The Crusader's Bride

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by Claire Delacroix


  He blinked in amazement and uttered his fear aloud before he could halt himself. “You would not cast me out?”

  The lady frowned in apparent surprise. “Cast out the one who has served my husband faithfully for years? I think not, Bartholomew. We return to a keep my husband left almost twenty years ago. Alliances in that household are by no means assured. Indeed, his return at this time may be deeply resented by those who have remained behind.”

  Bartholomew had never considered that any soul would be less than glad of Gaston’s arrival.

  The lady smiled at him. “Gaston may well have need of every ally he can find. Shall you and I be the first of that company?” She offered him the mortar and pestle, no censure in her gaze, and Bartholomew shook his head.

  “Why do you forgive me so readily as this?”

  “Because it is the rightful place of a lord’s wife to build consensus in his household. My husband does not yet realize the import of this role, and I would teach him of it. He trusts you, thus so will I.”

  “And this…this liniment you would have me aid in concocting, it will not injure him?”

  “It will give him relief.”

  Leila turned and though she was pale, her eyes were bright. “I would learn of this potion, my lady, if you would teach me.”

  “I would be glad to do as much.”

  “Can it be used upon horses, as well?”

  The lady considered this, then nodded. “I cannot see why not. The liniment creates a heat on the skin and then in the muscle itself. My grandmother said it summoned healing to where it was needed, and then it grants the gift of numbness to the spot, so that the person is relieved temporarily of the burden of the pain.”

  “That could be most useful,” Leila agreed. “Pain can keep one from sleeping, which is the best healing balm of all.”

  Lady Ysmaine nodded. “But this herb must be treated with respect,” she continued. “It is a poison, to be sure, just as Fatima noted. My grandmother said it offered a lesson that even in the greatest of evils, some measure of good can be found.”

  Bartholomew accepted the mortar and pestle from her outstretched hand. “I would aid you in this, my lady, and learn of this liniment.”

  She smiled. “And we shall be allied in ensuring my husband’s welfare.”

  To Bartholomew’s surprise, she then offered her hand, as a knight would seal a wager. He blinked for a moment, but did not need Leila’s encouragement to know what he should do. He shook hands with her, not feeling that she was so unpredictable, and liked the firmness of her grip well.

  Then the maid brought the fennel seeds. Before Leila put them in her mouth, the lady showed them both how to be sure that the seeds were what was expected and taught them the look and the smell of the fennel. Once Leila was chewing upon the seeds, the lady took a dried root from a small sack, the sack Bartholomew had seen her carrying from Fatima’s shop. The root looked much like other roots to him, but she showed them how to distinguish its shape, then broke it to teach them its smell.

  Then Bartholomew was set to work grinding the dried root as finely as he could.

  It was only then he realized that Gaston’s wife instructed much as the knight himself did. She was patient and spoke clearly, explaining the matter without being either condescending or overly brief.

  He thought of her scheme for his future, far beyond any plan he might have had for himself. He was alone in the world, with no surviving kin or source of wealth, and had known all of his life that his future was his own to make. Could he avenge his family’s deaths and regain the legacy that once would have come to his hand, if he was knighted? The prospect made Bartholomew’s thoughts spin. He had never imagined that he might return home in triumph. He had never thought that the damage of the past could be undone, or that he could aspire to more than his current circumstance. He felt blessed to be alive and safe.

  Indeed, only Gaston had ever shown him kindness in his life.

  But it seemed that Gaston’s lady wife would do the same.

  And that was too great a gift to spurn.

  * * *

  His lady had a scheme. Gaston was certain of it. What concoction would she make? He gave Bartholomew’s accusations no more credit now than he had chosen to grant them in Jerusalem. He recalled women at home requesting soured wine for some ministration and would not ask for indelicate details. He simply saw his wife’s requests fulfilled by the time she returned from her preparations to greet the day and was rewarded by her thanks and her smile.

