The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  She smiled for him. “We are both well, sir, thanks to you.”

  Whatever reply he might have made was not to be uttered. An ostler came out of the stables, but that man spared them no welcoming smile. “Have you heard the tidings from Nazareth?” he demanded of them, his voice rising with an urgency that did not bode well. He turned to the Templar who led their party. “A messenger came but an hour ago with news.”

  “What news?” the Templar demanded.

  Ysmaine saw that the other knights in the company attended this conversation avidly.

  The suzerain himself came to the bailey then, his manner distraught. “You will all know the truth of it soon enough,” he said with dismay. “We are lost! Two hundred knights of the Temple and the Hospital have fallen to Saladin and thousands of other knights, as well.”

  Ysmaine saw her husband pale beneath his tan.

  “But how can this be?” the Templar demanded.

  “On the third, they rode to Tiberias, but were surrounded by the Saracens before even making Hattin,” the lord confessed.

  Gaston winced, and Ysmaine wondered why.

  “They were snared, without water for the men or the horses, then the Saracens set fire to the grasses all around them. Yesterday morning, the men broke ranks and tried to run for the springs of Hattin. They were captured or slaughtered, the forces routed by the Saracens. King Guy was captured, along with the Masters of the Temple and the Hospital and more than two hundred knights of both orders.”

  Gaston inhaled and looked away. “All of them,” he murmured under his breath.

  “Surely they will be ransomed,” Ysmaine whispered, but her husband shook his head.

  “It is against the rule,” he said through thin lips.

  Consternation passed through the small party, and Ysmaine felt new fear. She clutched Radegunde’s hand tightly on one side and her husband’s arm on the other. She and Radegunde had watched the army ride out. There had been thousands of men, on foot and on horseback, their banners flying. Yet more were to meet them, riding from Acre and Tripoli and Tyre.

  “They were so many,” she whispered, unable to comprehend such a loss.

  “It was rumored that Saladin led thirty thousand,” Gaston said. “King Guy did not believe it.”

  But Gaston had. Ysmaine saw the truth of it in his expression.

  “But that is not the worst of it,” the lord said.

  “What can be worse?” the fourth knight, the richly attired one whose name Ysmaine did not know, cried out. The others nodded.

  “The True Cross, which the Bishop of Acre carried into battle, was lost to the Saracens when the bishop was killed,” the lord said with despair. “Reginald of Chatîllon was cut down in Saladin’s tent by Saladin’s own hand. He was beheaded before them all!”

  Gaston pinched the bridge of his nose at this detail.

  The lord took a breath. “And those two hundred knights of the Temple and Hospital were beheaded next.”

  Ysmaine guessed that Gaston must have known many of them. There were lines of strain around his eyes and he looked suddenly older. The Templar raged that vengeance must be claimed, but Gaston looked down, his brow furrowed in thought.

  “How do you know of this?” he asked quietly. “Is the report reliable?”

  “Raymond of Tripoli broke through the ranks of the Saracens. Those in his small party were the sole ones to survive, or so he dispatched word.”

  “So, it is true,” the Scotsman murmured, more troubled than he had been. “Twenty thousand, the largest army ever mustered in these kingdoms, and virtually all dead.”

  The members of the party crossed themselves at this summary.

  “Yesterday?” Gaston asked of the lord of the citadel.

  “Aye.”

  Her husband nodded once, turned, and locked his gloved fingers together. Then he lifted his gaze to Ysmaine’s and bent before her. She understood immediately. “I will ride as far as you deem fitting, my lord,” she said, putting her boot into his hand.

  “Samaria,” he murmured after he had lifted her to the saddle again. “I do not think the steeds can go farther this night.”

  Ysmaine considered him for a moment, for it sounded as if Gaston made the decision. She turned to the Templar, who slapped his gloves upon his palms and looked vexed.

  “You speak aright,” he said, as if the choice were obvious. “We must ride for Samaria.”

  “We will have to make Acre tomorrow,” the Scotsman added with a wince.

