Ysmaine gave him a smile so bright that the older man was left blinking. “You need not fear for the ceremony, sir. I know the vows very well and can advise upon any part you forget.”
Gaston knelt beside her, favoring his injured leg only slightly in doing so. He was aware of the way that Ysmaine watched him from the corner of her eye and wondered what she thought of his wounded state.
Surely she did not pity him?
He stifled all the doubt in his mind and took the lady’s hand in his. They began a future together, and he meant to ensure that this match was Ysmaine’s last. Trust was the key to a solid beginning, and Gaston knew it well.
He would trust his lady wife.
Chapter Five
Bartholomew ran down the corridor to the stables, carrying the last of Gaston’s possessions. The saddlebags were almost completely packed, and he had retrieved the last of his knight’s belongings from his cell. He felt rushed, for he had not prepared as well as he might have preferred, since he had been dispatched to watch over the lady. The steeds still needed to be saddled, although they were already fed and rested. He hastened to have all prepared by the time the vows were exchanged.
Gaston never lingered once his choice was made.
Bartholomew had just dropped the saddle onto Fantôme’s back when he heard his name whispered from the shadows. His heart leapt with certainty of who it must be, and he feared for her safety. He pivoted in silence, seeking Leila’s presence.
She was in the corner, crouched behind the bales of hay.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered. “Your uncle will be angry that you are not home.”
“My uncle means to leave the city,” she confessed. “I am to wed my cousin this very night, but I will not do it.” Her dark eyes flashed. “You have to help me, Bartholomew!”
“You cannot take refuge in the Temple,” he argued. “We depart within moments and I will not be able to bring you food. I dare not trust any other soul here with the secret…”
“Take me with you.”
“Leila! It cannot be done.” Even as he spoke, Bartholomew feared for Leila’s future.
“I am coming with you, or I will run away on my own,” she said, showing an obstinacy he knew well. On good days, he called it persistence. She glared at him. “You can be a friend and help me, or join the ranks of those against me.”
“We ride out in a party of knights…”
“I can ride as well as any of them, and you know it.”
“But they are men, Leila. You cannot hide within the party…”
“I hide here most days,” she noted.
Bartholomew’s protest faded as he realized that Leila was wearing his old chausses and boots. He had given them to her when they became too small for him, because he had thought she might prefer them when she rode. More than five years his junior and a Saracen, Leila had a gift with horses that could not be denied.
“No one will be fooled,” he argued, even as he wondered.
“I cut my hair,” she said, pushing back her hood to show him. She did look like a boy, if a delicate one, with her hair chopped shorter. “I used dirt to hide the hue of my skin.”
“You used manure,” Bartholomew countered with a grimace and she grinned.
“A lot of it! No one will look twice, if you vouch for me.” She sobered then, and he saw that her hands were shaking. “You know I can ride. You know I will not allow you to be punished for my choice. I will say I lied to you if I am caught. I will say that you showed Christian charity.”
“Stop,” Bartholomew said, holding up his hand. “Are you certain you cannot wed your cousin and remain here, happily?”
She shook her head, defiance bright in her eyes. “I will not do it. I despise him. My uncle thinks he does what is good and responsible for me, but he has not seen the shadow in this cousin of mine. He has not seen how he treats women.” Her chin lifted. “If you deny me, I will find another way. I will not wed him.”
Bartholomew winced. He knew enough of the world and its ways to understand that Leila would fare worse on her own. Still, what tale could he tell? “All the knights have squires,” he whispered to her. “One of them will betray you to win favor with his knight. How will I disguise you? How would I explain your presence?”
“There must be a way,” Leila insisted.
“There is,” interjected a deep voice from the entry to the stables. Bartholomew spun to find Fergus leaning against the wall there. The Scotsman had moved so silently that Bartholomew wondered how much he had overheard. “All of it,” Fergus said with a wink, showing his ability to guess the thoughts of others that so disconcerted Bartholomew. Fergus then nodded at Leila as he raised his voice. “How enterprising of you, Bartholomew. I have need of another squire on my journey home. If you vouch for this friend of yours, he will serve me well.”
