“I wrote something for you last night,” he said softly, his alert eyes staring into the dimness of the shelter.
“You did?” she was barely audible. “What?”
“A bit of prose,” he said softly. “You may read it when you are feeling better.”
She didn’t reply. But then she rolled onto her back, her beautiful face gazing up at him in the soft illumination. Her half-lidded eyes were struggling against the force of the opiate concoction.
“I cannot read, Christian,” she said, unashamed.
He wasn’t surprised; very few ladies could read. Touching her cheek, he smiled faintly. “Then I shall teach you.”
“But that will take time,” she slurred, her eyes blinking slowly. “Please read your prose to me. I want to hear it now.”
Nodding faintly, he pulled her into his arms, continuing his massage as she snuggled against him. The night of fury and turmoil was forgotten by the both of them as they relaxed into a most natural state, enfolded within the company of each other’s arms.
As Gaithlin struggled against the force of the elixir, Christian thought on the ponderings and poetry he had scribed the night before, effortlessly isolating the gentle verse he had written specifically for Gaithlin.
“ ‘Beauty bewareth comes the passion
of rough tides and blissful dreams.
To ever haunt the beauty of the passion;
into the night, she surely hides.’ ”
His prosaic passage was met with silence and he thought she had fallen asleep. With a faint smile, he kissed her delicious hair and felt his own fatigue clutching at him, the result of a sleepless and turbulent night. No longer willing to wage battle with his exhaustion, he closed his eyes against the comfort of their bed.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “What does it mean?”
He scarcely heard the muttered question. His eyes remained closed as he answered. “It means that you are the beauty of my passion. And it means that you and I will not have a perfect life together.”
“And you fear that I may run?” Her head suddenly came up, her sleepy eyes focusing on him in the darkness. “I would never run from your passion, Christian. I have never run from anything in my life.”
His hand came up, tenderly touching her cheek. “You have not a cowardly bone in your body. But you may want to escape the turmoil in spite of your bravery. ’Twould be a natural instinct.”
She shook her head, a slender finger tracing the squareness of his jaw. “An instinct I would reject. I have spent a mere seven days with you and already I cannot imagine being separated from you, as if we belong together.”
“We do,” he said without hesitation, his heart soaring to hear his own thoughts echoed in her sultry voice. He’d always known she reflected his own feelings to a certain extent, but he was unsure that her own sensations ran as deeply as his did. He’d known he loved her since the first he had ever seen her; mayhap, in time, she would come to love him as well. Hearing her tender words and experiencing her gentle actions, he was greatly encouraged.
Gaithlin smiled, her thumbs stroking his stubbled cheek as she studied his features intently. “Strange that we do. We are supposed to hate each other.”
“I could never hate you.”
“Nor could I.
He drank in her beautiful face even as she continued to scrutinize him, almost thoughtfully in spite of her drug-hazed mind. After a moment, he cupped her gently behind the neck and pulled her to his lips for a tender kiss. Good Christ, there was so much he wanted to tell her. So much he was still unable to voice. Mayhap in time….
“Sleep now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We shall go to town on the morrow.”
Too tired to protest or question his reasoning, she snuggled into the curve of his mighty torso, never more content in her entire life. Even as she contemplated the magic of his delicious company, another fleeting thought came to mind as the sleep of Morpheus attempted once more to claim her.
“What about Malcolm?” she yawned.
“He’s a job to do,” he replied. “He’ll be busy most of the day.”
Forgetting the wood he had promised the lad, Christian drifted off to sleep without thought to the missive he had intended to send his father this day, or the supplies they were in need of purchasing. All that mattered was that all was right between he and Gaithlin again, a comfort and warmth between them that he could not begin to describe in words. All he knew was that he needed the satisfaction as badly as he needed to eat and breathe. He needed the comfort.
He needed her.
