The Crusader's Handfast

by Claire Delacroix

On the one hand, Duncan hoped the truth of Isobel’s nature had revealed itself these past years. On the other, he did not wish to see Fergus disappointed. His affection for Isobel was resolute and any wound to his heart would be a lasting one.

  Would it not be worse for him to wed a woman unworthy of him?

  Duncan also dreaded the sharing of the tidings of Kerr’s death at Killairic. That squire had been a relation of Isobel, a member of their company at her request, though he doubted she would recall that detail when his death was known. She was the manner of woman, he suspected, who blamed others for the results of her own choices. Duncan hoped that he was not required to tell her of the boy’s fate.

  “When do we depart then?” Duncan asked gruffly, well aware that the stable in the Temple must be filled with listening ears.

  “As soon as the Grand Master releases me.” Fergus straightened with obvious enthusiasm. “It might be this very day.”

  “That might be why you are summoned to his board, my lord,” Hamish suggested.

  “And this might be my last day to see the fabled city of Paris,” Duncan said heartily. “I shall return by the evening meal, to be sure.”

  “Will you not take another with you?” Fergus asked.

  “I can fend for myself, lad,” Duncan scoffed, hoping the knight did not assign either of the boys to accompany him. He did not want to be obliged to protect them in a tavern as disreputable as he feared his destination might be.

  “I would go with you,” Hamish offered.

  Duncan ruffled his hair. “You must ensure that our lord Fergus looks his best for this midday meal. Have you polished his boots as yet? Ensured his chemise is clean and the hilt of his blade polished?”

  Hamish’s eyes rounded and he dove into the stall to begin those very duties.

  “Use care,” Fergus advised Duncan softly.

  Duncan held the other man’s gaze, wondering how much he saw. The lad had been born to the caul, but if Fergus had the Sight, he hid his ability well.

  “And you,” he murmured in reply, taking the warning at face value. “For I will not be here to guard your back.”

  The younger man nodded, his expression so solemn that Duncan had to wonder what he expected to happen in that session.

  His own task was clear this day, to be sure.

  Duncan cast the end of the plaid over his shoulder and strode out of the stables to meet Gaston. The knight sat upon his dappled destrier, waiting upon him. Duncan knew that the knight would not make much faster progress on the horse than he on foot, given the congestion in these streets.

  Aye, the crowds and the stench combined were sufficient to make a man yearn for home.

  Chapter Five

  Gaston had been right about the tavern. It was filled with rough men, whose language was rougher yet. The stench of well-aged sweat was powerful and scarce tempered by the smell of roast meat and spilled ale. The air was so smoky and redolent of the fire that tears rose to Duncan’s eyes as soon as he crossed the threshold. Once within, it was impossible to tell whether it was day or night in the street beyond—save when some soul opened the portal.

  Ale flowed, coins clattered on the high table where it was poured, and crockery cups were put down empty at a regular rate. The rushes on the floor were dirty and doubtless filled with vermin, though the other men did not seem to care. They sang lewd ditties, shouted in recognition of found comrades, stamped their feet, and played at dice with unrivaled zeal. It was warm in the tavern, and there was something comforting about the familiarity of so many Scots’ voices, and the sight of so much plaid.

  The fire, though, should have smelled of peat.

  Duncan could not help but imagine that Radegunde’s mother would be challenged to find the finest pair of legs in the establishment. He ordered a cup of ale, greeted the man beside him in Gaelic, and showed himself to be one of them with astonishing speed.

  The tidings flowed fast and thick. His new friend was taller even than Duncan and burly, his hair as red as a flame and his beard full. He might have been a bear for his size, and his laughter was as hearty as his appetite for both ale and gossip.

  When Duncan said that he sought employ, the man cast an arm around his shoulders and guided him around the tavern, making introductions. He spoke of Duncan as if they were lost kin found.

  All the while, Duncan gathered news, uncertain what would be of use to Gaston. The queen of France had retired to her chamber in the Palais Royale, fairly bursting with child. Speculation was rampant as to the babe’s gender, for the king had need of a son, and bets aplenty were made in the tavern. The queen was of an age with the Lady Ysmaine, though the men wagered upon her survival, as well as her prospects of bearing more children, their gender, and numbers. Duncan could only assume that some of his fellow countrymen meant to remain in France for years or they would never see the outcome of those wagers.

