The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  That knight lingered, his manner grim. “He is not so badly injured, is he?”

  “I suspect not, but if so, I will send Radegunde to tell you of it.”

  He bowed then and departed, striding past Christina with nary a word as he descended the stairs. His knavery was of no concern to Ysmaine.

  She turned a quelling look upon the gaping Stephen, who accepted Gaston’s boots from Bartholomew and scurried out the door.

  Bartholomew gathered the rest of the armor, bowing before Ysmaine. “If I can be of any aid, my lady, no matter the hour, I would beg of you to summon me,” he said. “And if my lord knight is more ill than you believe, again, I would ask to know of it.”

  “Bartholomew, I thank you again for your assistance. If I or my lord husband has need of your aid, you can be sure I will ask for it. I beg of you to see yourself warmed before you fall ill.” Ysmaine forced a smile. “I imagine my husband will soon have need of you.”

  “I pray it will be so, my lady,” Bartholomew said. He granted Gaston one last glance, then departed with obvious reluctance.

  It was only when she was alone with Radegunde and the portal was locked behind them that Ysmaine could fall to her knees beside her injured husband and give way to the fear that clutched at her heart.

  She could not lose him, not at any price.

  * * *

  Ysmaine only breathed a sigh of relief hours later.

  Finally, Gaston stirred, frowned and rolled to his side.

  She might have wept in her relief.

  She had cleaned and stitched the wound in his shoulder and bathed the back of his head where he had been struck. His pulse had remained steady and strong, though she disliked the measure of blood in his aketon and tabard.

  “He seems to sleep normally,” Radegunde dared to suggest, and Ysmaine nodded agreement. She was exhausted suddenly, her fears having abandoned her.

  The portal was locked against the others and it was yet night, although she heard a cock crow at close proximity. The house was comparatively silent, though she heard the rumble of men’s voices in the common room below. Doubtless Wulfe and Fergus conferred over their course.

  Now that Gaston slept, she could tend to his secrets. Ysmaine tested the spot on the front of Gaston’s aketon and was relieved to feel the vellum of that missive yet in place. The padded garment was sodden, though, and she had a sudden fear for the ink of the missive. As Gaston had not read it, he could not deliver its message by memory. She picked out the stitches and removed the missive, seeing the ink leaking from one side of it.

  She hesitated only a moment before breaking the seal and unfurling the document. To her relief, the ink had only run at one margin and the majority of the script could yet be read. She denied temptation and did not read it, merely weighed down the corners before leaving the document to dry.

  She and Radegunde rolled the aketon and walked upon it, forcing out the water as well as they could. The maid had already done the same to Gaston’s tabard and hung it near the lit brazier in the hope that it might dry by morning.

  Ysmaine’s gaze fell anew upon the bundle where the relic was hidden. It seemed most vulnerable to her, no matter how they managed to carry it, and she feared that the villain responsible for Gaston’s injury would yet manage to seize it.

  She would not see her husband dishonored.

  But how could she aid him? She could not consult with him, not on this night when he lay injured. Indeed, she had not been able to confer with him otherwise, for he believed his secrets should not be her own.

  “What vexes you, my lady?”

  “We will leave Venice in a day or so,” Ysmaine admitted quietly. She gestured to the bundle containing the relic. “How shall we best disguise it?”

  Radegunde sat close by her mistress, frowning a little. “There is one place no man would deign to examine.”

  Ysmaine glanced up with curiosity.

  “My mother did this once, when your father’s holding was besieged. She smuggled a message from him to an ally through the ranks of his attackers.”

  Ysmaine’s excitement rose. “I remember this feat! They let her pass because she was a woman and so evidently close to her time.”

  The women’s gazes met and held. Radegunde’s mother had not been with child, but the strangers who held the gate had not known as much. The belly that the attackers believed to her unborn child had been a bundle, one that included a missive to the ally and several jewels to prove the identity of the sender.

