“He is under my custody, though,” Fergus said. “And I would see him hale upon his return home.”
Duncan winked at Christina. “You see how protective we are of all our chicks. You must think us like old women.”
She laughed. “Hardly that. I think it most admirable when men defend those weaker than themselves.” Duncan eyed her for a moment and she thought he might say more, but Fergus cleared his throat from the portal and the pair strode to the stables together. The dark-haired knight joined them there, and she supposed he had been with the horses. They conferred before disappearing into the shadowed stables.
“I too am inclined to be protective of those under my care,” Joscelin said. “Why, just last year, a neighbor’s boy took employ in my storehouse…”
Christina smiled and nodded, but did not heed Joscelin’s words. She recalled the exchange between Wulfe and the knight who must be Gaston. It was clear the dark-haired knight irked Wulfe mightily, or perhaps his true role in this expedition did that. Was it simply a matter of personality, a question of past encounters, or was there more at root?
What was the true quest of this party? What did Wulfe deliver to Paris? Why did he travel with so many others? If Christina could discover that, she might discover why Wulfe had been attacked in Costanzia’s house. She might also determine why Helmut was part of the group.
If it was him in truth. Only after the Scotsmen had departed and Joscelin strove to interest her in his own eligibility did she realize the other nobleman had never been identified by them.
Why not? Was he not with them? Or did they dislike him?
Christina should speak with Wulfe.
She interrupted Joscelin sweetly and asked for the location of Wulfe’s chamber. The little man was flustered but told her the Templar had taken the room immediately above the common room. Christina excused herself politely and went in search of her champion.
She was climbing the stairs when a notion struck her, an intuitive conclusion that explained Wulfe’s manner with such elegance that she hoped it were true.
There was but one way to find out.
Christina hurried up the stairs with new purpose.
* * *
Wulfe knew Christina would come to him.
Who else could she appeal to? She was alone and he was the sole one who had shown her kindness—such as it was. He wished he could offer more, but to promise what he could not deliver would be worse than no promise at all. Wulfe understood her predicament all too well. Though he was resolved not to let her remain with him, he guessed she would not abandon this opportunity quickly. She had a determination about her, that was for certain.
He admired that mightily.
Wulfe, however, had only the order. In the absence of the temptation offered by Christina, he could review his own choices more clearly. He knew there were no other good prospects for him and he still had no desire to become a mercenary. He had yet to meet a baron who might employ him whose aims he could be certain would always be just.
It was forbidden by the order to consort with women, but Wulfe had been blessed in Palestine to report to men who understood earthy truths. The Master of the Gaza Priory had been inclined to overlook transgressions of that part of the rule, so long as the occurrences were neither frequent nor disruptive. Their garrison had been under constant assault at Gaza, and the community they defended had been small. Much had been conceded in ensuring the survival of both knights and settlers there.
It was not reasonable, though, to assume that the Master at the Paris Temple would be so lenient. Indeed, his brethren faced no similar peril in that city, so the enforcement of the rule would be strict. Wulfe would have been disappointed if it had been otherwise. He could not arrive there with a whore as a companion and expect to remain a Templar.
Save if she were a pilgrim he defended.
Save if he did not enjoy her pleasures.
Save if she left their party before they reached the Temple. Would his fellow travelers report such activities to the Master? Wulfe knew he did not win alliances readily, particularly when he could not do so in battle, and suspected they might. Gaston was righteous, to be sure.
The only responsible choice was to deny Christina here and now, though the prospects for her fate were less than encouraging. He was not responsible for her, not truly, but he felt responsible.
Wulfe broke his fast, not really tasting the bread, forcing himself to consider other issues. He reviewed the assault as he did so, seeking a clue to the villain’s identity. What if it had not been an assault arranged by the brothel? The villain then would have pursued him and had to bribe his way into the brothel, which indicated a serious intent.
Was the perpetrator in their party? Who had been out of the house the night before? He should ask. The boys brought him hot water then and Stephen unpacked a clean chemise as Wulfe bathed. He had donned his aketon and mail once again when there was a rap at the door.
Christina.
He would not lie to himself, though he would disguise his reaction from the lady.
Wulfe was glad she had come.
And that was the most worrisome detail of all.
Chapter Six
Wulfe dismissed the boys, following them to the portal. He ensured his expression was stern when he faced Christina, hoping she did not guess how his chest tightened at the sight of her. She was fingering that belt, an apparently idle gesture, but one that drew his gaze to it.
“It is dawn,” he noted. “You had best return.”
Instead, she stepped into his room, as he had guessed she would. Her gaze flitted over the simple furnishings and she almost smiled. “A little more austere than last night’s accommodations.”
“Yet my custom all the same.”
She nodded, undeterred by this evidence that his life held few luxuries. The door closed audibly behind Stephen and Simon, and it seemed Christina had waited for that. Her gaze immediately lifted to his. “He was your father,” she said with conviction and Wulfe was too startled to hide his surprise.
