The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  Uncertain why this might be, Gaston reluctantly set her down. She immediately rolled to her back and drew her knees up to her chest. Gaston could make no sense of her posture, and his confusion must have shown.

  Ysmaine granted him one of those potent smiles. “Radegunde says that the longer I hold your seed within me, the more likely it is to take root.”

  “Truly?” Gaston doubted he needed to confess that he knew little of such matters.

  “Her mother was a midwife, so it might be true.” She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose it cannot hurt.”

  “How long do you lie thus?”

  “Until I become cold.”

  Gaston considered her as he washed himself. “I might be of aid in that.”

  Again, she smiled, but her voice softened. “I should like that, husband.”

  There was much to be said for encouraging the lady to tell him of her preferences. Gaston seized the fur-lined cloak he had bought her that very day and joined her on the pallet, gathering her into his arms and tucking the cloak about them both. He sat with his back to the wall and his wife in his lap and liked how she smiled up at him.

  “It is much better this way,” she said, leaning her cheek against his chest. “As I slept on the ship.”

  “You knew I joined you?”

  He felt her smile against his skin. “I knew I was safe and warm, and already I know that means my husband ensures my welfare.” She sighed with a satisfaction Gaston shared. He found himself pressing a kiss to the top of her head and savored that strange mix he so often felt in Ysmaine’s presence of excitement and contentment.

  If this was how he would feel for the rest of his days and nights, wedded life would suit Gaston well indeed.

  “You did not let me sit atop you,” she complained easily, her words revealing that she was becoming drowsy.

  “I had not the opportunity.”

  She glanced up at him, her expression mischievous. “We could do it again.”

  “But once a night is sufficient, lady mine,” Gaston replied, though he knew it was not true. He could have taken her a dozen times, so great was his desire, but she was new to such pleasures and he did not wish to injure her.

  “Then I have a new objective,” she said, nestling against him. “I fear you have taken a greedy woman to wife, sir.”

  “Indeed?” He heard the thread of humor in his own tone.

  “Indeed. No sooner do I have a yearning fulfilled, then I develop another. I fear that I shall never be truly sated.”

  “I cannot believe it. You seem quite content to me.”

  Ysmaine shook a finger at him. “Ah, but you do not know the truth of it. You see, when I came on pilgrimage to Palestine, I yearned for a husband and a home. But by the time I met you in Jerusalem, I yearned only for Radegunde to be cured.”

  “And so she was.”

  “With your aid, to be sure. And you ensured that there was a hot meal in my belly before I could yearn for that. Which meant that I soon recalled my desire for a husband and a home.”

  “And now you have both.”

  “Although I feared for your fate when we met abed. I wished from our nuptial vows that you would survive our first coupling.”

  “And I did.”

  “Which meant only that I wished for more couplings,” Ysmaine said, feigning distress at her own greedy nature. Gaston chuckled but she looked up at him with concern and her voice softened. “Then I feared you would be lost to the Saracens, so I wished fervently for your survival.”

  He did not want her to dwell upon that incident. “Your wishing seems to be most effective.”

  “But when you survived, even that was not sufficient. I wished for pleasure abed.”

  “I can only hope that this dream, too, has been fulfilled.”

  Ysmaine sighed. “It has been, which only means that I now desire to conceive a son.”

  He pressed a kiss to her hair. “That may take some time. Your desire for more might be checked for a while.”

  “I doubt it,” Ysmaine admitted. “In the meantime, I shall yearn to meet you twice abed each day.”

  “And thence thrice?” he guessed, winning a brilliant smile.

  She made a mock frown. “You have wed a greedy woman, sir. Make no mistake.”

  “Then you must tell me of your each and every desire, and I shall labor to satisfy you. It is the only way a man of merit might serve his lady wife.”

  Her eyes sparkled with anticipation, and Gaston could not resist her allure. He kissed her then, a slow hot kiss that left his own toes curling, then reluctantly put her aside.

  “Surely you do not mean to leave?”