“I do, sir,” Bartholomew said with relief. “He has the greatest skill with horses I have ever witnessed. Indeed, he has taught me much.”
Leila bowed, and Fergus’ eyes twinkled. “And has he a name?”
Bartholomew stammered for a moment, then Leila gave him a hard nudge. Her elbow was sharp, and he winced. Fergus’ lips twisted, and he knew the former knight had seen the gesture. “Laurent,” he said, on impulse.
“Laurent,” Fergus echoed. “Very well, Laurent. You will tend my horses, and sleep with them to ensure their security.”
“Aye, sir.”
“For you smell as if you oft sleep with them.”
“I do, sir.”
“And once we reach Killairic, the choice of remaining in my service will be yours.”
“I thank you, sir.”
Fergus ducked back and eyed his other two squires who were yet a distance away. He snapped his fingers. “Come with me, Laurent. I must buy another horse and you will advise me on the purchase. Show me what you know, prove your worth, and I shall let you ride your pick of the palfreys.”
“Aye, my lord.” Leila did not hesitate for a moment. She ducked around Bartholomew with purpose, then scurried after Fergus, who was striding through the stables. There were always horses for sale between brethren, and he did not doubt she would pick the best mount and advise the best price.
He tightened the strap of Fantôme’s saddle and dared to be relieved that Leila was not being abandoned. She was a good friend, and he had to believe that whatever fate awaited her in their party, it had to be better than the one she was so determined to leave behind.
* * *
In one way, Ysmaine wished the exchange of their vows would last forever. It was so tranquil in the chapel, and the heat of Gaston beside her was reassuring. She could forget their departure, as well as any dangers that might confront them. She knew that once they left this haven, many challenges would be cast in their path, and she wished to savor this moment.
She hoped with all her heart that it would be the last time she wed.
In another way, Ysmaine was impatient to be gone. She could feel the tension in Gaston, confirmation that he knew more of the peril before them than she did.
Her own observations of the mood of Jerusalem made her fear it might already be too late.
She repeated her vows, liking Gaston’s firm grip on her hand and the deep deliberation of his voice. The man wanted honesty of her. Ysmaine could not believe her good fortune. Could she truly be wedded, saved from peril and bound to a man who might love her for who she was? It was strange that a little sleep, a little food, and a little hope could be so potent a mix. Ysmaine felt her old spirit returning, as well as her ambition for a marriage that would fulfill her dreams.
Gaston certainly seemed like a man she could come to love. She liked his strength and his gentleness, his resolve and his integrity. She did not like that limp, not in the least. It would only worsen as he aged, particularly if he had not spared the time for it to fully recover, and she hoped that she might convince him to treat himself kindly as Fatima had not. Perhaps this departure from a wa
rrior’s life would be good for him.
She wondered what port they would sail from, and knew it could not be Jaffa, not if they would spend this night in Nablus. Acre? Tyre? Surely not Tripoli. And what would be their destination? Sicily? Crete? Venice? Farther would be better to her thinking, for her husband would be off his feet for more time if the passage by ship was longer. His hip might improve on its own with such a forced rest.
She would keep him abed, rub unguent into his hip, and perhaps conceive his son.
The prospect made Ysmaine smile in anticipation, until she recalled that he had to survive their nuptial night first.
And they had to make it to that ship safely.
When the vows were done and they were blessed again, Gaston rose to his feet. He held fast to her hands and lifted her to face him. His eyes were a vibrant blue, his resolve so clear that Ysmaine’s heart thundered.
“And so we begin, lady mine,” he murmured for her ears alone, then bent to capture her lips beneath his own.
Lady mine. She liked the salute well.
