The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  No one would ever separate the two. Reassured, Gaston wrapped his cloak around himself and settled into the darkness at the back of the stables, taking his turn at keeping a vigilant watch on the portal.

  Only once the true threat was revealed and purged would he sleep in truth.

  Only when his duty was complete could he bend his full attention on seducing his lady wife. Though Gaston chafed at the delay, he reasoned their ride to Paris would be fast and hard. Ysmaine would not complain, for it was not in her nature to do so, but Duncan would let him know if she ailed overmuch.

  It was a poor situation, but a temporary one, and Gaston was well used to making do with what was less than ideal.

  The sole consolation was that he was certain his lady had learned similar tolerance.

  Monday, July 28, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Samson and the Apostle, Saint James the Great.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The company departed from Venice, the rain beating down on their shoulders. It seemed a despondent party to Ysmaine, with only Wulfe seeming glad to depart. She was surprised to see Christina in their company, riding one of Wulfe’s palfreys. Though knight and courtesan exchanged a hot glare, Wulfe did not protest her presence, and Christina rode at the back of the party.

  Gaston had handed Ysmaine into her saddle, but had frowned when she had refused to let him lift her. She knew that if he locked his hands around her waist, her subterfuge would be revealed too soon. She felt rather than saw the other knights note the discord between herself and her husband. She flushed but held her head high when they set out.

  She made no comment when they passed through the city walls, and Gaston eased his destrier forward. It appeared that he merely conferred with Wulfe about the route, but he remained at the lead of the party.

  Instead of by her side.

  Radegunde urged her palfrey forward, to ride on Ysmaine’s right hand. Everard spurred his horse to join Wulfe and Gaston, eagerly participating in the conference about their route. Joscelin dropped back to speak with Christina, who replied tersely to his queries, while Fergus conferred with Bartholomew about the best defense of the group. The road was yet busy, but Ysmaine knew that by afternoon, they would likely be alone upon its length and vulnerable to bandits. The knights wore their armor openly, their scabbards bared to view. She did not doubt this was intended to defer the interest of villains.

  The older Scottish warrior was on her left, as he had been before, but Ysmaine jumped when he spoke to her. “It is the curse of these Templars at root, lass,” he confided, his manner confidential. Ysmaine flicked a glance his way, uncertain he addressed her. His eyes gleamed, though, and he smiled. “They gain a lofty view of the world, particularly of women, and can be harsh judges upon leaving the confines of the order.”

  “I do not know what you mean,” Ysmaine said, more for the sake of appearances than any truth. She could not guess how many listened to their conversation, though they seemed to be indifferent. Her hand, hidden beneath her cloak, stole over her supposed belly once more.

  “A high moral code means that it is easy for another to fall short of the measure,” Duncan continued with a nod. “I see it time and again in these men. Their hearts are valiant, to be sure. Their shortcoming is a failure to see that others must often make choices from a poor array of options, though they do so without hesitation themselves.” He glanced back toward Christina. “As with this one. As your husband has noted, women are not born whores any more than men are born knights. I cannot believe one of such birth would have chosen that occupation either.”

  “Such birth?” Ysmaine echoed.

  Duncan chuckled. “No one looks truly at a whore, lass. Have you seen how she eats? How she carries herself? How she speaks?” He shook his head. “This one was wrought in no hovel.”

  Ysmaine could say nothing in response to that. Could Christina have been nobly born? She reviewed what she had noted of the other woman and saw the merit of Duncan’s reasoning

  “I have seen it time and again, lass.” Duncan shook his head. “Few women manage a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and back without incident, if their husband or defender is lost on the way. There is a reason why the Holy City has an unholy number of prostitutes. To be sure, each one rode out in pursuit of a far more lofty goal than such degradation.”

  Ysmaine swallowed, aware of how close she herself had come to such a fate. Her gaze rose to Gaston’s broad shoulders, and again she felt gratitude toward him for his intervention.

  Duncan nodded at her, his manner genial. “You are a woman of good fortune, to be sure, and the man you have wed is an honorable one. Do not blame him overmuch if he has a doubt now and then. They will pass, as he sees the truth of your measure.”