  She excused herself after her fast was broken, and to his surprise, sought out Bartholomew. He might have followed, but Wulfe joined him then. There was much to discuss and Gaston welcomed the liberty of doing so when the wind was so strong.

  No other soul would hear them confer.

  Still he watched his wife and his squire, without giving any indication that he did as much. He knew Bartholomew sufficiently well to see the thaw in the younger man’s manner toward Ysmaine and wondered what she had said to him.

  He could not imagine, not until Bartholomew himself sought him out later that day.

  “Your lady has made a suggestion that I find most appealing,” Bartholomew said, the light in his eyes revealing to Gaston that the younger man was excited.

  “Indeed? Will she tell me of it?”

  “She said a man should not sell himself short, and so I will not.” Bartholomew squared his shoulders as Gaston watched in wonder. “I will ask for my desire. Would you train me for knighthood, sir?”

  Gaston gasped aloud at the perfection of the idea. He was so accustomed to viewing the world as a brother of the Temple that he had scarce begun to think of the new opportunities available to him. But Ysmaine was right. As a baron, he could sponsor Bartholomew’s knighting.

  The younger man took his astonishment as doubt and hastened to fill the silence. “She noted that now you have left the order and have all the rights of a secular lord, so you can train and dub knights…”

  “Indeed, I can!” Gaston interrupted his squire with delight. “And I am grateful to the lady for the reminder of my new powers. Is this your desire, then?”

  “Aye.” Bartholomew met Gaston’s gaze. “She said I might then seek employment from you, for you would need warriors allied with you to defend your holding.”

  “Indeed, I will.” Gaston nodded with real pleasure. “This is a fine notion. I regret only that I did not think of it sooner.”

  “I will train…”

  “You have trained, Bartholomew. You are as worthy of being knighted as any man I know.” Gaston smiled warmly at the younger man. “And truly, there is no man with such a valiant heart.”

  Color touched Bartholomew’s neck and he swallowed, discomfited by some part of this scheme.

  “What vexes you?” Gaston asked softly.

  “Though it is my heart’s desire to earn my spurs, I would do more than serve you in your household. I would not abandon you…”

  “What is your desire, Gaston?”

  “To return home. To avenge my mother and father.” A determined gleam lit Bartholomew’s eyes. “I never thought to have the opportunity, and now I would seize it.”

  Gaston frowned, recalling the dirty urchin who had insisted upon giving aid to him in Paris. “I thought you an orphan.”

  “I am, but I am not common born.” Bartholomew smiled. “And I am not French.”

  Gaston regarded his squire with wonder. “All these years and I did not know your truth.”

  “At first I dared not confess it, for I had been hunted by the lord who stole my father’s manor.” Bartholomew shrugged. “And then, it seemed not to matter. I had a life with you and with the order and so I thought it would be. I knew myself to be fortunate beyond all.” He lifted his gaze, his eyes shining. “But to be knighted! I can avenge my parents, perhaps even claim what is rightfully mine own.” He sobered then. “But I would not be false to you, for you have been kind to me.”

  Gaston smiled.
“And I would not deny you your heart’s desire. Come with me to Châmont-sur-Maine, so I have more opportunity to grant you counsel and fortify your training. I will dub you in the chapel there.”

  “Thank you, Gaston.”

  “You seem to grant my lady wife the opportunity to win your support.”

  Bartholomew frowned. “She makes a liniment, one that she says will be of aid to you. I mean to test it myself first, to ensure its safety, but I think, sir, that I might have misjudged her intent that day.” He met Gaston’s gaze. “I think she might make you a fine wife, sir.”

  Gaston clapped the younger man on the shoulder, gladdened to see him finally with purpose in his life—and that thanks to Ysmaine. “Indeed, I believe she will.”

