The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  “They can defend themselves better than your lady wife,” Yvan muttered, and Fergus was not so certain the Templar was right.

  “Leila is more resourceful than you believe,” he said, but gave Tempest his heels and raced toward Killairic.

  If Leila had been harmed, he would ensure that Stewart rued this day forevermore.

  * * *

  Leila had no good scheme beyond compelling Stewart to leave Killairic. He did not bring his company with them, though she would have preferred otherwise, and he was inclined to be rough, which she admired yet less. Leila had been shoved onto the horse before Stewart and he held her captive there. He smelled like wood smoke, meat, and perspiration, a combination which made her stomach churn at such proximity. Agnes rode with them, while those who supported Stewart remained around the walls of Killairic.

  Leila doubted they would wait very long for Stewart’s command to attack.

  She hoped that some soul saw her situation from the tower, but did not rely upon it. They would be busy, following Enguerrand’s command to defend both village and keep. The smoke she had seen in the distance had dissipated so that fire must have been extinguished. She wondered where it had been, but knew she had more immediate concerns.

  When Stewart would have turned his horse toward Killairic’s gates, Leila shook her head adamantly. She directed Stewart away from Killairic and down toward the firth, remembering the day that Fergus had shown her the boundaries of the holding. There had been a stone wall, an old one that had tumbled down in places. Fergus had talked about seeing to its repair after the crops were sown. She would insist that the reliquary was hidden there and pretend to have forgotten the exact place. It could only be better to delay longer, though she had no plan for the inevitable moment when Stewart realized she was lying.

  “But it must be in the the hall or the village,” Agnes insisted, and Leila took great satisfaction in pretending to be unable to understand the girl. “Treasure!” Agnes shouted. “You take us to it!”

  “Treasure!” Leila nodded and pointed down the hill. “Hidden,” she said, then nodded. “Safe.”

  Agnes winced. “I thought it was safe.”

  Leila laughed, delighting in vexing the girl. She shook her head. “Now safe.”

  Agnes gave her a furious look and Leila laughed again.

  “Enough,” Stewart roared. “Guide me to it.”

  Leila pointed away from Killairic and he slapped the rump of his horse. The beast galloped away from the keep, the palfrey following fast behind.

  It took them an hour to reach the wall that Leila recalled, then she insisted upon walking alongside the crumbled wall as she pretended to seek the spot. She touched distinctive stones, and gave the appearance of counting, then looked into more than one gap in the wall, first with hope then with disappointment. Stewart’s impatience rose with every false location, but the sun made steady progress across the sky as Leila stalled him.

  “It is not so safe if you cannot find it,” Agnes snapped.

  Leila held up a finger as if recognizing the spot and hastened to a deep breach in the wall. She climbed into the gap and moved several stones as if they obstructed her access. She pretended to be unable to move a larger one and shook her head in vexation. Stewart swore and dismounted, flinging down the reins as he strode to her side. He moved the stone with a grunt and peered beneath it. There was naught but a small snake that slithered into the grass.

  He seized Leila’s arm and lifted her to her toes. “You lie,” he said, undoubtedly speaking slowly to ensure that she understood. “The treasure is not here.”

  Leila heard the sound of racing hoofbeats.

  A destrier.

  Fast approaching.

  She could guess which one it was. She held Stewart’s gaze and smiled.

  His eyes flashed in warning, then he cuffed her once again. Her eye was already swelling but this time, his ring cut the skin. Leila cried out and fell, tripping over the loose stones of the wall.

  “I will take what is his. I will have vengeance,” he muttered, lifting his hauberk and unlacing his chausses. Leila scrambled backward but he stepped upon the hem of her kirtle, trapping her. Leila tried to tear the cloth without success.

  “God in Heaven!” Agnes cried in obvious horror. “You cannot couple with a filthy infidel!”

