Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. II, p. CLVII

  CHAPTER ONE

  Winding Cross Castle

  Cumbria, England

  One month later

  The acrid smell of smoke was harsh upon the dusky sky as twisting plumes of brown fog and the shouts of battle intermingled in the fresh atmosphere of the spring. An apocalyptic mood permeated man and beast alike as the bodies of the dead lined the filthy moat of Winding Cross like a macabre army of buoys. One could literally step across them to reach the battered fortress on the littered island, separated by the assaulting forces by little more than a damaged drawbridge. The scent of surrender was in the air.

  Christian was eager to be done with it. Mounted atop his magnificent charger, he stood at the edge of the moat while hordes of his men finished the final elements of the platform they had spent two days constructing. Another few feet and they would be level with the battlements to begin the final aspect of their assault on Alex de Gare.

  This would be the end of it, Christian vowed silently as his brother came charging through the shallow moat from the opposite shore where the massive platform was nearly complete. Over to their left, his cousin Jasper was launching a powerful offensive against the drawbridge that had been partially burned. It was a drawbridge that had been burned and reconstructed more times than Christian could count.

  The de Gares and St. Johns had been waging the same war year after year, decade after decade, until the combatants could hardly remember how the hostilities began in the first place. All that mattered was that, somehow, ancestral honor was at stake and war had to be waged until they were either completely victorious or completely obliterated. There was no other way of life for the descendants of the original antagonists, a family honor that had been at stake for seventy years.

  Christian always wondered what it would be like to have perpetual peace. No disputed lands, no sieges, no ambushes nor border skirmishes. No death, no pain, no grief. He could remember his carefully guarded childhood; he was not allowed outside of the enclosure of Eden, his ancestral fortress that had stood near the banks of the Eden River for over one hundred years.

  The entire bastion was constantly on a state of alert, ever-vigilant for the roaming bands of de Gare patrols that so often seduced Eden into a night of flame-arrows and siege tactics only to withdraw abruptly come the dawn.

  Hit-and-run tactics that the St. Johns were well aware of; in fact, they employed the same strategies against the de Gare holding of Winding Cross. Back and forth, the skirmishes and the assaults were a never-ending conflict, a constant state of brutal existence. There was no other way of life.

  Christian had grown up viewing the de Gares as another would view the Devil; to the House of St. John, the de Gares and Lucifer were one and the same. From a protected childhood to a life of fostering spent at Ludlow Castle on the Welsh border, Christian had pledged his servitude to King Henry III upon his initiation into the knighthood. He’d spent nearly twenty years away from his native home, situated in the beautiful wilds of Cumbria, but even that span of objective time was not enough to quell the inbred hatred of the de Gares.

  A hatred that was fully cemented into his soul by the time he had reached his thirty-third year. While basking in the glory as one of Henry’s most powerful knights, he had been summoned home by his father, demanding he return home to assist in finally obliterating the de Gares once and for all. Duty to family superseded devotion to his king, and Christian found himself home once again to do battle against his family’s loathsome enemy.

  An enemy who even now was as dangerously close to crumbling as Christian had ever witnessed. Shifting his attention between the nearly complete platform and his cousin’s successful violation of the fortified drawbridge, he was almost startled when Quinton reined his snorting destrier along his flank.

  “Can you believe it?” he demanded with excitement. “This is as close as we have come to breaching Winding Cross in years. The Demon of Eden has triumphed!”

  Christian disregarded the reference to his nickname as his ice-blue eyes grazed the scene before him; there was a good deal of smoke trailing from the bailey and he surmised correctly that several of their flame-arrows and flaming catapult projectiles had met their targets. His cousin was gleefully hacking away at the crumbling drawbridge, a powerful indication that infringement of the keep was imminent and Christian raised his visor with cool pleasure, wiping at his grimy face.

  “I shall show the proper joy when and if this event occurs,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to the cluster of tents that had been pitched in anticipation of a lengthy, successful siege. “I wonder if any progress has been made on the de Gare soldiers we captured earlier.”

