“Well, you have naught to fear in that,” he retorted. “You have told me repeatedly that Christina is not your courtesan or companion. Doubtless, she will be left behind on our departure and her conclusions will be of no relevance.” He leaned closer to the other knight and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I would thank you, though, to refrain from tarnishing my repute with my lady wife. She and I are bound until death us do part.”
Wulfe snorted. “Given last night’s incident, death may come sooner than you had planned. I suggest this tactic: that you and I both avoid our respective women. Let the villain believe that dissent has been sown between us.”
Gaston considered this for only a moment before he discerned the merit of the plan. The villain evidently targeted the knights, undoubtedly seeking the treasure. Were he to feign a disagreement with Ysmaine, she would not be perceived to be allied with him, or to know any detail that could make her a victim of this fiend’s scheme. It would draw all the violence to himself and Wulfe.
Gaston did not like that he would have to trick his lady, but her conviction in his disapproval must be complete. She had no ability to deceive.
They would reach Paris in a matter of weeks, the treasure would be delivered, and he could spend the remainder of his life regaining her good will.
“Agreed,” he said with a terse nod. “But let us ride out as soon as may be.” The knights exchanged a look of resolve. “Now let us argue loudly about our departure and our route. I will insist upon granting you advice you do not desire, as has happened before.”
* * *
Ysmaine wished that Gaston did not confer so long in the stables with the Templar Wulfe. She sat in the common room, awaiting her spouse’s company. Duncan, the man at arms who traveled with Fergus sat in the opposite corner. Evidently he intended to blend with the shadows, for he was yet furled in his cloak and said naught at all.
Ysmaine yearned to know what Wulfe and Gaston discussed.
Joscelin the merchant returned to the house, thumping on the door for admission, then fairly capering across the courtyard. Clearly he was in a merry mood. His eyes lit when he spied Ysmaine at the board, and he immediately came to sit opposite her. Ysmaine wished he would leave her be.
She was far more interested in trying to hear what passed between Gaston and Wulfe. She did not like her husband’s pallor, or that he had insisted upon leaving her chamber to check upon his steed. To her thinking, he should have slept the day away, or at least lounged abed with her.
“My lady, you are clearly a noblewoman of great discernment, and one who appreciates the value of fine spices,” Joscelin began. He placed a small trunk upon the table, holding it as if it were made of gold. “And so I would offer this prize to you first of all, for I have seldom seen frankincense of such quality…”
“I thank you but I have little use for frankincense,” Ysmaine replied sweetly.
“Is it not used for the preparation of corpses for burial?” Everard contributed, taking the seat beside the merchant. Duncan snorted in laughter at that. “Given that the lady’s husband was so recently assaulted, your appeal is somewhat poorly timed, Joscelin.”
The merchant flushed. “You think of myrrh, sir, which also dulls pain. Frankincense is burned to scent the air in both sacred spaces and fine homes, such as the one Lady Ysmaine will soon occupy.”
The knight feigned surprise in a way that made Ysmaine fight a smile. “Sacred spaces? Does the lady intend to live in a church? Or join a convent? I suspect her husband would take issue with either plan.”
Ysmaine intervened then, not wanting the merchant to be insulted. “I thank you for this courtesy, Joscelin. You honor me by showing me such fine wares.” She let her tone become more firm. “However, as I have told you before, it is not fitting for me to make acquisitions for my husband’s manor before I have seen it or reviewed its inventories.”
“Of course, of course, my lady.” Joscelin packed away his little trunk, then regarded her with hope. “But might I suggest that I visit you at Châmont-sur-Maine, perhaps before the Yule, to better learn of any lack in your inventories?”
“Again, I thank you for such consideration. You be sure, sir, that if I have need of provisions you can supply, I will send word to you in Provins.”
The little man was delighted by this thin promise and proceeded to give Ysmaine elaborate directions to his shop, that he might be located readily in this circumstance. She glanced toward the stables as Wulfe raised his voice.
