Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  An inkling of understanding came to Gaithlin’s mind as to who these men possibly were. Ye’re on me lands. These were Douglas lands. Could it be…?

  “His family took him away,” she said after a moment, hoping it was the right thing to say. “We came here… oh, it does not matter why we came here, but I must leave right away. My husband’s life is in danger. Please let us go.”

  “What do ye mean his family took him away? Where did they take him?”

  Gaithlin didn’t have time to explain but she knew she had to. She thought perhaps being completely truthful might help these Scotsmen understand that her need was urgent. Still, she was frightened of them; there were a great many of them and if she had to battle the Scots, it would delay assisting Christian. She couldn’t let that happen.

  “They took him back to England,” she said, eyeing the Scotsmen around her. “Now, you will tell me why you are here? We have nothing of value if you think to steal from us. We simply want to go in peace.”

  The big Scotsman scratched as his neck, a casual gesture as he surveyed the situation again. His gaze moved over the neat clearing, the cooking fire casting warm golden light against the darkness, and finally the sod house. He gestured at it.

  “Ye’re Lady St. John?” he asked. “Have ye been livin’ in that house?”

  “Aye.”

  “Yer husband is Christian St. John.”

  Gaithlin nodded slowly. “He is,” she replied. “And you are a Douglas?”

  The Scotsman fixed her in the eye. “I am the Douglas,” he said. “Yer husband sent a missive tae me and asked me tae send it on tae his father. Now ye say his father has come tae take him back to Eden?”

  His answer confirmed to Gaithlin who these men were and she nearly collapsed with relief. In fact, tears sprang to her eyes. “My great-grandmother was Calandra Douglas, daughter of Alan Douglas,” she said, pointing to her mother several dozen feet away. “That is my mother, Calandra’s granddaughter. Calandra was part of your clan long ago before she married into the Percy family. We are your kin.”

  Roger’s gaze moved to Alicia, dressed as a knight. He eyed her strange dress but said nothing about it. He turned back at Gaithlin. “Ye said yer name was de Gare,” he said.

  Gaithlin nodded. “It was until yesterday,” she said. “Christian and I were married last night and I became Lady St. John.”

  Roger returned his attention to her. “If I recall correctly, the House o’ de Gare and the House o’ St. John have feudin’ fer many years.”

  “You know of it?”

  Roger gave her a wry grin. “We’ve heard tale o’ the war. The north is a small place, m’lady. News travels. I can remember me grandsire speakin’ o’it. Do ye still fight?”

  Gaithlin nodded, thrilled and relieved that the man knew something of the history between her family and Christian’s. If he knew that, then maybe he would understand the severity of the situation.

  “Aye,” she nodded, feeling hopeful and anxious. “Christian and I married to stop the bloodshed but Christian’s father does not agree. He sent his men to take my husband back to Eden where he… he is going to kill him.”

  She was starting to tear up and Roger peered closely at her. “Ye married the Demon of Eden without his Da’s permission?”

  She sniffled. “We love each other.”

  Roger’s brow furrowed. He thought on the situation a moment before glancing back at his brother. “Did ye hear that, Macky? The Demon is tryin’ tae stop the war with the House o’ de Gare but his Da doesna agree wif ’im.”

  Mac shook his shaggy head. “We saw the St. John army ridin’ north and being followed by another army we dinna recognize,” he said, pointing to Alicia and her gang of de Gare soldiers. “Now we find out that it’s the de Gare army and they are bringin’ their war tae our lands.”

  “That is not true,” Alicia said; she could no longer remain silent. “We were following the St. John army because we knew the Demon had abducted my daughter and was holding her for ransom. We came to rescue her.”

  “But yer daughter says she married the Demon,” Roger pointed out. “The lass wants peace.”

  Alicia sighed heavily as she nodded her head. “It is something we all want,” she admitted hoarsely. “She told me that Jean St. John sent his men north to bring Christian home to face his father for what he has done – marry the enemy. Jean will surely kill him for marrying a de Gare.”