  Quinton’s gaze trailed to the tents in the distance. “I am sure that our father would have notified you if anything of importance had been discovered,” he said, returning his attention to the drawbridge. “God’s Beard, look at the drawbridge; I had better get over there lest I miss my opportunity to violate the bailey.”

  He spurred his charger forward but Christian abruptly halted his brother’s advance, clobbering the man’s warhorse on the side of the head when the excited animal snapped at him. “You will remain here for the moment and oversee the final assault.” Gathering his own reins, he turned for the cluster of white, green and gold St. John tents. “I would see if Father has discovered anything of use from our captives.”

  Quinton shrugged. “Very well,” he acknowledged, then shouted after his brother as he charged off. “But don’t be long! I will not miss my opportunity when the bailey has been breached!”

  If Christian heard his zealous brother, he didn’t respond. Galloping across the partially destroyed clearing that separated Winding Cross from the forests beyond, he thundered into the small encampment and dismounted with graceful ease. Armor clanging and mail grating, he pushed boldly into his father’s tent.

  Jean St. John looked up from the duty of securing a worn leather boot. His massive son stood in the open tent flap, from head to toe the most fearsome warrior he had ever been fortunate enough to witness. Even though he had fathered the man, he could scarcely believe God had blessed him with an heir of unequalled power and intelligence. Intelligence that even now had been successful in compromising Winding Cross and Jean expected a full surrender before dawn.

  “Well?” he demanded as he rose to his feet. “Is she down?”

  Christian shook his head, taking a moment to unlatch his helm. Removing it with a grunt of satisfaction, he set it to the nearest shabby table. “Not yet, but soon. Jasper is nearly complete with his destruction of the drawbridge.”

  Jean’s ice-blue eyes were glittering flames of triumph. “And then Winding Cross shall be no more.”

  Christian’s gaze lingered on his father a moment before moving to a leather bladder of wine. Taking a healthy swallow, he eyed his father again. “It’s taken over seventy years to come to this point,” he said quietly. “By tomorrow, the de Gares will be at our mercy. Truthfully, we have never discussed what to do with Alex once we bring him to his knees. I suppose we should solicit Henry for his advice on the qualities of mercy.”

  Jean’s attention lingered on his son, a much taller and much wider version of himself. Dark blond hair, sun-kissed with streaks of vibrant blond framed his face and trailed to his shoulders in a glorious mane of gold. Thanks to his Nordic ancestry, his son had inherited a chiseled, perfectly angled face and eyes of the palest, coldest blue.

  “I suppose we should,” Jean said after a moment. “In faith, I have never thought on it. If Alex survives the siege, I could petition Henry to have him tried for the crimes of his ancestors.”

  “And what crimes are those?” a faint smile tinted Christian’s lips. “Can you even remember?”

  Jean cocked an eyebrow, struggling to adjust his chest protection so that the biting edge of the steel would not chaff him. “Well that I do. They were traitors, all of them. They opposed
the rightful king of England those years ago and sought to punish the St. Johns for our righteous views.”

  Christian shook his head. “The de Gares supported Richard the Lion Heart, and the St. Johns supported his brother Prince John. ’Twas a simple difference of opinion that started this bloody war in the first place.”

  Jean’s mouth tightened indignantly. “John was the rightful king; his father, Henry II, had intended to name the man his heir before he passed away. Richard inherited the throne and spent a total of three months in England during his entire ten year reign.”

  Christian sighed; they had traversed this brittle argument before and he had no desire to explore the politics yet again. But he couldn’t help offering one final, biting observation. “This whole madness between the St. Johns and the de Gares stems from William de Gare’s support of King Richard while Uly St. John sanctioned his brother, John. A difference of loyalties has scarred our existence for seven decades. Good Christ, father, the crown is actually at peace for the moment. Why can’t we sample the same?”

