The Warrior Poet (34 page)

But she had been
wrong, and Gaithlin had seen the result of that mistake. A woman immersed in
constant pain, bestowing what little affection she could on her only child for
fear that once again her love would prove to be a self-destructive force. Because
of the inherent lack of affection, Gaithlin had learned to view love as an
unreasonable farce until she met the Demon.
Strange how her
most hated enemy would show her the meaning of true adoration.

Aye... she knew she
loved him. Even if she had never experienced the true meaning of love within
her short lifetime, she knew without question that she was in love with him.
Surely there was no other explanation for the wondrous, giddy emotions surging
deep within her heart.

Breaking from her
warm thoughts, Gaithlin rose from her chilled bed. Passing a concerned eye over
her young border, she proceeded to wrap the shivering young lad in a thick
woolen blanket, smiling gently when he sub-consciously kicked the cover off.
Making a second such attempt, she wrapped him tighter than before and was
pleased when he was unable to dislodge the blanket entirely.
 

With Malcolm
satisfactorily tended, Gaithlin mummified herself in the long length of Douglas
Tartan Christian had purchased the day before. Deliciously savoring the warmth
of the fine wool, she stepped forth into the misty Scot morn in search of her
elusive Demon.

He was not
difficult to locate. Christian was seated on an upturned log, his favorite
chair, as Malcolm's exterior fire smoked and crackled lazily at his feet. His
diary was open in his lap and as Gaithlin approached, she noted his
concentration as he carefully scribed each letter. Smiling softly, she was
careful not to jostle him as she reached out to touch his silken hair.

"Good
morning," she murmured hoarsely.

His head came up
from the book, an instant smile on his face. Grasping hold of her hand, he
pulled her close and kissed her lips tenderly. "Good morning," he
responded. "Is Malcolm awake?"

She shook her head
and he cautiously put the book aside, pulling her on to his lap. Wrapping his
arms about her bundled body, he cast a long glance over the yards of Douglas
fabric.

"You are to
make a gown from this, not use it as a blanket," he said.

"But it's warm
and wonderful," she sighed, laying her head against his. "How long
have you been awake?"

"Not
long," he replied, feeling her warmth against his chilled skin.
"Just enough time for me to scribe a few thoughts and
notations."

"Like
what?"

"Like our trip
to town," he glanced over his shoulder at the slumped figure tied to the
tree several feet away.
"And our visitors.
I was surprised
when his wife did not return last night in an attempt to free him."

Gaithlin looked to
the dog-man as well, huddled and cold and menacing against the pine. "Have
you tried to talk to him?" she asked.

Christian shook his
head. "I do not believe he understands spoken language. I have tried
English, French,
even
Gaelic. He does not respond to
any of it."

She continued to
observe their captive, shaking her head with genuine sorrow. "Merciful
Heavens, Christian,” she sighed. “Is it possible that he is more animal than
human? Is it possible he's never known how to speak our language, but has spent
his entire life barking like a beast?"

"It's
possible," he eyed her as she rose from the warm huddle on his lap, her
attention drawn to the captive. "What are you going to do?"

Pulling the woolen
length more tightly about her shoulders, she shrugged uncertainly. "Speak
to him. Feed him. Mayhap I can communicate with him."

Christian rose
stiffly, stretching in the early morning chill. "If anyone can communicate
with him, you can. But take heed; his mood is foul."

She heard
Christian's boot falls behind her as she made her way toward the quivering
captive. The dog-man's eyes were wide and malevolent, and he snarled harshly as
she drew near. Sensing his terror more than his obvious hostility, Gaithlin
halted her advance and pondered the course of her actions for a moment. Then,
as Christian watched curiously, she disappeared inside their shelter only to
re-emerged moments later clutching a wedge of yellow cheese.

The dog-man
continued to growl as she approached bearing food, thrashing in his ropes when
she knelt before him. Deep-blue eyes riveted to those of murky, non-descriptive
brown, Gaithlin smiled encouragingly.

"My name is
Gaithlin," she said softly, her sultry voice low and soothing. "Would
you like to eat?" She indicated the cheese.

The man continued
to rumble and snap for a few moments until she waved the cheese in front of his
nose. Torn between the lure of food and his natural sense of defiance and
anger, it was apparent that he could not decide which course of action to take.

His wild eyes
darted between the blond woman and the food she held, uncertain and fearful,
until the physical need for sustenance overwhelmed his apprehension. He sniffed
the air hungrily as the cheese made another pass in front of his face.

"Don't get too
close, honey," Christian warned softly.

"I have to if
I am going to feed him," she replied. "He cannot feed himself with
his hands tied."

Christian grunted
in disapproval, observing closely as she broke of a large piece of cheese and
held it up to the dog-man. Like a frightened animal, he sniffed and whimpered,
still too frightened to allow himself to accept the morsel, yet feeling the
stabs of a powerful hunger weaken his increasingly-lagging resistance. The more
Gaithlin smiled and murmured encouraging words, the more feeble his defiance
ran.

Like a stone wall
gradually succumbing to the inevitably more powerful force, the dog-man's fear
and resistance dissolved stone by stone. Gaithlin was purposely flaunting the
cheese, knowing that he would come to trust the hand that fed him. Like any
living being, trust had to be earned and she fully intended to acquire his
faith with her gentle manner and non-threatening actions. Then, she was positive,
communication would follow.

Christian watched
with baited breath as the first chunk of yellow cheese met with the dog-man's
filthy mouth. Gaithlin laughed softly as the man chewed vigorously, promptly
breaking off another piece when he opened his mouth for more. With every piece
of cheese, a stone in the canine-human's wall smashed to pebbles; the more she
fed him, the further relaxed he became. And the closer Gaithlin came to
triumph.

