The Warrior Poet (45 page)

"Get
inside," he commanded. "Take Malcolm with you and stay there. Don't
come out until I retrieve you myself."

Eyes wide with
terror, Gaithlin fell to her knees clumsily as Christian yanked her across the
clearing. Pulling his wife to her feet, he was momentarily distracted from his
impending battle when she threw her arms fearfully, painfully, about his neck.

"Let me help
you," she
begged,
her panting breath hot on his
ear. "Let me fight with you!"

Allowing himself
the brief luxury of experiencing the mutual apprehension, he kissed her
fiercely. A gesture laced with the potency of his emotion.
"Nay,
honey.
You must stay to the shelter and allow me to wage our war."

They were nearly to
the structure; he was practically carrying her across the trampled earth. Still
clinging to his neck, Gaithlin refused to release her hold. Afraid if she did,
she might never see him again.

"Please, my
dearest, please," she whispered desperately. "Please let me help you.
There are too many of them for you to fight alone."

"And you
believe that you will make the difference between victory or defeat?" he
set her to her feet, kissing her again and lingering over their contact as if
he, too, was afraid it might be his last. Everything was happening so quickly
that he had yet to build up a substantial panic, but he could feel his terror
gaining momentum. Shoving open the door, he tried to push her inside. "Go,
honey. Do as I say."

"Sir
Christian!"
came
a childish, completely terrified
shout.
"Behind ye!"

Christian gave
Gaithlin a brutal shove, pushing her deep into the sod shack. Ducking
simultaneously, the distinct hum of a broadsword sang inches above his head.
Raising his own sword in an offensive gesture, he realized at that split second
that he and Jasper had engaged in a fearsome battle. And it was something he
never thought he would live to see; a St. John protecting a de Gare.

Matching Jasper
blow for heavy blow, he was vaguely aware when a shrill whistle pierced the
clear night air and he realized, once again, that his brother was moving
against him. Whether or not Quinton saw his reasoning, it was apparently not
enough to sway him against Jean's directive. Quinton was, after all, the only
loyal St. John son left; whether or not he understood Christian's motives or
sympathized with is plight, he was evidently determined to carry out his
father's orders for the sake of the St. John cause.

Christian's heart
sank as he caught shadows of movement beyond Jasper's animated form. Quinton
was mobilizing the company of men, moving them towards the sod house with the
intent of overwhelming Christian with sheer man-power. Up until this moment,
the men-at-arms were completely content to remain out of the vicious argument
between family members; now, however, Quinton was pulling them into the
skirmish.
By using their strength and loyalties against the
Demon.

"Quinton!"
he roared. "Leave her alone! If you hold any love for your brother, you
will leave my wife alone!"

Mingled within the
advancing tide of men, Quinton heard the cry, tearing his heart into a thousand
pieces. Christ, he understood his brother's change of sympathies as much as he
was able and the reasoning behind the hope for a lasting peace was logical and
inviting. But in faith, it was not his judgment to make; the only man capable
of truly waging a lasting peace was the very same man who controlled the House
of St. John.

Christian must be
returned to face what he had done, to explain his reasons and to prove that he
was not a traitor; in faith, it was evident that he was the only truly loyal
St. John among them. Only Christian was willing to jeopardize his very life for
the sake of peace.

And only he could
make Jean understand his motives, his desires, his very sanity.

Were it up to
Quinton, he would have turned on his heel and left his brother and new wife in
peace. But with Jasper as his overbearing conscience, he had no choice but to
uphold his father's orders.
Whether or not he agreed with
them.

 
The men-at-arms had effectively surrounded
Christian and the sod house, waiting impatiently to capture the treacherous
Demon. Quinton stood by a moment, watching his brother's fluid, magnificent
movements as he met Jasper's onslaught with effortless grace. But he could also
see the panic in his brother's expression, something he had never seen before,
and it only served to destroy his heart further. The sooner he control
Christian and return him home, the sooner the chaos would settle.

With a heavy heart
and stinging tears, Quinton gave another piercing whistle and several dozen men
threw themselves forward into the sword fight, swarming over both Jasper and
Christian. There was a good deal of grunting and cursing as the soldiers
struggled to control the man who had once been their greatest leader.

It was a violently
boiling mass of men and limbs, straining and struggling against their unwilling
target. Before it was over, four men had been mortally gored by the Demon's
sword and Quinton watched with a lump in his throat as his brother was brutally
subdued by his own men.

Quinton lost sight
of Christian as the angry, betrayed soldiers bound him hand and foot like a
common thief. Jasper, having stood silently during the entire melee, calmly
sheathed his sword as his mighty cousin was lifted from the ground, hog-tied by
the ropes of dozens of furious men.

"Quinton,"
above the chaos and disorder, Christian's gaze sought out his brother. His
beautiful face was bruised and battered, his expression beseeching. "Don't
kill her. I have never been known to beg in the past, but I will beg you now.
If you have ever loved me, don't kill her. Please."

Quinton didn't
reply. As the soldiers carried Christian away, he swore he saw tears in the
man's eyes.
Tears for his wife.
Dear God, he'd
never seen that expression on his brother's face and he prayed he never would
again. Swallowing hard, he opened his mouth to demand the men show their mighty
Demon a measure of compassion when two barking, terribly filthy humans suddenly
burst forth from the bramble and threw themselves at the retreating soldiers.

Startled, the
soldiers that weren't carrying Christian hastened to retrieve their swords, but
not before they were savagely bitten and scratched by the screaming banshees.
Kicking and fighting and snapping, the dog-man and his wife valiantly attempted
to defend the only man who had ever shown them any kindness. Although terribly
outnumbered, they didn't seem to pay the negative odds the deserving heed; all
that mattered was that their master was in trouble. And they would do what they
could to assist him.

