Gaston lifted his blade, determined that if he could make a single blow, it would count.
“Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine!” the man exclaimed and tugged the scarf away to reveal his face.
“Ibrahim al Abdul al Rashid!” Gaston declared in surprise. They two had negotiated countless times over the exchange of hostages and the ransoming of captives. Indeed, he had oft requested that Ibrahim speak for the Saracen warlords, for he trusted the man to promise only what could be done, and to keep his word.
“But you are alive!” Ibrahim declared, revealing that he had expected Gaston to be with his brethren at Hattin. “Where is your Templar tabard?” that man demanded without granting Gaston a chance to reply. “Why are you not in Jerusalem? And how is it that you have a wife?”
“I have left the order,” Gaston explained, switching to his halting Arabic, for he thought the courtesy would not be misplaced. “I return home, for my brother has died and made me heir.”
Ibrahim nodded with understanding. “And so you have a wife, for you have need of a son.” He shook his head. “And you would sail from Acre, though Jaffa would have been closer?”
“The road is choked with pilgrims, who flee for fear of Saladin,” Gaston said. “I wished the horses to run before being confined on the ship.”
It was but part of the truth, and he saw that Ibrahim realized as much.
He knew that Ibrahim was not in this place by accident, yet would not confide that truth to him. The strength of their relationship had always been rooted in an understanding of what was too much to ask.
“And this party?” Ibrahim prompted.
“A final party of pilgrims escorted to the port, except I find myself in their number now.”
Ibrahim considered this. “I had thought yours a spying party, my friend.”
Gaston guessed that Ibrahim was a scout himself. Saladin was making for the port. He was surprised by the choice, but he would not declare as much aloud. The Saracen leader’s patience must be fully expired.
He nodded at the eastern sky. “No man has need of a spy to guess the import of that cloud of dust.” Ibrahim averted his gaze but Gaston continued softly. “Or to realize that tomorrow night will be a moonless one.”
Ibrahim flicked a knowing glance at Gaston, and Gaston understood that Acre would be besieged the next night. He prayed anew that Ysmaine was on a ship that had set sail by then and hoped that Wulfe found them passage.
“Yet you came from Jerusalem?”
“Aye.”
Ibrahim sidled closer, his eyes narrowed as he dropped his voice. “What do you know of a girl?”
Gaston frowned, thinking he had misunderstood. “A girl?”
“One of my kinsmen complains that his niece has been abducted by the Franj and carried from Jerusalem. She is a beauty with a high bride price and he is not pleased. Is this girl in your party, by chance?”
It would have been quite the coincidence if she had been. Yet, the party had been followed for two days, ever since they had left Jerusalem. Was this why?
Gaston had to hope as much. Saracens in search of a missing girl were a better option than a thief seeking to claim the Templar treasure.
He shook his head, aware that Ibrahim watched him closely. “Nay, I know naught of this. We are men traveling together, with squires and horses. My wife and her maid are the sole women in our party.”
“Your wife?”
“Ysmaine de Valeroy. She is the one who called my name.”
Ibrahim nodded at this, his gaze flicking to the man who had made the report.
“Her hair is gold of hue. I doubt she bears any resemblance to the girl you seek.”
Ibrahim cast the man a look, and he nodded.
“And the maid?”
“Radegunde. They came on pilgrimage together and the maid nigh died in the Holy City. The healer Fatima was of aid.”
Ibrahim considered Gaston. “But Fatima is leagues away, and I will guess that she did not glimpse the maid. Fatima would not have been allowed into any of the places a Franj noblewoman might stay.”
“She did not,” Gaston agreed. “So, it is my word you must accept that the maid is not the maiden you seek. She has served my lady and her family for years.”
“You vouch for her?”
“I do.”
Ibrahim’s gaze was unswerving. “Swear it. Swear it on the relic in your blade.”
