Nay, she had to give credit to Gaston. Mary might have ensured he noticed Ysmaine, but the knight had done all the rest.
And Ysmaine would be wedded again. The notion made something deep within her flutter, though whether it was fear or excitement, she could not say. She grimaced that this knight should be so poorly rewarded for his goodness, that he should die on his nuptial night like her other husbands. But there was no chance of changing his choice, for he clearly thought her fears to be groundless.
Ysmaine hoped in her heart that he did survive. There was an integrity about Gaston that she already admired, and she suspected that unlike her other two spouses, he was a man she could come to love.
Despite her initial reservations, she could see that Gaston had taken her to a skilled apothecary, just as he had vowed. Between the soup and the potion, Radegunde was markedly improved by the evening, and Ysmaine was relieved. The maid’s brow cooled steadily, and she had opened her eyes twice, sparing a weak smile for Ysmaine that thrilled her to her marrow. She sat beside the younger woman, bathed her skin with cool cloths and gave her more of the potion when she could. She was encouraged by the way the maid’s breathing became easier.
The girl would live.
The bells of the chapel of Mary Latina were ringing for the midnight mass, the portal secured against the world and the Benedictine nuns gathering for services, when Radegunde awakened. Her gaze was clear, to Ysmaine’s delight.
“My lady,” Radegunde murmured. “What happened to me?”
“You have been ill, but are much recovered. Will you have some soup? It is yet warm.”
The girl sat up with Ysmaine’s help and managed to consume more than Ysmaine might have dared to hope. “I should be serving you, my lady.”
“You should heal first,” Ysmaine said with a smile.
Radegunde nodded, then lay back and fell into an easy sleep. Ysmaine watched her for a long moment, relief filling her heart with joy.
Gaston had made this possible, and she would ensure that he never regretted his choice in aiding her.
Ysmaine knelt beside Radegunde and prayed, thanking Mary for her compassion.
She thanked Mary also for ensuring that Gaston took note of her.
How far did Her Lady’s aid extend? Had she ensured that Gaston had need of a bride, in this very moment, as well?
One matter was clear: Ysmaine would be the best wife possible for him, for as long as she was entrusted with that task.
The man deserved no less.
* * *
Bartholomew loitered outside the Benedictine convent where Gaston’s betrothed was a guest. The bells were ringing for the first services of the day when the portal was unbarred, and he drew back into the shadows to watch.
To his surprise, the lady herself was the first through the gate. She looked much recovered from the day before and there was purpose in her step as she hastened down the street.
Charged with ensuring her protection in Gaston’s absence, Bartholomew followed. He felt no small curiosity, for it seemed the lady had an errand she would complete with haste.
He smiled when she turned the corner to the Street of Herbs, guessing her destination. She returned to Fatima, it was clear. He followed her even so, waiting for a few moments before entering the shop to ensure that she had been admitted to Fatima’s presence. He considered the potions and dried herbs available for sale as one of Fatima’s brothers watched him and strained his ears for the sound of the women’s conversation.
“And?” Fatima demanded.
“She is much improved,” the lady replied, her relief clear in her tone. “I thank you with all my heart for your assistance.”
“Tell me how she looks this day.”
The lady described the change in her maid’s coloring, how she had breathed as she slept, how much of the soup she had eaten, how her skin had cooled. She was nigh as observant as Gaston.
“Then she is past the worst of it,” Fatima said with satisfaction. “You came in time, after all.”
“It was the knight’s doing, for I could not have afforded your services myself.” The lady’s voice dropped. “I have no coin now, either but I would ask you for a small measure of an herb, all the same.”
“Which one?”
“Wolf’s bane,” the lady replied without hesitation. “Do you know it here?”
Fatima’s voice dropped. “What need have you of a poison like that?”
“It is for Gaston, for he will be my husband.”
