The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  “Aye,” Fergus said gently. “I must.” He arched a brow. “I have great fondness for my liver, after all.”

  Duncan chortled at that and left the stables, leaving the two knights facing each other.

  “This is no jest,” Wulfe said. “And it is not your responsibility…”

  “But it is a contribution I can make,” Fergus said. He stepped closer. “Particularly if you will not use the coin of the order to ensure the defense of a pilgrim.”

  “I would,” Wulfe admitted very quietly. “If I had not been robbed.”

  Fergus straightened. “Does he know?”

  Wulfe shook his head at the reference to Gaston. “Not yet.”

  Fergus nodded, scanning the stables as he clearly considered this. He reached beneath his jerkin and withdrew a small sack of coins. He closed his hand over it and passed it to Wulfe, their gazes holding. “He need not know,” Fergus said, mouthing the words.

  Wulfe accepted the coin, relief flooding through his heart. “Keep a tally that you are repaid.”

  Fergus grinned. “You may be certain of that.” He reached up and rubbed Teufel’s nose. “Such a fine creature you are. It will not be too soon that we ride out and you can run, my friend.”

  Wulfe gripped the coin, stunned to have experienced such kindness. His chest was tight with his relief. “Thank you,” he said when Fergus turned to leave, and his voice was hoarse.

  That man nodded, then left the stall, and Wulfe brushed Teufel more gently.

  Suddenly Duncan appeared again, ducking back around the horse. “Do you think Christina would favor a new gown?” He spread his hands. “I will be in the market this morn and a bargain might be found.”

  “I think she would welcome the opportunity to look more like the pilgrim she is,” Wulfe admitted, thinking how the hue and cut of her kirtle so clearly revealed her occupation. Once he would have kept that observation to himself, intent upon taking responsibility for its resolution himself, but he began to see the merit of trusting others in this company. It was a strange feeling, to not battle the Fates alone, but Wulfe suspected he could readily become accustomed to it.

  Was it possible that simply asking for a desire could see it fulfilled?

  “I shall see what can be contrived,” Duncan agreed, his assistance so readily won that Wulfe blinked. The older man nodded once, then ducked out of the stables with purpose, leaving Wulfe to his task.

  He leaned his brow upon Teufel, feeling lighter than he had in years.

  “Good morrow, Gaston,” Duncan said suddenly, and Wulfe spun to look into the courtyard with surprise. To his pleasure, Gaston was indeed crossing the courtyard, purpose in his step. He did not look fully hale and was yet pale, but the fact that he had risen from his pallet this morn was good news.

  That he raised a hand to Wulfe and turned toward him meant that he had come to consult upon their course, which was better news, to be sure.

  Truly, the day was filled with far more promise than it had been but moments ago.

  * * *

  Christina fell asleep again, despite her expectations, and awakened to find the sun shining brightly through the window. There was a bustle of activity in the courtyard below. She could only reason that the wine had made her sleepy.

  She said her prayers again, feeling in particular need of divine grace.

  What should she do this day to aid Wulfe? She had not learned much from the boys the day before, but perhaps she had established some trust with them. She had not mentioned Laurent’s secret to Wulfe and wondered again who knew.

  Who could she trust in this house?

  She had need of more knowledge to know for certain.

  To her surprise, she found Ysmaine at the board. That woman glanced up at her and continued her meal.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Christina said and curtseyed. “Might I ask after your lord husband’s health?”

  Ysmaine smiled, and Christina saw the signs of a sleepless night. “It seems there was little reason to fear. He rose this morn, declared himself hale, and insisted upon visiting his destrier.” Her lips tightened slightly. “They are nigh inseparable.”

  Christina refrained from comment, having noted that Gaston tended to sleep in the stables. “It must have been a shock to him to awaken in your bed,” she dared to say, her tone mischievous.

  The lady chuckled, as if she knew she should not. “I dare say he will recover from that, as well.”

  The two women shared a smile and Christina’s opinion of Gaston’s wife only improved. There was a step in the corridor then, and the older nobleman appeared in the common room.

