The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  There was truth in that. Wulfe had to cede that patience had its place.

  “You were fortunate at Acre,” he said when the silence had stretched long.

  “It was the site of my first assignment in Outremer,” Gaston admitted. “Though it was luck indeed that one of my comrades armed the gates on this night.”

  “I am amazed that you managed to cross the city with such haste.”

  Gaston nodded, clearly choosing his words before he spoke. “I suppose there is little harm in confiding that they build a tunnel beneath the city, to link Temple and harbor. It is not complete, but it was passable.”

  Wulfe inhaled sharply. “Brilliant! It might aid them in this attack.”

  “It might, though they will still be susceptible to a siege.”

  “What else do you know that you do not confide?” Wulfe asked, not truly expecting a reply.

  He did not get one.

  Wulfe watched the ocean behind them, relieved that he could not discern any other ships taking the same direction. “It seems that whoever followed us has been left behind,” he murmured.

  Gaston frowned. “They might not have had any inclination to pursue us,” he said with care. Wulfe glanced toward the former Templar, struck by his tone. He saw now that Gaston was a man of considerable experience and one who kept much in confidence. “Ibrahim told me that a Saracen girl fled from Jerusalem with the aid of Christians on the same day that we departed.”

  “Why would she do such a deed?”

  “I will guess that she disagreed with the choice of spouse made for her. He spoke of her bride price being high and also said that she is much sought by her family.” He turned a look on the other knight. “He made me swear that she was not in our party.”

  “A girl? But your wife and her maid are the sole women.”

  Gaston nodded, his manner thoughtful. “So I told him. He made me swear it upon the relic in my sword.”

  Wulfe turned as if in idleness and surveyed the deck of the ship. His gaze flicked over the members of their party, then he winced when he saw that the smallest of Fergus’ squires was being sick over the sides of the ship. “It seems on every voyage that there must be one so afflicted.”

  Gaston followed his gaze, then nodded before turning back to watch Acre fade from view.

  “Do you still have the missive?” Wulfe asked, impatient to know as much as possible.

  “Of course.”

  “Have you read it?”

  Gaston’s quelling glance revealed that he did not share Wulfe’s curiosity. “I pledged to not do so.”

  “Do you know what else we carry?”

  Gaston shook his head. “We were sworn to defend it in ignorance, and I would keep my vow.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I can guess,” the other knight admitted. He so studiously avoided scanning their party that Wulfe did as much again.

  Even in sickness, that small boy kept one of Fergus’ saddlebags between his ankles. Wulfe could not recall having seen the boy without it. And truly, from the stench of him, any soul who claimed it could not keep his deed hidden.

  Wulfe smiled and turned back to the fading sight of the city, content that he did not travel in a company of fools. “Tell me of Acre,” he invited. “I never served there.”

  * * *

  Something was afoot.

  Ysmaine could fairly smell it, and the scent of intrigue grew stronger with every passing day. Gaston was evasive when she asked him questions, which meant there was something at root.

  Otherwise, he would have denied it outright. She had great respect for his insistence upon honesty and knew he would never breach his own terms. Gaston, it was clear, had no intention of trusting her with the full truth. Ysmaine, on the other hand, was determined to prove to him that she was trustworthy, and that she could bring more than children to their match. She did not blame him for his skepticism about the place of women, not when he had spent nigh twenty years amongst men, but she had no doubt she could prove his assumptions wrong. He might not believe the value in partnership, but she would prove it to him.

  If her strategy failed, she would visit his mother, no matter where that convent was located.

  The ship was bigger than those Ysmaine had journeyed upon before, but not that large all the same. The horses remained tethered closely together on the deck, and a single lateen sail snapped in the wind overhead. The ship had a hold, but it was packed so tightly that she doubted even a rat could find passage there. The opening to the hold had been secured by their boarding, so they lashed their belongings to the deck and slept near them that first night. Ysmaine doubted she was the only one reminding herself that at least they were not trapped in a town destined to be besieged by Saracens.

  That first night, she wrapped herself in the cloak that Gaston had provided for her back in Jerusalem and curled up with Radegunde near Gaston’s saddlebags. He strode back and forth, long after the stars had come out, speaking with the men in their party and the captain. Ysmaine watched him until her eyelids drooped, guessing that he gathered information. She was vexed that he did not rest his hip, even now, but would choose her moment to make that observation.

  What was her husband’s quest? She knew Gaston carried a missive, but there must be more than that. She waited, wanting to ask him for details, but it seemed her husband anticipated her queries and would avoid them.

  She fell asleep beneath the stars, powerless to remain awake any longer. At some point in the night, Ysmaine was dimly aware that Gaston gathered her into his lap. She knew his scent, and his heat was more than welcome.

  Indeed, she slept fully in his embrace, content that she was finally safe.

  Tuesday, July 7, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Ethelberga and Saint Thomas of Canterbury.

  Chapter Eleven

  At first light, Ysmaine awakened beside Radegunde, who snored softly as always she did. Gaston was standing at the prow of the ship, watching the sea ahead. It looked as if it would be a clear day. Ysmaine rose and went to his side.

