The Warrior Poet (29 page)

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 sanitary 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 every 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 glistening 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
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.
And 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
th
fresh essence of soap and water,
Gaithlin leaned against Christian with the 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 adversary
. '
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 his 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 that 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.

"Come on!" he tugged at her as she gathered
her voluminous skirt. "The musicians are playin'!"

"Musicians?"
Gaithlin cocked her head. "I don't hear
anything."

"I do," Christian said, stroking the charger's
white neck as the horse visibly calmed. "Sounds like a lyre and
flute."

"Flute and lyre?"
Gaithlin repeated as Malcolm yanked her down the road.
Dragged behind the eager boy, she cocked a thoughtful ear and listened to the
moist air intently. "Aye, I believe I hear them."

Behind her, Christian had managed to calm his steed and
the massive white beast danced a slow, excited trot as they progressed down the
road. Seated like a Centaur, Christian rode the animal effortlessly as he
watched the luscious sway of Gaithlin's curvaceous backside.

Indeed, as much as he relished her presence seated
across his thighs when they traveled, observing her before him as she strolled
down the thoroughfare had distinct advantages as well. Clean and groomed and
completely confident in her manner, surely there was no finer sight that the
willowy, delectable vision of Lady Gaithlin de Gare.

A vision, however, he was forced to divert his attention
from as they entered the outskirts of Cree. Remembering the village from his
childhood with his customary clarity, he was not surprised to see that the berg
had not changed overly in the past twenty-five years. Other than a few more
buildings and an added conglomeration of huts and other livable structures, it
appeared basically the same.

The atmosphere of the bustling town created a tangible
air of excitement; there were people in every habitable area, moving about on
their daily business as if the advancement of the very world depended upon
their fortitude. Near the edge of the main thoroughfare next to the
blacksmith's shed, a band of musicians parlayed a lively collection of songs to
any and all who would listen.
Before them sat a beaten bowl
of some metal to accept any generous offerings for their talents.

The abundance of round-faced, inherently scruffy
villiens chatted and laughed as they conducted their affairs, abruptly pausing
in awed silence as the massive knight astride the magnificent white charger
entered their private little realm. Even though a very beautiful woman strolled
beside him in the hand of a familiar local orphan, all eyes were drawn to the
massive, undeniably frightening English warrior with the same prevalent
thought.

Is there a reason for his presence?

Christian was aware of the stares and whispers over the
squawk of chickens and the brays of burdened beasts. Clusters of children raced
past him, screaming and laughing, their clamor cut short when they realized a
full-fledged English warlord to be within their midst. As Christian progressed
deeper into the bustling village, the rumors of his company spread throughout
man and woman alike like a raging tide of untamed wildfire.

Even Gaithlin was aware of the wonderment and palpable
fear of Christian’s appearance as Malcolm directed her onto the main business
avenue. Glancing about at the startled faces, she was not surprised with their
reaction; certainly, Christian had received the same reaction from her when
first they met.