“He must have been glad of your help.”
“He might have been. But when the lord who governed that forest rode to hunt that fall, he came to the gamekeeper to share a cup of ale. It seemed this was his custom. It also seemed that this baron was a kindly one. I might have fled at the sight of his approaching party, but the gamekeeper bade me stay. This baron had a son and a daughter, so the gamekeeper told me, and I saw that the son was of an age with me when their party halted before the gamekeeper’s hut. The baron immediately took an interest in me, and the gamekeeper, to my surprise, suggested that I might be the solution he sought.”
“To what problem?”
Wulfe smiled. “The son was earning his spurs and had need of an opponent to train for battle. His cousins were older and knighted already, and his father sought another boy of similar age. I suspect he sought a boy who his own son might defeat, at least on occasion. By the time the hunting party rode on, gamekeeper and baron had agreed that the boy in question should be me—and such was the goodness of both men that it had also been agreed that my reward in performing this service would be the chance to earn my own spurs.”
“That is no small expense.”
“They were good men, honorable and true.” Wulfe’s brows drew together. “It was not easy, but it was a good life, and I was accustomed to hard work. Five years later, I was dubbed a knight, given a sword and a steed, then shown to the gate of their abode. I had earned my due, my fighting companion would continue to train as his father’s heir, and there was no place in that household for me any longer. I had no coin and refused to sell what I had earned. I could have become a mercenary, but I chose to join the Templars. I wanted to serve justice, not whosoever paid the price.”
Christina frowned at this hasty and unexpected conclusion. “But that cannot be all of the tale,” she protested. “Why would they cast you out? How could there not have been a place in their household for you? All barons hire men-at-arms to defend their walls. There must be more to the tale than this!”
Wulfe was resolute. “That is the tale of how I became a Templar. I became a knight but had no holding, prospects, patron, or fortune. I am not nobly born and could never have expected a good marriage. I have been sworn to the order ever since.” He leaned forward, his eyes glinting, offering the cup to Christina. “And now, fair lady, my part of the wager is fulfilled. It is time for your tale.” He arched a brow when she straightened. “Surely you do not mean to break your word?”
Christina saw the challenge in his eyes and knew he anticipated that she would do that very deed. She wanted to surprise him, this man who thought he understood her so well. She smiled and took the chalice, drinking deeply of the wine. “Of course not,” she said, noting his satisfaction even as she began.
She was sorely tempted to do as he had done and to surrender only part of her truth. But this, Christina knew, was her opportunity to win Wulfe’s sympathy and his support.
She dared not sacrifice this chance, even if it meant confessing more than she would have preferred. She had to leave this place on the morrow, which meant she had to leave with Wulfe.
* * *
“I was wedded at twelve summers,” Christina confessed quietly. “And to a man many years my senior.” She handed the chalice of wine back to Wulfe.
“How many years?”
Christina shrugged. “Forty? He was a friend of my father and a kindly man. Though I feared the union at first, our match was a happy one. I did not know it at the time, but his inclinations abed were modest and his desires easily met, even for one so innocent as myself. He was good to me.” She frowned. “He had a modest abode, for he was a younger son, but it was not too far from my parents’ holding. We visited often and I was not so lonely as my mother had feared I might be.”
When she fell silent, Wulfe squeezed her hand. “But?” he prompted.
Christina straightened. “But there was a shadow upon our match. He had wed me because he desired a son. His first wife had been barren, but he had not been one to put a match aside to suit his own convenience. It was only upon her death, and her urging before that for him to do as much, that he chose to wed again.” She met Wulfe’s gaze. “He said she chose me for him.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. He said she noted that I was young enough to bear him many children, clever enough to converse with him, and pretty enough to tempt him.”
“And he took such counsel?” Wulfe was clearly surprised, perhaps that a man would not choose his own bed partner.
Christina smiled. “He was not a decisive man. He was patient and tolerant, and though I appreciated these qualities upon our nuptials, I have since wondered if all might have ended differently if he had been resolute or determined.” She swallowed. “The shadow upon our match was a predictable one.”
“You did not conceive a son.”
“Nary a one. Soon my husband became convinced there was a deeper cause.”
“Which was?”
“Sin. Either his or mine, it did not matter. The one choice he made in our time together was that we should go upon a pilgrimage, to atone for our sins, and that, given the magnitude of the issue, that we should journey to Jerusalem. He believed that this alone would see me bear a healthy son.”
“But you are neither in Jerusalem nor wed.”
“And I am far more of a sinner than I was nine years ago,” Christina said with a thin smile, then sobered. She could not look at Wulfe, but watched her restless fingers instead. “He had gone to secure our passage to Outremer. I was tired and perhaps he hoped that I had conceived again, for he insisted that I remain behind. When the hour grew late and he did not return, several of those who had traveled with us helped me to seek him out.” She bit her lip. “He was dead when I found him. I shall never forget the sight of him, curled up in his cloak, the blood pooling beneath him. He deserved far better a fate.” She blinked back her tears. “Perhaps he fought his assailants. Perhaps he did not give up his coin readily enough. Perhaps they were simply vindictive. Either way, he was killed for seven silver pennies.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice.
