The Crusader's Bride

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The Crusader's Bride Page 12

by Claire Delacroix


  Gaston turned away, then slid the rolled document into the garment. It fit well, and he did not fail to realize that she had noted the size of it quite well. He bit back a concern about what else she might have noticed.

  It seemed he had not wed a foolish woman.

  But still, this was most practical. He offered her the aketon again.

  “It cannot even be discerned,” she said with satisfaction. “I must press upon the spot to feel the vellum. Excellent.”

  Gaston had thought she might remove the document and satisfy her curiosity but she did not. She stitched up the slit with care, then shook out the garment to examine her work.

  “Let me see,” she instructed, and he tugged it on. Ysmaine laced the back, then surveyed her workmanship again before granting her husband a smile. “Secure and hidden from view,” she said with undisguised satisfaction.

  Gaston ran his fingertips over the concealed document. “I thank you for this, lady mine. Your solution is most practical.”

  “And now I will have your tabard and your purse, sir,” Ysmaine demanded. His shock must have shown because she smiled up at him. “Your purse is too obviously heavy.”

  Gaston bristled. “I have traveled with coin in such quantity before.”

  “Like as not when you wore the insignia of the Temple,” Ysmaine chided softly. “As a pilgrim or a traveler, such a fat purse will find you dead in a tavern.”

  He inhaled sharply, knowing she referred to her own experience. “What do you mean to do with it?”

  She cast him a smile that was impish. “Hide it, of course.”

  He surrendered the tabard and his purse. She dumped half of the coins on to the floor before her and returned the purse to him. She lined them up as he watched, creating a line as long as the hem of his tabard. She then picked out the hem of his tabard and began to sew the coins into it at intervals.

  “My mother bade me do this when we left on pilgrimage, for my father granted us much coin,” she confided. “Although the weight is better disguised in a tabard than a bliaut, I feared to surrender it to Thibaud.”

  Gaston saw his lady wife’s regret that her choice had cost her father’s man his life. “Did it cost so much as that to travel the distance?” he asked, crouching down before her. He handed her each coin as she prepared to insert it, knowing there was little more he could do to aid in this endeavor.

  “Nay, we were betrayed. One of those charged to escort us murdered Thibaud, then stole my bliaut one night. I was so innocent of the vices of inns that I did not wear it to bed.” Her voice softened. “I was a fool, and Thibaud paid the price.”

  “I would wager that you and Radegunde also paid it.”

  She nodded. “The thief was gone in the morning, with one of the steeds. The keeper told me that I was fortunate, for had it been both stranger and thief, he might have simply slit my throat for the coin.” She shuddered. “But he did slit the throat of Thibaud, a man in my father’s service all of my life.”

  Gaston felt his ire rise that his lady had been so abused. “I would avenge you,” he murmured, without intending to do so.

  She granted him one of those beguiling smiles. “You need not, for justice was served, and the thief was rewarded for his own folly.”

  “He did not hide the coin.”

  She shook her head. “He did not, and two nights hence, when we stopped at an inn, we were warned that a guest had been killed for his coin there just the night before.”

  “You cannot be certain it was him.”

  Ysmaine lifted her gaze to his, and he was startled by the coolness in her eyes. “Aye, I can. I went to see the corpse.” She finished the hem and bit the thread. “He was yet laid in the church, and I had to resist the urge to spit upon him lest the priest disapprove.”

  There was a resolve within her that Gaston admired, a steel to her spine that had served her well. “I might have done as much anyway,” he admitted.

  “Had the priest not been there, I might have done more,” Ysmaine admitted. “I knew Thibaud all of my life. My parents only consented to my desire to go on pilgrimage because he offered to accompany me. They trusted him with my life.”

  Gaston could well understand his lady’s sense of guilt. “I cannot believe he regretted the choice, lady mine.”

  Her tears welled. “I can,” she whispered. “I can.”