  “Good morning,” he said without turning, just before she reached his side.

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  “A little.” He eyed her, his gaze slipping over her. “You?”

  “I was sufficiently tired to sleep anywhere, I fear.” Ysmaine smiled. “The ship is cramped with so many aboard, though I am not ungrateful for the passage. Will you tell me how all is to be managed?”

  He considered her, then nodded in understanding of her question. It proved that they were to dock at several ports en route to Venice, and that the captain estimated their journey would take a fortnight. The ship was too small to carry many provisions, and on this particular trip, had less than usual. They would need fresh water for themselves and the horses, as well as food. The captain had proposed to stop at Tripoli—as much for tidings as supplies—then Cyprus, Crete, and Ragusa. At most, they would go four or five days without visiting a port. He anticipated calm seas at this time of year, although there was always a possibility of a storm.

  Indeed, Ysmaine noted that Fergus’ newest squire was already hanging over the side of the ship, ill even on these comparatively calm seas. It said much for that boy’s dedication to his knight that he still vigilantly guarded one of the saddlebags.

  There were no garderobes, which Ysmaine had noted, but Gaston had already asked after such mundane details. It seemed the sailors used buckets that were stowed at the stern and heaved the contents over the side of the ship when necessary. Gaston had already insisted upon one bucket being designated solely for the use of herself and Radegunde and had hung a discarded sail around a small area at one side of the stern.

  “As close to a garderobe as one might have in such a place,” he said to her, his manner apologetic.

  She smiled at him. “I thank you greatly, sir, for your foresight. I would ask another favor of you.”

  Gaston lifted a brow.

  “Might you discover w
hether there is a mortar and pestle to be borrowed from the crew? Also, I have need of a small bottle of sour wine, if it can be had.”

  His gaze flicked over her, and she saw him decide not to ask after her reasoning. Doubtless, given their discussion of garderobes, he believed she had need of it for some delicate matter. “I am certain the loan can be arranged and the vinegar purchased.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “There is still bread and cheese, as well as a bit of hard sausage and some ale, if you and Radegunde would break your fast.”

  “We will, sir, if you will grant me but a few moments.”

  He bowed, and Ysmaine returned to the awakening maid to inform her of the arrangements. She saw Bartholomew rise from his makeshift bed and grant her a glance that did not bode well for tranquility in future in her husband’s household.

  Ysmaine was Gaston’s lady wife, and she knew her role well. She had to build an alliance with all of those in his household and employ, even this squire determined to think ill of her.

  Doubtless they shared a concern for the knight’s wellbeing.

  Doubtless she could base an alliance upon that.

  * * *

  Bartholomew heard someone being sick in the night, but did not realize until the dawn that it was Leila. He had not dared to speak openly to her since their departure, but used her illness as cause to do so now.

  He hoped it was but a guise to keep others away from her.

  The scent of manure on her garb had matured to the point that it brought a tear to his eye when he approached. “You have a good tactic for keeping others away,” he said lightly. “You need not indulge in another.”

  Leila turned his way, and he knew with a glance that her discomfort was not feigned. “I have never been on a boat before,” she said. “And I never wish to be so again.”

  If she might have said more, she had no chance to do so, for she was ill yet again.

  He felt badly for he was enjoying the fresh breeze and the feel of the wind.

  “How can you still be voiding your stomach?” he asked, taking a place at the rail beside her. “We have not eaten so much as that these past days.”

  “I do not know,” she said, her misery clear. “Worse, I think Kerr has discerned the truth.”

  Bartholomew was immediately alarmed. “Which truth?”

  “Mine, you fool.” Leila was disparaging as she seldom was, but then, illness could make one impatient.

  “That is less of a surprise than might be, for he contrives to learn all he should not and cares not how he does it.”

  “I had hoped it might take longer to be revealed,” Leila replied. She spat with vigor. “I had hoped to be more hale when required to defend myself.”

  “I will defend you.”

  “Should you have the chance.”

  Her mood was dark on this morn, to be sure. “Do you regret your choice?”

  Leila shook her head emphatically. “I would endure far more than this if necessary.”

  “Careful of your wishes,” Bartholomew teased, and she managed a smile.

  “As you should have been. You wished to return to France, and look at the price.”

  Bartholomew was immediately glum. “I thought we would return with the order, to serve at the Temple in Paris.” This time, he spat over the rail. “Not that Gaston would be compelled to wed.”

  “He was not compelled.”

  “He has need of a legitimate heir. How else is that contrived without a wife?”

  “He looks most content, and she was clearly pleased that he survived. Perhaps their match is a good one.”

  Bartholomew contented himself with glowering at the horizon, for he was not pleased with this new circumstance.

  “You were outspoken with your lady last evening,” Leila continued, as if trying to distract herself from her discomfort.

  “She is not my lady,” Bartholomew retorted. Leila glanced his way, as if she might censure him, then her gaze flicked over his shoulder and her dark eyes widened.

  When she covertly kicked him, Bartholomew knew what—or more accurately, who—he would discover behind himself when he turned.

  He sighed and did as much, not at all consoled to discover that he was right. Lady Ysmaine stood but two steps away, her gaze so bright that he knew she had overheard his words.

