“Christina’s father was only more convinced of his daughter’s evil magic. He called her a witch and she laughed at him, telling him that it was no sorcery that saved her but the blessing of Jesus himself. He sent her to prison, then, commanding that she be beheaded in the morning.”
Christina smoothed her skirt, uncertain that all the details of her namesake’s torture were relevant. The boys clearly enjoyed the violent details, but she would hasten to the point of her tale. “Christina’s father died that night, but since she had been committed to the prison, a judge assumed responsibility for her punishment. He was as determined as her father to convince her to sacrifice to the pagan gods and to drive the sorcery out of her. He had her confined to a cradle of iron filled with burning pitch, but Christina praised God for her rebirth through baptism and said she was rocked like a new babe. The judge had her head shorn and insisted she be led naked through the streets to the temple of Apollo, where she would be forced to acknowledge that god. Instead, Christina called to God and the great statue of Apollo crumbled to dust before the eyes of all. The judge was so stricken by this sight that he died on the spot.”
“I would like to see that,” Hamish whispered.
“It might have been a trick,” Kerr said, obviously trying to appear more worldly than the injured boy. Christina could not help but note he was listening to her tale as intently as the others.
“The next judge had Christina thrown into a large furnace built for the very task, where a massive fire burned hot. She walked around in this prison for five days, singing the praises of God with the angels, until the fire was mere coals beneath her bare feet. The judge was certain then that she was a witch and had adders, cobras, and vipers cast into the prison with her. The deadly serpents did not attack her but cleaned the sweat from her skin and licked her feet. The conjuror commanded to rouse the snakes was instead attacked and killed by them himself. Christina ordered the vipers to the desert, then raised the conjuror from the dead, upon which he asked to be baptized in Christ as well.”
“I would like to see that!” Simon said. “A man raised from the dead.”
Stephen frowned.
“But he was a conjuror,” Kerr noted. “Maybe he was not really dead.”
“I wish God would raise everybody from the dead,” Stephen said softly.
“He does,” Christina said to the boy, knowing he thought of his parents. “For he takes the believers into heaven for all eternity. That is where we will see our loved ones again, if our faith is true.”
He nodded, encouraged.
Christina continued. “The judge was intent upon silencing this woman who won the support of more than his conjuror. He had her breasts sliced off, but milk flowed from the wounds instead of blood. He had her tongue cut out, but Christina flung it at him. It struck him in the face and made him even more angry. The judge shot two arrows into her heart and one into her side, piercing Christina through, and this maiden surrendered her spirit to God, true to the last. The year was 287, anno Domini.” Christina paused before she continued. “And so it is that I bear the name of a woman whose faith could not be shaken, no matter what torment was inflicted upon her, and what indignity she was compelled to endure. Her faith sustained her through all.”
Christina looked up in time to catch Duncan’s thoughtful consideration of her, then the man-at-arms turned away. She wondered at what conclusions he had made about her.
She surveyed the boys, letting her expectation show. “Now, who has a tale for me?” She shook a finger at them. “It is only fair that each of you tell me one. You have just come from Outremer and surely have heard many fine tales there. Who will be first?”
Chapter Eight
Contrary to Wulfe’s hope, it was not the villain who was revealed that afternoon.
Soon after parting from Gaston, Wulfe suspected he was being followed.
He hastened his steps, ducking down one alley and then another, losing track of his location in the blink of an eye. By the time he realized he was lost, he knew for certain that someone stalked his steps.
Wulfe also knew that he had made a mistake. The path he had most recently chosen bent hard to the right, only to reveal that it terminated in a canal.
It was but a heartbeat later that a large man strolled leisurely around the corner after him. Wulfe recognized one of the men who had guarded the portal of Costanzia’s establishment the night before.
The look on his face revealed that he recognized Wulfe as well.
He was joined by a second man. His companion, if anything, was both larger and looked meaner. Wulfe retreated, only to hear a throat cleared behind him. He spun to see a third man of similar size step from a small boat into the far end of the alley. There was a fourth in the boat, but that man rowed the vessel out of sight. The man who had disembarked smiled at Wulfe.
It was not a friendly smile.
Wulfe glanced back to find the other two close behind them. Evidently they had moved more quickly than he might have expected to be possible. His hand dropped to the hilt of his knife, but they pulled their daggers in unison.
“We want only to speak with you,” said the one Wulfe recalled. He let the blade of his knife catch the sunlight, a gesture which belied his words.
“There is no need to complicate matters,” said the third one, compelling Wulfe to spin and glance back at him. He, too, had moved closer, and also toyed with his knife.
“We merely seek Christina,” continued the first. “Do you know where she is?
Wulfe looked around and realized that he was in an alley with no windows. He could see no one but his assailants and he doubted any would hear him cry for aid.
Much less come to his assistance.
“Or maybe,” suggested the second man in a low voice. “You need some encouragement to prompt your memory.”
“Christina is so deeply missed,” murmured the first, his tone making a mockery of his words. “We are charged not to return without her.”
