The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  Wulfe did not smile either. He considered her then accepted the cup, the warmth of his fingers brushing hers in the transaction. His gaze clung to hers as he drained the cup, then he handed it back to her.

  He strode to the door, pausing on the threshold. “Sleep well, Christina,” he said, without looking back.

  “And you as well.”

  Wulfe was out the door then, halting in the corridor with the key in his hand. He cast it to her and Christina caught it, smiling at him for understanding her so well. Then the door closed and she was alone, cold despite the heat emanating from the brazier. She went to the window and watched Wulfe cross the courtyard to the stables, marveling that for the first time in years, she wanted a man’s hands upon her.

  Not just any man.

  Wulfe.

  But his favor had to be earned. Christina dared to believe that it could be done—and that if she succeeded, Fortune might smile upon them both.

  Had either of her sisters claimed their family legacy as yet? Christina had not been able to bear to think of home, or the legacy that had been the cause of their pilgrimage, all these years, but in this moment she did. Gunther had not just desired a son for his own price, after all. Had her sisters born sons?

  It had been nine years. Miriam had been betrothed just before Gunther had insisted upon the pilgrimage. Surely her husband’s seed had taken root in all this time?

  And if not, Anna might well be wedded and mother to a son.

  Aye, Christina had to think that one of them had claimed the legacy. And there was little chance of her ever doing so, given her years of being barren. Nay, the best she could hope was that whichever of her sisters reigned at their family holding offered her a haven.

  A home and a haven were both more than she had known these many years, after all.

  She watched Wulfe disappear into the stables and realized the fullness of that blessing.

  Indeed, there were many who were not so fortunate as she.

  * * *

  Wulfe did not miss the irony. In Jerusalem, he had angrily accused Gaston of slowing the progress of their party by that man’s apparent insistence upon collecting his whores, insisting that women would not be able to ride as long or as hard each day. Lady Ysmaine had challenged his assumptions, not just by her position as Gaston’s wife, but by her determination to ride as long as necessary each day.

  And now, he would add his whore to the party.

  Even though Christina was no longer a whore nor his. She was a pilgrim, destined for the pass and no farther. Already he was dreading the day they would part.

  But there were practical matters to resolve. She had need of a horse to ride with the party, and he had not a penny to his name. He had been relieved of his best dagger, so he could not sell that—though in truth, even it would not have gained sufficient coin to buy a palfrey unless he deceived the buyer.

  What else did he have to sell of value?

  Wulfe knew that although Costanzia’s men had taken all of the Templar’s coin that he had carried, Christina’s escape from that house would only be complete if she left the city forever. One could not expect such villains to be above deceit. He understood her conviction that there could be no honest labor for her here, given the reaction of the women in the kitchens, and trusted her assessment that she would only be drawn back to the life she yearned to leave.

  He had to find a way for her to ride out with them.

  Which meant he needed to find another horse.

  Wulfe went to the stables intent upon reviewing the meager contents of his saddlebags. The boys were asleep and though Stephen stirred, Wulfe gestured him back to sleep. It was peaceful in the stables, with little sound other than the soft snores of sleep and horses swishing their tails.

  Wulfe crouched down in the makeshift stall where Teufel was saddled and the horse nuzzled him with affection. The destrier was in need of exercise, and Wulfe wished again that they would depart. With Gaston injured, though, it could not be soon.

  Only when he was alone could Wulfe acknowledge the fullness of his sense of responsibility, and the magnitude of his failure. If Gaston died, he could not imagine that there would be no repercussion for him.

  The greater concern, however, was Gaston’s welfare. As much as Wulfe had resented being commanded to be subordinate to the other knight, he had come to admire him. They still might not always agree, but Wulfe could see why Gaston was so trusted and respected. That man’s steady manner and quiet persistence would oft yield good results.

  And Gaston had friends. His wife already admired him, and his nature kept the company together. Wulfe could not have rallied their consensus so readily as Gaston had. He had not gift with diplomacy, save that variety delivered at the point of a sword.

  Wulfe sat in the straw, enduring Teufel’s assault upon his collar and hair, and opened his bags. He was not optimistic and suspected he might fail again. The truth was that he owned precious little, as was reasonable given his vows. His armor was key to his occupation. His sword could not be surrendered. His harness was not lavish, and he had neither lavish caparisons for his destrier nor a cloak of fine wool that he might live without. His boots had been repaired too many times to fetch a good price, and his belt was merely serviceable.

  Teufel gave him a little nip, discontent to be ignored, and Wulfe stood up to rub the beast’s ears. He had shared more experience with this horse than with any soul since his days with the old man. He certainly had never trusted another so much. Perhaps it was because they had much in common. Not only was the black destrier proud and powerful, confident in his abilities, but he remained apart from other steeds, even at pasture. Perhaps it was because they defended each other and survived battles together. Wulfe fetched the brush and groomed the steed, finding that the exercise soothed him as well as Teufel.

  He had brushed one flank when the truth struck him like a bolt of lightning. His most valuable possession was the destrier. He could sell Teufel and buy two horses, perhaps even a palfrey and a destrier less fine. The notion was galling, for he had thought he would ride Teufel always.