Gaston did as much without hesitation. There was a golden hair trapped between two halves of a sphere of crystal and mounted in the pommel of Gaston’s sword. It was said to be one of the hairs of Saint Ursula, who had saved eleven thousand virgins. Gaston had always been glad that the relic that guided his blade was one that represented innocence and goodness. Ibrahim had been fascinated, both by the relic and Gaston’s faith in its powers, and had commented upon it years before when they had admired each other’s weapons.
When he was done, Ibrahim nodded with satisfaction. “It must be so,” he said in Arabic to one of his companions. “This man I trust as my own brother.” He then sheathed his sword, shed his glove, and offered his hand to Gaston. “I wish you well, Gaston,” he said in French. “A safe journey and many sons with your new wife.”
“What is this?” Gaston asked in astonishment. He was to be released?
“There will be little mercy shown in the days ahead, so let me show some now.” Ibrahim smiled. “This battle is no longer yours to fight, my friend, and I shall not be the one to exact a price from you.”
Gaston seized the other man’s hand with gratitude. “I thank you, Ibrahim.” He shook his hand heartily. “And I, too, wish you all that is good in this world, and the next.” They looked into each other’s eyes and Gaston knew he was not the only one with good memories to savor of their discussions and negotiations.
There was a sound of approaching hoof beats, and Ibrahim glanced over his shoulder. “Ride now!” he said in French with urgency. “Ride now, or you may not have the choice.”
Gaston did not need to be told twice. He turned Fantôme, touched his spurs to the destrier’s flanks and raced for Acre’s gates.
* * *
Gaston roared for entry to the city of Acre but was denied.
The keeper gave no indication that Gaston had been heard. Of course, he had been heard. The very walls were bristling with archers and sentries.
He cursed that he had put his surplice aside, for without it, he was but another desperate stranger seeking admission in the night. He spurred Fantôme and made for the Templar gate near the lighthouse. He prayed as he rode that some soul would know him there.
He had been stationed in Acre for his first two years in Outremer.
Could he be so fortunate that those on the gate this night recalled him—and would recognize him without his surplice?
The terrain grew more rough as he rode around the high curtain walls of Acre, for he had to remain far enough away to not draw the fire of the archers already positioned on the walls. Fantôme leapt gullies and dodged rocks with such agility that Gaston did not try to guide the horse. He simply let the destrier run, trusting that the beast would see to its own survival.
“Hoy there!” came a cry from the Templar gate, and Gaston was relieved to hear the sound of a familiar voice.
“Michel de Montlhery!” Gaston bellowed. “I beg of you to admit a knight of the order!”
“Gaston?” Michel’s helm gleamed as he peeked over the gate. “What, for the love of God, are you doing here?”
“Open the gate!” Gaston replied, relieved beyond belief when Michel did as much. Once he was inside, he dismounted, finding that he was shaking. He confided what he knew in Michel, whose eyes gleamed as he listened to the detail.
“A wife,” Michel teased, and Gaston pointed east.
“And Saracens preparing for attack.”
Michel sobered immediately. “We feared as much,” he said. “If you mean to be away from here, this night will be your last chance. There are two ships
in the harbor…”
“When does the tide go out?”
The other knight spared a glance to the sky. “Within the hour. I fear they will be the last to leave before we are besieged, so if you mean to go, this is the moment.”
Gaston shook his head, his heart sinking. It seemed he would survive long enough to fight again, but not to share his life with Ysmaine. “The harbor is on the far side of the city,” he noted. “I cannot possibly arrive in time.” He considered the bailey of the fortress, which was bustling with knights and lay brothers making preparations. No man would sleep this night, he was sure of it.
He could hear similar activity in the city beyond the fortress walls and could readily imagine the congestion of the narrow streets. There had always been a problem with moving between fortress and harbor when he had served within these walls, for the way was narrow and convoluted, so that the slightest excitement in the city proper made it nigh impassible.
Or at least, very slow.
He sighed, knowing he could not do the impossible. “If the master of this priory will welcome me in your ranks again, I will defend this place to the last.”