  “I thank you, Duncan,” Ysmaine said, appreciating that he had troubled to reassure her. “You undoubtedly know more of such knights than I do.”

  Indeed, she felt more than gratitude toward Gaston, though Ysmaine realized only the fullness of it now. Had that been the limit of her regard, she would not be so dismayed to withhold the truth from him. She would not have missed his touch so keenly. She would not have been so devastated when she thought him lost in Acre. Her heart would not have leapt with such vigor when he granted her the favor of a smile.

  She would not be imagining the joy of their lives together and be so upset by the prospect of disappointing him.

  She loved him.

  But if Gaston was a man of such high moral code as the warrior suggested, her choice not only to deceive him but to choose this way to do so, could only turn him against her forever.

  Would she defend her husband’s honor at the price of losing his good will forever?

  If only he would speak to her, she would confess all!

  But that situation was not to be.

  * * *

  It was a miserable day, for the rain grew colder and fell with greater force with every passing hour. They were all soaked to the skin and the horses were mired to their bellies. Wulfe would have pressed onward, but Gaston was keenly aware of the pallor of his lady wife.

  When darkness fell, he insisted that they halt at the first light they spied.

  Wulfe agreed only with reluctance. To Gaston’s dismay, that first light shone from an inn so humble that it was impoverished and mean. There was only space in the barn for them, which might have been a blessing given the raucous sounds of merriment carrying from the common room.

  “We take shelter in a warren frequented by thieves,” Wulfe grumbled, but Gaston felt Ysmaine shivering when he handed her down from the saddle. He was adamant that they remain, for she had to have shelter and rest.

  The barn was so filthy that the squires had to muck it out. There was a scurry of activity, as various members used the latrines and professed them disgusting. Garments were wrung out, horses brushed down, boots emptied of water. They worked in unison and grim silence to improve their situation for the night.

  They hung sodden cloaks over the beams and paid an outrageous price for the loan of two lanterns, neither of which were full of oil. Wulfe was disgruntled by their circumstance and the others tight-lipped, but Gaston watched Ysmaine.

  To his relief and with Radegunde’s encouragement, she retreated to a stall and returned in the finer of her new kirtles. He caught a glimpse only of its hem, for she kept that wet cloak wrapped around herself. He was glad that her kirtle and chemise were dry and hoped that the fur lining of the cloak was as well. Duncan encouraged her to sit close to one of the lanterns, and Radegunde fetched her a bowl of stew. Both of them were granted a luminous smile of gratitude that filled Gaston with unfamiliar envy.

  Indeed, they could not reach Paris soon enough for his taste.

  He had no sooner had the thought than all went awry.

  The villain had struck.

  * * *

  The stew had to be wrought of goat meat and that of a beast dead of old age, for it was sinewy and strongly flavored. The sauce was thin and the wine h
ad nigh turned to vinegar. Ysmaine could not fathom why the knights had called a halt in this poor excuse for an inn. The sound of gambling in the common room of the tavern was loud, and she did not doubt that there would be a fight there before the dawn. Joscelin and Everard were drawn to the sound of dice rolling and did not return with Fergus when he brought the pot of stew and the wine.

  For a man said to be pious, Everard had a fondness for gambling, to be sure.

  The bread was hard and for lack of plate or trencher, they each dipped bread into the stew to eat. The knights insisted that she and Christina eat first, and Ysmaine noted that the other woman ate as little as she. Radegunde had only a small measure herself.

  Sometimes hunger was the better choice.

  The knights returned from the tending of their steeds and squatted in the light of the lanterns as the rain pummeled the roof of the barn. Ysmaine noted their grim moods and guessed that Gaston and Wulfe had disagreed again. A stream of water came through some hole in the roof, splashing into a puddle in the corner and strengthening the scent of manure. Even Laurent did not seem so fragrant in this wretched place.

  “At least we are out of the rain,” she said, trying to lighten the mood of the party. Gaston flicked a very blue glance in her direction. Wulfe grimaced, though that might have been because he had taken his first bite of the stew.

