The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  Only he knew of this, and he wished now that he had made his deed known.

  He eyed the others as they returned to the barn, all clearly shocked by the boy’s demise. Someone wanted it to appear that his wife was responsible for Kerr’s death. As much as he wished to console Ysmaine, he had to consider the consequences.

  If he appeared to be skeptical of her apparent role, what would the villain do next? That fiend had already attacked Wulfe and himself, and Gaston would not give any cause for his wife to be assaulted.

  It would be better for her to appear to be discredited in his eyes.

  That might draw the villain’s ire back to himself.

  And truly, if they survived this journey and this quest, he would spend the rest of his life ensuring his lady knew that he had never truly doubted her. There was no malice within her. He had seen her compassion and concern.

  And he loved her. There was the most compelling argument at all, for Gaston knew his own nature well enough to be certain that he could never have admired, much less loved, a woman whose character was any less noble than his own. He had no doubt that he and Ysmaine were two of a kind.

  He despised that he had to pretend to be convinced otherwise, even until they reached Paris. In better circumstance, he might have been amused that he and Wulfe were in agreement on the need to complete their journey with all haste.

  When they were back in the barn and Kerr’s inert body laid on the floor, Fergus shoved a hand through his wet hair. He turned on Ysmaine, anger in his eyes. “How did you know his symptoms so well?” he demanded. “You did not witness them.”

  Ysmaine lifted her chin. “They are the signs of poisoning by wolf’s bane, which is the sole toxin that is known to be carried by our company.” She eyed the boy and shook her head sadly. “You cannot imagine that his demise was in any way natural.”

  “You say he was poisoned?” Duncan asked.

  “I suspect you all believe as much already.”

  Bartholomew started. “The root is as potent as that?”

  “Depending how much is consumed, yes.” Ysmaine bit her lip. “How long ago did the signs begin?”

  “We do not know,” Bartholomew admitted.

  “When was he last seen and hale?”

  “When we arrived here.” Fergus shrugged. “Hours ago. He wished to watch the men playing at dice so I left him there. I did not see him until I went in search of him.” He eyed Hamish, who shook his head.

  “He did not come back from the inn, sir. He said he would go to the latrine, then I was busy with the steeds.”

  “As was I,” Laurent agreed, then that boy’s eyes widened in alarm. Gaston watched as he eased to the back of the group, then darted toward the parcel he had guarded so diligently all this journey. He watched Laurent open the saddlebag and unwrap its contents, expecting to see relief light the boy’s features.

  Instead, he saw horror.

  An answering terror shot through Gaston, and he had to turn away with a frown to compose himself. He wanted no one to note that he had seen Laurent’s reaction.

  Kerr had known something.

  Kerr had been compelled to confide it in someone.

  Kerr had been killed and the treasure they carried in trust had been stolen while they attended the dying boy. Every soul had left the stables in pursuit of Fergus’ cry, Gaston was certain of it. He did not think any had had time to seize the prize from the baggage Laurent carried, but Everard and Joscelin were still in the inn.

  Who would have noticed if one of them had left for a moment? Indeed, a man could have made an excuse of visiting the latrines, and none of that drunken lot would even remember.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, both Joscelin and Everard returned in that moment, laughing together at some jest. They halted on the threshold and sobered at the silence within the barn, then gaped at the boy on the ground.

  “Is he…?” Joscelin asked, his voice trembling.

  “He is dead,” Wulfe supplied flatly. “Of poisoning by wolf’s bane, according to the lady who knows so much of that toxin.” He nodded at Ysmaine who did not cower.

  Indeed, she straightened and locked her hands together. Gaston spared a sidelong glance her way and could see her trembling. He admired that she did not flinch from the truth. “He consumed much of it, I fear, for the action was quick. I doubt he could have been saved, which was in all probability his assailant’s intent.”

  Fergus swore softly.

  “It is unlikely that he consumed such a quantity willingly,” Ysmaine added. “For it is said to burn on the tongue on first touch and enflame the lips.”

  “Someone compelled him to take it,” Fergus guessed, anger in his tone. “He was murdered by someone in this party.” All looked around the company, suspicion in their eyes.

  All but Ysmaine, who stared back at Fergus.

  “Aye.” She stood tall. “And I do not doubt that you all believe it must have been me.” She turned to Gaston, a fire in her eyes, and he hated what he had to do. “But my husband can clear me of this accusation.”

  Gaston frowned. He rubbed his chin, and shook his head. “I cannot tell a lie,” he said quietly, though he would do precisely that. “I do not understand your meaning, my lady. You alone carry the toxin in this company.”

  Twin spots of color burned hot in Ysmaine’s cheeks. “You know…” she began furiously, but Gaston lifted a finger.

  “Do not challenge me before an entire company, madame. A woman has her place to be sure, but it is not in challenging the word of a man of honor. You will not stain my repute to save my own.”

  Ysmaine gasped. Ysmaine glared.

  Then she spun on her heel and left the party, marching to some back corner of the stables to make her bed.