  Gaston added to the coins on the floor, moving the bulk of them into another pile in the hope of distracting her. There was little to be gained in reviewing the troubles of the past to his thinking. “Put these in your own hem, lady mine. If we are separated, I will know that you will not be impoverished again.”

  She swallowed and he saw her blink back those tears. “You are most good to me, husband,” she said, her voice husky. “I shall see you rewarded.”

  “I do not doubt it.”

  “Aye, you do doubt it and most heartily,” she argued, softening her words with a smile. She wagged the needle at him as he stared at her, beguiled anew. “You have lived long amongst men, with no expectation of marriage. But I shall win your trust in the end.”

  In this moment, Gaston could well believe it. She sewed coins into the other hem of his tabard, her stitches quick and neat. “Tell me more of this thief.”

  “There is little more to tell, save that he granted me a gift, sir, for in his death I saw divine justice. I had prayed to Mary when we awakened to find the coin stolen, and I had continued on pilgrimage believing my own sins were the cause of our misfortunes. When we discovered that the thief had been killed by one of his own kind, I knew my choice was sound. I knew I had to finish what I had begun and go all the way to Jerusalem, thus keeping my word to Mary.”

  “You might have gone home,” he suggested again, not surprised when she shook her head.

  “I had tainted two good matches. I had despoiled the opportunities for my sisters. I had seen a loyal man die in my defense. I could not return home without knowing for certain that something had changed, that I would not be the doom of them all.”

  “And now? Will we halt at Valeroy?”

  Ysmaine’s smile was like the sun erupting from behind storm clouds. “Aye, sir, I should like to do so. I believe my parents would be well pleased with our match.” Her eyes glowed as she offered him the garment. “Can you discern the coins?”

  Gaston took the garment, examining her work with pleasure. “Nay. This is most artfully done. You are skilled with a needle.”

  She paused in picking out her own hem to grant him an intent look. “I will be a good wife to you, Gaston,” she vowed softly. “I know I have failings, but I swear to do my best.”

  Gaston was touched by her fervor. “That is all any of us can do, lady mine.”

  And then, because he could do naught else, he bent and kissed her soundly once again. Indeed, his future seemed filled with more promise than ever he had expected.

  Because he had taken this valiant lady to wife.

  * * *

  Gaston’s kiss filled Ysmaine with anticipation all over again. Indeed, it seemed that he could summon her desire with increasing speed, each time he touched her. Her body hummed anew, a reminder that she had not yet been sated, and she lifted her hands to his shoulders.

  To her dismay, he straightened. “Not twice on this night,” he said, his voice husky. He held his garments and bowed to her. “Sleep well, lady mine.”

  And then he was gone. Ysmaine stared after him, feeling slightly annoyed. Dissatisfied. Incredulous.

  Cheated.

  To be sure, she was beyond glad that he had survived their nuptial night, but she could not deny a sense that she had expected more.

  It did not help her mood that she did not know what exactly she had been denied. Indeed, it vexed her mightily that Gaston was sufficiently pleased to whistle as he descended the stairs, while she was still on edge, yearning.

  He went to his steed.

  She supposed that after she bore him a son, she might be able to contend for
the place of his most valued possession. Ysmaine growled beneath her breath, dissatisfied even though she knew she should not be.

  Radegunde fairly burst into the chamber, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Well?” she demanded.

  Ysmaine shook her head and turned her back on her maid. “Well, he is not dead, at least,” she acknowledged, hearing aggravation in her own tone. She made to wash herself, but Radegunde hastened to her side.

  “Nay, my lady. Return to the pallet and lie upon your back. Raise your knees to your chest and remain there.”

  Ysmaine turned to her maid, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

  “It is best to keep your lord’s seed within you, the better than it might take root within your womb.”

  Ysmaine found herself heaving a sigh. It seemed a bit late for such an endeavor, but Radegunde was fussing around her, trying to coax her back to the pallet.

  “I would like to wash,” she muttered, keenly aware of the dust from the road upon her flesh as well as the scent of Gaston. Truly, in this moment, she would like to be scrubbed of his touch. How curious that she could be so vexed with him in this moment. He had been tender. He had spoken to her. Yet she wanted more.