  “Surely I do,” Gaston replied.

  Ysmaine rolled over and propped herself on her elbows. She could not know what a tempting vision she created, with her hair cast over her shoulders and her lips swollen from his kisses. “Because Fantôme is your most valuable possession, so you must ensure his health and security.”

  “You know of this already.”

  Ysmaine watched him for a long moment and he wondered what she was thinking. He had little doubt that she would soon tell him. “Will he remain so, when I have borne you a son?”

  “You have not yet done so, my lady, so on this night, I need not be compelled to choose.” He fastened his belt, checked his weapons, then bent to kiss her quickly. “Sleep well, lady mine,” he murmured, surveying her one last time before he strode to the door.

  That last sight of her would keep him warm all the night, no matter how far he had to follow Wulfe in this city.

  Indeed, it was all Gaston could do to keep himself from whistling.

  Friday, July 24, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Lupus, Saint Wulfhade and Saint Ruffinus of Mercia.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was past midnight when the villain fled down the crooked streets of Venice, returning to the house in haste. He soundly cursed the entire order of Templar knights beneath his breath, along with all men of supposed honor, blaming them for his failure.

  He dodged down an alley and climbed to the roof of a kitchen, sneaking along the roof to the corner where this house abutted the one they had rented. The rope ladder he had lowered from his window earlier was in place as it should be. He climbed quickly to his room, pulled in the ladder and hid it behind the curtains. He washed in haste, disliking that the water took the tinge of his victim’s blood.

  He quaffed the remainder of the wine he had brought to his chamber and poured the red water into the decanter. He shed his garments quickly, knowing there was not a moment to be wasted, and reclined on his pallet. He willed his heart to slow its pace, even as he strained his ears for the sound of the returning knights.

  Would they bring a corpse?

  Or would they abandon his victim to Venice’s fetid canals?

  The villain knew which option he preferred. He breathed deeply and steadily, managing even to summon a small snore. He would be able to interrupt the sound when he heard the knights’ return and none would doubt that he had been in this chamber, slumbering all the while.

  Though he had not witnessed the collection of whatever treasure Wulfe was charged to deliver to the Paris Temple, it was clear the Templar intended to collect it in Venice. He would remain vigilant, but even if he did not observe the collection of the prize, he would know it to be in this company’s possession when they departed the city.

  The road was sufficiently long and lonely to Paris that opportunity would be found.

  * * *

  It was clear that there was merit to be found in bold speech.

  And Ysmaine had no complaint with Gaston’s reward for her honesty. She could scarce think of sleeping, she was so pleased with the change in their marriage. Her thoughts flew as she envisioned a joyous future together, including many afternoons abed in the solar of Châmont-sur-Maine. She nestled deeper into her new cloak as Radegunde bustled about the chamber and relished the prospect of her future with Gaston.

 
She must have slept, for she awakened yet again to disarray in the house.

  It was nigh the middle of the night, but Wulfe was shouting in the courtyard for aid. Some soul knocked with force on the door to her chamber, and Radegunde leapt to her feet. Ysmaine seized her small eating knife.

  “Who is it?” Radegunde demanded. “My lady is asleep.”

  “I beg leave to bring my lord knight to the lady’s chamber,” Bartholomew said, his voice high with agitation. “For he has been attacked.”

  “Nay!” Ysmaine cried and flung herself from her bed.

  But it was true. Wulfe and Fergus carried Gaston up the stairs toward her chamber, his limp form telling her more than she wished to know.

  The trail of blood left on the steps behind them made Ysmaine fear the worst.

  Most of their group climbed the stairs behind the small party, looking as if they had been roused from sleep by the noise. She was Gaston’s lady wife. His welfare in this moment was her responsibility. Ysmaine recalled every time her mother had taken charge of a situation and endeavored to do the same.

  First, she had need of her most commanding tone.

  “Radegunde, please put every blanket upon the pallet and fetch water for my husband. If he is injured, the wounds will need to be cleaned.”