  Gaithlin turned her anxious gaze to Roger. “We must save him,” she whispered urgently. “Please let us go so we can prevent Jean from killing him.”

  Roger could see how distressed she was, a young woman with her entire life in front of her, now faced with the threat of losing her new husband. He could feel her pain; it was evident in everything about her.

  “And how will ye do this?” he wanted to know.

  Gaithlin looked resigned as well as anguished. “My mother is going to offer to surrender our castle in exchange for Christian’s life,” she said. “If Jean wants total victory over the House of de Gare, we will give it to him. We will give him victory in this seventy year war. But at the price of his son’s life.”

  Roger’s expression was intense. “Ye would surrender yer home to the man?”

  “I would surrender everything if it would save my husband.”

  Roger liked that kind of courage and conviction; it was something he could believe in. In fact, he was coming to like this strong, courageous woman who was willing to do anything to save her husband. He admired that. After a moment, he turned to his brother.

  “It would seem we have kin in need of assistance, Macky,” he said. “Perhaps if we ride inta England with Lady St. John and her mother, Jean St. John might be more apt tae listen tae their offer.”

  Mac thought on that a moment. “If he doesna, he would risk angerin’ the Douglas.”

  “Not a healthy state for any man.”

  “ ’Tis true, ’tis true.”

  “Ye canna kill yer son fer lovin’ a woman.”

  “Nay, but ye can take a strap tae him.”

  Roger waved his brother off, grinning, as he focused on Gaithlin’s wide-eyed hopeful expression. He gestured at the hut.

  “Go now and collect yer things,” he told her, eyeing Malcolm. “And take yer little bodyguard with ye. We’ll ride with ye tae help ye save yer husband.”

  Gaithlin nearly dropped Malcolm to the ground as she rushed at Roger, hugging him tightly. He grinned, embarrassed, as she rushed off towards the hut, relaying hurried orders to Malcolm as she went. As Gaithlin hurried to gather her possessions, Roger approached Alicia and Quinton. He seemed far more interested in Alicia, the woman dressed as a knight. He inspected her curiously before speaking.

  “We saw yer armies earlier today,” he said. “If the St. John army has come tae take the Demon, it canna be long since they left.”

  Alicia shook her head. “An hour or two, mayhap less. We came right after they departed, evidently.”

  “If we ride hard, we could catch up tae them.”

  “That is true.”

  Roger’s gaze lingered on the pretty, round woman a moment before turning his attention to Quinton. He pointed at him.

  “Who are ye?” he demanded.

  “Quinton St. John,” Quinton replied evenly. “Christian is my brother.”

  Roger looked perplexed. After a moment, he shook his head; the situation was too complicated for him to try and understand. “De Gare women and St. John men everywhere,” he said, throwing up his arms as he turned back for his men. “Macky, gather the men up! We ride!”

  Alicia and Quinton moved to their respective mounts but not before Alicia had two de Gare soldiers wrap up Eldon’s body in preparation for taking the man back to Winding Cross. She said a prayer over him and kissed his cold, dead lips one last time before watching the men pack him away on his charger. She was grieved and deeply saddened, but the prospect of facing Jean St. John one last time had her sufficiently distracted. The end
of the Feud was in sight; at least, she hoped so. Like her daughter, she was willing to do what was necessary in order to secure an accord. Already, this Feud had taken too many lives.

  She wondered if the Demon’s life would be added to that long and distinguished list.

  ‘Pain and sorrow, well worth the cost,

  To feel her skin, smell her hair, my memory does not do it justice.

  My heart longs for her as the sparrow longs for spring,

  And my arms ache to hold her as Death’s sickly bellows call for me.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. XI, p. CXXI

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The massive chamber in the corner of the third floor of the keep had always been his refuge. Big, well appointed, warm and comfortable, he had spent many satisfying years in the chamber and it only held good memories for him. Now, as he sat at his desk, writing his thoughts and feelings down on careful pages of yellowed vellum, he tried to ignore the fact that the chamber had become his prison.

