The Crusader's Heart

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The Crusader's Heart Page 24

by Claire Delacroix


  “Indeed. He loved children. We went on pilgrimage because we had none. He wished to atone for our sins in the hope that our match might no longer be barren.”

  The monk nodded with understanding. “But God saw his goodness and gathered him close instead.”

  Christina found her tears rising anew. “Thank you, Brother Franco. Thank you for those words. Gunther was a very good man.” She pulled the ring from her finger, knowing what she must do. “And he was a man who understood not only that debts must be paid, but that alms should be given where they can grant the most difference. Nine years ago, your brethren declined this ring as payment. Today, I give it to you as alms. In Gunther’s name, I ask that you see children fed and housed.”

  “And masses sung for his immortal soul.” To her relief, the brother took the ring. “It is a rare prize, sister. Are you certain?”

  “I am. I know that Gunther would wish it to be so.”

  Brother Franco turned the ring, letting the gem catch the sunlight. “A sapphire?”

  Christina nodded. “Cut in the east, by what I was told. Do not be cheated. It is an old stone, for there is a blessing carved into it in Arabic. My husband’s forebear brought it home from crusade. He was among those knights who took Sidon in 1110.”

  “A family piece?”

  “But Gunther has only a widow,” Christina said softly, knowing her husband’s older brother had claimed every other token in the family treasury. This piece had been Gunther’s sole legacy and she would grant it as he would have wished. She closed the monk’s fingers over the gem. “And she gives this willingly.”

  “Bless you, sister,” he said. “I will ensure that your gift casts a long shadow. Gunther and his forebears, and his widow, will be remembered well in this place.” He blessed her and Christina felt a tremendous relief flood through her.

  She squared her shoulders and strode toward Wulfe, who had been watching her. Her past was laid to rest, because this man turned her footsteps toward her future.

  * * *

  Christina wept.

  Wulfe had hoped that he had been right about her husband’s resting place, and he had anticipated that she might be emotional if he was proven to be so. He had not expected that she would return to him with her face wet from her tears.

  Nor had he prepared for his own reaction to the sight.

  He wanted to console her. He wanted her never to weep again. But she mourned her husband, dead these nine years and still holding fast to her heart. He could not summon a word of consolation to his lips, but took his parting of the monks and escorted her back to the house.

  They were halfway there when he thought about the ring. He glanced downward, verifying that she had surrendered it to Brother Franco, but did not dare to ask.

  Christina noted his look, though. “I gave it as alms,” she said. “They will know where to sell it to see the best price, and they will make the coin last. Gunther would have wished for this.”

  “I thought they declined to accept it before.”

  “They did. Perhaps they thought it might be taking advantage of my grief. I surely was not thinking with clarity on that day.”

  “And now you are?”

  “Aye,” she acknowledged with welcome conviction. “It is not rational, and I know it well, but all these years, I knew I had to defend that ring. I knew I could not sell it. I knew it had a purpose and a place, though I could not discern it. I thought it was because I had vowed to him to keep it always, but on this day, I saw the truth.” Christina tugged Wulfe to a halt. “It belongs there, where children will be fed and defended because of it.” She bit her lip and he saw her tears fall anew. “He loved children,” she whispered, her words hoarse. “Yet I gave him none. Now he is surrounded by them.” She nodded and her tears fell like gems. “It is right.”

  Wulfe’s throat was tight. He dared to touch her elbow, no more, and guide her down the busy streets. “You should not blame yourself for this. You loved him, and that is no small thing.”

  “How would you know as much?” she asked, not in challenge but in curiosity.

  “You weep, though it has been many years since his passing.”

  Christina smiled sadly. “I weep, Wulfe, because I did not love him enough. I was young and he was much older. He was a good man, but I saw only the age between us. I resented being compelled to wed a man so many years my senior, and in truth, I did not regret at the time that my womb was barren. I was dutiful and I honored him, but he ought to have had more.” She swallowed. “I weep because I did not love Gunther as he deserved.”

  At that, Wulfe took her hand in his and gave her fingers a squeeze. He did not believe her words, for it was clear that she held her husband yet in high esteem. He would not argue the matter with her, though. “You honored him then and you honor him now. Perhaps no man deserves more.”

  She smiled at him through her tears, then heaved a ragged sigh. “Pledge that you will come to me this night, Wulfe.”

  He made to protest but she placed her fingertips over his lips to silence him.

  “This is all I will ask of you. You gave me a great gift this day and I would show my gratitude.”

  How Wulfe wished she might ask for more from him than physical pleasure and solace, even though he knew he could not offer her more.

  “There is no need,” he managed to say but Christina shook her head.

  “There is every need. I understand your resolve and I would not have tempted you, not if you had not done this goodness for me.” Her eyes were bright in her appeal and she looked so vulnerable that Wulfe knew he would not be able to deny her any request. “One last night, Wulfe. I beg of you.”

  He bent and kissed her fingers, wanting to step away but knowing he could not. “One last night,” he agreed and heard her catch her breath with relief.

  “I will ensure you do not regret it,” she whispered, but Wulfe was not certain that was within the lady’s power.

