The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  He fell silent, staring into the fire, and Leila urged him again to continue. “But why? What happened?”

  “I fell ill with a fever. I remember little of it, beyond convincing Alasdair to continue without me. I was tended there by the Hospitalier knights, though I have no memory of those months. When I came to myself again, I was so weakened that I had to learn to walk again. There were many who aided me in their kindness, not all of them Franj or Christian. I learned more than how to walk.” He granted her an intent look and Leila nodded that she understood his meaning. “And yet, in all the time it took me to heal, Alasdair did not return. I asked those pilgrims and knights going to the Holy City to look for him, but none brought me word of him. He sent no message. When I was able, I went to Jerusalem myself, but it was as if Alasdair had never existed. Perhaps he had never arrived. Perhaps he had been attacked by bandits on the road, or had fallen ill himself. I hoped that he had the opportunity to make his penitence. A year after my arrival, there was a ship returning to Constantinople. At the urging of a countryman I had met, I took passage upon it, dreading even as I did so that I had left my comrade and friend behind.” Calum frowned and fell silent once more.

  “But you spoke of him earlier as if he yet lived.”

  “He does!” the older man said. “He does indeed, but when I think of those days and that choice, I believe that I failed him as a friend.”

  “Does he believe as much?”

  “Nay, but let me continue. It was a long journey home and in my weakened state, I might not have survived without the aid of that countryman. His name was Murdoch Olafson.”

  “The warrior in your hall?”

  “The very one, but more of that later. I returned here to Killairic, almost six years after my departure, only to learn that many believed me to be dead. Eileen was to be compelled to wed another by my brother. Only her stubborn nature and a measure of luck had ensured that she remained in command of Killairic with Fergus. My return was welcomed with much joy.”

  “Even by your brother?”

  Calum chuckled. “I think he was glad to see his dispute with Eileen ended. It was Gille Brigte who wished to ensure the defense of Killairic, and truly, if it had been more important, Eileen’s resolve would not have made the difference. My brother ensured that the holding was safe, but Gille Brigte wished for a greater guarantee. With my return, he had it and all was well.”

  “Did you have more sons?”

  Calum shook his head. “Naught changed in that matter, at least not for the better. They told me in Caesaria that the fever would affect my ability to father children, and indeed, they were visibly relieved to learn that I already had one son. I did not believe their prognosis, but as the years passed, it became clear that they were right.” He shrugged. “Saracen medical knowledge.”

  Leila was touched by his sadness. “Your wife must have been disappointed.”

  Calum nodded slowly. “It was the one argument we had, and we only had it once. She did not blame me for choosing to journey to the east, but she was bitter about the results. She called it my Saracen fever, and believed the Saracens had cheated her of more sons.” He smiled a little. “If she could have seen past your faith, though, I think she would have liked you.”

  “That might have been a considerable challenge.”

  “But one that would have been good for her.” Calum pursed his lips. “It is too easy to hate those we have never encountered, to see the differences between us instead of the similarities. Why do we shed so much blood in Outremer? Because we all believe Jerusalem to be a holy city. We all could worship there, but instead of tolerating each other’s needs, we fight for suzerainty over a place that should be above such battles. I witnessed such kindness there, at the same time as there was ruthless slaughter.”

  “My uncle says our best and worst are both revealed there.”

  “And he is right in this, to be sure.” Calum lifted a finger. “But to continue with the tale, Murdoch went home from here only to discover that his father and brother had been killed in battle, and that he had no home any longer. He has lived here ever since, and at my invitation.”

  “Duncan said he was a good warrior and loyal.”

  “He is, and his presence makes me miss Duncan a little less.” Calum smiled. “Fergus was twelve summers of age when we had another guest at the gates. It was none other than my comrade, Alasdair, finally returned from Outremer. He was welcomed, of course, though I saw a new sadness in him.”

  “What had happened to him?”