  There were few reports of the losses in Outremer, and Duncan was intrigued by the accuracy of some tales and the wild fabrication of others. He could have set them straight about the nature of Saladin and the numbers of men lost at Hattin, but preferred to disguise his recent return from Palestine.

  Indeed, he had come to the tavern to listen.

  There was doubt that the treaty made the previous June between Philip Augustus and Henry II in Berry would hold, even though the territories of Issoudun and Fréteval had been ceded to Philip. What the French king truly desired was the surrender of the duchy of Brittany, and Duncan’s ears pricked over these tidings for their route lay in that direction.

  The duchy had come to Geoffrey II, son of Henry II, through forcible marriage to the heiress Constance of Brittany. The crowns of England and France insisted that each alone held suzerainty over Brittany—although the Bretons themselves were known to dispute both claims—and both kings had wished the duchy under their control. Upon Constance’s delivery of Geoffrey’s son the previous winter, the duchy of Brittany had been settled upon the infant by Henry II. Philip had invaded Berry in protest, and also in alliance with Henry’s other sons Richard and John.

  When Duncan heard that, he could believe the truce would be a fragile one. It seemed that Gaston’s skill as a diplomat would be welcome in assuming his inherited holding.

  There was considerable head-shaking over the demise of Geoffrey II. Duncan recalled that the older sons of Henry II, both Henry the young king and Geoffrey, had been much involved in tournaments and had expended considerable coin in their pursuit. He knew that Henry the young king had died after turning to actual warfare and fighting against his brother Richard and his father in the Limousin. Duncan was shocked to learn that Geoffrey had died the year before after having been trampled in a tournament. It was a foolish way to die, in his opinion, feigning war when there were battles of merit to be waged.

  But real war was not so fetchingly arrayed as the battles of tournament.

  Yet there was more. Geoffrey had died in Paris of his injuries and had been publically mourned by Philip Augustus.

  The king of France and opponent of Henry II, Geoffrey’s own father.

  “A tournament,” scoffed one man. “An excuse, more like.”

  Duncan tried to disguise his interest. Did Châmont-sur-Maine not have one foot in Anjou and one in Brittany? Gaston would need to know as much as possible about this situation.

  “Indeed,” agreed another. “The tournament was to hide the negotiation of another alliance between Philip and Henry’s sons, and one that doubtless would not suit Henry well.”

  “They are a fractious lot, to be sure.”

  “Ungrateful brats.”

  “It is the fault of the king himself. All those sons raised to warfare, and not a one of them given the authority he desires.”

  “The sole authority they each desire is their father’s own.”

  Perhaps naturally, the mercenaries were much taken with the prospect of more war. They had little interest in the suggestion that the French king might lead a crusade after
the defeat at Hattin. They had more fascination with the question of what rivalries might be revived in France with the departure of the king and—undoubtedly—some of his more powerful barons. Opportunity, it was agreed, would be ripe for an escalation of hostilities between Philip and Henry, particularly as Henry’s two surviving sons seemed to be allied with the French king. Speculation abounded as to which barons would remain behind and which would attack what territories. Duncan’s head fairly spun with the rapid flow of names and holdings, for he was less familiar with the nobility of France than this company.

  When asked, Duncan told his comrade that he had only just left the employ of a baron in the low countries, but was vague about the location.

  His neighbor nudged him. “Is there labor in the low countries?”

  “Not so much as a man might hope,” Duncan said grimly. He shook his head and echoed a concern common to mercenaries. “And there is trouble in ensuring one is paid in a timely manner.”

  There was much commiseration over this issue, which plagued a great many of the men present. They spoke then of which lords and barons paid promptly and heads were shaken over the repute of the Angevins.

  “There are those who were never paid their due for serving the young king on that last foray. It has been years!”

  Heads were shaken over this shameless exploitation of mercenaries, and much said about the inclinations of both Henry and his sons.

  “What of those barons near Paris?” Duncan ventured to ask. “Will they defy Philip, if he rides to crusade?”

  “If the king journeys to Outremer, there are those who might eye his demesne.”

  “Angevins!” crowed one man. “Prepared to seize any opportunity!”

  “They will have time,” insisted another. “He could not be gone less than two years.”