  * * *

  Ysmaine thought she made progress on the journey to winning the trust of Gaston’s squire. She learned much from Bartholomew of her husband’s past, by asking him questions while they worked together. They seemed quite naturally to establish a balance of each answering the questions of the other and alternating opportunities to ask. Ysmaine found him a likeable young man—though in truth he was older than she, he had always been subordinate and deference showed in his manner. He possessed some uncertainty and suspicion, to be sure, which was perhaps more justified by his own history than his experience of specific people.

  When he confided to her that his parents had been robbed of their holding when he was young and that he had fled the villain, she understood the root of his caution in trusting others. The villain, evidently, had been a trusted friend of his father.

  To Gaston, Bartholomew’s loyalty was complete. Given that they had spent eighteen years in each other’s company, Ysmaine took this as an endorsement of her husband’s character. That Gaston had plucked the impoverished boy from the streets of Paris and become his protector was a sign of a noble nature indeed.

  The squire, Laurent, whose state improved with the fennel seeds, was so small and finely wrought that Ysmaine knew she would have mistaken him for a girl under other circumstance. He clung to one of the saddlebags from Fergus’ steeds as if his very survival depended upon its protection. Though it was the simplest of Fergus’ many bags and undoubtedly the least valuable, it was heavy. The boy seemed to consider that it imperative that he not fail the knight’s trust in defending it.

  “Its contents are likely humble indeed, my lady,” Laurent confessed. “But I see its defense as a test of my merit. My lord knight does not know me so well as would be ideal, but I will prove myself.”

  “It smells as if it is filled with dung,” Ysmaine noted and the boy smiled.

  “It might well be, my lady, but I will not fail my lord Fergus.”

  She could not fail to admire such resolve.

  It was evident to her that Bartholomew was protective of the younger and smaller squire, another trait which showed his nature well. When he told her about the other squires, she was amused by the vehemence of his commentary and was reminded of the gossip in the kitchens at home. The servants knew far more of their masters than was oft suspected, and a great deal more about each other.

  Wulfe had two squires, as she had noted, the older one being taller and blonder than the other. Stephen was an orphan, which meant that Bartholomew felt a certain bond with him, though Ysmaine had noticed that Stephen was very eager to please. She wondered whether his efforts ever satisfied Wulfe, who seemed most demanding.

  Wulfe’s younger squire, Simon, had been donated to a monastic order as an oblate and knew little of his family history. It was unclear how he had come to serve Wulfe, for Bartholomew made it clear that the Templars accepted no children as donations. Simon was a plumper boy with curly dark hair who always seemed to be sleepy. Perhaps his parents had thought he might become a monk or lay brother, and certainly there was a complacency about him that Ysmaine could more readily associate with a contemplative life. She did not comment about boys and men who had no experience of family or the company of women. Perhaps this too prepared them well for a life within the order.

  Everard traveled with no squire, which made him unworthy of the attention of Bartholomew. Laurent shared his poor opinion of the nobleman. He noted that Everard did not feed his horse well, despite his wealth, and admitted that he had secretly fed the creature better fare.

  It appeared that Laurent had an affinity with horses. He spoke with great animation of the natures of the destriers in the party, the value of the palfreys, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the proper care of horses that Ysmaine was nigh overwhelmed.

  Hamish was the younger squire employed by Fergus, a boy with flaming red hair and fair skin. He was heavily freckled after his time in the east, and Bartholomew confided that although his heart was good, Hamish was clumsy beyond belief.

  Laurent and Kerr were Fergus’ other squires, and Ysmaine saw immediately that Laurent did not like Kerr. He was blond and blue-eyed, as sweetly faced as a cherub, but there was something about him that troubled Ysmaine as well. Bartholomew confided that Kerr had a desire to know all that was afoot and did not care what he had to do to learn it.

  Ysmaine thought of her own concerns and resolved to watch Kerr.

  Save Bartholomew, the squires ranged in age from ten to fourteen years of age, the oldest being just slightly younger than Radegunde. Bartholomew professed that none of them would earn their spurs soon. He declared that Stephen was not sufficiently bold, Simon had not the skill with a blade, and Hamish might never hone a blade without dropping it immediately thereafter. That boy had nicked many fine blades, to the despair of his knight. Both Bartholomew and Laurent declined to comment upon Kerr’s chances.