  “I will take whatever she can give to me.” Stewart freed himself, his gaze locked upon Leila. His intent needed no translation. The cloth of her kirtle finally tore and Leila made to flee, but Stewart seized her wrist and held her captive. His grip was bruising and she bent to bite him, but was struck again. She fell from the wall to the grass on Killairic’s side and knew her ankle had been twisted in the fall.

  She could not run.

  And Stewart knew it. He smiled as he jumped down from the wall and strode toward her. Leila scrambled backward, knowing she was doomed. The hoofbeats had fallen silent, which meant she had erred.

  He would kill her and no one would intervene.

  Stewart loomed over Leila and she instinctively cupped her belly with one hand, realizing only too late what she had communicated to him.

  For Stewart smiled coldly. “Rise, whore,” he said with malice. “I will take something else from Fergus this day.” He laced his chausses again and Leila got to her feet, fearing his intent. She had to stand on one foot, able to only brace herself with the toe of the injured one. “You are a whore, no more than that,” Stewart said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “He has sheltered you for the sake of his child, but once it is gone, he will treat you like the offal that you are.” He spat. “Whore!” he reminded her.

  Resistance rose in Leila but she had no chance to argue, for Stewart raised his fist and punched her in the belly. Leila took a step backward at the force of impact, then heard a whistling sound. She was amazed that Stewart had not hit her harder than he had, then she saw the blood, the knife in his throat and the wide stare of his eyes. He fell atop her, his weight taking her to the ground and his warm blood flowing over her. Leila screamed and heard Agnes’ palfrey gallop away. She was inundated by the filthy smell of Stewart, pinned beneath his weight and rapidly being covered with his blood. She panicked as she seldom did but could make no difference in her situation, which terrified her.

  Until Stewart’s weight was abruptly hauled away, and Fergus lifted her in his arms. Leila fell against him and wept in relief, though his features might have been carved in stone. He was furious and she could feel the thrum of anger deep within him, but she did not have the audacity to ask him what precisely had provoked his response.

  She could not be just a whore to him, could she?

  But then, why had Fergus not trusted her with the location of the reliquary?

  She could not be of value only for the child she bore, could she?

  It was not like Leila to have doubts but she had them aplenty in this moment. Indeed, she wanted to weep, which was not characteristic of her in the least. She closed her eyes, hating her own weakness and surrendered to the pain Stewart had inflicted.

  Would her child die?

  Would her child live but be damaged forever?

  A tear slipped from beneath her lashes and Leila prayed silently, even as she feared all would be as it would be.

  Inshallah.

  * * *

  Fergus sent Enguerrand after Agnes, for he had no desire to leave Leila. She seemed to be broken as she never had been before, without her customary force of will. He feared that she would die of grief, if not of her injuries.

  That Leila had been struck with such force infuriated him beyond any anger he had felt before. Her swollen face, that cut upon her cheek, the sight of Stewart striking her in the belly, all sickened Fergus beyond compare.

  She had tried to lead the villain away from Killairic and had paid a high price for defending his holding.

  He felt that he had failed her, though she made no such accusation.

  He wrapped Leila in his cloak and set her gentl
y in the saddle on Tempest. She sat there without speaking while he and Yvan flung Stewart’s corpse over that man’s own saddle. Fergus would have liked to have left Stewart’s body to be desecrated by predators but he knew the sight of it would scatter the invading army from Dunnisbrae.

  Let them take the villain home to be buried alongside his faithless wife.

  He led the horse away from the wall, then saw Enguerrand returning with Agnes. The maid had her hands bound and was trussed to the saddle of her palfrey. She swore with sufficient fury to make any man blush.

  “She bit me,” Enguerrand said with disgust, displaying the mark of her teeth upon his forearm.

  “I would do more than that to you,” Agnes muttered, continuing her diatribe as Fergus mounted his steed and drew Leila into his embrace. She did not speak, did not so much as utter his name, and she did not look into his eyes.

  They returned slowly to Killairic, for Fergus did not wish to jostle Leila too much. He knew she had to be badly hurt. When they reached the party that surrounded the keep, it was just as Fergus had anticipated. One glimpse of Stewart and their ranks melted away from the gates, horror in their expressions.

