The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  “I have left the order…”

  “And yet you have a betrothed already.” Wulfe propped his hands upon his hips. Gaston realized that other knights and brethren were watching, including Fergus who yet lingered beside his horse. “How clever of her to find a husband who will take her safely away from this city. I hope she paid you well and in advance, and that her wares were worth the price.”

  The maid inhaled sharply. The lady’s gaze flicked between Gaston and Wulfe.

  Gaston took a steadying breath and clenched his fists, reminding himself that naught would be accomplished if he followed his impulse. It was against the rules for one brother to strike another, and though his vows were behind him, he knew that a battle with Wulfe could cast a shadow over their journey.

  Indeed, they were still within the Jerusalem Temple.

  They had to work together, no matter how difficult that might prove to be. Gaston lifted Ysmaine from the saddle as if untroubled by Wulfe’s words, ignoring the anger that simmered within him. She looked at him so keenly that he knew she discerned his mood, but he offered a hand to the maid that she might also dismount.

  Aware that Wulfe fumed awaiting his reply, he nodded at Bartholomew to take the steed. “I thank you for your counsel, brother Wulfe,” he said, his tone deceptively temperate. He stepped past the knight, escorting Ysmaine toward the chapel. He was immediately aware of her surprise and considered the stables with new eyes.

  He had almost forgotten his first glimpse of them, years before.

  The stables of the Temple were extensive and generously proportioned. The ceilings arched high overhead, all wrought of fitted stone, and the corridors extended long in either direction. The stone ensured that the stables were always cool, which was imperative for the steeds.

  “This is merely the stable,” she whispered in wonder and he nodded. “What splendor have you enjoyed in this abode?” she asked lightly.

  Gaston smiled. “Our cells are simple enough and small.”

  Her eyes danced. “So it is true that the steeds of the Templars live better than most in Jerusalem?”

  “It might well be so.”

  Wulfe exhaled noisily, and Gaston glanced back to see that the other knight had pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are late, sir,” he said through his teeth, continuing again in German. “Time is of the essence, and the sooner we depart on this quest, the sooner we might return. A dalliance with a woman, whether she be betrothed or whore, can wait.”

  Gaston felt his jaw clench as he hid his reaction. “I am well aware of the press of time,” he said with a patience he did not feel.

  “And yet, you linger in the city, gathering women to accompany us. They will only slow our progress!”

  “They will not.”

  “How can that be? Look at them! The one is pale and sickly, the other scarce better. They cannot ride hard and long and would be best left behind.”

  The very suggestion tightened Gaston’s chest. “I will not leave Jerusalem without my betrothed.”

  “Perhaps you do not mean to leave Jerusalem at all,” Wulfe challenged in an undertone. “Perhaps you intend to wait until there is no choice.”

  Gaston spun to hiss at the other knight. “Silence yourself!”

  Wulfe’s eyes snapped as he folded his arms across his chest. The man did not abandon a cause, that was certain. “We embark upon a quest granted by the preceptor of the Temple,” he reminded Gaston tersely. “There is no place in our party for women, and you should know as much. What abomination is it that you even pollute the Temple with their presences?”

  Gaston strode back to the other knight, leaving Ysmaine with her maid. “I understand full well the task I have been granted, and my responsibilities,” he retorted with soft heat and the other knight took a step back. “What I also know is that the command of our mission is mine. I say my lady and her maid shall ride with us.”

  Wulfe bristled. “Your lady,” he sneered. “You need not put a gloss on the truth of this matter for me. Look at her tawdry dress! She is not lady, nor is she your betrothed…”

  “She certainly is my betrothed. We will wed in the chapel immediately.”

  “Now? And cause more delay!” the knight cried, flinging out his hands again. “For what purpose? If you mean to ensure your own comfort on this quest, you could find solace in any port. Between here and Paris, there must be a thousand whores, ten thousand whores even, any one of whom is more attractive and more likely to satisfy whatever needs you deem necessary…”

  Gaston’s battle was lost. He punched Wulfe so hard that the knight lost his balance and fell backward. Blood spurted from that man’s nose as he lay sprawled on the floor of the stable, and more than one chuckle carried from those surreptitiously watching the exchange. Red suffused the fair knight’s face, and he glared at Gaston with animosity. “I think you broke it.”

