The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  Over his unfounded suspicions.

  She was outraged by this lack of gallantry.

  Ysmaine, apparently, was shaken by it. She seemed even more ill than she had previously and spoke only to her maid. The maid cast furious glances in the direction of Gaston when she believed herself to not be noted, and Christina could not blame her.

  It was clear the man did not know the risk his lady wife took for his benefit. Aye, it was apparent that Ysmaine knew something of herbs, and evidently, given what Bartholomew said, she had both carried a measure of aconite from Jerusalem and had identified the poison that had killed Kerr as that same herb. Still, Christine knew that Ysmaine could not have killed the boy so viciously, and surely her husband understood his lady wife’s nature as well as Christina did.

  Or were all men cursed to be blind when it came to women? She found herself irked anew that Wulfe had never responded to her own sweet confession, though it had been made unwillingly. It was clear to Christina that he wished for there to be no bond between them.

  Perhaps he thought of her as just another whore.

  That the lady Ysmaine had taken the treasure into her own custody at some risk only annoyed Christina more. She believed, given Ysmaine’s character, that the noblewoman tried to protect the prize her husband was charged to defend. But he spurned her, and as far as Christina could discern, had never even asked her about his suspicions.

  Of course, they had spent long days in the saddle after Kerr was buried, as if Wulfe would hasten to the pass and be rid of her with all haste. In truth, Christina suspected he simply wished to reach Paris, so he could return to Outremer. She was sore and tired each night when they halted, but that ensured that she slept dreamlessly. Each day brought them closer to the Saint Bernard pass, which was mere days from her home.

  As that abode became closer, Christina found herself thinking of her sisters and her mother and hoping all were well. She recalled days in the herb garden and the orchard, helping with the labor to be done there or simply playing with her sisters. She could nigh see the carved pillars of the church in the village and hear again the resonant voice of the priest as he blessed them all. Was he still there? What of the cook and the alewife, the seneschal and the armorer? Christina could see every corner of her father’s demesne in her memory, though she doubted it was exactly as it had been nine years before.

  She had not dared to think of it while in Costanzia’s house, for she feared never to see her home again. There was no point in tormenting herself with the memory. Each day, though, brought her closer.

  What would she tell her family of these years? As little as possible to be sure, for her mother would be shocked by what Christina had been compelled to do to survive. Indeed, her mother would wish to see her wed again, a prospect that did not fill Christina with anticipation. She would be glad to be a widow, to have a roof over her head, and a daily meal in her belly.

  Would they suggest she retire to a convent?

  It would depend upon the gender of her sisters’ children, to be sure. Christina again considered the possibility that she might not have been the sole one to be barren. She was the eldest, after all. Although Miriam’s wedding had prompted Gunther to embark on crusade, her youngest sister, Anna, might not be wedded as yet.

  What if neither Miriam nor Anna had a son?

  * * *

  It was late when the party reached the inn at the summit of the Saint Bernard pass, and the air was crisp. The stars were already emerging and the light from the inn was most welcome. Wulfe was keenly aware of the silence between himself and Christina, but though he yearned to speak with her again, he dared not do so.

  He was sickened by the prospect of her leaving their party on the morrow. He had already resolved to give her the palfrey she had been riding, for it would ensure that she arrived home more quickly. That could only increase her safety.

  He would have preferred to escort her to her family home himself, the better to see that she arrived, but the treasure and missive had to be delivered to Paris first.

  Would she grant him a farewell kiss?

  Would he have some token to remember her by? He had no right to ask for one, but he wished for a lock of her hair.

  Wulfe had no doubt that if he asked, she would grant him one, but he did not wish to give her expectations he could not fulfill.

  So it was that he was covertly watching Christina when the party dismounted. He had dismounted and was holding Teufel while the boys slid tiredly from their saddles. “Take Christina’s palfrey first,” he bade Stephen, knowing that she must be tired. She smiled at the boy when he reached for the palfrey’s reins, then flicked a glance at Wulfe that made his heart clench.