Joscelin noted her disinterest and excused himself elaborately before scurrying away.
“The tolls on the Saint Bernard Pass are well known to be expensive beyond belief, and there are thieves, to be sure,” Wulfe said. “That is why I suggest the alternate route to the southwest that the merchants use, through the Mont Cenis Pass…”
“Which will leave us much farther south than Paris,” Gaston interrupted calmly. “And is a longer journey from Venice. I thought you were the one who wished to reach Paris with all haste?”
Wulfe made an exclamation that expressed his frustration clearly even though the word could not be heard. “The road may be longer but it is said to be in better repair. We shall make better time.”
Gaston shook his head, unconvinced, then argued for the welfare of the squire, Hamish. Ysmaine wished he would argue for his own welfare as well.
After all, he had been assaulted just the night before.
“I thought the road through the Saint Bernard Pass most excellent,” Ysmaine said to Everard, agreeing with her husband.
“It has been years since I traveled either,” Everard said with a smile. “I shall leave the argument to those who know more of the roads in question.”
Ysmaine thought he might have lingered to converse more, but Christina rose to enter the common room, a smile playing over her full lips. The knight averted his gaze, clearly disapproving of her occupation, and strode from the room. He, too, went to check upon his horse.
“Who is he?” Christina asked, settling onto the bench opposite Ysmaine. Again, her leisurely movements reminded Ysmaine of a contented cat, although her eyes were bright as she watched Everard’s departure. “He seems most pleased with himself.”
“I suppose his pride is not undeserved,” Ysmaine replied. “He is Everard de Montmorency.”
Christina visibly started at this. “Truly?”
“And the Count of Blanche Garde, besides,” Duncan contributed. “A man whose piety is well known in Outremer.” He unfolded himself from his corner and claimed a piece of bread, dipping it into the honey beside Christina. “I doubt he would savor your wares.”
Christina blinked then seemed to fight a smile.
“Do you know him?” Ysmaine asked.
The courtesan shook her head hastily. “I have merely heard his name. As this man notes, his piety is well known.” Her gaze trailed after the nobleman. Her lips quirked, her expression mischievous. “To even be in the same abode as such a man is most amusing. Perhaps I should try to seduce him, to see whether his deeds are as lofty as his words.”
She unfastened her girdle and pooled it upon the table, her expression unreadable. Ysmaine had glimpsed the belt before, but saw now that it was a far more vulgar item than she had realized. The supposed gold already chipped from the links and the supposed gems were so vivid an orange that they could not be any true gem Ysmaine could name. Christina grimaced and began to break it apart, evidently sharing Ysmaine’s view.
Had it been a gift from Wulfe? From another lover? Ysmaine saw the resolve in the other woman’s gestures and did not dare to ask. Why would she break it apart? It was useful, if not elegant.
“You might try to seduce me,” Duncan suggested, then took a place on the bench beside the courtesan. The roughened warrior gave Christina an appreciative smile. “Though you might find it more of an easy victory than you seem to prefer.”
“And what is that to mean?” Christina asked idly.
“Only that you seem to l
ike a challenge. It is a rare courtesan who would seek an enduring alliance with a knight like Wulfe. I cannot imagine that you will succeed in that, though I enjoy watching your attempt.”
Christina granted him a cold glare. “I am gratified to know that someone finds amusement in my situation,” she said, then bent over her task.
Duncan was untroubled by her dismissal, merely raising his cup of wine in salute to Christina’s rigid spine.
“What will you do with it?” Ysmaine asked, genuinely curious and unable to remain silent.
Christina smiled. “Destroy it.” She lifted those magnificent eyes to meet Ysmaine’s gaze. “It marks me as chattel, and I would be chattel no longer.”
“Has it any value?”
“Its destruction will bring satisfaction, which might be value enough.”
Ysmaine watched her for a few moments, noting how quickly the pile of cut glass tokens grew. “Will you discard them?”