“And you had naught,” Wulfe said gently.
“No coin, no husband, no hope.” She omitted some details, not wanting to sound as if she blamed others for her fate and her choices. “The party continued on to Jerusalem without me and I remained in the basilica to pray. It was days before I realized my hunger. The priest recalled me to my senses and sent me to a convent.” She lifted her gaze to Wulfe’s. “They would not shelter me without a donation. I begged in this heartless city, and when I gained a coin, I bought a morsel of food. I walked endlessly, fearful of being molested if I fell asleep. I prayed. I believed I saw my husband, my father, my mother, in the busy streets, and shouted after them, to no avail.”
She frowned, disliking this part of her tale. “I do not know how long I lived on the streets of Venice. I do know that one morn, I watched from the shadows as a merchant unloaded a boat laden with fruits and vegetables at the gate of a house surrounded by high walls. I watched another bring meat, cured hams and sausages, and great rinds of cheese to that same abode. Another brought live peacocks and chickens, another fresh fish, yet another great casks of wine. It was clear that all within the walls of this house ate well. I could not tear myself away. I salivated when I smelled the fresh bread being delivered and it was then that I revealed myself, unable to resist the temptation.”
“It was the gate of this house,” Wulfe guessed.
Christina nodded. “The back portal, where foodstuffs are delivered. Costanzia took one look at me, and despite my filthy ragged state, she smiled. She took a fresh piece of bread, smearing it with butter so creamy it nearly made me weep. Then she offered it to me. ‘How much would you give for this?’ she asked me then. I smelled the bread and there was only one answer I could give.”
“Everything,” Wulfe guessed.
“Everything,” Christian agreed, and she averted her face
as a single tear fell. How she wished her price could have been higher than a crust of fresh bread. “You need not fear, Wulfe, that you will leave a child behind. My womb bears no fruit.”
Wulfe set the wine aside and reached for her, framing her face in his hands. To her relief, Christina saw compassion in his eyes. “You did what was necessary to survive,” he murmured, brushing his lips once across her own. “Just as I have done. Did I not tell you that we had much in common, Christina?”
He kissed her again, not leaving her a chance to reply. Christina moved into his embrace as if there was no other place she would rather be.
And truly there was not. When he deepened his kiss, she played no courtesan’s game, but opened herself to him, giving more than she had before, inviting him to partake of her all.
She could only hope it would be sufficient to persuade him to truly take her cause.
Thursday, July 23, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Apollinaris and of the martyrs Saint Nabor and Saint Felix
Chapter Four
Wulfe dreamed of cold streams, barking dogs, and men with hatred in their eyes.
He awakened abruptly and was momentarily disoriented. He smelled Christina’s perfume and felt the luxurious velvet beneath his fingers, but his dream rekindled his distrust of luxury and women. Had he confessed too much to her? Had he been seduced too readily?
Why had he told her the story of his youth? He had only ever shared the tale once before, with markedly poor results.
Had he failed to learn from his mistakes? There was the mark of a fool, and Wulfe had never desired to be in that company.
Beyond the shadowed haven of the pillared bed, he could see the night sky and the glitter of stars. The music and laughter from the chamber below had fallen silent and the city slept in darkness.
Christina, Wulfe suspected, did not sleep. She was still but not at ease. She feigned slumber, which was all the reminder he needed that she might be as unworthy of trust as other women he had known. Did she mean to fool him? Why did she remain awake?
Wulfe forced himself to exhale slowly and steadily. He might have believed the nightmare to have been only that, but it was more. Christina’s pretense prompted him to realize it had been a warning.
A reminder.
For Wulfe knew better than most that women should never be trusted. He had believed as much before he had pledged his blade to the Templars, and certainly had learned little to challenge his conviction since. He had been enchanted by this woman, so beguiled that he had nigh forgotten what he knew to be true.
The dream recalled him to his own convictions.
He would not feel compassion for her.
He would not believe her to be different from her fellow whores or even from other women. She tried to manipulate him to some purpose of her own. Was the tale she had told him even true? He told himself to be skeptical.
What could she desire of him? That he remove her from this house? That he take her as his mistress? That he provide her with a house of her own, to continue her trade and keep the coin for herself? Wulfe knew no such transition would be easily won. Aiding Christina would bring the vengeance of the house upon him. He would be hunted, as he had been once before, and he might well pay a very high price for his deed.
One heard of those who cheated the brothels in Venice being pursued or killed. At the very least, they were robbed.
Wulfe would not put himself in such peril. He had a responsibility to the order, after all, to fulfill his quest and deliver the treasure to Paris.
It did not matter how well the lovely Christina cast her spell. Nay, he had paid for what he had desired and he had possessed her four times. He could not afford more.
