The Warrior Poet (4 page)

At the end of the corridor was a large door, heavy and
worn with use. Logically, Christian assumed that a larger door would threshold
a larger room, mayhap the common infirmary they were seeking. Without
hesitation, he enclosed the latch in his gloved hand and threw his shoulder
into the panel to force it open. As the door flew wide and slammed against the
old stone wall it was anchored against, Christian stomped into the room with
the full expectation of coming face to face with his intended victim.

But his triumphant expression was cut short as the wind
was slammed from his chest by a blow of such force that he swore his ribs had
been caved in. The powerful explosion sent him reeling in spite of his heavy
armor, stars dancing before his stunned eyes. In his shock and agony, he
realized it would be easy to relent to unconsciousness as he stumbled to the
floor.

On his knees as the room spun recklessly, Christian
struggled to regain his footing. Dimly aware of the shouts of his men, he
managed to half-way unsheathe his sword when another blow caught him on the
shoulder, sending him sprawling. Smacking his helmed head against the wooden
floor, the comforting darkness beckoned stronger than before but Christian
staunchly resisted. He could not relent to the black realm of nothingness if he
was going to survive.

Struggling with every ounce of his fading consciousness,
he rolled to his back in time to see a woman descending upon him with a long
iron candle sconce wielded high above her head. Unsheathing his sword with
amazing speed considering his compromised senses, he brought the weapon up to
counter the blow that was undoubtedly aimed at his face.

Meeting with his heavy broadsword, the woman shrieked
with frustration as a horde of stunned St. John soldiers managed to halt her
attack. Kicking and struggling like a lion in a snare, the avenging female was
removed from Christian as he attempted to regain his balance. Struggling
against one hundred pounds of armor that was usually weightless on his powerful
frame, he rose on knees that had developed the consistency of jelly.

Even if the woman had been prevented from attacking him
again, she was not subdued in the least. Striking out with a booted foot, she
caught one of her captors in the groin and sent the soldier to the floor.
Grunting like a man, she twisted and threw her body weight about in a wild
attempt to dislodge the hands that held her.

Although in the grip of substantially stronger men, she
succeeded in pulling one of her arms free. Swinging a balled fist at the
nearest soldier, she caught the unfortunate simpleton in the nose and blood
sprayed in all directions as she turned her frenzied attentions to another
soldier. Fortunately, the man possessed enough sense to step out of her frantic
range.

As Christian stood on unsteady feet, the soldier who had
moved away from the crazed woman suddenly lashed out a mailed fist and caught
her on the side of the skull. Instantly, she collapsed in a heap, ending
several long seconds of a most brutal situation. As quickly as it started, the
assault was sharply concluded.

The room that had been filled with harsh grating gasps
and shuffles of violence was instantly hushed. The shocked St. John soldiers
looked to each other in uncertainly, unbelieving that a single woman had
managed to catch them off-guard with her ferocious assault and brutal tactics.

"Good Christ," Christian hissed, raising his
visor and taking a deep, steadying breath. "What banshee is this?"

Ignoring the men with the bloodied nose and violated
groin, the remaining St. John soldiers shook off their surprise, and
embarrassment, as they joined their liege in observing the prostrate woman.
Masses of long, glittering blond hair covered the floor and a good portion of
her body, obscuring her face.

"It has got to be the de Gare bitch," one of
the soldiers rumbled. "There is no one in this room but her."

Christian passed a rapid glance about the long room;
except for a few crumbling cots, it was vacant and hardly furnished. Returning
his attention to the unconscious woman, he found himself taking a hard, long
look at the deeply-hated enemy. He'd never seen a de Gare at close range and
could scarcely believe she was actually within his midst; finally, he was
beholding the object of seventy years of powerful loathing.
He had her.

"She's a big one," another soldier commented.
"Tall and strong."

"And stupid," came yet another voice. "She
will be severely punished for her transgression against Sir Christian."

Ears ringing but his balance somewhat restored,
Christian ignored the comments of his men and motioned to the two soldiers
standing closest to her. "Pick her up," he commanded softly. He was
already moving for the door, anxious to be gone from the abbey he had
technically desecrated with his harsh presence and bribery. Now that he had
obtained his objective, he was eager to put the entire distasteful episode of
acquisition behind him.

Christian made his way down the corridor and took the
stairs with his customary grace. Several of his soldiers had finished
re-hanging the nearly splintered door and he passed a lingering glance at the
handiwork, concerned that the repair had been completed correctly. Behind him,
the soldier bearing the unconscious woman reached the bottom of the stairs and
Christian wasn't surprised when the ancient nun who had accepted his monetary
graft emerged from the musty shadows.

Her aged face was wide with concern as she observed the
young woman slung over the warrior's shoulder like a sack of grain. Her long
blond hair dragged along the floor and her lanky arms drifted bonelessly as the
nun tore her horrified gaze away from the sight and focused on the mighty
knight.

"You promised you would not hurt her!"

Christian's expression was impassive. "I assure you
that she contributed to her own injury. My men were merely defending themselves
against her onslaught."

The woman reached out and touched the silken blond hair
with a wrinkled hand, silently begging forgiveness for the results her sinful
actions had caused. Christian watched the old nun closely.

"I would gather this is the Lady Gaithlin de Gare?
I did not confiscate the wrong woman?"

The nun shook her head slowly, turning away from the
limp woman with a painfully remorseful expression. She could scarcely fight
down the guilt that threatened to consume her.

"It is her."

Christian felt a great deal of satisfaction at the
confirmation. Without delay, he swept from the devastated abbey in a great form
of mail and power, strength and might. The mission had been a success and he
was eager to send word to his father in that regard. With Gaithlin de Gare
captive, Jean would be able to coerce her father to attractive surrender terms.
He could smell victory already.