“Not yet. I will keep them, in case there is a purpose to be wrung from it.”
“Have you a sack for the pieces?”
“Nay. Why?”
“I will give you one,” Ysmaine offered. “There is one in my belongings for which I have no use.” She rose to her feet even as Christina regarded her with surprise. “It is only a plain cloth bag,” she said with a smile.
“Yet more than any soul has given to me in a very long time.” Christina blinked quickly. “I thank you for this courtesy, Lady Ysmaine. Your kindness is much appreciated.”
Ysmaine retreated to her chamber to fetch the sack and check upon Radegunde’s progress, well pleased that her impulse had steered her true.
* * *
Boys, the villain concluded. The boys were the key.
The knights revealed no detail of their quest or their secret, and indeed, one would never have guessed by their manner that they were entrusted even with the missive that they must carry. The Templars, truly, were skilled in subterfuge.
But boys, in the villain’s estimation, were cursedly curious and most adept at discovering what they should not know. There was always the potential of using one of the squires to nefarious purpose, but then the villain recalled the incident on the ship.
Kerr had been accosted by Bartholomew.
Perhaps it had not been a minor squabble between boys. Perhaps they had argued over some matter of import.
Like the respective roles of their knights.
Or the importance of a burden entrusted to one of them.
Or even, its location.
The villain watched both squires with greater care after this realization and came to the conclusion that Kerr had learned some detail of import. The boy’s gaze darted over the company, and he seemed to hold a secret close. He appeared to be the manner of person who gathered information, perhaps even one who would barter over either his silence or the price of sharing a secret.
The villain believed they might have much to discuss.
Though the ultimate terms would not be to the boy’s liking, there was no reason to reveal all too soon.
The villain would wait until they were upon the road, the better to have the party isolated and at his mercy.
* * *
Ysmaine might have lost her resolve, if Gaston had touched her.
But there was to be no risk of that. Indeed, he spent nigh all of their remaining time in Venice in either the stables or the common room of the house. He allowed himself to be examined by the apothecary when that man came to see about Hamish again, but he did not confide whatever was said in Ysmaine. Neither did they ride out with the haste Wulfe had recommended, so she guessed the apothecary had advised rest.
Yet Gaston did not rest. He was always up, always pacing, always active. That the man showed such disregard for his own welfare made her wish to strike sense into him. Yet she could not reason with him if he did not speak to her.
Ysmaine did not wish to leave the chamber lest the relic be unattended, so she feigned an illness. She hoped her husband might come to her and they might talk then, but Gaston sent word by Radegunde to ask after her recovery.
He did not even come to her bed that night.
Ysmaine tried to convince herself that it was for the best. She realized belatedly that Gaston only confided in her reluctantly, and when he came to her bed. Evidently, if he did not seduce her, they would not talk at all.
That he appeared to be unconcerned by this lack of communication was not reassuring in the least. Was this how he imagined their future life together?
It was far less than Ysmaine desired of him and of marriage. Indeed, she nigh wore a trough in the floor of her chamber, so agitatedly did she pace.
Two nights passed without her husband’s companionship, and Ysmaine found the change deeply troubling. Even in the common room when she descended to eat, he avoided her so consistently that it could not be coincidence. He was departing when she arrived or in the stables, conferring with squires or arguing with Wulfe. He did not abandon these activities to join her.
Did Gaston no longer desire a son? Did he distrust her? Was he more ill than she had believed? She could think of no good reason for his absence and found herself increasingly sleepless.
On the third night, Radegunde was combing out Ysmaine’s hair when a familiar knock sounded at the door. Ysmaine pulled her cloak about herself, hiding her stomach from view. The maid put down the comb and opened the door, and Ysmaine felt her heart clench at the sight of Gaston. He leaned in the doorway to consider her, even as Radegunde stood waiting.
“And how do you fare?” he asked and Ysmaine nigh flinched at the disinterest in his tone.