  The alternative of leaving Christina behind, nigh ensuring her return to that brothel, was even more wrenching.

  He sought another solution, even as he guessed this was what must be done. Two adults could not share a mount, not at speed and for a long distance. Independent of how it would fatigue the horse, it would compromise his own need to appear to be holding to his vows. Christina could not walk, and she could not be left behind.

  It was true that he had been betrayed twice by women. Christina was different from either of those women, though.

  Christina had need of the protection only he could give. Had she not labored here for years, without any intercession from a kindly stranger? Her fate was little different from that of the lady Ysmaine, save there had been no honorable man to offer his hand in marriage.

  He could ensure she left this city. It was not as much as Wulfe would have liked to have granted to her, but it was all he had to offer.

  Even if it would demand nigh all he had to give.

  It was time for him to show compassion as well as mete justice.

  Wulfe stepped back and looked the steed in the eye. He could ensure the buyer was a kind one, perhaps. He owed Teufel that much, and more. He imagined that the destrier held his regard out of understanding.

  Perhaps even agreement.

  Wulfe began to groom the horse with greater vigor, telling himself that he needed to ensure Teufel looked his best. The truth was that he wanted to spend every possible moment with the destrier before their ways parted.

  He had to do this quickly, at first light, for even if he had to defend his choice to Stephen and Simon, his will might be compromised.

  And Christina would be lost.

  * * *

  The Templar’s defenses were crumbling.

  Fergus had seen it before, and he recognized the signs. He had fought with many a knight in this order who had na
ught but the order, naught but his might and his blade and his valor. He had recognized Wulfe as one of that company immediately. They were merciless in battle, these warriors, and their will might have been wrought of iron. It was good to have several of them in any sortie, for they invariably ignored their injuries and ensured the majority—if not all—of the company returned. When not in battle, they kept to themselves, never compromising their motives with emotion, and their choices were utterly predictable.

  Honorable, no matter what the price.

  Fergus thought of them as fortresses, men who had built doughty towers to shelter their hearts, then added to such formidable defenses over their years of solitude. Their brusque manners might have been high curtain walls, and their apparent disinterest in their fellow men could have been wide, deep moats that kept all from their portals. It seemed they cared only for themselves.

  The truth was that such men could not have fought with such resolve if they had not been driven by a deeper motive. Each and every one of them in the acquaintance of Fergus had been committed to the ideal of justice for his fellow men.

  Wulfe was the same. He argued with Gaston because he felt responsibility to his fellows and was driven to ensure that the quest succeeded. He might be perceived as cold by others, but the devotion of his two squires—not to mention the affection of his destrier—revealed that his stern demeanor was part of that protective facade. Fergus did not doubt that squires and steed survived due to some intervention by the knight.

  Perhaps multiple interventions, none of which the Templar would discuss.

  And now, Fergus watched Wulfe make a choice of some kind, that knight believing himself unobserved, and Fergus knew the Templar’s curtain wall had been breached. It was because of the woman, the whore Wulfe had brought back to the house against all expectation, and the one who continued to remain. Christina had cracked the mortar somehow, and Wulfe’s defensive walls had begun to crumble.

  Fergus had known the truth when he had unlocked the portal the night before and seen Wulfe’s stricken expression as he and Bartholomew carried Gaston. Bartholomew’s reaction had been consistent with expectation, but for Wulfe to be so visibly shaken, this man who hid his emotions so well, could only mean one thing.

  The fact was that they could not support the loss of two knights. Gaston had been injured and might not be able to lead the party, even in secret. Where was the missive that Brother Terricus had entrusted to Gaston? What had it said? Fergus could repeat what Terricus had told him to the Paris master, but that might be only part of the tale.

  Worse, if Wulfe faltered, the treasure might be lost and the quest could fail. He had seen these men compromised before. Their defenses were formidable, but once the chink of weakness was found, their walls were undermined and the gates inevitably fell.

  Against all expectation, he had to offer assistance to Wulfe, and do so in a way that did not offer insult. He saw that Duncan was awake beside him, that man’s eyes glinting as he, too, watched Wulfe’s thorough grooming of the destrier. They exchanged a look, needing no words to communicate their concern, and Fergus gave a quick nod.

  Duncan rose, stretched, and sauntered toward the other knight, amiable and unthreatening.

  Fergus listened, the better to discern what he might do to help. The curtain wall might be compromised, but he would see Wulfe hold the tower against all assault.

  * * *

  The prospect of surrendering the horse shook Wulfe.

  It was startling to feel so much emotion over the decision to part with a steed. Indeed, he might have sat down and wept, which was most unlike him and would achieve naught at all. He knew the task had to be done, but he refused to dwell upon it. Instead of considering his regrets, he recalled the times he had shared with this destrier, the battles they had fought together, the patrols they had ridden and the company they had kept.

  “Do you mean to leave the creature with any hide at all?” demanded a friendly voice from behind him, startling Wulfe from his thoughts.

  He turned to find the mercenary Duncan behind him. The older man was grinning, but there was a gleam in his eye.

  He was perceptive this one, and Wulfe suspected he was often underestimated. That might have been a warning to hide his thoughts.

