The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  God in Heaven, the man was going to argue with her. Ysmaine knew what she had to do. Gaston was stubborn, and she had not the time to dispute this with him. “Your party leaves you behind,” she noted, and he swore with a vigor that astonished her.

  “Ysmaine! You will not do this! When this quest is complete, we shall discuss the matter…”

  Ysmaine slid from the saddle even as he spoke. Gaston snatched for the reins of the palfrey but she was already on the ground. He roared her name again, but Ysmaine slipped into the crowd and ran as fast as she could. There was mud and manure underfoot, and she nigh slipped several times, but she kept running. The crowds were thick in the square before the cathedral and no man could have forced a horse through their ranks.

  Although Gaston did try.

  Only when she had ducked beneath the porch of the great cathedral did Ysmaine look back. Her gaze fell immediately on the dappled destrier and the proud knight who rode him. She saw that Radegunde remained close to Gaston. She saw that he had pursued her, despite the throngs of people, and had made more progress than she might have expected.

  Because she was his possession?

  Because she defied him?

  Because he knew his duty?

  Ysmaine did not know which compelled him to follow her, but she knew it was not love. Gaston lifted a hand as she watched and pointed, bellowing after her. “This is not done, lady mine!”

  Lady mine. Why did Gaston address her thus in this moment? It brought tears to her eyes. Ysmaine ducked into the church and took a deep breath of the sanctity within. She was a sinner who had tried to do right. She had saved Gaston and his mission and thus his honor.

  The price to herself was not of import.

  She bought a candle and lit it, dropping to her knees before the Virgin to say a prayer for her husband and his success. Her heart was racing and her palms were damp, and there were tears upon her cheeks.

  She jumped when the man’s hand landed upon her shoulder, though she was not truly surprised. She was less surprised to feel the prick of a knife in her back and the heat of a man behind her, his position disguising his weapon. “I fear your prayers must be cut short, my lady fair,” Everard murmured. “We are too late to linger here.”

  Ysmaine glanced up to his eyes and her spirit quailed at the warning she found there. He threatened her in the sanctuary of a church, which told her all she needed to know of his nature. She had to get him as far from Gaston as possible before he killed her, as far from all these innocent people.

  “Of course, my lord,” she said sweetly and rose to her feet, placing her hand in his elbow. “I wished only to pray for the child’s welfare,” she explained for the benefit of the any who watched them. She caressed her belly with one hand.

  “And so you should,” Everard agreed smoothly, then hastened her out of the church. He fairly dragged her through the crowd, making for an alley, and Ysmaine knew she would never leave that dark space alive.

  She tugged her hand free, scratched his face when he turned upon her, then picked up her skirts and ran. He roared in frustration even as the crowd laughed at him, then she heard him give chase.

  God in Heaven, he was so much taller than she. He would catch her before she even left the square! Ysmaine stumbled, then found her footing, hoping against all hope that Gaston was far away.

  And that Radegunde was fast beside him. Everard seized her and she felt the knife against her ribs again, his breath upon her throat.

  “Silently now,” he whispered, punctuating his command with a poke of the blade.

  Ysmaine nodded as if compliant. She had to survive until the party was safely within the confines of the Temple itself.

  * * *

  Gaston was livid.

  There was little that infuriated him, as a rule. Indeed, he could not recall the last time he had been so vexed. But for Ysmaine to flee him in this moment was beyond all expectation. That she should so imperil herself was beyond all expectation. She had the reliquary and she abandoned all protection! She ensured he could not pursue her. What folly was this?

  Wulfe shouted to him, but Gaston did not turn back. He tried to force Fantôme through the crowd. But the streets were so filled with people that he made excruciatingly slow progress. He knew he would not be able to find his wife again should he leave her behind, yet he could not reach her either.

  Even though Ysmaine had contrived that he had little choice. He ground his teeth and gave Fantôme a touch of his heels, then froze in sudden realization.

  Ysmaine had contrived that he had little choice.

