The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  As he crossed the threshold of the keep, he prayed that Lord Gaston was as thoughtful a man as he was reputed to be, and that his own life would not end this day.

  * * *

  Gaston was surprised, as he seldom was.

  He did not know the man who stood before him, but he knew his kind. The visitor had seen perhaps fifty summers and had worked hard for most of those years. He was sturdy and undoubtedly strong, a man with a lined face and grim manner that revealed his trade as a warrior. He had removed his gloves and shoved them into his belt, and Gaston saw his history in his hands. The visitor’s garb was plain, his boots and gloves sturdy and well-worn. His armor was repaired but in good care. He traveled without a squire, and a fading tan revealed that he had been in warmer climes of late. His eyes were narrowed and his lips were thin, and Gaston recognized that he was a man who had done what needed to be done.

  Gaston was reminded of Duncan and dozens of other men who earned their way with their blades. He was glad that the sentries had taken the sword of this one, but was certain this man carried several more knives.

  He would be fast in their use.

  Gaston looked the messenger in the eye as that man approached. The messenger dropped to one knee and offered a scroll graced with a seal Gaston did not recognize. The writing that Gaston could see was Arabic.

  “Who sent you?” Gaston asked in Arabic. His speech was less fluid than it had been in Outremer, but he knew he was understood.

  The man’s gaze flicked in surprise. “A friend to me and a stranger to you,” he replied. “The message provides the introduction.”

  Mindful of the possibility of poison, Gaston tugged on his gloves. He accepted the scroll and retreated to the window. He turned it in the sunlight, finding nothing unusual about it. Who would send him a message? The expense of dispatching the messenger over such a distance would have been considerable, and Gaston could not think of what appeal to him would merit the cost.

  He broke the seal and opened the missive, unfurling it with care. There was no powder within it or other unpleasant surprise, just a few lines of Arabic script.

  It began with compliments about his reputation for honor and trustworthiness, then continued with an entreaty that he direct the messenger to Leila binte Qadir lufti al-Ramm, if Gaston knew her location, or to dispatch the messenger to someone who did know her whereabouts. In the event that Gaston did not know Leila or her location, the sender asked for that information to be sent as a reply.

  This must be the full name of Leila, the girl who had been disguised as the squire Laurent, and had left Jerusalem under the protection of Gaston’s small party. He ran his fingertip over the signature. “Hakim ben Yasir lufi al-Ramm,” he read, then glanced back to the messenger.

  That man bowed his head. “He sent me.”

  “Do you know the contents of this missive?”

  The messenger smiled a little. “I have had time to think about it,” he admitted. He made to reach beneath his tabard, but Gaston cleared his throat and he froze. One of Gaston’s men stepped forward and the messenger raised his hands. “There is a second scroll in a pouch hung around my neck,” he supplied in halting French.

  Gaston’s man retrieved the scroll, then brought it to Gaston.

  It was addressed to “Little Flower” with a tiny illustration of a flower beside the words.

  Gaston raised his gaze to the messenger.

  “His niece,” that man supplied. “She disappeared, and he believes you know where she is. He wishes to find her.”

  To what purpose? Gaston did not know precisely why Leila had been determined to leave Outremer. He had not been aware of her gender when she joined their party in disguise but truly, her choice indicated a certain desperation. Would the uncle’s intentions be clear from his missive? Or would he attempt to deceive Leila to encourage her return? Gaston considered the question for only a moment before he broke the seal on the message to Leila.

  The messenger gasped, but Gaston ignored him. He saw at a glance that this message was much longer and would take him time to understand fully. “See that the visitor is fed and offered refreshment in the hall,” he commanded. “I will have a reply for him shortly.”

  He gave his seneschal a hard look and knew that the messenger would be guarded and kept from seeing too much of the keep’s interior. He climbed the stairs to the solar where his lady’s counsel could be sought.