  Ysmaine felt her fear rise, despite Gaston’s apparent calm. Even at Samaria, they would not be half way to the port. She looked between the two knights, realizing the import of the Scotsman’s words. He believed that if they did not make Acre on the morrow, they might never make it at all.

  “I follow your dictate, sir,” Ysmaine said, her exhaustion banished. “I will not slow the party.” She held her husband’s regard, let him see her resolve, then watched him nod once in approval.

  As before, there was no delay once his choice was made. Indeed, even the horses seemed to take some urgency from his manner, and the entire party rode out again as the last light of the sun dipped below the horizon.

  Ysmaine struggled against a curious sense that the Templar followed her husband’s dictate, though that made no sense at all. Perhaps he simply deferred to one who knew the region better.

  Or perhaps she was sufficiently exhausted that she saw matters as they were not.

  * * *

  They made Samaria.

  Gaston was relieved about that, at least. He had seen the silhouettes of raiding parties of bandits on either side of the road, and their numbers had increased as they rode north. Their boldness had grown, too, but the size of the party had kept them at bay until they reached Samaria’s gates. There was no question of riding farther this night. The horses needed rest, as did his lady and her maid, and the road would be too dangerous in darkness.

  They found accommodation with welcome ease, which was one benefit of such a large host having ridden north with King Guy. There was plenty of space in the hospice for pilgrims, which was also well stocked as yet with fodder for the horses and simple fare for travelers.

  Its greatest asset in Gaston’s view, however, was its deep well. The water was cool and clear, and more than welcome after the day’s long dusty ride.

  Even if it reminded him overmuch of what had transpired at Hattin.

  To Gaston’s surprise, Ysmaine had not eaten or retired, but had gone to the tomb of John the Baptist to pray before even eating.

  He had been praying all the day long, which he thought sufficient. There were no more tidings to be heard, for the same messenger had stopped here first with the same tidings as they had heard in Nablus.

  Bartholomew and Fergus had gone with Ysmaine and Radegunde to the tomb, along with several of the other squires, and Gaston did not doubt that some of their party feared for their future.

  He was fairly certain he could guess Saladin’s intent. He turned the facts in his mind, reviewing all he knew, confirming his conclusions as he awaited his lady wife. He was convinced they would make Acre safely.

  The remainder of the party had retired or lingered in the common room, clearly exhausted but perhaps too agitated to sleep. Gaston sat at the board in the small hospice and sipped of the cold water. He had seen to the horses but awaited his wife before eating any of the bread.

  Nay, he awaited the consummation of his nuptial vows. The promise made him too restless to consider sleeping and filled him with a curious mix of excitement and anticipation. The buoyant feeling reminded him of the thrill of the holidays when he had been a mere boy, and that thought made him smile.

  In but a day, his new wife made him feel young again.

  “I find little amusing in our situation, or indeed, the tidings that greet us.” Wulfe came to sit opposite Gaston, his manner that of a man who would have his say. Gaston did not doubt it would be provocative and yearned for once in his days to h
ave no impetuous knights to pacify.

  It was hard to ignore the fact that Wulfe’s nose was swollen and red. His manner, at least, was less adversarial than it had been previously. He spoke German as he had before, probably thinking that few in the party would understand him.

  Gaston was not nearly as certain of that.

  The other knight exhaled when Gaston did not reply.

  “I hope we do not meet the infidel army on the road,” Wulfe muttered, and Gaston had naught to say to that. He studied his cup instead.

  “Is this why you rode to Acre?” Wulfe’s quick glance was shrewd. “Because you wanted to hear whatever tidings there were?”

  “I thought there might be more news to take to Paris,” Gaston admitted. “But I also believed the road would be more open.”

  “As it has been,” Wulfe ceded, then destroyed the tentative accord between them. “We have made good time, even burdened with the women.”

  Gaston shook his head at that. He had seen the resolve in Ysmaine’s eyes and knew she would have bound herself to the saddle rather than give substance to any charge that she had delayed them. She was stubborn, this wife of his, and he was glad of it.

