“How can this be?”
She twisted a little so that he could see the sparkle of her eyes. “Tell me you have not forgotten our couplings already,” she teased.
“Never,” he said and meant it. “But you said your womb bore no fruit.”
“And never has it, until now. I cannot fathom it myself.” She sighed. “We undertook the pilgrimage because I was barren, but I never reached the shrine of Jerusalem. There can be no absolution for my sins, and truly they are greater now than they were then.”
“You did not conceive, not even in Costanzia’s abode?”
She shook her head and he believed her. “I knew I would not. They had potions and preparations and I used them, to be sure. There was no choice. But I knew I would never conceive a child.”
“For you had not completed your pilgrimage,” Wulfe concluded.
Christina nodded and nestled against his warmth.
He curled a tendril of her hair around his finger, thinking about her other confession. “Is the rest true?”
She nodded and rolled to face him then, her words soft between them. “My father was resolute that holdings should pass only to men, but I have only two sisters. I am the eldest, and all assumed I would be the first to bear a son.”
“So it was more than a love of children that prompted Gunther’s choice?” In truth, Wulfe was glad to hear that Christina’s husband had not been so saintly as he had imagined.
“He was a younger son. Although he had a noble family and had been knighted, there was no holding to fall to his hand. My father liked him well and ensured our match was made before he died. All believed the future would be secured within a year.”
“But it was not.”
Christina shook her head. “My sister Miriam is three years younger than me, and she had a most devoted suitor, even then. Otto was the son of a distant cousin, another younger son with no legacy. He had played with us when we were small, and he had always favored Miriam. She favored him, as well. We had been wed almost four years when their betrothal was announced, and Gunther feared that opportunity would be lost.”
“And you have had no word from home since?”
“I dared not send word of my situation,” she admitted softly. “For I could not change it.” Christina shook her head, then looked up at Wulfe.
He had to ask the question, though it was a churlish one. “Are you certain the child is mine?’
She smiled at him, and he was glad she did not resent the query. “A fair question, Wulfe, but there can be no doubt in the reply. I tried to avoid my responsibilities in Costanzia’s house. I had bled two weeks before your arrival there, but had been lying about the persistence of my courses. On that day, Costanzia bade me find a patron for the entire night or she would cast me to the streets in the morning.”
“Then my arrival was timely.”
“As one would expect from a champion,” she teased. “And there can be no doubt of the babe’s father.”
Wulfe nodded with relief and pulled Christina close. How he yearned to make a sweet pledge to her, but he had no right to do as much.
She clutched his tabard, and her tone became urgent. “Wulfe, what if Miriam and Anna have been as barren as me? What if they have borne only daughters?”
“It has been nine years,” he said, scarce daring to hope.
“Nay it has been thirteen,” she correctly quietly.
He nodded, his heart pounded at the possibility. “It could be so.”
She smiled. “It could be.”
“There is only one way to discover the truth,” he said, watching as her eyes danced with anticipation. “We must ride for your home, with all haste.”
“Aye,” Christina said and curled against him with undisguised satisfaction. “Aye, Wulfe, we must.” She sighed. “And I will pray, as seldom I have prayed before.”
Wulfe would pray as well, though he doubted any entreaty of his would be received with as much consideration as that of the lady in his arms.
Was it possible that they might have a future together?
That was when he resolved his course: if one of Christina’s sisters had claimed the legacy but the lady still desired him, he would remind Gaston of his promise.
Wednesday, September 16, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Euphemia
Chapter Eighteen
Christina’s heart was pounding when their small party crested the rise in the road and they looked upon her father’s holding.
It was not large, but it was prosperous, and it looked still to be so. Her gaze swept over the vineyards, and she could tell by the activity in the fields that the harvest had been good. The roofs in the village were all thatched with care and the market was bustling. The river at the base of the valley sparkled and she could hear the great stones turning in the gristmill. The stone keep was perched on a mount above the village, its gates open for the day, and her father’s insignia emblazoned the banner that snapped above its highest tower.
She found that there were tears in her eyes, for she had feared more than once that she would never see this place again. Wulfe was watching her, his expression guarded, and she smiled at him. “Come. The sentries will already have told my mother that there is a party on the high road. She will be curious.”
When he hesitated, she eyed him anew. “So rich as this?” he murmured, his doubts clear.
Christina smiled and urged him onward. “No so rich as that,” she chided, but Wulfe did not look to be persuaded.
Indeed, he appeared most thoughtful.
But she was home! She rode on at a canter, desperate to know the truth. The boys hooted and raced their steeds behind her, Wulfe and Teufel at the rear. Those in the marketplace turned with curiosity, then parted to let them pass. Christina heard the whispers of speculation, but she wanted to see her mother first herself.
If indeed, that woman still drew breath.
Before that fear could grow larger, the seneschal stepped out of the portal to the keep itself. It was yet Bertrand, though more grizzled than once he had been. Christina nigh called out in her relief. He assessed the party, then gestured to the bailey behind himself.
