The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  Her kirtle had once been crimson, a costly hue, but had faded to a pale rose. He could see the true color along the seams. The embroidery on the hem had been golden and rich, but now was brown and dusty. He was no good judge of women’s clothing but he recalled his father’s enumerations of the expenses of a wife well enough.

  This woman’s cloak, too, had once been richest purple, another costly dyestuff, and looked as if the fur lining had been cut out of it. Perhaps she had sold it en route to finance her journey. She held up her chin and did not cast her eyes downward, a mark of her aristocratic status that could not be disguised by grime.

  He liked her humility, and that she traveled as a true pilgrim. He admired the vigor of her faith and the strength of her devotion to Mary. He respected that she held her chin high, though clearly she faced many challenges. She wore no wedding ring, but kept her head covered, even when she left the church. She had been married then, but was no longer. There was something about her that snared his attention, a blend of vulnerability and strength, perhaps.

  By this, the third day he had seen her, Gaston was resolved that she was a logical choice of bride.

  When she rose from her prayers and wavered, apparently so hungry as to be faint, he knew it was time to speak to her.

  Within moments, she had surprised him thrice: by her conviction that he sought a whore’s favors; by her apparent resolve to decline the coin she so clearly needed; and finally by her request for an apothecary. She thought of her maid before herself, which was both rare and admirable.

  Indeed, a clever and compassionate wife would suit Gaston well.

  She walked beside him, as tall as a queen, her manner making people step back to give way. It was past midday and the sun was hot, dust rising from the streets as they walked. Throngs of pilgrims made their way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, though he and his lady companion walked against the tide. The Street of Palms was thick with pilgrims and vendors selling dried palms. On either side of the street, vendors hawked their wares, shouting the advantages of their goods over the human sea of those come to worship. The lady seemed to draw a little closer to him as the vendors took note of them, that coin locked in her grasp even as she ducked the entreaties on all sides.

  Gaston suspected he would not miss these congested routes once he left the city. Indeed, it would be good to ride over verdant hills again and he knew that his destrier would not miss the heat. The climate was hard upon the great warhorses, and even though his had been bred in this region, he would be glad to take Fantôme to France. It was time for his destrier to graze at pasture, a reward for his years of good service.

  Home. How curious that he had not thought of Châmont-sur-Maine as home until so recently. Home had been at the Temple, either here in Jerusalem or in Paris.

  Gaston escorted the lady, as he had vowed, to the best apothecary in the Street of Herbs. He knew he was not the only one to breathe in relief once they stepped into the darkness of the shop. It smelled of dried herbs and the fire from a brazier. One glimpse of the insignia on his tabard and they were ushered into the back room where the old woman held court amid her roots and potions.

  She had dark eyes and golden skin, and her hair had once been dark as well. Now it was lined with silver, and her eyes were narrowed, her face lined. Fatima had seen much and suffered fools poorly. Her skill was exceptional, though, and her sons allowed her to do some trade with Gentiles, for the coin made their life simpler.

  Gaston and the knights of the Temple were among those preferred clients. It was not until they stood before Fatima and his companion caught her breath that Gaston realized he might have erred.

  “She is an infidel,” the lady protested, speaking both in French and under her breath. Gaston feared that this noblewoman might share the views of so many of his brethren.

  He had no chance to comment, though. Fatima straightened, fixing Gaston’s companion with a stern eye. “Who exactly is the infidel?” she demanded in perfect French, then scoffed.

  The lady glanced up at Gaston in confusion, and he doubted she had even spoken to a Saracen before.

  “Our lives are mingled in this place,” he said mildly. “And together we fare better than alone.”

  Her lips parted, then tightened.

  “The knowledge of the Saracens, my lady, is much admired in matters of medicine.” Gaston wondered if she would believe him, or whether she would trust him. “And Fatima’s skill is exceptional. You did ask for the best apothecary in Jerusalem.”