  Gaston spun to face the maid, whose hand fell to the bundle of old clothing she had been carrying since Venice. Gaston blinked. The maid held his gaze unflinchingly and he understood.

  They had moved the treasure.

  Ysmaine’s flight was a feint, intended to ensure that his mission was successfully completed.

  But the price, the price might be his wife’s life! The villain had killed once already, and the prospect of Ysmaine suffering any injury turned Gaston’s blood to ice. He turned Fantôme, giving every indication of rejoining the party to ride toward the Temple.

  He dared not reveal her, for he did not know who watched.

  He had to save her, but he did not know how to do as much.

  He could not wait until the mission was completed, yet he had to fulfill his assignment. It was unlike him to be caught between two options, much less to be indecisive as to the better path, but Gaston was torn between following Ysmaine’s scheme to success, and casting it aside to ensure her welfare.

  They crossed the bridge to the north bank and the crowds thinned ahead. Gaston could see that the road that led to the Temple was less and less congested as it progressed.

  With that glimpse of a clear path to their destination, his choice was made. He seized the reins of the palfrey the maid rode and urged the steed closer to Wulfe. He shoved the palfrey’s reins into that astonished man’s grasp.

  “Ride!” he ordered in a grim undertone. “Ride for the Temple and let none stand in your path! Ensure that she is with you to the last.”

  Wulfe nodded without understanding, then a light dawned in his eyes. His gaze dropped to the bundle of clothes, but before he could speak, Gaston slapped the rump of Wulfe’s black stallion. The horse gave a cry and broke into a gallop, the palfrey carrying the maid fast beside him. Fergus shouted and lent chase. Gaston granted Fantôme’s reins to Bartholomew, then leapt from the saddle, knowing he would make better time on foot.

  “Ride,” he ordered the squire. “Ensure that all arrive together. I will follow as soon as might be.”

  Gaston darted into the crowd without waiting for a reply. He heard the thunder of the horses’ hooves and Wulfe’s shout for people to make way. They would be within the walls of the Temple within moments, and their quest would be achieved. Though it was true that Gaston should have ensured its success himself and witnessed the delivery with his own eyes, naught could compete with the importance of seeing his lady wife safe.

  He raced for the square before the cathedral, the place where he had last seen his lady wife, shoving his way through the crowd.

  Gaston only hoped that he found her in time.

  Was the villain Everard or Joscelin? In truth, Gaston cared not who his opponent might be, only that his wife survived. But where had she fled? There was nary a sign of her, though he looked. Gaston felt a rare panic rise within him.

  How would he find her?

  How might he do so in time to ensure her welfare?

  Gaston surveyed the area in desperation, seeking some hint of her passage. That was when he spotted the gem on the porch of the cathedral where he had last seen Ysmaine. It was cut glass of little value at all, but of a familiar hue.

  He bent and picked it up, turning it in his grip. Aye, Christina had worn a belt wrought of these cheap stones when first she had come to the house with Wulfe. The color revealed that it could not be a gem, but it sparkled pretti
ly. Gaston supposed there were many similar girdles and might have cast it aside.

  But he saw another exactly the same, not three steps away. Another was beyond it and the light caught a fourth. He recalled Christina sitting in the common room of the house in Venice, picking apart the girdle so she had a pile of individual stones. Ysmaine had given her a small sack for them, though he had thought little of the exchange at the time.

  A fifth stone glinted just beyond the fourth.

  And Gaston understood that he had been left a trail.

  * * *

  Someone pursued them.

  Ysmaine heard the footsteps, as stealthy as they were. Was it friend or foe? She could not imagine who would give chase to aid her and feared it to be an accomplice of Everard who defended his back. He certainly gave no indication that he heard the sounds of pursuit.

  He fairly drove Ysmaine down one street, then another. He took a circuitous path, ducking through a privy to emerge in another alley, then pushed her into a courtyard that was strangely still. He flung the gate closed behind them, the sound of the latch echoing loudly.