  “You speak aright, my lady,” Duncan agreed, and Ysmaine realized she had a new ally. “There are worse places to spend the night. Our garb might be dry by the morning.”

  Bartholomew joined them then, his expression one of disgust. “They doubled their price for the fodder,” he confided in Gaston, whose lips tightened. He granted the younger man some more coin from his purse, which Ysmaine noted was emptying rapidly. Had he taken the coin from his tabard hem as yet? She should grant him the coin sewn into her own hem and resolved to remove it this night.

  If her husband would not accept it from her, she would give it to his squire. Bartholomew left again, and the horses stamped, one drinking noisily in its stall.

  “Kerr! Hamish! Laurent!” Fergus said, raising his voice. “Come and eat of the meat.” He made a face. “Such as it is.”

  Wulfe called to Stephen and Simon, who stopped brushing his black destrier and came to accept a measure of bread. They squatted down beside him and ate quickly. Hamish did the same, accepting a measure of food from Fergus, which disappeared with speed.

  Of course, they were of an age when boys eat mightily. Ysmaine gave the last portion of her bread to Simon, who started before accepting it, then bowed low to her. It, too, was devoured in a heartbeat, as if she had fed a hungry hound.

  Fergus frowned into the shadows. “Laurent, come and eat.”

  “I would not offend the party with my smell, sir.”

  Fergus laughed. “No soul will even discern it in this hovel. Come.”

  Ysmaine watched the boy hesitate. He still clung to that bundle as if it were the key to his life.

  “Leave it,” Fergus instructed. “You can watch it from here.”

  Reluctantly, Laurent did as he was bidden, his features looking sharp and thin when he stepped into the lantern’s light. He ate rapidly as well, and Ysmaine was struck by the boy’s small size. His hands were so slender that they could have been those of a girl. He was filthy, though, and despite Fergus’ assurances, she did smell the muck of the boy.

  “Where is Kerr?” Fergus demanded.

  “He went to the latrine, sir,” Hamish replied, then heaved a sigh. “In truth, I thought he took overlong to ensure that me and Laurent completed the brushing of all the horses.”

  Fergus spared a look at Laurent. “He seems to believe my joining your employ puts him above such tasks, sir,” the boy confided.

  Duncan hid a smile behind a mouthful of stew. “He schemes, that one, to be sure.”

  Fergus was clearly displeased. “I will not have it. He still rides by my side and is in my service.” He pointed at the other boys. “Whatever is not yet done will be left for him to complete.” Then he raised his voice. “Kerr! Come eat before you must go without!”

  It was an empty threat, though, for when the boy did not respond or appear, Fergus granted Duncan a look. “Save him a measure,” he muttered. “He will be glad of it after I find him.” He strode from the stables then, pulling up the hood of his cloak as he stepped into the onslaught of the rain.

  “I daresay my lord Fergus is more tolerant than I should be in his place,” Duncan murmured to Ysmaine.

  Glad of any conversation, she turned to him. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. That boy has been trouble since the day he gave his first yell. Even with the entreaty of the lady Isobel, I should not have willingly taken him on such a journey.”

  “Is the lady Isobel not the knight’s betrothed?”

  “She is indeed, and a more beauteous maiden has never been seen.” Duncan stretched and heaved a sigh, suppressing a small burp. “If you put measure in such matters.” He looked suddenly alarmed, then bowed to herself and Christina. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Ysmaine smile. “But why would she care to instruct her betrothed on the choice of his squires?”

  “Kerr is her nephew. I daresay some fool thought the voyage would put some sense into him. It was a lofty scheme, to be sure.” Duncan’s manner revealed that the boy had not changed. He forced a smile for her. “But it shall all be behind us soon enough.”

  Ysmaine might have made some polite reply, but Fergus gave a sudden yell from the direction of the latrines.

  “Zounds!” he bellowed, such dismay in his tone that all in the stables rose to their feet. “Help me!”

  Gaston swore and strode from the barn, Bartholomew, Wulfe, and Duncan fast behind him. The boys raced after their knights and Christina followed them all. Ysmaine waited in the portal, her heart racing and Radegunde close behind her, until Bartholomew came to her. “My lady, my lord seeks your counsel.”