But a moment later, a tall woman stepped into view, ensuring that she did not halt until she was before him. Christina’s mouth went dry in recognition. Her mother was dressed in her favored hue of blue, and there was silver embroidery on her cuffs and hems. Her veil was as white as snow, her circlet as silver as the hair beneath. Her gaze was as sharp as that of a falcon at hunt, and she peered at the faces of those in the party, her curiosity most clear.
Wulfe dismounted with a flourish and came to hand Christina down. He gave her fingers a minute squeeze just before she cast back her hood.
Her mother caught her breath and her hands rose to her mouth. “Juliana!”
“Good day, Maman,” Christina said, finding her voice husky.
“It is a good day indeed that my child returns home,” her mother said in a rush, then hurried forward to hug her tightly. They spun around together in a tight embrace and Christina saw Wulfe’s confusion.
“Saint Christina was sustained by her faith,” Stephen said quietly, and Wulfe smiled at that.
“Indeed, she was,” he murmured, and she recalled how he had been certain that very first night that Christina had not been her name in truth. Right from the first, it had been impossible to hide her truth from this man, a sure a mark of the love that had grown between them as could be.
Juliana found herself blushing that she had lied to him at all, but Wulfe did not seem overly troubled. It was strange that she would have to become accustomed to her name again. Juliana realized that her mother was looking between her and Wulfe, assessment in her eyes.
“Escorted by a Templar knight,” that woman said. “I would say that you have been fortunate indeed, Juliana, had it not been more than nine years since you left these gates.”
“Maman, this is Brother Wulfe, most recently of the Gaza Priory.” Wulfe bowed, a
nd Juliana noted how keenly her mother watched him. “And his squires, Stephen and Simon.”
“Is there a reason Gunther does not return with you?”
She knew her mother truly asked after the delay in her return. “He was killed, Maman, by a thief in Venice.”
Her mother’s lips parted and consideration dawned in her gaze. “You were alone in that city,” she whispered. “My child!” Juliana’s mother gathered her into an embrace that was even tighter than the first.
“I could not send word, Maman,” Juliana whispered so that only her mother could hear. “I could not bear to tell you why I was forbidden to leave that city.”
“And this man aided you to leave?” her mother asked softly. Juliana looked up to find that there was no censure in her mother’s gaze. Her mother smiled. “Do not be surprised, my Juliana. I was the one who taught you to do what must be done for survival’s sake. I would have sent aid.”
“I am sorry, Maman.”
Her mother kissed her brow and held her tightly, her voice rising. “What you must have borne! And you are far too thin.” She pulled back and took a shaking breath, her eyes filling with familiar concern as she ran her fingertips down Juliana’s cheek. “But home. So blessedly home.” They embraced again, Juliana’s vision blurred with tears.
Then her mother turned to Wulfe with her usual grace. “You must all come to the board,” she invited, though she did not relinquish her grip upon Juliana’s arm. “For I am certain there are tales aplenty to be shared. Bertrand!”
“Of course, my lady. The horses shall be well tended.” Bertrand bowed to Wulfe. “Should you like to see our stables, sir? I know that many a knight does not rest easy without being certain of his companion’s welfare. And what a fine destrier you ride! Was he bred in Outremer by chance?”
Wulfe and Juliana exchanged a glance of amusement as Bertrand chattered with his customary enthusiasm, even as he led Wulfe toward the keep’s stables.
“You have affection for him,” Juliana’s mother whispered in her ear.
She could only nod.
“And has he good family?”
“He has none.” She declined to tell her mother that Wulfe might be a nobleman’s bastard, for she felt the tale was not hers to share.
Her mother looked thoughtful. “How gracious of him to escort you all the way home.”
“Indeed.” Juliana glanced up in time to see her mother shake her head.
“You should know that Miriam and Otto have three sons now,” she said gently. “Otto is lord, Juliana, and he is a good one.” She smiled, trailing her fingertips down Juliana’s cheek, her gaze all too perceptive. “I hope you have not offered what is not yours to promise, my child.”
Juliana swallowed and blinked back her tears. “Of course not, Maman,” she said but her voice broke on the words. “It has been nine years, after all.”
Her mother saw all that Juliana would have hidden and perhaps more, for she pulled her into another tight hug. Being home, seeing Gunther avenged, and embracing her mother was more than Juliana had hoped to experience, but her gaze trailed after Wulfe.
In her heart, she knew all of that was not near sufficient to sate her, though.
* * *
Christina had come from an advantage that astonished Wulfe. She believed her origins were not rich, but to him, this holding with its obvious prosperity might have been a king’s palace. Though she had endured much in Venice, her upbringing had been so different from his that her expectations could not be as modest as his own.
She would not be content as the wife of a man-at-arms in service to Gaston. She deserved better than that, a titled knight who was at least the equal in wealth to her sister’s husband, Otto, who had now claimed the family estate.
He was disappointed, to be sure, that Miriam had sons, but had not truly surprised. Wulfe was more shocked to realize that the sole opportunity he had of offering honorably for her hand would not suffice. Oh, she might accept him, but over time, she would tire of such status and limited opportunity. He could not bear to see her come to despise him for his lack.
Yet she would bear his child, all the same.
