Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She continued to stare at the floor, feeling like a scolded child. How could she explain her trust in a couple who had so far proven to be sly and destructive? Even though she knew he hadn’t understood her attempts at reasoning, still, an inner sense had convinced her that the dog-man and his equally undomesticated wife realized that the cozy, organized encampment was off-limits to their usual escapades. ’Twas a feeling she had, and a foolish one at that.

  “If you were so convinced that I was wrong, then why did you do as I asked?” she countered quietly. “I did not force you.”

  He rolled his eyes in a weary gesture. “Nay, you did not physically force me, but you certainly made it clear that I was to be given little choice.”

  His gaze lingered on her lowered head a moment, his heart softening at her rebuked mannerisms. Good Christ, he shouldn’t be reprimanding her for his own weakness; in faith, he hadn’t been brutally forced to bend to her will. He had given in without a struggle.

  Sighing, he turned away from her lest he find himself begging forgiveness for succumbing to her will. The situation was past and there was no reclaiming the decision made; still, he was annoyed that he had weakened against her demands so easily, even when he knew better. Certainly, she had that effect on him.

  “You’d better hope our possessions are still intact upon our return,” he grunted in a weak show of male supremacy. “If there is even one solitary item missing, I shall hire you out as a slave and cook until you have repaid the stolen worth.”

  Her head came up from the stone, knowing he was jesting with her. Certainly, she did not expect to be witness to an apology or admission of guilt, but his vague attempt at humor was his way of saving his pride. She knew he had bowed to her demands; and he was fully cognizant of the fact as well.

  A faint smile creased her lips. “As you say, my dearest.”

  He grunted again, refusing to look at her. With the subject of the dog-thieves’ questionable loyalties aired and settled, irritated though he might be with his weakness towards Gaithlin’s requests, he forced his attention to the approaching ceremony. The flabby brother was certainly taking his time in seeking the proper authority and Christian’s irritation shifted focus, mounting towards the unfortunate priest instead of lingering on his own fallibility.

  Fortunately, their wait was coming to a close. As Malcolm explored the shadowed recesses of the musty room, faint footsteps were heard approaching from the distant corridor and Christian focused on the mouth of the hall, waiting impatiently for the incoming parties. Malcolm scurried to Gaithlin’s protective presence, somewhat fearful of the spooky sounds and smells of the dim place as the footfalls drew near.

  Abruptly, the fat monk and a taller, more slender man emerged from the smoky-hazed corridor. Christian fixed his intimidating gaze on the taller man, assuming he was the figure of superiority.

  “I am Father Hardey, the Deacon of Dulce Cor,” the taller brother said, his voice soft and high-pitched. “I understand you wish to be wed?”

  Christian was unwilling to traverse the negotiation that usually accompanied such requests. Impulsive weddings were considered foolish and unwise by the church, preferring instead to indulge in lavish, well-planned affairs where both parties were well-known and spiritually established. But Christian knew that money spoke volumes to the people of the cloth; their vows of poverty were not as stringently adhered to as they would hope to pretend. And as he had undoubtedly proven at St. Esk, money could even purchase the life of his most vicious foe.

  “We do,” Christian held up a leather purse containing a good deal of money. He shook it once, demonstrating the sheer weight of the bulky package. “I believe this shall accommodate your services.”

  Both priests eyed the pouch of coins. After a moment’s hesitation, the taller priest moved forward to gingerly accept Christian’s offering. Gaithlin and Malcolm observed apprehensively as the priest opened the purse, expertly scanning the contents. With a faint nod, he re-secured the pouch and returned his attention to the English knight.

  “Follow me.”

  Gaithlin leapt up from her stool, nearly tripping over her feet in her haste to respond to the priest’s beckon. Christian reached out to steady her, gripping her arm tightly as Malcolm managed to wedge himself between them, verging on apprehension. The dark abbey with its sharp smells and strange sounds was becoming increasingly frightening and he had no intention of being separated, literally, from Christian or Gaithlin. Although still an adventure for the bright young lad, he had been far more comfortable on the approaching journey amongst the familiar woods and meadows. This place scared him.

