The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  Might another in the party carry either missive or treasure in trust?

  There were two former Templars in their number, after all.

  The search might have been extended but the smelly squire who served Fergus sneezed and clearly was awake. The Templar Gaston spoke to that boy in the stables. The hunter retired, discontent and doubly determined to find the treasure.

  Regardless of the price.

  Monday, July 6, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Godelva and Saint Sexburga.

  Chapter Eight

  Fergus was saddling his horses the next morning, certain that this Templar Wulfe would have another challenge for Gaston before they departed. It was clear that it irked the knight to have to answer to Gaston, and also that their natures were as different as could be. In truth, Fergus was glad to be under the command of Gaston, for that knight not only knew the Holy Land, its politics, feuds, and personalities better than most, but he was thoughtful in making his choices.

  Wulfe reminded Fergus of Gerard de Ridefort. He seemed to be impetuous and passionate, a combination that Fergus distrusted as much as he knew Gaston did. Wulfe might fight well, but it seemed to Fergus that his survival thus far must have been more a matter of good luck than skill.

  Wulfe certainly did not choose his words with care.

  Fergus had risen before the dawn, checking upon his baggage. The locked trunk entrusted to them by the preceptor was hidden amongst his copious possessions. Fergus had made much of a tale that he took many gifts home for his nuptials and his bride, and had half a dozen trunks as well as bundles and saddle bags. The one from the Temple was the one that looked least rich.

  The merchant Joscelin had more baggage, so much that some of it was being carried by Gaston’s palfreys. Gaston and his wife had the fewest possessions of all. Everard carried a great deal, so much that Fergus wondered that the knight had no squire or servant. Perhaps he had been so long in Outremer that those in his service had been committed to remaining in these lands. Perhaps the tale he had told Gaston’s lady about his deserting knights was true.

  To Fergus’ pleasure, his newest squire had slept with the horses and the baggage—indeed, he had found “Laurent” draped over it all. The girl looked to be asleep, but her eyes had been narrowed slits in truth. She had been aware of Fergus’ presence before he had fully discerned her in the shadows.

  He winked at her, then grimaced at the smell of her garb. Her smile was furtive, then she ducked her head again. He was glad he had overhead Bartholomew and been able to offer a solution to this maiden.

  He hoped she found whatever she desired on their journey. All people should have their dreams come true, to the thinking of Fergus, and he smiled in anticipation of seeing his beloved Isobel again. He had done the duty demanded by his father, managed to survive his service relatively unscathed, and now could begin his life in truth.

  With Isobel.

  Gaston rose from where he had slept in the corner of the stables, as observant as ever, and silently began to groom his destrier. Bartholomew looked sleepy but did as his knight expected, and Fergus did not fail to note the quick glance exchanged between his new squire and that of Gaston. He was glad that Gaston knew the precise location of the treasure, and also that the knight did not challenge his own choice in granting the responsibility to “Laurent”. That new squire had the most to lose if Fergus were displeased, and Fergus understood that naught could induce the newest member of his party to betray him. Another might have questioned the supposed boy’s allegiance, but Fergus knew it was complete.

  Gaston’s new wife seemed to understand her husband well, for the stars had only begun to disappear in the east when she strode into the stable, clearly prepared to depart. Gaston’s delight in her readiness was most clear, although the lady only smiled tightly in response to the kiss Gaston bestowed upon her hand.

  Perhaps the knight had something to learn of seduction.

  Fergus did not intend to become involved.

  Everard was next to appear, and his brow was furrowed. “Did any of you seek to borrow some trinket from me last night?” he asked, and Fergus glanced over his shoulder at the nobleman.

  All shook their heads, their manners alert. “Why?” Gaston asked.

  Everard’s frown deepened as he indicated his bags. “I admit that I pack with great care and am perhaps overly particular about my possessions, but I am certain that items have been moved. It is as if someone looked through my baggage while I slept.”

  “But why?” Gaston’s lady asked. “Are you known to be carrying valuables?”

