The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  He and his father stared at each other for long moments in silence, then the older man walked toward him. It was painful to watch his progress, for clearly his injury troubled him greatly. He favored one leg and it seemed unable to support his weight. He had grown crooked since Wulfe had seen him last, and he seemed far smaller than once he had been.

  Less terrifying.

  Indeed, Wulfe felt an unexpected measure of pity for what his father had become.

  Still, he did not move. He did not make it easier for this man, who had made naught easy for him. His father was breathing heavily when he halted before Wulfe and the hand upon the cane was shaking from the exertion of walking so far.

  Still he was proud and stood as straight as he could manage, His gaze roved over Wulfe, and a glint of what might have been pride lit his eyes. Wulfe chose not to be softened by it. His father lifted a shaking hand to the scar on Wulfe’s cheek, and his fingertip was surprisingly cold.

  “Agneta’s boy,” he said softly, then nodded, needing no confirmation from Wulfe. He turned slightly and gestured to the newer grave. “She would have liked to have seen you again.”

  If he meant to make an accusation, Wulfe would not apologize.

  “I doubt that,” he said crisply. “She abandoned me, after all.”

  Those pale blue eyes flicked to Wulfe again. “She chose, boy, chose between you and me, because I made her do as much.”

  “I was told that she was dead.”

  He nodded. “She might as well have been dead to her father, once she became my mistress. He did not approve of that or of me.” He frowned. “I wondered always whether she regretted her decision.”

  Wulfe blinked. “The old man was my grandfather?”

  “Agneta’s father. Of course. That was why I could not marry her.” He scoffed a little. “The lord of the manor wedding the daughter of the woodsman? Nay, it could not be so. It would not be so. My father forbade it and my father’s word was law.” He sighed, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at the fresh grave. “And so I wed a shrew of noble lineage, as instructed, and so cursed was our match that she never bore a live babe. She died, despising me.”

  “And Agneta?”

  “She defied me in letting you live, in hiding you from me. I never knew she had any power for deceit until the day you and I met.” He glanced again at Wulfe’s scar. “And by the time my fury was passed, all had changed.”

  “How so?”

  “Agneta learned of what I had done and returned to her father’s abode. She never acknowledged me again.” His brow furrowed again. “It is a strange thing that once a man’s fortunes reverse, they cannot be set right again. All went awry when Agneta left me. We lost battles on our borders that we should have won. Our goods sold for less coin than expected at markets and fairs. Pestilence came upon our crops and illness rolled through our villages. Some said it was the wages of sin, and as time passed, it became harder to dismiss the notion.” He gestured to his leg. “I was injured at war and the wound would not heal. Instead it festered, and even Agneta could not see the toxin driven from my flesh.”

  “She returned to you?”

  “I implored her to do as much. She came only to look upon my injury, to relieve my suffering as much as she could. She bade me repent of my errors and rebuild my holding anew.” He took a deep breath. “And then she left me again. Truly, the second parting was worse than the first, for I knew I should never see her again.”

  “Who buried her?”

  “My men, at my dictate. I sent her gifts, foodstuffs mostly.” He smiled. “She had an uncommon affection for angelica candied with honey, and it was one thing I could yet give her. My courier found her dead in her father’s hut but a fortnight ago.” The older man surveyed Wulfe again. “And here you are, too late for her to have seen the man you have become.”

  “You cannot deny your part in that.”

  The old man sighed. “I cannot,” he acknowledged with what seemed like regret. His gaze trailed to the grave. “Perhaps it was Agneta’s fate to always be cheated of her due.” He leaned on his cane, wobbling a little. “Perhaps that was the price for loving me.” His voice broke on those words and Wulfe felt compassion blossom within his heart.

  “You should sit, sir,” he said, speaking more gently than he had done thus far. There was a fallen log not three steps away, and it had been a doughty tree. He took his father’s elbow and helped him to sit upon the log, noting how the older man sighed with relief.

  He then impaled Wulfe with a look. “And so, against all expectation, my only son is returned. Why did you come?”

  Only now did Wulfe see that his own tale echoed his father’s, and having heard his father’s confession, he believed he might gain what he sought.

  He spoke bluntly, then, wanting to know the truth sooner. “I would wed the woman I love before she bears our child, and I have no right to ask for her hand.” Wulfe frowned and swallowed, well aware of his father’s avid gaze upon him. “I had thought you might affirm my lineage, that I could declare myself worthy of her.”

  “She is nobly born?”

  Wulfe inclined his head.

  “And she is with child?” At Wulfe’s nod, he insisted. “Your child?”

  “Aye, but even if it were not so, it is her child and I would see her future assured.”

  “How will you do as much?” His father flicked a fingertip at Wulfe’s tabard. “No Templar takes a bride.”

  “I may take a position at a former companion’s abode and serve in its defense.” This was far less than Wulfe desired, but he did not have the audacity to ask his father outright for a legacy.

  Indeed, he did not know whether there could be one. Did he have siblings? Had his father wed again and sired sons? Had the holding lost all of its value in these dark years after Agneta’s departure?

