The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  “He sounds like a good man.” This master sounded like a man who understood the challenges of his area and the need for concessions. She supposed he was the same man who had ignored Wulfe’s relief of his carnal needs and respected that he had not enforced a rule that would only lead to hardship. Knights with compassion in their hearts were the most admirable of all, in her view.

  “Aye, my lady. Simon sorted beans in the kitchens, to ensure there were no stones, then helped in the stables, too. After I had been squire for a year, the master decreed that my knight had need of a second squire.”

  Christina could imagine how Wulfe might have responded to that, though he had no choice but to follow an order. “And was Wulfe pleased by this?”

  Stephen considered this. “He does not talk much, my lady, but he is a good teacher, and he is fair. I know that more than once, we two ate meat when he did not.”

  “For there was not sufficient?”

  Stephen nodded. “He said it was his fast day but I fear that might have been untrue.”

  “So, he must like having two squires.”

  “I think in the beginning, he had doubts, my lady, but Simon and I try our best to show our merit.”

  “I am certain that you do.” Christina smiled and the boy beamed at her, then bowed again.

  “Your water will become cold, my lady,” he counseled.

  “Indeed, and that will make a waste of your effort to bring it hot. I thank you for sharing your tale, Stephen,” she said and meant it, for she had seen yet more kindness in Wulfe’s history with these boys. It seemed he had learned more from the old man than from his father, and she was glad of it. “I would wager that the master of the Gaza priory chose well for you both.”

  “I, too, my lady.” He bowed again then left the chamber, closing the door quietly behind himself. Christina followed him and locked the portal, savoring the weight of the key in her hand, then went to the window.

  Stephen conferred with Simon in the courtyard below, then the pair of them went into the stables, presumably to tend Wulfe’s steed. She considered the room, feeling blessed by its simple solitude and this precious privacy. She had not jested to Wulfe about the merit of a reprieve, although now that it was her own, she found herself appreciating it more than anticipated. She shed her garb and washed, even while thinking what she could do for Wulfe in return. There was one obvious feat, but she would give him more than pleasure.

  Clad only in her shift, Christina removed Gunther’s ring from her hem, deduced which direction was east by the sun, and prayed with fervor.

  She had good reason to give thanks.

  And much guidance to seek.

  Christina was aware of the return of some party during her prayers and heard the laughter of the knight’s lady wife and her maid as they mounted the stairs. The door slammed overhead and there were many footsteps back and forth across the floor. Christina recalled the dark-haired knight’s comment that his wife’s purchases had to be collected and could well imagine the scene in the chamber above.

  It made her smile to remember returns from similar expeditions with her mother and sisters, and for the first time in years, Christina dared to hope she might see them all again. Were they well? Her situation had been hopeless for so long, but now her future held new promise.

  Thanks to Wulfe.

  By the time she concluded her prayers and kissed the ring, Christina knew what to do. She dressed quickly, intent upon gathering as much information for her reluctant champion as possible. The stables might be the best place to learn of the house’s guests, for the boys would know much of their knights and lords.

  She eyed the wretched girdle for a long moment, wanting to discard it.

  But she was not safely out of Venice yet and did not even know who owned this house or labored in its kitchens. There might be those employed in the stables who lived here, or others might make deliveries to the house and catch a glimpse of her. That would be bad enough but without the girdle, she would pay a higher price.

  After all, every soul in the house would have heard her earlier declaration of her status, for all would have listened to the argument in the courtyard. If she shed the girdle or hid it now, her plan to abandon her trade might be perceived. Who knew whether word had already been dispatched to Costanzia of her location. Christina locked the girdle around her waist with a grimace, then turned at the sound of activity in the courtyard.

  Wulfe, she knew, had already departed. She saw now that any scheme to speak with the squires would have to wait, for Fergus called to the boys. “Stephen and Simon! Duncan and I have need of your assistance. Laurent is still too weakened from the voyage to aid with provisions, and Hamish must rest. Come with me. Wulfe will be glad that you can be of use.”