Wulfe heard the third man’s footfall behind him just before that man dropped his hand on Wulfe’s shoulder. “Perhaps you might be so kind as to assist us,” he said with quiet threat, and Wulfe felt the point of a knife on his throat.
He had two knives, the one he always carried and the one the armorer had repaired, although he did not wear his sword. He could fight with both hands, although he would disguise that fact for as long as possible.
If God sent tests to reveal a man’s strengths, Wulfe must have more hidden power than he realized.
More importantly, he had the funds granted by the Temple. He would not offer those coins readily, but if the choice was between his life and the Temple’s coin, Wulfe knew he would decide in favor of his own survival.
But these men would not gain that prize readily, to be sure.
* * *
Christina waited an eternity for a response from the others in the stables. Just when she thought she might have misjudged her audience, a voice came from the far corner.
“I know a tale,” said the small dark boy with the bag. “And like yours, it is of people who refused to be told what to believe.”
Christina laughed. “Perfect! Come and share it with us, if you please.”
Kerr winced. “No closer,” he said and pinched his nose with a grimace.
“Laurent stinks,” Stephen confided in a whisper.
“I assure you, the stable does not smell like roses,” Christina noted.
“But Laurent…” Stephen fell silent then shook his head.
Meanwhile, the boy Laurent came a little closer, that bag yet in his grip. The scent of him doubled and redoubled, so the boy might have been a walking dung heap. Christina doubted that he saw much kindness, though, so she hid her reaction. Laurent sat down beside her and leaned against the saddlebag protectively. Christina had already noted that he was both small and slight. His skin was golden and he was finely boned. His eyes were dark and thickly lashed, giving him an exotic air.
Nay, a feminine air. She glanced at his face and his hands, peered at his proportions and was certain of the truth.
Laurent was a girl.
Who else knew?
“Surely you could loose your grip on your baggage?” Christina suggested but Laurent held it only tighter.
“My lord Fergus entrusted it to me as a test, my lady, and I will not fail him in this.”
What would transpire when the boy discovered that the relic had been exchanged?
“Do you know what is in it?” she asked lightly.
“I suspect it is naught at all,” Laurent confided. “For who would grant a token of any worth to my care, before I had proven myself?”
Certainly Laurent was not from Scotland. “But if you are Fergus’ squire…”
“Only recently,” Duncan interjected. “The boy joined us only upon our flight from Jerusalem, though he was familiar to us from the stables of the Templars.”
“He knows much of horses,” Stephen contributed.
“And more than that,” Kerr whispered, earning dark glances from the other boys. “It is why he stinks,” he said. “He sleeps in their dung.”
Christina thought that was a good strategy to keep others from looking too closely. “I see,” she said mildly. “I would hear your tale, Laurent, if you would share it.”
Laurent’s smile was elfin and charming. “Once upon a time, there was a group of good friends, all of whom believed in the true God. Like Saint Christina, they were chastised for not making offerings to false idols. Unlike Saint Christina, they chose to flee the city, in order to worship as they knew to be right.”
Christina was intrigued by the tale. Had Laurent joined the party to flee Jerusalem? If so, why?
“And so they hid in the hills, taking refuge in a cave they discovered. Some say there were three of them, while others say they were five or even seven. All agree that a loyal dog accompanied them. They prayed in this place and God sent a blessing to them: He ensured that they all fell into a sound sleep. The dog slept, too, although it slept at the door to the cave, as if guarding them. They awakened later, believing they had slept but a day or so, and were hungry. One of them chose to go into the city and buy bread for them, and this was when they discovered the truth.”
“What truth?” Stephen asked.
Laurent smiled. “The city had changed so much that this one of the companions scarcely recognized it. He thought his wits addled by hunger and tried to buy bread, but the baker would not take his coin. A hue and cry was raised, and a crowd gathered, for the coin was ancient and valuable. The baker thought this man must have stolen it, while others thought he had found a treasure and should share its location. As you might imagine, he was most confused by all of this.”
Christina glanced around the stable, intrigued that Laurent held the attention of the others so easily, given their reactions to his presence.
“The crowd demanded that the man they believed to be a stranger prove his origins. The man gave his name and that of his parents, but no one knew of any of them. He cried out in vexation, for still they called him a liar, and demanded to be taken to a magistrate of the emperor. When he named the emperor who he knew ruled the territory containing the city, the crowd fell back in awe. He could make no sense of their reaction and asked what was amiss.” Laurent dropped his voice. “The baker told him that emperor had been dead for centuries.”
The boys caught their breath as one and leaned forward as one to hear how this marvel could be.
“The companions of the cave had slept for three hundred and nine years, by the will of God.”
Christina frowned, for she knew a variant of this tale. It was told as that of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, but she had heard that the story had originated amongst the Saracens.
Was Laurent a Saracen, as well as a girl?
* * *
Wulfe stepped through the portal of the rented house, endeavoring to look composed but more shaken than he preferred. He paused for a moment, wanting to bar the door, but knowing that would only arouse the suspicions of the others given the hour. They did not need to know what had transpired.
Save Gaston.