Bartholomew nigh dropped the root he was holding. He glanced back toward the street to cover his reaction, pretending someone called to him from there. He bowed to Fatima’s brother and ducked out of the shop in haste, marveling at what he had heard.
Why would Gaston’s betrothed wish to ensure his demise?
He could not say, but Gaston had mentioned that she was on pilgrimage because she had buried two husbands. Perhaps their deaths had not been so accidental as that. Perhaps she had to atone for more than unluckiness. Bartholomew lingered in the shadows and could not fail to note that when she did leave Fatima’s shop moments later, she carried a small sack. It was plain, like those he had oft collected from the apothecary. The lady hung it from her belt, then hid it quickly in the folds of her dress. She hastened back to the cloister.
But wait. She must have purchased whatever she carried, for Fatima gave naught away. Bartholomew felt his eyes narrow. How had a woman bereft of coin on the day before been able to shop on this morn?
Had she lied to Gaston?
* * *
Well pleased with the result of her errand and filled with anticipation, Ysmaine hastened back to the hospice in the convent. It said much for Gaston’s true nature that Fatima had surrendered the wolf’s bane to her once she had learned of its usefulness. She had told Ysmaine of Gaston’s injury, which had been the result of a fall from a horse, just as Ysmaine had feared. He had cracked a bone, by Fatima’s reckoning, but not remained abed long enough for it to set well. She imagined it would trouble him always, but warned Ysmaine that it was not the sum of the injuries Gaston had sustained. The women had agreed that Ysmaine would need to ensure Gaston took his leisure more frequently than was his wont and had parted well agreed.
The conversation had been a fine way to begin the day, and Ysmaine was encouraged to have found a common understanding with the other woman. Truly, Gaston had opened her eyes to the similarities between them, compelling her to look beyond the differences. Fatima was not so different from the healer on her parents’ holding. Ysmaine’s grandmother had taught her of making this unguent but in all other matters, Mathilde was consulted. She could readily imagine Mathilde and Fatima comparing remedies and sharing tales.
Her confidence in the goodness of people restored, Ysmaine found her step light and her heart skipping. She smiled at the porter as she ducked into the courtyard, sleep and soup having restored her optimism.
Radegunde was awake, her gaze even more clear, and sitting up. She had finished the last of the soup and clearly intended to rise from her bed. Ysmaine helped her to do so, beyond glad that the younger woman was able to walk to the latrine on her own and then wash herself. She helped Radegunde comb and braid her thick dark hair, and the maid thanked her profusely.
She looked to be a different woman.
“Your intended has a generous nature, my lady,” Radegunde said, her eyes shining. “I am most grateful.”
“As am I.” Ysmaine gave the maid the small package she had obtained from Fatima. “Will you ensure the safety of this parcel?”
“What is it, my lady?”
“An herb that can be used to ease the pain in my lord husband’s hip, should he permit it to be applied. Fatima says he is cursed stubborn.”
“As are you, my lady,” Radegunde said with twinkling eyes. “He might have met his match.”
“He certainly will see improvement in that limp, if I have anything to say of it.” Ysmaine surrendered the parcel. “But keep it s
afe, for if devoured, this herb is poison and will kill.”
Radegunde’s eyes widened. “Aye, my lady. You can rely upon me.”
* * *
By morning, Gaston found his usual patience wearing thin. He could not imagine how he would endure Wulfe’s company all the way to Paris, for he could see already that it chafed the other knight both to be dispatched from the Holy Land when war was afoot and to have only the appearance of command. He had conferred with Fergus about the safekeeping of the treasure. Fergus appeared to be as laconic as ever, save for the bright glint of his eyes, but Gaston knew better than to trust in that appearance. Terricus had chosen a good guardian for the prize.
It was later than he had hoped when he set out to collect Ysmaine.
Her maid would still be weak, so he took one of his palfreys. He hoped with all his heart that both maid and lady were sufficiently strong to endure this journey. It would not be an easy canter through the countryside. They would ride long and hard, over rough terrain and with no regard to the weather.