  She knew from the squire’s expression that something had gone terribly awry.

  * * *

  Gaston strode through the mud and rain to Fergus, who was behind the latrines in the darkness on the edge of the forest. He could hear a stream and the mud was so heavy underfoot that it sucked at his boots. Gaston feared he would be drawn down into it, but it only slowed his progress as he made his way to Fergus.

  Fergus looked dismayed, and he held something above the mud. That something thrashed and shuddered. To Gaston’s horror, it was the boy Kerr.

  The squire’s features were contorted and his color was bad.

  “His heart races then nigh stops,” Fergus said.

  “He spoke of knowing,” Bartholomew murmured and alarm shot through Gaston.

  What had the boy known?

  And in whom had he confided it?

  “Has he spoken to you?” he demanded of Fergus who shook his head.

  “What he said made little sense. I no sooner reached him then he staggered and fainted. He has been like this since.”

  Gaston put his fingers to the boy’s throat and felt his erratic pulse. From the smell of his garb, Kerr had been sweating profusely, and it was clear his state was not natural. “Fetch my lady wife,” he bade Bartholomew, hoping Ysmaine might have some insight into what plagued the boy.

  It seemed, though, that whatever ailed him would be of short duration. He had another convulsion, shuddering mightily, then voided his stomach into the mud.

  Gaston seized the boy’s head and forced his fingers down his throat, compelling him to vomit again. “The impulse of his body must be right,” he informed Fergus, who nodded, and held Kerr.

  He bent over the unconscious boy, compelling him to be ill once again. “There is only bile.”

  “You cannot be certain. Try again.” Gaston frowned, thinking of Ysmaine’s counsel in treating those who had consumed wolf’s bane.

  Surely that could not be what ailed the boy? Who would be so cruel as to inflict this fate upon him?
r />   Surely no villain intended to implicate his wife in such a deed?

  Ysmaine came through the mud, clinging to Bartholomew’s arm. The squire held a lantern aloft and there was a cry from the inn itself. More lanterns spilled out of the building as the gamblers evidently became curious.

  Gaston watched his wife closely and did not miss how the blood drained from her face. “Who did this to him?” she whispered. Without awaiting a reply, she stumbled forward, abandoning Bartholomew and miring her gown as she hastened to Fergus. He found it admirable that she had such compassion, but knew her move could be misconstrued. “Did he speak nonsense? Did he convulse? What of his pulse?”

  “Erratic,” Gaston replied. “Very fast then so slow as to be almost stopped.”

  “And was he ill?”

  “He vomited once and was encouraged to do so thrice more.”

  “And is there improvement?” she asked, her eyes filled with hope.

  Gaston shook his head and saw her posture droop. At that, he knew. He dropped a hand on Fergus’ shoulder even as Kerr gave a mighty shudder.

  The boy then stilled. Fergus shook him and tried to revive him, but Kerr was limp. There was no doubt that he had expired, and Gaston watched Ysmaine look away. She seemed smaller and more vulnerable, as well as cold, and he wished to comfort her.

  “What will I tell Isobel?” Fergus demanded of Kerr. “How will I explain to her that you do not come home with me?” He looked up at Duncan, his agitation clear. “We will take him home! She would want it thus.”

  The older man shook his head. “We are months away from Scotland. The boy should be laid to his rest here, before we continue.”

  “But Isobel…”

  “Take a lock of his hair for her to remember him by.” Duncan’s advice was sensible, and Fergus nodded with reluctance. He lifted Kerr and carried him back to the barn, and Gaston did not have the heart to dissuade him. His dismay would only be worse if animals ravaged the boy’s body in the night.

  Who had done this vile thing? Gaston recalled Ysmaine’s suspicion that some of the root had been missing from the sack granted to her by Fatima. He knew that his wife did not have either liniment or root now, although only her maid might be aware of that fact. He had shattered the bottle of liniment on Venice’s docks and let its small quantity be diluted in the waters of the Adriatic. The portion of root he had discarded in the same place, tying the small sack to a rock before casting it into the sea.