  Everard shook his head. “I bring much of value to myself, to be sure, but I would not expect to be targeted and make no accusation of my fellows. I thought perhaps someone sought a piece of soap or an eating knife or some other trinket to borrow.”

  Again, those gathered in the stables shook their heads.

  “Perhaps I am mistaken, then,” Everard said with such forced heartiness that Fergus knew the knight didn’t believe it.

  He turned so that he could see his newest squire, whose glance held his for a telling moment. Her hand was upon the bag that held the Templar treasure. Gaston examined his baggage in turn, then shook his head. “Perhaps the contents shifted during our ride,” he suggested, and Everard forced a smile.

  “Undoubtedly you are right.”

  The stables were bustling when Wulfe strode inside with a purposeful glint in his eye at the first light of dawn. The Templar’s expression tightened, and Fergus swallowed a smile, knowing Wulfe had believed he would be first. Joscelin strolled into the stables behind him, looking as if he had been dragged out of bed.

  Duncan entered the stables last, his expression so disgruntled that Fergus could guess who had seen fit to rouse the sleepy merchant.

  “Which of you has been in my baggage?” Wulfe demanded.

  That query awakened Joscelin with astonishing speed. That man hastened to his baggage and checked it with such obvious consternation that all watched him. “It appears to all be just as I left it,” the merchant confessed with relief.

  A comparison ensued. Those who had slept in the common room with their baggage all believed that their possessions had been examined during the night. It proved that none of them had remained awake, and so the opportunity had been created. The gates had been secured, though, which indicated it might be one of their own party.

  They considered each other with suspicion.

  “Perhaps it was one of those in the employ of the hospice,” Gaston’s lady suggested. “I know I have been robbed in inns before.”

  “As have I,” Joscelin agreed with relief.

  “No doubt we shall leave the villain behind,” Everard said with satisfaction.

  Fergus caught Gaston’s steady gaze, their gazes locking for a heartbeat.

  One matter was certain: the treasure must never be left unattended.

  * * *

  These were no good tidings, even if they were but suspicions. The company had been followed the day before, then the bags of some of their party examined during the night. Gaston feared that some soul knew what they carried.

  Yet he did not. The precise nature of the Templar treasure was not his to know, but only to defend. The trunk surrendered to Fergus was heavy enough that it could have contained any item at all.

  Gaston knew it was wise to have the trunk secured until the Grand Master in Paris opened it, but he was curious.

  That someone sought the prize made him more so.

  Wulfe considered the assembling company, then braced his hands upon his hips. “I have decided that we shall ride back to Jaffa,” he declared, and Gaston saw Fergus duck his head. Undoubtedly he meant to hide his reaction to this defiance of Gaston’s command. “It makes little sense to ride on toward an enemy army that has been triumphant and will only put our party in unnecessary peril.”

  Wulfe faced Gaston, his eyes bright with challenge.

  Gaston would not give the other knight t
he satisfaction of a reaction, nor would he reveal the truth. He simmered inwardly, even as he appeared to be fixed on the challenge of adjusting the height of the stirrup for his lady. He lifted her to the palfrey’s saddle and she tried it, then shook her head, bending to murmur to him that it should be a bit lower. Gaston did not fail to note how Ysmaine seemed to be agitated by his attention. He glanced up and spared her a smile, liking the flush that stained her cheeks.

  There was more than one way to win a lady’s favor, to be sure, and he was not so inexperienced as that.

  Wulfe cleared his throat, disliking that he was being ignored.

  Fergus chose to reply. “With respect, I believe there are others in our party with a deeper understanding of the region,” he dared to say, earning Wulfe’s obvious ire. “Perhaps we should share what we know and decide upon the better route.”

  Wulfe fairly crackled in his indignation.

  “Indeed,” Everard agreed with a nod. “These are perilous times, and more information can only improve our choice. I myself would hesitate to ride back to Jaffa. We should lose time, and as Gaston has counseled, the port might be overwhelmed.”

