The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  Wulfe straightened. “I would be gone from this place with all haste,” he insisted. “Tell me that we need not await the welfare of a squire.”

  “We must, lest we appear to be thieves fleeing in the night.” Gaston lowered his voice. “But that does not mean that our time in this city shall be wasted. Let us try to lure your assailant into making another attempt.”

  “Upon my life?” It was a better choice, to Wulfe’s thinking, than to leave Gaston prey to assault because of his own comments that morning.

  “Of course. You are the one who leads this party, after all.”

  Wulfe chose not to comment upon that. “You have a scheme?”

  “A feeble one, but it might be effective. The villain believes you to be the leader of our party and thus the one charged with possession of the item he seeks. Your baggage was searched at Samaria, that of all the others in our party searched on the ship. Last night, I suspect you were followed and your more intimate belongings searched, again in a quest for some hint of the location of the prize. It may be clear to the villain that you do not carry it.”

  “And so?”

  “What if you acted as a man bent on collecting it?” Gaston dropped his voice and Wulfe leaned closer. “There are those in Venice oft used by the order for the safekeeping or sale of gems and precious goods. I would not threaten the security of any of them, but this practice is well known. After all retire this night, you might leave the house, as if keeping an assignation in secret. I will follow you, leaving sufficient space that the villain may lend chase.”

  “And that fiend will find his reckoning in the streets of Venice.” Wulfe nodded. “I like it well, for this city is known to be violent at night.”

  “I will watch for your departure.”

  The two knights shook hands, then Wulfe left the square with new purpose. Aye, their journey would be much simpler if the villain could be revealed before they left Venice. That would give value to their lingering in this city.

  * * *

  Christina was aware of the way that conversation halted as soon as she stepped into the stables. Simon and Stephen were away from the portal, tending a massive black destrier that had to belong to Wulfe. A pair of palfreys were stabled near the warhorse, indicating that they also belonged to the Templar. She could see a dappled destrier and another of a deep chestnut hue with a star on its brow and white socks. Still another warhorse was so dark a brown as to be almost black.

  She had a closer look at that small boy seated to one side, still clinging to a saddlebag like a barnacle. This squire of Fergus’ was fairly lost in the shadows and looked even more thin and dirty at close proximity. He also smelled vehemently of dung. It was remarkable that she could tell as much while standing in a stable, but it was clear the boy had been filthy for a long time. He dropped his gaze when he noted her curiosity and hugged the baggage more closely.

  He did not know its contents had been exchanged, then.

  In the back and out of sight, some discussion fell silent. Hay crackled as someone crept closer to look at her, and she spied the blond hair of a squire as he peeked around the end of the last stall. It was the one with the blackened eye who had mocked her earlier. Before she could speak, he disappeared.

  Baggage was piled at the back left corner of the stable, and the trap for the horses was hung there, as well. There were buckets of water and of oats for the steeds, and the familiar smell of hay, manure, and leather that she remembered very well from home.

  A dark-haired young man appeared a moment later from the same point where the blond boy had disappeared, moving with purpose until he saw her. He froze in place then and stared, though his disapproval was clear. Christina refused to be deterred and did not leave the stables, however much this man might have desired her to do so.

  There were palfreys aplenty, in various shades of brown and grey, and Christina wondered whether they all traveled with Wulfe’s party. She could not help but notice that they were more openly curious than either destriers or squires.

  It seemed that the female of any kind was the one most likely to establish rapport.

  “Well, good morning,” Christina said to the first palfrey that stretched to sniff her outstretched hand. “You are a lovely creature. Have you a name?” She stroked the horse’s nose, admiring the palfrey’s white socks, aware that the boys and men watched her. She let them take a good look.

  If they thought silence or disapproval would compel her to run away, they could think again. She had faced worse in her days.

  “No name?” she mused. “What an oversight. Perhaps I should give you one.”

  “That is Bella,” Stephen supplied, raising his voice a bit.

  “And she is bella.” Christina proceeded to the next horse, which was more curious given her attention to the first. This second mare sniffed Christina’s palm, then closed her eyes with satisfaction when Christina scratched her ears. “Oh, and you like that. How long since your ears have been rubbed just so?”

  The horse nickered with satisfaction, and Duncan chuckled. He remained in the doorway behind her, watching and listening. “You have a touch, lass, but then, who would be surprised by that?”

  She smiled despite herself.

  He nodded at the horse before her. “That is Vera, for she knows the truth of any situation.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. When she will not leave the stable, you can count on a storm breaking. When she breaks to a run, you had best let her flee for there is trouble fast behind.”

  “Then you are a clever horse, Vera,” Christina informed the palfrey, who nickered and nodded in apparent agreement. “Whosoever rides you is fortunate indeed. I hope your warnings are heeded.” The mare nibbled at her fingertips.

  Stephen came to Christina’s side and bowed. “Please meet Teufel, my lady,” he said, indicating the black destrier with a gesture. She could not help thinking that he might have been introducing nobility at court for all the solemnity of his manner.

  “Your master calls his horse a devil?”

  “Teufel is most opinionated, my lady, and I understand was not in a hurry to be tamed to the saddle.”

