The weather had been fair, and despite Anna’s concerns, their crossing to France had been uneventful. She alone of the party had never journeyed so far, but Bartholomew explained much to her and took her to many churches along the way. He taught her French as they journeyed, and though her efforts had made them all laugh at first, her skills improved daily. She also had to learn to comport herself like a noblewoman, and Leila had assisted her with that.
Still, by the time they reached Gaston’s abode, Anna had been certain she would make a mistake that would cost Bartholomew dearly. She hoped that wedding her would not be the mistake that cost him all, for the whim of kings could not be anticipated.
Ysmaine had been gracious in her welcome and polite in her few suggestions, which had bolstered Anna’s confidence yet more. Ysmaine’s maid Radegunde had immediately spied that Anna was with child, confirming Anna’s own suspicions. Ysmaine was rounder yet, and the two knights congratulated each other on their good fortune.
It was Gaston who sent word to Anjou, inviting the king to visit. That astonished Anna, for she thought people went to kings, but to her further amazement, King Henry accepted the invitation.
For two days hence.
The kitchens descended into a frenzy of baking, roasting, stewing and saucemaking. The lady Ysmaine laughed that only a fool would cross that threshold willingly. The seneschal had the strewing herbs changed twice in the great hall—for he did not care for the scent of the first ones—and the wood stacked high beside the fireplaces. Banners were hung and minstrels were hired, and the parade of meat to the kitchens was sufficient to make Anna’s eyes round.
There were swans and peacocks to be served, as well as venison and a roast boar, countless egg dishes and fine tarts. There was wine and there was ale, fresh bread and many cheeses. She could not believe the bounty of Gaston’s larders and pantries.
It was just before noon on the chosen day that the entire household was gathered before the gates of Châmont-sur-Maine to welcome the king’s party. Gaston and Ysmaine stood by the very portal, with Anna and Bartholomew to one side, then all of the household standing in order of rank. The villeins lined the road through the village, and some measure of rank was displayed there for the tradesmen and the guild members were closest to Gaston’s household. All were dressed in their best, and each stood a little taller when the fanfare was heard announcing the king’s arrival.
At first glimpse of the king, they all bowed low.
Anna could not help but steal glimpses of the king’s party, in their rich robes, riding magnificent horses. She had never seen the like, and she caught Bartholomew smiling at her awe. She supposed her thoughts were as clear to him as ever.
Even the saddles of the steeds were embellished, wrought of colored leather, hung with richly embroidered caparisons, even hung with silver bells. Mail and scabbards gleamed, the armor and weapons more likely to see a fine company of guests than a bloody battlefield.
The king himself was aged, but not as old as Anna might have expected. His hair was silver and his legs were bowed, doubtless from all the time he spent in the saddle. He dismounted with a grimace that was so fleeting she might have imagined it. He greeted Gaston with a warmth and familiarity that was evident to Anna even though she could not readily follow his quick French.
She was astonished that she stayed in the home of a man who was friendly with the king himself!
Then the king paused before Bartholomew. Anna felt her gaze upon him, but kept her head bowed until he gestured. She watched him survey Bartholomew. “And so the son of Nicholas of Haynesdale is finally found,” the king said in English that bore a slight French accent. “I never imagined that Gabriella would have allowed you to be lost for good.”
“You knew them, sire?”
The king smiled. “I arranged their match, Luc Bartholomew. Is it true that the mark is burned into your flesh? It seemed such a fanciful tale.”
“It is, my lord.”
“Yet the ring is lost.”
“Nay, my lord,” Anna dared to say. She tugged the lace from her chemise, noting how avidly the king watched her bodice for the sight of the ring. “It was entrusted to my family’s care by Lady Gabriella.”
The king lifted the ring, turning it so that the wyvern rampant caught the light. He smiled a little. “I remember it well. See the mark inside? Nicholas had the date inscribed when I granted Haynesdale to him, after his father’s demise.” He nodded. “He was a good man.” He loosed the ring and it fell on its lace to Anna’s breast, then eyed Bartholomew. “And this is your lady wife?”
“Aye, sir. Daughter of the Lady of Haynesdale who was wedded first to Royce Montclair and the youngest son of the Duke of Arsent.”
“I wager there is a tale there,” the king mused and Anna felt herself flush. “And yet, though she has the ring, you do not wear it.”
“Only a king can make a baron of the realm, sir.”
“And the king has always chosen the wife of the Baron of Haynesdale,” Henry noted.
Anna’s heart went cold.
“Forgive me, sire, if I have been presumptuous,” Bartholomew said.
“You have been,” the king replied, his manner stern. Then his gaze fell to Anna’s belly. “And impetuous as well.” He sighed and frowned. “Far be it from me to ensure that another bastard is born in my realm.”
Anna gasped in delight at his implication. The king surveyed her and she wondered whether he realized the fullness of her relief.
Then Henry smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. “Fear not, I will not annul a match that has so obviously been consummated.”
“I thank you, sire,” Bartholomew said.
