Wulfe shook his head and pumped. He hoped he did aright for there had been no effect, but suddenly Gaston vomited dark water. If Wulfe had truly been concerned for his tabard’s cleanliness, this exercise would have left him appalled. Instead, he repeated the exercise so that the other knight spewed water twice more. Then Gaston coughed and rolled to his side weakly. He did not open his eyes, but his color had improved.
“Have you any eau-de-vie?” Wulfe asked the squire.
Bartholomew shook his head. “I am sorry…”
“It is no matter,” Wulfe said, his tone more gentle than his words. “We shall have to hope that some soul at the inn has a warming draught.”
“The lady Ysmaine has some skill with healing,” the squire contributed.
“Indeed. Now we take him to the inn with haste,” Wulfe said, pushing to his feet with purpose. “We shall carry him together.”
“I am sorry…” Bartholomew began, and Wulfe acknowledged his words with a nod.
“And I am glad you followed us this night.” He smiled a little, knowing the other man felt badly for his comment. “Head or feet?”
“Head, sir.”
They hefted Gaston, who was not a small man, and set off at as brisk a pace as they could manage. Wulfe could only hope they did not become lost in the maze of this city’s streets, for now Gaston needed to be warm.
* * *
Some slight sound awakened Christina.
She blinked in the darkness, amazed that she had slept so deeply. Wulfe was gone and it was clearly very late. She remained still, straining her ears.
There it was again. The scrape of a footstep against stone. She narrowed her eyes, certain she heard a minute thump.
There was no one in the chamber with her. She told herself not to be disappointed, though in truth, she was. Why had Wulfe not spoken to her before he left? Where had he gone in the midst of the night?
Christina could not dismiss the notion that she had been abandoned, deliberately so. But why? Did Wulfe blame himself for the theft of the order’s funds? She knew well enough that the sole other option for ending that exchange would have been his demise.
Where was he? She rose silently and eased toward the window, then looked down into the courtyard below. The space was empty, save for a beam of moonlight. The moon was just past full and the skies were clear on this night, the rooftops lit nigh as brightly as they were in the midday sun.
Christina could discern no movement at all. What had she heard? She was certain it had been within the house, near her chamber.
She went to the door, listening at it for a moment. There was no sound from the corridor beyond. Even in the shadows, she could discern the small table beside the door and the glass vessel for the oil of the lantern there gleamed. Christina touched the glass, discovering that it was cold. The lantern had been lit when she fell asleep, so a goodly measure of time had passed.
How long had Wulfe been gone? Christina realized that his boots were missing, as well as his armor and sword.
That only increased her conviction that he had left her for good. That she could not explain his choice did not make it impossible.
Her fingertips brushed inadvertently across hard metal and she realized that the key to the room had been left beside the lantern. She doubted this was an accident and swallowed, guessing it had been Wulfe who had left her the means to bar the door.
It also meant he did not intend to return.
Christina tried the door, discovered that it was unlocked, and peeked into the dark corridor.
Not so much as a mouse.
She closed the door silently and leaned back against it, then turned the key quietly in the lock. She felt a portent of trouble, though she could not name the reason why. Perhaps it was because she had thought a new accord had dawned between herself and Wulfe. That he had left without a word meant she was mistaken.
That troubled her. Christina washed in the water that the boys had brought for Wulfe, though it was now cold, and dressed. Her instinct prompted her to be prepared for some event she could not name.
When she was fully garbed, she removed Gunther’s ring from her hem and said her prayers. When she murmured her final “amen,” the sky was still as dark as indigo. Her sense that some event was imminent could not be dismissed, and there was no possibility of further sleep this night.
Christina sat then, hands folded in her lap, and waited, though she could not have said for what.
She knew it when she heard it. Indeed, she could not have missed Wulfe’s bellow for assistance.
No one in that abode could have done.