Michel, to Gaston’s amazement, smiled. “You need not surrender so readily as that, Gaston. Surely your new wife deserves your every effort to be by her side.”
“Surely she does, but that does not make the harbor closer or the streets less crowded.” He nodded at his old companion. “I remember well enough how slow the passage to the harbor can be.”
Michel seized his elbow, calling to another brother to watch the gates in his stead. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I have a surprise for you, my friend, although it is a secret that can only be entrusted to one such as you.”
“What manner of secret?”
“We have begun to dig a tunnel between our fortress and the harbor,” Michel confided, his eyes shining. “It is not complete, but it can be used. You will have to lead Fantôme through the middle, but you might well make the harbor in time.”
A tunnel? What a marvel!
“Truly?” Gaston eyed his old comrade as his heart leapt.
“Truly,” Michel said. The master of the priory strode across the bailey to meet them, and to Gaston’s delight, it was another old comrade of his who ruled this fortress now. They spoke briefly, then Michel descended into the darkness with Fantôme and Gaston.
“There!” the other knight said, gesturing to the dark space ahead of them. Gaston could scarce believe the sight. “Ride on, Gaston, with every blessing.” They embraced, and Gaston led his destrier into the dark space. He carried a small torch, given to him by Michel, and he could see the light of the boy’s torch far ahead.
The tunnel was wide and tall, its walls smooth and its ceiling fitted with stones. There was a bit of water gathered in the bottom of it, but the way was smooth. It appeared to be very straight.
Fantôme seemed to welcome the coolness of the air. Gaston patted the steed, vowing he would brush him thoroughly once their passage was secured, swung into the saddle and rode.
He could only hope that he would make the harbor in time.
* * *
It seemed her curse would not be denied.
Ysmaine marveled that her reaction to losing a spouse was so different this time. Again, with regards to Gaston, she felt cheated. There had been more about him than his allure and his comparative youth, that slow smile that set her very flesh aflame. More than his kisses and his gentle strength. He was not perfect, not by any means. He had been stubborn, to be sure, and taciturn, and oblivious to any expectations a wife might have had from a spouse or a marriage, but still. He defended her. He spoke to her as if she had her wits about her. Even knowing they might have argued more than once in their stolen future, Ysmaine wished they might have had the chance. She had sensed a promise in their match, one that she had wanted very much to explore.
She found herself greedy for more than had been her lot in the past.
Though she knew Gaston had chosen the only course acceptable to him, that he should sacrifice himself for the good of the others, taking responsibility for his miscalculation, Ysmaine regretted his loss bitterly. Indeed, his choice showed the truth of his nature as nothing else could have done.
She wanted to bear his son.
She wanted to return to his holding and raise that son, to tell the boy what little she knew of his father. She wanted to ensure the future that Gaston had envisioned. She would not wed again, she knew it to her very marrow.
She prayed that she might have conceived.
And if Ysmaine did not carry Gaston’s son, she resolved she would retire to a convent and be penitent for the rest of her days.
While her thoughts churned, she did as Wulfe bade, not delaying the party in any way. She would not compromise the opportunity Gaston had created.
Acre claimed a point of land that jutted into the sea. A bay curled beneath the city to the south and rose on the eastern side, making the sole approach from the north. The harbor was on the eastern side, so that it and the docked ships were sheltered in that bay. The town itself was walled on the north side and had grown beyond original expectations. The streets were narrow and crowded, and it seemed that every soul in Christendom thronged the way. They had no small challenge pushing their way through the congestion, even with the horses. The knights’ squires ran ahead, shouting and trying to clear a course, and the company rode tightly packed together.
It seemed to take forever to reach the harbor itself.
Joscelin demanded that they halt before they reached the ship so he could ascertain exactly how much coin they carried between them. There was a shrewd light in his eye and his manner was quick, which made Ysmaine think he might do well in this task. Then he advised the others to put their funds away and to contrive to look as impoverished as possible.