The king offered his hand to Bartholomew, who quickly bowed to kiss it. “I will need to see the mark, of course,” he said. “And the escheat will have to be paid.”
“I have coin for it, sire, as well as the taxes unpaid by the former Baron of Haynesdale.”
“Your timing is most excellent,” Henry said, then raised his voice to address all of those gathered before the gates. “There will be a crusade to the east to reclaim Jerusalem. I and King Philip and my son Richard will lead this venture, and I bid all of you to contribute to its financing as the new Baron of Haynesdale has shown the good sense to do.” There was applause. “And I bid those of you who are hale to put your affairs in order and ride with us, the better to retrieve the Holy City from the grip of infidels!”
There was a cheer of enthusiasm and the king turned a knowing smile upon Anna. “I would wager that your new lady will not have you leave her bed so soon as this,” he said to Bartholomew.
“And I would remain to see Haynesdale rebuilt, sire, for both village and hall have been plagued by fire.”
The king sobered. “There will be taxes to fund the crusade. Do not imagine that you can shirk from paying your due.”
“Of course not, my lord,” Anna said, for she could remain silent no longer. “My husband wishes to have a license for an annual fair at Haynesdale, the better to enrich our coffers with tolls and tithes.”
The king nodded. “We shall reflect upon the matter,” he said, though his smile was approving. Anna saw Gaston nod once at Bartholomew, and guessed that he perceived the king to be inclined to agree.
Meanwhile, Henry inhaled deeply. “There is something in the air of Brittany that fosters a man’s appetite. Here we stand at the gateway between Brittany and Anjou, and all I can consider is the scent of that roast boar. My lady Ysmaine, would you be so kind as to lead us to your board? Though it has been but a short ride, I find myself famished indeed.”
“With the greatest pleasure, sire. You do us great honor with your presence.” Then Ysmaine switched to French, her words falling so rapidly that Anna had no hope of following the conversation.
She took Bartholomew’s elbow and his hand folded over hers. “Does that mean he approves?” she whispered and Bartholomew smiled at her.
“If all proceeds well, it shall be done.”
“And why should it not?”
“There is no reason, Anna. Gaston considers the matter resolved, and I will take confidence in his view.”
“Then Haynesdale will be yours!”
“Once the ring is on my finger.” They passed beneath the gates, and Bartholomew bent to kiss her cheek. “But truly, the ring of greatest import is already upon my finger.”
The sole one he wore was his wedding band, just as Anna wore just one. She smiled up at him, well content with her fate. “Ysmaine’s maid thinks it will be a boy.”
Bartholomew could not hide suppress his smile, and his eyes danced as she loved them best. “Whether it is boy or girl is of no import, Anna,” he vowed. “For I am more than willing to try again to conceive an heir.”
And in this matter, it must be said, Anna did fully agree with her lord spouse.
* * *
Ready for more of The Champions of St. Euphemia?
Read on for an excerpt from
The Crusader’s Vow
Book #4 in the series
Coming in April 2016
Excerpt from
The Crusader’s Vow
The Champions of Saint Euphemia, Book #4
by Claire Delacroix
Copyright © 2016 Deborah A. Cooke
It seemed that all was right with his fellows. Fergus would never have anticipated such a happy conclusion to events when they had left Jerusalem the previous summer. But on this fine spring evening, Bartholomew and Anna were returned, the signet ring of Haynesdale placed upon Bartholomew’s finger by King Henry himself and the seal in his purse. They had a license to hold an annual fair and had returned to find the old keep of Haynesdale taking shape once more. Bartholomew had bought grain in York and the mill was turning even now, grinding flour from some of it while the rest would be sown in the fields that had already been plowed.
And now he returned home to Isobel. It would be four years since his departure, and Fergus was anxious to see his beloved again. He left the festivities in the great hall when the dancing began and stepped out into the night. The moon was full and the sky was clear.
Fergus smiled as he stared up at the glittering stars. Killairic—home—was so close, and there, every dream he yearned to fulfill. He wished, not for the first time, that his gift for foresight included his own future. He saw happiness for Bartholomew and Anna, just as he had seen it for Wulfe and Christina, and Gaston and Ysmaine. He saw babies in the futures of each of the couples, a number of children, their eyes filled with joy and mischief. He could even see his companion Duncan cradling a dark-haired child. But for himself? There was no glimmer of what the future held for him.
It had never concerned him before, but on this night, Fergus wondered what he would find when he arrived home. He hoped his father was well as yet, for he wanted days by the fire to tell the older man of all he had seen. He could not imagine his welcome from Isobel, who surely had been as impatient for his return as he had been. He wondered how Killairic itself had changed, if it had changed at all. There would have been births and deaths in the village during such a long time, but he hoped that those he wished most to see were hale.
Something troubled him, though he could not name it. Fergus decided it was impatience, no more than that, and strode toward the village. If he walked, he might sleep. Perhaps he might ride forth the next morning, since Bartholomew was returned.
His heart fluttered at the possibility and he resolved it would be so. He would see his fellows again at his own nuptials, to be sure, for they had vowed to come to Scotland. It could not be long before he and Isobel exchanged their vows.
