The Crusader's Bride

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The Crusader's Bride Page 10

by Claire Delacroix


  What had they said to each other?

  She recalled the Templar’s comments about the women delaying the party and feared that her presence was again the cause of dissent.

  “I apologize for any delay, sir,” she said, well aware that others listened. “I hope you refreshed yourself in my absence.”

  “I awaited you,” he said simply and gestured to a table. The Templar rose from that table and flicked his cloak around himself, summoning his squires with a snap of his fingers, as he marched away. It was clear that he refused to eat in her presence.

  It was hard to feel any Christian charity toward such a proud and irksome man, but Ysmaine strove to do so. She hoped that he was the root of her husband’s annoyance, as well.

  “Would you not all make the acquaintance of my lady wife?” Gaston asked the knight with a politeness that seemed forced. “There was little time to do as much this morning and we should know something of our companions.”

  The Templar spun, his gaze cold. “Madame,” he said, and bowed.

  “Brother Wulfe from the Gaza priory,” Gaston said, his tone just as frosty. “My wife, Lady Ysmaine de Valeroy, who will be Baroness de Châmont-sur-Maine.”

  Wulfe bowed, looking as if he would have preferred not to do so.

  Gaston continued, gesturing to the dark-haired man. “You know my squire, Bartholomew de Burgh, my lady.”

  “Indeed,” Ysmaine agreed.

  “And this is Fergus of Killairic, a former brother of the order like myself. You spoke to him briefly in Jerusalem, yet I was remiss in making introductions. Fergus returns home to his nuptials.”

  “You joined the order while betrothed, sir?”

  Fergus bowed over her hand, his russet hair gleaming with copper lights. “My father and I agreed that the military training would be fitting, so I pledged three years of service.” He smiled and a light dawned in his eyes that bode well for that match, to Ysmaine’s thinking. “I would ride with yet more haste, were the choice mine to make, for I have missed my lady Isobel overmuch.”

  Ysmaine found herself warming to the Scotsman, who was clearly impassioned with his betrothed. “I am certain that you have.”

  Gaston guided Ysmaine to the knight who had ridden at the rear of the party, that handsome older man who now bowed low with charm and grace. “Everard de Montmorency, whose companionship we are fortunate to have.”

  “My lady, I wish you every good fortune on your wedding day for all your days and nights together.” He was richly attired and had much baggage. Ysmaine was surprised that he had neither squire nor man-at-arms in his company.

  “I thank you, sir.” She dared to ask. “You journey alone?”

  “Aye.” Everard’s response was touched with regret. “My father is ailing, and I would see him one last time, though all seemed to conspire against me. My squire was taken ill and my knights joined the army of King Guy, two even without my permission. Since I journey alone, I asked for the protection of the Temple.”

  “That seems a most wise choice, sir.”

  “And this is Joscelin de Provins, a merchant who returns also to Paris.” Gaston gestured to the stout man, who nigh burst his belt as he bowed low.

  “A great pleasure it is to meet you, my lady, and might I say that if you have provisions to acquire for your new household, I have a complete array of spices and herbs available…”

  “I thank you for your thoughtful suggestion, sir.” Ysmaine interrupted smoothly. “But surely you can understand that it is impossible for me to ascertain the requirements of my husband’s home before we arrive there.”

  Joscelin colored and stepped back with a bow. “Of course, my lady.”

  “I be Duncan MacDonald, my lady,” interjected the older man who had ridden beside her that day. “And sworn to the service of young Fergus, I am, by way of his father’s command to ensure he returns home.” He patted the scabbard on his belt. “Be not afeared that you will be undefended from my side, my lady.”

  “Indeed I do not,” Ysmaine said. “I feel most valiantly defended in his party, to be sure.”

  Gaston then escorted her to the board. They broke bread together, and she sipped of the wondrous cool water, watching him all the while.

  The silence between them unnerved her, especially when she would have savored some conversation before they met abed. Her husband might have spent years living in the silence of a religious order, but she had not.