His was a sweet kiss, a resolute kiss, a kiss that was not exactly chaste but not scandalous either. It was potent enough to set her blood to simmering, yet subdued enough that the priest was not shocked. When Gaston lifted his head, Ysmaine found herself hungry for more. His eyes glittered as he surveyed her, then he genuflected and bowed to the altar.
“The party awaits,” he said, escorting her from the chapel with purpose. All softness was dispatched from his manner, and he was both as grim and as determined as the moment she had first seen him. His limp did not slow his pace overmuch, and Ysmaine nigh had to run to keep up with him. She reached back and seized Radegunde’s hand, ensuring the maid was not left behind.
It seemed that once a decision was made, Gaston did not linger over its fulfillment.
Ysmaine could admire that.
They reached the stables to find a party of horses saddled and waiting, squires holding reins and knights mounted to depart. All had been prepared during the exchange of their vows, and Ysmaine understood that the dark-haired squire had understood his knight’s mind. She had best be ready for her husband’s choices, too, for he might not take well to uncustomary delays. Gaston introduced the younger man as Bartholomew, even as Bartholomew offered heavy dark cloaks to both women.
That blond knight who Gaston had struck awaited them with obvious impatience. That man’s expression was disparaging. Though his nose had stopped bleeding, it was reddened and swollen. It seemed he would lead the party, for he was already mounted, his black destrier tethered to his palfrey’s saddle and stamping with impatience to be gone.
“He said we would slow their departure,” Radegunde whispered to Ysmaine, giving her lady the determination to prove the knight’s expectations wrong.
She would not disappoint her new husband.
Ysmaine counted three more destriers in the party. Those steeds were harnessed not saddled. Like the black one of the Templar, their reins were tethered to the saddles of palfreys. That detail told Ysmaine that they meant to ride with haste. The size and weight of destriers gave them sufficient burden, and their strength was usually saved for battles. In the heat of the day, they would tire quickly, so being without riders would ensure they could travel farther.
There were more than a dozen palfreys, restless as if they too knew the danger of lingering. A number of them were heavily loaded with saddlebags and small trunks, more than one with a squire atop the baggage. The men in the party wore heavy dark cloaks, like the ones brought by Bartholomew, making them indistinguishable from each other. The cloaks were tucked tightly around them, hiding the blades they must be carrying, and there were no visible insignia.
Gaston flung one cloak around Ysmaine and lifted her to the saddle of a chestnut palfrey in one smooth move. She locked her boot into the stirrup by rote, prepared to ride hard, and saw his smile as he noted the gesture.
“You can ride, lady mine?”
“Of course.” Ysmaine was glad that her boots had been too well worn to fetch a good price. “If you mean to ride with haste, Radegunde should ride with me.” She saw Gaston’s gaze flick over the maid, who stood straight in an echo of her usual determination.
“Nay, she is too weakened for this journey,” he said with a flick of his hand, and Ysmaine feared for a heartbeat that he meant to abandon her maid. “She will ride with me, for if she slumbers, she may pull you from the saddle.” His gaze locked with hers and his eyes glowed sapphire. “I am not prepared to lose my wife so soon as this,” he said with a thrilling heat, and Ysmaine found herself afire again.
Then Gaston was in his saddle, Radegunde before him. Bartholomew mounted last, then at Wulfe’s gesture, the entire party cantered as one toward the Temple gates.
“We ride hard throughout this day and perhaps into the night,” the Templar told the others.
“We should make Nablus before we rest,” Gaston confirmed.
“Nablus?” that blond knight protested, glancing back at Gaston. “Why suggest that we ride north? We could ride to Jaffa and set sail this very day…”
“You should cede to the experience of Gaston,” the Scotsman drawled. “For he knows these lands better than any of us.”
The blond knight clearly resented the suggestion. He glared at Gaston.
“The road to Jaffa is choked with pilgrims,” Gaston said, interrupting him flatly. “We would make poor time and might not find passage when we arrive. The ships will be overwhelmed. We should make for Acre.”