  Fatima nodded, his endorsement restoring her good humor. She nodded at him, indicating his hip. “Better?”

  He shrugged. “No worse, which is a blessing in itself.”

  “You are not sufficiently kind to yourself,” Fatima began her usual scolding, but Gaston lifted a hand.

  “On this day, the lady has need of your skills.” He was well aware that his companion listened to this exchange.

  The noblewoman squared her shoulders again, then inclined her head to the older woman. “I apologize for my rudeness. My mistaken belief that you would not understand me does not excuse my poor manners. I was simply surprised.”

  Gaston was relieved by this speech, and Fatima nodded. “And you have need of me,” she noted, her gaze flicking over the woman by Gaston’s side. “What ails you?”

  “My maid has a fever.”

  “When did it begin? How long has it endured? Tell me all of it.” The older woman bowed her head and closed her eyes to listen, nodding at intervals as the noblewoman provided details. Gaston was impressed that she was so thorough and observant.

  When his lady companion fell silent, Fatima blew through her lips. “It is as so oft befalls the Franj here,” she murmured, shaking her head as if his fellows should have the wits to stay home. “But worse.”

  The noblewoman caught her breath in fear.

  But Fatima reached without hesitation for a number of herbs, crumbling them into a mortar. Her confidence and her rhythmic movements seemed to reassure his companion. Roots were added and all ground together with the pestle, the pungent scent of the herbs rising to tease Gaston’s nostrils. “You noted her symptoms well,” Fatima said as she mixed, her gaze flicking to the noblewoman.

  “My grandmother knew much of the useful plants. She taught me some of her cures, so I would have some such skills to take to my husband’s household, but mostly, she advised me how to look.”

  “So that a more skilled healer could aid you.” Fatima nodded. “This is more wise than sharing the cure.”

  The noblewoman smiled. “She said as much herself.” The two women exchanged a glance, understanding each other, then Fatima hummed as she continued to assemble the ingredients. Gaston and the noblewoman stood silently together, waiting.

  Fatima then—as was her wont—suddenly glanced up and put out her hand, palm up.

  Some signs were universal.

  The noblewoman put Gaston’s silver penny on Fatima’s palm without hesitation. Fatima bit it, nodded at the quality of the silver, then glanced at Gaston as if she understood its origin. She said naught, but poured the dry combination of herbs into a crockery cup and offered it to the noblewoman. “Four times you will give it, one quarter of this each time heated in wine. On the morrow, you will return and tell me how she fares.”

  The lady shook her head. “This will have to suffice. I have no more coin and I would not beg more charity…”

  “You have paid for a cure and will have it. You need bring no more coin on the morrow.” The older woman’s dark eyes glinted and she smiled. “Even an infidel can keep a bargain such as that.”

  “I thank you, Fatima,” Gaston said with a bow.

  She let the coin flash before it disappeared. “And I thank you, Franji. Take your ease in the evening, instead of striding about the Temple, and your hip will welcome the change.”

  “It is not always my choice, Fatima,” Gaston acknowledged, well aware that the noblewoman listened avidly. He liked the idea of a wife w
ho could help to ensure the health and welfare of those sworn to his service. They said their farewells and left the shop, the street seeming more hot and congested than it had been before.

  The noblewoman let Gaston guide her back to the street, then halted to confront him. “I thank you for your assistance…”

  “You have need of a meal yet,” he interrupted.

  Her eyes flashed in a most beguiling manner. “I will not be further indebted to you…”

  He interrupted her flatly. “My lady, no healing can occur when a body is so weakened by lack of food, and you know it as well as I do. Your maid must be as hungry as you are. In the Street of Cookery, which is close by, we will find hot soup.”

  She licked her lips in anticipation, probably not even aware that she did as much, her hunger undermining her argument. “But…”

  Gaston shook his head. “I can well afford a pot of soup. I will carry it back to your lodgings for you, so it is not spilled.” Indeed, she was so unsteady on her feet that he scarce trusted her with the herbal remedy, though he already suspected that she would fight him for possession of it.