But their
courageous efforts were not enough against the seasoned St. John soldiers. In a
flash of moonlit metal, the dog-man and his wife met with a particularly
violent death.

Christian witnessed
the exchange, more sorrow settling over his already grief-saturated heart. From
the beginning of their bizarre relationship, Christian had never paid any
particular heed to the sub-human pair and was devastated to discover that,
along with their trust for his caring wife, they had also placed their trust in
him.
Because he was a part of her.

Good Christ, he
should have listened to their barks of fear earlier this eve. He should have
given in to his instincts, realizing something was horribly wrong and thereby
taken appropriate action when their unsettling howls unnerved him. If he had
given the dog-people their due credence, mayhap he and Gaithlin would still be
relatively safe.
Fleeing from his brother and cousin, but
still relatively safe.

But there was no
time for hindsight, what-ifs and could-have-beens. What mattered now was that
he was being taken away to face judgment for his most grievous actions and his
wife, that which was most precious to him, was in grave jeopardy. If only he
could make his brother understand.
If only he could make him listen.

Twisting his head
away from the crumpled forms littering the moon-bathed earth, he struggled to
catch a final glimpse of his brother. "Quinton!" he shouted, his
voice breaking with emotion. "If you kill her, I swear I shall hunt you
down like an animal and make you suffer as you have never suffered before! Do
you comprehend me?"

Quinton remained
silent, biting off his equally-emotional reply. As Christian was carted through
the trees, he staunchly endeavored to deliver one last, heart-wrenching plea.

"Don't kill
her, Quinton," his voice was faint with distance and pain. "I love
her. Please... don't kill her."

Abruptly, the man
was vanished, swallowed up by the surrounding woods as the soldiers carried him
to their distant mounts. Next to Quinton, Jasper shifted his weight on his
thick legs and moved to unsheathe his broadsword. Examining the weapon as
Quinton stared dully into the darkened cluster of trees where his brother had
so recently
disappeared,
he took a resigned step
towards the shelter.

"I shall do
what needs to be done," he said quietly.

"Nay,"
Quinton held out a sharp hand, halting his advance. Meeting Jasper's dubious
gaze, he struggled to regain his splintered composure. "I shall do it.
He's my brother and I shall take care of his... mistake."

Jasper cocked an
eyebrow. "I don't think...."

"I said I
shall do it," Quinton snapped more forcefully. Waving his cousin off, he
moved towards the shelter. "You help the men with Christian. I shall catch
up to you when I am finished."

Jasper let out a
long, blustery sigh. "Quinton, I don't like this any better than you do.
This entire situation is unnerving to say the least. But I believe it would be
best if I..."

Quinton unsheathed
his broadsword with a loud clang. "Catch up with the men and make sure
they do not skewer Christian in their anger. If anyone is going to kill my
brother's... wife, it shall be me. I shall not have his hatred looming over
your head any more than it already is."

Jasper's jaw ticked
as he cast his younger cousin a long, skeptical gaze. After a lengthy pause,
his broadsword was slowly re-encased in its heavy scabbard and he sighed again.
A completely heart-felt gesture.

"Be swift,
then," he mumbled. "Only for the sake of Christian, I should not like
his enemy wife to suffer."

Quinton eyed him a
moment. "For a man who was most intent on seeing my father's orders
carried out, your manner has softened."

Jasper averted his
gaze, his blue eyes lingering on the moonlit landscape of Galloway. "As I
said, I don't like this situation any more than you do. But we must do as we
are told, no matter if we have personal feelings on the matter or not."

"Even
at Christian's expense?"

"He's a
traitor."

"And I
disagree. He's willing to sacrifice his entire reputation in order to achieve
peace."

Jasper looked to
his cousin. "If you believe him, then why are you willing to kill his
wife?"

This time, Quinton
averted his gaze. "We must follow orders, mustn't we? I don't want to
incur my father's wrath any more than you do by giving in to my
sympathies."

"So you risk
Christian's hatred instead?"

"According to
my father, Christian is a dead man. A dead man does not hate."

Jasper's gaze
lingered speculatively on his young cousin a moment longer before turning in
the direction of the shielded St. John army. In faith, there was nothing more
to say.

Quinton watched the
man disappear into the bramble, waiting a lengthy eternity to make sure he
wasn't being watched by his suspicious cousin. As the night owl sang high
overhead, enhancing the eerie stillness that had suddenly encompassed the
clearing, he turned for the sod shelter with slow, deliberate movements. Just
as he neared the splintered door, a sharp stabbing pain to his thigh abruptly
halted his advance.

Grunting with agony,
he immediately put his hand to his leg and was surprised to find a dagger
protruding from his thigh. And standing near the extended dagger was a small,
nearly-bald and exceedingly angry little boy.

"Take tha', ye
bastard!" he crowed in triumph. "Ye'll not take the lady wi'out a
fight!"

Quinton grasped the
dagger, wrenching it from the weak point in his leg protection that the child
had managed to take advantage of. Grunting again with frustration and pain as
he tossed the weapon away, he glared at the confrontational young lad.

"Who are
you?" he demanded.

Malcolm frowned, wielding
the other dagger he had collected from Christian's belongings. When the fight
ensued and Gaithlin had been shoved into the safety of the shelter, he had
hidden in the bramble out of sheer terror. He had witnessed Christian's battle
and subsequent abduction, and he had furthermore witnessed the murder of the
dog-people. Horrified and bewildered, he had nonetheless possessed the courage
to emerge from the brush one last time to protect the lady in her husband's
stead.