  “Aye, sir,” the boys agreed in unison and followed a taller fair-haired boy. Fergus ushered them out to the street and shut the wooden portal behind them, leaving the courtyard to fill with silence.

  Christina stared out the window. Who remained in the house? She had not seen the dark-haired knight leave or his squire, but they might have done as much. Where had the man she feared to be Helmut gone? And what of the plump little merchant who sought to ingratiate himself? She heard a whisper overhead and recalled that the knight’s lady had the chamber above. Surely her maid was yet with her?

  She drew nearer to the window, wondering why the women whispered. Though she could hear the sibilants, she could not discern their words. Was that the sound of footsteps overhead? Christina had no doubt that she heard the door on the floor above open, then stealthily close.

  She moved silently across the room and bent to peer through the keyhole. The maid descended, and even a brief glimpse of her gave Christina the impression that the girl was agitated. She carried a bundle of a size that would fit into a saddlebag.

  Perhaps these were the lady’s old garments. Did she mean to discard them after gathering her purchases? If she meant to give alms to beggars, Christina would not have minded a kirtle that did not look like the garb for a whore. She watched with interest as the maid disappeared down the stairs. She might have followed, to ask the girl after a dress, but her impulse was to remain hidden.

  It made no sense to be covert about giving alms.

  Aye, she had a sense that something was afoot. Christina returned to the window, ensuring she remained out of sight when she saw the maid appear in the courtyard.

  The maid paused on the threshold of the roofed area used as a stable and called a greeting. The roof cast shadows over the space, although there was no wall on the courtyard side. The first few feet of the stables could be seen, then there were shadows behind.

  “Hoy there! Is anyone about?”

  “I am left to watch Hamish,” a small voice replied and Christina saw movement to one side. There was a boy there, huddled in the hay, hugging a saddlebag.

  The maid chatted with such animation and made such a fuss over the steeds that Christina knew she meant to hide some truth. But what?

  Then Christina heard the door on the floor above open again. A quick peek through the keyhole revealed that the lady herself descended, her manner furtive.

  The maid cried out suddenly. “Hamish! Mother of God, what is amiss?”

  Christina returned to the window in time to see the maid disappear into the shadows. She had dropped that bundle in her dismay and it sat in the sunlight, abandoned. “Laurent! Quickly! You must aid me!” the maid declared. “Oh, Hamish!”

  Christina saw the boy start, then disappear into the shadows in pursuit of the maid.

  To her astonishment, the noblewoman from the chamber above then hastened across the courtyard. This must be Lady Ysmaine. She seized the bundle dropped by her maid, then moved to the spot the boy had vacated. She wore a long cloak, despite the warmth of the day, a fact that Christina only now found curious.

  It was also vexing, for Christina could not discern what she did.

  “He had a convulsion before my very eyes!” the mai
d cried. “Mother of God, what shall we do?”

  The boy mumbled a reply that Christian could not discern.

  What did Lady Ysmaine do?

  “But this manner of illness is deceptive,” the maid insisted. “I saw it once in a man brought to my mother. He twitched in his sleep, shook and thrashed, then choked on his own bile.”

  “Nay!” protested the boy.

  “Aye. Hamish must not be left alone, not for a moment.”

  “But what shall we do?” Now the boy’s voice was rising in fear.

  In that moment, Lady Ysmaine departed hastily from the stables, leaving the saddlebag where the boy had been and replacing the maid’s dropped bundle.

  Christina bit her lip, guessing neither bundle was as it had been. The noblewoman raced across the courtyard, moving silently but with speed, and flung herself into the common room. But a moment later, Christina heard her quiet footfalls on the stairs.

  “You must watch him closely,” the maid instructed. “I will fetch my lady, for she knows something of these matters.”

  “But what will I do if it happens again?”

