“He is.”
“These are tidings that will trouble Isobel deeply,” Stewart said. “She was very fond of the boy and often has expressed concern for his welfare in distant pagan lands. It is good that I did not allow you to see her. Is that all?”
That he would push Fergus from the gates without so much as a cup of ale after such a long ride in the rain was an abomination and an insult. But Fergus could see that Stewart was trying to provoke a response, so did not give him one. “Perhaps you might give Isobel my regards, as well as this gift.”
“A gift?” Stewart asked, arching a brow. He turned to his sentries. “The returning crusader brings a gift for my lady wife. Do you think he is still smitten with her charms? Do you think he means to steal her away from me?”
The guards chuckled.
Fergus did not. He wished Leila and Duncan’s suspicions had not been proven so very right.
“A gift,” he reiterated, unlashing the small trunk from his saddle. His tone had hardened. “When I bought it, I believed Isobel to be my betrothed, waiting upon my return. I see no reason why she should not have it, even though my belief was mistaken.”
“Such generosity should not go unrewarded,” Stewart said, accepting the small chest from him. He seemed to heft its weight. “Dare I hope it is filled with gems?”
Fergus smiled tightly. “It is not.”
The other man tucked the trunk under his arm and held Fergus’ gaze, seemingly inviting him to leave with all haste.
Fergus held his ground. “I understand that you and Isobel have a son already,” he said. “I would congratulate you, belatedly, of course.”
“I thank you.” Stewart smiled.
“And her father? How does Erik fare?”
“Dead these three years, I fear.” Fergus crossed himself at Stewart’s admission. “A better man was never found.”
“I suppose he saw your merit, in putting his daughter’s hand in yours.”
Stewart smiled. “I suppose he did. He saw his grandson born, at least.” He stepped back. “I wish you Godspeed, of course.” He gestured to the sky. “I hope the rain does not turn to snow before you reach home. It is possible, though, given the chill in the air. It would be best for you to ride out immediately.”
Fergus ground his teeth, but would not give Stewart the satisfaction of reacting poorly. “You might offer me felicitations as well,” he said before climbing into the saddle again.
“For returning alive against all expectation?”
“For my own handfast. I am a married man, as well.” Fergus ignored Stewart’s obvious interest and nodded to the boy. “Are you the brother of Agnes? Name of Nolan?”
“I am, sir,” the boy said, bowing to him.
“Agnes asked that I deliver a message to you, that she regrets you were not together at the Yule and hopes to see you soon.”
Did Fergus imagine the quick glance that fired between Nolan and Stewart? Could this message mean more to them than to him?
Nonsense. It was no more than two peasants sending word to each other by whatever means were available.
“I thank you, sir. I hope she is well.”
“She does fare well.” Fergus met Stewart’s gaze steadily. “She is now maid to my lady wife.”
Stewart looked skeptical. “Is it true that you are wed? To whom? And when?”
“I pledged a handfast yesterday upon my return to Killairic.” Fergus granted Stewart a thin smile. “It is to be hoped that we will both have similar happiness in our matches.”
“But who did you marry?” Stewart demanded, seizing Tempest’s reins. “What alliance did you make?”
“None. She is a lady who journeyed in our party from Jerusalem.”
Stewart laughed and stepped back again. “A whore, then? With the loss of your betrothed, you wed your whore!” His mirth seemed to overcome him and he slapped his thighs as he laughed even louder.
Fergus dismounted and closed the distance between them, seizing Stewart by his hauberk and lifting that man to his toes. “My wife is no whore,” he said in a low growl. “And a clever man would not be so foolish as to suggest as much twice. Were you not always said to be clever, Stewart?”
“Perhaps more clever than you,” Stewart muttered.
“Perhaps not,” Fergus countered. “Perhaps one battle too many has cost you your wits.”
The two men’s gazes locked and held for a charged moment.
“Who is your wife?” Stewart demanded again.
“Leila binte Qadir lufti al-Ramm.”