  “Bring a cart!” Fergus cried. “Bring a cart and take this offal back to Dunnisbrae to be buried. I would not have our cemetery polluted by one so wicked as this.”

  Gazes flicked from Stewart to Leila, covered in his blood and clearly bruised. The people crossed themselves, and Fergus did not wait to see his word done. He rode into the bailey and dismounted. The ostler hastened to take Tempest. The smith came to gaze upon Leila with a worried frown. Margaret came from her hut to cluck and Hamish’s aunt joined her.

  “Poor lamb,” Mhairi said.

  “She will desire a bath,” Fergus said. “Iain! Can you see that hot water is brought to the solar?”

  “It is being heated already, my lord,” that man replied. His gaze flew to Agnes.

  “She is too filthy to ever be scrubbed clean,” that girl spat.

  “Agnes will be placed in the dungeon. When next there is a court, she will be tried for conspiring against the laird and his kin, and for theft.”

  “The dungeon!” that girl echoed with horror. “There are rats there.”

  “Indeed, the rats are the least of it.” Fergus gave her a cold glance even as he lifted Leila into his arms. “I beg your forgiveness now, as it may be at least a month before we have a court day. There is so much else to be done.” He walked into the hall as Agnes swore thoroughly, cursing him and all his kind.

  “Leila!” His father exclaimed, rising to his feet. She spared the older man a wan smile, which only made Fergus wish all the more that she would bestow a similar one upon him.

  “Leila will keep to the solar for now, Father,” he said. “Would you ensure that all who rode with me today have the hospitality of the hall?”

  “Of course, of course!”

  “I believe Margaret and Mhairi might be glad to assist Leila in her bath.” Fergus held her a little more tightly. “If that is acceptable, Leila? You will need someone to tend to your injuries.” She nodded agreement, but still said naught. He sensed that she did not particularly care, which worried him deeply. He made for the stairs, then recalled another detail.

  “Ensure that Gavin is sent here from Dunnisbrae,” he said to his father, feeling Leila stiffen slightly. He reasoned that she was in pain and hastened to the solar. “Perhaps the healer from Dumfries might be persuaded to come to Killairic sooner rather than later,” he called and barely heard his father’s agreement.

  * * *

  Leila sank into the hot water of the bath, glad to be rid of Stewart’s blood and the mire of this day. Her ankle hurt. Her cheek was cut. Her face was bruised and her eye was swollen shut.

  But she did not bleed.

  At least, not yet.

  Margaret and Mhairi spoke quietly to each other, and their presence was unexpectedly soothing. There was kindness in their voices and their eyes, and they were gentle as they helped her from the bath and eventually into bed. It was just time for the evening meal, and Leila could hear activity in the hall below. She wanted only to sleep, to forget, to heal, and maybe to dream.

  She did not hear the two women leave, and she did not hear Fergus come into the solar much later. She did not hear his sigh or feel the kiss he placed upon her cheek, the one that was not bruised. She did not feel his weight as he sat on the side of the bed, nor the weight of his gaze as he watched her all the night long.

  She did not even know he had been there, for when she awakened, Leila was alone.

  Just as she feared she would always be.

  Fergus had not even come for the next increment of Scheherazade’s story.

  And he had summoned Gavin to live at Killairic.

  The combination was disheartening. She had tried to win his heart and she had failed. Though he said Gavin was not his son and that he did not love Isobel, his actions spoke louder than his words. Like Duncan, his heart was lost and would be so for more than what remained of their year and a day.

  Leila stared at the ceiling, choosing her course.

  She would stay, until she knew Radegunde’s fate, until her friend stopped at Killairic. She anticipated that would be before September. If Leila carried Fergus’ child, she would bear him the babe. If she did not, or if she lost the child now, she would no longer welcome him abed. Inshallah. If there was no child now, she would not strive to make one.

  She would continue to act as his wife and complete her scheme with the pigeons, but there would be no more tales.