  “I can do as much, my lady,” Bartholomew protested.

  “You may aid me in removing his armor.” Ysmaine pointed at Wulfe. “And you will tell me how this transpired.” She drew herself up to her full height, unaware of how much she resembled her mother. “The rest of you may retire again. We shall confer in the morning, when there is less to be done.”

  Radegunde raced down the steps with the bucket to the well, and Ysmaine gestured that Gaston should be laid on her pallet. He was pale and he was wet, the smell of unclean water rising from his garb.

  God in Heaven but she did not want to be this man’s widow.

  The terror of what appeared to be a very real possibility made Ysmaine summon every scrap of strength within her and accommodate every detail.

  Gaston needed her, as he never had before.

  * * *

  “He was in one of these filthy canals,” Ysmaine guessed, tugging off Gaston’s boots and emptying the water inside them out the window. She stood the boots to one side of the room, showing all the care for them that Gaston always did. She turned to find Wulfe removing Gaston’s tabard and thought of the coins hidden in its hems.

  She recalled the missive hidden in his aketon, and knew she had to defend her husband’s secrets as well as his life.

  “I will send for an apothecary,” Bartholomew said, but Ysmaine thought immediately of more eyes in this chamber.

  “I would see the extent of his injuries first,” she said with resolve. “There might be no need to expend extra coin to summon an apothecary at this hour of the night.”

  She felt the shock of the others, but ignored it. She did not doubt that her reaction would spark speculation but she did not care. She moved between Wulfe and her husband.

  “Sir, that is not a fitting task for you,” she said to him, summoning as imperious a tone as she could manage. “You are neither squire nor servant.” Ysmaine moved quickly, brushing Wulfe aside along with his protests. “Your service is better needed in telling us what transpired. How was he so injured in the stables?”

  There was a pause, only the sound of Bartholomew unbuckling Gaston’s belt in the chamber. The squire set aside Gaston’s weapons and his gloves with a care that knight would have shown himself.

  Ysmaine glanced up to see that Wulfe’s expression had set.

  Still neither man replied.

  “He was not in the stables,” she concluded, and neither man argued with her. Her temper rose. “Indeed, you were abroad in this perilous town, long after the hour when all sensible men are locked into their homes, and so my husband paid the price.”

  “It was his idea,” Wulfe said through gritted teeth.

  Again, Ysmaine had the sense that matters were far from what they appeared to be. It seemed also that she was not the only one who had discerned that Gaston knew more than he admitted. That the target had moved to her husband made her all the more determined to defend him.

  “I do not believe it,” she retorted. “My lord husband has more sense than that.”

  She wanted these men out of her chamber, so that she could bar the door to all but herself and Radegunde, but she dared not arouse their suspicions. She had the relic, though they did not know as much. At best, she would feign shyness to be rid of them, and insist upon decorum.

  Though that would only succeed if Gaston’s injury were minor. She removed his tabard and set it aside, rolling him to his belly with Bartholomew’s aid that his aketon might be removed. She wondered how to contrive that it remained in this room, for a squire was responsible for his knight’s weaponry. She wondered how she would ensure that the missive was not found, but in the end, it was accomplished so easily that she might not have feared.

  Bartholomew unlaced the back of the aketon and pushed it from Gaston’s shoulders. Ysmaine gasped at the blood upon his shoulder and the back of his head. His pulse was yet strong though, and he breathed steadily. She examined the wounds and was relieved that they were not deeper.

  “He must have sunk.”

  “Indeed, my lady,” Bartholomew agreed. “He was struck from behind and pushed into the canal.” Ysmaine thought of the squire Hamish and wondered whether the others did, as well. “He is not small and the weight of his armor is considerable.”

  “Fiends and thieves,” she fumed. “They wished to ensure that he could not stand witness to their crime.”

  “Undoubtedly so, my lady,” Wulfe agreed.

  It was only then that Ysmaine realized Bartholomew was wet. “You pulled him out?”