  “The money is also meant to purchase a meal and board for the night,” Christian said as they followed the priest into a wide corridor off the common room. “We have made a long journey this day and will need to rest before our return on the morrow.”

  “You are welcome to all we have, m’lord,” the priest said softly, clutching the money to him as if he feared its ability to sprout legs and run away. “After your ceremony, you shall be served an evening meal and ushered to our visitor’s infirmary for the night.”

  A common room. Christian’s heart sank somewhat at the prospect of spending his wedding night in an open gallery, surrounded by strangers and other travelers who had sought lodgings for the night. But he knew that most holy structures had very little privacy and was not overly surprised. Still, it was a distinct disappointment. He’d truly hoped to have his new wife all to himself.

  The sanctuary of Sweetheart Abbey was long and slender, a lovely place compared to the rest of the building. A bank of candles burned brightly on one end, illuminating a carved stone altar decorated with an elaborate cloth. Clasping Gaithlin tightly against him, Christian observed the intricacies of the large room a moment before moving into the chapel in pursuit of the taller priest.

  The fat monk who had met them at the door suddenly appeared out of the shadows bearing various implements for the wedding ceremony. Gaithlin and Christian watched with various degrees of apprehension and delight as the man settled a chalice and wine upon the altar, followed by a leather-bound book and other wedding necessities. The taller priest accepted the red mantle of office from his colleague, kissing it reverently before draping the banner across his shoulders. Making the sign of the cross before the intended couple, he folded his hands in prayer.

  Christian indicated the same gesture across his shoulders and head, as did Gaithlin. Without further delay, the priest delved into the Catholic marriage mass that would forever join the house of St. John and de Gare.

  “Ave Maria, gracia plena dominus tecum.”

  Christian and Gaithlin crossed themselves again, muttering the proper response. “And also with you.”

  Beside Gaithlin, Malcolm looked entirely baffled. Tugging on Gaithlin’s persimmon-colored gown, he whispered harshly. “Wha’ did ye say?”

  Gaithlin shushed him, smiling apologetically to the priest as the man continued to read the ceremony in Latin. Quoting from the leather-bound book, he sang the words so quickly that Gaithlin could hardly distinguish one word from another. Christian, who was fluently educated in Latin, was having equal difficulty keeping up with the man’s swift delivery.

  As the priest blessed the sacramental chalice that would favor their union, Christian continued to wallow in the mounting disbelief that he was actually marrying his most inherent enemy. All of the planning, the distractions, the fears and hopes and dreams were finally coming to an abrupt culmination and he could scarcely comprehend that in a very short moment, the beautiful woman he had seen swimming in the pristine lake those weeks ago would actually become his wife. Already, she was his love, since the moment he first saw her.

  He didn’t realize how startled he would be to fathom the verity of the event as it bore down upon him. Speaking on the subject was one matter, but living the achievement was entirely another. He briefly wondered how Maggie was going to react to his marriage; in faith, he hardly cared. Maggie�
��s wants or emotions were of limited interest; they always had been. As far as he was concerned, the Lady Margaret du Bois no longer existed. Now, there was only Gaithlin.

  He was jolted from his thoughts as the priest thrust the golden chalice at him, instructing him to drink from the cup. Taking a long, healthy swallow, Christian turned to Gaithlin to offer her the goblet when the distinct glimmer of moisture on her face caught him completely off-guard. She was crying.

  “Gae?” he murmured, wiping her tears away as she accepted the chalice. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  She shook her head, drinking deeply from the cup. As Christian continued to wipe at her cheeks, Malcolm’s eyes were wide on his lady friend.

  “Why is she cryin’?” he demanded.

  Christian smiled faintly, tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear as she returned the chalice to the priest. The man looked strangely at her as he collected the goblet.