She ran to the window but could not see Wulfe. He had already disappeared into the common room below, and she could hear boots on the stairs. Another man was with him from the sound. Christina raced to the door and unlocked it, catching Wulfe’s eye as he marched past.
He and Fergus carried an oblivious Gaston, who left a dripping trail of mingled water and blood. Fergus looked to have been roused from sleep and wore only his chemise and boots, but Wulfe was fully garbed. Bartholomew raced ahead of them, also fully garbed.
Where had they been?
“Open the portal, my lady, if you please,” Wulfe cried, as one of the men hammered on the door of the chamber on the top floor that had been claimed by the other knight for his bride.
Christina heard the maid protest. The squires were roused from the stables and she heard their whispering in the courtyard.
“I beg leave to bring my lord knight to the lady’s chamber,” Bartholomew said, his voice high with agitation. “For he has been attacked.”
Christina joined the rest of the company as they assembled on the stairs in their curiosity and concern. She saw the lady Ysmaine, her hair bound in a long, fair plait, take in the sight of her fallen spouse. The lady paled, her dismay clear.
If there was not affection between these two, Christina would have been greatly surprised. The lady then straightened with resolve. She seemed larger in that moment, and Christina admired how she took command of the situation.
Ysmaine spoke briskly. “Radegunde, please put every blanket upon the pallet and fetch water for my husband. If he is injured, the wounds will need to be cleaned.”
“I can do as much, my lady,” Bartholomew protested.
“You may aid me in removing his armor.” Ysmaine pointed at Wulfe, her gaze steely. “And you will tell me how this transpired.” She surveyed the remainder of the party. “The rest of you may retire again. We shall confer in the morning, when there is less to be done.”
The maid raced down the steps with a bucket, brushing past Christina. Gaston was carried into the chamber and doubtless laid on a pallet. The lady clicked her tongue, her displeasure most clear.
“He was in one of these filthy canals,” she said with disgust, and Christina thought she was probably correct. The boys returned to the stables, taking direction from Duncan, but Christina lingered to listen.
“I will send for an apothecary,” Bartholomew said but his knight’s wife spun to face him.
“I would see the extent of his injuries first,” she said curtly. “There might be no need to expend extra coin to summon an apothecary at this hour of the night.”
The lady would deny her husband an apothecary? Christina was surprised by this and saw that the other knights were shocked.
Then Christina realized the truth. Ysmaine wanted only those she trusted in the chamber with that reliquary.
Wulfe hid his disapproval by bending to remove the other knight’s tabard.
Ysmaine would have none of it. “Sir, that is not a fitting task for you,” she declared, positioning herself between the Templar and her spouse when Wulfe did not halt. “You are neither squire nor servant.” Indeed, she ushered Wulfe from the room with undeserved haste. Christina considered the import of this. Ysmaine trusted only her husband and her maid. Had the women stolen the relic at Gaston’s command? As a former knight of the Temple, he would know of the order’s
prizes, and perhaps the truth of Wulfe’s quest. Did he seek a souvenir to fund his new life?
She recalled her certainty that he truly led the party and wondered whether he feared simply for the security of the relic. The assault upon him this night would imply that such concern was deserved.
Without knowing the character of the man, it was impossible to guess his motives. That Ysmaine trusted him was the only conclusion Christina could make.
“Your service is better needed in telling us what transpired,” Ysmaine declared to Wulfe. “How was he so injured in the stables?”
There was a pause, only the sound of Bartholomew unbuckling Gaston’s belt in the chamber. Neither man replied, which intrigued Christina. Had Bartholomew attacked his knight? Did Wulfe suspect as much? Or had the pair of them tried to wrest control from the former Templar?
“He was not in the stables,” Ysmaine concluded, quite reasonably, the lack of dispute or correction proving that she was right. Her voice rose. “Indeed, you were abroad in this perilous town, long after the hour when all sensible men are locked into their homes, and so my husband paid the price.”
“It was his idea,” Wulfe muttered.
