The Warrior Poet (2 page)

Quinton shrugged. "I have never seen the family. I
have been unfortunate enough to glimpse Alex de Gare during the course of small
skirmishes or sieges, but I have never seen his eldest daughter or the two
younger boys."

Christian continued to stare at the woman as a hawk
watches its prey. "Do you think she could be Alex's daughter?"

Quinton shook his head. "Hardly,” he snorted. “Alex
de Gare short, rotund little brute. She's far too exquisite to be his
offspring."

Christian didn't say anything for the moment as the lady
disappeared beneath the glassy waters, only to reappear moments later as she
burst through the surface as if intending to launch
herself
to the sky above. Water cascaded from her magnificent torso as she hung
suspended for a brief moment, exposed to the heat and elements and probing eyes
of the astonished when gravity gracefully forced her into the shielding
confines of the pond.

But the fleeting display had been enough; Christian was
left speechless by the vision of the sun as it reflected off her wet skin,
erotically caressing her glorious breasts, probing gently along her slender
ribcage, embracing her narrowed waist.

"Do you still believe my trek into disputed lands
to be foolish?" he was barely aware of Quinton's taunting whisper.

After a lengthy, dazed moment, he simply shook his head.
"Not at all," his voice quiet.
"In
fact, I shall never doubt you again. Forgive me for ever questioning your
wisdom."

Quinton snorted. "Well that you have come to realize
my brilliance." Glancing at the canopy overhead, he tugged at Christian's
arm. "We'd better be leaving. Father will wonder where we have gone
to."

Christian never took his eyes from the fairy-like vision
in the pond. He couldn't imagine leaving her alone, performing her sensual
ballet for the fish and the birds as if they could appreciate her display. Her
entire presentation was meant for him and him alone, and he would not be so
rude as to leave before she was concluded. He was determined to stay until the
end.

"I shall come in a moment," he waved his
brother on; in fact, he was hoping Quinton would leave. He wanted to savor her
exquisite beauty alone. "Tell father I shall be along shortly. Tell him...
tell him I am securing the disputed territory."

Quinton cocked an eyebrow, his gaze trailing to the
distant female figure as she floated on her back in the water, exposing her
delightfully ripe breasts to the trees above. He groaned softly. "Christ, I
would forgive her even if she was Alex de Gare's daughter."

Christian had powerfully erotic visions of himself atop
the supine form, already semi-aroused as he pondered the feel of her silken
skin beneath his calloused hands, the taste of her female musk upon his tongue.
He imagined the long, shapely legs as they wrapped about his narrow hips in
passion to draw him deeper and deeper still. He was unaware that his breathing
had quickened into shallow gasps as his pulse raced in rhythm with his
fantasies. He glanced at his brother.

"I would forgive her if she was the daughter of
Lucifer himself,” he said.

He meant it.

'That name... I cannot remember when I did not abhor it.'

 
~ 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 been two days in
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 in 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 in-bred 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 healthy swallow, he eyed his father
again. "It's taken over seventy years 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 than 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 that?" 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."