  He wondered whether she would chastise him or feign ignorance, or worse, whether she would complain to Gaston about his rudeness. Surely she would not see him cast out? He bowed, well aware that Leila was enjoying his discomfiture.

  The lady stepped closer, her chin high, and dread rose within him. “Good morning to you both,” she said, then nodded toward Leila before Bartholomew could do more than mumble a reply. “I could not help but note your discomfort. You might ask your knight Fergus to enquire as to whether there are any fennel seeds on board. If not, they might be acquired when we port.”

  “Fennel seeds, my lady?” Bartholomew echoed, knowing his suspicion was clear.

  The lady eyed him coolly. “So, I am your lady after all. I am glad to hear it.” Leila chuckled but disguised her reaction with a cough, while Bartholomew felt himself flush. “Aye, chewing upon fennel seeds is said to be good for sea sickness. When we sailed to Outremer, there was a merchant aboard selling it at high prices to those who were ill.” The lady spared a glance to the merchant Joscelin, who was just rousing himself from sleep. “Indeed, the merchant in our party might have some to share, though God only knows what his price might be.”

  “I thank you for your counsel, my lady,” Leila said, then bowed. “The relief would be most welcome.”

  “I expect so, particularly as my lord husband anticipates our journey will take a fortnight.”

  Leila moaned and bent over the rails again.

  She still managed to nudge Bartholomew with her foot, and he knew she was right.

  He cleared his throat, well aware that Gaston’s lady was waiting for his apology. He had no idea that women were so forthright in collecting what they perceived to be their due, but he respected that trait. Indeed, that her behavior was consistent with Gaston’s choices made her seem less mysterious and fearsome. “I owe you an apology, my lady, and I would offer it to you now.”

  “I thank you for it, Bartholomew.” Lady Ysmaine smiled quickly. “Indeed, I cannot hold your reaction against you, for it is rooted in a desire to ensure my husband’s welfare. We share this objective, though it may not have seemed as much to you.”

  “Aye, my lady.” Bartholomew was not entirely convinced of her motives.

  “So it is that I would show you what I mean to do with that herb, that you might learn how to prepare the liniment that will give relief to my husband. It is of use to all fighting men, for it is their fate to sustain injury and for their bodies to recall as much more heartily as they age.” Her smile brightened then. “My grandfather used to say that it was a great gift for a warrior to age, even if it meant aches and pains at intervals, for the alternative was far less appealing.”

  Leila laughed, which prompted her to cough again. Bartholomew thumped her on the back until the fit passed, and she leaned on the rail, clearly exhausted. The lady considered the squire, and Bartholomew feared how much she might discern. When she lifted a hand in summons, he again feared the worst, and guessed that the lady noted his reaction.

  Lady Ysmaine’s maid came with haste.

  “Radegunde, would you take word to my lord Fergus that his squire Laurent has need of fennel seeds? I have no doubt that some can be found on the ship, or acquired from Master Joscelin, or even obtained when we harbor at Tripoli. The boy is most ill.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Some of the tension slid out of Bartholomew’s shoulders, for he could not resent her taking such an active role in seeing to Leila’s relief.

  “And now, Bartholomew,” the lady said. “I would know from you what plans you have.”

  “Plans? I would serve my knight…”

  “
But you are old for a squire,” she interrupted. “How many summers have you seen?”

  “Three and twenty, my lady.”

  She regarded him with what seemed to be genuine curiosity. “How curious, for my lord husband confessed to earning his own spurs at fifteen summers of age. Should you not have earned spurs of your own by now?”

  It was mortifying to have to admit his lack of family or wealth, but Bartholomew did as much. Within the order, his origins had not mattered, but he knew well enough that in the secular world, they did. “I have not a patron.”

  “No uncle?” the lady prodded and he wondered how much of his history she would compel him to confess. “No friend of your father kindly disposed to you?”

  Bartholomew shook his head. “Only my lord knight.”

  “Yet surely you have learned much in his service?”

  “Indeed! But a brother of the order cannot sponsor a squire for knighthood. It is a secular duty.”

  “Of course.” Lady Ysmaine tilted her head to study him, as if she would miss no measure of his reaction. “But my lord husband is now a baron of his own estate. I am certain he could sponsor your dubbing as a knight.”

  Bartholomew shook his head, even as the notion thrilled him. He knew better than to hope for what could not be his own. “But I have no holding, my lady, so there is little point in another man making such expenditure on my behalf. I would serve my lord Gaston.”

  “You sell your future short, Bartholomew.” Her tone was terse and her lips tight with disapproval.

  Bartholomew feared then that she meant to cast him out from Châmont-sur-Maine once they arrived, and that this would be the reward for his accusation against her. “I would serve my lord Gaston,” he repeated, his voice rising. “I have no taste for the life of a mercenary…”

  “If you served him as a knight, your compensation would be such that you could wed,” the lady replied, cutting short his protest. “You are no longer a boy, Bartholomew, and a boy’s ambitions will not suffice. You should have the reward due to you for your training and service. I will speak to Gaston about this.”