  No more intimacy.

  When Radegunde arrived, Leila would accept Duncan’s offer of a home. The choice was made, but the timing relied solely upon the presence of a child in her womb.

  Either way, Killairic would not be her home.

  Leila rolled over and buried her face in the linens, allowing herself to cry as she never had before. She had tried but she had failed, and she knew better than to give more when there was no hope of success.

  * * *

  “She has been injured,” Calum said in the hall below, but Fergus shook his head.

  “It is more than that. I sense it.”

  His father shook his head. “She has been beaten,” he reminded Fergus. “And doubtless was frightened. Let her sleep and all will be better in the morn.”

  Fergus shook his head and drummed his fingers on the board. “I do not think so.”

  “You could be wrong, boy.”

  “It is not like Leila,” Fergus insisted. “She does not sulk and she does not weep. She shares her thoughts and is honest above all.” He shrugged. “I feel that she has hidden herself from me, that there is an obstacle between us.”

  He did not tell his father that even though his nightmare of Isobel had very nearly come true, his sense of impending doom had not lifted. It was unsettling and he tired of it. He wanted all to be resolved and happily. He wanted Leila to decide to stay, whether she chose to be baptized or not. He wanted to hear more of her stories. He wanted to make love to her.

  Most of all, he wanted her to open her eyes and look fully into his own.

  But he sensed that she did not desire his company on this night and feared that unhappy situation might last.

  “Then there is some detail she does not wish to share,” his father said easily.

  “Something changed on this day,” Fergus said, shaking his head. “Stewart said something to her, or Agnes did, something that changed her thinking.” He sighed. “I hope the healer comes with all haste. The bruises upon her face must hurt.”

  “She is stronger than you guess, Fergus. She will heal.”

  But Leila had chosen and Fergus knew it. Was it because he had left her undefended on this day? He feared he had failed her and knew she would never accuse him outright.

  But if she did not confide in him, how could he reassure her?

  He would do as much with his deeds, Fergus decided. He would make every effort to let Leila kn
ow that she was welcome and that he did not wish her to leave.

  Because he did not, and he was startled by the vigor of his conviction. He had long admired Leila but as Fergus sat in the hall with his father, he realized that he loved her. He loved Leila as he had never loved Isobel, and the prospect of losing her—even of being denied her companionship—was devastating.

  Yet all the same, he would not hold her captive at Killairic, not if she desired to be elsewhere. He wanted her to have whatever she desired, whatever it was.

  Whoever it was.

  “We will not go to Iona,” he said to his father. “For I fear she might not be strong enough to make the journey, and I will not hasten her conversion.”

  “Let her choose in her own time,” Calum agreed. “That is more kind.” He patted Fergus’ shoulder. “Let us send Murdoch. He can gather such tidings as are to be heard there.”

  Fergus nodded agreement, more interested in how he might regain the trust and goodwill of his lady wife.

  If she desired time, he would give it to her. Eleven months remained of their handfast and though he was impatient to see matters resolved between them, he would give Leila all the time she needed, in the hope she would choose to stay.

  Saturday, June 4, 1188

  Feast Day of Saint Optatus

  16

  Fergus was frustrated by the time the rider appeared.

  Leila had continued to be subdued and Fergus could not doubt that there was a new reserve between them. He had tried to talk to her several times, but she said only that she needed to rest. He sensed her concern but could not persuade her to share it with him. If ever she had been mysterious, now she was more so. He felt that all was at stake, though that made little sense, and he disliked that the easy camaraderie that had once been between them was gone.

  What had Stewart said to her? She would not speak of it.

  Fergus was sleeping each night in the hall, a courtesy to his lady wife that made him keenly aware of how much he missed her company. It was more than the tales she had shared with him. His sense of doom lingered, though he could not explain it. Killairic was safe. His father was well. There was no peril he could discern. Gavin appeared to be happy to be helping the miller’s son, and Fergus hoped there would be word of a relation who would take the boy when Murdoch returned from Iona.