The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  It was not the most reassuring detail she could have provided, given the reason that Gaston had come to her chamber. He reminded himself that his trust was granted to his lady wife.

  “My grandfather, when I tended to his shoulder, told me that they had used it on the tips of arrows when they hunted wolves to ensure that any blow was fatal. That is why another name for it is wolf’s bane.”

  “Would the poison not taint the meat?”

  “Aye, he said as much, but my grandfather refused to let even his dogs consume wolf. He had their carcasses burned, for he believed them to be vermin.”

  “My father shared that view, but then, there were days within his memory when wolves ravaged our corner of Christendom.”

  Ysmaine nodded. “My grandmother said also that my grandfather had told her of invading armies tainting the water of those territories they pillaged by putting wolf’s bane into cisterns and wells.”

  “Like sowing fields with salt,” Gaston said. “I do not know of the herbs used, but the strategy is a well established, if reprehensible, one.”

  “Because it punishes those who work, not those who fight.”

  Gaston nodded agreement.

  “My grandfather considered such men to be vermin, as well. He said it was sufficient to defeat an enemy, that there was no reason to condemn the people who worked the land to starvation for years in the future.”

  “He taught you about mercy and justice, then, too.”

  Ysmaine smiled and lifted her hands from his flesh. “He found it appropriate that the same poison he had used to kill that wolf gave him relief from the injury he had sustained in that hunt. He said it made a fitting tale.” She considered him, her expression stern, and he knew she would chastise him. “Fatima said you did not give your injury sufficient time to heal.”

  Gaston smiled, liking his lady’s protectiveness well. “It has not been my luxury to languish abed, lady mine.”

  A smile curved her lips. “You sound like my grandfather. He said a warrior of merit wears his experience on his hide.”

  Gaston found himself agreeing with that sentiment, for he had more than a few scars himself.

  Her voice softened. “He said that a man who rides to war and returns unscathed is a coward, for any man who raises his blade with integrity will be injured unless he flees the fight.”

  Gaston found his wife’s gaze locked upon him. This then, was why she did not recoil from the marks she had seen on his body.

  Her gaze locked with his. “I believe he would approve of you, husband.”

  He found himself smiling, for he recognized the import of her words and like it well. “It seems I must be flattered that you make the comparison.”

  She nodded and continued to work the liniment into his skin. Gaston watched her as she fixed her attention upon her ministrations and knew he had to make another choice to see their match made.

  Ysmaine trusted him with tales of her past, the words flowing more readily from her lips than ever they would from his own.

  But he had to try. Gaston frowned slightly and chose to surrender part of his own history to his lady wife. He might not be able to offer the partnership she believed marriage should be, but he could make a step in that direction.

  It might, after all, make all the difference in the world to her if he confided in her.

  * * *

  Gaston cleared his throat. “Your grandfather spoke aright that a warrior wears his experience on his hide.”

  Ysmaine glanced to his face but Gaston did not falter.

  “I was thrown in the battle at Montisgard, almost ten years ago.” Once the first confession was made, it was easier to continue with the tale. “Odo de St. Amand was master of the Temple then, and he led us behind the banner of the King of Jerusalem, Baldwin IV, to battle Saladin at Ascalon.” He had thought she might be bored, but she watched him avidly.

  “How were you hurt?”

  “Fantôme was young then, and not so accustomed to warfare. He shied in the midst of the fighting, for there was much blood and carnage.”

  Ysmaine shook her head, her golden hair catching the light. “Steeds do not like blood. I know this well.”

  “Or open flames,” Gaston acknowledged, liking that she was so practical. “He had been well-trained, but the battle was uncommonly brutal. He stepped on a corpse, his hoof going clear through the body, and lost his wits.”

  Ysmaine grimaced in sympathy. “As might I. And you?”

  “Cast so hard to the ground that I heard a crack, but there was no time to cede to it. I had to rise fighting, or I would not have had the opportunity to rise again.”

  “And so you endured the pain and compounded the injury,” Ysmaine said. Gaston had to concede the truth in that. “But the king was triumphant on that day, due to the valor of you and others.” Ysmaine smiled. “I remember hearing of that battle.”

  “Aye, he did triumph. Although outnumbered and very ill himself, he prayed before a fragment of the True Cross and led the army. It must be said that Saladin underestimated his foe, and his forces were spread too wide.” Gaston nodded, his mind filled with the memory. “It was not an easy victory, and one made against formidable odds.”

  Ysmaine bit her lip. “Which is perhaps why this king believed he could win against Saladin, as well.”

  Gaston nodded. “Aye, but he was not the sole one who recalled the past, it would seem.”

  Ysmaine worked his muscles as he watched her. Her hair had slipped over her shoulder and hung toward him, like a curtain of gold. “This is the first time you have told me a tale of yourself, husband,” she said softly, the glow in her eyes making it clear how this pleased her.

  He was glad he had chosen aright.

  “I wish I had finer tales to tell,” Gaston admitted and reached for that tendril of hair. He wound it around his finger, marveling at its softness, and her lips curved in a smile that he found most alluring. He gave that tendril a tug, feeling uncharacteristically playful, and the lady leaned down to kiss him sweetly.