He supposed he would learn his lady’s mettle soon enough.
Bartholomew met him just outside the entry to the Templar stables, his manner agitated. Gaston frowned at the sight of him for he had bidden the younger man to stand watch over the lady. “What is wrong?” he asked. “Is my lady fallen ill?”
“Nay, she returned to Fatima at first light on her own.”
Gaston smiled, encouraged that she took such initiative on her own. “Indeed, these are excellent tidings. There is one less errand for me to accomplish this morn.” He strode toward the hospice leading the horse, Bartholomew quick behind him. “And did you hear her report? How fares the maid?”
“She is evidently well recovered, and Fatima sounded nigh as pleased as the lady.”
“Excellent.” Gaston found his pace increasing. He was filled with an uncharacteristic desire to hasten and an equally unfamiliar sense of anticipation.
“But she made a purchase, sir, and I think you should know of it.”
“I thought she had no coin,” Gaston said. “Fatima must have declined her request.”
Bartholomew shook his head. “She left that place with a package.”
“It must have been another potion for her maid’s cure.”
“Nay, sir, she asked for an herb, though I did not hear its name…”
Gaston, although a practical man, had always trusted his intuition. His heart told him that Ysmaine was trustworthy.
He spun to face his squire. “Bartholomew,” he chided gently. “I know that we have not spoken much with women these past years, and I am sure you have heard tales aplenty of their wiles. This lady, however, will be my wife, and I will hear no false accusations against her.”
“But she asked for an herb…”
Gaston recalled that his intended had appeared to know something of the useful plants the day before. He waved off the squire’s doubts. “She and Fatima seemed to possess similar knowledge. They must have simply compared notions of what would best heal the maid.”
“But Fatima declared it a poison and the lady said it was for you!”
Gaston fixed the younger man with a resolute glance. “She has no coin, Bartholomew, and Fatima does not grant her cures without fee. If what you believe you overheard is true—” he let his expression convey the fullness of his own opinion “—then she will not have succeeded in that venture.”
“But…”
Gaston interrupted the younger man flatly. “Today will be my wedding day, Bartholomew. I will hear naught against my lady from this moment forward.” He watched his squire’s lips set mutinously. “But if it will ease your fears, I will eat naught that she has prepared for me until you believe in the goodness of her nature. The feat will be easily accomplished as we travel.”
“That would ease my concern, sir,” Bartholomew said with evident relief.
“And so it shall be done,” Gaston concluded. “I bid you say naught to the lady of this matter. It is unpleasant to be suspected, especially when the cause is so light that it may not prove to have merit.” He waited until Bartholomew bowed in agreement, then continued on his way.
He found himself filled with a newfound anticipation and realized he was looking forward to his new and secular life.
With Ysmaine by his side.
* * *
Ysmaine was helping Radegunde to dress, a transposition of their usual duties that made them both smile, when she heard a woman clear her throat. She turned to find one of the sisters awaiting her attention. That woman touched a fingertip to her lips and gestured to the cloister. Curious, Ysmaine went to the portal and her heart stopped.
Gaston stood in the gateway to the street beyond, his hands folded behind his back and his gaze lowered as he waited. He could not be permitted within the refuge of the convent because of his gender, but he awaited her at the gate. He stood in a patch of sunlight, as if the sun itself would draw attention to his fine form. He had abandoned the white surplice of the order and now wore a tabard of darkest blue. The hue would favor his eyes well, Ysmaine knew. His hair looked blacker than it had and it was damp, curling against his collar, as if he had bathed before coming to her.
God in Heaven, but he was an alluring man.
There was a question in the eyes of the sister, but Ysmaine smiled. “My betrothed,” she murmured, feeling the sister’s surprise. “He took me to an apothecary yesterday, for Radegunde.”