  “There is naught amiss with a good grooming,” Wulfe said, turning back to his labor. He bent to buff Teufel’s hooves. They were black and looked most remarkable when polished to a shine. He hoped the Scotsman would leave him alone, but his wish was not to be fulfilled.

  Indeed, Duncan seemed to settle in to chat. “It seems to me that either you have missed riding this steed, or you mean to sell him.”

  Wulfe glanced back at the other man, alarmed that his choice might be so readily discerned. To his regret, he realized Duncan had been watching for just such a reaction. What had happened to his impassivity? He strove to keep his tone mild. “Why would you say as much?”

  Duncan shrugged. “I merely make a guess. Which is it?”

  “I do not need to confide in you.”

  “Nay, you do not, but I am curious to be sure. Most knights I have known would part with their lives before their destriers, swords, or hauberks.” Duncan grimaced as he considered his own words. “In that order, as well.”

  “Perhaps I am not like other knights you have known.”

  Duncan chuckled. “That is the truth and then some. I might also think you a vexed man, had I not had ears last eve.”

  Wulfe halted his brushing. “When we returned with Gaston?”

  Duncan chuckled. “Before that, lad, when the lady expressed her delight with your skills.”

  It was a reminder Wulfe did not need. He took a breath and turned to confront Duncan. “What is it that you desire of me this morn?” he asked, not troubling to hide his impatience at being so interrupted.

  “To understand you better,” Duncan replied easily. “You are not an easy one, lad, that is certain.” He moved into the booth, running a hand over the horse with admiration. “A Templar sworn to chastity who knows how to please a woman better than any man I have ever known.” He winked. “At least from the sound of it.”

  Wulfe bristled.

  Duncan continued, undeterred. “An aloof man who understands human nature so well as to pluck the pearl from the dung heap.” Wulfe might have argued but the older man raised a finger. “She is a pearl, who has been cast before swine, and you noticed it, whether you realize as much or not.”

  Wulfe clamped his lips together, feeling exposed that this man had observed so much about him.

  Duncan rubbed Teufel’s ears. “A cold warrior whose squires, orphans both, serve him with a loyalty rarely seen, and one that hints at the truth of his nature.” The older man plucked the brush from Wulfe’s fingers, then shook it at him. “A man who hides his thoughts with ease but whose actions show him to be deserving of more respect than he has gained.”

  Wulfe reclaimed the brush with impatience. “I have no need of respect. There is a task to be done and I will see it completed.”

  Duncan’s words were gentle. “What do you mean to do with the horse, lad?”

  “I am no lad…”

  “Nay, you are a man of principle.” Duncan folded his arms across his chest and confronted Wulfe, barring him from leaving the stall when he might have walked away from the conversation. “You plan to sell your horse. I see it in your every gesture, as well as how the decision troubles you.”

  Wulfe heaved a sigh of defeat. “And so you have solved the mystery. Why ask me about it? Are you not content to leave me be now?”

  “Nay, I am not. Tell me why.”

  Wulfe surveyed the stables, but knew the older man would not abandon his query. “The company has need of another steed and I have no coin with which to buy one.”

  “Christina comes with us then.”

  “She is a pilgrim, joining our party to return home.”

  Duncan grinned, a mischievous expression that put stars in his eyes. “You b
ought her freedom!”

  “I but endeavor to help a pilgrim…”

  Duncan interrupted him. “You could ask for assistance from the company, lad.”

  “I could,” Wulfe acknowledged. “But experience has shown it to be an exercise in futility to appeal to my fellows for any aid. Matters are resolved when I see them so.”

  The older man ran a hand over Teufel’s neck, smiling when the destrier tossed his head. “He is magnificent. You must know that you will be cheated of his value in this den of thieves called a city. And who can say what his future will be?”

  Wulfe’s throat tightened to have his own fear named with such accuracy. “I would endeavor to find him an owner who would take good care of him…”

  “As much as you? I doubt that man can be found.” Duncan shook his head.

  “I thank you for your concern,” Wulfe said stiffly. “But I know what must be done.”

  “Duncan?” Fergus called from beyond the stall, and Wulfe returned to his grooming as the older man stepped into his lord knight’s view. “Would you take Laurent this day and see if you can find a decent palfrey to buy?”

  Wulfe spun to look at the Scotsman as he came into view. This could not be a coincidence, though Fergus did not glance at him.

  “I know that Isobel will have my liver if I tell her of the silks for sale in the market yet do not bring her some. The saddlebags are full to bursting as it is, so it will do little harm to buy another steed.”

  “Provided I am not cheated,” Duncan countered. “And there is any decent mount to be had. They are more for ships and boats, here, that much is clear.”

  “There must be pilgrims selling horses before they sail east,” Fergus replied.

  Wulfe could not fight the sense that this conversation was for his view.

  Duncan scoffed. “I imagine there are fewer embarking, but I will look.”

  “Take Laurent with you. He has a good eye for horses and has not left this abode. It will be good for him.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “You need not do this,” Wulfe interjected and both men turned to look at him. To his relief, they did not pretend that he was wrong.