  “Roll to your side, please, sir,” she bade him when she lifted her lips from his. Gaston hoped she did not know that he would have followed any command she granted to him in this moment of moments. Rolling to his side was no feat at all. He felt her knees against his back, and again, the warmth of the liniment on his skin. He closed his eyes as she rubbed toward the middle of his back, easing a tension that he was so accustomed to enduring that he had nigh forgotten it.

  Until Ysmaine’s fingers eased it away, and he felt as hale as a pup.

  “My grandfather shared few tales, as well, but he told me the full tale of the wolf not long before he died. I had asked for more detail many times, but he had declined. That winter night, though, I was rubbing the liniment into his skin and he noted that he had gained his injury on a night much like the one beyond the windows. After my grandmother’s demise, his thoughts turned more frequently to the past, though on this night, he was confiding in me.” She seemed pensive, and Gaston twisted so that he could see her face. “He was a scarred man, for all that he was handsome.”

  “A valiant warrior, then, by his own reckoning,” Gaston teased and she smiled.

  “Hair as white as snow, vigor in his body even at seventy summers and eyes so clear that my grandmother said they might have been gems.”

  “Green eyes?” Gaston guessed, unable to look away from the lady’s own fine eyes.

  She smiled and flushed a little. “Aye. Mine are said to be like his.”

  He nodded. “They are magnificent.”

  His compliment seemed to fluster her and she dropped her gaze, her voice husky as she continued. “There was a deep scar on his cheek, which tugged at the corner of his eye.” She indicated on her own face without touching her skin, lest she spread the unguent there. Her fingertip swept a line through the air from the corner of her eye to the middle of her chin. “I had never dared to ask after it, of course, though one of my sisters had once done so and been scol
ded by our mother. He told me that night, when the wind was whistling through the chinks and the snow was being hurled against the walls, that it had been the wolf who had left this mark upon him.”

  “On his very face?” Gaston asked. “He had been that close?”

  Ysmaine nodded. “He said he had ridden to hunt the wolf that night, and that he had gone alone because of the foul weather. He said he had been too furious to show a care for his own welfare, for the wolf had taken a ewe and a lamb the night before, and done so from within the enclosure of the village. He said it grew too bold in its hunger and had to be stopped. He had his crossbow and arrows each tipped in wolf’s bane, and so too had he embellished the blade of his dagger. He said the night was wild, filled with swirling white and that the forest seemed a maze of deceptive shadows. The wolf’s pelt had blended into the forest as he feared he did not.”

  She swallowed. “And the wolf led him a merry chase. He pursued the beast with vigor, firing arrows when he could. He missed so often that he began to think the creature was enchanted, but with his last arrow, he heard a cry of pain. He found the blood in the snow and followed the trail, knowing the wolf would not fight the poison long. The wolf was vigorous, though, large and recently fed, and perhaps as cunning as my grandfather had believed it to be. It hid in the forest, doubling back upon its trail, then leapt upon him when he did not expect such an attack.” Gaston caught his breath. “The horse shied in terror then threw my grandfather. The stallion fled for home and the safety of the stables, leaving my grandfather alone in the woods.”

  “With a wolf determined to have its due.”

  She nodded. “He had landed upon his shoulder and, like you, heard a bone crack. The wolf was upon him even before the sound of the horse’s hoof beats had faded. It bit and tore at him, as big as a man and filled with terrifying power. My grandfather struck it in the face with all his might and it fell back snarling for only a moment, but long enough that he could draw his blade. When it leapt upon him again, he let it assail him. It bit at his face, and he said he would never forget the look of that open maw, the display of those sharp teeth, or the feel of his blade sinking into its gut.” She swallowed. “He cut it from gullet to groin, then kicked it aside, watching to be sure it died. He was covered with blood, both his own and that of the wolf, shaking and alone in the forest. The snow fell quietly as the wolf’s last breath left its body.” She swallowed. “He skinned that one, and the cured pelt graced my grandmother’s bed.”

  “He admired it,” Gaston wagered. “It was a worthy opponent.”

  She shrugged, then he watched her gaze filled with resolve. “He told me that defeat comes to those who believe themselves lost. He told me that he had a choice that night, to surrender to the wolf and abandon those who trusted him to defend them, or to fight until he could fight no more, regardless of the cost. It took him months to heal from that battle, and truly it could be argued that he never did fully recover. He told me that he survived because he refused to do otherwise.”

  Gaston nodded understanding, knowing that this lesson was what had kept the steel in his lady’s spine, despite all that had befallen her in recent years. He smiled at her and shifted his weight to his back again. He stretched, savoring the relief she had given to him. “This liniment of yours is most fine,” he said and her eyes sparkled at his praise. “I thank you for preparing it and acquiring the herb.”

  “I thank you for trusting me enough to let me apply it.”

  “Again, lady mine, you not only prove suspicion unfounded but show your worth.” His words pleased her mightily, it was clear.

  “It should be done each night, at least for a few nights.”

  “Have you need of more of the root?”

  “Nay, not as yet.” Ysmaine frowned.

  “Tell me what troubles you,” he urged.