It chafed at him that he might leave a bastard in the world, even one who would likely be raised in comparative advantage. He had never desired to echo any feat of his father.
Wulfe knew full well that women oft died in the delivery of children, and though he prayed that would not be the case, he understood the ramifications. With no mother, his own child would be virtually an orphan.
His child, son or daughter, might share his own fate.
Christina would be tainted by the bearing of a child out of wedlock, though he knew she wished for a babe beyond all else. He had partaken of the feast she offered and it irked him mightily to leave her to face the consequences alone.
But what choice had he? He knew the realities of the world all too well.
That was one matter they had in common, he supposed. That would be why she had not argued with him when he had declared his resolve to leave, and had not entreated him to stay.
Christina—or he should say Juliana—knew. He saw the sadness in her eyes.
It was bittersweet to realize in this moment that her confession of love had not been a lie. She did love him, and he loved her, but he would not grant her a reason to yearn for what could not be. If he confessed his love, she might close her heart against all others. If she believed herself spurned, she might come to love whatever man her mother found to take her hand.
It was less, far less, than what Wulfe wished for the lady who would always reign in his heart.
What could he do?
He paused on the road, out of view of Christina’s family abode, heartily disgruntled with his situation. To the west lay Paris, his sworn duty to the Templars, and certainly a reprimand for disobedience, if not more. Beyond that was Gaston’s holding and an opportunity to labor for an honest baron.
But to the east lay Wulfe’s past, in all its tangled shadows. He had vowed never to return, but he knew in this moment that he had to go back to have any hope of offering Christina a future.
To have any chance of claiming his heart’s desire, he had to face his deepest fear.
His decision made, Wulfe gave Teufel his spurs and rode east, the boys fast behind him.
* * *
Wulfe had not expected to recognize the forest where he had grown up under the protection of the old man. Indeed, he had feared that one stretch of wilderness was much like another. As they rode, he feared he might ride for all his life, peering into forests, seeking some familiarity. He had feared he might never know his destination, even if he happened across it. He knew the forest had to have changed, and he doubted the reliability of his own memory.
As they rode, he began to doubt the merit of his quest.
Yet on the fifth day, they crested a rise to find a vast wood before them, and Wulfe’s heart leapt in immediate recognition. He nigh cried out in joy. Aye, the hill curved the way he recalled, the river bent just so and he could have pointed to the spot where the banks narrowed and the water ran fast. In the deep pool below, a fish could always be caught for dinner. The berries grew abundantly in that distant clearing and there, where still there was a clearing, had been the location of the old man’s cabin.
“Where are we, sir?” Stephen asked, evidently noting Wulfe’s wonder.
“Home,” he admitted quietly, feeling the tightness in his chest.
The boys looked with new curiosity, but Wulfe spurred Teufel on. He led the boys into the forest, the afternoon sun on their backs until they passed beneath the shadow of the trees. Every vista affirmed his suspicions, and more than one old tree was familiar. He felt as if the birds sang in welcome. It was cool in the forest, and to Wulfe’s relief, he yet found it tranquil.
Just as he had as a boy.
He rode with confidence to the bank alongside that deep pool and instructed Simon to catch some fish and Stephen to make a fire. “You will fi
nd tinder and dry branches there,” he directed, then took a deep breath of the scent of this forest. Its blend of pine and moss and undergrowth seemed specific to him, and he imagined he could feel the old man’s ghost watching him.
“How can this be your home, sir?” Simon asked. “It is a forest.”
“But I grew up near here.”
“Like the young man in the tale,” Stephen reminded his companion who stared at Wulfe in surprise. Evidently Simon had only just realized that there could be truth disguised in a tale.
It was in that moment that Wulfe knew what he had to do. He would pay his respects to the old man. They were long overdue. He left the boys and the horses, striding through the forest to the place he had dug that hole, so many years before. It was not far and he would not be gone long.
To his surprise, there was a second mound in the clearing, and it was a fresh one. The one he had created had settled and plants had grown over it, though the shape was yet distinctive. The new one was covered with fresh earth and there was a wooden cross marking one end of it.
Wulfe lingered in the shadows of the forest. Who had dug this grave?
Who lay within it?
He only realized moments later that there was an old man, leaning on his cane, at the other end of the grave. He was so still that he might have been wrought of stone. Wulfe retreated with the intent of returning later, not wanting to disturb the man’s prayers. A stick cracked beneath his boot, though, and the old man straightened, looking over his shoulder.
“Who is there?” he demanded, his voice querulous and shaking. His hood fell back, revealing that his hair was as white as fresh snow. He winced and leaned heavily on his cane, pushing himself to his feet with no small effort, then straightened to look around himself.
Wulfe’s heart clenched. Though the man was aged beyond expectation and clearly unwell, Wulfe would have known him anywhere.
In this place, there could be no doubt of his identity.
He stepped forward, revealing himself.
A servant stood abruptly, his hand upon the hilt of his knife, but Wulfe’s father waved him off. Wulfe saw then that there were a pair of horses tethered on the far side of the clearing, and a hunting dog, which lay at their feet, its expression alert.
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