  All too soon, she averted her gaze.

  Meanwhile, Ysmaine walked toward the portal, her exhaustion clear.

  “I shall see to your steed, my lady,” Bartholomew said and the lady turned to thank him, as gracious as ever she was. Wulfe saw her cloak flare but thought naught of it, until he saw Bartholomew’s surprise. Behind the squire, Gaston’s features set to stone.

  Ysmaine spun and closed her cloak with one hand, apparently alarmed as she hastened anew for the portal. Gaston strode behind her and caught her elbow in his grip, his expression more forbidding than Wulfe had ever seen it.

  It appeared that Gaston’s serenity could be disturbed.

  What was amiss?

  “My lady,” Gaston said grimly. “I would have a word, if you please.”

  Wulfe watched the lady square her shoulders, then glance up at Gaston as if unconcerned. He knew otherwise. “Aye, sir?” Her hand dropped to her belly and rested there, as if she were round.

  With child.

  Wulfe blinked. So soon as this?

  “You bear a child,” Gaston charged, and Wulfe understood that their conclusion was the same. It could not be Gaston’s child, if Ysmaine were so ripe already.

  The other knight’s mood suddenly made perfect sense.

  “Indeed, sir,” Ysmaine replied, her chin high. “I understood you desired a son.”

  The other knight’s eyes flashed fire. Though Wulfe was glad to see that some matter could infuriate Gaston, he would not have wished these tidings upon any man. To be cuckolded and deceived was most foul. To learn of it before a company of his fellows was yet worse.

  Though he had not been certain of Ysmaine’s plans, this was an unwelcome shock.

  Had the old man been right that all women were untrustworthy?

  Gaston was clearly dismayed. “It seems of robust size to have been conceived in Venice less than a month ago.”

  “Perhaps I erred and he was conceived in Samaria,” the lady said, bold in her lie.

  “Still, to be so round in but a month.” Gaston’s tone faltered, as if he were uncertain.

  Ysmaine was undeterred. “Perhaps he is tall, like his father.”

  Christina, who had followed the pair, made a dismissive sound. Gaston looked back at her, but she shrugged. “That babe was conceived three months ago, at least.” Gaston glared at Ysmaine who blushed. “You must have bound it down to disguise it thus far.”

  “Aye,” Ysmaine agreed hastily. “But I could bear it no longer, and I feared for the child.”

  This was reprehensible! She risked the welfare of the child in order to better deceive her new husband! Wulfe was appalled.

  “As indeed you should,” he muttered, unable to hide his disgust.

  “Three months?” Gaston demanded of his wife. “Three months!”

  “It cannot be so long as that,” Ysmaine protested. “Not quite.”

  “I should say not nearly. We have been wedded only one month.” Gaston glowered at his wife, then fell silent in his fury.

  Wulfe could not believe his fellow knight had made such a blunder. “Did you never see her nude?” he asked in an undertone, unable to keep from glancing at Ysmaine.

  Her lips tightened, but she was unrepentant.

  “She kept herself covered, always,”
Gaston confessed, then added with scorn. “I thought her modest.”

  “Manipulative, perhaps, is a better choice of word,” Wulfe felt compelled to say. To his surprise, his words drew Christina’s ire.

  Aye, she spoke to him for the first time since Kerr’s demise, but the exchange was not one he might have hoped to have had.

  “And what other opportunity to ensure her own salvation would she have had?” she demanded of him. “You behave as if women have all the choices that men do in this world, and I assure you, that is not the case.”

  “She could have told him!” Wulfe insisted.

  “And lost the aid of the sole person who had offered to assist her? Aye, there is a good way to starve.” Christina’s lips tightened. “Or to end up in my trade.”

  Wulfe was chastened, for he knew that Christina saw much parallel between her own experience and that of Ysmaine—save that Ysmaine had found a champion in time. Or so he had thought until this day.