  If the conversation had to be launched by someone, Ysmaine would do it.

  * * *

  “The other knights have many squires,” Ysmaine noted quietly and Gaston nodded agreement. She was relieved when he made to answer her, and thought she had chosen a topic well.

  “It is the way of knights to need many hands to aid them.” He nodded at a pair of boys. “They two ride with Wulfe.” One was tall and slim with fair hair while the other was shorter, more portly and had dark curly hair.

  “They could not look more different from each other,” she ventured.

  “I know not their names, though I know those of the Scotsman.” Gaston indicated Fergus with a nod. “The squire with reddish hair is Hamish, and you should entrust him with no item that would break upon hitting the ground.”

  Ysmaine smiled. “I will not.”

  “The older one with fair hair is Kerr.”

  Ysmaine considered the blond boy. “He looks more like an angel than a squire.”

  Gaston widened his eyes for a moment. “Appearances can deceive, lady mine.”

  Ysmaine understood, stifled a smile, then looked for the other boy. “Fergus had a dark boy with him earlier.”

  “Laurent,” Gaston supplied. “He is good with horses and will remain with them each night. He was oft in the stables of the Temple, and Fergus chose not to be parted from him.”

  Fergus had saved the boy’s life, Ysmaine guessed.

  Gaston fell silent then, though he did not eat much. He tore the bread and when he did eat a bite, he did so absently, as if he considered greater matters.

  “You are concerned,” she dared to say, keeping her voice low.

  “If I am, it is not of import.” He averted his gaze then, as if to hide his thoughts, and Ysmaine regarded him with some vexation.

  Though it might be inappropriate, it was not within her to keep silent. She hoped that her new husband would not find fault with that. She put her hand over his and made an appeal. “You wished for honesty between us, sir, and I wish for confidence. My parents always have discussed matters together, and my father says a shared burden is lighter. I would have the same comfort in our match.”

  He almost flinched.

  What cause had he to distrust her?

  When Gaston remained silent, Ysmaine could not. “Did you know any of the knights lost at Hattin?”

  “There were thousands of them, but most of those from the order I would have met at least in passing.” He frowned and his voice turned husky. “I knew others very well in that departing host.”

  Did he grieve his lost fellows? She could not imagine that he would not. Did he wish to avenge their deaths and attack the infidels?

  Ysmaine studied Gaston with care and spoke with yet more. “It is a brutal way for a man to end his days.”

  “It is not unexpected when one earns his way with his blade,” he replied with a mildness she did not share. “I would wager that to a man they had made their peace with the possibility.”

  She had to ask. “Had you?”

  Gaston nodded then sipped of the water again. Implacable. Impassive. Impossible to read. His manner was more irksome than his words. She wished to know him, to talk to him and to understand him, but Gaston seemed to value his privacy. No doubt about it, he was more accustomed to silence than she.

  Ysmaine, never one to be shy, chose to be forthright, hoping she might provoke him into a confession of some kind.

  “I could never make my peace with the notion of being slaughtered by an infidel,” Ysmaine said. “I
admire any man who could placidly accept such a fate.”

  No sooner had the words crossed her lips than she knew she had her husband’s attention in truth.

  Gaston’s gaze collided with hers, and she sensed that he would chide her. “War is war, and it is not only infidels who slaughter, lady mine. At least in this, there were no innocents.”

  Ysmaine was intrigued, not just by his response but by his vehemence. “You cannot take the Saracen side!” she protested, not really believing that he did.

  She thought that Gaston would turn away and keep his secrets, but instead he leaned over the table toward her, his manner intent. “I have negotiated with the Saracens over matters large and sundry for over ten years.” He tapped a heavy finger on the board as Ysmaine watched him, fascinated by this confession of his past deeds. “I have gone to their courts and they have come to me. I have negotiated the ransom of prisoners and taken treaties from kings and counts to them. I cannot fail to look for their reasoning in any conflict, for it has been my task, time and again, to find a point of agreement between us. The safe passage of religious pilgrims has been one such point, and one of easy agreement.” He leaned back and quaffed his water. “Or it was, until Reginald of Chatîllon claimed Karak.”