  Jean shook his head irritably. “ ’Tis far more complex than your simple assertion, Christian.”

  Christian rolled his eyes in exaggeration as if he had forgotten the most critical, earth-shattering factor of all. “Ah, yes, let us not forget the fact that William de Gare married the woman Uly St. John had loved since childhood. Left lonely and bitter, Uly used William’s loyalties as an excuse to wage battle against the man.”

  Jean’s face was taut with emotion. “For an intelligent man, your views of family honor are most restricted.” When Christian returned to his drink, unwilling to engage in verbal combat with his father, Jean banked his emotions. Today was to be a most monumental day and he would not dampen it with a repeated argument; even if his eldest fought and upheld the family integrity, he had made it clear that he did not agree with the origins of the Feud.

  “I will join you and Jasper in breaching the bailey,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet as he moved to secure his broadsword. “Quinton can remain outside to maintain the integrity of the perimeter to ensure that no one escapes our wrath.”

  Christian drained the wine bladder and wiped his mouth, moving to retrieve his helm. “Did you discover anything useful from the captured de Gare soldiers?”

  Jean nodded firmly. “I have learned that Alex removed his eldest daughter from Winding Cross last week, sending her north to St. Esk Convent. Apparently, he had caught rumor of your return to the province and was not going to take any chances with his daughter’s safety.”

  Christian frowned. “I have never made any threat toward the girl. Good Christ, I have even forgotten her name. Caroline…or Katherine, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re not even close. Her name is Gaithlin – the Lady Gaithlin de Gare.”

  Christian snorted. “How could I ever have forgotten a name like that? But not to venture off the subject, why would he remove her simply because I have returned home?”

  Jean was frank. “Because all of England fears the Demon of Eden,” he said. “The entire province knows of your prowess on the Welsh border, fighting those who would resist Henry’s reign. When Alex heard that you had returned home, he naturally assumed your skills would be used against him. Your military brilliance is no secret and the burning fortress on the crest is testimony to that fact.” He smiled broadly, clapping his powerful son on the shoulder. “You have managed to accomplish what no other St. John has managed, Christian; you have brought Winding Cross to her knees.”

  Christian gazed at his father a moment before shaking his head, a quirky smile on his lips. “Your compliments are a bit premature, are they not? Winding Cross is still standing, and the de Gares are still within her bosom.”

  “Not for long,” Jean said confidently, latching his helm as his son did the same. “Winding Cross will fall. If she does not, we shall confiscate the girl and hold her for assurance of de Gare’s defeat. Tiny St. Esk is no match for our military power should we focus our attentions on Alex’s daughter.”

  Christian cocked an eyebrow as he lowered his visor. “I will not violate an abbey. Not even for a de Gare.”

  “You will do as I say,” Jean didn’t hesitate with his casual reply as he and his son emerged into the impending dusk. “St. Esk has been violated before, by the Scots as well as the English. The Catholic Church becomes angry, protests until the offending party presents a substantial donation, and then they proceed to rebuild their sacked sanctuary without another word. It’s the way of things.”

  “I am a knight. I am supposed to protect the church, not threaten it.”

  “As a knight, the church belongs to you to do with as you please. You serve the church, the church serves you. There is a good deal of give and take within the holy sacrament of your vows, Christian. You must not be afraid to utilize your links with the church to your advantage. Certainly, God and his holy order take advantage of their devoted knights however the whim suits them.” He nudged his son encouragingly. “When you acquire the girl, consider it a gift from the church to her most loyal son. You are simply collecting what they have been gracious enough to retain until your arrival.”

  Christian sighed, shaking his head in dispute. “I cannot say that I agree with your logic,” his gaze raked the distant scenario, tendrils of smoke filling the darkening sky like dancing snakes. After a moment, he sighed heavily. “Very well. Suppose we decide to abduct the girl. Then what? Certainly you would not have me bring her back to Eden where she could possibly escape and make her way home again. Eden and Winding Cross are a mere eight miles from one another.”