  His father shook his head. “It will not suffice. You must have more than noble blood in your veins. You must have a holding and fortune to your name. You must have a title to offer to her.” He straightened. “I would not surrender a daughter of mine to less than that.”

  Wulfe turned away, fearing he had his reply.

  The weight of his father’s hand landed upon his arm. “I can grant you both, my son.”

  Wulfe glanced back, tempted but wary. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. I have no other sons. The holding is large and could be prosperous, especially if governed by a man other than myself.”

  Wulfe was still leery of his father’s intent. “No doubt this gift would come at a price.”

  His father scoffed. “It is not a gift. It is a legacy.” His gaze met Wulfe’s, some amusement lurking deep within their pale depths. “But you are right. There is a price.”

  Wulfe arched a brow.

  “Forgiveness,” the older man said with force. “No more and no less than that.” He offered his hand, his gaze searching, and Wulfe saw the hope in his father’s eyes.

  “A new beginning,” Wulfe said quietly and at his father’s nod, he gripped the older man’s hand and shook it.

  His heart leapt with the conviction that all would soon come aright.

  Wednesday, November 25, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Catherine of Alexandra

  Chapter Nineteen

  More than two months had passed since Wulfe’s departure when the missive arrived.

  Juliana had slept late again, having been restless the night before. Her belly was rounder and her breasts were fuller. She felt ripe and tired, and her mother’s sidelong glances of concern did naught to improve her mood. Soon, it would be visible to all that she expected a child, and this without a ring upon her finger or a suitor in sight.

  She dreaded her mother’s questions about the father.

  Her sister Miriam was as kind and generous as ever she had been, and her husband, Otto, was a good man. Juliana could not regret that he managed the holding, not when he was so tolerant of her mother and made her sister so very happy. Their sons were charming boys, a
nd similarly, no person of merit could resent their good fortune. Her youngest sister, Anna, was not yet wedded but had nigh a dozen suitors. The delay came from her refusal to decide, not from lack of opportunity.

  Juliana supposed she would be the scandalous sister, the one who bore a child out of wedlock and remained a burden upon the house’s finances. It was not the life she had hoped to have, but she would not surrender Wulfe’s child for any reason. If this was the price of raising a child wrought in love, she would pay it.

  She dreamed of Wulfe, the one man who had desired her for herself alone, and suspected she would do so for every night of her life. She would have followed him willingly, even if he had taken his trade as a mercenary, and made the best of that wandering life. She knew he made a sensible choice in leaving her to return to the order, but she wished he might have chosen in passion, just once.

  Though she knew it was not his nature to be so irresponsible. Indeed, that was part of why she loved him so.

  She had hoped for a long time that he might halt to say farewell on his route back to Outremer, but after so many weeks, she knew he had to have completed his journey already. Her mother had received news that Jerusalem itself had been lost on the second of October and Juliana had prayed fervently for some sign that Wulfe had not been lost in that assault.

  She had had none.

  Yet she could not bear to think of him dead or even injured.

  On this morn, Juliana was just descending from her chamber, the one she had shared with Miriam when they had been girls, when her mother hastened up the stairs toward her. That lady’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. “What marvelous good fortune, Juliana!” she declared. “A suitor arrives for you!”

  Juliana felt the surprise of the maid who followed her.

  “For me?” she asked. “Surely there is a mistake.”

  “On the contrary, my dear, I am certain he has heard of your reputed beauty and sweet disposition.” Her mother fussed a little with Juliana’s kirtle. “Praise be you chose this one on this morn,” she murmured with a little frown. “The deep green favors you very well and the cut, well, the fullness is flattering.” Her mother forced a smile, and Juliana knew she feared the suitor would discern her state.

  “I will tell him, Maman.”

  Her mother inhaled sharply but before she could speak, Juliana continued. “It is no good omen to begin a match with a lie, and no man is fool enough to believe his babe would come in but six months. I will tell him.”

  Her mother’s lips tightened. “I suppose you are right, but Juliana, a suitor! Just when you have need of one. It seems to be God’s grace at work, and I would not have any detail go awry. Perhaps you might not confide this truth to him at your first meeting.”

  “It might not be a good match.”

  “You are scarce in a position to be demanding,” her mother said with a fierce look, then hastened Juliana down the stairs to the hall. A man stood in the midst of the hall, hands folded before himself as he waited. There was a dusting of snow on the shoulders of his cloak and he glanced up with interest at their approach.

  “As I have told you, Juliana, here is the messenger sent to announce his lord master’s arrival at our gates. This is Lady Juliana, my eldest daughter.”

  Juliana took a seat at the board and folded her hands in her lap. Her mother clapped for the fires to be tended and truly the hall did look inviting. Juliana watched the messenger survey the hall quickly and did not doubt he assessed the value of every trunk and rug before he bowed before her. His hair was dark and curled over his collar, and though he was yet a young man, Juliana did not doubt that the maids would be chattering about him. His livery was black and gold, and his boots were so fine that they might have been new. A young boy stood behind him, garbed in the same colors.

  His lord was affluent then. Who might the man be?

  “I do apologize for interrupting you so early,” he said, though the hour was not early at all. “My lord would ensure that his arrival was anticipated.”

  “He does not like surprises, then?”