  “Radegunde,” Gaston called after the maid who followed her mistress. “Bring to me all the possessions of my lady wife, if you please. I will not see her lacking the use of any item, but all will remain in my trust. The safety of the company must come first.”

  Radegunde was nigh as furious as her mistress, and rightly so, for Ysmaine was innocent.

  “Indeed, sir,” she replied, her tone scathing, then stomped to do his bidding.

  “We shall make arrangements for Kerr’s funeral in the morning,” Wulfe said, pushing a hand through his hair. “I recommend that all of you seize whatever rest you can.”

  “Perhaps we should set a watch,” Gaston suggested. “Two men awake at all times, to better ensure the safety of those who sleep.”

  Wulfe cast him a look, then nodded. “A sound suggestion. Would you take the first watch with Fergus, Gaston?”

  The men agreed and all settled to sleep. One lantern was extinguished, the other set to burn low and kept near the portal. Gaston did not doubt that Wulfe would rise to confer with him when the watch changed and all were asleep. He needed to decide what they would do.

  “We must search the boy,” he advised Fergus in an undertone. “Under guise of preparing him for the grave. I will do it.”

  Fergus’ lips tightened. “He was consigned to my responsibility. I will do it.”

  Gaston sat beside the other knight and watched, his thoughts churning. The rain was slowing and the boy was dressed for burial as well as could be managed under the circumstances when he had a realization.

  If the thief was in the party, then the treasure would remain with the party. It made no sense that the villain would abandon it at any point on the road and then return for it. Gaston had until Provins, where Joscelin would leave them, to find the treasure and secure it again.

  And that was an encouraging realization, to be sure.

  * * *

  Ysmaine could not believe it. Gaston had discredited her, before the entire party. He had not defended her by recounting that he had taken the poison in trust before they left Venice. He could have easily seen her cleared of any accusation, but he had not.

  Worse, he had lied! She was appalled that he had done as much so well. She never wo
uld have imagined he had the capacity to do as much. It was an unsettling thing to realize about her husband.

  Gaston could deceive. Perhaps it was best that she had not guessed as much earlier, for then he would have known all of her secrets.

  Who was this man who so looked like her husband? She knew Gaston to be a man of integrity. She knew he had no talent for deception. She knew he would not behave without gallantry, or treat her so churlishly.

  Had she misunderstood his true nature? Ysmaine could not believe it.

  Why would he not defend her?

  She laid in the darkness and could think of only one reason. He was the guilty party himself. Nay. Her mind refused to accept such a possibility as fact, even if Kerr had known something that might compromise the safety of all. Gaston would have ensured the boy’s silence, but not with death. He would not be so base and so dishonorable. He would not have inflicted the pain and agony of such a demise upon any soul.

  Though she had to admit that he had probably killed men in battle, that was a different matter. Men rode to battle expecting to kill or be killed. A squire did not go to the latrines expecting to meet his death. Kerr might not have been innocent, but he had been unarmed and thus vulnerable.

  She stared at the roof of the barn and tried to account for every soul since their arrival at this hovel, but the fact remained that most had had the opportunity to do this deed. The boys had been scattered and busy, so lost in the shadows that the departure of one would not be missed. Bartholomew had blackened Kerr’s eye on the ship, she recalled, so there was no love lost between them. The men had come and gone, fetching provisions, tending their steeds or playing at dice as Joscelin and Everard had done.

  The only persons she knew without doubt to be innocent were herself and Radegunde.

  The only person beyond that she believed to be innocent was Gaston.

  Why then had he not corroborated her tale?

  Ysmaine could not understand his choice, not after the wondrous night they had shared in Venice. There had been such promise for their shared future then. Who might have imagined that all the promise would be stolen away but days later?

  Not Ysmaine, but she could find no other explanation.

  It was late when the notion came to her, one that resonated with all the facts and made sense as nothing else did. Her husband had meant only to see her saved from her situation in the Holy Land. He did not mean to truly keep her as his wife. There was no document proving the exchange of their vows, and she knew she did not bear his son. Did he mean to demand an annulment once they reached the Paris Temple and continue to serve the order?

  She had thought of this before, when she had discerned that he truly was the one leading their party, but only now Ysmaine saw that Gaston had not answered her charge.

  He had avoided the question with diplomacy, instead of reassuring her that their vows were valid. He led the party. He made the choices. He must not have left the order, and thus he had no need of a wife. Doubtless he believed that saving her from a dire fate in Outremer was sufficient compensation for her.

  It was too clear in hindsight. They were not wed in truth and she could not prove it. What evidence had she that he had left the order, save Gaston’s own claim to that effect? He might lead the party because he was still a Templar, and he meant to remain so after they reached Paris. Perhaps he did not intend to accept the legacy of his brother’s estate. Perhaps he had not truly inherited it! Châmont-sur-Maine was but a tale to draw a villain’s eye away from him and she was but a disguise.

  It all made a precarious sense.

  Even if it made Ysmaine’s heart ache.