  Since their arrival back to Eden the day before after a very hard two-days ride from Scotland, Christian had been locked in the chamber. His father hadn’t gone so far as to lock him in the vault, but Christian knew it was only a matter of time. Jean had been furious enough to punch him in the face when he had arrived on that quiet misty morning but had surprisingly refrained from berating him or questioning him. When he saw Christian tied up, with Jasper holding on to him, all he did was slug him. And then he had walked away.

  Which was probably for the best. Jean was so volatile that he might very well shove a dagger into his ribs before he realized what he was doing, so Christian was glad that his father had stayed away. It was best for both of them.

  So Christian had pulled out one of his older volumes of writing, one that was only partially finished, and began scribing words and thoughts in it. He had been writing for most of the day and night with his big steel and bone quill, his fingers cramping and stained with black ink as he put to vellum all of the thoughts in his head. Still, all of the words in the world couldn’t do justice to the pain in his heart. For the first time in his life, he felt very alone and very betrayed. It was difficult to keep the steely stabs of sorrow away the more time passed, especially since he didn’t know the fate of Gaithlin. It was all he could think about. Had Quinton shown mercy? Had he not? It was torture not knowing. He’d never known so much blinding, twisting pain in his life.

  It was a pain made worse because his brother had not yet returned from Scotland. He was nearly crazed with worry, wondering what was keeping Quinton. The first several hours after returning home, he had paced the floor with worry, trying to figure out how he could climb from the window and escape even though the window was far too small for his frame. He’d actually tried to squeeze out of it just to make sure. When the pacing had finally died down, that was when he had turned to his precious volumes of writings. There was nothing else he could do.

  Hunched over his writing table, he was in the midst of telling the story of how he and Gaithlin met when he heard the lock on the chamber door rattle. Someone was tampering with it. He paused in his writing but only briefly before resuming, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. It could only be his father at the door and he braced himself for a battle. His heart began to pound and his palms to sweat as the chamber door finally lurched open.

  Jean entered the bower, his gaze fixed on his eldest son. Christian was facing away from him, seated at his writing table, and had not bothered to turn and see who had entered his room. The show of disinterested set the tone for the meeting and Jean’s irritation, something he’d been wrestling with for two days, threatened to return. He eyed Christian’s lowered head.

  “I wonder what you are writing about today, Christian,” he said as he made his way over to his son. “Are you writing about your sorrows at having betrayed your family? Or are you writing of your disregard for all you ever stood for. I wonder?”

  Christian wouldn’t rise to the bait. He quietly set his quill down and turned to his father. “Is that what you really think?” he asked softly. “That I have betrayed my family? Me, the Demon of Eden, with a reputation larger than anyone or anything this family has ever bred? Do you truly believe in your heart that I would do anything to damage my family? If you do, then you do not know me at all, Father. I find that astonishing.”

  Jean’s irritation took a hit. He regarded his son a moment, with a hint of uncertainty, before lowering his gaze. He moved towards the slender lancet window that overlooked the bailey.

  “Then tell me what it is you believe you have done for the good of this family,” he said. “I am listening.”

  Christian studied his father intently. It took him a moment to answer. “Nay,” he finally said.

  Jean looked at him. “Nay?” he repeated. “What do you mean by that? Do you have nothing to say to me?”

  Christian remained calm. “I mean that you are not, in fact, listening,” he said. “Already, you have made your mind up about what I have done. You do not want to hear the truth; you want to linger in your own hate, building it up so that everyone and everything around you is the enemy, including me. All you have is your hatred for the House of de Gare, Father; without it, you cease to become Jean St. John. Your hatred is more important to you than your family is, otherwise I would not be locked in my own bower with the threat of execution hanging over my head. If you were not so filled with hatred, you would be willing to truly listen.”