  The messenger smiled. “He thinks it unseemly to cause trouble for a potential host.”

  “He is most thoughtful, then.” Juliana’s mother smiled in approval at that and she could fairly see her mother planning a wedding this very day and a lavish meal to follow. Doubtless her mother reviewed the inventory in the kitchen. “And who is your lord?”

  “Sir Ulric von Altesburg,” the messenger said with pride.

  Juliana kept her expression polite. She had never heard of this man.

  Her mother, however, had. “Would he be the son of Konrad von Altesburg?” she asked, her avid expression telling Juliana much.

  “Indeed, he is, my lady. The only son of that man. They ride together and will arrive here shortly, to be sure.”

  Anticipation filled Juliana’s mother’s expression. She flicked a glance to Miriam, who had appeared in the portal. That woman nodded but once and hastened away, doubtless to dispatch some soul to kill some creature for the feast.

  The messenger snapped his fingers and the young boy stepped forward with a trunk. He bowed and offered it to Juliana. “A token of my lord’s esteem,” he said once she had accepted the burden, then stepped back and unfurled a missive.

  Juliana eyed the trunk with some trepidation. If it were a very rich gift, she would be hard-pressed to decline this offer. Miriam was back at the portal, her eyes shining with delight at Juliana’s evident good fortune.

  Knowing it could not be evaded, Juliana opened the trunk. She could not have said what she expected to be within it, but her lips parted in wonder at the silken fur that filled it to bursting.

  “My lord knight would have you know that this autumn, he was the first to kill a wolf in the forests of his family holding at Altesburg. It is considered a portent in his family that when a son comes of age and kills the first wolf of the season, that he should take a bride. My lord Ulric sends you this pelt as a token of his esteem and begs you keep it, whether or not you accept his suit.”

  Juliana glanced up in surprise that the knight in question did not assume his proposal would be accepted.

  The messenger smiled. “I have been instructed to tell you that he believes a man learns more in defeat than in victory, though I do not understand why he would order as much in a moment such as this.”

  Juliana gripped the pelt, her heart hammering.

  It could not be.

  “Juliana?” her mother asked, evidently noting her shock. “Surely you are not unwell?”

  “Nay, Maman. I am fine.” Juliana gestured to the messenger, even as her heart thundered. “Pray continue.”

  The messenger cleared his throat and did as much. “The true gift, he says, is wrapped in the pelt, the better to ensure its safe journey.”

  Juliana coaxed the pelt out of the trunk with care, ensuring that naught dropped to the floor. The fur was thick and of deep silver hue, and the pelt was large. Indeed, it was hard to believe that it had fit within the trunk at all. Her mother was directly beside her, fingering the fur and murmuring in appreciation. The small bundle sheltered within it fell readily to Juliana’s lap. It was heavy for all its size and wrapped in a piece of silk.

  She unfurled the fabric under her mother’s watchful eye, only to find a small book.

  “A devotional,” her mother breathed in awe.

  Indeed, her wonder was deserved. Such volumes were profoundly expensive, the trinkets of queens not those of her family’s ilk. Juliana turned the book in her hands in wonder. The covers were of red leather, so soft, and stitched with care. The vellum pages were thin and the script was tiny. There was a marker between the pages, and she made to remove it, for even this ribbon would leave an impression. Juliana’s lips parted in wonder at the illustrations between the prayers, images so finely detailed that she feared they could not be real.

  The marker was on a page with an illumination and Juliana could not help but examine it. A woman wit
h long fair hair was being burned, and the rays of light around her head showed her saintly status. She appeared to be oblivious to the fire licking her flesh and the wounds where her breasts had been. Her gaze was fixed on a dove that descended from the sky, and her expression was rapturous.

  It was an exquisitely beautiful image.

  “My lord knight bids me tell you that he sought far and wide for this volume, for he wished his gift to you to include an image of Saint Christina.”

  Juliana looked up in shock.

  The marker had been placed apurpose.

  Saint Christina!

  The messenger smiled. “He says he learned much from her tale, particularly how one might be sustained by one’s faith when enduring a challenge.”

  Juliana rose to her feet, clutching the devotional in one hand and holding the pelt against her chest. “And what is your lord knight’s name again?”

  “Sir Ulric von Altesburg,” the young man replied. “But I must confess that we oft call him Wulfe Stürmer, for he is fierce with a blade. He served as a Templar knight before returning to his father’s abode.”

  Juliana gave a cry of delight and fled the chamber, scarce daring to believe her good fortune.

  “You wear only slippers!” her mother cried from behind her. “You have no cloak!”

  Juliana did not care about either. She fled across the hall and into the bailey. She burst through the portal and saw a large party approaching the gates, their insignia all black and gold. She ran across the bailey and through the gate, her heart singing when she saw the large destrier at the front of the party.

  He was as black as midnight.

  And the knight astride him had golden blond hair that shone in the sunlight.

  “Wulfe!” she cried and he laughed aloud. He leapt from the saddle and Juliana could scarce see him for the tears in her eyes. He strode toward her and dropped to one knee, seizing her hand in his. Teufel followed him, though Wulfe had dropped the reins.