  “I had to dive in after him, my lady,” he admitted, his consternation most clear. “I thought…I feared…”

  She laid a hand over his, not surprised to find him trembling. “My lord husband is fortunate indeed to have such a loyal man in his service. I thank you, Bartholomew.”

  He swallowed and nodded.

  “Now, let us see him dry and warm. I think that will aid him as much as any other cure. Feel the strength of his pulse.” That seemed to reassure the squire. Ysmaine tugged the aketon from beneath Gaston, even as Bartholomew worked the mail hauberk over his knight’s head. Wulfe was required to lift Gaston’s weight to aid in the task, and Ysmaine whisked both tabard and aketon away.

  Radegunde returned then and fell to her knees beside Gaston, the water spilling over the edge of the bucket in her haste to do her lady’s bidding. “What shall I do, my lady?”

  “Squeeze the water from his tabard and hang it to dry,” Ysmaine instructed. “Then I would ask you to attempt to draw the blood out of his aketon.” She cast a look at Bartholomew, who might have protested. “Radegunde is very skilled with textiles, and I would ensure that all meets Gaston’s approval. Could you ensure that his mail and weapons are undamaged by this drenching?”

  “Indeed, my lady.”

  Ysmaine looked down at her husband, now wearing solely his chemise and cursedly pale. “I will wash the wounds. Is there a brazier to be had in this establishment? A warm beverage would serve him well. Perhaps a cup of mulled wine.”

  “I will see to that,” a woman said from the portal, and Ysmaine realized that the courtesan had not returned to her chamber. She looked frightened, though she composed her expression when she found Ysmaine’s gaze upon her. She spun and hastened down the stairs, her footfalls fading from earshot.

  Wulfe looked after her with a frown.

  Ysmaine chose to find a mundane explanation for this event, although she guessed the truth was far from it. “I do not blame her for being distressed,” she said softly, even as she washed Gaston’s shoulder. “Given where you have been.”

  “Do you address me?” Wulfe asked coolly.

  “Indeed. What other man’s actions would con
cern Christina, at least of the company in this chamber?”

  His lips tightened. “My affairs are not your concern.”

  “My husband’s situation is. Will you grant me an explanation for this?”

  “I need not do so.”

  “Then I will make a guess.” Ysmaine surveyed Gaston. “She is dismayed because you had need of a second whore,” she said tightly. “Yet you could not indulge in such vice without leaving my husband to sleep as he desired. You had to draw him into your scheme, and doubtless lured him to some part of the city of ill repute where you were assaulted. Were you both robbed? Or only my lord husband?” She let disdain fill her tone. “Praise be that you did not leave him to rot in the streets. Praise be that his squire saw fit to follow you both, that he might defend my lord husband in such peril as you invited with your sinful urges.”

  Wulfe hung his head, accepting her version of matters so readily that she knew it could not be true. If it had been the case, this proud knight would have argued the matter most heatedly with her. Bartholomew shifted his weight from foot to foot, uneasy beyond belief.

  Aye, they had a secret these three. Had Wulfe not muttered that it had been Gaston’s idea? Gaston led them in some quest which had gone awry, and his role had been discovered. If they could not protect her husband, then Ysmaine would do so.

  “Leave this chamber, sir,” she said to Wulfe, ensuring that her tone was proud and haughty. “I have no more to say to you, although your courtesan may no longer believe you to be her champion.” She bent over Gaston, then glanced up at the Templar. “But then, perhaps that was the root of your scheme this night.”

  Wulfe’s lips tightened. “My lady,” he began, but Ysmaine rose to her feet again.

  “Leave us, sir. I will bar my door against men of such base desires as yours.”

  Christina returned with one of Wulfe’s squires, directing him to place the brazier he carried in the corner of the chamber. He lit the coal within it. It was the older boy, Stephen, and his dismay at the sight in her chamber was most clear. Christina gave the wine to Radegunde, then departed, sparing a glance from the threshold back at Wulfe.