Christina narrowed her eyes. Why would Gaston suggest that they three go abroad in Venice at night? Had they been seeking the villain who had attacked Wulfe?
Or trying to lure that assailant into the open?
If so, their scheme had failed. It was clear to Christina that the villain had realized that Gaston was the true leader of the party—or perhaps the one who carried whatever item of value had been entrusted to the knights.
It was no consolation to find her suspicions proven correct.
Christina wondered whether the relic was still in the lady Ysmaine’s possession. “I do not believe it,” that woman retorted. “My lord husband has more sense than that.”
Meanwhile, Bartholomew had continued to disrobe his knight. The lady gave a small cry and Christina guessed she could see the extent of her husband’s injury. She eased forward, wanting to see herself.
“He must have sunk.”
“Indeed, my lady,” Bartholomew admitted. “He was struck from behind and pushed into the canal. He is not small and the weight of his armor is considerable.”
“Fiends and thieves,” Ysmaine fumed. “They wished to ensure that he could not stand witness to their crime.”
“Undoubtedly so, my lady,” Wulfe agreed.
“You pulled him out?” Ysmaine said and Christina was not certain which man she addressed.
“I had to dive in after him, my lady,” Bartholomew admitted, his consternation most clear. “I thought…I feared…”
“My lord husband is fortunate indeed to have such a loyal man in his service. I thank you, Bartholomew.”
Christina leaned back against the wall. She had too many questions. If Gaston and Wulfe had embarked upon this scheme together, why had Wulfe not saved his fellow knight? She knew he did not lack valor.
Perhaps he had not wanted Gaston to survive.
He could not have attacked the other knight, though.
Unless Wulfe knew that Gaston intended to steal the relic.
Why had he not confided in her?
The maid returned with bucket of water, panting slightly with the effort of hauling it up the stairs. She spared Christina a look that spoke volumes, then hastened into the chamber.
“Now, let us see him dry and warm. I think that will aid him as much as any other cure. Feel the strength of his pulse,” Ysmaine said.
“What shall I do, my lady?” demanded the maid.
“Squeeze the water from his tabard and hang it to dry,” her mistress instructed. “Then I would ask you to attempt to draw the blood out of his aketon.” Her voice hardened and Christina guessed that one of the men looked likely to protest. “Radegunde is very skilled with textiles, and I would ensure that all meets Gaston’s approval. Could you ensure that his mail and weapons are undamaged by this drenching?”
“Indeed, my lady,” Bartholomew said.
“I will wash the wounds,” Gaston’s wife continued, her manner brisk. “Is there a brazier to be had in this establishment? A warm beverage would serve him well. Perhaps a cup of mulled wine.”
“I will see to that,” Christina offered.
The noblewoman spun to face her and held her gaze for a moment. Christina feared the other woman had discerned that she knew of the relic, then Ysmaine nodded in gratitude. Well aware that Wulfe watched her, Christina turned her back and descended the stairs to fetch the wine.
She had to unravel this mystery.
Indeed, she had a growing sense that Wulfe would pay the price if she did not.
* * *
Wulfe had failed.
And Gaston had nigh paid the price of his folly.
He had cursed himself all the way back to the house for not telling Gaston that the villain might realize he led the party, not Wulfe. He had doubted Christina’s notion and dismissed his own intuition, and in so doing, had nearly lost Gaston.
He had betrayed his fellow knight.
He had betrayed the order and his vows.
He had been a fool.
If he meant to remain a Templar, Wulfe had to repent of his transgressions and ensure the success of this quest.
His awareness of Christina had not been a welcome feeling. The moment she had arrived on the stairs, he had sensed her presence keenly. It was troubling that she did not need to speak to him or touch him for him to know she stood there.
Wulfe did not acknowledge her, but his thoughts churned. Christina had been right about the villain changing his target to Gaston, which meant she was right about the fiend being in their party. He slept in a house with one intent upon killing whoever held the treasure, and worse, they would soon leave Venice behind. They would be more at risk on the open road.