  Radegunde dropped her voice. “You do try to conceive your lord husband’s son. Who is to say when you will succeed?”

  “It is too big,” Ysmaine protested. “I could not be so large so soon, and they have seen me since Jerusalem. If it appears suddenly, the truth will be evident to all.”

  “Then disguise yourself from this day forward.”

  “Still, we would be in Paris before I could carry so large a child.”

  “Only if it was wrought of your husband’s seed.”

  Ysmaine gasped, then met the confident gaze of her maid. “But that should mean that I had deceived him, that I had lied to him.”

  “You might confide in him,” Radegunde suggested but Ysmaine shook her head.

  “Nay, it would not do. He is a man of such virtue and integrity that he would not be able to deceive his fellows. They would spy the ruse immediately.”

  “Do you not trust them?”

  “I trust few souls in this party: you and my husband and perhaps his squire.” Ysmaine chewed her lip, thinking furiously. What if she deceived Gaston only for a few moments? When her state was revealed, she could contrive that they argued before the entire company. Then once he had reacted with outrage at her ‘deception,’ she could confide in him the truth in privacy.

  Surely, he would recognize that she had acted for the greater good?

  Surely, he would be grateful that the relic was defended?

  Surely, her action would convince him of the merit of a marriage based on partnership and discussion?

  She bent beside him, encouraged that he was both warm and seemed to be sleeping easily. A scab was already forming on his wound and she was glad of his vitality. No doubt they would depart soon, which meant she had to choose her course.

  Ysmaine watched her husband sleep until the dawn, then made her choice. She bent to kiss his cheek when sounds of the awakening household rose from the courtyard and whispered to him. “Forgive me, sir, for what I must do. Forgive me and trust in the greater good.”

  * * *

  Forgive me.

  Gaston heard Ysmaine’s entreaty in his dreams, a whisper from miles away that yet managed to prick his attention.

  Forgive her for what?

  What did she intend to do?

  The question roused him from sleep, though his body was sore and his head was pounding. He awakened to find himself in his lady’s chamber yet, in her pallet, and doubted his own memory when she threw herself upon him with evident relief.

  “Sir! You awaken!”

  Gaston sat up, undaunted by the thudding in his skull. He could not lie abed. He had to speak to Wulfe about the night before. He had to discover what that knight had witnessed, and if possible, identify who had been absent from the house.

  “What happened?” Ysmaine demanded. “What do you recall?”

  “I will speak to the other knights of it,” Gaston said, fearing he would distress her. “You need not know of it.”

  “Sir.” She fixed him with a determined look and he knew that he had again offended her. “May I at least listen to the accounting of your misfortune?”

  He rose to his feet, spying his chausses and chemise by the window. He could defend himself better when garbed, to be sure. Gaston took a step toward the garments, then halted to stare at what could only be the missive from Brother Terricus.

  Unfurled and spread upon the table.

  The seal broken.

  He spun to face Ysmaine, who had wrapped herself
in her cloak. She eyed him with a familiar defiance in her eyes. “I feared the ink would run,” she said, anticipating his objection. “And so it had begun. Look at the margin.”

  Gaston looked and could not deny it. “Did you read it?”

  “Nay. I was more concerned with you than the missive.”

  Gaston knew only that he had been sworn to secrecy, and he feared to have the contents of the missive revealed to any other soul than its intended recipient. “Swear it to me.”

  Ysmaine’s lips tightened. “I swear as much,” she said with reassuring alacrity, evidently vexed that he demanded this of her. “But you should read it.”

  “I pledged…”

  “Aye, I know. And that was why I had to ensure it remained legible. If it had been destroyed, whatever message it carried would be lost forever.” She shrugged and turned her back to him to don her kirtle. “I can only assume its contents have some import. Why else would it have been dispatched?”

  Gaston eyed the smeared ink. Though his head ached, he knew she spoke aright. He could not have delivered the missive if all the ink had run, or indeed, if the document had been stolen. He had given his word, but he believed that even Terricus would cede to the logic in this.