*
Gaithlin slept the rest of the day and on into the evening. Christian had awoken after several hours of restful sleep, listening to the soft sounds of Malcolm as the lad continued to patch the walls. Gaithlin was dead weight against him, breathing heavily in her drug-induced sleep and after watching her peaceful expression longer than he could recall, Christian tenderly disengaged himself from her heated body.
Tucking his cloak about her tightly, he kissed her gently on the forehead, listening to her sighs of contentment. With a smile on his lips, he quit the shelter with several splintered logs in his arms, intent on aiding the neglected young lad.
The fog had lifted, leaving the day bright and clear. Malcolm had finished the southern wall and was busily working on the eastern barrier when Christian emerged from the shack. With a few words between them, Malcolm showed him the best spot to lodge a hefty bonfire and proceeded to light the bundle of dried wood as Christian stood over him and supervised.
It took several tries and Malcolm was rapidly succumbing to acute embarrassment, but Christian aided him to make it appear as if the boy’s efforts had culminated after all. Admiring the English warlord more by the minute, Malcolm had been eager to assist Christian in setting up a tripod over the open flame. Made of three long pieces of damp wood, Christian secured the implement for holding pots with a long strip of hide.
With the campfire prepared, the two men proceeded to finish coating the shack with the clay-like mud. Once Christian delved into the task, the project was completed quickly and using the pick-axe from his arsenal of war implements, he and Malcolm began to dig up several long sections of sod to complete the walls of the house.
It was hard, dirty work that progressed into the night. By the time they covered two walls and the roof with the damp, heavy sod, they were both famished and fatigued. Christian had ducked into the hut with the intention of confiscating the remainder of the lentil soup and wedges of cheese he had brought with him, noting with humor that all of their racket throughout the day had failed to rouse Gaithlin. Gathering his supplies, he quit the shack silently.
She slept through their meal and through the noise from the subsequent bath Christian had forced Malcolm to endure. Boiling water in the smaller pot he had secured to the exterior tripod, he stripped the reluctant boy naked and proceeded to scrub him within an inch of his dirty little life. In faith, the lad was several levels beyond the acceptable boundaries of common filth and Christian took to wearing his heavy leather gloves for protection as he went about scraping the lad with a horse-hair brush and lye soap.
Through the moaning and grumbling and protests of a lad being skinned alive by the brutal washings of a diligent knight, Gaithlin would have been proud in the manner with which Christian had dealt with Malcolm. Firmly but rationally, he finished scouring the lad and wrapped him in a length of wool from his saddlebags, boiling his ragged clothes to remove the dirt and vermin from them. As Malcolm sat by the fire and chewed noisily on a piece of tart cheese, Christian then set about determining what could be done about the boy’s hair.
The blond tresses were literally crawling with pests. Quickly deciding there was nothing he could do and refusing to risk infecting himself with the futile attempt of removing the insects, he simply withdrew his long-edge shaving razor and proceeded to shave the boy bald. Then, with another dousing of lye soap and hot water, he was rather pleased with his sanitar
y measures.
Malcolm didn’t seem overly concerned with his fleshy head or raw-scrubbed body; in fact, he seemed particularly happy with the attention from the massive warlord. He knew that proper knights were clean and shaved and he appeared to take that into account as Christian burned the dirty strands of blond hair.
In fact, he couldn’t ever recall feeling so satisfied in his entire young life. Rapidly, he was coming to be a part of this peculiar little world in the middle of the Wood, coming to belong to the lady and her knight.
Bald, fed and content, Malcolm had fallen asleep beside the fire in the midst of his most delightful thoughts.
Cup of ale in hand, Christian sat by the crackling blaze into the still depths of the night, thinking that he, too, found a good deal of contentment and belonging in the wilds of Galloway.
‘Strange how the patchwork of life brings us together,
creating an unbroken masterpiece from the disjointed remnants
of Man’s supercilious existence.
A fool believes himself complete
until he realizes that which he has lacked.’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. VII, p. XVI
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Did you have to shave him?”