Christian watched,
hands on hips, as Gaithlin fed the captive the entire wedge of yellow cheese.
It was almost like observing a mother bird feed her young; the gaping mouth,
the weak whimpers, as bits of food were delivered. When the prisoner had
completely devoured the hearty nourishment, Gaithlin retrieved a cup of water
from the smaller iron pot and the man drank greedily.

Exceedingly calm
for an individual who had been snapping and growling not a few minutes before, the
dog-man’s expression on Gaithlin was almost curious as she knelt before him
once again. Christian continued to watch, amazed with her achievement, as she
attempted once more to communicate.

But it was a
frustrating progression. The captive obviously did not understand spoken
language, as Christian had suggested, and Gaithlin did her best through use of
signs and gestures to convey her message; no more stealing, if food is desired
simply ask, and no lurking in the thicket with the intention of spying.

By the time she was
finished, she could tell by the reflection in the dog-man's eyes that he had
not understood a word of what she had been attempting to convey. Frustrated and
disheartened, she rose to her feet and continued to gaze down upon the captive,
wondering how on earth she ever could have thought to make him understand.

She should have
listened to Christian from the first and saved herself the frustration and
heartache. He had been correct regarding Malcolm’s sleeping arrangements, and
he had further proved his superiority by passing the proper assessment
regarding the dog-man's intelligence. The prisoner was obviously beyond her
help and several minutes of futility and confusion had made her fully cognizant
of the fact.

Yet, the natural
instinct of hope ingrained within her soul had insisted she
try,
the inherent fortitude of strength and determination that had been instilled to
her over years of hopelessness had come to demand she expend the effort. It
simply wasn't in Gaithlin's nature to surrender; if there was even the smallest
measure of hope, she had to try.

When a thick warm
arm went about her shoulders, she leaned gratefully against the accompanying
torso. Christian gently kissed the top of her head. "You tried, honey. At
least he is calm now."

She shrugged, her
head resting on his shoulder. "Release him, then. There is nothing left to
accomplish if he cannot understand what I am saying."

Christian kissed
her again before releasing her, moving back to the shelter to retrieve his
dagger. Left alone with the shivering, fed prisoner, Gaithlin shook her head
sadly.

"Don't you
understand me?" she whispered. "I am trying to be your friend. I want
us to live peaceably."

The man continued
to stare at her and she felt as if she were speaking to an animal; the
wide-eyed, blank stare was enough to cause her to turn away in sorrowful
defeat. The next time the fool and his wife returned to raid their encampment,
she would be unable to protect them against Christian's wrath. Clearly, there
would be no other alternative.
Still...
she had tried.

Christian emerged
from the shelter moments later with a sleepy-eyed lad in tow. Malcolm smiled
brightly at Gaithlin, who managed a weak grin of her own as she brushed her
hand affectionately over his stubbled head. Then, she put her arms about the
boy's shoulders as Christian moved for the dog-man, cutting his rigid bindings
in one swift motion.

At first, the man
didn't move; his eyes were wide on both Gaithlin and Christian as he came to
realize that he was no longer bound to the tree. Gaze darting frantically
between the two blond-haired people, he straightened stiffly and sniffed the
air a few times as if attempting to determine their motives purely by the
scents they were excreting.

With a loud yelp
that startled Gaithlin and Malcolm, he suddenly dashed behind the pine he had
been adhered to, peeking out from behind as if to spy on his former captors.
The three rational humans continued to observe him curiously as he rounded the
tree a couple of times, clutching at the trunk and sniffing the bark strangely.
Then, when Malcolm began to giggle as a result of the dog-man's mystifying
antics, the captive dashed off into the trees in a series of whoops and
screams.

Even Gaithlin was
grinning by the time the peculiar man cavorted off. "What on earth was
that all about?"

Christian shook his
head. "I could not begin to guess. But I would venture to say that he is
happy to be free."

As Gaithlin nodded,
Malcolm suddenly broke from her grip and dashed towards the smoldering embers
of 'his' fire. "
What's ta eat
?
I'n
hungry!"

"
You
are on the menu," Christian said with mock-severity, fighting off a grin
when Gaithlin swatted at him on her way back to the shelter. "I intend to
make a Malcolm Stew."

Once, the jesting
declaration would have sent the young lad into fits of terror. But coming to
know the warlord as he had over the past few days, Malcolm realized the man
took great delight in taunting him. And he loved every minute of it.

"Ye haveta
catch me first!" he declared.

Christian's
eyebrows rose at the challenge. "Is that so? We shall see how fast you can
run, then."

Malcolm whooped and
giggled as Christian moved toward him. "I can run as fast as
th
' wind!"

"A bold
statement," Christian countered with mock-outrage. "I would wager to
guess than you cannot outrun my charger."

Inside the shelter,
Gaithlin cleaned herself up for the day ahead, listening to Malcolm's
delightful terror and Christian's low threats. Donning Carolyn Howard's gown of
dual-colored linen, a persimmon bodice and skirt with a contrasting color of
pale
peach,
she braided her hair into a single thick
rope and secured the end with a measure of twine.

Emerging from the
shack in anticipation of a pleasant day, she was not surprised to find that
Christian and Malcolm's game had ended in an intent huddle over the large iron
pot. Secured to the tripod, the ingredients that Malcolm had combined at
Christian's direction were beginning to simmer over the open flame. Gaithlin
leaned over the pot, eyeing the contents.

"What have you
fine gentlemen made?"

"Porridge,"
Malcolm said proudly.

Christian's massive
hand rested affectionately on the lad's bald head. "And then we shall
grind some of the wheat into flour for tomorrow's bread."