  The merchant Joscelin crossed himself and paled at the very suggestion. “I paid for protection!” he protested, but was ignored.

  “Five years I have labored in these lands,” Wulfe argued, folding his arms across his chest. “I know better than to put myself in proximity to infidels. We should ride south.”

  It was time to end this, that they might depart.

  Gaston cleared his throat. “But if we ride back to Jaffa, we will be hard-pressed to reach the city in a day. The roads do not allow a direct course.”

  “It would be folly to expose our party to bandits,” Everard agreed.

  “And they are bolder to the south, as well as more numerous,” Fergus contributed.

  “We shall be equally hard-pressed to reach Acre in a day,” Wulfe countered.

  “But the tidings we heard last night will have reached Jerusalem by now,” Gaston replied, his tone more temperate than Wulfe deserved. “Jaffa will be thick with pilgrims, desperate to depart. We may not find passage.”

  “We may not find passage in Acre,” Wulfe retorted.

  “But we will not have to compete for a place, not with the same vigor,” Everard said. “Those lands were scoured clean when King Guy’s party rode to war.”

  “Although we might have to fight infidels to gain the gates,” Wulfe noted, his tone acid. He shook his head. “I will not risk it.”

  Gaston glared at the insubordinate knight, irked that Wulfe would compromise the preceptor’s plan and defy his orders.

  Fergus cleared his throat again. “Of all the men in this company, Gaston has the greatest understanding of the Saracens. I have battled them and killed them, but he has talked to them.”

  Everard and Joscelin looked up in surprise at this.

  “He has negotiated with them, on the part of the Templars,” Fergus supplied. “And done so with great skill. I say we are fortunate to have him in our party and that we heed his counsel.”

  There was a rumble of assent, one that clearly did not please Wulfe. “Is it true?” he demanded of Gaston. “Do you speak with infidels?”

  “I have done so, at the command of the Grand Master,” Gaston acknowledged. He secured the buckle on his lady’s stirrup and spared her a glance. She tried it and smiled at him, her pleasure making his heart soar.

  He took refuge in her attention to return her regard, letting all believe he was as dazzled by his wife as he was. Her eyes widened and her lips parted, her expression reminding him of what they had done the night before.

  And would do again on this night. He was certain he would learn how best to give her pleasure. He put his hand on her knee and felt her shiver, liking her responsiveness well.

  “What say you then?” Wulfe demanded with impatience, and Gaston savored the other knight’s frustration. “If you know these Saracens so well, what will their leader Saladin do? Where will he ride? Will he retreat to the east, content with what he has done?”

  Gaston shook his head. “No commander of merit retreats from such a victory as this is reputed to be.”

  “Merit,” Wulfe echoed with disdain. “As if that trait could be associated with an infidel…”

  Gaston ignored him. He abandoned his lady wife, then crouched down and drew in the dirt with a fingertip. He heard her urge the palfrey closer so she could see his work. Gaston outlined a map of the Holy Land on the ground. He drew a circle with a dot to the left of it. “The Sea of Galilee,” he said to Ysmaine, glancing up to see her nod. “And the fortress of Tiberias.” When she nodded again, he drew another longer lake to the south, then a jagged line down the left side that had to be the coast. “The Dead Sea, and the Mediterranean.” The company gathered around as he considered his own map. He dropped a fingertip to the right of the Sea of Galilee, making a point. “Not al-Ashtara,” he murmured.

  “Where?” Wulfe demanded and Gaston could not hide his disdain.

  “Where Saladin mustered his troops, just over a week ago. If he retreated, it would be there, but he will not retreat. He will consolidate his victory, for it is the only sensible deed to do. The question is how.” Far to the north, Gaston marked another spot then another on the coast almost alongside it. “Krak des Chevaliers,” he said. “And the Latin port of Tripoli.” Below Krak, he made another dot, so that the three formed a triangle. “He could attack O’Akka on the way to either.”

  It was distant, though, especially in the heat of this time of year. Saladin would not risk the loss of any men in such a quest.

