The Crusader’s Heart
The Champions of Saint Euphemia #2
by
Claire Delacroix
A company of Templar knights, chosen by the Grand Master of the Temple in Jerusalem to deliver a sealed trunk to the Temple in Paris. A group of pilgrims seeking the protection of the Templars to return home as the Saracens prepare to besiege the city. A mysterious treasure that someone will even kill to possess…
A valiant warrior sworn to the order of the Knights Templar for life, Wulfe resents being dispatched to Paris to deliver a missive just when the Latin Kingdoms are at their most vulnerable. He is determined to fulfill his duty as quickly as possible and return to fight for justice—but the courtesan he defends in Venice needs his help. The alluring and perceptive Christina will not be left behind, and soon Wulfe finds himself forced to choose between his vows and his heart…
The Champions of Saint Euphemia
The Crusader’s Bride • The Crusader’s Heart
The Crusader’s Kiss • The Crusader’s Vow
The Crusader’s Heart
by Claire Delacroix
Digital Edition
Copyright © 2015 by Deborah A. Cooke
Excerpt from The Crusader’s Kiss © 2015 by Deborah A. Cooke
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Cover by The Killion Group, Inc.
Formatting by Author E.M.S.
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Dear Reader;
With The Crusader’s Heart, the quest of our company of knights, started in The Crusader’s Bride, continues. This is Wulfe and Christina’s story, and it begins in Venice, when this pair meets. At first, they seem to be complete opposites—a knight upholding justice and a courtesan who is paid for pleasure—but it quickly becomes apparent that these two have a great deal in common. They are both alone in the world and have learned to make the most of what few opportunities come their way. They’re both pretty stubborn, but only a determined woman could change Wulfe’s thinking about anything—and only a man who will not be diverted from his course could win Christina’s reluctant heart. Neither of them is particularly optimistic, but love, as we’ll see, will change that.
We met Wulfe and Christina in Gaston and Ysmaine’s book, but their situations seemed simple in The Crusader’s Heart, and we didn’t see their thoughts behind their reactions in that story. It’s been wonderful for me to explore their characters, convictions, and history more thoroughly.
I always enjoy characters who tell stories, especially if their choices illuminate something of their own truth: Christina certainly does that with her tales of the saints’ lives. There is a small discrepancy to acknowledge here, though. The closest written source I could find for Christina’s stories is Jacobus de Voragine’s The Golden Legend, a medieval bestseller but one that was not compiled until the thirteenth century. Jacobus was born around 1230 and died in 1298, which means his volume was not available to Christina in 1187. Jacobus wrote down stories that were well known, however, so I’m assuming that Christina heard the same or similar oral versions of these tales. I’ve also taken a small liberty with the assignment of saints days in the calendar—although the story of the Seven Sleepers was well known in the west (recounted in the sixth century by Gregory of Tours and included in the History of the Lombards by Paul the Deacon in the eighth century), it is not clear that these saints were assigned a feast day before the Roman Martyrology was compiled in 1582. I think they’re worth an exception, though, especially as their assigned feast day falls within the chronology of the story. This is a story that originated in the Muslim world: it is known as ‘the companions of the cave’ and is recounted in the Qu’ran. The story of the men escaping religious persecution and sleeping for centuries was adopted by Christians, as well as one very popular during the Crusades. You can see that there are few differences between Leila’s and Christina’s versions. I like how this exemplifies the exchanges and influences between the two cultures in this era, and also that it makes a nice metaphor for Christina and Wulfe’s new beginnings. The relics of the Seven Sleepers were moved to Marseille during the Crusades and became part of the treasury of the Abbey of Saint Victor.
With The Crusader’s Heart, the story of the knights’ journey becomes more dimensional, as we see scenes and situations from the perspective of other characters. This continues in book #3, The Crusader’s Kiss, as Bartholomew returns home to avenge his family and regain his rightful legacy. It won’t be a simple task, and he’ll need the help of a most unexpected ally. Meanwhile, Fergus will continue his journey north to Scotland, a tale to be recounted in book #4, The Crusader’s Vow. What will happen to the Templar treasure? You’ll have to read on to find out!
I’m enjoying the challenge of writing this series and hope you are enjoying it as well. I’ve created Pinterest boards for these books, primarily for my own inspiration, although you might also enjoy checking them out—there’s one for the series overall, then individual boards for each book. You can find my Pinterest page right here.
Look for Bartholomew’s book, The Crusader’s Kiss, in January 2016, and Fergus’s book, The Crusader’s Vow, in April 2016. Both books are available for pre-order at some portals. All four books are being produced in audio, as well. Please check my website to listen to the audition by Tim Gerard Reynolds and for news of those releases.
