’t old by any means, but she walked as if she were. She was bent over, her cheeks sunken, and she was clearly unwell. But the smile she had for her son told him that everything with her was all right; the gesture was a lie for the child’s benefit, who foolishly believed it.
“I will get him some food!” Andrew said.
He rushed away, to the pot that was steaming over the hearth, as the woman drew closer to Jax. Her eyes, in her pale cheeks, were kind and concerned.
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“I heard ye had a mishap, m’laird,” she said, looking him over as Albie helped him lean back against the wall. “I had my lad put snow on yer head tae ease the bump, but I’m afraid ye’re going tae have an aching head. How do ye feel?”
At the moment, Jax wasn’t feeling all that well, but he fought the nausea. “I will survive,” he muttered. “I must get home.”
The woman moved towards him, leaning on the wall for support as she went. “Ye canna,” she said. “A storm is raging this night. Ye must remain until it stops.”
Jax could hear the whistling wind and the occasional burst of frigid air through the cracks in the wall. “My wife will wonder what has become of me,” he said. “She will be worried.”
The woman eased herself onto the ground a foot or so away from him; clearly, it was too much for her to stand. She faced Jax, greatly concerned for a man she didn’t even know.
“’Twill be a long night for the lass, no doubt,” she said, “but if ye go out tonight and try tae reach home, ye’ll perish. ’Tis not a fit night for man nor beast, even if it is the Eve of Christmas. Therefore, ye can celebrate it with us.”
Jax put up a hand to politely beg off. “Nay,” he said. “I will not interfere. Simply ignore me and go about your business.”
Before the woman could reply, Andrew was suddenly in front of him again, a bowl of something hot in his hands.
“Here,” the boy said, shoving it at Jax. “Eat it. My da and me killed the rabbit this morning and made a fine stew. Have some!”
Jax didn’t want the stew. He didn’t want to eat anything, but something about that hopeful little face had his resolve wavering. As a man who had never cared about offending people, it occurred to him that, for some reason, he didn’t want to offend Andrew. The boy was genuine and eager, guileless as he had never seen before. It occurred to Jax that, someday, he would have a son, too, perhaps not too unlike Andrew. A boy who was bright and eager to please.
A Very Medieval Christmas: A Medieval Romance Novella Bundle Page 12