  Her husband had been a diplomat as well as a fighting knight. Ysmaine was most impressed. This ability to find common ground would serve him well as a baron. “What did he do?”

  “He broke his sworn oath,” Gaston replied without hesitation. “Repeatedly.”

  Ysmaine winced. “Why?”

  “Because he believed it did not matter, if it was sworn to a Saracen, I would wager,” Gaston said. “The fact is that that value of a sworn oath is something many of us hold in high estimation, regardless of our religious affiliation.”

  “What manner of pledge was it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Only that it might reveal more of the man’s nature.”

  Gaston regarded her, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Are you a strategic thinker, lady mine?”

  Ysmaine found herself blushing. “I like to understand people, and if possible, why they make the choices they do.”

  “As do I,” Gaston agreed, his surety making her heart flutter. He took another sip of water and leaned toward her, speaking to her as if she were an equal, or another man. Ysmaine was delighted. “Reginald of Chatîllon consistently broke his pledge to allow safe passage to Saracen pilgrims. He attacked their parties, imprisoned them, and plundered their goods, over and over again. Each time, he treated with Saladin and swore that he would not repeat his crime, and each time, he broke his oath again.”

  Ysmaine bit her lip, understanding something of what had happened in this battle. “And so he was killed at Hattin for his own perfidy.”

  Gaston nodded. “I believe so. Saladin swore almost a year ago, when his own sister was a pilgrim in one of those caravans, that he would take vengeance upon Reginald with his own hand.”

  It did sound like a vow a knight would swear, even to Ysmaine. Just as she saw the similarity between Fatima and Mathilde, she saw similarity between Saracen and knight in Gaston’s tale.

  “And the Templars are sworn to the defense of pilgrims, as well,” she said. “Our party from Jaffa was escorted by four Templars.”

  Her husband nodded vigorously. “Our order was created to ensure the safe passage of pilgrims from Jaffa to Jerusalem. It is no accident that one of our order was oft sent to repair the damage wrought by Reginald and to negotiate a new treaty, for pilgrims were at the root of it.”

  “You,” Ysmaine concluded, seeing why Reginald’s feats would anger him so much.

  Gaston nodded again. “We survived here as long as we did by respecting each other in such matters as this, in areas where we might find common ground. Reginald did not care about more than his own advantage, and thus, many more will die to pay for his greed.”

  Ysmaine thought of all the knights said to be lost, and knew there would be many more soldiers beyond that. It seemed a horrific waste. “My mother always insists that there is good and bad in every kind.”

  “And she is right.” Gaston finished his water and looked over the company as Ysmaine watched him. She was intrigued by this glimpse of his experience, but she could already see that the task would have suited him well. He spoke with care, told less than he knew and considered his choices well before making a decision. Indeed, there was much in Gaston’s very manner that inspired calm and confidence.

  And she herself trusted his word.

  “Do you speak their tongue?” Ysmaine asked, wondering about those negotiations.

  Gaston gaze flicked to her and away before he shook his head with impatience. “The Temple has interpreters for such exchanges, and I was always accompanied by at least one.”

  It was not exactly a denial. Indeed, it seemed a diplomat’s reply, for it appeared to mean one thing without stating as much. She supposed it did not precisely fail to be honest. Ysmaine had the sense that Gaston might understand the Saracen tongue, and that if he did, it would be most useful if others were unaware of that. She realized then that he had lived long in the Latin Kingdoms and had made a life for himself here. Indeed, France might be strange to him now.

  “Will you miss the Holy Land?” she asked.

  Gaston shrugged. “In some ways. In others, though, I will be glad to see home again.” A shadow touched his features then, and she guessed he regretted the news that summoned him home. Of course, he only went because his brother had died.