  “Good morning, Count,” the lady said, but Christina hastily turned her back upon that man. He sniffed, as if in disapproval of her presence, and returned the greeting to Lady Ysmaine only. Christina had no desire to be recognized by him, if he was Helmut, so she took her bread and honey into the courtyard. The sun was lovely and warm, the bread fresh and the honey luscious. She savored her freedom and her recent sleep, taking her time over each bite.

  It was Wulfe who had given her so much.

  The portal to the street opened audibly, and Christina glanced toward it. It was the merchant, Joscelin, returned from his night revels and clearly he was in a merry mood. He waved to some comrade, then beamed at all the company. There was a bounce in his step as he crossed the courtyard, and a gleam lit his eye as he spied Lady Ysmaine.

  “Lady Ysmaine!” Joscelin crowed. “It is so fortunate that I should see you first…”

  Christina endeavored to be invisible. The merchant passed her with barely a glance. In the stables, men’s voices rose slightly. Were Gaston and Wulfe arguing? It was unfortunate she could not discern their words.

  She did, however, listen to the exchange in the common room, hoping to determine whether the nobleman Ysmaine addressed as a count might be the villain she recalled all too well.

  * * *

  “Did you see him?” Gaston asked once he stood in Teufel’s stall, his voice low. Not far away, Fergus brushed his steed, but the boys were at the far end of the stables and beyond earshot.

  “No more than a shadow,” Wulfe admitted in an equally quiet tone.

  “The ploy failed, then.”

  “We drew the villain out, that much is certain.”

  It seemed a small gain given the price to Gaston, and Wulfe again felt guilt that he had not warned the other man.

  The portal to the street was opened, and the merchant Joscelin returned. Wulfe watched as the portly man waved farewell to his acquaintance. Though he had clearly been absent from the house, it was unlikely that he had been Gaston’s attacker. He was too short.

  Though he might have hired someone to do it for him. Wulfe wished he had caught a glimpse of the acquaintance.

  And to be sure, Joscelin would have the connections to sell a prize such as the one Christina said they carried.

  He watched the man proceed to the common room, noting how he immediately joined Ysmaine. Were they in league together? Did the lady wish to be rid of her new spouse? Indeed, she might have hired the man who had attacked them the night before.

  “Has your wife not been widowed twice?” he asked Gaston.

  That knight took umbrage at the question. “Of what import is that?”

  If Gaston’s nature was too trusting to discern this truth, Wulfe would make it clear to him. “We were not followed to Venice. The treasure is yet secure, according to Fergus.” That man gave a minute nod, his head visible over the back of his destrier. “Perhaps there was another reason you were attacked.”

  “You cannot still suspect my lady wife.”

  He had to be told the truth. “She refused to summon an apothecary for you last night.”

  Gaston averted his gaze. Was he unsurprised? “She was merely optimistic.”

  “It was before we knew the extent of your injury.” Wulfe leaned closer. “Then she cast every soul but her maid from the chamber.” He shook his head, then Gaston’s i
mpassivity made him fear he spoke too harshly. Wulfe deliberately made a jest. “In truth, if I did not know you to be too cursed stubborn to die, I might have feared you would not survive the night.”

  Fergus snorted.

  Gaston spared a glance across the courtyard, his gaze clinging to his wife, who chatted with Joscelin. Wulfe guessed that he was more troubled by his wife’s choice than he would have liked to admit aloud. “Yet you did not intervene or protest?”

  “What protest could I have made? I but watched and listened as well I could.”

  “She knows of healing,” Gaston ventured, no real conviction in his tone. “Perhaps she perceived more than you did and more quickly.”

  Wulfe said naught.

  They stood in silence before Gaston spoke again. “I fear she may have guessed more than I would prefer of our errand.”

  There was a fear Wulfe could put to rest. “I think not,” he retorted. “Her assumption was faulty, though I saw no reason to correct it for it was useful.”