“Who?” he asked, endeavoring to hide his reaction all the same. He knew precisely who she meant and he knew she was right. But how had she discerned the truth?
“A knight with hair as white as snow and eyes as pale as ice. You will look like that in twenty years.” She watched him, doubtless seeing more of his reaction than he preferred. “He recognized you by the same means. Likely your eyes, for they are uncommonly pale.” Her tone hardened. “Perhaps he recognized all his bastards thus.”
Wulfe took a step back. “You cannot know this…”
“No, I cannot.” Christina interrupted him with conviction. “But I see the pattern. He was outraged at the sight of you, because he knew you were his son and he had believed you to be dead.” She strolled around the room, her fingers sliding across a bare table then the stone sill. Wulfe could not tear his gaze away from her. “He could only have believed as much because your mother had told him of you, but had lied to him about your survival.” She spun to face Wulfe. “Which means that your mother brought you to the old man in the woods. Perhaps the truth was what convinced a man who had no need for the responsibility of a child to take you in. He was your lone chance of survival and he must have known it.”
“You speculate with enthusiasm,” Wulfe said gruffly.
“I speculate because it is useful.”
“Useful?” He flung out a hand. “Of what use is this tale you have spun?”
“It explains your fury, on this morn, in this courtyard.”
A chill settled in Wulfe’s gut. “I do not know what you mean.”
Christina was only too prepared to explain. “You are irked by this knight Gaston, because he truly has leadership of your party, although you are given the appearance of leadership.”
Wulfe frowned. How did this woman understand him so readily? “Nonsense,” he retorted, knowing his protest would make no difference.
“It is not nonsense. You proved as much thi
s morning in your reactions to his counsel. You could have made it look as if you conferred with him and chose to take his advice. Instead, you protested his interference, which had the result of proving to all who had not known before that Gaston is the true leader of your quest.”
“But I…”
“It was a witless choice on your part, one I would not have expected, save that Gaston must somehow remind you of your father. This injustice recalls the other, which is why it prompts your fury and why you spoke without due consideration.”
Wulfe’s heart clenched that he had revealed matters so clearly. “You speculate overmuch.”
“Do I?” Christina was resolute. “If the villain is in your party, he knows that Gaston is the true leader. The villain attacked you last night. By your reaction, you have made Gaston his prey.”
Wulfe spun on his heel to pace the room, dismayed that he might be responsible for such a thing. Why had he not been more temperate? He had managed to be so in Outremer, when Gaston had insisting upon riding to Acre instead of Jaffa.
Why had he been so furious this morn?
Was Christina right, that injustice had sparked his anger?
She spoke softly behind him. “Your father, a baron and a landholder, ensured you gained no birthright from him. He cheated you of what should have been yours. Gaston leads this party, unabashedly, and could be said to be cheating you of the authority that should be yours.”
All the same, making Gaston the target of the villain was no good reward.
“You do not know that the villain is in our party.”
“Nay, I do not,” Christina conceded, but her lips tightened as if she suspected as much.
Of course, she did. Otherwise, the villain would have been part of the house where she worked and the responsibility might have been laid there.
“You do not know that admittance could be gained to the brothel at night,” he argued. “Surely its portals are secured?”
“And surely in a house such as that one, coin can buy any thing at all.” There was a weariness in her voice and Wulfe could not argue the point.
He turned to face her. “Still, you do not know that all in the party heard our argument.”
Christina spared a glance to the window. “I will wager that nigh every chamber has a window that overlooks the courtyard, and if not, the corridor outside that chamber’s portal does. No one could have slept through your demand for admission, save one drunk beyond belief. The one who attacked you has had no time to become so besotted.” She shrugged. “Any soul with a speck of sense would have been curious about the uproar.”
She was right.
Wulfe fought the urge to curse. He was a fool seven times over. He paced the chamber again, aware that she watched him. “What does it mean?” he demanded with impatience.
She shook her head, not understanding.
“The girdle you wear.” He pointed to the jeweled belt. “What does it mean? Every woman in the house wore one.”
Christina grimaced. “It is Costanzia’s mark of ownership.”
“It is not locked. You could remove it.”
Her smile was sad. “We are quickly taught the price of so doing.”
“But what is its purpose?”
“Any soul who sees me will know where I belong, whether that person recognizes my face or not. Any gatekeeper will deny me passage, once he glimpses it, for he will have been paid to do so.”
Wulfe understood. “So you cannot leave the city, not while wearing it.”
She shook her head.
“You should take it off, then.”
“If I am ever destined to return there, the price of having removed it will be high.” She frowned. “You must recognize that this city is not so populous as one might think. Those who abide here recognize each other and ignore the flow of pilgrims, crusaders, and merchants who come and go with the tides.” She toyed with the belt and smiled a little. “There is another trait we have in common, Wulfe.”
They would both be readily identified in this city, by virtue of their coloring alone.
Wulfe knew what Christina was asking him, but could not give her the answer she desired. “It is dawn,” he repeated. “You should return before your situation becomes worse.”