  Wulfe continued grimly. “Though now, we must make Acre before it is taken by Saladin. You have put us in peril by choosing this route. Had we ridden for Jaffa, we would have already been a-sail.”

  “Perhaps,” Gaston ceded. “Perhaps not.”

  “But worse.” Wulfe leaned closer, his eyes gleaming. “We were followed this day.”

  “I know.” Gaston turned his cup in the wet ring it had made on the board. He neither knew nor trusted Wulfe sufficiently to give voice to his suspicions.

  “Do you know who it was?”

  Gaston shrugged.

  “Infidels. Thieves who would claim the prize which has been entrusted to us.” At Gaston’s warning glance, Wulfe dropped his voice to a hiss. “If we are already betrayed, there can be only one culprit. Perhaps your new wife is not a whore, but a spy.”

  Gaston gave him a quelling look, but Wulfe did not flinch. “Perhaps I should break more than your nose,” he said quietly.

  Wulfe shook his head. “Leave emotion aside, Gaston. Who else could it be? We are all Templars, at least we were, and know each other’s merit on that basis alone.”

  Gaston was not so quick to agree to that. There were men who thought solely of themselves in the ranks of every army. He had only to think of the Grand Master of the Temple, Gerard de Ridefort, to be reminded of that. He did not doubt that man had survived the slaughter at Hattin, whether he had escaped with Raymond or not. Gerard had a talent for keeping a blade from his own neck.

  “There are others in the party,” he noted, wanting to hear what Wulfe had observed.

  “Everard de Montmorency, a knight who accompanies us on his return to his father’s deathbed. If we are to be hunted for wealth en route, it will be due to him and his baggage.”

  “Aye. He has fared well in Outremer as a younger son.” Gaston did not wonder aloud why a knight and secular lord would choose to abandon his holding and his home just when it was likely to be lost. Doubtless there was great fondness between Everard and his father, and he put aside his own concerns in an attempt to see his father one last time. He chose to see the decision as sentimental.

  “You know him well?”

  “He has been at the king’s court for years and has a good repute.”

  Wulfe frowned. “The merchant Joscelin de Provins seems but a man desperate to return home with his spice and what little silk he could seize. Do you know him?”

  Gaston shook his head. “Only his repute.”

  “I do not distrust either of them, not even the barbarian knight. You, I cannot distrust or your squire. Indeed none of the squires can have a scheme, for they rely solely upon us for their welfare. Nay, it must be the women, if not your wife then her maid.”

  “Who has been so ill that she has not the strength to plan beyond the taking of her next breath.”

  Wulfe met his gaze in challenge. “You said it, not me.” He leaned closer. “Consider that your wife might have other goals beyond making a match and escaping Jerusalem. You could not have consummated the marriage for there was no time, which means the match can be annulled. At the very least, Gaston, she might find you useful. At the very worst, she might be using you for her own ends.”

  Gaston bristled. “Your comments are inappropriate.”

  “Aye? How much will you sacrifice to defend her?”

  “She is my wife!”

  “But what do you truly know of her?” Wulfe shook his head again. “This is folly. You have no understanding of the truth of women, and perhaps that is the result of too many years spent in our ranks.”

  “While you know more?”

  Wulfe’s smile was quick and bright. “I have not forsaken all of the pleasures of the flesh. There is a place for a whore in a man’s life. Though a woman may provide relief of a kind to a warrior, she should not know his thoughts and secrets.”

  “You took a vow of chastity,” Gaston reminded the other knight.

  “I am not the sole one. Indeed, you might be the sole one who kept that vow.”

  Gaston shoved to his feet, impatient with Wulfe’s attitude. His blood boiled, and there were more important matters to consider than how he might best silence this vexing knight. “I would excuse myself, before I do you injury again.” He pivoted to march away, intending to seek out his lady wife, only to have Wulfe’s words follow him.