  “Why is she crying?” he looked questioningly to Christian.

  He put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her gently as she struggled to compose herself. “Because she is happy, I would suppose,” he said, touched with her genuine show of emotion. “Please continue, father.”

  “Happy?” Malcolm repeated as if he had never heard of such a concept. “Why would she cry if she’s happy? Mayhap she’s a-feared!”

  “A-feard of what?” the priest continued the conversation with keen interest, looking to the mouthy lad before him.

  Wide-eyed and innocent, Malcolm gazed up at the aging deacon. “A-feared of marryin’ th’ Englishman! He yells and bears a mighty sword and…”

  “Malcolm!” Gaithlin snapped softly, sniffling as she wiped the remaining moisture from her face. Looking to the priest, she shook her head apologetically. “Christian was correct, Father. I am deliriously happy at the prospect of this union. Would you please continue?”

  The priest’s brow was furrowed dubiously. “You must not be afraid to tell me the truth, child. If you are afraid….”

  “Merciful Heavens, I am not afraid of anything!” Gaithlin replied irritably. “I am simply in love with this man and wish to be his wife. Can we continue please?”

  Malcolm opened his mouth, but Christian put a massive hand over his lips that nearly covered his entire face. One eye plastered closed by a thick finger, Malcolm could easily read Christian’s menacing expression. After a brief moment of wordless implications relaying the pain of a tanned arse, Malcolm willing held silent when Christian removed his hand.

  Although not entirely convinced the lady was being truthful, the tall priest hesitantly continued with the ceremony. In faith, there wasn’t a great deal more to be administered and when the deacon murmured the final blessing, scratching the image of a cross into the air above their lowered heads, the service was rightfully complete.

  Christian didn’t have to be told to kiss his new bride. With the greatest of delight, he gathered Gaithlin into his arms and kissed her far more passionately than he should have under God’s watchful servants. Responding instinctively to his forceful attention, Gaithlin forgot her tears, oblivious to the priests gawking at the newly-wed couple’s amorous exchange. Surely the abbey had not seen such adoration since the very days of Lady Dervorgilla. Surely, she was smiling upon them from her stone crypt directly underneath their feet.

  Lips disengaging with the greatest reluctance, Christian and Gaithlin smiled happily at one another. They would have been content to gaze into one another’s eyes for the remainder of eternity had Christian not realized that they were not alone in their joy. Clearly, they had an audience.

  Malcolm was standing beside Gaithlin, beaming up at the lady and her knight and chewing his nails in the process. The priests, a few feet away, couldn’t quite seem to overcome the fact that a very lustful kiss had been delivered right before their very eyes. His cheeks flushed warm with delight, Christian couldn’t help but grin at the two astonished holy men as they pondered the carnal delights of such an unrestrained action.

  “Don’t look so entirely shocked,” he admonished the priests happily, displaying far more delight than he had exhibited in years. “It is called Sweetheart Abbey, is it not?

  “I never thought to know a love

  as I have come to know you.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. X, p. XXI

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The village was larger than Quinton remembered, though in faith, he hardly remembered it at all. ’Twas Christian who possessed a magnificent memory, not the younger, duller brother. As he and Jasper and their company of fifty English soldiers moved onto the well-traveled avenue of the busy little berg of Cree, Quinton was immediately aware of the fearful, mistrusting gazes.

  A fear that settled about the Englishmen in the guise of uncertain silence as the citizens of Cree scrutinized their uninvited guests. Glancing about the faces that were trained upon him in wordless suspicion, Quinton could literally read their apprehension and dismay.

  “A friendly group,” he muttered to Jasper.

  His cousin grunted in agreement. “Let’s not delay. Find a responsible party from the midst of this rabble and see if we cannot discover what they know of Christian’s location.”

  Nodding vaguely in agreement, Quinton began to search the customers and merchants alike for an expression that appeared remotely intelligent and preferably unhostile. Progressing further into the town, he began to wonder if locating a hospitable Scots was entirely possible when his questing gaze came to rest on a fat merchant standing idly beside his large stand.