  “I hope so. If not, be sure to grant me the opportunity to correct my error.”

  Fergus, his eyes glinting, began to applaud, and Gaston felt the back of his neck heat. He had struck a brother. Though, truly, he had been so provoked that he would like to do it again.

  He could not avoid the simple truth that he had never been so provoked.

  At least Wulfe was silenced.

  For the moment. That knight sat up, his shock clear, and lifted a hand to his injured nose. His astonishment at the sight of blood on his own fingertips prompted a giggle from Ysmaine’s maid. Bartholomew ducked his head to hide his smile, and Ysmaine developed a fascination with her toes.

  “You will pay for this indignity,” Wulfe muttered as he rose to his feet. He strode to the stall where his horse was tethered, his two squires hastening behind him. He pivoted to shake a finger at Gaston. “I will ensure that you pay.”

  Gaston held the other knight’s gaze. “It is my command,” he reminded Wulfe softly, so softly that no other would hear his words, to show that he was not intimidated. “Ensure that you are prepared to depart at my order. It will not grieve me to leave you behind, should it come to that.”

  Wulfe’s eyes flashed, but Gaston turned to his betrothed. He offered his hand to her even as he raised his voice. “We shall not delay the departure of the party overlong, Wulfe,” he said, not turning to that man. “The priest awaits us, my lady.”

  Her gaze flicked to the knight then back to him. “You arranged for the exchange of our vows before you came for me.”

  “I spoke with the priest last night, when I knew we would depart this day.”

  “You prepare much in advance, sir.”

  “It is my nature to do as much. Does that trouble you?”

  Her smile flashed. “I like it well in this instance, sir.” Ysmaine placed her hand upon his elbow.

  “We should be so lucky that Wulfe chooses to remain behind,” Fergus drawled as they passed him. His French was difficult to follow for some, given his Gaelic accent, but Ysmaine seemed to understand him readily.

  “He will not,” Gaston said with conviction.

  “More’s the pity.” Fergus bowed to Ysmaine. “And so you are to wed our Gaston. My best wishes to you, my lady.”

  “I thank you, sir. You are most kind.” Again she showed the grace of a well-mannered noblewoman, and Gaston felt a curious surge of pride that she would be his wife.

  Then he recalled that kiss and felt a prick of trepidation. What did he know of being a good husband? What did he know of ensuring the happiness of a wife? He could protect her, to be sure, but he had been a Templar for almost twenty years. He had seldom been with a woman, and only then with a whore. His wedding night seemed suddenly fraught with peril, for surely it would color their future together.

  How could he fulfill his lady’s expectations without knowing what they might be?

  Would she see to his end if he did not?

  * * *

  If Ysmaine had possessed any doubt in Gaston’s conviction that they had to leave Jerusalem, the short journey to the Temple had banished it c
ompletely. The streets had been filled with agitated people, either carrying their worldly goods to the gates or securing their homes. The sense of desperation had grown with every passing moment, and she was glad they would be departing.

  Indeed, she feared they might be too late. Ysmaine felt a foreboding that matters moved too quickly, that events were sweeping along at a speed that threatened to leave them behind.

  She had not understood the fair-haired knight but it was clear that he also chafed with impatience to be gone. She stole a glance at Gaston, who was grim, and knew he would not tell her what the knight had said to prompt his reaction. She did not doubt it had been a slight against her and Radegunde, for the knight had gestured, and the maid, who was not easily shocked, had caught her breath.

  An insult then, and one Gaston had not seen fit to tolerate. Doubtless Radegunde would provide a translation later.

  Even without it, Ysmaine liked that the other knight had been struck by her betrothed. It was curious to feel so relieved that she had a defender.