  The sounds of the city were muffled and the rain fell steadily in this place. It was empty, save for his chestnut destrier, which was tethered beneath an angled roof on the far side. The steed snorted at the sight of him, then nosed in his feed.

  Ysmaine had time to think that none would witness whatever he planned to do to her, to feel her heart tremble, then the hinges on the gate squeaked and a woman spoke.

  “At least some soul is gratified by your presence.”

  Christina!

  She spoke from behind them. Everard spun, hauling Ysmaine before him and holding the point of his knife at her throat. “What are you doing here?”

  Christina leaned against the gate, the latch behind her back. Her expression was assessing. “Let us say that I wished to ensure the welfare of another woman.”

  Everard snorted. “Whores care only for their own advantage.”

  “You might be surprised to learn what whores care about.” She eyed the blade he held against Ysmaine. “Is it the mark of a pious man to abduct another man’s wife?”

  Everard ignored her query. “Doubtless you want a reward of your own. Is it not all about the coin for your kind?”

  Christina glanced idly over the courtyard. “I fail to see any chance of reward in this place.” She fixed a shrewd look on Everard. “Unless your desire is for the lady’s charms.”

  “In which case you would offer your own instead?”

  Christina smiled. “You might find me more to your liking as a partner.” She crossed the courtyard with measured steps, her smile unswerving and confident. Ysmaine felt Everard stiffen and knew he was not so at ease as Christina appeared. “Do you think I failed to note how you watched me when you thought yourself unobserved?” She paused before him. “For a pious man, you showed a very earthy interest in my wares.”

  He scoffed. “I merely disapprove of you and your trade.”

  “Because you are a man above reproach,” Ysmaine said, drawing strength from the other woman’s confidence. “Abduction and assault are fair play.”

  “And murder,” Christina added. “Do not forget murder, my lady.”

  “I do not know what you mean…”

  Christina’s gaze dropped to the knife at Ysmaine’s throat. She reached out a finger and collected blood upon it, then held it before his face. “Your manners are lacking, sir. This lady is nobly born and wed to a knight. What cause have you to threaten her life?”

  “This is a private matter. She holds property of mine.”

  “One you own or one you would claim?”

  “How dare you speak thus to me?” Everard snarled.

  “I have seen you look,” Christina purred. She began to unfasten her kirtle, drawing the laces from one side with methodical gestures. She turned so that the ripe curve of her breast was visible, then lifted the wool away, revealing the nipple to view. “Would you like a closer look? Perhaps in exchange for the lady’s freedom?”

  “Whore,” Everard muttered, but his interest was clear to Ysmaine. “I will not barter with you…”

  “Vermin,” Ysmaine charged, drawing away from him and he swore.

  Christina unlaced the other side of her kirtle, a choice that did little to improve his mood. “I am Everard de Montmorency,” he declared hotly. “Count of Blanche Garde and heir to Château Montmorency and I will not tolerate…”

  “Are you?” Christina impaled him with a glance, the sharpness of her tone halting his tirade.

  Everard caught his breath. “What do you insinuate?”

  “Only that I know you are not Everard de Montmorency.”

  He sputtered, clearly astonished. Ysmaine was shocked by the charge but guessed by Everard’s response that Christina was right.

  Then who was he?

  And what had happened to the real Everard?

  Christina was confident. “How exactly do you plan to convince them at Château Montmorency that you are Everard in truth?” she asked, her eyes glinting. “It was simple to take his place in Outremer, where he was known only by repute, but it will be more difficult to trick his own blood.”

  Everard stiffened.

  Christina tilted her head to study him. “Is that why it took so very long for the duke’s faithful and pious son to embark on the journey home to say a final farewell to his father?” she demanded, her tone harsh. “Did you hope the father might die before you arrived? As a dead man himself, Everard could not have managed the journey at all, but it would have been folly for the imposter who had stolen his name and his purse to reveal his own lie.”