Christian had been listening to the same question for the past three hours. Since the moment dawn had crested and Gaithlin had screamed at the sight of the bald child inhabiting her hut. Plodding along on the charger toward the small village known as Cree, the hairless child that had once been Malcolm leapt and danced alongside the animal bearing his adopted companions as his newly-shorn scalp glistened in the weak morning light.
“Gae, we’ve discussed this,” he said patiently to the woman seated across his massive thighs. “His hair was a nest of vermin. At least he’s clean now.”
Unable to take her eyes off the happy young lad, Gaithlin shook her head with remorse. “Aye, clean and bald. He looks like the victim of torture. People will believe we have mistreated him.”
“We’ve treated him better in the past two days than most children are handled in their entire life,” Christian replied. “And I did you a favor by bathing him. Surely you can thank me for my consideration and cease bemoaning his naked scalp.”
“But his nude skull is blinding me. Merciful Heavens, he looks terrible.”
Christian pulled her closer against him, his face nestled in her hair. “You and I are aware of his appalling appearance, but he is not. Do not frighten him with your cynical observations.”
“My observations are not cynical. They are God’s honest truth.”
He snickered softly. “Have faith, my lady. His hair will grow back and you will be spared any further horrors.”
Gaithlin shook her head again, watching Malcolm as he jumped feet-first into a muddy puddle of stagnant water. Splashing about as any young boy would, he emerged onto the dry dust of the road and promptly came away with mud-shoes. Grinning gleefully at Gaithlin’s dismayed expression, he dashed down the road with unrestrained excitement of the prospects awaiting him in Cree.
Gaithlin continued to watch the lad with a sickened expression as Christian snickered again. “Do not be so distressed,” he murmured in her ear. “He is quite happy about the whole thing.”
Gaithlin observed the cavorting youth with a measured degree of doubt. “Mayhap so. But did you truly have to shave him?”
“Aye, I had to shave him.”
Sighing with resignation, Gaithlin tore her eyes away from the frolicking lad to drink in the wooded scenery around her. The trees were thick with moisture and smell of damp foliage infiltrated the canopy, a cloying yet not unpleasant scent. A heavy coverage of ground ivy crowded to the edge of the road, only to be completely halted by the pebbled dirt itself.
Gaithlin watched the scenery go by, pondering the happenings of her world since she had fallen into a drug-induced stupor yesterday morn – a nearly-completed shelter, a shaved boy, and a captor who seemed intent on treating her as if they had never shared an argument or harsh moment during the short course of their relationship. As if all was right in the world.
Indeed, all appeared to be more than pleasant in their private little realm as Christian had been eager to prove since the sun rose. Even though her pains were gone and her eighteen-hour sleep had proved to be wonderful and utterly restful, he had insisted on cooking the morning meal of soft wheat porridge and a bit of honey. Gaithlin had been provided the luxurious pleasure of a wonderful meal and a jailor who seemed intent on acting her manservant. And a completely, unmistakably bald child.
Christian had laughed at her reaction; so had Malcolm. But it wasn’t funny in the least. She could scarcely sit through the meal without staring at the boy in total awe; the only indication that her familiar Malcolm was seated before her was in the evidence of his fearsome appetite. Had she not been privy to his barbaric table manners, she would have thought him to be some sort of forest brownie. An elf, even. Certainly not her Malcolm.
As the meal progressed, her dismay deepened and she realized that she had to regain control of her growing shock lest she completely upset herself and the boy. To divert her horror away from the hairless lad, she willingly accepted Christian’s suggestion that she clean up and change her surcoat before venturing into the village. In fact, it was a splendid idea and she delved into the task with enthusiasm.
With a pot of warm water and a cake of hard-milled soap, she started with a simple washing that progressed into a full-body lathering. Even her hair, dirty and stringy and unkempt, was the recipient of a harsh scrubbing. Rinsing and cleansing and drying, she had never felt so refreshed in her entire life, as if the past several days of dirt and turmoil and confusion had been washed away in a stream of dissolving suds and cooling water.