Until next time, I hope you are well and have plenty of good books to read.
All my best,
Claire
The Crusader’s Heart
Wednesday, July 22, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Mary Magdalene and Saint Agnes
Chapter One
Venice
Wulfe could not believe his ill fortune. The list of his woes was long indeed, and he ground his teeth as he marched through the twisted streets of Venice in search of relief.
First, he had been compelled to leave Jerusalem just when that city faced a challenge to its survival as a crusader holding. As a knight and a Templar, he knew his blade should be raised in defense of the Temple, not undertaking some errand that could have been managed by a clerk or lay brother. He had joined the order to fight for justice, and there could be no greater cause than the defense of the Holy City.
Worse, this duty demanded that he ride all the way to Paris to deliver said missive, which meant that by the time Wulfe returned to Outremer, any battle might be completed. He might miss the opportunity to defend what he loved best, which was an abomination by any accounting.
Thirdly, he had only the appearance of leadership of the party that traveled with him. In fact, he had to cede to the dictate of Gaston, a former brother of the Temple who secretly was in command of this quest. That a knight who had left the order was more trusted by the preceptor in the Jerusalem Temple than Wulfe was salt in the wound.
That Gaston
made choices Wulfe would never have made, and Wulfe had to present them as his own notions, was galling. It was Gaston’s fault that the mission had so nearly failed at Acre, for Gaston had insisted upon riding for that port instead of departing more quickly from the closer port of Jaffa. Wulfe snarled that he should be blamed for such a close call.
Though it was somewhat mollifying that Gaston had defended the party alone when they had been attacked and might have paid for his error with his own life.
Still, had the choice been Wulfe’s, no one would have been compelled to render any price at Acre.
It was sufficient to make his blood boil.
The final straw was that Wulfe had been saddled with the most vexing company imaginable for the journey to Paris. A fortnight trapped on a ship with them all had left him nigh murderous.
There was Gaston, so calm and deliberate, so unshakeable in his confidence, that Wulfe was tempted to challenge him to a fight. He wanted to see Gaston riled over some matter or another. There was Gaston’s wife, Ysmaine, a beauty who, like all women, should neither be trusted nor riding with knights on an errand. Indeed, she evidently had knowledge of dangerous herbs, had acquired a poisonous root and brought it along. They were entrusted with a prize beyond price and had no need of such temptation to a villain so close at hand.
There was Gaston’s squire, Bartholomew, a man of such an age that he should long ago have been knighted himself. Wulfe had no patience for men with little ambition. Although the younger man did not appear to be lazy, Wulfe could not understand why he did not aspire to more. It was unnatural to be content with one’s lot.
Another former Templar, Fergus, had completed his military service in Outremer and journeyed with the party on his return to Scotland to wed his betrothed. Wulfe could not comprehend why Fergus would stick to the date of his planned departure when the Holy City was likely to be besieged. Indeed, he could make no sense in the decision of any of these men to abandon Jerusalem in its moment of need.
That the secret treasure they carried in trust for the Temple in Jerusalem was entrusted to the care of Fergus, another brother who had left the order, and not himself, vexed Wulfe beyond belief. He did not even know what the prize was!
At the dictate of the preceptor, the party had swollen to include pilgrims needing the order’s defense. While this disguised the mission, it also slowed their progress. Large companies were ungainly, in Wulfe’s opinion.
The merchant, Joscelin de Provins, as soft as a grub and rightly fearful of his survival in any trouble. It was perfectly reasonable that such a plump man, so concerned with the value of his goods, would wish to be away from war. Wulfe neither liked nor respected Joscelin, but it was the sworn task of the order to defend pilgrims and he would do as much.
There was the knight, Everard, who apparently left a holding in the Latin Kingdoms to visit the deathbed of his father in France. Wulfe was incredulous that any man would abandon his hard-won wealth over sentimentality. Who would squander such a gift entrusted to him as the county of Blanche Garde? Wulfe would have defended the holding to his dying breath. It seemed to him that Everard made a poor choice in leaving Outremer and his holding.
Perhaps Everard was a coward.
Perhaps he thought to gain more from his dying father, although Wulfe would never have cast aside one prize before the second was firmly in his grasp. Matters in this world had a way of changing, so that expectation was thwarted.
He had only to look at this quest to see the truth of that.
