The Warrior Poet by Kathryn Le Veque

didn't need to be reminded that she
hated him.
    It would have been
simple to allow herself to slip into the realm of depressing thought as she
once again pondered her predicament, but stumbling over Christian's lengthy
robe distracted her from impending doom. In fact, she tripped twice on their
trek across the bailey. The third time she stumbled, Christian came to an
irritated halt.
    "Is something
the matter?" he demanded.
    She shook her head
weakly. "You're cloak is too long," she replied, then added with
malicious sweetness: "My Dearest."
    He raised an
eyebrow at her mocking tone. "Grace certainly isn't one of your strong
points, is it? You stumble more than any woman I have ever had the misfortune
to witness."
    He was correct;
grace had never been one of her strong points, being long-legged and rather
tall for a woman, and she averted her gaze with embarrassment. Christian felt
himself softening somewhat at her humiliation and a faint smile tugged at his
lips.
    "But I suppose
your beauty makes up for the finer qualities you lack," he added, but the
expression on Gaithlin's face stopped him cold. His brows drew together
curiously. "Why do you look at me like that?"
    There was a bit of
color in her cheeks; 'twas the first time he noticed. "You jest with
me."
    His scowl
increased. "When did I do this?”
    She smiled, bright
and beautiful.   "You said I
possessed beauty," she said. "How can you say that when I stand
before you wet and dirty and completely disheveled?"
    He drew in a deep
breath, off-guard with the beauty of her smile. "My lady, there is no
beauty in all of England that can compare to you." He'd used the same
coaxing words before, on several women in order to gain his way. But the
identical phrase spoken to Gaithlin was God's living truth. Unnerved and
unbalanced by his compliments to her, he cleared his throat and pulled her towards
the manse. "Come along. They should have already commenced with the
evening meal and we risk being thrown the bones if we delay any longer."
    The door loomed
high and heavy before them; before they reached the stoop, several household servants in the Howard colors of gray and yellow emerged from
the manse, intent on serving their newest arrivals. Gaithlin eyed the haughty
house servants, far removed from the simply serving wenches and old men they
employed at Winding Cross. Certainly, the servants of Forrestoak were clad in
finer garments than she even owned.
    But the sight of
the well-dressed serfs was not enough to deter her from the subject at hand and
she continued to linger on their conversation a moment, even as the fanciful
employees rushed forward in their haste.
    "Have you
decided what you are going to call me?" her voice was soft as she observed
the approaching horde.
    He, too, was
scrutinizing the cluster of servants. "You will answer to whatever comes
forth from my lips,” he told her.
    Before them, the
great manse of Forrestoak loomed and they were sucked forth into the warm,
welcoming bosom.
    The interior of the
great fortified manse was very warm, the heat of the blaze in
the foyer hitting Christian and Gaithlin in the face like a slap. As
Christian removed his helm, Gaithlin lowered her hood, observing her
surroundings with wide-eyes; surely the halls of Heaven weren't any less grand.
    A massive tapestry
hung resplendent against one wall, an intricately designed rug that depicted a
scene from the Crusades. Ignoring the hovering servants, Gaithlin wandered in
the direction of the magnificent piece, studying the mail-clad knights in
crimson tunics as their ladies fair bid them a fond farewell. Helm and
gauntlets removed, Christian moved to stand behind her, appraising the work
he'd seen before.
    "King Richard
the Lion Heart is in the middle," he pointed to the center of the artwork.
The men depicted were the very heart of the St. John - de Gare Feud, he
couldn’t help but notice. "See? His brother John and advisor William
Marshall watch the king's departure from the