It irked him mightily that he had been relieved of his favored dagger, particularly as he had just paid for its repair. The blade had been of fine Toledo steel, and he would miss it. It burned yet more that he would have to admit his failure to Gaston, but Wulfe knew it had to be done. He was not one to shirk an unpleasant task, although he would not savor the doing, to be sure. The fact was that Gaston had accumulated some wealth and could fund the journey. The Grand Master in Paris would repay him, for he would trust Gaston’s accounting, and the others need not know the difference.
Wulfe ached from the blows inflicted upon him. Costanzia’s men had broken no bones, for they had found the coin in time. They had not marred his face, either. To all appearances, he was but slightly disheveled.
In truth, he was more agitated than that, and not just from his injuries. The moment they had left him, he had doubted his choice. Should he have pursued them? Could he have secured the coin again?
What had halted Wulfe was the conviction that if he succeeded in regaining the coin, their retribution would be taken next upon Christina. He could not bear to think of her being injured. He also was skeptical that he could best his opponents, so quickly after having lost to them.
And so, it appeared he had bought himself a courtesan with the funds of the Temple.
Another man might have found the notion amusing, but Wulfe was appalled.
There was but one way to make this wrong right—he must not so much as touch Christina again. Only then could he argue that he had been robbed in defense of a pilgrim. Only if there was no personal advantage to be gained by himself could he hold up his head and confess to the Grand Master in Paris.
It was also the only way he could keep his position in the order.
Even that was more precarious a future than Wulfe might have liked. He would be reliant upon the good will of the Grand Master in Paris, a man he did not know, and also upon the testimony offered by Gaston.
How foolish that he had put himself in such a position of weakness.
Wulfe squared his shoulders and stepped into the courtyard, seeing that most of his fellow travelers were gathered there, in the common room, or in the stables. Gaston had returned before him and that man’s eyes narrowed after he surveyed Wulfe.
Wulfe went to the other knight, contriving to appear as impatient as had been his custom. “And so?” he demanded. “Did you collect your wife’s purchases?”
“Indeed.” Gaston glanced upward. “She folds and packs them now.”
“And how fares the boy? Do we ride out on the morrow?”
“The apothecary visited, for Hamish had a fit.” Gaston rubbed his chin. “Yet it seems that if the boy’s recovery continues, we might depart on the morrow.”
“That is excellent news.” Wulfe raised his voice. “I suggest all make preparations to depart in the morning, assuming, of course, that Hamish improves yet more.” Everard retreated to the common room from the position he had taken on the threshold. Joscelin departed, destined for a friend’s board for the evening. Still there were too many ears close by, and he would have to await a more private moment to confide in Gaston.
Christina came from the stables, granting Wulfe a smile of welcome that warmed him to his toes.
He had bought her.
Yet he could never touch her again, if he was to have a future.
If Wulfe had been determined to complete this journey to Paris with all speed, that desire for haste had just redoubled. A swift passage was the sole chance he had of keeping his resolve.
And that was a terrifying realization indeed.
* * *
Christina knew with a single glance at Wulfe that something had gone awry. He avoided both her gaze and her company. She had anticipated he might do as much, since he had only allowed her to remain with reluctance. The difference
was that he seemed taut and alert, as if he had faced a threat since his departure this morn.
What had happened?
It was equally clear that he did not intend to speak to the others about whatever had occurred. He appeared to exchange no confidence with Gaston upon his return, although he did better at disguising that knight’s true role. He was polite but aloof at their evening meal, not joining in the camaraderie of the company. Christina wished she knew whether this was unusual or not. She forced herself to appear at ease, but it was difficult given how much she wished to speak with Wulfe.
Instead, she endeavored to collect information and impressions.
She supposed she should not have been surprised that the meal was served as if they sat in some feudal lord’s hall. They were seated by rank, both above the salt and below. Christina was relieved by this, for she was below the salt, and the man she feared to be Helmut sat at the very opposite end of the table. No man sat at either head or foot, but only along the sides. Gaston was opposite the nobleman, that knight’s lady wife by his side. Wulfe sat beside the nobleman and opposite the lady, Duncan beside him and Fergus beside the lady Ysmaine.
Christina chose the last seat on the same side as Wulfe, which would keep her out of view of the nobleman, and allow her to covertly study Gaston’s bride. The boys served at the table, with Bartholomew dispensing the fish stew, Stephen pouring wine, and Simon offering the bread that Kerr cut. It must be an austere meal for some in the company, but a lavish one for others. It certainly was a less sumptuous feast than Costanzia served to her patrons, but it was far better than the meals Christina had been granted with the other women resident in that house.
One of the boys had told the tale of Gaston’s nuptials in the stables this afternoon, evidently relishing how that knight had saved the lady from her misfortunes. It seemed that Ysmaine and her maid Radegunde had been robbed but continued on their pilgrimage, only to find themselves destitute in Jerusalem when that city might anticipate an attack by Saracens.
The tale was too close to Christina’s own for her to hear it with indifference. She suspected that none in the company realized the fullness of what Ysmaine’s life might have become, if she had been compelled to make the same choice as Christina, and Christina could only be glad to know that this woman had escaped that fate.
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