  Otherwise, he would have ridden in the party to Hattin.

  And he likely would have died there.

  Ysmaine could not bear to think of it. “Were you close to your brother?”

  Gaston’s eyes glittered as he eyed her anew. “You are full of questions this night, lady mine.”

  Ysmaine flushed. “I am intrigued by my new husband.”

  “I think you would delay the inevitable,” he mused.

  Ysmaine lifted her chin boldly and held his gaze. “I grow to admire you, sir. I believe that having you as my spouse will suit me well.”

  “I will not die, Ysmaine,” he murmured, uttering her name aloud for the first time.

  She nodded, feeling foolish, flustered and pleased. Had there ever been a man who so confused her reactions?

  Gaston eyed her for a moment, then spoke quietly. “Bayard was my older brother, my mentor and my companion. I cannot truly believe that he laughs no longer, for he was always so vital.”

  It seemed to Ysmaine that Gaston himself was most vital. She reached and covered his hand with hers, only realizing after she had done so that she was again showing herself bold. He considered her hand atop his with a little smile, as if he truly did not mind that she was so candid, then turned his hand so that their fingers entangled. His fingers were warm, his hand strong and his grip gentle.

  He lifted his gaze to hers, and she caught her breath at the vivid blue hue of his eyes. “Perhaps it is time to retire, lady mine,” he murmured, his voice so low that the sound made her shiver.

  Ysmaine’s heart leapt. They were far from safety as yet, and she did not want to lose her defender. She wanted to entreat him, yet did not want him to have more doubts about her intent. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

  Gaston squeezed her fingers. “It will not take long, and I will rest easier knowing the obligation is fulfilled.” He smiled at her. “You might rest easier knowing your fear to be groundless.”

  Ysmaine understood that she would not change his thinking, and it was his right to demand the marital debt. She rose to her feet and bowed, hoping the wild pace of her heart did not show.

  “I shall await your pleasure, sir,” she said with a little bow. There was a lump in her throat and her voice sounded strained. Certainly, her palms were damp. “And will be prepared to ride on the morrow at your earliest command.”

  She spun then, terrified that she would see a third husband dead this very nigh
t, then tried to climb the stairs with composure. She did not doubt the blond Templar would happily abandon her and Radegunde if Gaston could not insist upon them being in the party.

  What would become of them if he was lost?

  How could Ysmaine ensure he was not?

  * * *

  Radegunde followed Ysmaine and helped her lady to unlace her kirtle. Ysmaine’s hands were shaking but the maid pretended not to notice. She folded the kirtle and surcoat, then put Ysmaine’s stockings atop them. She combed out Ysmaine’s hair, admiring it when it was spread over her lady’s shoulders.

  “I wish I had hair of such a hue,” she murmured. “It is like spun gold.”

  “Yours is like dark silk, Radegunde, and the wave of it most pretty.”

  “Ah, but men are said to prefer flaxen hair.”

  Ysmaine had not found it that much of an advantage to be considered appealing by men, but she refrained from such comment. “I hope only that my husband likes it.”

  A heavy foot sounded on the stair and both women glanced that way. Ysmaine’s heart was thundering and it seemed she could not draw a full breath.

  “You would tempt a saint, my lady,” Radegunde murmured by way of encouragement, then smiled and left when Ysmaine did not reply. She heard maid and husband exchange a cursory greeting, but kept her back to the door.

  The room was small and simply furnished, for there was only a straw pallet upon the floor. It had no window, and she guessed that once Gaston entered, it would seem full indeed.

  The door opened, and she caught her breath.

  It was warm, but she felt a shiver deep inside that she wore only her chemise. She folded her arms around herself and strove not to tremble in dread. The silence did little to reassure her. It made it far too easy to recall Richard’s bulk motionless atop her, and when she inhaled, she was sure she smelled him again.

 

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