The great white destrier was grazing on the myriad of
uprooted vegetables that populated the nearly-razed garden. Christian whistled
sharply to the beast and the animal immediately broke from his feeding frenzy,
his mouth full of greens as he tried to eat around the massive bit.

"I sincerely hope those leaves are not
poisonous," he admonished the steed as if the horse could understand him,
pulling bits of stem from the huge lips. "'Twould serve you right, you
gluttonous beast."

The horse nickered softly in response as if to
apologize. Chuckling softly, Christian was interrupted by several soldiers, one
bearing the body of the comatose woman captive. Smile
vanished,
he eyed the de Gare wench and emitted a harsh, grumbling sigh.

"Put her on my saddle," he growled, moving to
check his bags for the final time; he had packed nearly everything of any value
or import, stuffing the pouches strapped to his armored saddle until they were
full to bursting. Since his isolation in the wilds of Galloway was to be for an
unknown amount of time, he wanted to be sure he was prepared for every advent
and he found himself repeated the list of items for the fourth time that day.

Tally complete, he was in the process of re-securing a
strap when his men obediently tossed the woman across his saddle in a brutal
gesture; even in her unconscious state, she grunted. In spite of the fact that
she was a de Gare, Christian cast his men a disapproving glance.

"It would not do to mortally injure her before we
achieve our goal," he rumbled, giving the woman a shove on the bottom to
better balance her and noticing how wonderfully supple and firm her buttocks
were beneath his hand; he could feel her through the mail. However, he would
not be distracted and secured his visor in preparation for mounting.
"Return home and tell my father that our mission was a success. I am
taking the woman into the Galloway territories and will send word as to our
approximate location if I am able."

The soldiers nodded firmly. "The territories are a
wide expanse of lands, my lord," one man said. "Mayhap we should
accompany you until you have settled, and then return to your father with the
information."

Christian tightened his gauntlets and pushed the woman's
leg out of the way so that he could slide his foot into the stirrup.
"Unnecessary. I am quite capable of sending word of my location when I am
able."

He mounted the saddle, pushing the limp burden forward
and struggling to find a comfortable position for them both. The boneless, limp
captive nearly slithered to the ground during his movement, but Christian
grabbed hold of her wonderful hair and managed to right her somewhat. Cursing
and grunting, he put one arm around her slender torso while the other grasped
the reins.

"Waste no time," he commanded in his deep
baritone. "Return to my father with the victorious news. The de Gare wench
is ours."

Digging his spurs into the pristine white sides of his
charger, the horse thundered its way out of the destroyed vegetable garden and
northward to the road. As Christian's men watched, their liege disappeared down
the well-traveled byway en route to the Scots border.

"Sir Jean will be mightily pleased to hear that we
have succeeded in capturing Alex's daughter," one of the men said,
observing the faint outline of Jean St. John's distant son.

The men nodded in agreement, moving for their mounts and
reveling in a triumphant mission against their hated enemy. Truthfully, there
had been very little victory to rejoice over as of late and this particular
mission, however small and bordering on blasphemous, was nonetheless an asset
to their cause.

Like most other men-at-arms in the midst of England's
realm, their father and grandfathers had devoted their lives to the same houses
they themselves served. It was a tradition of loyalty passed on through the
generations, and the seasoned men bearing the colors of the House of St. John
took great pride in their vows of dedication. As with the tradition of service,
another more powerful legacy also infected their way of life - the traditional
hatred of the de Gares.
  
The prisoner on
Christian’s saddle was as important to them as it was to him.

"I wonder what Christian is going to do with the
wench," a particularly seasoned soldier scratched at his dirty mail, then
rubbed his nose with an equally dirty finger. "He's got quite the
reputation as a randy with the women."

"Not
that
woman," the sergeant in charge shook his head, whistling loudly for the
rest of the men to assemble. "She's a de Gare and entitled to such
treatment. I wouldn't be surprised if he tied her to a tree and left her to the
elements."

"Or deflowered her and begot her with his
bastard," the dirty soldier snickered.

"Who's to say she's virgin?" the sergeant
snorted, stressing his point. "I have yet to meet a pure de Gare."

As the final stragglers moved into
formation, the sergeant counted heads and, satisfied, waved his men onward.
As the horses cantered lightly across the trampled
grass and met with the dirt of the road, he turned to the dirty soldier once
again.

"I shall be quite curious to learn what Christian's
betrothed has to say to the fact that he's taken another woman to
Scotland," he laughed softly at the thought. "Marble-head Maggie
won't be pleased in the least."

The men who heard the comment snorted loudly with humor
as the horses thundered down the rocky thoroughfare. The dirty soldier picked
at his nose again. "Marble-head Maggie," he repeated with a longing
sigh. "Every man who looks at her grows hard for the woman."

"Why do you think they call her Marble-head?"
the sergeant replied over the roar of the hooves. "She can bring a man's
head to marble without even trying. And I hear she pleasures Christian with her
talents all the time."

The men nodded and snorted their agreement as the dirty
soldier spoke loudly so that all would know of his intimate knowledge of their
liege's activities. "My own daughter says she's seen Christian and Maggie
in the alcove in the great hall, her mouth to his member. She's a delightful
trollop, Maggie is."

"I know I would like a piece of her," the
sergeant growled, casting a knowing glance at his subordinates. "I hear
she even swallows."

His men appeared rightly awe-struck, gasping their
surprise and pleasure at the thought of a woman who swallowed a man's seed as
he spent his ecstasy, allowing him uninterrupted enjoyment until his
convulsions had ceased. Reaching a new level of lust and wonder with the mysterious
aura of the Lady Margaret du Bois, they allowed the conversation to linger a
moment on that highly erotic note.