All between them was done.
Wulfe wished to leave immediately, but only fools and thieves frequented the streets of Venice at night. He had to linger for a few more hours, but he would feign sleep as well as she.
As soon as the sky lightened, Wulfe would be gone, never to return.
* * *
Christina only slept when she was locked into the attic with the other women. She might have remained awake even then, disliking the powerlessness of her situation, but exhaustion always took its toll. It was comparatively safe in the attic.
There was no similar guarantee of safety in the company of a client. To sleep beside a man was to be vulnerable, and Christina had no aspiration to be so again. The time that her patrons slept was the time she had to herself, to think, to hope, to dream. She knew the pattern of many ceilings in this house and the canopies over many a bed. She knew where the wood was chipped on the pillars or a thread caught in the hanging tapestry, where the plaster was in need of repair, where the spiders preferred to spin their webs. She knew the sound of the house at night, after the patrons were sleeping, the creak of the boards, the lap of the water of the canal, the sigh of the house settling a little deeper onto its foundations.
She had lain beside men who snored, men who moaned, men who confessed their secrets, and men who thrashed in the grip of their nightmares. She had been rolled upon, embraced, seized, and even pummeled. She had been taken again, both in ardor and in desperation. She had consoled men who could not take her again and fled those turned violent by their own failures.
Yet on this night, she lay beside a man who was no more asleep than she. She and Wulfe were both upon their backs, mere inches between them. This was novel.
Christina knew Wulfe had dozed after their last bout of lovemaking. They had eaten of the morsels provided by the house before he slept deeply. She believed he had had some dream that troubled him, for he had started and caught his breath. But when she had expected him to reach for her, he had pretended to fall asleep again.
It could have been that he was unaware that she was awake, but Christina doubted that. Most patrons had no issue with awakening the whore they had paid. It could have been that Wulfe was sated, but she doubted that just as much. She could only conclude that Wulfe distrusted her.
And that was most curious, after the intimacy of their last mating.
Why had his mood changed?
Or did she see peril where there was none? For truly, if Wulfe had turned against her, he would not aid her to escape, and that possibility made Christina’s hands clench. Was this simply fear on her part? She thought not. Though she did not know for certain, she had the sense that he was steeling himself against her.
And that could only mean that he would not assist her.
Should she appeal to him? Or would that only worsen the situation?
Christina heard to the soft snores of the boys at the far end of the room and had no doubt of their state. Wulfe had bidden them to take turns so that at least one was awake, but it was clear they had been unable to follow his command. Would he beat them? Chastise them? Given the way he had pleasured her, she guessed he would be stern but not strike them. She listened to his breathing, so deliberate and measured. Had she not been right beside him, she might have believed him to be sleeping, but there was a tension in his body that she could not ignore with such proximity.
Did he know that she was awake? Christina guessed as much, for she had already noted how observant he was.
Her champion. The pledge had been made in jest, but still Christina hoped there might be truth buried within it. She nibbled at her lip, aware that time was slipping away and that opportunity might be lost.
Still, it was not within her to beg.
Even for something as important as her freedom.
Perhaps she should find it within herself to beg.
There was a creak from outside the door of the room then, a whisper of a sole on the wood. Christina did not catch her breath, but she listened more intently. She heard the minute sound of a key turning in the lock, a scrape of metal upon metal so quiet that she would not have discerned it had she not expected it.
Who came to the chamber? It was not done in this house. The client’s pleasure was never interrupted.
Was
Wulfe awake because he had anticipated that he would be assaulted?
But how would any attacker pass the guards at the portals?
With coin, of course. That was no mystery, at least.
There was a tiny click as the lock released, then a sigh as the door was eased open. Christina felt rather than heard it, sensing the change in the air. She could smell the roasted meat that had been served that evening more vehemently, for it wafted through the open portal. She bit her lip, doubting that any assailant came for her. She slid her hand across the linens and touched a fingertip to the back of Wulfe’s hand.
He returned the gesture immediately, accepting her warning and granting one of his own. He had known she was awake, then, just as she had suspected. He stirred and rolled over to face her with a mumble, as if deeply asleep.
His eyes, however, shone briefly in the darkness. Christina felt the knife between them on the bed, and knew he had either drawn it or seized it when he moved. She was reminded of a falcon at hunt and knew he would not be surprised, no matter what the intruder did.
Nor would he be merciful.
Strangely enough, she was confident of her own safety in his presence. Christina believed that a man’s true nature was revealed abed, for it was difficult to feign any matter when naked. Wulfe had been considerate of her, and she trusted him.
He gave her a hard look, then the pressure of his hand against hers increased slightly. Christina understood that he gave an instruction. His knife was in his right hand and he lay on his left side. He wanted her clear of his strike, she wagered. She emitted a sleepy purr and rolled to her belly, flattening herself against the bed. She heard satisfaction in the way he exhaled.
The Crusader's Heart Page 6