The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  “I heard only you strike my lady wife,” Gaston growled and moved quickly, his blade slicing Everard’s shoulder. “Wulfe was right to doubt your intent from the outset. What man of merit abandons a holding when it is about to be besieged?”

  “You know naught of my intent…”

  They battled, moving back and forth, almost evenly matched. When Gaston landed a blow, it was because Everard did not relinquish his grip on his burden.

  “You speak aright,” he replied, wanting to provoke his opponent. If the man who called himself Everard was angered, he might make a mistake. “All these years I have believed you to be Everard de Montmorency, for I had no reason to doubt the tale you told. Now I learn that this is a lie.”

  “The whore lies!”

  “You lie,” Gaston countered and saw his opponent’s eyes flash. “Why did you not return to France to visit your ailing father sooner?”

  “I had a holding to defend.”

  “But you left it unprotected in the end.”

  “I saw that it was doomed.”

  Gaston scoffed. “Your tale makes little sense, unless you are a coward. Why did you leave Outremer by coming to Jerusalem first?”

  “I sought the aid of the Templars! It is your sworn task to accompany pilgrims on the road…”

  “You were nigh at the port of Jaffa in Blanche Garde. Had it been your desire to leave Outremer in haste, you could have been a-sail before we even left Jerusalem.” Gaston shook his head. “Nay, the reason is in your grasp. You came seeking a prize to steal.”

  A partial roof on the opposite side of the courtyard fell in then, tumbling to the ground in a flurry of sparks. The flames burned higher as the wood caught and more dark smoke filled the air. Christina coughed and Gaston saw Ysmaine coax the other woman to her feet. There was something amiss with Ysmaine’s hand, but he would see to that later. He willed them to move more quickly.

  “I am not on trial!” Everard retorted. “I need not explain my choices to any man…”

  “Nay, you are condemned, by the burden in your own grasp.”

  “But…”

  “All you must do to prove your innocence is surrender it to me,” Gaston invited. He lowered his sword and stretched out his left hand, knowing full well what his opponent would do. The women were passing through the gate, and the fire had nearly turned the courtyard into an inferno.

  The man who called himself Everard attacked. “I owe naught to you!” he roared even as their blades clashed hard. “I will not answer to a monk who breaks his vows by taking a wife!” He battled hard against Gaston and jabbed suddenly. Gaston stepped back and only then saw the peril he had not realized.

  Ysmaine had returned to the portal, doubtless seeking him. He could not warn her to retreat, not without calling his opponent’s attention to her presence. He felt his lips thin to a grim line when she pulled her eating knife and sidled along the wall behind the villain.

  The woman had too much valor, to be sure.

  “You will die here, and the tale with you,” Everard sneered. “I will sell this prize to see my own future secured.”

  “Someone else will recognize you.”

  “Silence can be bought, and I will have the funds.”

  “You did not silence Christina.”

  “Not yet,” Everard replied grimly. “I shall see to that.” He kicked a barrel toward Gaston with savage force. “And you will not survive this day to share the tale.” Ysmaine eased toward the villain, though Gaston did not reveal her presence. He jumped over the barrel and attacked Everard, hoping to distract him from any sign of the lady’s presence behind.

  But Everard leapt aside so that Gaston’s blow missed. He seized Ysmaine, spun her and flung her toward the brightest blaze of the fire. She stumbled and cried out, but Gaston did not wait to see his lady fall into the flames. He lunged after her and caught her against his chest. Unable to keep from tumbling after her, he cradled her from the force of their landing, then rolled her beneath himself to shelter her from the flames.

  By the time he rolled to his feet, Everard was through the gate. Gaston heard the other man slam and lock it from the other side. He hauled Ysmaine to her feet beside him and they raced to the gate as one. He fought against the latch, but to no avail.

  He spared a glance to the flames, then caught her around the waist. He fairly flung her to the top of the courtyard wall. “Jump, lady mine!” he commanded when she hesitated atop the wall.