Stewart laughed again, a harsh bark that prompted Fergus to release him and step back. “A Saracen? You wed a Saracen?” The older man smiled. “And who is the witless one, Fergus? I have a beauty in my bed.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you think of Isobel’s pale perfection as you ride your filthy infidel?”
Fergus struck Stewart then, his reaction born of fury. The older man stumbled backward even as his nose began to spurt blood. His men drew their swords, but Stewart chuckled as he regained his balance. He wiped the blood, his gaze still fixed upon Fergus.
“Stand down,” he said to his warriors. “A man with blood in his veins should have the right to express his displeasure when a lady spurns him for another man.”
Fergus might have expressed more, but a woman’s voice carried to his ears from within the keep. “Fergus? Fergus, is that you? Can it truly be you returned?”
Isobel.
The bottom dropped out of Fergus stomach even as Isobel appeared in the doorway to the keep and hastened across the bailey. She was more beautiful than he recalled, her fair hair bound into a long braid, her figure tall and slender. She was as graceful as a willow, even with the slight rounding of her belly. She was dressed in a kirtle of faded blue, probably dyed with woad. She had aged a little and there was a wariness in her expression, but she had lost her father since his departure. Fergus could not imagine that marriage to Stewart would fill a woman’s days with merriment.
His throat tightened at the sight of her.
Isobel.
His beloved.
Stewart’s displeasure was clear, but so was his inability to stop his lady wife. “Isobel, I thought you were resting.”
“Stewart, I cannot surrender the opportunity to see Fergus and hear his news!” she exclaimed.
There was something different about her, or something that Fergus saw now that he had missed all those years before. Isobel was still sufficiently lovely to steal his breath away, but he noticed an assessment in her eyes when she surveyed him. She eyed his horse and trap, his garb, then that of Hamish, and he had the sense she had put a value upon it all within a penny.
And there was no disguising the quick gleam of avarice that lit her eyes when she spied the small chest that Stewart now carried. She knew it was a gift, and one for her, and greed lit her features with such clarity that Fergus was shocked.
Then it was gone, so quickly that it might never have been.
A woman who sees to her own advantage first. That was what Duncan had said. Fergus feared his comrade had been right.
Fergus felt a fool as he had not before. Surely he had not been deceived by a lovely face. Surely he had not missed Isobel’s truth. Surely life with Stewart had changed his beloved into this greedy creature.
But Fergus was not sure.
“You are home. And you are hale! Oh, Fergus!” Isobel’s greeting was fulsome, but now that Fergus was listening, it did not seem heartfelt.
Fergus was surprised that he felt so little as she reached to kiss his cheeks in turn and caress his face. She smiled up at him with pleasure but he could not smile back. He could not forget that glimpse of what he believed was her truth.
Instead of the joy he had anticipated at the sight or her, he felt only disappointment—and a sense that she tempted fate by ignoring Stewart’s obvious desire to keep her from seeing him.
A little bit late, Leila’s advice seemed most wise, and Fergus wished he had not
shown such haste in leaving his new bride.
Leila would never break her word.
And Duncan had spoken the truth. In rushing to Dunnisbrae, Fergus might have created the impression at Killairic that he did not admire his new wife.
He had erred.
“Fergus is leaving,” Stewart said with resolve.
“Not yet!” Isobel cried. “He is only just arrived.” She would not release Fergus from her embrace, even though Stewart looked on with a scowl. “You must come to the board and take refreshment, and tell us all of your news! Come out of this horrible rain.” She made to take his hand and lead him to the gate, but Stewart stepped into her path.
“He must leave,” that man said firmly. “Before the weather grows worse. You would not have Fergus ride at night in peril, would you?”
“Then he must be our guest and stay until the morrow.”
“I imagine his father awaits his return.”
“So he does. I would not give him cause for concern,” Fergus said. “Stewart is right.”
Isobel pouted, keeping his hand clasped between both of hers as she leaned against him. “Oh, Fergus. I feared for your survival so much. I am so relieved that you are hale!”