  He was weak but he was greedy. He would take what the lady offered, knowing it would be the final tryst between them.

  * * *

  The rain began when they sat at the evening meal and ate fish stew yet again. Christina was not the only one whose appetite was less than it might have been, nor was she the only one to be quiet. The sound of the rain in the courtyard seemed to echo the tranquility that had filled her.

  All came aright.

  All came aright because of Wulfe.

  There was naught more right than following him to his chamber after the meal, naught more right than undressing him in silence. They said naught, for there was naught to say.

  This was the last time.

  This embrace would have to suffice.

  They loved with quiet ferocity, granting each other a pleasure that left them both trembling. Their mating was potent and powerful, enough to spoil her for the touch of any other. She felt a communion with him, as if their thoughts and feelings were as one, and it was enough to make her yearn to seize this moment and keep it forever.

  Though that was not to be.

  Christina clung to Wulfe in the aftermath, savoring the heat of his embrace and the beat of his heart beneath her cheek. She listened to the rain, at peace as seldom she had been. She felt replete, as if their souls had been joined, and the feel of his fingers in her hair made her close her eyes against her tears.

  What would she give to spend every night this way?

  Christina never meant to utter the words aloud, despite the way they filled her thoughts. But in this moment, when all seemed so right, she thought it would be a travesty to keep the confession to herself. “I love you, Wulfe.”

  For a heartbeat, she felt the sudden tension in him. Christina had time to hope that he might reply in kind, but when he did not, she hoped he might not have heard her confession. When he eased her aside and left the pallet, she knew he had. When he dressed in haste and left the chamber, she knew her feelings were not returned.

  The realization was devastating.<
br />
  Once Wulfe’s footsteps faded from the stairs, there was only the sound of the rain falling on the stones in the courtyard far below. Christina closed her eyes and wept silent tears. She knew a thousand tales of lovers destined to never be together and such stories had always rent her heart.

  That was naught, it turned out, in comparison to living such heartbreak herself.

  Monday, July 27, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Pantaleon and of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus

  Chapter Thirteen

  I love you, Wulfe.

  Four words Wulfe had never expected to hear from any soul and, marvel of marvels, they had been uttered by Christina. He had been astonished, pleased, then skeptical.

  He did not believe for a moment that Christina tried to deceive him. Nay, in the moment that she had uttered the words, she had believed them. The difficulty was that he did not believe it possible for her to have surrendered her heart again.

  Not so soon after she had wept those tears for Gunther.

  She felt indebted to him, perhaps, or grateful that he had found Gunther’s grave, but love? Wulfe could put no credence in the claim—as much as he might have liked to do so. He reminded himself that he could not offer her a future of any merit. He dared not make a similar confession to her, for his pledge would be true.

  Still, Wulfe recognized the lady’s power over him. If she entreated him to love her, he would lose hold of his principles. He would err, and they would both pay the price of that.

  Wulfe avoided Christina deliberately after that, for it was the only sensible choice. No one need know how he savored her sweet confession, over and over again, nor how he wished his life might have been different.

  By the time they rode out on Monday morn, he felt drawn as taut as a bow string. It was raining just as heavily as it had rained the day before, but they could not delay in the hope of better weather. They rode through the twisted streets of the city at a snail’s pace, slowed by the number of people.

  Wulfe wanted to put his spurs to Teufel and bolt into the countryside. Indeed, he felt a strange desperation to put Venice quickly behind them, and knew it was not solely because he feared for Christina’s safe passage through the city gates. He also dreaded the solitude of the road ahead, the quiet corners, and the villain hidden in their ranks. Was it Everard? He could not say for certain. The sense that he must wait on the villain’s move only made him more impatient, more restless and more agitated.

  And that was before he spied the dark-haired whore.

  They were riding through a small plaza, nigh at the gates, when he heard a woman’s laughter. Wulfe immediately recognized the beauty who had been presented to him first at Costanzia’s house. She was ripely curved and beautiful, her lips red and her hair gleaming black. She laughed at the words of some merchant and threw back the hood of her cloak, parading across the plaza like a queen. She was oblivious to the rain and by her manner, it might not have fallen upon her. She looked richer and more vital than those who gazed upon her, and she knew her power well.

  Indeed, she savored it.

  He spotted two of the protectors who had relieved him of the order’s coin, loitering not far behind the woman. They spoke to each other, the gaze of one lazily following the ebony-haired whore. She surveyed the crowd with a smile, seeking opportunity. Wary, Wulfe touched his heels to Teufel’s sides. His party rode across this end of the plaza, destined for the wider road that led to the city gates on the west, and all increased their pace at his behest. Still, the whore made a slow path in their direction, one that might well intersect their course.

  What if she saw Christina?

  Would she call out to the men?

  Wulfe ducked his head and rode on, turning his face the other way to encourage his fellows. Christina was near the back of the party, riding one of his palfreys, and had pulled up the hood of her cloak. Stephen rode the palfrey newly acquired by Fergus, at that knight’s invitation. Christina’s face was yet visible, but there was no way he might warn her without directing the attention of the whore to her.