  Gaston clearly did not understand, but he had not heard his lady’s charges. “How so?”

  “She was quick to accuse me of enticing you to seek out whores.”

  The other knight was sufficiently dismayed that he failed to hide his reaction. “Ysmaine said as much?”

  “Aye, she was heartily vexed with me. I did tell her that our errand had been your idea, but she did not believe me.”

  Gaston was clearly appalled. He looked again at his lady wife.

  “I was so relieved that she concocted a plausible tale that I dared not argue with her.” Wulfe grimaced. “To my own discomfort.”

  “How so?”

  “Christina believed her.”

  “Well, you have naught to fear in that,” Gaston said, his manner brusque. “You have told me repeatedly that Christina is not your courtesan or companion. Doubtless, she will be left behind on our departure and her conclusions will be of no relevance.” He leaned closer to the other knight and dropped his voice to a whisper, his eyes flashing with resolve. “I would thank you, though, to refrain from tarnishing my repute with my lady wife. She and I are bound until death us do part.”

  Wulfe felt the need to state the obvious. Loyalty to his wife was all good, but there was peril before them and Gaston could not dismiss it so readily as that. “Given last night’s incident, death may come sooner than you had planned. I suggest this tactic: that you and I both avoid our respective women. Let the villain believe that dissent has been sown between us.”

  And in this way, the women would be protected. The villain’s eye had slid from Wulfe to Gaston, but Wulfe would not have it move to Christina. Gaston nodded welcome agreement.

  “Agreed. But let us ride out as soon as may be.” The knights exchanged a look, then Gaston’s eyes began to sparkle. “Now let us argue loudly about our departure and our route. I will insist upon granting you advice you do not desire, as has happened before.”

  And the other knight’s counsel would guide their path. Wulfe knew the routine but realized now that he had best follow Christina’s advice and disguise the fact that Gaston truly was in command.

  When Gaston chose to argue about the route, he left Wulfe no alternative but to argue against the path he would have taken himself, in order to encourage the view that they were at odds.

  Curse the man!

  Chapter Eleven

  Christina made a feast of her dish of honey and piece of bread, trying to ensure that she did not have reason to move before the count completed his meal.

  She was yet upon the steps when Wulfe and Gaston stepped out of the stables, their dispute becoming more audible. It appeared that they wished to feel the sunlight, for Wulfe tipped his face back and closed his eyes at its caress.

  Or perhaps he prayed for strength. Christina knew that Gaston vexed him as few other men could.

  Wulfe then fixed Gaston with a stern look, and his tone was so temperate that she knew it cost him mightily. “The tolls on the Saint Bernard Pass are well known to be expensive beyond belief, and there are thieves, to be sure,” he said. “That is why I suggest the alternate route to the southwest that the merchants use, through the Mont Cenis Pass…”

  Christina glanced up, intrigued. Why did he argue against the Saint Bernard Pass? It was used frequently, and that route made much sense.

  Was it possible that he did not want to be parted from her so soon? The notion made her heart skip a beat, but Wulfe might have been oblivious to her presence as he debated their route with Gaston.

  “Which will leave us much farther south than Paris,” Gaston replied. “And is a longer journey from Venice. I thought you were the one who wished to reach Paris with all haste?”

  Wulfe swore softly, and Christina dared to hope that he ignored her a little too completely to be unaware of her presence. Indeed, the back of his neck was ruddy, a flush that was clearly discernible in the sunlight.

  As if he were discomfited.

  As if he had not hidden his thoughts well.

  She set her napkin aside and smiled at him, watching the pair openly.

  Wulfe shot a glance in her direction, scowled, then frowned at the pavement. “The road may be longer but it is said to be in better repair. We shall make better time.”

  Gaston shook his head. “And what of Hamish? He had a convulsion yesterday by all accounts. We dare not move him so soon.”