  To the left of Tiberias, on the line that indicated the coast, Gaston marked three dots.

  “Tyre to the north,” Ysmaine said to his pride. “And Acre in the middle, then Haifa.”

  “Two Latin ports and a fortress,” Gaston agreed, marking a dot between them and Tiberias. “And Nazareth between.” He dropped south to mark their own location with a dot, then yet further to the south to indicate Jerusalem with a cross. The port to the west of the Holy City was so clearly Jaffa that he felt no need to state as much.

  “He could sweep west,” Fergus suggested, hunkering down beside him to gesture. “Then down the coast, taking as many ports as possible to ensure that no more Christians could return to Europe.”

  Gaston nodded. “Yet that would trap many pilgrims, and it is not his way to slaughter innocents.”

  Wulfe snorted at that.

  “Nay, he has time to claim his prize, if his goal is Jerusalem,” Gaston murmured. “I believe he will grant those who are not warriors themselves the chance to leave before he does so.” His finger dropped down to the east of the Dead Sea, where he made another point. “Karak,” he said softly.

  “Unsecured now that Reginald is dead,” Wulfe noted, his eyes narrowed.

  “And the root of the trouble,” Ysmaine said, proving that she had listened to him. “Is that not where the Saracen pilgrims were attacked?”

  “It was indeed,” Gaston agreed. “For their holy cities lie far to the southeast. From Jerusalem, we look west, but they look southeast.” He tapped his finger on that point in the dirt. “I believe he will secure that passage for pilgrims first, then return to claim Jerusalem.”

  “You believe he will take the Holy City, then?” Joscelin asked, clearly horrified by the prospect.

  Gaston raised his head. “With virtually every knight in these lands dead or captive, I cannot see who will stop him. How will several hundred achieve what thousands failed to do?” There was a moment of silence as they each considered what Gaston suspected was inevitable.

  “I vote for Acre,” Everard said with resolve.

  “I do not believe there is a vote,” Wulfe protested.

  “Then there should be,” Fergus argued. “If I am to risk my life, I would choose when and where I make my stand.” Wulfe glared at him for that, but Fergus returned the look with defiance. “Acre,” he said, biting
off the word.

  “Acre,” Ysmaine said, speaking with like a noblewoman who expected to be heard. She offered a hand to her maid. “Ride with me this day, Radegunde, in case our party has need of my husband’s blade.” Gaston nodded in acknowledgment of this choice, admiring his lady’s practicality.

  They did seem to be well matched in that.

  “I guess Acre it must be,” Joscelin said, his voice tremulous with fear.

  Gaston glanced up at Wulfe. “Well then?” he asked quietly. “What would be your choice, brother Wulfe?”

  “Acre!” Wulfe fumed, then flung himself into his saddle in poor temper. “And may all of you pray that Gaston knows his infidels well.”

  * * *

  Gaston had been certain of his choice, convinced of his understanding of Saladin, until they reached Nazareth.

  It was near the end of the day, and they had ridden without cease. The horses were tired and the entire party was dusty. His wife was yet straight in the saddle, and she held fast to her maid, who had dozed often. There were shadows beneath Ysmaine’s eyes, though, and Gaston knew she was exhausted.

  The sun was sinking low, and he knew that over the next rise, they would be able to glimpse Nazareth. He was considering how best to suggest to Wulfe that their party pause there, that his lady might refresh herself.

  Then he saw the cloud of dust in the east.

  “Halt!” he roared, driving the party off the road and to one side with vigor.

  “You have no right,” Wulfe sputtered, but Gaston pointed. The knight removed his helm and stared, his lips thin. “You were wrong,” he whispered. The horses stamped and milled as despair welled in Gaston’s heart. Ysmaine gasped and turned to watch him.

  “We do not know that as yet,” Gaston said, his tone mild. “But we will ride past Nazareth, to the west. There is a road ahead that forks to the left. It is smaller than this one and less wide, but even so, it will save us time.”