  “He had gone to Jerusalem, and he had prayed in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He prayed there daily for many months, both for his own forgiveness and for my recovery. So it was that he came to know several of the Knights Templar who lived there. He came to trust them and to admire them. When he sent word to Caesaria and was told that I was no longer there, he pledged himself to the Templar cause instead of returning home alone. He was an excellent swordsman and a valiant fighter, but more importantly, he was a man who could find a solution in any muddle. I have no doubt that they were glad of his skills in those times. He eventually helped to administer justice in the towns left by King Godfroi to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.”

  Leila nodded understanding. She had been born in one of those villages and she saw from Calum’s quick glance that he had guessed as much.

  “Alasdair served several years, until three of the villages were raided and razed. He said he felt he had worked for naught at all, for he saw war returning to the region, a tide of fury as relentless as ever. Amalric of Jerusalem had led five campaigns to Egypt, but by 1169, that land was claimed by Saladin. Alasdair knew the Saracen leader would not halt until he held Jerusalem itself. It was the end of Alasdair’s sworn commitment to the Templars, and so he returned home, alone. He came here first.”

  “Saladin conquered Jerusalem last October.”

  “And so they will call for another crusade,” Calum said wearily. “I have heard rumors of it already. I am glad my son is home and would have him remain so.”

  “What of your friend? Did he return to his home and marry?”

  Calum shook his head. “Not Alasdair. War changed him in another way. He lost his hope. He lives in solitude on the islands and I think he makes his peace with the past.”

  “Like a holy man,” Leila said.

  “But one who refuses to pledge to any one religion,” Calum said, which was intriguing. “Service with the Templars showed him more of your kind even than I saw, and taught him a tolerance that is enviable.” He pushed to his feet and went to a trunk on the far side of the hall. He opened it and removed a small rolled rug, then returned to his chair. “Alasdair brought this home with him, a gift from a man who was pleased with a solution Alasdair found to an old dispute,” he said, setting it upon his knees. “He gave it to Eileen for Killairic’s chapel. While she was polite in his presence, she refused to have a Saracen rug in the chapel. She said it was an insult to God to pollute a holy place with something made by an infidel.” Calum shook his head then unfurled the rug, putting it on the stone floor between their chairs.

  Leila caught her breath at its beauty. It was small and the colors were rich. The design was intricate and she even caught a whiff of the east snared in the fiber. She stretched out a hand in admiration and caressed the wool. “It is beautiful,” she said, her voice husky.

  “It is,” Calum agreed. “I don’t believe there can be wickedness in an item of such beauty, made with such care, and intended to allow someone to honor the divine.” He bent and rolled up the rug, then offered it to Leila.

  “I cannot accept such a gift.”

  “Whyever not? I would wager that you will welcome it beneath your knees when you say your prayers. That is its intent, and now, it has found the person to use it best.” Calum urged it toward her. “Take it, Leila. Please. Take it as a wedding gift from me to you and use it in good health.”

  Leila accepted the gift, her chest tight. She fingere
d its fringe. “I thank you.”

  “It is so gently used that it might yet be new.” Calum nodded with satisfaction. “I like that it was here, waiting for you, as if you needed a sign that this could be your home.” He smiled at her. “Inshallah.”

  As God wills it.

  Leila blinked back unexpected tears. She had not expected to hear Arabic again, not so long as she was in Scotland.

  “Inshallah,” Leila repeated softly, finding it easy to believe that she was meant to be at Killairic. She stroked the softness of the rug and inhaled deeply of the scent of the souk it still carried.

  “Alasdair always comes to celebrate the Yule with us,” Calum said, sipping his wine. “You can ask him more about the rug and his days in Outremer then.”

  The Yule. Eight months away. Leila could only hope she was still at Killairic.

  Nay. She would ensure she would be at Killairic for the Yule. She would conceive Fergus’ son by then and continue to progress in making this place her home. Surely events of this day had shown her that it could be done.