  “Aye, jump,” Everard purred from the other side of the wall, the sound of his voice sending a chill through Gaston. “Grant me another pretty prize.”

  Ysmaine hesitated. Gaston heard a cry that he thought might have come from Christina. Ysmaine danced backward as the other man evidently lunged at her. Gaston heard the imposter laugh, then the clatter of hoof beats.

  Ysmaine leapt down from the top of the wall on to the other side.

  Gaston watched the flames come closer. The summit of the wall was too high for him to heft his own weight there. Indeed, he could not even brush the summit with his fingertips. There was naught in the courtyard to climb upon, for all was aflame. He shouted but there seemed no one to hear his cries. The smoke was thick, and he began to cough, fearing that Everard had called his fate aright.

  At least Ysmaine was safe.

  Gaston heard her swear, then the latch rattled. “It is so hot!” she complained, and he heard her kick the gate. To his relief, she unfastened the latch from the other side, and fresh air billowed into the courtyard.

  “He has seized Christina and ridden that way,” Ysmaine declared as Gaston stumbled into the alley. He grabbed her hand and led her away from the foul place, coughing to clear his lungs. To his relief, Wulfe was in the square before the cathedral, astride his black destrier.

  Gaston knew then that all would be well.

  * * *

  Christina awakened to the smell of hay and rotted manure.

  Surely she could not be back in that foul barn again?

  One eye was swollen shut and her hands were bound at her waist. She was lying in the hay of an unfamiliar stable and her head pounded.

  The last thing she recalled was Helmut seizing her and striking her across the face.

  It was dark, which was no reassurance. It had been only midday when she and Ysmaine had battled Helmut. If it was night and she was yet in his captivity, then no one had followed to assist her.

  Was Gaston dead?

  Had the lady Ysmaine braved the inferno of the courtyard to try to save her spouse?

  Had they died together?

  Christina did not want to think about it. Despite her misgivings, it was clear that they had loved each other, and their match had held promise for the future. She wanted to think of them happily together, in Gaston’s holding, their home filled with sons.

  Some souls should win their hearts’ desires, even if she was not to be one such.

  “Awake yet?” Helmut demanded and kicked at Christina’s legs to make her so. “I do not have all night, wench.” He kicked her again and she emitted a grunt of pain, unable to stop herself. He crouched down before her and smiled.

  Christina spat at him. The angle was wrong, and her spittle landed on his tabard, but it was sufficient to earn her a slap of his leather glove. She closed her eyes but he seized her chin, hauling her to a sitting position.

  They were in a villein’s cottage, she realized, not a barn. Judging by the sounds beyond its walls, it must have been far from any abode. The walls were stone and she did not doubt that the roof was thatch. The floor was dirt and it looked to be a simple hut, in which the family lived at one end and their livestock, at least in winter, at the other. There was a blackened hole in the roof, where undoubtedly smoke from a fire had risen, though it did not seem that any fire had been lit on the hearth recently. The thatch was worn overhead and she could see patches of the night sky beyond.

  Helmut grabbed her chin and Christina closed her eye, the better to avoid the sight of hi
m.

  “Where is it?” he demanded, and she could feel his hot breath upon her face.

  “What?”

  He struck her again for her impertinence, but she did not care. Christina opened her good eye and saw a bundle of clothing spread on the floor of the stable.

  She smiled that he had been vexed in pursuit of the reliquary again. “Do you even know what it was?” she asked and he glared at her.

  “A prize, a prize from the Templar hoard and the sole one they saw fit to save. What else did I need to know?”

  “That it was beautiful,” Christina said softly. “The most beautiful reliquary I have ever seen.”

  “You saw it! You!” The notion infuriated him. “How rich was it?”

  “A prize beyond compare.” She sighed. “Wrought of gold and lavishly inlaid with gems. Large, as well. It was truly a marvel.”