The woman nodded, her gaze filled with unspoken questions. Aye, doubtless she would want to know where this betrothed had been until this point. Likely she believed that Ysmaine had offered a more earthly reward to this knight than her hand in marriage, but Ysmaine did not care. The sister gestured to Radegunde, indicating that she would watch her while Ysmaine spoke to the knight. She smiled and thanked the sister, then made her way to Gaston.
Her heart quickened its pace as she drew near him.
He glanced up at the sound of her footfall and the gleam of admiration in his eye made Ysmaine’s mouth go dry. “How fares your maid?” he asked when she reached his side, his hand rising to cup her elbow as he turned her toward the street. She liked that he was direct.
He led her a few steps into the Street of Palms, that avenue between the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the church of Saint Mary Major that adjoined the convent of the Benedictine nuns. At the far end of the street, toward the Street of the Patriarch, was the Hospital where the other order of knights had their abode. In the opposite direction, toward the Street of Herbs, was the fish market and though trade had barely begun for the day, the scent of fish was strong.
“She is so much better,” Ysmaine said, unable to hide her pleasure. “I thank you so much for your aid in this…”
“Good,” Gaston said with a resolve that interrupted her thanks. “My squire says you returned to Fatima this morn already.”
“I did. I thought to save you the trouble of escorting me there.”
His gaze searched hers. “And her counsel?”
“She is most pleased with Radegunde’s improvement, and professed her labor was done.” Ysmaine smiled but Gaston simply waited, his manner expectant. “What is amiss, sir?”
“Naught, of course.”
His squire knew she had been to Fatima. How? He must have followed her to the apothecary’s shop. Under his own initiative or at his knight’s command? Ysmaine’s glance flew past Gaston to the dark-haired man who watched her from the side of the street. He stood by a horse, his colors matching Gaston’s own, and regarded her with such open suspicion that she was startled.
Although it irked Ysmaine to have been found wanting by the squire, she respected that her intended was slow to make any accusation. She held her husband’s gaze and spoke more mildly than was her impulse. “Does your squire agree with you in that?”
Gaston pursed his lips. “Bartholomew is protective of my interests.”
Ysmaine noted that he did not answer her directly. She did not like the suggest
ion that her husband had dispatched a man to spy upon her, not in the least. “Did you send your squire to follow me, sir?”
“I sent him to ensure your welfare in my absence.”
Ysmaine knew that she should be dutiful and obedient and let the matter pass, but such docility truly was not within her. “Sir, I assure you that my husbands would have been of greater value to me had they continued to draw breath. I did not wish either of them dead, and I did not do any deed to hasten the demise of either. I swear this to you.”
Gaston lifted her hand in his, his manner somber. Surely he believed her? “Although your trip to Fatima will save us time this morn, I believe that for the duration of our journey, you should not walk alone.”
Was this a measure of distrust? Ysmaine could not be certain of Gaston’s thoughts when he was so taciturn. “I have walked most of the way from Brittany with only Radegunde, sir,” she noted, fearing he meant to see her confined once they reached his holding.
“And by your own account, the journey was not without incident,” Gaston countered gently. Ysmaine averted her gaze at the reminder. Gaston bent toward her and dropped his voice low. “You will be my wife and thus my responsibility. I would see your welfare ensured from this day forward, whether you be in my presence or not.”
Ysmaine studied him, hoping that all was as simple as he would have her believe. “Will you tell me in future if a man is left to watch over me?”
“Of course. I would have told you if I had thought of the scheme while in your company.” He spoke so readily that Ysmaine believed him. “I sent Bartholomew from the Temple this morning, for I had many duties to attend.” Gaston brushed his lips across the back of her hand. “I meant no offense, but I may err in the details of fulfilling my new responsibilities. They have become unfamiliar and I beg your tolerance.”
When she looked up, he arched a brow and his eyes twinkled ever so slightly. “You may find me overly cautious in defending those treasures that have come to my hand.” His eyes were so dark a blue that Ysmaine’s mouth went dry.
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