  “And so you shall, my lady, after you have lingered abed with your lord’s seed within you…”

  “The better that it might take root within my womb,” Ysmaine ceded, returning to the pallet. Once she was positioned to her maid’s satisfaction, she eyed the ceiling and drummed her fingers. “Your mother was a midwife, Radegunde.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “Then she must have known much of the creation of children as well as their arrival.”

  “Indeed, my lady.”

  Ysmaine spared a glance at the closed door, then lowered her voice. “I thought it was supposed to be pleasurable,” she whispered. “I thought that was why people could not deny the temptation of meeting abed. My own mother had seven daughters, although one died in infancy. I cannot believe she would have done so had there not been some compensation in pleasure.”

  “As do I,” Radegunde agreed. “For the bearing of a child is far from pleasurable.” She glanced to the door, then leaned closer to murmur. “Was it not so?”

  Ysmaine shook her head. “I had a feeling that it could be.” She bit her lip, not wanting to criticize Gaston. “But in the end, it seemed a task that needed to be done.”

  “And so it was,” Radegunde agreed cheerfully. “A match must be consummated so it cannot be annulled. A man must do his duty to bed his wife, and she must do her duty by bearing him a son.”

  “And once duty is done, it will be more pleasurable?”

  “One can only hope, my lady.”

  Ysmaine most certainly did.

  * * *

  As much as he would have liked to have been relieved of the weight of his mail for the night, Gaston knew that treachery could come in darkness. He beckoned to Bartholomew when he reached the common room and donned the hauberk again, unable to completely quell a sense that all came aright.

  He had not died in Ysmaine’s bed, and their coupling had been most pleasurable. He had an alluring wife who would now cease to worry about his fate. Their match could not be annulled, and they might conceive an heir with all haste. He had evidence of her virginity, and he might well arrive home with his goal of conceiving a son achieved.

  All proceeded according to plan. It was unfortunate that their circumstances were not more secure. He could have savored a cup of wine or ale, for he was feeling celebratory.

  But such pleasures would have to wait.

  All the same, he was not in a hurry to retire to the stables.

  “I thought you meant to bed your bride,” Wulfe said from the board.

  “I did.”

  The other knight blinked. “So quickly as that?”

  “I saw no reason to delay.”

  Wulfe laughed. “I see plenty of reason to linger over a lady as alluring as your wife.”

  Gaston felt the back of his neck flush. “Our marital relations are not your concern.”

  “But they could become as much, if you do not see your lady sated.” Wulfe shook a finger at Gaston. “A woman denied her due abed can be a virago, and if we are to travel together all the way to Paris, I consider it your part of the bargain to ensure your lady wife’s amiability.” His words made his younger squire smirk while the other giggled. Bartholomew caught his breath, annoyed for Gaston’s sake.

  It seemed that Wulfe would make trouble no matter what the situation. It had only been hours before that he had taken issue with Gaston’s match not being consummated, and now he would criticize how it had been done.

  Gaston glared at him. “I do not know what you mean. I protect and defend her, I provide for her and I shall get a son upon her. No woman could want for more.”

  Wulfe laughed. Indeed, Wulfe laughed so hard that he wept. Gaston regarded the other knight in astonishment, failing to see the reason for his merriment. That only prompted Wulfe to laugh harder, to laugh until he was ruddy and bent over himself, helpless in his mirth. Even Everard, reputed to be so pious, seemed to hide a knowing smile on the far side of the hall. Gaston’s ears burned.

  Eventually, Wulfe sobered enough to straighten and tap a finger on the board before Gaston. “Chastity,” he said, his lips twitching.

  “Poverty, chastity, and obedience,” Gaston replied. “The core of our vows.” He arched a brow. “Though I will doubt from your manner that the second is of much concern to you.”