  * * *

  It was a miserable ride.

  The weather was foul and the land was slick from the rain.

  Fergus felt as if every force conspired against him and was vexed that it should be thus when he was so intent upon returning home to Leila. He wanted to show his newfound appreciation, but the elements kept him from Killairic.

  His thoughts were consumed with Leila and what he had noticed this day about Isobel. It seemed he had surrendered his heart in error, and he had to acknowledge that he was relieved to not have Isobel as his wife. Those quick glances had been chilling and Fergus realized he shared Leila’s view that he would sleep better when he trusted all those in the solar.

  He had been wrong.

  To be sure, Fergus had expected little of marriage before riding to the east. Pleasure abed. Sons. Some measure of companionship. He had assumed that the admiration and interest he felt for Isobel was the love that the troubadours sang about. He had believed their future happiness together was assured. He had thought the matter simple.

  But it was not nearly so simple as that. On his journey, Fergus had seen his friends and comrades touched by a much greater passion and devotion. He knew their futures were changed by it. Though Gaston had made a marriage of convenience with Ysmaine, by the time they reached Paris, it had been clear to all but those two that their hearts were bound together forevermore.

  The spark between Bartholomew and Anna had been tangible, if not hot enough to scorch a man. Fergus had not needed second sight to anticipate that they would make a match, for they challenged each other’s expectations and filled each other’s dreams.

  Duncan, it was evident to Fergus, would do any deed to ensure that his beloved Radegunde smiled. The maid’s conquest of the warrior’s reluctant heart had made the man-at-arms seem twenty years younger.

  Even Wulfe, a man whom Fergus had originally believed to possess no heart at all, had been smitten with Christina and ultimately had won both her hand in marriage and been named as his father’s heir.

  It seemed that love, a true abiding love, made marriage all the merrier. Yet having such love between man and wife might not be that common a situation, and certainly not one gained without active cultivation. Leila was not only right in yearning for it in her marriage, but offered Fergus the chance to gain it himself.

  She was honest. She was honorable. He would commit himself to her and their marriage anew and strive to create the marriage she desired above all else. If she wished to wed another, Fergus would let her go for the sake of her happiness, but on this night, he wanted to win Leila’s love for himself.

  He also wanted to hear what the king with the faithless wife had seen in the garden.

  Despite his desire for haste, their progress was slow. Fergus could not believe the quantity of mud, much less the amount the rivers and streams had swollen in the rain of this day. He and Hamish retraced their footsteps a dozen times to continue on higher ground if they did as much once. As it grew darker and the rain became more chilling, he began to wonder if they would ever arrive home again.

  A warm fire was beginning to sound like a taste of paradise.

  When the sun sank below the horizon and the last of the light was gone, he and Hamish urged the horses to stumble onward. They finally reached a place where the water ran shallow and Fergus nearly shouted in relief.

  “Give me your reins,” he said to Hamish.

  “Just in case more goes awry,” the boy agreed, then sneezed mightily as he followed instruction. “Truly, my lord, I cannot recall a journey of such challenge.”

  “Nor I.”

  The boy sneezed again. “Nor of such relentless cold.”

  “It is a far cry from the scorching heat of Jerusalem,” Fergus agreed as Tempest picked his way down the bank to the stream. He let the horse choose his own path, for it was safer thus. Even so, Tempest slid several times in the mud before he stepped into the shallow water. The stallion shook his head and snorted, clearly disliking the temperature of the water. Fergus eased him on with a touch of his heel.

  “When we were there, I thought I might never be cold again,” Hamish said with a smile. “Now I wonder the very opposite.” The boy clutched the neck of his palfrey, following Fergus’ choice and trusting the pair of horses to negotiate the running water. There was an abundance of stones on the river bed and Tempest proceeded with caution. It seemed to take a thousand years to cross, but Fergus knew it was his own impatience to be home at root.