  He donned his chemise and chausses, but could see no sign of his boots.

  “Sodden,” Ysmaine supplied, evidently guessing what he sought. “Bartholomew took them, along with your belt, hauberk and weapons. I bade him ensure they were in suitable repair for you this morning.” She crossed the floor before him, fully dressed, and examined his tabard. “It is dry enough, thanks to Radegunde’s labor.”

  “Bartholomew could have tended to it, as well.”

  Ysmaine lifted her chin and there was a flash in her eyes that Gaston took as a warning. “I kept your treasures close, sir, as is the duty of your wife.”

  “There was no need for you to do such labor.”

  “I say there is. People would think ill of a wife who did not attend her husband’s needs.”

  Gaston realized he had granted offense when he had not meant to do so. Truly, he was accustomed to relying upon his squire and no other! “I apologize,” he said with a slight bow. “I am less familiar with the rightful obligations of a wife than you. I meant only that you could have trusted Bartholomew.”

  To his relief, Ysmaine smiled a little. “Ah, I understand and I believe you are right. Bartholomew saved your life at the risk of his own.” Ysmaine touched him fleetingly and her voice faltered. “Some soul tried to do you injury, sir, if not to kill you.” Gaston saw her concern and claimed her hand, intent upon reassuring her. Her question surprised him. “Is this missive why?”

  Gaston frowned and dropped his gaze. “It was but a thief, I am certain, seizing an opportunity.” It was strange how he found it increasingly unpalatable to keep matters from his wife. The night before, their mating had been both magical and potent, and he had dared to believe their future assured. On this morn, there seemed new obstacles between them and he could not help but think that the assault upon him was less at root than her perceptive nature.

  Indeed, Ysmaine’s lips tightened at his reply and Gaston wondered how much she had discerned of the truth.

  He was the one who had insisted upon honesty, but he guessed that his lady was no less fond of truth than he. He wished this quest were behind him that he might speak to her plainly, and not feel his loyalties were divided.

  To his surprise, she accepted his explanation easily.

  Perhaps too easily.

  “Bad fortune, then,” she said lightly, turning away from him again. “But still, you might have lost the missive, sir. It would be most unfortunate if you could not deliver it or share its tidings.”

  “You speak aright,” Gaston acknowledged, then sat to read it in full. There was naught within it that truly surprised him, though he had not known the fullness of the tidings Terricus had clearly received. He read it twice, checked that the vellum and ink were dry, then heated the wax seal slightly at the brazier. He sealed the document anew, catching Ysmaine’s gaze upon him. “I shall tell the Master of the Temple that I have read it,” he said, wanting to ensure she did not believe he intended any deceit. “But this will ensure that I know if any other soul does so.”

  Her brows rose, though she said naught.

  He reached for the aketon, only to find that it was yet wet.

  “It will take at least this day to dry, sir,” the maid informed him. “I shall put it in the sun and turn it often to hasten the process.”

  Gaston considered the missive, then secreted it in his sleeve. He would hide it beneath his tabard once he had his belt again. Ysmaine watched him in silence and he knew he yet owed her an apology.

  “Your counsel was wise, lady mine,” he admitted. “I thank you for it, and for whatever assistance you granted to me last night.”

  “Will you tell me what occurred?”

  Gaston smiled. “I will tell Wulfe what I recall, for he shall have to decide what best to do.”

  He had a fleeting glimpse of her displeasure, then she cast her new cloak over her shoulders. Gaston had a fleeting sense that his wife made some decision, or closed some portal against him.

  Forgive me. Her murmured words echoed again in his thoughts.

  He stepped toward her, wanting to recover the ease that had been between them the night before. “You will be overwarm,” he advised, reaching to lift her cloak.