  “She would not escape from the vault.”

  “You would put a lady in the vault?”

  “She’s a de Gare, Christian. I would most certainly put a de Gare in the vault.”

  Jean’s chestnut destrier was brought around by a pair of young squires. Christian watched his father mount the steed with some difficulty, indicative of his advancing years.

  “I would take her to the woods and tie her to a tree before I would allow you to put her in the vault,” Christian said. “That bestial hole is hardly fit for the rats that inhabit it.”

  Jean snorted with humor as he gathered his reins. Beside him, his son mounted effortlessly and secured his heavy boots into his stirrups as he collected his reins. “Then take her into the woods and hang her from her thumbs,” he told his son. “Better yet, take her to Scotland and let your mother’s clan have their way with her while we demand Alex’s surrender.”

  Christian sighed with disgust at his father’s ideals. Normally, he was an amiable man with a good deal of moral sense. But when it came to the de Gares, he seemed to lose all of his dignity. As if no punishment was too horrid to bestow upon his mortal enemy; even the de Gares of the female gender.

  “Taking her to Scotland would be better than the vault of Eden,” he muttered, reining his charger in the direction of the failing fortress. “From the looks of things, however, it would appear we need not worry about your alternative plan. Winding Cross is deteriorating rapidly.”

  Jean smiled beneath his lowered visor as they advanced toward the scene of destruction. The chargers slowed as the two men closed in, noting the collection of soldiers wading about the moat in anticipation of the complete collapse of the drawbridge as several knights struggled against the burnt, crumbling wood. The hole in the partially-ruined wooden viaduct afforded the St. John army an ample view of the interior of the keep; there was little movement, mostly a glimpse of a panicked soldier here and there as he scampered for cover.

  A perfect siege was near completion, thanks to Christian’s brilliance and Jasper’s strength. Quinton was in the middle of the struggle to completely obliterate the bridge and Christian could hear his brother shouting over the roar of weapons and activity. As Quinton roared commands, a knight the size of a bear moved from his heavily armored charger and clung to the edges of the disintegrating bridge, using a double-edged battle axe to widen the chasm for co
mplete encroachment. Christian smiled at the sight of his cousin, with intelligence equal to that of a rosebush, as he used his unearthly strength to single-handedly destroy the remains of Winding Cross’ bridge.

  “Dear God, Christian, I can taste victory,” Jean inhaled deeply, drinking in the sight of his near-success. “Once Jasper has opened the rupture, triumph shall be ours.”

  Christian didn’t reply; he was studying the scene with a flare of apprehension. They had come closer this day to breaching Winding Cross than in all the years the de Gares and the St. Johns had been doing battle and Christian was increasingly curious as to the reasons behind their success.

  Certainly, there had been a good deal of resistance, but not as much as in previous skirmishes. Additionally, there should be dozens of soldiers opposing Jasper as he clung to the drawbridge, hacking away at the widening opening. But there were no signs of resistance and no indication of any de Gare defiance whatsoever. It was coming to occur to him that nothing seemed as it should.

  Fighting off a rising apprehension, Christian’s eyes skimmed the battlements above, noting that there were no longer soldiers gracing her ledges. They were gone. Good Christ, why hadn’t he noticed the absence before? He had been so consumed with his father’s conversation and the activity at the bridge that he had failed to note the lack of movement along the ramparts.

  Being a seasoned warrior, he suspected subversion of catastrophic proportions. But at the moment, he could not isolate the form by which this treachery would come. As his gaze moved from the deserted battlements to the nearly-destroyed bridge, he suddenly had an inkling of an idea as to the fashion of sedition – he’d seen it before, many a time; in fact, he’d been a party to the same type of double-edged betrayal in his long career and horror flooded his battle-weary veins. Good Christ, had they played into de Gare’s hands with their confidence and intensity? Had Alex turned their arrogance against them in order to lure his enemy into a most destructive position?