  Radegunde, Gaston recalled, had been friendly with Leila. Perhaps his wife’s maid would make more sense of this missive than he could. Undoubtedly, she would know more of Leila’s reason for fleeing her home. He would not imperil Leila now, but the endearment and the tiny flower made him wonder if she was missed.

  It was not within Gaston to be cruel, and he felt the weight of responsibility in making the right choice for the fugitive Saracen.

  He wished only to make the right choice.

  Friday, May 20, 1188

  Feast Day of Saint Ethelbert of East Anglia & Saint Alucin of York

  13

  Fergus awakened abruptly, his heart beating rather too quickly. He felt agitated and threatened, but was relieved to find himself in the solar. He was alone in the bed and sat up quickly, wondering where Leila was. She was watching him from a short distance away, her brows drawn together in concern. She was already dressed, and he wondered at that, for it was still early enough for there to be shadows in the corners.

  He had had the nightmare again. He knew it.

  What had he said in his sleep?

  “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  “Why do you dream of her?” Leila asked, showing her usual inclination to be outspoken.

  “Who?”

  “Isobel, of course. You shout her name in the night.”

  “I do?” Fergus knew he had experienced the nightmare of Isobel three times, but he had chosen not to speak to Leila about it. He did not wish her to fear for her future at Killairic and had kept its details to himself, but he saw on this morning that he might not have a choice.

  In a way, it was a relief.

  “You do.” Leila began to pace the width of the solar. “You take your pleasure with me, then you call out for her.” She spared him a hot glance. “It is most unsettling.”

  Fergus rose and pushed a hand through his hair. Before he could find a way to explain, Leila continued. “I did not expect love to blossom between us quickly, especially when your heart was already surrendered. But I do expect some effort on your part, Fergus, and perhaps I am a fool, but I should prefer fidelity.”

  “I have been with no woman but you, and so it shall be until the end of our handfast. I gave you my word.”

  She flung out a hand and he found himself intrigued that she was so passionate. “Then why cry her name with such anguish? It is as if your heart is wretched.” Her voice turned husky. “If you wish so greatly to be with her, then we should part and you should go to her. I will not stand in the path of your happiness, Fergus. Go and be with your beloved.”

  Fergus was surprised. “You suggest that we part because of a dream?”

  She spun to face him. “It is in dreams that we cannot hide our true desires.”

  “What of nightmares?”

  Leila frowned, clearly not understanding his words.

  Fergus crossed the floor to her and caught her shoulders in his hands. She was trembling and again, he was surprised by the intensity of her feelings. On the other hand, though, she had risked much and was reliant upon him. He looked down into her eyes, hoping she would believe the truth. “I am haunted by Isobel but not in the way you believe,” he explained. “She has appeared to me in a recurring nightmare, one in which I see Killairic destroyed because of her efforts.”

  “Which efforts?”

  “I do not know. It is a dream, so it makes little sense.”

  “Your angel is warning you,” Leila said and Fergus nodded.

  “As my wife has done before. Isobel’s tongue is a snake in this dream,
and Killairic is consumed in flames. I cannot find you.” He heard his voice drop lower as the terror of his dream assailed him in daylight. His voice was hoarse when he continued. “I cannot protect you and Killairic itself is lost.” He shuddered involuntarily, aware that she watched him closely. “All is lost, and it is devastating.”

  Leila leaned against his chest and her arms slid around his waist. “It might not mean that. It might be symbolic. If so, the dream could mean many things.”

  “It could,” he acknowledged, drawing her closer.

  “It could mean that Isobel lies.”

  “That was my first notion. Snakes are often symbolic of deceit.”

  “Or of healing,” Leila suggested. “Perhaps her words will reveal a dark truth that must be faced.”

  “Perhaps. I should have told you,” he admitted, then kissed her temple. “I did not wish to concern you with what might be whimsy.”