  “Hold fast to his hand and speak to him.”

  “But I have to fetch the baggage of my lord knight. I cannot leave it unprotected.”

  “Fetch it now, then, and I will hold his hand. Be quick!”

  The boy retrieved the saddlebag he had been guarding, then retreated into the shadows anew. The maid marched out of the stables with purpose, calling for her mistress. She swept up her abandoned bundle as she passed, then carried it toward the house.

  Overhead, the door slammed and was audibly locked. Lady Ysmaine hummed as she descended the stairs more noisily, acting as if this was the first time she left the chamber. The two women’s paths met below.

  “My lady! Hamish has had a fit!” declared the maid, and the noblewoman responded with horror. “He has need of your assistance in this very moment.”

  “Truly!” A key flashed in Ysmaine’s hand as she passed it to the maid. “I bought some lavender this very day to soothe my own sleep. Fetch it for me, if you please, for it may be of aid to him.”

  “Of course, my lady.” The maid hastened to do her lady’s bidding, her feet pounding on the stairs.

  When she descended, she carried no bundle.

  Christina considered the key that Wulfe had left her. Did she dare to hope that all locks within the house were opened by the same key?

  She wanted to know what was in the bundle Ysmaine had locked in her chamber, that much was certain. Indeed, she had no doubt that Wulfe would be interested, as well.

  * * *

  Wulfe felt exposed.

  How had Christina perceived the part of his tale he had never confided in anyone? The sole person who knew the truth was his father, and Wulfe knew that man would never acknowledge him. The old man was dead and could tell no one, even if he knew the truth. Wulfe assumed his mother was dead, but truly, did not care about her fate, given that she had abandoned him.

  Yet, Christina had spied the truth. Had he given some hint or inadvertently revealed himself? Who else would hear of his history? She had pledged to keep his confidence, but to have his secret revealed was troubling.

  He told himself that it made no difference. Christina could not guess his father’s name, and she could not compel him to return to the place he had sworn to never go again. In merely two days, their paths would part forever, and no one would have interest in her tale of his origins.

  Still. Wulfe shuddered and tried to shake off a sense of foreboding.

  He had lied to the order upon joining its ranks, and if that falsehood were revealed, he might be cast from their gates. On the other hand, he might be dispatched to his father to plead for a donation. Nay, it was far better that the baron believed him dead.

  Far better that he was fatherless himself.

  The old man had been a better parent to him, to be sure.

  As he gave direction to the boys, Wulfe wondered for the first time in years about his mother. Had she been mistress or whore? Had she been a courtesan? Had she, like Christina, been left with few choices?

  Had she, like Wulfe himself, done what was necessary to survive? If so, perhaps she had chosen herself over her infant son. Perhaps he had judged her too harshly. What of the baron’s wife? Had she been dead? Or had she known of her husband’s infidelity?

  In truth, such matters had naught to do with him any longer and were best forgotten. Wulfe felt the need for action, though, to push such notions from his thought, so he left the house. The boys were instructed to continue with their labor, and he walked out alone.

  He would explore this city until the time he met Gaston. It was said to be full of marvels, after all, and when he passed through Venice again on his way back to Outremer, he certainly would not linger. He would ride hard in an effort to make up the time lost with this company.

  Determined to ensure the delay had some merit, he visited the basilica, reputed far and wide for its beauty. It was elaborately decorated to be sure, and the mosaics were a marvel, but Wulfe noticed the number of ragged urchins begging in the streets. He could not readily tell whether they were boys or girls, but they were painfully thin, their eyes too large for their faces. He found himself wanting to make a difference to these children.

  “Where do you find shelter and food?” he asked of one who followed him with dogged persistence. He spoke in the local dialect, though his speech was halting for its unfamiliarity. The child shook his head, though Wulfe knew he had been understood. He held up a penny. “Where?”

  The child snatched for the coin but Wulfe stood up, holding it out of reach. “You may have it when you show me.”