  It was clear the creature did not lack confidence, and rightly so, for he was magnificent. His proportions were perfect though he was very large, and his coat shone like silk of a midnight hue. His mane and tail were long and brushed to a gloss. There was a gleam in his dark eye that spoke of determination and he stamped his foot with impatience even as she stood before him.

  “Do you not like your name, sir?” Christina asked the horse playfully and the stallion exhaled. He surveyed her and his nostrils flared before he deigned to let her stroke his nose.

  “He is willful, my lady, but loyal.”

  “Ah, so your master recognized a kindred spirit,” Christina teased, but only Duncan chuckled. The other young man sniffed and made to leave the stables. “We have not been introduced,” Christina said, stepping into his path.

  He looked her up and down, his brow dark. “I am Bartholomew, the squire of Gaston.”

  Squire? And so old as this? Christina hid her surprise. “And I am—”

  “I know what you are,” Bartholomew said brusquely and stepped past her, leaving the stables with quick strides.

  The small boy, the dirty one with the bag, inhaled sharply in disapproval, and Stephen dropped his gaze as if ashamed of his fellow. Bartholomew glanced only at the dirty squire before leaving. Were they friends? If so, it seemed an unlikely alliance. Perhaps the young man defended the smallest boy in the party.

  If so, Christina would think better of him.

  Christina smiled at Stephen to ease his discomfiture. “Do the other horses have names?”

  The boy showed her the other horses and also introduced the squires. The one she had glimpsed at the back was Kerr, who served Fergus, though Christina did not like how quickly his gaze slid away. This one was not to be trusted, in her view. That blackened eye hinted that there was one other
who took issue with him.

  A second squire pledged to Fergus slept in the back of the stables, the freckles on his cheeks seeming unnaturally dark against his pallor. His hair was red and tousled.

  “This then would be the injured boy,” she said quietly to Stephen, who nodded.

  Fergus was beside Hamish, his hand upon the boy’s brow. “It is most strange,” he said. “I would have thought you better, but for this report.”

  “I do not remember it, sir,” Hamish said.

  “You do not remember striking your head on the ship, either,” Kerr noted, derision in his tone.

  Perhaps Hamish had been pushed, just as he had not had a convulsion.

  Stephen straightened beside her. “The apothecary decreed that he must rest through tomorrow, for he was struck upon the head just before we left the ship.”

  Duncan had followed them and looked down on the boy, bending to feel the heat of his brow in his turn. He exchanged a glance with Fergus, and Christina could only admire how protective they were of the boys entrusted to their service.

  “Hamish will be hale in no time at all,” Duncan said gruffly and the men straightened. “The blood of champions runs in his veins, after all, mingling with the spirit of the Highlands.”

  “Doubtless you speak the truth,” Fergus said with a cheer that seemed forced. “Let me see if some soup can be found for you.”

  “Aye, my mother always insisted a good soup was the best,” Duncan agreed, and Fergus departed with purpose.

  Evidently encouraged, Hamish sat up and eyed Christina after bobbing his head in greeting.

  “I was struck,” he insisted again.

  “Of course you were,” Duncan agreed, though Christina was not certain he believed as much. When Hamish would have argued, Duncan raised a finger. “What is done is done, lad. You have only to recover.”

  Alarm flashed in the squire’s eyes, and Christina wondered whether the boy feared to be left behind.

  She could not help but notice that neither the squires nor Fergus paid much attention to the small boy tucked in the far corner with his bag. Of course, the stench of him was sufficient to bring a tear to one’s eye. Perhaps that was the sole reason they shunned him.

  Perhaps his dirt was not an accident. Christina felt a bit sorry for the boy.

  She brushed off a bale of hay and took a seat, ensuring that Hamish could see her, then looked at the watchful boys. All she had to do was encourage them to confide in her. It looked like a difficult feat in this moment, but Christina smiled.

  “When I was a girl, I went to the stables whenever I wanted to hear a tale,” she admitted in a cheerful tone. “The ostler was a fine storyteller, and I knew he would always have one to share that I had never heard before.”

  “Always?” Kerr scoffed. “How many times did you go?”

  “Hundreds,” Christina said, holding the boy’s challenging stare until he looked away. She would not be daunted by his impertinence, that was certain. “And doubtless he knew hundreds more. Whenever I am in a stable like this one, I think of that ostler, and remember how I loved his tales. That is why I suggested to Lady Ysmaine that I tell Hamish a tale, though you are all welcome to listen.”

  “Why should we?” Kerr asked, his manner insolent.

  Christina smiled with deliberation. “Because I have invited you to do so.”

  “We are not supposed to speak with you, though,” Hamish countered. The boys exchanged glances of reluctant agreement.

  Christina nodded as if considering this. “I see. And you always do what you are bidden to do?”

  Duncan bit back a smile at that, although the boys nodded.

  “Aye, my lady,” Stephen said. “We are charged to do our knights’ will.”

  Christina shook her head. “Yet you are boys, and truly if you all are utterly obedient boys, then this must be the most remarkable gathering in all of Christendom.” She lowered her voice to confide in Stephen, though the others surely could hear. “What makes boys endearing is their capacity for mischief and their frequent inability to do as they have been instructed to do.”