  “I told you before that if you do not heed your guardian angel, he may abandon you,” she chided, then pulled back from his embrace to look up at him. He saw unexpected concern in her expression. “What if your dream warns you that you could lose Killairic because of me?”

  “What? That is nonsense!”

  “Is it?” Leila demanded, abandoning him to pace again. “Murdoch says Killairic must be bestowed upon you by the king, in the event of your father’s demise.”

  “Aye, but there is tradition...”

  Leila met his gaze, her tone urgent. “What king will call for a war in one moment, then grant a key holding to a man who is wed to the enemy?”

  Fergus would have liked to have believed that the king would make an exception for him, but he saw immediately that Leila did not share his view. “This is why you talk to the priest.”

  She nodded. “I will ask to be baptized on Iona. I think it will be best for there to be many witnesses of my choice, and also that this matter be resolved sooner rather than later. Your father, as fond as I am of him, weakens.”

  Fergus was humbled by her choice. “Are you certain, Leila?”

  She lifted her chin, looking fierce. “I vowed to be the best wife that I could be, Fergus. It would hardly be fitting for you to lose your legacy because of me.”

  He smiled at her, closing the distance between them to cup her chin in his hand. “And what do I give you, Leila, that merits such choices on your part?”

  “A home,” she replied immediately. “A sanctuary.” She sighed. “What of the prize? Do you think it still safe where it is hidden?”

  “I do. I suspect it is safer there than it was in the treasury.”

  “We must find a better place for it, a permanent place,” Leila said, her worry clear. “Do you think Agnes went to Dunnisbrae?”

  Fergus pursed his lips. “Perhaps. She fled in that direction but Enguerrand turned back once he thought her unlikely to return to Killairic. He is likely right that her exact destination is of little concern.”

  It was evident that Leila did not share his conviction. “She will make trouble for me, no matter where she goes,” she said softly.

  “Even if she told Stewart of the reliquary, he would have the wits to be skeptical of any tale Agnes might tell. She came from there, which hints to me that she might have been cast out.”

  “Because he knew her nature,” Leila murmured, appearing to be slightly reassured.

  Fergus smiled. “We do need to find a better place for it. Enguerrand and Yvan will not depart until they are convinced it is secure.”

  “Perhaps there will be a bishop at Iona to take it into his care.”

  “Perhaps the Templars would not approve of that.” Fergus frowned. “I have been wondering if we should undertake a journey to Edinburgh, purportedly so you can meet my mother’s kin. There are Templar houses near there, and perhaps the prize will find sanctuary with them.”

  “Another journey,” Leila said. “I would see your dream banished before we depart. Do you still sense that threat?”

  He nodded. “It grows more ominous every day.”

  “This is not reassuring.”

  Fergus could only agree. “Perhaps Gaston will send word soon of any plans for the prize.”

  Leila nodded. “Surely Duncan will halt here when he rides to retrieve Radegunde or after he weds her.”

  Fergus hoped the warrior managed to do both. “I have not thus far given you a haven, Leila.”

  “But you have given me a home.” She lifted a finger. “With a dovecote.”

  “The birds should arrive soon.”

  Leila smiled a little. “And then perhaps you will give me a child with blue eyes.”

  Fergus slid his fingers beneath her veil, caressing the softness of her skin, for he was awed once again by the tiny lioness he had taken to wife. “Must you hasten to the hall?” he murmured, then bent and touched his lips to hers. Leila sighed and leaned against him, her small hands landing upon his chest. “I would endeavor to create that child if my lady would linger a little longer.”

  She lifted her mouth to his, her surrender as sweet and hot as ever. She was so trusting. She gave so much. She planned for his success and tried to remove every obstacle. On this morn, Fergus would ensure that Leila understood that no other woman ever intruded upon his thoughts when he was with her.

  A curse upon Isobel for even giving his loyal wife a doubt.

  * * *

  Isobel had not been surprised when she finally bled.