Again, Fergus heard insincerity in her words and he tried to extricate his hand. “Did you?” he asked. She was the wife of another, and Stewart was armed.
Leila had warned him and he had been too foolish to heed her counsel.
He could not resist the urge to challenge Isobel. “And you were so concerned that you forgot our pledge?”
Isobel had the grace to color. “Fergus,” she whispered, resting one hand on his chest. She fluttered her lashes, looking vulnerable and lovely. She had done this before and he had always succumbed to her entreaties. In this moment, Fergus found he could only think that she had been not kept her vow. “I could not wait for you. It was too long and there was too much uncertainty...”
“I understood that you and Stewart wed within three months of my departure.”
She faltered. “It was so long,” she began again. “I could not wait. Fergus, I am only a woman and I am weak...”
Fergus was skeptical about that.
If her father had forced her decision, surely she would say as much?
“Then you should not have pledged to do as much in the first place,” Fergus replied. “You knew I rode to Outremer. You knew I would serve two years once there. You cannot have anticipated that I would be home any sooner than this.”
“If at all,” Stewart interjected. “Isobel, I must insist that you return to the hall before you take a chill.”
Isobel glanced at her husband before returning her attention to Fergus. “We should all go to the hall...”
“Nay, I will not.” Fergus caught a glimpse of movement and saw the boy in the portal, a boy who had clearly followed Isobel.
There could be no doubt that he was Isobel’s child. He had the same fair hair and blue eyes, though he was more sturdy of build.
Like Stewart.
“Ah, Gavin,” Stewart said. “Here is our neighbor, Fergus.”
The boy bowed and greeted Fergus formally.
Fergus had noted already that Isobel’s belly was slightly round, but the way she cupped her hand protectively over its curve in this moment indicated that she ripened with child again.
Whatever had happened, whatever had changed her thinking, there was no future for Fergus with Isobel. If ever she had loved him, she did no longer.
What was of import was that Leila was now his wife.
“Stewart speaks aright,” Fergus continued firmly, reaching for Tempest’s reins. “We should return to Killairic with all haste, before the weather becomes worse. My best regards to both of you, and my condolences with regards to Kerr.”
“Kerr?” Isobel echoed, her eyes narrowing.
“He died, Isobel,” Fergus said gently. “We were attacked by bandits to the west of Venice and he was killed in the assault. He is buried there, in hallowed ground, beside a lovely chapel.”
Isobel’s lips parted, then she clamped them together. For a fleeting moment, Fergus thought her expression colder than a midwinter night and he wondered whether she had any heart at all. “He died?” she asked, ice in her voice. “And you left him there?”
“We were attacked by bandits, Isobel. It was not possible to bring him home from such distance...”
Isobel did not wait to hear more. She burst into loud tears and began to wail the loss of her beloved nephew. She fled back into the bailey, lamenting the boy’s early death, but it seemed to Fergus that her reaction was insincere.
That glance had been chilling, sufficiently so that he found himself glad Isobel had broken their betrothal.
Stewart gave Fergus an angry glance. “This is not how I would have told her,” he muttered, but Fergus was glad he had delivered the news himself. “Godspeed to you,” he added, clearly meaning the opposite, and headed back through the gates with his son. The portcullis was dropped with a clang and the two sentries glared at him from the other side.
Fergus could still hear Isobel’s lamentations.
He swung into the saddle, nodded at Hamish, and turned Tempest for home. His duty was done. The truth was unwelcome but delivered. He would build a future at Killairic with Leila.
The very notion encouraged him to touch his heels to Tempest’s sides.
7
Farquar did not know what to think when the laird’s new wife ducked out of the rain and into his smithy. The air was thick with smoke from the forge and the rain was drumming on the roof. It hardly seemed the place for a lady, particularly one so delicate as this one, and he felt at odds in his own corner of Killairic. She put him in mind of a fine dark filly, lively and unpredictable.