As a man who had been given few gifts in this life, and who had labored hard for all he had won to his own hand, Wulfe knew he was a harsh judge of others. He found much of mankind wanting, but was protective of those for whom he took responsibility. He would have laid down his own life in defense of either of his squires, for example, and had taken blows intended for his destrier. In return, the loyalty of those beings—Stephen, Simon, and Teufel—was complete.
Wulfe also was a man who had learned to manage his own passions. By the time the party reached Venice, disembarked, saw to the care of the injured squire, and found accommodation, he knew his temper was incendiary. How could such simple feats consume so much time? Contrary to his expectation that they would take a single night to fortify themselves before riding out, Gaston was resolved to wait the three days decreed by the apothecary as being necessary rest for the injured squire.
For a squire, who was sufficiently clumsy to have inflicted his own injury. For a squire who appeared to be hale enough. Wulfe could not understand why the boy could not ride with another and be watched with care as they continued.
But Gaston had spoken.
Wulfe could bear their company no longer. He had left the rented house, knowing that he had need of a war or a whore. The only way to control his escalating frustration was to expend passion in one feat or the other. Venice was at peace, its laws against violence and its courts known to be harsh.
Its courtesans were also highly reputed.
The choice was an easy one.
Stephen and Simon hastened behind him, undoubtedly understanding his intent. They would ensure that he was neither robbed nor injured on this quest, though more than once a whore had found their presence unsettling. Wulfe did not care what such women thought. They were paid and paid well, and he knew himself to be a considerate lover, as well as a passionate one.
He was as demanding in the pursuit of pleasure as in all others.
He would choose a young and vigorous woman on this night.
Perhaps she would remember him well. The prospect made Wulfe smile.
* * *
Another day.
And worse, another night.
Christina turned from her prayers to survey the large room where the women slept together. The draughty chamber took up most of the top floor of the house and was roughly finished. The roof leaked and the wind was always cold, just as the blankets were always too thin. The door was locked each night from the outside and in all of Christina’s time at the house, only one woman had been brave enough to try to escape from the window. She had slipped and her cries had awakened the entire house as she fell.
The silence after she had struck the stone road below had been chilling.
It was yet more troubling that Christina sometimes found appeal in that woman’s choice, though she knew it had been wrong. Living under Costanzia’s thumb had a way of breeding desperation within Christina.
The attic’s sole redeeming feature was the view. Christina knelt each morning at the window that faced east, praying toward distant Jerusalem. Though the Holy City had been her destination years before, Venice was as far as she had journeyed before tragedy struck.
Every morning she recalled Gunther’s routine jest that she prayed like a heathen and mourned his loss all the more.
Christina surreptitiously kissed the ring that Gunther had put upon her finger one fine day that might have been an eternity before, then secreted it once again from view. On some days, it was impossible to believe that she had ever been young, filled with hope, affluent, and treasured. Had she truly believed that good would triumph, or that ill fortune could be overcome? She had believed in divine intervention, but had seen little of it since passing through the gates of this city.
The ring with its square blue stone slid into the hiding place she had created for it in the hem of her chemise, perfectly disguised from view. She had sewn a tiny pocket into the hem of every garment she owned to ensure that Gunther’s ring was never separated from her. Losing the sole token that remained of her previous life would ensure that she lost hope of ever escaping this place.
She rose from her prayers and stretched, looking down into the city. The wind was crisp and there were new ships in the harbor. The rain at least had ceased. There were a few people abroad in the cobbled streets below, and several small craft plied the canals. Vendors making deliveries, to be sure. More than one would halt at Costanzia’s abode.
The house was on a corner,
the main entrance on a broad canal where guests disembarked each night. Once inside the building, there was a pretty stone courtyard with a fountain and gardens that could be used by the guests in afternoons or evenings. A guest would see only the lavish luxury of the public rooms where music played and appetites were encouraged, perhaps the fine bedrooms above the mezzanine if they opened their purses.
The attic was part of the hidden side of the house. From this vantage point, Christina could see small courtyard behind the kitchens, a meaner, simpler space than the garden courtyard. Here chickens were kept and herbs grew. A door in the rear wall led to the dock on that smaller canal. Deliveries were made there, and vendors sometimes tried to peer into the windows above, seeking a glimpse of Costanzia’s beauties.
Costanzia was already arguing with someone, her voice rising shrilly from below. Christina couldn’t distinguish the words of her patroness, though she guessed that the older woman was swearing at a vendor in the local Venetian dialect. Though Christina could make a fair job of sounding Venetian, when Costanzia spoke quickly and with vulgarity, Christina often could not follow the words.
The meaning, however, was always clear.
Next, Costanzia would be swearing at the resident women. No matter how much coin had been earned the night before, it would not have been sufficient.
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