  She had a will of iron, this one, which he also liked.

  “Nay.” The lady did not move and her lips set with resolve. “You cannot take responsibility for me so readily as that. I am not a stray hound to be gathered up, with no understanding of your intention…”

  He set one heavy finger against her lips and her eyes widened at his bold touch even as she fell silent. Gaston saw no reason to argue with her, and indeed, he suspected that his sensible plan would meet with her approval. She seemed a most practical woman.

  “I mean to make you my lady wife, and that cannot be done if you are faint with hunger.” He saw her astonishment, knowing that he had fully captured her attention. “As my betrothed, you are rightly my responsibility, and the expenditure of some measure of coin to ensure your welfare, as well as that of your maid, is of little concern.” Gaston turned to walk to the Street of Cookery, fully confident that the lady would follow.

  He smiled when he heard her footstep behind him, for he was right.

  Chapter Two

  Wed?

  Did the Templars accept madmen into their service?

  Ysmaine hastened after the knight who had shown her such kindness, noting that he neither slowed his pace nor apparently doubted that she would pursue him. He moved quickly, despite that limp.

  “You cannot mean to do as much,” she protested when she was just behind him again. He turned, placing his hand beneath her elbow again and guiding her beside him. His grace and his manners were admirable, even if his notions were odd.

  “Why ever not?”

  “You wear the insignia of the Templars, an order of warrior monks. Surely that means you are pledged to poverty, chastity, and obedience?”

  “My days as a Templar knight have come to an end,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “My older brother has died, leaving me heir to our family holding.” She glanced up to find him staring down at her, and her heart leapt when their gazes collided. “I return to France to claim my due, thus I have need of a bride.”

  “But you know naught of me!”

  “I know one truth of your nature. You thought of your maid’s health before your own hunger. Such consideration and selflessness is admirable.”

  Ysmaine was momentarily speechless. He led her into another street, this one familiar to her. It was crowded with vendors of all manner of foodstuffs, the air redolent with the mingled scents of fresh baking, smoked fish, roasting meat, and savory soups. She had avoided this street fastidiously, and her belly growled loudly in complaint at those tempting scents. Again, the crowds parted to make way for her powerful companion, and Ysmaine found it a relief to not to have to shove her way through this congestion.

  “That is what you wanted in exchange for the coin,” she said, realizing that little was an accident with this man. “To glimpse my nature.”

  “Indeed. And I admire what you showed to me.”

  “But you know naught of my family…”

  “Your garb is faded but it was not cheaply won.”

  “I could have stolen it.”

  “You carry yourself as one born to privilege.”

  “You do not know my name, and I do not know yours.”

  “That can be readily resolved.” He halted in the midst of the bustling street to bend low over her hand. “Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine at your service, my lady.”

  Châmont-sur-Maine. Ysmaine had heard of that holding. It was near Angers, its lord an ally to the duke himself. This knight was Angevin then, which explained why his speech did not sound accented to her. Angers was the key to France, standing on the border of Brittany, where Ysmaine had grown up.

  She had come all this way, only to meet a husband whose holding was close to her own home. And a rich holding, too.

  Her father would be pleased.

  If this Gaston did not lie.

  “Surely you jest,” Ysmaine protested.

  His gaze hardened slightly. “My name is no jest, my lady.”

  “Of course not,” she said with haste. “I simply know of that holding.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Indeed?”

  “I am Ysmaine de Valeroy.”

  Gaston blinked. “When I was earning my spurs, Amaury de Valeroy wed Richildis…

  His words proved that he knew something of the area, at least. “My parents,” Ysmaine supplied with a smile. “I am eldest of six daughters.”

  He winced at that, then frowned. “How is it that you are here with only a maid in your service?”

  “I wished to undertake a pilgrimage. My parents agreed with reluctance, and only when a man long in their service agreed to accompany me. I knew Thibaud all of my life, and my father trusted him fully.”