  The Scotsman’s eyes were somewhat bright and curious upon the horde of English warriors and Quinton immediately reined his charger to a halt.

  “You there,” he said authoritatively. “I am seeking information.”

  The round merchant immediately drew straight, his eyes wide as he responded obediently to the demanding knight. “What… what information might tha’ be, m’laird?”

  Jasper drew alongside his cousin, gazing impassively upon the pudgy peasant. “An Englishman, like ourselves,” his voice was low. “Have you seen such a man in this town?”

  The merchant immediately nodded. “Aye, m’laird. He an’ his wife were here only a day ago.”

  Quinton and Jasper stared at the merchant, the impact of the man’s innocent reply settling deep into the bosom of their souls. Quinton fought down a crippling surge of nausea as he focused on the Scots. Christ… were they indeed speaking of the same man? “What did this Englishman look like?”

  “Very large. Largest man I have seen in these parts,” the merchant looked thoughtful. “An’ pale blue eyes. His wife was th’ most beautiful woman I have ever witnessed. Kind, too.”

  Jasper cast Quinton a long, foreboding glance before turning away entirely, directing his charger back towards the company of English soldiers. Quinton, however, was far too shaken and sickened to drop the subject quite so easily. Dear God, he was hearing his very worst suspicions.

  Struggling against his resistance of the situation, he drew in a deep, calming breath in an ineffectual attempt to calm his quaking nerves. Realizing, indeed, that they were referring to the same man but struggling in the same breath to disbelieve undeniable facts.

  “Did the Englishman introduce this woman as his mate?” he asked. “Did he actually use the word wife?”

  “Aye, m’laird,” the merchant replied confidently. “They bought a good deal of supplies before returnin’ home. Do ye know the man, then?”

  Do ye know the man? Quinton felt the question like a blow to his gut. Christ, I used to know him. Now I am not so sure. I am not sure of anything anymore. “I know him,” he found himself nearly choking on his reply. “Can… can you tell me where they live?”

  The merchant scratched his triple-chins. “They left down the southern road,” he gestured in the same direction from whence the English had come. “There are a few homesteads down th’ highway. I would suppose they live in one of ’em.�
��

  Quinton nodded shortly, eager to be done with the conversation. The confirmation of his brother’s treachery substantiated by an impartial source, a simple merchant who had conducted business with an English knight and his beautiful lady wife. A peasant who had no vested interest in the mysterious English warrior other than he had sold him a measure of goods and services. A man who had no idea of the chaos he had corroborated.

  God help them all.

  “I thank you for your information,” Quinton’s voice was barely audible as his quivering hands tossed the man a coin for his troubles. “What is your name?”

  “Lutey, m’laird,” the man replied, offering a timid smile in response to the offered payment. “ ’Twas m’pleasure.”

  Quinton doubted the conversation would have been so pleasurable had the round merchant realized the critical nature of his innocent answers. Plagued with emotions and nerves and nausea, Quinton reined his steed to the waiting group of English soldiers. Loyal St. John soldiers.

  “God’s Blood, Quinton,” Jasper hissed as the man came into range. “What are we…?”

  Quinton held up a sharp, trembling hand to silence his witless cousin. “We must find him before we leap to any hasty conclusions,” he said, his voice strained. “The merchant could have been mistaken.”

  Jasper shook his head, the action laced with sorrow and doubt. “What will it take for you to believe, Quinnie? You just heard your father’s suspicions confirmed by a neutral source.”

  Pale and tight-lipped, Quinton gathered his reins and deftly motioned his men in the opposite direction. “I will not believe until I hear the blessed truth come forth from Christian himself,” he replied staunchly, praying that all of the clues, the innuendos, and the innocent remarks had been incorrect. Surely the Demon was not a traitor to his own family, lured into betrayal by the feminine wiles of his worst enemy. Surely his father and the merchant had been wrong.