A slight movement caught his eye and Fergus realized that he was not the only one to have left the celebration. Leila sat by the river, staring up at the moon. It still surprised him to see her in women’s garb, though on this night, she wore no veil. Her dark hair had grown a little more since she had cut it shorter in Jerusalem and now it reached her chin. It shone like polished ebony in the moonlight. Her face was tipped up to the moon, and its light touched her features with silver. She did not seem to be aware of his presence, so he cleared his throat as he approached.
“You miss the dancing,” he said when she glanced his way.
Leila smiled and moved along the log where she was seated, making room for him. “I do not know your dances.”
“You could learn. I could teach you.”
She chuckled. “And what will your betrothed think, if you arrive home not only with a Saracen woman in your company but one you have taught to dance?”
Fergus was startled. “I had not thought of it.”
“She will believe you have brought home your whore,” Leila said with conviction. “There is no need to reinforce that conclusion.”
Fergus leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and looked at her. “You have been thinking of this.”
“I have been thinking of many things.” She gestured to the moon. “It is full, the eleventh full moon since we left Jerusalem.”
“I suppose it is.”
“I know it is. I have counted them.”
He eyed her, hearing the sadness in her tone. “What does that mean, Leila?”
“It means that my cousin’s son is a year old.” She fell silent then.
“You miss your cousin?”
“Of course! We grew up together. She was the one whose hair I learned to braid and arrange.” Leila sighed. “We lived in the same household, my uncle’s home, after the death of my father. We might have been sisters, almost twin sisters, for we were born the same month.”
As he listened, Fergus realized how little he knew about the woman who had joined their company in Jerusalem. “When did your father die?”
“When I was two summers of age.” She took a shaking breath. “My mother died a year ago.”
He saw the tear glisten on her cheek and wished he had the right to brush it away. “I would take you back to Palestine, if you wish to see your cousin again,” he found himself saying. The offer was impulsive, but as soon as the words were uttered, Fergus knew it was true. What if Leila did return to the east? He would miss the opportunity he had lost in not learning more about her, to be sure. He could not imagine a future in which he never saw her again, yet realized in this moment, that it might well come to be.
Fergus had assumed she would stay once they reached Killairic, but had never considered what she would do there. He did not want anyone to think of her as a whore, though he saw the plausibility of that. It was not common for Fergus to feel like a fool, but in this moment, he did so.
He also felt as if he had failed the woman who had trusted him and served him loyally. His chest tightened and he did not know what to say to her, much less how he could make matters right.
Leila wiped her tears and touched the back of his hand with her fingertips. “I thank you for that, for you know the price of what you offer. But I cannot go back.”
“Not even to see your cousin?”
“Especially not.”
Fergus dared to acknowledge his own relief, even as he realized it was selfish. How would he feel when she wed another man? It was strange to admit that this possessiveness lurked within him, for he had no right to make any claim upon her.
Her conviction that others would see her as his whore was both troubling and titillating. It was all too easy to imagine a night of exploring Leila’s charms, her throaty laughter and that smile that was both shy and knowing.
Clearly, he had been too long without Isobel’s sweet touch.
He cleared his throat again. “Bartholomew said you were to be wed against your will, and that was why you wanted to leave Jerusalem.”
Leila nodded and spoke mildly. “A marriage had been arranged.”
“That happens to many.”
“It does, and if I had known naught of the man, I would have accepted my uncle’s word. But I knew him well and had heard much of his violence.”
That she might have been we
d to a man who might treat her with less than adoration sent fire through Fergus. “You should have told your uncle,” he said, hearing his own outrage.
“I did! But the man in question was my second cousin and the alliance from the marriage was good for both families. Like the good man he is, my uncle dismissed the rumors that he believed to be malicious.”
“You did not.”
“He is fond of my cousin and has seen only his best.” She turned to face him, her dark eyes filled with conviction. “But women do not lie to each other about such matters. The fact was I should not have known and I could not prove what I had heard.”
This was intriguing. Leila had pretended to be a boy in order to tend horses at the Templar stables. It seemed that she had defied expectation in other ways. Fergus wanted to know more. “Who told you?”
“It does not matter now. I believed her, for once I had heard her tale, I also glimpsed the shadow in him.”
“You knew to look.”
She nodded. “And so I fled.”
“Did your cousin with the infant boy know of your plan?”
Leila smiled. “She suggested it after my mother died. She knew I went to the Temple to help with the horses, because my uncle would not have approved and she helped to disguise my absences. She told me to find a knight there to aid me, preferably one who was leaving Jerusalem soon.” She watched her own fingers as she pleated the fabric of her kirtle, and he knew she was reliving her fears in that moment. He wanted to draw her close and console her, but fought the urge for it was inappropriate. “But I only knew Bartholomew. He was not inclined to help me.”
“But I overheard you.”
“You did.” Leila met his gaze once more. “Thank you.” She smiled at him and flushed a little, her eyes seeming to glow. Her lips parted and he found himself desiring a kiss.
Just one.
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