  Finally, Bartholomew had ground sufficient of the root to a fine powder. The wind was not so strong this day as to steal the result of his labor away. Under the watchful gazes of the squires, Ysmaine put the ground root into the bottle of soured wine. Radegunde had been working a piece of beeswax in her fingers, letting it warm in the sun as well, and sealed the stopper into place. Ysmaine shook it well.

  “That is the sum of it?” Bartholomew asked.

  “It must sit now,” Ysmaine said. “For the power of the herb must eke into the liquid to make the liniment potent.” She grimaced at the bottle. “My grandmother left it six weeks to cure, but she knew the source of the herb and its strength. It is best to be cautious with an herb of this power, so I will try it in a week. Even if its potency is not fully realized, it may help Gaston.”

  “Nay, I will try it first,” Bartholomew insisted, and Ysmaine readily agreed.

  “Help Gaston?” that man enquired from behind her, and Ysmaine turned to him with a smile. His gaze flicked between her, the bottle, and his squire before he met her gaze anew.

  “We concoct a liniment for your hip, sir,” she said easily. “Though it would not be a bad notion for you to walk less upon it when you have the opportunity.”

  “And here I came to invite my wife to savor the view,” he said, offering his hand. Ysmaine entrusted the bottle to Radegunde then went with her husband to the rail, where he tucked her into his embrace. His body warmed her back as he braced his hands on the rail on either side of her, and her heart skipped. She felt that wondrous warmth spreading inside her, that promise of some pleasure she had not yet savored.

  And when Gaston murmured in her ear, his breath against her cheek, and told her of the places they passed, Ysmaine could not imagine a finer place to be.

  She should have known that happy state could not last.

  * * *

  At Ragusa, some freight had been delivered and room made available in the hold. The unloading of goods simplified matters enormously. Joscelin had stowed his baggage there, and Fergus had followed suit, the two of them certain that they carried the items of greatest value.

  The imposter was not convinced of that.

  Gaston carried so little that it was easy to believe him recently departed from a monastic life. Bartholomew had less. Wulfe traveled with the bags that had already been sear
ched without result, and several other smaller ones.

  The man who called himself Everard also stowed his baggage, ensuring that he knew the location of all before climbing to the deck again.

  It had proven to be impossible to search the baggage of the others in the party while all was stowed on the deck of the ship, or at least to do so unobserved. They were cheek-to-jowl, and there always seemed to be some person awake. As often as not it was Gaston, always watching. Indeed, it might be construed that he and Wulfe had a scheme to ensure that one or the other was always awake.

  The only accomplishment made was a through inventory of that baggage, which was far from a satisfactory achievement.

  All had changed with this development, however, and the imposter was impatient for an opportunity to learn more. When most of the company were asleep, he slipped into the hold, appreciating the cover of darkness. He waited for what seemed an eternity, then struck a flint and searched the baggage with quick efficiency.

  He found naught of particular interest. He certainly did not find the missive that he knew must have been entrusted to the party, the one which he most wished to read. He also did not find any token that resembled the legendary Templar treasure.

  Was he wrong about this party’s true quest?

  Did Wulfe have the missive hidden on his person? What did it say? Though truly there were greater events to recount than the imposter’s own secret, it could be argued that keeping his secret was of greatest concern to him. He feared that the Templars had discerned the truth and that they would use it against them, for he did not trust them a whit. He needed to know precisely what they knew, and he needed some advantage with which to bargain.

  But again he was foiled. The imposter forced himself to think.

  Wulfe led the party. In Venice, he would have to somehow contrive to search the intimate possessions of Wulfe. That knight must have secured the missive in his garments or hidden it on his own person. He might even have hidden the treasure in an intimate place. That Wulfe had learned to sleep only when his squires watched over him certainly complicated the pursuit of that objective.

 

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