  Ysmaine merely cast him a smile and stepped beyond his reach. “I think not. I find myself chilled in this city, sir.” She shivered elaborately, then strode to the door. The maid turned the key in the lock, even as her lady glanced over her shoulder. “Would you clean the chamber, please, Radegunde? I will bring you something to break your fast, if you might see it done sooner.”

  “Of course, my lady. I shall be glad to do it.”

  Gaston looked between the women, fighting a sense that they knew something he did not, then winced at the pounding in his head. Indeed, the incident of the night before left him seeing peril where there was none.

  If naught else, he could trust Ysmaine.

  At least he believed as much until he spoke to Wulfe.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Did you see him?” Gaston asked Wulfe in an undertone. The two men were in the stables, purportedly checking their steeds. Ysmaine was in the common room, breaking her fast, and Fergus brushed his own steed. His presence was apparently a coincidence, but he watched the courtyard.

  “No more than a shadow,” Wulfe acknowledged.

  “The ploy failed, then.”

  “We drew the villain out, that much is certain.” The portal to the street was opened, and Joscelin returned, his manner jovial. He waved farewell to an acquaintance and hummed to himself as he crossed the courtyard to the common room. He looked well pleased and had been clearly absent all the night long.

  To Gaston’s dismay, he made directly for Ysmaine, who smiled thinly. Her gaze flicked to the stables, then back to the merchant. Everard lounged at the other end of the board and Wulfe’s courtesan sat alone in the courtyard, dipping bread into honey then eating it with languor.

  “Has your wife not been widowed twice?” Wulfe asked.

  Gaston glared at the Templar. “Of what import is that?”

  Wulfe shrugged. “We were not followed to Venice. The treasure is yet secure, according to Fergus. Perhaps there was another reason you were attacked.”

  “You cannot still suspect my lady wife.”

  Wulfe’s gaze was knowing. “She refused to summon an apothecary for you last night.”

  Gaston felt his own eyes narrow, but he argued for his lady. Twice before, circumstance had cast her in poor light, and in both cases, there had been a reasonable explanation—and one that proved her innocence. He would not doubt her again. “She was merely optimistic.”

  “It was before we knew the extent of your injury.” Wulfe leaned closer. “Then she cast every soul but her maid from the chamber.�
� He shook his head. “In truth, if I did not know you to be too cursed stubborn to die, I might have feared you would not survive the night.”

  Gaston did not believe the other knight truly perceived a threat to his survival. This man, he knew well, liked to sow doubt about Ysmaine and her intentions. Gaston would not be swayed. Still he noted how Joscelin and his lady conferred on the far side of the courtyard with some uneasiness. “Yet you did not intervene or protest?”

  “What protest could I have made? I but watched and listened as well I could.”

  “She knows of healing. Perhaps she perceived more than you did, and more quickly.”

  Wulfe shrugged, unconvinced.

  Gaston frowned, considering his wife’s manner of this morn. “I fear she may have guessed more than I would prefer of our errand.”

  “I think not,” the Templar scoffed. “Her assumption was faulty, though I saw no reason to correct it for it was useful.”

  Gaston was confused. “How so?”

  “She was quick to accuse me of enticing you to seek out whores.”

  Gaston was dismayed that his wife should have any reason to think him guilty of such a deed. “Ysmaine said as much?”

  “Aye, she was heartily vexed with me. I did tell her that our errand had been your idea, but she did not believe me.”

  Gaston was somewhat mollified by that, but still troubled by Ysmaine’s accusation. She had not spoken highly of Wulfe and his inclinations, and Gaston did not want her to see him in similar light.

  Wulfe evidently took his silence as annoyance. “I was so relieved that she concocted a plausible tale that I dared not argue with her.” He grimaced. “To my own discomfort.”

  “How so?”

  “Christina believed her.”

  Gaston might have been amused by the other knight’s chagrin had he not been concerned. He was amazed that Ysmaine believed he had gone to a whore, after the interval they had shared.

  Was vexation the root of her strange mood this morn?

  How could he defend himself without revealing the truth of his quest to her?