  “If you were compelled to choose between your comrades and your wife, which would it be?” that knight demanded.

  Gaston could not resist. He glanced back with a confident smile, hoping to shake Wulfe’s cursed confidence. “I have left the order,” he said softly. “If ever you were my comrade, you are no longer. Those in this group are merely my companions.”

  Wulfe might have protested, but Gaston was not interested in whatever venomous words that man might utter. He strode out of the hospice, in search of his lady wife.

  Surely Wulfe’s suspicions could not be right?

  But who had followed them?

  Surely the treasure could not be at risk so soon as this?

  Chapter Six

  Ysmaine knelt at the tomb of John the Baptist in Samaria to pray, her thoughts straying to her aches and pains with a persistence that could not bode well for her prayers. She was nigh asleep on her feet. Radegunde was beside and slightly behind her, the sound of her murmured prayers doubly reassuring.

  Though all seemed to improve, she still fretted. Indeed, Ysmaine had many blessings on this day thanks to her new spouse. A pang touched her heart, and she feared again for Gaston’s survival, then prayed for him. She forced herself to remain on her knees until she murmured the entire Paternoster and the Ave without a single thought about her buttocks.

  Then she winced as she began to rise to her feet.

  She found a masculine hand beneath her elbow and recognized Gaston’s scent before she turned to face him. “It seems I oft find you at prayer,” he said quietly, his gaze searching. “Do you still seek divine intercession?”

  “I merely give thanks for the goodness you have done for me, and for the safe journey we had on this day,” she said and his glance flicked over her, as if he were uncertain whether to believe her. Curse his wretched squire! Ysmaine bit her tongue, though, knowing any protest would only add to his concerns. She had to find a better way to make the squire realize she was an ally.

  Gaston guided her toward the hospice where they were quartered, and she knew he was aware of every movement on the street around them. Here there was a sense of urgency much like that in Jerusalem, if greater. The rest of the party that had gone to the shrine followed behind them, and she noticed how Bartholomew remained on her left side. She and Radegunde were between knight and squire, both men watchful. So, despite his concerns, the squire would defend her at his knight’s dictate.

  What was afoot?


  “Have you heard more tidings?” she asked Gaston.

  “I but gather impressions from others, but you need not concern yourself with such matters.”

  Ysmaine found a measure of her old audacity returning. “If it concerns our welfare, then I would know about it, sir.”

  “You need only concern yourself with conceiving an heir,” Gaston countered. “I have need of a son with all haste, lady mine, and would have you round with child upon our arrival at my home estate.”

  Ysmaine could have taken issue with several notions in his declaration, but she chose the one that seemed of greatest import. “Surely you are as tired as I am after our ride this day…” she began but Gaston interrupted her.

  “You have a chamber of your own for this night. I have arranged it. The maid can sleep with you after I leave. We will eat before retiring and ride out again before dawn.”

  Once again, Ysmaine was reminded of his resolve. The man would not be shaken from any objective once he had set his sights upon it.

  Once he had arisen hale from their nuptial bed, she would admire that trait more fully. For the moment, she could not suppress her dread, even knowing it must be fanciful.

  What if Gaston died this night? What would happen to her and Radegunde? She did not imagine for a moment that the Templar Wulfe would take compassion upon them.

  In silence, they stepped into the shadowed common room of the small inn, and Gaston led Ysmaine toward a table. There could not be more than two rooms above this crowded space, and she did not doubt that all of those who traveled with them would hear whatever she and Gaston did. Still, her husband’s hand was firm beneath her elbow, and she understood his resolve. Her color high, she ducked her head to avoid the knowing glances of the other knights—particularly that loathsome Templar.

  Ysmaine would have had to have been witless to have missed the tension between the two knights. Gaston hid his irritation well, and another might have thought his expression impassive, but she already knew to pay heed to his eyes. They were vividly blue and flashing, though he dropped his gaze to disguise the heat of his reaction. His body was taut, too, his grip slightly tighter.