  The confession did little to please Helmut to be sure, and Christina was glad the treasure had evaded his grasp. She continued, intent upon tormenting him with her words, if naught else.

  “Saint Euphemia was tested in the time of Diocletian, in the year 303, for she would not sacrifice to false idols. No matter how she was tormented or violated, she came to no harm. It was said that the angels defended her, because of her faith.”

  “I care naught for such detail,” he snarled. “Was the reliquary truly so rich? Describe it to me.”

  “I saw rubies and emeralds, as big as my thumb,” Christina lied. “Amethysts and sapphires, and gold so heavy.” She shook her head. “It had been fashioned to honor as the lady saint whose relics were contained within.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I do not know,” Christina admitted, and he struck her again, harder than he had before.

  Indeed, he split her lip, and she tasted blood.

  She supposed she could have gotten to her feet and run, but she was not certain she could have managed to get far given her current state. She would save that tactic and perhaps take him unawares, when her head cleared a little more.

  Helmut, though, anticipated her. He seized the end of the rope that bound her wrists and cast it over a beam, hauling her to her toes, then knotting it so that she could do little more than swing before him.

  She would kick him when she could surprise him.

  Christina would die here, and she knew it, but she would vex him mightily first.

  “Where?” he demanded again.

  She looked down at the ground and avoided the question. “Many miracles are attributed to Euphemia’s relics,” she continued mildly. “Indeed, at the Council of Chalcedon in 451, she defended the humanity of Jesus.”

  “She was dead!”

  “Yet two scrolls were put in the casket with her saintly remains, one arguing that God alone is divine, and one that Jesus was both man and divine. In the morn, the casket was opened and the scroll defending the divinity of Jesus was in her right hand, the other scroll cast at her feet.”

  “A trick, no more and no less.”

  “A miracle, no more and no less,” Christina corrected. “Just as when the golden sarcophagus that served as her reliquary was stolen and cast into the sea. It should have been lost forever, but was recovered by two brothers who were fishermen. Her relics were hidden for many years, then scattered, evidently this great prize coming into the possession of the Templars.”

  Helmut folded his arms across his chest. “I ask you again. Where is it?”

  “If it is truly night, I suppose it is safely in the Templar treasury at Paris by now.”

  “I do not believe it! You have stolen it!”

  “Because you would have done so?” Christina let her scorn show. “Trust me that I have no desire to have even an inclination in common with you.”

  “Whore!” He struck her again, making her spin like a fish on a line. “You will die here for your deception and none will mourn your demise.”

  “Who will mourn yours, Helmut?” she asked, but he ignored her question.

  His eyes flashed. “Do not call me that! That man is dead.”

  She scoffed. “Nay, it is Everard de Montmorency who is dead. Do you not think his father will know the difference?”

  “I will arrive too late for the old man to see me.”

  “And you think they will simply grant you suzerainty of his holding?” Christina shook her head and laughed, ignoring the blood that dropped from her lips. “Truly, Helmut, you have not planned this scheme with your usual care.”

  “I had to leave Outremer sooner than expected. I had thought to claim the treasure, the better to barter for the support of the Templars in providing evidence of my identity.”

  “I had thought they could not be bought.”

  “All men can be bought.” Helmut leaned closer, his eyes narrowed. “All men have a price. Losing the greatest prize of their treasury, the one they sought to save above all others, might well have been the price of the Templars.” He stepped back and surveyed her with disgust. “But you, a woman and a whore, cheated me of my due.”

  “Just as you cheated me of mine,” Christina retorted. “Why did you kill Gunther?”

  “Because he knew, of course. He saw me steal Everard’s signet ring.” Helmut threw out a hand and the ring of Montmorency glinted on his finger. “A minor baron under his father’s thumb, but still a man who had more to his name than I could ever hope to hold.” His lip curled. “He could not even defend himself. How was it right that he held more than me?”

  “You had formed the scheme to steal his name even then.”