  Perhaps their situations had more in common than he had believed.

  “Did you sell yourself like a whore?” Everard asked Ysmaine, his lip curled.

  Gaston glowered at his wife, his anger so evident that Wulfe was somewhat surprised. It seemed that when Gaston ceased to be impassive, his emotions were more readily discerned than those of any other man. It was strange. Wulfe would have expected the other knight’s composure to slip in increments, not to abandon him entirely in an instant.

  Perhaps it particularly troubled him to be cuckolded.

  “I prayed,” Ysmaine asserted to the count. “But it is said that God helps those who help themselves.”

  Everard shook his head and continued into the inn. “I am glad indeed that I have never seen reason to wed. It is true that women are the source of all perfidy.”

  “You said neither of your husbands had consummated the match,” Gaston said, his words thrumming with anger.

  “They did not.” Ysmaine dropped her gaze, then swallowed. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said. “We had to eat.”

  “There are alms for the poor,” Gaston snapped.

  “Not so many as one might hope. The sisters gave us shelter, but little more.”

  Gaston raised his voice with anger, clearly determined to shame his wife before all within earshot. Truly, the entire company might have been rooted to the spot, for they stared and listened, apparently unable to do aught else. “Confess the truth now, with all this company as witnesses. Did you lie to me, Ysmaine of Valeroy?”

  Ysmaine nodded. “I knew not what else I might do, sir. I entreat you…”

  “I shall hear none of your entreaties!” Gaston shouted, then shook a finger before her. “I demanded but one thing of you.”

  “Honesty,” Ysmaine agreed, her voice much smaller, then lifted her chin. Her lack of guilt was astonishing, truly, and made it hard to feel compassion for her. “But I can explain, sir, if you but grant me the opportunity…”

  “But one request I made of you and that one thing you could not supply!” Gaston roared. “There is but one explanation I would have from you in this moment, and it requires only a single word in reply to my query.” He turned his glare upon his wife but she did not flinch. Did she think her choice had merit? Wulfe was shocked.

  “Do not be so fool as to lie this time,” Gaston growled.

  “I would not, sir.”

  Gaston pointed a shaking finger at her belly and ground out the words. “Do you bear my child?”

  Ysmaine bit her lip. Her tears rose, but Wulfe did not trust them to be genuine. She appealed to Gaston. “I fear I do not, sir.”

  The other knight did not linger to hear more. He marched toward the stables, like a man whose world had been shaken.

  “Gaston!” Ysmaine shouted after him, but if anything, he walked more quickly. “Gaston, I can explain!” She fled after her spouse and grasped at his arm. “If you would but grant me a moment of privacy…”

  “Madame.” Gaston spoke so coldly that Wulfe found his manner too harsh. Then he flung away his lady’s hand, as if he could not bear her touch. “There is not a single word you could utter to me that I would care to hear.”

  Ysmaine stood where he left her, weeping bitterly. Her maid went to console her and the others shifted their weight, feeling awkward at what they had witnessed. Wulfe found his attention turning to Christina, whose fingers had risen to her lips in apparent surprise.

  Then she glared at Gaston.

  Why did she suddenly take Ysmaine’s side? What had she realized?

  He sensed that he missed a key detail.

  And that Christina knew it.

  Yet again, he yearned to speak with her.

  But Christina spun and strode into the inn, her gaze fixed on the ground.

  There was no doubt about it. Wulfe had to speak to her before they parted ways in the morning.

  If naught else, he would not have the last words between them be such harsh ones.

  * * *

  Christina had to leave the company once she realized the location of the treasure.

  It was beyond clever for the lady Ysmaine to have disguised the reliquary as her own pregnant belly. No one would investigate that part of her person, and she would always be certain of its location. It could be in no safer place.

  She sighed in disapproval of Gaston’s reaction. Could he not give his lady some credit? Could he not ask her what had happened instead of spurning her in front of the entire company? It was beyond a lack of chivalry. It was churlish.