  Would Leila be concerned for him? He could only imagine so. His father certainly would be, though he believed that Leila would reassure the older man. He imagined them sitting together, and Leila coaxing tales from his father, distracting Calum from the passing hours. The notion made him smile despite his discomfort.

  At the deepest part of the river, the water was almost to the horse’s knees, though Fergus would have wagered it had been hoof-deep that morning. Tempest balked and snorted, probably at the chill of the water, then, evidently encouraged by the proximity of the other bank, took another step.

  The rocks the stallion stepped upon loosed themselves and rolled. Tempest whinnied, tossing his head as he spooked to find naught beneath his hoof. No doubt the darkness did not assist. The destrier stepped backward before Fergus could soothe him and the palfrey took exception to the proximity of the stallion’s rump to her nose.

  She nipped his flank, seemingly impatient with his pace. Tempest neighed in protest and bolted forward, leaping onto the shore. Fergus released the palfrey’s reins as soon as he realized what the stallion was doing, but it was too late. The palfrey was compelled to step forward and stumbled in her turn, stepping into the same hole that Tempest had created. The palfrey stumbled to her knees, whinnying in indignation, and Hamish fell into the river with a splash.

  Tempest spooked at the sound and galloped onward a dozen steps. Fergus leaped from the saddle and cast the reins over the destrier’s head. The palfrey, much less easily disconcerted than the stallion, regained her footing, marched across the remainder of the river and climbed to the shore. She gave the destrier’s flank another nip, as if to chide him for his folly. Tempest whinnied and stamped again but he did not flee.

  There was some mercy, after all.

  Fergus was already striding into the river, He seized Hamish, who was not injured but was struggling to get to his feet in the cold water. The boy’s cloak and clothing were sodden and heavy with the weight of the water. It took some effort for even Fergus to haul him to his feet. They were both soaked by the time they reached the shore, and breathing heavily. The weight of his own wet woolen cloak made Fergus feel a handspan shorter. He removed one boot and then the other, draining the water from them, and Hamish followed suit.

  “An exercise in futility,” Fergus muttered, considering how wet his boots and feet were.

  “We will not need a bath when we reach Killairic, sir,” the boy said in an attempt at h
umor.

  Fergus chuckled and urged him toward the horses. The pair stood with their heads down and their ears folded back, evidently also dejected by their wet state.

  “On the contrary, we will be in dire need of a hot soak to drive out this chill.” Fergus helped the boy into his saddle, then swung into his own. “At least we are finally on the right side of this cursed river.” He looked about himself, knowing they were far uphill of the road he would have preferred, and his heart sank.

  “There is a good path, sir, unless I remember incorrectly. Just there on the left.”

  To Fergus’ delight, Hamish was right. It was not a sufficiently wide path for them to ride abreast, but it would hasten their return to Killairic. Fergus knew that they all needed to be warmed soon. “Our fortune changes for the better, Hamish,” he said with cheer. “Let us ride for home with all haste.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “You ahead of me,” Fergus instructed. “Your palfrey shows good sense so Tempest can follow her. Let her set her own pace.”

  As soon as they were on the path, the palfrey lifted her head. She seemed to catch the scent of home and a warm stable, for she began to canter with purpose. Tempest followed her, his nostrils flaring, and it was not long before Fergus smelled a fire.

  The horses broke into a gallop just after Fergus recognized the shape of the land surrounding Killairic, then to his relief, the silhouette of the keep appeared in the distance before them. Golden light gleamed from the windows and smoke rose from the village.

  “Home!” he cried.

  “Home!” Hamish echoed and laughed aloud as they galloped for the gates.

  8

  The sound of the horses’ hooves echoed loudly in the night. The pair splashed through puddles and flung mud with their hooves, and Fergus was certain he had never been so wet and filthy in his life.

  The sentries gave a cry of welcome when they approached the gates and immediately opened one portal to them. The horses trotted through, tossing their heads with impatience and casting rain water in every direction.