  “I formed the scheme of replacing Everard as soon as I was hired to defend him. He would have taken a pilgrimage to some closer point. It was I who encouraged him to journey all the way to Outremer. That was the sole way I could take his name, his reputation, and all the wealth that would come to his hand.” He smiled a little. “For such a pious man, a mere mention of the Holy City was sufficient to make his heart burn to see that place himself. It was easily done.”

  Christina thought she heard a footfall outside the barn and dared to hope that some person listened. “And how did he die, dear Everard?”

  “Dear?”

  “I was fond of him. He was a kindly man.”

  “He was a fool!” Helmut said with disgust. “He trusted with no cause to do so.”

  “I suppose his fate was decided once you had his ring.”

  “He thought it lost. Gunther knew better, but I could not let him confide the truth in his comrade. Nay, they could not linger at the board long into the evening ever again. When Gunther left the inn alone, I knew I had to seize opportunity.” He smiled a little in reminiscence. “I looked him in the eye, you know, as the knife sank home, just so he would know who had claimed his life.”

  “You are fortunate he did not tell anyone.”

  “I made sure he could not. I took his purse to make it look like a theft.” Helmut walked around her, and Christina feared what he would do when he was behind her. She twisted to watch him, cursed by her one swollen eye. “I knew his wife had his confidence. I thought you might know what Gunther knew, so I ensured that you had no chance to warn Everard.” He sneered. “I should have guessed that you would survive by parting your thighs.”

  Christina kicked hard and fast, landing one boot on his groin. Helmut fell back with a moan and paled. He straightened suddenly, pulling his dagger from its sheath and dove toward Christina. “Burning is too good for you!” he muttered, but the door to the barn was kicked open just then.

  “I would not do that,” Stephen advised. The boy stood silhouetted in the portal, his own knife drawn.

  He was alone.

  How could that be?

  Helmut scoffed at the sight of the boy. “Who are you to stop me?” he demanded.

  Christina heard a faint rustle overhead. Had someone climbed through the roof? If so, she knew who she wished it to be.

  Indeed, her heart thundered with new hope that she might leave this hut after all.

 
“Is your affection for this whore so great, boy, that you would die for her?” Helmut continued. “What would your knight say of such misplaced loyalty?”

  “He would call it well deserved,” Wulfe replied from above them

  Christina looked up to find Wulfe crouched on the beam overhead. He cut the rope that held her captive with one strike then leapt at Helmut. Stephen charged the supposed count from the portal, driving his shoulder into the back of his knees. Helmet lost his balance and fell, just as Wulfe landed atop him. The pair rolled across the floor, battling for supremacy. Wulfe landed a pair of solid blows and Helmut’s nose began to bleed. Wulfe cracked the other man’s wrist when he would not relinquish his knife, then rolled him to his belly and sat atop him.

  “The rope, if you will, Stephen,” he said, his gaze sweeping over Christina with concern. That his thoughts were so visible and his eyes so blue made Christina’s heart soar.

  Did he do what was right, or was her love returned?

  Stephen sawed the rope that bound Christina’s wrists, then took it to Wulfe.

  “How dare you do this?” Helmut fumed. “I am Everard de Montmorency, Count of Blanche Garde, and you have no right to submit me to such an indignity…”

  “But I heard from your own lips that you are one Helmut, who killed Everard,” Wulfe countered amiably. “And even if that is not so, you have sorely abused a woman.”

  “She deserved it, the whore…”

  “No woman deserves such treatment. You, however, should be so fortunate as to be condemned to suffer no more than a blow to the face.” Wulfe tugged Helmut roughly to his feet and pushed him out of the barn.

  “You cannot kill me,” Helmut fumed.

  Wulfe smiled. “Of course not. I have no suzerainty in these lands and you have committed no crime against my own person. As much as I should like to leave your fate to the lady’s discretion, I fear there is another court better suited to judge your crimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we ride for Montmorency. I will send Stephen ahead, to take word to the old baron, in the hope that he rallies in order to see his beloved son one last time.”