An obvious ambience Christian noted the moment he saw her emerge from the shelter clad in a beautiful gown of peach-colored wool. Her drying hair was slicked back on her head, reminiscent of the first time he had ever seen her, wet and nude and completely unhindered. A recollection as clear as if it had happened an hour ago and his heart thumped madly against his ribs, reminding him of the adoration he held so dearly for her.
Gazing at her smiling, scrubbed face as she dried her hair over Malcolm’s open flame, he was seized with a fervent desire to marry her this day, to make love to her until they were old and gray. He would make love to her on their bed, on the floor, in the water she so obviously loved. He would pound her with proof of his adoration and desire until she became at one with his thoughts and mind and dreams. Until their bodies were of one heart, one soul, one life.
But his amorous thoughts would have to wait for the moment. A hefty schedule of tasks filled the day and he would be sorely amiss not to focus his attention on their needs at hand. Aboard his charger loaded with everything he had brought of value so the possessions would not fall into the hands of the dog-people, he and Gaithlin and Malcolm had set out for Cree.
In spite of Gaithlin’s recurring horror at Malcolm’s appearance, it had been a lovely jaunt. The heady tinge of early autumn filled the air and the summer-green leaves were starting to show a hint of color. Smelling like the fresh essence of soap and water, Gaithlin leaned against Christian with customary familiarity, relishing the feel of his arm about her just as he was intent on savoring the presence of her supple body against his own. Up ahead, Malcolm danced and skipped the length of the thoroughfare, delighted in every way to be a part of the English knight’s world.
“When we return to England, Malcolm will come with us,” Gaithlin said softly, gazing fondly at the bald head.
Jolted from his train of thought, Christian’s brow furrowed as he pondered her wish. “I do not know if that would be particularly wise, Gae,” he said softly. “You and I are going to be facing a good deal of adversity. ’Twould not be fair to thrust Malcolm into the middle of it.”
She turned in the saddle, eyeing him in the soft illumination of the overhead canopy. He wore hi
s armor this day, creating a more powerful atmosphere about him than was usual. However, the plates of tempered steel were superfluous in her opinion; the pure size and strength radiating forth from his mighty presence was far more threatening than the hazard of battle armor. The suit of protective metal was an enhancement to his aura, not a staple. The Demon of legend.
“Would you prefer to leave him in the wilds of Galloway, vulnerable and alone?” she cocked an eyebrow, returning her focus from his mighty appearance to the subject at hand. “Merciful Heavens, Christian, you have all but adopted the boy over the past two days. He has become your shadow and he adores you. I cannot imagine returning to England without him, Feud or no.”
He sighed, noting her brilliant blond hair and exquisite features under the shaded sunlight. Thinking her to be the most beautiful, sensuous and demanding creature he had ever laid eyes on.
“At least he would be safe here,” he muttered, knowing it to be a weak excuse even as it came forth from his lips. “I will have too many worries once we return home without the added burden of a child.”
Gaithlin opened her mouth to protest when Malcolm suddenly burst forth from the bramble, startling the charger and causing the animal to snort and snap. Gaithlin struggled to keep her balance as Christian calmed the startled beast.
“Th’ village is just ahead!” Malcolm announced excitedly, oblivious to the fact that he had jolted the mighty warhorse into fits of agitation. “Hurry!”
“We are trying,” Christian grunted as he tightened the reins, calming the animal with a soothing clucking noise.
“Come on, lady!” Malcolm held his hand up to her. “I’ll show ye the town!”
Thinking that it would be wise to remove herself from the excited horse, Gaithlin slipped from the saddle and nearly pitched herself to her knees in the process. Regaining her unsteady balance, she was barely recovered when Malcolm was rushing at her, grabbing her hand enthusiastically.
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