He could not suspect Christina, though. He had told her naught of their plan for this night. Wulfe was surprised by the depth of his relief that she could not be in league with the true villain. He had hoped as much, but now he knew for certain.
Though not awakening her before his departure had been borne of another choice, the result was welcome. He was glad to know Christina was trustworthy, even if he was resolved to have no further intimacy with her.
What of the treasure? Wulfe fought to keep from looking at Fergus, but he would have to confer with that man about the prize. What was it? He had already guessed that it was within the saddlebag guarded by Laurent, but now, Wulfe had to see it. They were sworn to secrecy and to carrying the parcel in trust, but when one’s life was at risk, the rules changed.
Gaston could have died for this quest on this night. Wulfe did not mind dying in pursuit of a noble goal, but he would know what it was. To die in ignorance was not an ambition of merit in his view.
Ysmaine, shook her head as she washed Gaston’s shoulder. “I do not blame her for being distressed,” she said, clearly referring to Christina. She spared him a hard look. “Given where you have been.”
Wulfe was startled to be chided by this woman after he had helped to save her husband’s life. “Do you address me?” he asked.
“Indeed. What other man’s actions would concern Christina, at least of the company in this chamber?”
Wulfe straightened. “My affairs are not your concern.”
“My husband’s situation is. Will you grant me an explanation for this?”
“I need not do so.”
“Then I will make a guess.” Ysmaine considered her husband and spoke quickly. “She is dismayed because you had need of a second whore,” she declared, and Wulfe had a difficult time hiding his astonishment at that ridiculous charge. “Yet you could not indulge in such vice without leaving my husband to sleep as he desired. You had to draw him into your scheme and doubtless lured him to some part of the city of ill repute where you were assaulted. Were you both robbed? Or only my lord husband?” The lady fairly curled her lip in her disdain. “Praise be tha
t you did not leave him to rot in the streets. Praise be that his squire saw fit to follow you both, that he might defend my lord husband in such peril as you invited with your sinful urges.”
Wulfe was outraged by this assault upon his character, but before he responded with force in his own defense, he realized the usefulness of the lady’s explanation. He could not tell her truly what they had been doing, and he had no inkling of what Gaston had confided in his wife. This tale would serve as well as any other.
Indeed, it might put the distance between himself and Christina that he knew was required. He hung his head, as if guilty, and sighed.
To his relief, Bartholomew held his tongue and did not reveal the lie.
The lady Ysmaine bristled with righteous indignation.
“Leave this chamber, sir,” she commanded him. “I have no more to say to you, although your courtesan may no longer believe you to be her champion.” She bent over Gaston, then spared Wulfe a look of loathing. “But then, perhaps that was the root of your scheme this night.”
“My lady,” Wulfe began before he could halt himself.
The lady protested quickly, silencing him before he could say too much. “Leave us, sir. I will bar my door against men of such base desires as yours.”
Christina returned in that moment, directing Stephen to place the brazier he carried in the corner of the chamber. She must have summoned the boy to help. Stephen lit the coal within it, fighting to hide his reaction to the sight of Gaston. He was a valiant boy, but did not fare well in the face of injury. Wulfe supposed it reminded him of his parents’ loss. Christina gave the wine to Radegunde, then departed. Wulfe deliberately ignored her.
He did not want Ysmaine to repeat her accusations when Christina might hear them.
Gaston was so pale and still that Wulfe could not leave the chamber without some reassurance. His guilt redoubled as he surveyed the other knight. They did not always agree, but he did not wish Gaston ill.
Surely, his lady wife could better assess his state. Even though their marriage was a recent one, they had been intimate. She would be a better judge.
“He is not so badly injured, is he?” Wulfe watched Ysmaine closely, for he suspected the truth as more likely to be revealed in her expression than her words. To his relief, she appeared to be concerned but not fearful as she surveyed her spouse.
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