The other knight’s lips set and his eyes flashed but he did not argue. Ysmaine guessed that he wished to do so, but did not, and she wondered why. “Do not fall back, for we shall not delay,” he advised.
Ysmaine took that as a warning. She gripped the reins with determination.
“We may be attacked. We may be besieged,” the Templar continued. The men nodded grimly, and Ysmaine saw more than one gloved hand drop to a hidden hilt. “But we carry the blessing of the Temple and by the goodness of God, we shall do all that is possible to reach our destination. I thank you for hiding your insignia and your weapons. Remain close and ride tightly together, with the destriers in the middle so they might be less readily observed. Let us keep silent, beyond the sound of the horses’ hooves, so none might readily guess our identities from our speech.”
There was a murmur of assent and a jostling in the group as the warhorses, which would reveal the presence of knights, were moved into the middle so they would be less readily noted. Gaston rode at the right of the party, and the Templar led them. The Scotsman was on the left of the group and another nobleman defended the rear. He was richly dressed, that one, so must have been a secular knight well graced by Fortune. He was older than Gaston and a handsome man, with silver in his hair. In the middle were squires aplenty, a grizzled man-at-arms who rode between the Scotsman and Ysmaine, as well as a stout man directly behind the Templar who looked to be terrified.
She and Radegunde were the sole women, but Ysmaine wagered it would be the plump man who caused any delay. He already was pale with worry and fussed overmuch with his reins.
Gaston seized the palfrey’s bridle and pulled Ysmaine’s steed to his side. “On my left, lady mine,” he said with resolve. “Be always on my left. I need to know your location without a glance.”
Because he would protect her. Ysmaine guessed that her new husband favored his right hand. She nodded, knowing she would not be given this counsel twice. Gaston held Radegunde on his left, ensuring that his right hand was unobstructed, should he need to seize his blade.
That choice told her all she needed to know of the ride before them.
Indeed, she felt a quiver of fear.
The gate was opened with a creak and the party poured into the streets, keeping in formation. The city was bustling in the sunlight, and she heard the tolling of a distant church bell. The party moved steadily toward the city gates, their hoods drawn purportedly against the sun and their manner quiet
. The Templar exchanged a word with the gatekeeper, who saluted them as they rode past.
All Ysmaine could see beyond the city gates was the road and the hot sunlight on the earth. Her heart skipped with fear of what laid ahead of them. Was Gaston right that they should head north? Or would the journey take too long? The king had led his army to the north, after all, and that was where the battle must be in progress.
If not already won or lost.
At the Templar’s gesture, they erupted from the city, the horses thundering down the road toward whatever fate awaited them.
Ysmaine bowed her head and uttered one last prayer as she rode beneath the shadow of the gate and left the Holy City forever.
* * *
It was past sunset when they reached Nablus, for even the road to the north had been busy with departing pilgrims. They rode into the bailey of the citadel with relief, their horses lathered and their cloaks choked with dust. This was not a Templar priory but a secular keep, held by a Frankish lord.
Ysmaine did not particularly care. She was glad that they had reached a haven, and could not believe how sore she was. Once she had ridden long at the hunt, and even longer on journeys with her kin, but she had walked for the past year. She felt the difference in every muscle she possessed. Radegunde had fallen asleep in Gaston’s grip as they rode, but Gaston did not appear to be tired in the least.
His eyes were slightly more narrowed and his manner an increment more stern, but beyond the dust on his boots and the slight growth of stubble upon his chin, he looked much as he had when they had left Jerusalem. It was clear that he was accustomed to such long days, and even his destrier did not look to be as exhausted as she might have expected.
Ysmaine was certain that she could have eaten whatsoever was put before her.
And that she would sleep for a week afterward.
The squires bustled around the knights and their horses, and she slipped from her own saddle, wanting only to stretch her legs. She reached up to assist Radegunde to the ground and the maid yawned as she accepted Ysmaine’s helping hand. Gaston lowered the maid with care, his gaze flicking to Ysmaine’s in silent question.
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