  In fact, she had been relieved, even triumphant. Once again, she had compelled her body to support her own desires. She had secretly bumped her belly into furniture and prayed for deliverance from her misfortune. She had exerted herself overmuch and had been impressed that a babe could be so hard to dislodge even when so young.

  She hated pregnancy, the uneasy stomach, the bulge in her figure, and the physical discomfort that resulted from the growing burden. She had felt clumsy and unattractive while carrying Gavin, though she had known it was her duty to do so. Her distaste had been naught compared to the actual delivery of her son, which had been a hell of seeming eternity. Isobel was determined to never again endure such torment.

  Stewart should have been content with one son. Gavin was such a robust boy that there was no chance of him being lost to illness. Isobel had done her duty, in her view, but in this matter, as in all others, Stewart was greedy for more. Isobel could not keep her legal husband from her bed or deny him the marital debt, but she had no intention of destroying her life—and risking it—by bearing child after child after child.

  She had thought she might bear one more, but the return of Fergus had dismissed that notion.

  And time was of the essence. It could not be long before a man like Fergus found a willing and suitable bride, yet Isobel could not appeal to him with Stewart’s babe in her belly. Her previously successful tactics had not worked quickly enough, but Isobel had not been daunted.

  In desperation, she had consumed herbs that were said to oust babes from the womb. This felt daring and bold and a part of her feared that she went too far, but all ended as Isobel desired. When this child abandoned her womb, just like the last, she wept for the sake of appearances but within her heart, Isobel was glad.

  So very glad.

  Stewart was significantly less so.

  He raged at the injustice. He was foul of temper with every soul at Dunnisbrae and impossible to please in any matter. He shouted at her and might have struck her, if he had not so desperately desired another son.

  His greed was Isobel’s salvation.

  It was only days before he joined her abed and his efforts began anew. Each night, as he thrust atop her in pursuit of his pleasure, Isobel hated him a little more. Each morning, when she awakened to the feel of his hand between her thighs, she kept her eyes closed and despised him. Stewart thought she had not noticed the pretty maid return to labor in the hall, the one Isobel had not seen in years, the one so willing to do whatever Stewart demanded of her. Isobel had seen and hated Stewart even
more for welcoming a whore.

  She knew she might not have loathed Stewart quite so much if Fergus had not returned. If Fergus had not been so handsome, or so affluent, she might have accepted the truth of her marriage more readily. She knew Fergus to be gentle but firm, a fair man and a good lover. Isobel knew that her life would be vastly improved with Fergus as spouse instead of Stewart.

  Especially if she ensured she never ever conceived again.

  She would never forget the shape and smell of that herb, to be sure.

  Isobel’s plan was made. She would leave Stewart and throw herself at the mercy of Fergus. She would tell him a tale, one that he would believe, and she would have her way. She lingered only a week at Dunnisbrae after the loss of her child, only a week to ensure that she could endure the ride to Killairic.

  She feared discovery with every moment, but Stewart, livid about the loss of another child, was not attentive to nuance. All the same, Isobel scarcely slept the night before her planned departure. She reviewed her preparations endlessly, certain that Stewart would somehow foil her scheme.

  But, on that chosen morning, Stewart did precisely as she had anticipated. He awakened with his usual morning erection. He rolled over and used her for his pleasure, grunting like a rutting pig, indifferent as to whether she was even awake herself. Her anger simmered along with her sense that justice would be served. His hands ran over her, and Isobel hated that this was the extent of his appreciation for her. She had brought him a holding and given him a son, but Stewart always wanted more.

  Isobel’s hatred sharpened. Even as her husband labored for his release, she reached beneath the bed and retrieved one of the needles Fergus had given to her, hiding it in her hand. Stewart found his pleasure with a shout, then collapsed on his back, panting as his eyes closed again.

  It was yet early. The villagers were only beginning to stir. He usually slept an hour, maybe more, after relieving himself.