  Jean’s expression was wrought with disappointment, doubt, and remorse. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to all of that because there were many elements of truth in it. “Tell me what you have done, Christian,” he muttered. “Is it true? Did you love the de Gare wench?”

  Christian sighed faintly; he could see the belligerence in his father’s expression. He sat back in his chair.

  “Did Maggie tell you that?” he asked quietly.

  “Does it matter? I simply want to know if it is true.”

  Christian regarded him for a long, painful moment. “I will ask you a question, Father, and you will be truthful,” he said. “Why do we fight the House of de Gare? In other words, what is our ultimate goal?”

  Jean’s expression hardened. “To kill them all.”

  “Why?”

  Jean’s jaw ticked. “Because they are our enemy!”

  Christian nodded patiently. “I realize that, but do we fight them simply to fight? Simply to hate? Or do we fight them to triumph so that, ultimately, we will know peace?”

  Jean moved towards him, his pale eyes blazing. “We fight them to kill them,” he hissed. “We fight them to destroy them.”

  “And after they are destroyed, then what? Do we know peace or do we find someone else to fight and hate? Is that all we will ever know – war and hatred?”

  “What are you driving at, Christian?”

  Christian sat forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on his father. “I always believed that our ultimate goal in fighting the House of de Gare was so that we would know peace,” he said. “Father, I have spent my entire life in warfare one way or the other but the older I become, the more I realize that there is more to life than fighting and dying. I want to know peace in my lifetime; I want my children to know it. Clearly, we have spent seventy years battling the de Gares and so far we have yet to destroy them. When I took Lady Gaithlin from St. Esk, I found out why; they are a very strong people. We could fight them for another seventy years and still not defeat them. I do not want to die fighting an old family Feud that should have been finished years ago.”

  Jean’s jaw was ticking furiously. “Are you telling me that your family’s honor isn’t good enough for you to fight and die for?”

  Christian shook his head. “That’s the saddest part,” he was becoming passionate in his speech. “There is no family honor at stake. This Feud started because one family supported Richard the Lionheart and the other family supported Prince John. Those people who
opposed one another are dead, Father, and all they left us was a legacy of unreasonable hatred. I do not want to hate anymore; I want to know peace. What is so wrong with that?”

  Jean was at a crossroads; Christian’s words made sense but he didn’t want to admit it. He was confused, and he was angry. He hated that his son sounded so much more intelligent than he did. Infuriated, he balled his right fist and punched it, hard, into his left palm.

  “When did you become such a coward?” he hissed. “You have a reputation to uphold, Christian, and all I hear spouting from your lips is talk of peace and surrender. Is that what the de Gare bitch did to you? Turn you into a coward?”

  Christian’s even temperament fractured. “You will not call her that.”

  Jean was building into a righteous steam. “Call her what? A bitch? An enchantress who has managed to cast a spell over you, turning you into a fool?” He was very quickly veering out of control. “Do you know what I told Jasper and Quinton? I told them to kill the bitch and bring her head back to me. I want to see the face of this… this creature that has bewitched you!”

  Christian was struggling with his fury as he rose on his muscular legs. “She has not bewitched me,” he said steadily. “She is a woman of great beauty, wit, and intelligence, and I am not ashamed to admit that I love her. I love her deeply, so much so that I married her. We married for love but we also married to cement a peaceful alliance between Winding Cross and Eden. She is a worthy wife, Father; I wish your hatred hadn’t blinded you to all that is good and peaceful in this world.”

  “She is dead now,” Jean seethed, jabbing a finger at his son. “She is dead and I will hear no more talk of peace between Winding Cross and Eden. You will purge this woman from your mind and reclaim your family loyalties, Christian, or I will kill you. So help me, I will do it.”

  Christian could see, at that moment, that his father was truly mad. His stance had nothing to do with family honor and everything to do with his irrational hatred of the House of de Gare. He wanted to kill it for killing’s sake, destroy it for destroying’s sake. There was no reasoning with a mad man.