How could he greet her when she did not speak Gaelic? Was he doomed to give insult? Farquar never wanted to face a reckoning from Laird Fergus, that was for certain, for that man was highly principled.
The two newly arrived horses tethered in the smithy watched with curiosity, even old Nellie’s ears pricking as she watched. The plow horse had shown little interest in anything of late, so Farquar took the lady’s visit as a good sign in that regard.
He stepped away from his forge, wiped his hands on his leather apron, and bowed. The lady smiled at him, pretty little creature that she was, but the smith remained uneasy at this unexpected visit.
That she was accompanied by one of the Templar knights did little to ease his concern. That man was imposing not only due to his white tabard and chain mail hauberk but his fierce expression. He surveyed the smithy as if expecting a threat in every corner, one hand on the hilt of his blade and suspicion in his eyes.
It was clear the lady had a stalwart defender, even in Laird Fergus’ absence.
To Farquar’s surprise, the lady proceeded with confidence to the forge, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if appreciating the distinctive smell of the smithy. He did as much each time he returned, but it was a habit he hardly expected to have in common with the laird’s Saracen bride. He was intrigued, more so when she smiled again and said something to the Templar.
“Lady Leila was raised by her uncle, who was a blacksmith in Outremer,” the knight explained in careful Gaelic. “She says your smithy smells like home.”
Farquar grinned, for he was charmed despite himself. He invited her with a gesture to inspect his work, standing back as she did just that. She identified the best of his labors immediately, with a smile and a tap of her fingertip, her admiration revealing the truth of her claim.
The lady gestured to the horses, and Farquar recalled that she was said to have a talent with their care. Maybe Nellie sensed as much. Like a bee to honey, Lady Leila went directly to the plow horse, walked around the dapple mare as she murmured reassuringly, then bent to deftly lift the affected foot. Farquar felt his brows rise as the lady inspected the injured hoof, the surety of her movements feeding his conviction that the tale of her skill was true.
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She spoke to the knight, who translated.
“She was quicked?”
“Aye.” Farquar began to explain that the horse had moved just before his hammer had struck the nail, but the lady waved off his explanation. She mimed lifting a hammer then kicked her foot, clearly aware that even the most placid horse might not remain still while being shoed—and that there was no fault to the smith in that.
Farquar heaved a sigh of relief.
She frowned and touched the swelling on Nellie’s hoof with a gentle fingertip. The mare snorted and stamped another foot.
She raised her dark gaze to Farquar.
He flung out his hands, hoping the knight could translate his words and that his gestures would communicate his frustration. “I cannot progress,” he said. “She will not stand upon it, much less walk, and each day, it grows worse instead of better. I dare not remove the shoe and all chance of her walking, yet the inactivity gives her colic, as well.” He laid a hand upon Nellie’s side and leaned his ear against her belly. The loud rumble of her indigestion made the issue most clear to him and he hoped the lady understood.
Lady Leila listened to the Templar’s translation, which seemed overly short to Farquar, then listened to Nellie’s belly herself. She nodded and spoke briskly to the Templar.
“The lady says she can help,” the Templar said. “Her uncle had a scheme that aided a horse similarly affected, but she would ask for your permission to interfere in this case.”
Farquar knew his relief showed, for Nellie was important to the village and the welfare of all within it. Plus, he could not abide to see a horse suffer. He said all of this, finding himself uncharacteristically fulsome in the face of unexpected assistance, and the knight spoke to the lady.
She nodded again, then held up a two fingers before pointing back to the keep.
Farquar nodded understanding. She needed something from the hall, but would return to help Nellie. He smiled and bowed, more encouraged than he had been in days.
* * *
Leila ran, Enguerrand fast on her heels. She climbed to the solar, unlocked the door, and retrieved a flask from Fergus’ belongings. Once the door was locked again, she descended to the kitchen, where Xavier opened the spice chest as her request. She raced back to the smithy with her selection, arriving out of breath.
The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance Page 15