The Crusader’s Bride
The Champions of Saint Euphemia Book #1
by
Claire Delacroix
A company of knights chosen to deliver a sealed trunk from the Templar treasury in Jerusalem to safekeeping in Paris. A group of pilgrims seeking the protection of the Templars to return home as the Saracens prepare to besiege the city. A mysterious treasure that someone will even kill to possess…
When the Templar knight Gaston learns that he has inherited his father’s estate in France, he accepts one last quest for the order and agrees to deliver a package to Paris on his way home. A practical man, Gaston knows he has need of a wife and an heir, so when a lovely widowed noblewoman on pilgrimage snares his gaze, he believes he can see matters solved to their mutual convenience.
But Ysmaine is more than a pilgrim enduring bad luck. She has buried two husbands in rapid succession, both of whom died on her nuptial night, and believes herself cursed. Accepting this gruff knight seems doomed to result in his demise, but Gaston is dismissive of her warnings, and Ysmaine finds herself quickly wed again—this time to a man who is not only vital, but determined to survive.
Neither of them realize that Gaston’s errand is one of peril, for the package contains the treasure of the Templars—and some soul, either in their party or pursuing it, is intent upon claiming the prize at any cost. In a company of strangers with secrets, do they dare to trust each other and the love that dawns between them?
The Champions of Saint Euphemia
The Crusader’s Bride • The Crusader’s Heart
The Crusader’s Kiss • The Crusader’s Vow
The Crusader’s Bride
by Claire Delacroix
Digital Edition
Copyright © 2015 by Deborah A. Cooke
Excerpt from The Crusader’s Heart © 2015 by Deborah A. Cooke
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Cover by The Killion Group, Inc.
Formatting by Author E.M.S.
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Dear Reader;
Welcome to a new medieval adventure! Beginning a new series is always exciting for me, and this one is particularly so. I love the medieval era and particularly the twelfth century, so it’s been wonderful to revisit this period. I’ve also been thinking for a while about a linked series following a company of knights on a quest, with each knight finding not just adventure but true love along the way. This series begins in Jerusalem, where our knights are given the task of delivering a precious relic to Paris. We journey with them to Venice and then to Paris, the supposed end of their mission. While this is the end of Gaston’s part in the mission, it’s not the end of the story for the other knights. One knight, Wulfe, will continue in pursuit of the villain, to see justice done. Another knight, Fergus, will secretly take custody of the treasure to see it secured near his home in Scotland.
These stories also intersect and overlap, a structure that intrigues me. For example, Gaston meets and marries Ysmaine in Jerusalem, at the beginning of the quest and the beginning of book #1, The Crusader’s Bride. We also meet Christina in this first book, shortly after Wulfe meets her, but we don’t witness the adventure that compels them to become reluctant allies. That night is the beginning of The Crusader’s Heart, book #2 in the series. Similarly, neither Gaston nor Ysmaine know what the squires are arguing about, much less why Bartholomew settles the dispute, but we’ll learn more about that in a subsequent story. I’m quite enjoying the challenge of showing discussions and incidents from different points of view and hope you enjoy it, too. By the end of The Crusader’s Vow, book #4, all of your questions should be answered!
I had originally planned for these stories to be linked novellas, but Gaston and Ysmaine insisted that their story be a full length book. So it is and so will the others be. These books will be published at three month intervals, so you can expect Wulfe’s book in October 2015, Bartholomew’s in January 2016 and Fergus’ in April 2016. The additional books are available for pre-order at some portals now.
And finally, a confession: I’ve taken some poetic license with this series, with two details in particular. Saint Euphemia was a virgin and a martyr who died in AD 303 in Chalcedon. Her relics were subsequently scattered. It was rumored that the Templars possessed the precious relic of her head, and there are accounts in the trials of the Templars (from later centuries) of them worshiping a head. Although there is no absolute evidence that this head was that of Euphemia—and that relic has not been located—I decided to make it so. Also, the tunnel in Acre does exist and was discovered only recently. It is believed to have been built by the Templars and to date from the years after Acre was reclaimed from the Saracens. I decided, for the sake of Gaston and Ysmaine, that it might have been under construction before the city was lost.
In other news, my historical romances are being produced in audio editions. Right now, all of the Jewels of Kinfairlie series is available in audio, as well as The Rogue. The True Love Brides are in production and all four titles should be available in audio by the end of 2015. Then we’ll go back and finish the Rogues of Ravensmuir. As well as going back, the audio editions are going forward: The Champions of Saint Euphemia will be starting in audio production this fall, with the goal of having each book available in audio just a few months after the initial release.