  “You lying whore!” Everard flung Ysmaine aside and snatched for Christina, who kicked him hard in the crotch. He fell to his knees, astounded, and she kicked him in the head. He touched his own temple and stared at the blood on his fingertips, but Ysmaine felt his fury rising.

  “No one truly looks at a whore,” Christina spat. “We are breasts, at best. But I invite you to look again, to look at my face this time. I was in the party of noble pilgrims who traveled east with you and Everard. I was with my husband then, but perhaps you never look at noblewomen, either. The fact is that I know that you are not Everard.”

  Everard rose with a growl and lunged after her. “You lie!” he cried and seized her by the hair, slamming her back into the wall of the house. Christina gave Ysmaine the barest glance and she understood that the other woman wanted her to run.

  But Ysmaine would not abandon her.

  Christina slumped, and Everard raised his hand to strike her again. Ysmaine saw the courtesan move quickly and glimpsed the flash of a knife. Everard darted aside, flinging her to the ground, and she grunted as the blade missed him.

  “I do not lie!” Christina declared with a bold laugh. “We meet again, Helmut.”

  Everard blanched at the sound of this name.

  Christina advanced upon him with the blade before herself. “You were the mercenary assigned to defend your lord and employer, and I remember you well. My husband noted then that you were lying and lustful, and you are still vermin, if better garbed.” She spat at him and he lunged at her, trying to seize the knife. They struggled over it, and Ysmaine realized that Christina was stronger than she appeared.

  “Run, my lady!” the courtesan cried, and Ysmaine pretended to do as much. She feigned a stumble and picked up a rock from the ground. She spun around to see that Everard had grasped a fistful of Christina’s hair, pulling it back so he could look at her face.

  Ysmaine sidled closer silently, taking advantage of his distraction.

  “You!” Everard whispered to Christina. “You are Juliana, the wife of Gunther, who remained in Venice…”

  “And was slaughtered for the seven pennies in his purse.” Christina’s voice shook, and Ysmaine realized that their circumstance had not been that different. “Did you take his life, as well as his purse? I would not put it past a man of your ilk.”

  �
��I am no thief.”

  Christina laughed harshly. Everard struck her, and she fell to the ground. He might have fallen on her, but Ysmaine hastened forward and brought the rock down on his head as hard as she could. There was a loud crack, but he did not stumble. Indeed, he turned on her like a mad beast.

  “Run, Christina!” Ysmaine cried, even as Everard back-handed her so that she stumbled. He seized the bundle that was disguised as her belly. He tore it away with a savage gesture, then flung her aside so that she fell heavily against the stone wall.

  Ysmaine tried to halt her fall and heard a crack on impact. Pain shot up her arm and she knew it was her wrist that was injured. Christina lay in a heap, blood pooling beneath her, and she feared for that woman’s fate. The courtesan’s lashes fluttered, though, as if she battled to remain conscious.

  Everard held the bundle against his chest, as yet unaware that he clutched a rock and an old kirtle. He flung dry straw from the makeshift stable onto the ground, ensuring that it fell generously on both women. He worked quickly, clearly having a scheme. He then struck a flint and lit numerous lengths of straw, tossing them into the others. The straw ignited immediately, filling the courtyard with smoke and flames, even as he grabbed the reins of his destrier and made for the gate.

  “Farewell, ladies,” he sneered as he lifted the latch. “Is it not said that witches should be burned alive?” He did not wait for a reply, but flung open the portal. The waft of air fanned the flames so that they burned higher and the smoke roiled in great dark clouds.

  Ysmaine coughed and dragged herself to Christina. How would she carry Christina with only one arm? She felt the other woman’s pulse with relief in the same moment that she heard the destrier stamp in impatience again.

  Everard had not departed.

  She looked up to see him backing into the courtyard instead of leaving it, the point of a sword at his chest. Gaston followed him into the courtyard. Her husband looked resolute and grim, so powerful and welcome that Ysmaine nigh wept at the sight of him.

  “I believe we have unfinished business, sir,” Gaston said, his voice low with threat, and Ysmaine had never been so glad to see another soul in all her life.