“I would argue that scheme.”
“I cannot help you leave the city!” he protested, even as he considered how it might be done.
That fire flashed in Christina’s eyes. “You will remain in this house two more days, by what I understand. I ask you for those two days, here, sheltered in this house, as a reprieve. After that, I shall do whatever is necessary, I vow it to you.” Her voice softened. “Grant me this, I beg of you. I will ensure you do not regret it.”
Wulfe could not find it within himself to send her back to that place. He guessed that she would try to convince him to take her to Paris and wondered already if she would succeed. It was inappropriate for him to keep a whore, but not to defend a pilgrim. The very tumult of his feelings was no good sign, for he knew that emotion was an unruly master.
He had only to look at how he had revealed Gaston’s role this morn to see the truth of that.
Wulfe shrugged, making light of the concession he was about to make, and turned his back upon Christina. “I suppose it will harm little. Take your leisure here, for I have errands to complete. I will have the boys bring you hot water and tell the mistress of this house that you are my guest.”
He heard Christina exhale and could not resist the impulse to glance back. To his surprise, her eyes were filled with tears. “I thank you, Wulfe,” she said softly, her gratitude so evident that he felt a cur for granting her so little. “I will ensure you find the concession a profitable one.”
Wulfe could not think about that, not when she looked both vulnerable and radiant, not when she was in his chamber and would soon be nude, not when he had tasks to perform. He nodded once and curtly in her direction, then took his leave. “There will be no exchange of favors between us,” he said more sternly than he felt. “You request a reprieve from your labor, after all.”
Wulfe left the chamber then before Christina could argue—or worse, tempt him—for he feared she would do as much. He was a hundred times a fool in this, but the true peril was that he could not regret it.
He was enchanted and snared, to be sure.
Worse, he wished to remain so with an ardor that shook him.
* * *
Contrary to Wulfe’s expectation, there were other favors Christina could render than those delivered upon her back.
If he did not know as much, she would prove it to him.
She could not guess how long he would be gone, so she had best make the moments count. The taller of the two squires brought her a bucket of hot water, a sponge and some soap. Christina welcomed the simplicity of it all. The boy set the bucket upon the floor with sufficient care that the water did not spill and kept his gaze lowered.
“Did you win at chess last night?” Christina asked and he looked up in surprise.
“Twice but not the third time,” he admitted. “Simon was fortunate in that match.”
“Or perhaps you were sleepy.”
He smiled a little. “Maybe. He does not win often.”
“But you do not like it when he does.”
“I am three years older, and have been a squire two years more. I should win.”
“Age does not always determine victory, nor even practice.”
He considered this, then recalled his manners and bowed. “I am Stephen, my lady.”
“And I am Christina, though perhaps it would be better if you did not call me by name.” She watched as he nodded and flushed a little. He bowed again, clearly intending to retreat, but Christina tried to put him at ease. “Have you always been squire to Wulfe?”
He nodded.
“And how did that come about?” She washed her hands, glad that the water was so warm.
“My parents were settlers in Gaza, my lady. I was born there
. The village is in the shadow of the Temple, and the knights garrisoned there guard our boundaries. My parents grew grapes for wine. They had come to Outremer because my mother could no longer bear the cold.” He recited this like a lesson learned and she guessed that his parents had died tragically.
Christina smiled. “I will guess that you liked to watch the knights, from the time you were very young. I know I did, when I was home.”
“There were knights at your home?”
“Aye, my father always employed several. When I was a little girl, I thought them wondrous.”
Stephen’s face lit then, his shyness banished by enthusiasm. “Aye! Such horses! Bigger than any others and stepping so proudly. Such armor! It shone in the sunlight like it was made of silver. They fought so bravely on our behalf, like angels come to defend us.” His expression changed then and he looked away, biting his lip.
Christina crouched down beside the boy. “But one time, they did not do as much,” she suggested softly.
“It was not their fault.” Stephen scrubbed at his eyes before any tears could fall. “The village was attacked by Saracens, just before the dawn. I was asleep until I heard…” His voice caught, but he frowned and continued with a persistence that reminded Christina of Wulfe. “My mother had already gone to tend the grapes. It was the harvest and a good one. There was much to be done before the grapes spoiled.”
“And so she was alone, thinking herself safe when she was not.”
He nodded. “As soon as the hue was raised, my father ran to her, but he was too late. The knights rode from the Temple and won the day.” Stephen straightened. “By evening, I was an orphan, and the master took me under his care.” He met Christina’s gaze. “They fed all the orphans at the priory, by command of the master, until homes could be found for us. No one chose me, though, so after a year, the master said I should learn to be Wulfe’s squire that I might earn my way.”
“And is he good to you?”
Stephen stood tall. “There is no better knight, my lady.”
“And Simon?”
“He was an oblate, my lady, left on the porch of the Temple after his birth. It is against the rule for the order to take infants and children into their care, but the master said he refused to watch a child starve.”
The Crusader's Heart Page 10