Until next time, I hope you are well and have plenty of good books to read.
All my best,
Claire
The Crusader’s Bride
Friday, May 15, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Dympna and Saint Britwyn of Beverley.
Prologue
Jerusalem
Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine read the missive from his brother’s wife again, unable to believe that he had understood the words correctly the first time. That Bayard should have died so suddenly and at such a young age was incomprehensible to Gaston.
That his older brother was not laughing as he rode to hunt was beyond belief.
But Marie’s meaning could not be doubted. It was there, before his own eyes. Bayard was dead, and he, Gaston, was now Baron de Châmont-sur-Maine. He touched the red wax seal, embedded with the mark of his family’s house, impressed with the signet ring that he had only to ride home to claim.
Châmont-sur-Maine was his.
Gaston would have preferred that Bayard yet lived. His older brother had taken the responsibility of Châmont-sur-Maine with ease and grace, with a charm that Gaston did not share. Gaston was a fighting man, a man accustomed to a simple life. Indeed, as a knight sworn to the Order of the Temple, he should not have held this missive himself. Any correspondence addressed to him or any other brother was delivered to the Grand Master, who chose whether or not to have the missive read aloud to the intended recipient.
Gaston had thought it might be a jest at his expense
when Gerard de Ridefort had read this missive aloud in the common room the day before. So great was his astonishment that the Grand Master had read Marie’s words twice, permitted Gaston to examine the seal, then had finally surrendered it to Gaston with characteristic impatience.
Gerard had then ordered Gaston to compile all reports of Saracen movements, before Gaston could submit his request to leave the order. A knight pledged to the Temple could not disobey an order from a superior, so he had to fulfill Gerard’s edict before returning home.
It might be a blessing, though, to have a few weeks to plan for his journey. The change to his life would be significant, after all.
Gaston looked around the stables of the Knights Templar, situated in the Temple in the Holy City itself, amazed that he would leave this place to become a baron of the realm. He stood in the stall assigned to his own destrier, Fantôme, even as that steed nuzzled in the hay, and read the missive again. His squires had been dispatched to take a meal in the kitchens, and he had come to this place to consider the abrupt change in his fortunes. The son of his father’s third wife, and his father’s third son, Gaston had never expected to be a secular lord. That was why he had joined the Templars.
He ached that good fortune came at such a price, and that he would never hear Bayard’s bold laughter again. Gaston wished he found it harder to believe that a man so vital could draw breath no longer, but he had seen lives dispatched with such frequency in this place that he took little for granted any longer.
Bayard was gone.
As always, the extensive stables of the Templars were bustling with activity. Even though many had gone to the evening meal, still knights returned from errands and from duty, their horses slick with perspiration. Others were preparing to ride out, their steeds stamping with impatience to run. Some great destriers were being brushed down while others were saddled up. The floor was thick with squires, hastening to do the bidding of their knights, and the air was filled with jokes and commands. He could smell the hay in the stables and hear the clang of anvil on steel from the smithy as repairs were made to armor and armament. Fantôme nibbled Gaston’s hair playfully from behind and he rubbed the beast’s nose with affection.
Gaston had pledged to the Templars eighteen years before, when he himself had been a youth, and had never expected to leave the order. Well, not while he breathed. Bayard was a mere seven years older than Gaston. He was—or had been—hale and vigorous. Was it strange that Marie had not specified how Bayard had died? Or had Gaston become too suspicious over the years?
The fact remained that Bayard had only two daughters. His will decreed that Châmont-sur-Maine pass to Gaston instead of his own children.
It was a profoundly sensible choice, and one that no neighbor would argue. Bayard had always been the one who ensured that all continued on a steady course. It was interesting that the dispute in the Latin Kingdoms over the succession was so similar—save that Amalric, unlike Bayard, had put no plan in writing. The daughters of the former King of Jerusalem were locked in a dispute over which of their husbands should gain the crown. The Christians bickered, while Saladin planned his vengeance.
Gaston was keenly aware of the differences between himself and his brother. He was accustomed to war and battle, to the company of men and the good care of horses, to calling the bluff of an adversary, and to settling disputes with a blade. He knew little of running an estate, although he had witnessed his fair share of politics and intrigue. He fingered the letter again, astounded at the opportunity, knowing he could not deny it, yet strangely uncertain of what lay ahead.
His life had been disciplined, governed by the rule of the order for so long that he could not imagine living otherwise. He would ride to hunt at whim, feast in his own hall upon fine fare, garb himself as he chose, and sleep in the same bed every night. It was impossible to associate his brother’s life with himself, and Gaston doubted he would accustom himself readily to the change.