  “I would not hasten overmuch, but I would reach Paris before the Yule,” Wulfe countered, then dropped his voice low. “Perhaps you do not truly wish to claim your holding.” His gaze flicked to Christina and this time she noted that his eyes were blue again. She doubted those in the common room could hear him. “I could relieve you of the burden.”

  Gaston smiled. “We are at odds,” he murmured, as if in reminder.

  Christina was intrigued.

  Wulfe nodded slightly, then his voice rose. “And still you maintain that we should delay our departure but use the Saint Bernard Pass,” he declared, shaking his head. “If we left promptly, we could take the longer route and use the better road, yet perhaps arrive sooner.”

  “Certainly the decision is yours,” Gaston said, with newfound deference. “I merely share my impressions and the tidings I have gathered, both here and in Jerusalem.”

  Did the pair work together? She hoped as much.

  Wulfe sighed mightily. “And again I must cede to your experience. Saint Bernard’s pass it shall be, and we shall depart on Monday, with the apothecary’s permission.”

  He met Christina’s gaze then, and she could not look away. How long would the journey take? A fortnight? It would depend upon the weather and how long they rode each day.

  Still, she could not deny that she already was troubled by the prospect of parting from Wulfe. Would she ever see him again? She imagined not, for their paths led in very different directions.

  The prospect was troubling.

  Christina heard the count rise to his feet in the common room, as if he meant to depart. She turned away from Wulfe, as if indifferent to his presence, to ensure she could spy upon the count. The knights returned to the stables, declaring their intent of making an inventory of the supplies for the horses. Christina stood with her face slightly averted as the count swept past her, his disdain clear, striding to the stables in his turn.

  He walked like Helmut. He was more heavily set than Helmut had been, to be sure, but years had passed and they were both older.

  The lady Ysmaine was alone at the board, the mercenary Duncan seated on the opposite side of the table.

  It was an opportunity Christina dared not miss. She carried the empty dish from the honey into the common room and took the place beside the noblewoman. Ysmaine spared her a smile and continued her meal.

  “Who is he?” Christina asked, ensuring her tone was idle. “He seems most pleased with himself.”

  “I suppose his pride is not undeserved,” the lady replied. “He is Everard de Montmorency.”

  Chri
stina could not fully hide her surprise at this. It was Helmut then, and he had been so base as to steal the name of the nobleman he had once served. What else had he stolen from Everard? What fate had befallen that gracious man?

  Helmut must have killed him as well. How else could he have stolen the man’s name? His signet ring? His garb? The realization was enough to make her ill.

  “Truly?” she asked, nigh choking on the word.

  “And the Count of Blanche Garde, besides,” Duncan added, apparently impressed by this title. “A man whose piety is well known in Outremer.”

  Christina fought the urge to laugh aloud. Piety? That was the last attribute she would credit to Helmut!

  Duncan stood and claimed a piece of bread, dipping it into the honey beside Christina. He winked at her. “I doubt he would savor your wares.”

  The implication was clear that Duncan would. She smiled politely at him, trying to strike the balance between being friendly and not encouraging his advances.

  “Do you know him?” Ysmaine asked to Christina’s surprise.

  She shook her head and lied. “I have merely heard his name. As Duncan notes, his piety is well known.” Christina smiled then, hoping to divert them both from the notion that she knew Helmut at all. It would not do for him to suspect the truth. “To even be in the same abode as such a man is most amusing,” she said lightly. “Perhaps I should try to seduce him, to see whether his deeds are as lofty as his words.”

  Duncan chuckled at that.

  But Christina’s mood was not so playful as she would have had them believe. To suspect that her husband’s killer was in the same abode as she, to fear that he had murdered not once, but twice, with no repercussions left her hands shaking. That he should feign to be a pious man was an outrage beyond compare. Her fingers fell to the girdle that was a mark of the change in her own fortunes after Gunther’s untimely death and she could bear to wear it no longer.

  Christina removed it and pooled it upon the table, her revulsion so vehement that she struggled to hide her feelings. She had to do as much, though, for the lady was watching her. She had also to keep her hands busy, to vent her fury on some item.