  And worse, the lady had only her maid to aid her in defending the treasure now. At least before, her husband had gone to her bed some nights. Now, Christina imagined that Ysmaine would scarce dare to sleep.

  That would not leave her sufficiently well rested to be alert and defend the prize.

  Curse the man for refusing to even listen to her explanation! Ysmaine might have explained the truth in private and had his protection, but it seemed that Gaston’s pride had been sorely pricked. She would not have thought him so intemperate in his reactions, but that solely proved that a man’s true nature could not be readily anticipated.

  She had only concluded as much when Wulfe came to sit beside her. She spared him a cool glance, disliking how he had taken Gaston’s side.

  “You may take the palfrey on the morrow,” he said, putting a cup of wine before her on the board. “I would not have you walk.”

  Christina spared him a glance. “I thank you for that.”

  He smiled crookedly at her. “You need not sound so surprised. Have I been so foul as that?”

  “You were unkind to Ysmaine this day.”

  He frowned. “I was surprised. I did not think her deceptive.”

  “Or unchaste?”

  His gaze met hers. “I understand that choices must be made,” he said quietly. “I do not blame you for your choice, nor do I blame her for hers. One must do what is necessary to survive.” He sipped his wine. “I think it a poor decision to deceive Gaston, though. He will not soon forget that, and they are wedded until death does them part.”

  Ysmaine was intrigued. “You think then that she should have simply told him?”

  Wulfe nodded.

  “He might have struck her.”

  “Nay, not Gaston.”

  “But he was livid on this day!”

  “He was shamed before the entire company. He would not be alone in being a man who responded with greater fury in such circumstance.”

  “He ensured that she was shamed, as well,” Christina could not help but note.

  Wulfe smiled again. “Aye, there is that.”

  She had an idea then. “Will you talk to him?”

  He glanced up with evident surprise.

  “Encourage him to make amends with her,” Christina urged.

  Wulfe shook his head. “We have much evidence that Gaston does not heed my counsel. I fear it will make no difference, save to vex him further.”

  “I believe she has good reason for her choic
e and has need of his protection.”

  The Templar frowned and sipped his wine. “He should forgive her, because she has need of him? It would be better if the matter were more balanced.”

  Christina dropped her voice to a whisper. “Who says it is not?”

  Their gazes locked and she saw understanding dawn in Wulfe’s eyes. He straightened and turned to survey the room, sipping his wine, but she could fairly feel excitement thrumming through him.

  He spoke louder when he continued. “As I said, the palfrey is yours to take on the morrow. How far is it to your family’s holding?”

  “I thank you for the offer, but I will ride all the way to Paris with you, after all.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. I would take the opportunity to visit my cousins before returning home,” Christina lied.

  Wulfe was not fooled and she knew it. “What is it?” he asked in an undertone and she knew he referred to the treasure.

  But he had said he was likely to be tested on his compliance with the order to not look, and she would not imperil his place in the order any more than she already had.

  To remain a Templar was his sole desire, after all.

  Christina pretended she had not heard him. “Indeed, they always ride to my father’s holding for the harvest, so I will be able to ride there with them.” She smiled at Wulfe. “Even better, you need not surrender a horse in this gallantry.”

  “I would pay the price willingly.”

  “I would not ask it of you.”

  “I would grant it to you.”

  “I will ride to Paris.” Christina watched as Wulfe nodded thoughtfully. It was clear that he might have continued their conversation, but Gaston entered the common room and glanced Wulfe’s way.

  Summoning him.

  Wulfe rose and bowed once to Christina, then followed the other knight. He clapped Gaston’s shoulder, as if consoling him, and the pair left the common room together.

  Christina shivered, feeling suddenly cold, and rose from the board herself. She would speak to Ysmaine and if her sympathy was welcomed, perhaps defend both lady and treasure in the night.