  Wulfe waved off this criticism. “We are warriors, Gaston, and in need of the pleasures of the flesh. Savoring them proves to us that we are alive and makes our survival more precious.”

  “My oath is worth more than my pleasure.”

  Wulfe leaned closer. “But your lady will sleep beside you every night for the rest of your life. You need to ensure that she is your ally, as well as the mother of your sons.”

  “I do not believe she would betray me…” Gaston defended Ysmaine, well aware that his squire did not share his conviction of her good intentions.

  “But you do not know.” Wulfe retorted.

  “You have granted this warning already…”

  “But still the concern remains. You must convince her to love you, for a woman will never betray whosoever she loves.”

  Gaston was impatient with the notion. “I do not care whether she loves me, although I expect there will be affection between us at some point.”

  “You should care,” Fergus contributed. “My betrothed loves me with all her heart and soul. It is a good portent for a match, and one that will ensure our married life is happy.”

  Gaston glanced up the stairs. Did Ysmaine possess such whimsical notions? “I cannot think this to be of import. My father wed for strategy, as did my brother…”

  Wulfe shook his head. “And this is where you err. You want your wife to love you more than anything or anyone else in the world. This is how you can ensure that she is worthy of your trust.” He tapped a heavy finger upon the board. “And the best way, in my experience, of winning her love is by seducing her. Give her pleasure. Teach her to welcome your touch.” Wulfe nodded, so certain of himself that Gaston wondered whether his counsel might be good. “For a woman oft gives her heart where she has given her passion first.”

  “Her passion?” Gaston echoed.

  Wulfe nodded confidently. “Make her cry out before you take your own pleasure. Make her whimper with need and beg for relief. Make her shiver and moan and whisper your name in the night. Leave her sated and sleeping each time, her skin flushed, and her perfume all over your body.”

  The very notion was unsettling. Nay, it was arousing. Gaston’s body responded immediately to the vision of Ysmaine having such a fervor for his touch. He sat down quickly and drained a cup of water, trying to hide his reaction.

  “Be the only one who sates her fully. Be the only one who can make her burn, and be the sole one who can extinguish the flame.” Wulfe wagged a finger at
an astonished Gaston. “Do that, and you need never doubt your wife’s intent.”

  Was that even possible?

  “I disagree,” Fergus retorted from the shadows. “A man of honor courts his wife’s favor and wins her heart by his deeds. That is the more enduring affection.”

  That sounded feasible to Gaston. He did not know whether he could win his lady’s heart or her passion, but he found himself resolved to try to do both.

  He also found he no longer had any taste for Wulfe’s company or even for lingering in the common room. He retired to the stables, where Fantôme greeted him with a nicker and a swish of his tail. That made Gaston wish that his lady wife was as easy to read as his steed.

  * * *

  Naught.

  One soul in the party was vexed, though it was the middle of the night.

  That cursed Brother Terricus had seen too much and perhaps guessed more. It was the way of the Templars to trade in treasures, and there could be no doubt that there was a valuable in the possession of this company. It made sense that Brother Terricus would dispatch a prize from the Temple in Jerusalem to Paris, but where was it?

  What was it?

  The imposter searched, to no avail. He could not find the treasure that he knew the party had to be carrying. All knew the Templars were rich beyond belief. All knew the Templars kept their most precious prizes in the Temple in Jerusalem. Any fool could see that Jerusalem was doomed to fall to the infidels, and surely the Templars wished to save some portion of their legendary treasure.

  The imposter had diverted his course specifically to Jerusalem to take home a marvel that was better in his hands than lost to unbelievers—or buried in rubble.

  Some marvel had to be entrusted to this party.

  But it could not be spied.

  They did not speak of it.

  They were, one and all, cursed Templars with their taste for secrecy.

  The sole member of the party awake at the late hour exhaled in frustration. The Templar Wulfe was most organized and deliberate: though care had been shown in disguising the investigation of his gear, he might discern it all the same. The quest was disguised with another, a rummage through the bags of a second traveler, as if a common thief had sought some coin.

 

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