  The child ran then, moving so quickly that Wulfe might have lost sight of him, had the child not doubled back repeatedly to ensure that the coin was not lost. He led Wulfe to a poor part of the city, where the streets were narrower and the smell of the canals was stronger. The child knocked on a heavy portal then ducked behind Wulfe. Wulfe felt him fingering the hem of his mail tabard.

  A tonsured monk opened the door, his surprise at the sight of Wulfe more than clear. His gaze dropped to the boy and he smiled in welcome, an indication that the child was familiar. He eyed the insignia on Wulfe’s tabard, then inclined his head. “May I be of assistance, brother?” To Wulfe’s relief, the monk spoke the French dialect he knew best from Paris.

  “He says you give them food and shelter,” Wulfe said and the monk ran a hand over his brow.

  “As much as we can, brother,” he said, his voice weary. “Though it seems each day, there are more children in this city. I am Brother Franco.” A cat the color of soot wound around his ankles, mewling, her eyes a clear green. Wulfe noted that neither she nor the monk were plump.

  Wulfe opened the purse containing his own funds and gave his remaining coins, save three pennies, to the monk. He had several commitments yet to pay or he would have surrendered it all. He still had the funds provided by Brother Terricus in Jerusalem for the costs of this journey to Paris, but that coin was not his to distribute as he chose. “Perhaps this will enable you to do more.” The monk blinked in surprise, but Wulfe turned to give one of the remaining pennies to the boy. “As promised,” he said. “I thank you for being such a good guide.”

  The boy clutched the penny, his delight no less than that of the monk with his donation. His gaze danced between the two men.

  “I thank you greatly for this,” the monk said. “Might I ask your name, that you might be included in our prayers this night?”

  “Brother Wulfe.”

  “And so we shall sing a mass for you, Brother Wulfe.”

  “I thank you for that.”

  The monk made to reply, but the child stepped between them. He offered the coin to the monk. “I do as the knight does and give alms,” the boy said.

  “For you would be a knight one day, as well,” the monk said with an affectionate smile. “May you be so blessed for your generosity, Pedro.�
� He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Go and tell them in the kitchen that you are to have one of the buns fresh from the oven.”

  Pedro hooted as he ducked around the monk and the cat trotted after him. The monk gestured to the room behind him and Wulfe glimpsed a courtyard beyond. “Will you come in and see all we do?”

  It was Wulfe’s nature to remain aloof from such intimacy and to decline similar invitations. He was curious, though, and accepted on impulse. “I should be honored to witness such good work. Have you fellow brethren here?”

  “Aye, it is a small house, with only five of us. We live simply and allow as many children as possible to sleep under our roof each night. Brother Xavier has a talent with herbs, so he tends injuries as well as he can with the herbs he grows here…”

  Wulfe followed the monk, listening to his explanations, intrigued by the peaceful nature of the monk’s abode. The garden was lush with herbs and there was a small well in the midst of the courtyard. He could smell fresh bread and was surprised by the number of cats. He glimpsed a chapel to one side, a beeswax candle burning steadily on the altar, then was welcomed into the kitchen.

  The brothers were amiable and visibly impressed that he had traveled from Outremer. Pedro sat beside him, eating warm bread and cuddling a cat, as Wulfe told them of the losses at Hattin. He sensed that several of the brothers had been fighting men before joining the order, for they listened avidly.

  “And you ride to Paris to inform the order of the need for men to save Jerusalem?” asked Brother Franco.

  “I ride to Paris to tell the Grand Master of what transpires,” Wulfe said. “There is great fear that by the time of my return, Jerusalem will be lost.”

  “But that cannot be!”

  “Surely that is not God’s will!”

  “There are not enough knights to defend it,” Wulfe said, his tone pragmatic. “Saladin would be a fool not to attempt to gain the Holy City.”

  “And he is no fool,” murmured one of the monks.