  Stephen colored and dropped his gaze as if she had caught him out. Hamish feigned sleep again, and Kerr busied himself with the hay. Simon checked the water for Teufel, which was both clear and plentiful. The small dirty boy appeared to be asleep. Duncan seated himself on a bale of hay, obviously entertained.

  “I thought to tell you the tale of the saint you were named for, Hamish, but that is one tale I do not know. Instead, I will tell you of the saint I am named for. Saint Christina.”

  She was well aware of Duncan’s amusement that she should tell the story of a saint, and of Kerr’s smirk, but she told the tale to Stephen, perhaps her greatest ally in the stables. That boy continued to brush Teufel—who surely needed no more grooming, but the task ensured that the boy was close enough to both watch and listen to her. Christina did not think it an accident.

  “Christina was born in Outremer, in Tyre, to a noble family.”

  “I have been to Tyre,” Stephen said. “We rode there once with a missive from the master.”

  “How fortunate you are. I have not visited that place.”

  “The harbor was wondrous. It was the largest city that I had ever visited.” Stephen glanced around himself. “Before this one.”

  Christina nodded. “This happened in the days of the Roman Empire, when most people believed in the pagan gods. Christina was extremely beautiful but her father wished for her to be a virgin in service to the gods. Since many men desired her and he refused to let her wed, he had her shut up in a tower with twelve of her waiting women to protect her chastity until that fate could be arranged. But Christina had heard the word of God, and had become Christian. She refused to sacrifice to the pagan gods and even hid the incense she was supposed to burn in their honor, rather than light it on the altar in the tower.”

  “She disobeyed her father,” Stephen said, clearly uncertain whether to be horrified by her defiance or admiring of her faith.

  “Indeed, she did.” Christina noted that the small dirty boy had drawn closer, with his saddlebag, to listen. The boy hugged it close as he heeded her tale. “And the serving women were quick to report her transgression to her father.”

  “As more than one serving woman is apt to do,” Duncan noted wryly.

  “Her father was enraged by these tidings and came to challenge Christina himself. He feared that her decision would bring the wrath of the gods upon her and argued with her, insisting that she sacrifice to all of the gods lest any be offended. Christina vowed she would pray only to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Her father could not understand why she would pray to three gods but not the rest, but Christina told him that these three were one, the Trinity and the godhead. He insisted upon his course, then left his daughter, certain she would be obedient.”

  “But she was not,” the dirty boy guessed with some gusto.

  Christina smiled at him, pleased that he both understood her and chose to reply. “She was not, for she believed her father to be in error. Indeed, she destroyed the idols of his gods that were upon the altar in her tower prison, ensuring that no one could worship them.”

  “And the maids told her father,” Simon guessed.

  “And he returned in fury. Perhaps he had doubted Christina’s defiance, but when he saw the broken idols, he could not deny her deeds. He was resolved to correct her thinking, no matter what the price. He ordered her to be stripped naked by her maids, then summoned twelve men to beat her with all their might. When the men dropped from exhaustion, Christina challenged her father, saying that his gods should give his men new strength as God had given endurance to her. Instead, he had her bound with chains and thrown into a prison.”

  “He could do this to his own daughter?” Stephen asked, and Christina was pleased that he had so little experience of wickedness.

  “No doubt he did worse,” the small boy said grimly, his tone revealing that his history ha
d been quite different.

  “He did that,” Christina admitted, then shrugged. “And yet more.”

  “He feared for her future,” Duncan said. “As many a father does.”

  “But he was wrong,” Simon protested. “He was pagan!”

  “And yet convinced of his beliefs all the same,” Duncan said gently. “I do not excuse his wickedness, merely note that it is natural for a man to wish for the best for his children.”

  He sounded weary, and Christina wondered whether Duncan had family himself.

  “His motivation could be argued in this case,” Christina noted. “For it was scarce good for Christina to be beaten and imprisoned.” Duncan bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Her mother came to the prison and entreated Christina to do whatever was necessary to win her father’s favor, but Christina knew that only one deed would do. She was adamant that she would not sacrifice to false gods. And so it was that her father ordered more punishment for her, thinking that pain would change her mind. Her flesh was torn from her body with hooks, but Christina threw the fallen pieces at him, challenging him to eat the flesh he had begotten.”

  The small dirty boy grinned at this.

  “Her father then had her stretched on a wheel of iron and commanded a fire be lit beneath her so she might be burned to death. The fire, though, fanned out from beneath the wheel and killed hundreds of men who had gathered to watch, leaving Christina unscathed.”

  “I would like to have seen that,” Kerr murmured, and Christina wondered which part of the tale intrigued him.

  “Her father resolved that Christina must be a witch, then, for he could see no other reason for her survival than magic. He had her bound and a rock tied around her neck, then she was cast into the sea. All were certain she would drown, but angels came to her aid, lifting her from the sea in their arms. Christina saw Jesus Christ himself and was baptized by him in the waters of the sea. She was given then to the custody of the archangel Michael who bore her back to the shore with care.”

  Stephen sat down hard, his awe clear and his tasks forgotten.