  But not so strange to wish to keep him. Was it merely bad fortune that had seen her two former husbands die on her wedding night? Or was she cursed? Ysmaine did not want to find out the truth until the peril was far behind them.

  Yet she did not know Gaston well enough to know best how to present her view.

  “What did he say?” Ysmaine asked her husband quietly as he led her through a stone corridor that arched high overhead. Radegunde followed behind them, her slippers brushing softly against the stone.

  “Wulfe?” Gaston shrugged at her nod, a dull flush rising on the back of his neck. “He talks overmuch. I believe he wishes to hasten our departure.”

  “Surely you had no argument with that?”

  His sidelong glance was quick. “Your maid will undoubtedly tell you the truth of his objection.”

  Ysmaine guessed then that the other knight had taken issue with her presence. She also concluded that Gaston knew Radegunde had understood the knight’s German. Was she imagining that Gaston now showed discomfiture? Had the sharp words found their mark? Her betrothed seemed less certain than he had, and that frightened her.

  “Do you change your thinking, sir?” she asked, knowing that she should be demure but wanting to argue her own case with him.

  Gaston halted and turned to face her. “Forgive my blunt speech, my lady, but Wulfe believes that you are a whore who has made a fine bargain.”

  Did Gaston mean to put her aside?

  Ysmaine’s heart skipped though she spoke with care. “It is my experience, sir, that those who make such accusations tend to see their own truth in the choices of others. It is not in my nature to scheme so, and I must hope that you know as much.”

  Her words seemed to reassure him. “Indeed, the suggestion to wed was mine.”

  Ysmaine saw no reason to be shy, not when so much was at stake. Her cheeks burned as she continued, but she held Gaston’s gaze steadily as she confessed the truth. “And I am a maiden, sir, not a whore.”

  An assessing glint lit his eyes. “You said you were widowed twice.”

  “Yet neither match was consummated. I am as yet untouched.”

  “But that kiss…”

  Ysmaine’s blush deepened for her impulsive nature had revealed itself. “I am grateful to you, sir, and I would ensure that you are not disappointed in your choice. I have been told that men prefer enthusiasm abed.”

  “Only if it is honest,” Gaston murmured, bending down as his gaze locked with hers. “Never lie to me, my lady, and I will never betray you.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Deception is my sole abhorrence,” he continued with fervor, his gaze locked with hers. “Pledge to me that you will never lie.”

  “I will never lie to you, upon that you can rely.”

  “And all you have told me thus far is true?”

  “All of it,” Ysmaine replied. “Can the same be said of what you have told me?”

  “It is true, all of it.” Gaston’s smile was rueful. “I have not the ability to deceive.”

  “Then we shall do well together, sir. You need not fear a lack of forthright speech with me.”

  Radegunde snorted at that, but her expression was carefully innocent when the pair turned to face her.

  Gaston glanced down at Ysmaine. “I fear, sir,” she admitted, “that I can be too blunt of speech.”

  “I am a warrior, my lady. I doubt you could be so blunt as to surprise me.” He nodded once, then turned to continue, apparently not hearing Radegunde’s small chuckle. Ysmaine dared to hope that she had reassured him. He did not change his course, which was a good sign.

  Could she be so fortunate that her new spouse might approve of her true nature? Ysmaine let Gaston lead her and when he said no more, she asked a question. “This Wulfe will travel with us?”

  Gaston nodded. “We will be a small party, for there are several leaving at the same time. It is better to travel together.” He did not seem to be concerned with her curiosity, so she asked more.

  “What is his destination?”

  “He has been dispatched by the preceptor, and our paths lie together for some distance,” Gaston said stiffly, his gaze fixed on the corridor ahead. Clearly, it was not for Ysmaine, or perhaps even for Gaston, to know the business of the Temple.

  “And the others in this party?”

  “I believe that Fergus, the Scotsman in the stables, will depart with us. He has completed his service and returns home to wed.” Gaston glanced down at Ysmaine with sudden interest. “You understood his French well enough.”

  “My father hired Scottish mercenaries. He said they were loyal as well as effective.”