  He swallowed, gauging the distance to the point where the wide road left the square. He glanced back at the whore only to find her looking at him. She stared, the way her lips parted in surprise revealing that she recognized him.

  Her gaze roved over his party and Wulfe’s heart clenched when he realized she had spied Christina.

  She glanced back at the men and he scarce dared to breathe.

  Then she treated Wulfe to a winning smile. What did she mean to do? Would she reveal them? Would Christina and all the coin be lost? He had a moment to fear the worst, then the whore raised one hand to her lips.

  She blew him a kiss, her eyes shining.

  He saluted her, and they shared a smile, then she spun to continue her stroll in the opposite direction. Costanzia’s men followed her, oblivious to what she had seen, and Wulfe was relieved beyond belief that she deliberately led them away.

  It seemed that he was not the sole one who wanted a different future for Christina, and that was good news indeed.

  * * *

  It was a wretched ride, though Christina wondered whether any other member of their party was so very glad to be leaving Venice. She did not care about the weather or how much discomfort she had to bear. The sooner this city’s gates were behind them, the better.

  Wulfe seemed to share her sense of urgency, for he urged Teufel to a gallop as soon as they had passed through the city gates. The mud flew from the hooves of the horses and they were all drenched to the bone, but Wulfe did not slow their pace. Christina would have ridden through the night to be farther from Venice, but she knew the horses deserved more kindness than that.

  Still she was disappointed when Gaston insisted that they halt that evening. It was dark and they were all cold, but still it seemed to Christina that Venice was too close. Wulfe protested, but Gaston made no better show of heeding the Templar’s command than he had previously. The place they halted appeared to be a tavern, for there was much raucous shouting from the well-lit building, and Christina did not care for the sound of drunken revels.

  She would not sleep this night, to be sure. She bit her tongue and resolved the make the best of the matter.

  They were granted use of a barn for their accommodations, and one that was more dirty than any Christina had seen in many years. There were no animals resident in it, so the manure was well-rotted and ripe indeed. Judging by Wulfe’s displeasure, the price of the pit had been overly high.

  Joscelin and Everard took one look at the barn and declared their mutual desire for a cup of ale and a game of dice. They left their steeds to be tended by the knights’ squires and departed for the tavern, arm in arm.

  Christina exchanged a dismayed glance with the lady Ysmaine, then she and the maid set to work. The lady would have assisted, but she seemed both quiet and cold and the maid was quick to pluck the broom from her mistress’ hands. Christina let the maid fuss over Ysmaine as she helped to put matters to rights. Cloaks were hung over beams and the floor swept out. The boys tended to the horses and the knights carried the dung outside. Christina could not imagine that they could sleep in such a place, and it seemed of small advantage to have a roof overhead.

  Once the floor was cleared, several of the boys went to the tavern with Fergus and Gaston to fetch their meal. Duncan bade Hamish and Simon aid him with some loose boards found in the back of the barn, and they created benches at the clean end of the hall. Wulfe hung a pair of lanterns there. Laurent huddled shivering, still wrapped around the saddlebag.

  “Would that we had a fire,” Duncan murmured, with a glance at Ysmaine. “The ladies would welcome the warmth.”

  Wulfe shook his head. “Even if we found dry tinder, this entire barn might burn. Better to have the lanterns only, for we may quickly fall asleep.”

  Though his decision was wise, Christina was chilled to her marrow. Ysmaine had a change of clothes and so did her maid, but Christina could only wring o
ut her hem. Laurent, she noted, huddled shivering, still wrapped around his saddlebag, and Stephen sat alongside him. The pair seemed to have become friends. By the time the stew was brought from the tavern, Christina could not have been the only one damp with perspiration from their efforts.

  She supposed she had survived worse.

  “We shall all have chills in the morning,” Ysmaine’s maid predicted, her voice low and her tone dark. Christina could not dispute that. The scent of the stew was not particularly appetizing, but she supposed it would be better than naught at all. Bartholomew returned then, his expression disgruntled, and complained about the price they had been charged for fodder for the horses.

  Christina sought the latrines then and found them by scent alone.

  Indeed, naught in her life had prepared her for such filth. She could not endure it. She spared a glance to the tavern, then continued into the forest, where the pine trees gave the air a better scent. Surely one person could relieve herself in this forest without defiling it overmuch? She found a thicket that would hide all sight of her from both tavern and barn and crouched as she lifted her skirts.

  She had only just sighed with relief when she heard voices. Christina could not have said why she did not reveal her presence—perhaps it was those instincts upon which she relied—but she crouched lower and fairly held her breath.

  It was a man from the tavern who strode to the latrines with a young boy. They spoke quietly together and she could not be certain of their identities. Was the boy’s hair fair? It was difficult to be certain from a distance and in the rain. How tall and broad was the man? They were both wrapped in dark cloaks, and that made Christina think of the villain at the brothel.

  She bent lower so as not to be detected and waited. Surely they would not be long. She heard Fergus shout from within the barn, urging his squires to come and eat. Wulfe called to Stephen and Simon, the sound of his voice making Christina’s heart thump. She did not even dare to hope that he might offer to keep her warm this night, for he had scarce acknowledged her presence all the day long.

 

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