“Still cold,” she said and shivered to punctuate the lie. She thought for a moment that he would question her, but he said naught. “And you?”
“As hale as ever,” he said with a crooked smile, one that made her heart skip. “It has oft been said that my head is as hard as a rock.”
“And your shoulder?”
“Much improved.” He straightened then, his manner purposeful. Ysmaine thought she might have imagined that his expression had lightened, for he was cool and distant yet again. “The apothecary has declared all fit to ride, and Wulfe would leave on the morrow. Do you think you are sufficiently hale?”
“I would not delay the party, sir.”
Gaston nodded once, again looked as if he might say more, then stepped back. “At dawn, then, madame.”
“Will you not linger, sir?” Ysmaine asked.
“Not this night. I would not trouble you when you feel unwell.”
It was on Ysmaine’s lips to protest that he would not soon have a son if he abandoned the marital bed, then she recalled her ruse and bit her lip. “You limp again,” she said. “Would you allow me to give you relief with the liniment?”
His gaze hardened. “No longer.” He put out a hand. “In fact, I would ask you for it and the remaining herb, that both might be destroyed.”
Ysmaine was startled that his trust in her should have eroded so much. But his gaze was so hard that there could be no doubt of his suspicion. What manner of marriage would they have if he refused to trust her? She fetched both root and bottle, though, for only quick compliance would show her in favorable light, and surrendered both to him.
Their fingers brushed in the transaction, and Ysmaine longed to touch him more fully. Gaston eyed the bottle and root, then lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes were vividly blue and she sensed a tumult within him.
But he said naught. He gave no explanation. He merely bent and kissed her so sweetly that she burned for more. “I am sorry,” he murmured, his words so low and husky that only she could discern them.
Gaston pivoted and strode away, leaving Ysmaine filled with a curious mix of disappointment and relief. She hated to deceive him at all, but knew that if he caressed her as he had that last time, she would have confessed every truth she knew to him.
Why was he sorry? What had he done?
What did he mean to do?
<
br /> “And so we depart,” Radegunde murmured. She had wrapped the relic with care and sewn a pocket into Ysmaine’s chemise. It would be bound to her belly as well, as secure as it could be.
What if Ysmaine’s ploy was found out?
What if it was not discovered and Gaston believed her lie?
She could not sleep that night, though in truth, her pallor and the shadows beneath her eyes only gave credence to the first of her lies to her husband.
* * *
Gaston descended the stairs to the common room, much troubled by the change in his lady wife. She was pale and looked as if she had not slept. He feared that she had contracted some illness, though she did not confide as much in him. He wished he could spend time in her close company, but he had himself insisted to Wulfe that they keep a watch each night.
He had a sense that some threat grew and he feared the long, lonely distance to Paris. He knew that Wulfe would ride as hard as possible, and given the circumstances, he agreed.
But he was concerned for Ysmaine.
On his return to the stables, he paused to look up at the darkened window of her chamber for the merest heartbeat, then continued to Fantôme’s stall. He passed Duncan on his way, that man wrapped tightly in his cloak and disguised by the shadows. They shared the first watch, the man-at-arms watching the common room. A light burned brightly there, as Everard and Joscelin played at dice, the courtesan looking on with boredom.
“He wins a great deal for a pious man,” Duncan noted but Gaston did not care for Everard’s vices.
“I would ask you to befriend my wife,” he murmured softly then continued past the other man.
Duncan nodded but once, his gaze unwavering from the activities in the common room. “Aye, sir,” he agreed, understanding that it was an order. Doubtless, he also guessed the reasoning behind it.
Bartholomew was already asleep, as were the other squires. Gaston thought that Laurent watched him from the far end of the stables, but when he glanced at the boy, he was clearly asleep. His mind played tricks upon him, and he saw threats where there were none. The saddlebag was hugged so close by the boy that he might have been a limpet grown upon it.
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