  “And so is Fergus, although he appears complacent at first. It is a guise, and one that works well.”

  “It is oft best to be under-estimated,” Ysmaine agreed, earning a quick glance from her betrothed.

  “There will be two others: a nobleman returning home to his dying father and a merchant.”

  “I see.” They reached a doorway then and the wooden door was opened from the other side. Gaston hesitated only a moment before gesturing for Ysmaine to precede him.

  It was a simple chapel, illuminated by a single candle. A priest stood at the altar and glanced up from his prayers at their arrival. A young boy closed the door behind them and waited for instruction. Ysmaine was relieved that Gaston had not changed his mind.

  Yet she feared the import of exchanging these vows yet again. Here was a man she could come to rely upon. Ysmaine already liked Gaston too well to risk losing him so soon.

  “I have no ring for you, my lady,” Gaston said. “But that will be remedied in France. Our vows will be witnessed by God, the priest, and your maid.”

  “And what of the nuptial night?”

  “It will have to wait until we reach this day’s destination.” He flicked a glance at her, his uncertainty palpable.

  Did he fear the night ahead?

  Ysmaine smiled with confidence she did not feel. “I think that a wise choice, sir, for it is clear that a more hasty departure would be better.”

  But instead of being reassured, Gaston bent his full attention upon her.

  * * *

  Something was amiss.

  Ysmaine was too relieved that they would delay the consummation of their match for Gaston to forget Wulfe’s accusations. Was it possible that she saw only to her own advantage? That knight had a talent for uttering poison that found a weakness.

  “You do?” he asked, watching her closely.

  “Indeed, I think of practicalities, sir,” Ysmaine said with a nod. “There was a restlessness in the city that troubled me this day, and I believe your desire to depart soon is a good one.”

  Was that the root of it?

  “Speak to me bluntly, my lady,” Gaston urged and she flushed. “I would know the truth of your heart.”

  Her lashes fluttered before she met his gaze. “I was taught a lady should not be too forthright.
My mother said it was unseemly.”

  “That was before you vowed to be honest with me.”

  Ysmaine’s smile was luminous then, and she leaned toward him. “I know you think it whimsy, sir, but I fear that you might share the fate of my other husbands. I would not deny you the marital debt, sir, but I am not in such a hurry to lose your protection.”

  Did she know that her fingers were digging into his arm?

  Did she truly believe he would die on their wedding night? He had not given the whimsical notion much credence the day before, but in this moment, she seemed most concerned.

  Gaston covered her hand with his and loosened her grip, feeling both protective and curiously reassured. “I do not mean to die, my lady.”

  “Does any man mean to do so?” Ysmaine asked, her words soft.

  “We ride after our vows are exchanged and will celebrate our first night together in Nablus.”

  “On this very night?” Ysmaine winced. “Can we not wait until we are aboard the ship, sir?” She leaned closer. “Though you likely believe me foolish, sir, I would not lose you so soon as this. I would be your wife in every way, whether my blood stains the linens here in Palestine or later, but I would beg you to delay.” There was an entreaty in her eyes that made his heart thump, and Gaston dropped his gaze that he might think clearly.

  Perhaps she merely gave him what he desired.

  He had demanded honesty, and she had promised it. It would be churlish of him to doubt her word before they had even exchanged their vows. The sole way to build a match was with trust, and Gaston chose in that moment to trust Ysmaine.

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “Your position as my wife will be better assured once the match is consummated,” he said. “And the likelihood of your bearing a son sooner much improved. Nablus, it will be.”

  Ysmaine dropped her gaze, hiding her thoughts. “As you wish, sir.” Her tone was so temperate that Gaston was uncertain.

  Surely, her concern was solely as she had confessed?

  Surely Wulfe was mistaken?

  Father Hilaire bowed to the lady when she and Gaston stood before the altar, his pleasure more than clear. “I witness few weddings in this place,” he said to Ysmaine with a smile after he had blessed them both. “And I would beg your forgiveness should I err in the vows.”