  She thought at first that he could not be so deceptive, but then she recalled how his gaze had slid from hers, how he had prevaricated in his replies, how he had declined to speak with her in privacy. He made choices to accommodate his dislike of moral compromise.

  Then why had he touched her with such abandon? Clearly she had tempted him, but Ysmaine could not evade the fact that their merry time abed had been their last coupling. She feared Gaston regretted what they had done.

  Indeed, it explained why he refused to speak with her.

  Still she loved him. She adored his honor and sense of purpose. She could never betray him, even if it meant she would lose him forever. She would not allow his quest to fail either, not if his choice was to remain in the order. But she would not cling to him or compel him to force her from his side. Nay, she would willingly give Gaston the freedom he desired, as if their marriage was of no consequence to her.

  It was, but he need never know as much. She would spurn him, then retire to a convent.

  For there could be no other man for Ysmaine than Gaston. If he did not desire her, it was clear her sins were too great even for Mary to intercede successfully on her behalf, and her life would be more productively spent in prayer.

  Even if she wept in the night for what had so nearly been her own. Ysmaine told herself that it was better, much better, to have tasted the promise of love and then be denied the feast, than never to have known love at all.

  Wednesday, August 12, 1187

  Feast day of the martyrs, Saint Andeolus and Saint Tiburtius, and of the virgin Saint Waldetrudis.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They raced onward from that day forth. The weather turned fair after Kerr’s funeral and the party rode hard each day, as if they would leave doubt and danger behind them. There was little discussion between the members of the party, and none that Ysmaine witnessed regarding any plan. They seemed all to be filled with a desire to reach Paris as soon as possible and had come to a consensus without exchanging a word. The wind turned colder each day and the road sloped ever upward, the trees turning to pines on either side of them.

  They reached the Saint Bernard Pass after more than a fortnight. They had ridden as long each day as possible, only seeking shelter when they could go no farther. They had slept in inns and barns, once at the side of the road for lack of a better choice. They had endured rain and cold nights, hot days and stretches without bread or meat.

  Ysmaine did not care. She had not slept well, burdened as she was with her secret and her fear of discovery, and it did not help that Gaston scarce spent a moment with her. He saw to her comfort and her defense, but clearly he did not miss her companionship as she missed his. There was no question of intimacy or even private discussion at night, given the places they had to stay, and so Ysmaine was not tempted to confess all to him. That he did not seek her out, or even watch her as closely as once he had, was the confirmation she needed that her fears were right.

  She had no doubt that all was exactly as he desired it to be.

  Her own heart was breaking. Indeed, that wondrous night of pleasure seemed a distant dream, or perhaps an incident she had imagined. Gaston was stern and vigilant over the party, and though her heart quailed when he left the party for any reason, he was not threatened again.

  At the end of another long day, they halted at an inn just before the summit of the pass. This place was more cheerful than many of the others, though that might have been the influence of the crisp wind and the beauteous sunset. An alpine meadow spread at their feet, and the first of the stars were coming out.

  Ysmaine dismounted with a sigh, tired in mind as well as body. The relic hung heavily against her belly and though it was padded, still it had chafed her skin. She would be glad to loosen the bonds that held it fast against her, if only for the night. Without doubt, they would head out by dawn. Ysmaine wished they were not racing with such speed toward her final parting from Gaston. She wished there was some word or sign she could give him, but was aware that all would note it.

  And so it was that she erred, for her emotions were in such turmoil.

  Ysmaine knew that Gaston was behind her. She knew that the light of the inn spilled through the open door ahead of her, but she was too tired to think of the result of the combination. Bartholomew spoke to her about her steed, and she spun around to reply,
forgetting for a heartbeat to hold her cloak shut.

  It was a heartbeat too long.

  Her cloak flared, revealing the apparent curve of her belly to all. That it was silhouetted by the light from the inn made it impossible to miss.

  She saw Gaston’s stare, his gaze fixed on her belly, and realized her mistake.

  Ysmaine pulled her cloak about herself as her color rose and pivoted to walk to the inn. Surely, he would not challenge her before the entire company?

  But her husband’s hand closed around her elbow, his grip so resolute that she knew he meant to have the tale here and now.

  God in Heaven. As much as Ysmaine wished to speak to Gaston, this was neither the time nor the place to confide the truth.

  But the choice was simple—the defense of his mission or of herself.

  She had already discerned that he did not desire her as his wife. If he meant to remain with the order, his integrity must not be questioned.

  There was then no real choice but to lie.

  “My lady,” Gaston said, his voice tight. That he no longer called her ‘lady mine’ seemed to Ysmaine to be of great import. “I would have a word, if you please.”

  * * *

  Gaston was more furious than ever he had been.

  He could scarce put two coherent thoughts together. Ysmaine was with child. How could this be so? It made no sense. Indeed, his shock was such that he could even ignore his concerns about the missing treasure, a fact that told him much of his lady’s influence upon his thoughts. He was incredulous, even with the evidence before his eyes, and could not let the revelation pass.