There was no choice, though. It was his responsibility to accept this legacy, and Gaston understood duty. He also was a practical man.
He would have to father a son to ensure Châmont-sur-Maine’s future and for that, he would need a wife. A bastard son or one got on a mistress would undo Bayard’s planning. Gaston must ensure he had a legitimate heir.
If not two.
He read the missive again, his gaze lingering on a detail he had skimmed over earlier for he had been more concerned with Bayard’s death. Marie confided that her oldest daughter, Azalaïs, had been wedded this very year, and to Millard de St. Roux. The timing could not be accident or coincidence. Gaston knew Millard well enough for that man was but a year younger than himself.
A younger son, like himself.
A man without a holding or a future, and one who had earned his way with his blade.
Why had Marie told him of this? To imply that the lordship would be assumed by Millard in his absence? Or to warn him of a feud to come?
It was clear that if Gaston wished to claim what was his by right and by law, he would have to return home soon, and with a wife.
If not a son.
Gaston tucked the missive into his tabard, eyeing the activity that surrounded him. He would find a bride and embark upon the task of making sons. He had seen three and thirty summers, and Bayard’s death made him taste his own mortality. There was not a moment to waste in securing the future.
As much as he might feel trepidation, Gaston could not regret that he would no longer have to follow Gerard de Ridefort’s command. He instinctively distrusted those who followed their impulse and were impetuous as Gerard tended to be. The astonishing losses of Templar knights at Cresson this same month showed the merit of that man’s leadership, and Gaston did not imagine for a moment that the Saracen leader Saladin meant to leave matters as they stood.
Here was his opportunity to change his own circumstance, and he would take it.
Indeed, if he meant to return alive to Châmont-sur-Maine and ensure the future of his family holding—as was now his responsibility above all others—he had best complete his current assignment and leave the order as soon as possible.
But where would a man who had long been pledged to chastity and celibacy find a wife? Gaston had no sisters or aunts intent upon finding him a match, nor any friends or fellow knights who maintained connections with women. The rule precluded that.
Christian women on pilgrimage oft prayed at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It seemed reasonable to Gaston to begin his search there. His expectations of a bride were minimal. She would have to be of noble blood, unwed, and both young and vigorous enough to bear him multiple sons. It would not be all bad if he found her attractive, for that would make rendering the marital debt more pleasant.
Beyond that, Gaston expected little of a wife. He hoped to find a practical woman, for he knew naught of courtship or even of conversing with women. He imagined that his inheritance would offer sufficient inducement to the kind of woman he sought.
Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine left the stables with purpose, certain that all could be arranged sensibly and quickly.
This optimism was only possible because Gaston knew so little of women in general, and of Ysmaine de Valeroy in particular.
That situation would not last.
Saturday, July 4, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Odo of Canterbury.
Chapter One
Jerusalem
Ysmaine de Valeroy knelt in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and prayed yet again. She prayed with a fervor unusual to her, her heart in her entreaty as it had never been before. Indeed, there had been a time when she had been outspoken and rebellious, not devout at all. Two short marriages had compelled her to change her ways.
It was not easy. She had tried to atone for her sins, though she feared she had little aptitude for penance. She had donated every item of value she owned. She had given alms and made offerings. She had undertaken a pilgrimage to this most holy of shrines, and she had walked most of
the way, letting her maid Radegunde ride the mare. She was certain she had lit a thousand candles, many for her husbands’ souls, many for her own. The leather of her shoes was worn through. Her clothes had faded and were filled with dust. She had been hungry for so long that she had become accustomed to the feel of a hollow belly.
But still the challenges mounted before her.
Perhaps she was simply doomed.
Perhaps she was cursed because she did not believe in her guilt. Perhaps she should accept that it was her responsibility that her husbands had died, instead of believing it a trick of fate.
But Ysmaine could not. There was the mark of her stubborn pride again.
It was not uncommon for a young bride to bury an old spouse, and only slightly less uncommon for an aged man to become overly excited at the prospect of consummating his nuptials. One did hear tales of men dying on their wedding night, so the death of Ysmaine’s first spouse had been unfortunate, but not that remarkable.
At least to those other than Ysmaine. She would never forget being trapped beneath Richard’s corpse for the duration of the night, feeling his body grow cold even as she was helpless to shift his considerable weight. She would never forget the indignity of being released by four servants the following morning, nor the smell of that bed. She had not known whether to consider herself fortunate or not that Richard had not commenced upon the deed, the anticipation alone having overwhelmed him. To have lain naked beneath a man all the night long yet still be a virgin incited curiosity, if not more.
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