  “It is not that I would hide a truth from you, sir, but more that I would not make an accusation unfounded.”

  “What accusation?”

  “It is the most curious thing. I was certain Fatima had entrusted me with more than was in the sack when I opened it on the ship.” Ysmaine shook her head. “Perhaps, though, I simply recalled the quantity wrongly. There was much afoot that morning in Jerusalem.”

  Gaston felt his eyes narrow. “Does anyone know you possess it?”

  “Radegunde knew from the first, of course, for she carried it for me.” Ysmaine sobered. “In fact, all in the party know of it, for Bartholomew made his accusation of me in Acre, when we believed you were lost.”

  Those were no good tidings, if she was correct about the missing root.

  Gaston leaned upon his elbow. “And if someone consumes it, what symptoms would be shown?”

  Ysmaine bit her lip. “It should never be eaten. It causes the same heat as on the skin, but inside, and much havoc follows. The heart leaps and the skin flushes. The body tries to void it, with vomiting or flux. Breath and pulse race, perspiration ensues, and oft numbness follows the heat. The person may see what is not there when its fire touches the mind.”

  “And death?”

  “Quick, especially with large doses. The sole action is to assist in the vomiting of it.”

  This was no good news. Gaston hoped his lady wife was mistaken about the quantity of herb.

  Ysmaine leaned closer. “Is it true that someone has pillaged the bags of all in the party? I know Wulfe and Everard complained of that at Samaria, but Joscelin was concerned about the same matter this very day.”

  Gaston’s gaze flew to hers, for his bags had been investigated the night before. “Have you had this trouble?”

  Ysmaine smiled. “I have few belongings, sir, and naught that any thief would find of interest.”

  Save the herb.

  Gaston sat up, filled with new purpose. He dared not savor his lady’s company and her charms overmuch as yet. He had to remain vigilant until the treasure safely reached its destination. The enticement that his lady offered, to linger and converse with her, would have to wait until they were safely returned to Châmont-sur-Maine.

  On this night, he had to watch the stables, for another set of eyes upon the bag defended by Laurent would be best. “I thank you for this aid, lady mine, but I came to you to beget that son and the hour grows most late.”

  If she was dismayed by the change in his manner, she hid it well. Gaston saw only a quick flash of those eyes, then his wife was washing her hands.

  “This will not take long,” he said, meaning to reassure her.

  “Of course not,” she said beneath her breath. He had a moment to wonder if she were displeased with his affections before the sweet splendor of her kiss stole all other thought from his mind.

  Thursday, July 23, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Apollinaris and of the martyrs Saint Nabor and Saint Felix.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ysmaine awakened to heavy knocking upon the doors of the house.

  She slept alone, of course, and refused to dwell upon the fact that she was yet of less value to her lord husband than his steed. She supposed she could have been sworn to a man who labored overlong in his passion, but Gaston, abed as in all else, was purposeful. He coaxed just enough response from her that she would not be injured, then was quick about seeing the matter done. She had fallen asleep with her knees tucked against her chest, once again fighting that strange dissatisfaction.

  “I demand admission!” a man roared, and pounded yet more. Ysmaine thought it might be Wulfe and her eyes opened wide. Had he not returned the night before? Radegunde slept against the door, still snoring, showing again her remarkable ability to sleep through any disturbance.

  Ysmaine hastened to the window, drawing the heavy cloak over her shoulders, only to find Wulfe confronting the other knights in the party in the courtyard below. It was just past dawn and clearly all had been roused from their sleep by his return. The Templar was flushed in his anger and his tabard appeared to be torn. He might have dressed in haste and his hair was
disheveled.

  He certainly appeared to be most agitated.

  Ysmaine could smell smoke.

  A woman was behind Wulfe, lacing her lavish kirtle as if she stood in her own chamber, not before a number of men. Her hair was the richest hue of golden red Ysmaine had ever seen, and it spilled over her shoulders like a wavy curtain wrought of richest silk. In contrast to Wulfe, her manner was so serene that Ysmaine was reminded of a cat grooming itself in the sun.

  Wulfe’s older squire, Stephen, was holding his knight’s cloak and kneading the fabric with agitation. He looked as if he had been running hard and his hair stood up on one side of his head. The younger squire, Simon, looked between the men, his glance darting to the woman at intervals, and Ysmaine was uncertain which of them he feared the most.

  “We are in peril and must ride out at once,” Wulfe declared. “I have been attacked!”

  Ysmaine was alarmed, but then she noticed Gaston in the shadows of the stable roof. His arms were folded across his chest and though he was listening to Wulfe, he did not seem inclined to hasten anywhere.

  Perhaps he knew more of what was afoot. Ysmaine lingered in the shadows to listen. Radegunde came to the other side of the window, yawned elaborately and grimaced at the man below. Her expression portrayed her opinion of the Templar without her uttering a word. She mirrored Ysmaine’s pose and remained out of sight as she watched.

  “We ride out this morn!” Wulfe roared. “If not this very moment.”

  Fergus yawned and shoved his hand through his hair, before he replied to Wulfe. “What a ruckus you make for so early in the day.” Duncan stood behind him, rubbing the whiskers on his chin.