  “You speak of him as if he were lost.”

  Ysmaine’s tears fell with her confession, for she felt great guilt at this loss. “We were betrayed by the other men hired for our party. Thibaud was killed, and we were robbed.”

  Gaston’s gaze was searching, his eyes bright. “You could have returned home,” he suggested gently.

  Ysmaine shook her head. “I thought it a test, sir. I thought my fortune could only be changed by completing my pilgrimage and overcoming adversity.” She bit her lip, then admitted the worst of it. “I am said to be stubborn, sir.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in welcome amusement. “Yet that trait has served you well. You persevered and it seems your conviction has proven true.” He might have led her onward, but Ysmaine gripped his fingers.

  “Know that I cannot wed you, sir.”

  Gaston’s scowl was fierce. “Why ever not? Are you pledged to another?”

  “I have wed twice, sir, and been widowed twice. No man survives his nuptial night with me, it appears, and you, sir, have been too kind to deserve such a fate.”

  He smiled fully then, the expression lighting his eyes and softening his features so that Ysmaine’s breath was fair stolen away. “Is that your sole objection, my lady?”

  “It is not inconsequential…”

  “And I have not survived eighteen years in service to the Templars because I can be so readily dispatched from this world as that.” His lips touched the back of her hand again then he straightened, his gesture more proprietary when he captured her elbow in his hand once more. “We shall wed,” he concluded, as if it were beyond dispute.

  Ysmaine might have argued with him again, but she doubted it would make any difference to his view. He was determined, she would give him that. And she had warned him. If Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine was resolved to aid her, even knowing the truth of her curse, perhaps it was divine intervention at work.

  Perhaps her fortune had changed.

  “Eighteen years?” she dared to ask, feeling her old confidence begin to muster anew. “You must have been young, indeed.”

  “A mere youth of fifteen summers, but tall for my age.” He raised his brows before she
could ask. “And too fierce an opponent for my cousin. My uncle dubbed me young to be rid of me.” He showed no emotion in this confidence and truly, Ysmaine wondered whether it troubled him to have been so hastened on his way. She knew that boys were sent to their uncles to be trained as knights, but she had never heard of one being granted his spurs before he turned sixteen.

  “You do not resent your uncle’s choice?” she dared to ask.

  “If once I did, those days are gone. I joined the Templars, lived well, fought honorably and learned much. There is no cause for complaint in that.”

  Ysmaine liked that he showed no bitterness. Indeed, he was almost dismissive of her concern, entering a stall to acquire soup. She watched through her lashes as he negotiated for a pot of soup, and allowed herself to admire him. Of all the men she had wed, he was the youngest, the most hale, and the most handsome. He was possessed of honor and seemed most temperate. Mary had answered her prayers, to be sure.

  Perhaps she should pray for his survival of their nuptial night.

  * * *

  Gaston returned to the Temple, his optimism restored.

  Ysmaine would suit him well.

  He entered the stables with a light step, startled despite himself at how quiet they were. He and Ysmaine would be gone before the stables were busy again.

  He considered the practicalities. There were ships leaving regularly from the three crusader ports, Jaffa, Acre, and Tyre. Jaffa was nigh overwhelmed by departing pilgrims, he had learned, and also the road was clogged with those who were compelled to walk. Gaston was reviewing the relative merit of the other two ports, when Bartholomew raced around the corner and seized Gaston’s tabard.

  “My lord!” His squire’s hair was tousled and his eyes were wide. Gaston was struck in that moment by the realization that the boy he had taken under his care as squire had become a man. Bartholomew must have seen twenty-three summers, but Gaston still thought of him as the stubborn urchin who had insisted upon carrying his helm when Gaston had ridden out from the Temple in Paris. It had quickly become clear to Gaston that the boy had no home or kin, so he had trained him as his own squire rather than leave him to starve.