“I doubt it will matter in the end,” Joscelin said, his manner more bold than it had been. Clearly, he felt on familiar ground. “But it cannot hurt.” Without another word, he strode to the ship flying the colors of Venice, leading his palfrey. The others followed him, and Ysmaine wished she could hear his words.
If he spoke in Venetian, she would not have understood him at any rate.
He saluted the man who supervised the loading of the ship, and she guessed that he asked for the captain. An argument appeared to ensue, and the horses were counted. The Venetians shook their heads but Joscelin persisted. Ysmaine was increasingly vexed by how long the exercise took.
They would never be away from Acre!
“Use the time we have, Stephen,” Wulfe bade the taller of his squires. The blond boy nodded. “We shall need fodder for the steeds on the ship. The Venetians, no doubt, will sell us fodder and water at a killing price, so it would be best to provide some of our own.” Stephen ducked into the crowd to do his knight’s bidding.
“Aid him in this, Kerr,” Fergus bade his older squire, the one who looked so angelic. The boys disappeared with purpose.
Ysmaine’s heart sank as the other ship departed, the men on board shouting to people who remained on the docks. There was much well wishing and more than a few tears shed. The ship was rowed away from the harbor, and Ysmaine saw men on deck begin to unbind its sails. Those sails were unfurled moments later, snapping white against the night sky, and the ship sailed west, disappearing around the point.
“I should have negotiated,” Wulfe muttered.
“They would have turned you down,” Fergus replied. “The Venetians have no fondness for the military orders.” Wulfe grimaced at that, so Ysmaine supposed it was true. “At least they still talk to him.”
“Why is that?” Ysmaine asked Fergus, and he smothered a smile.
“Perhaps Templars and Hospitaliers do not spend enough coin on the riches in which the Venetians trade.”
Duncan scoffed. “They spend sufficient on courtesans,” he muttered, and Wulfe flicked a glance his way.
“There is no need for such speech before a lady,” Fergus sa
id, and the men fell silent again.
Watching Joscelin.
“They will talk all the night,” Wulfe complained moments later. “While the tide retreats.”
“The man can spin a tale, that much is certain,” Duncan contributed.
Ysmaine thought of the missive Gaston had secured into his aketon with her assistance and wondered anew what tidings it contained. She recalled her recurring sense that Gaston led the party, not Wulfe, and realized that they had ridden onward when Gaston had given the command that they do as much. She noted now the agitation amongst the knights, particularly Wulfe and Fergus, and wondered at the truth of this quest.
She bit her lip when she remembered how Everard and Wulfe had complained that very morning of their baggage being plundered while they slept and the hair pricked on the back of her neck. Had it truly been a scouting party of Saracens who surrounded and detained Gaston? Or had he been sought out deliberately?
Did someone desire the missive he carried enough to kill him?
She could not convince herself that her husband had been surprised by events. He had not hesitated to sacrifice himself for the good of all. Was it simply that he was prepared for any foul deed, or had he anticipated this particular tragedy? Had he known what the attackers wanted and offered it so that the rest of them could ride free?
Ysmaine had a hundred questions, it seemed, and few answers. She did not imagine that these knights would confide more detail in her than Gaston had done, but she wanted very much to know the truth of their mission.
Had Gaston sent them onward because the missive was only part of what they carried? Wulfe had, after all, abandoned Gaston without a moment’s hesitation, as if there was more at stake than a single life or even a missive.
Or as if he had been glad to be rid of the man who commanded him.
Ysmaine frowned at that. Could a man who had left the order command a Templar knight? She had to think not. If Gaston commanded Wulfe, as it surely seemed, did that mean he had not truly left the order?
Did it mean that their nuptial vows were void? Certainly she had no evidence that they had occurred, beyond the word of Radegunde, whose motivation could and would be questioned in this matter. The priest at the Temple in Jerusalem might not be able or inclined to respond to queries on such a matter, given that the city was likely to be attacked, and its lack of knights meant almost certain capture.
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