  “I heard Philip meant to enclose the city of Paris, with a wall.”

  “Turrets and towers,” agreed another. “All wrought of stone.”

  “He feels the breath of the Angevins on his neck.”

  “He will have little coin left when that is done.”

  “Insist that you are paid now, then!”

  “And spend what you have while you can!” There was laughter at that and much buying of ale. Stakes were raised in the games of dice, and Duncan recalled well enough what it was like to be uncertain of awakening on the morrow. There was a hunger in this company and he knew it was born of a need to make the most of every moment.

  All here knew full well that there might not be another such night for them again. He spied injuries when he looked more closely, missing fingers and patches covering lost eyes, scars and wounds and the wages of war that none discussed so openly as the coin. Most of these men would die comparatively young, and most would die in violence.

  He felt a sudden and profound relief that he was not of their profession. All he had to do was see Fergus safely home to pay his debt to that knight’s father, then he could live out his days in peace.

  And solitude. The prospect was not so appealing as it should have been, and he quaffed his ale, then ordered another. The tidings of warfare put him in mind of all he had left behind and he wondered whether all was as fractious in his birthplace as once it had been.

  Not that it was his concern any longer.

  The fact remained that Duncan had yet to learn what Gaston wished to know and turned to his companion.

  “But such a wall cannot be built overnight, even with the will of a king,” he said in a peevish tone, as if protesting the turn of the conversation. “I would find labor this very week, and close by, if it could be managed.”

  Discussion ensued about various dukes and barons, but Duncan did not hear the name of Millard de Saint-Roux. He was trying to decide how he might slide the name innocuously into the conversation, when his burly companion leaned closer.

  “You might ride west,” that man confided softly in Gaelic. “Toward Brittany.”

  “Aye?”

  The man spared a glance at the others, who had begun to argue over a game of dice and did not appear to be listening. “I have heard tell that there is a baron seeking doughty warriors, the better to defend his holding against some knight he believes will make a claim against him.”

  “Who is right?”

  “Whoever wins their first confrontation,” replied his new friend with the pragmatism of a mercenary. “For I do not doubt that only one of them will walk away.” He dropped his voice again. “It is rumored that the challenge comes from one with much experience in battles.”

  “And the baron? Is he well experienced in battle?”

  Again, his companion grinned. “I think not, or he would not have need of hired blades.”

  “And does he pay?”

  The red-haired man winced. “That is the consideration. There are those who do not trust him, but few who know of him. The holding seems to have been at peace for a long while, despite its neighbors.”

  “Despite?”

  The man grinned. “It is on the Breton March, standing vigil on the frontier between Anjou and Brittany. You may be sure that there is much interest in the man who would hold that seal in his hand forever.

  Duncan avoided that topic. “If it has been at peace, one would expect it to be prosperous, then.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you go?”

  The other man winced again. “I do not like the smell of it, to be sure. The tale seems to miss a detail or two, which might be pertinent.”

  “Perhaps that the knight returned is the legitimate baron?”

  The red-haired man smiled. “There are those who would not care, so long as they are paid. I am glad to have some ability to wait for a better opportunity.” He drained his cup. “I have to wonder who is favored by Henry and who by Philip.” He shook his head. “If you go, friend, be wary about the arrangements.”

  Duncan pretended to consider this counsel as he finished his ale. “My inclination is to suspect that a man who might try to steal a holding might also decline to pay the wages due.”

  “You have learned to be wary in the low countries!”

  “It is one thing to be cheated once. It is quite another to allow oneself to be cheated again.”

  “Aye, I see we think as one, my friend.” The other man’s manner turned more amiable. “Tell me where you are from. I might well know your people or know of them.”

  “An isle so small it makes Orkney look like Paris,” Duncan lied and his companion laughed heartily. He lifted a finger. “But tell me first the name of this baron, lest I forget to ask you later. I would be wary. You said it was west of Paris?”

  “Aye. The holding is Châmont-sur-Maine,” said his companion with authority. “The baron is Millard de Saint-Roux.”

  Duncan repeated the name, as if he would commit it to memory. In truth, he did not have to do any such thing. He grimaced. “Yet on the far side of the territory of Anjou. I am not certain I wish to ride through those holdings in these days.”

  “There is that, to be sure,” his comrade agreed. “Now, tell me of this isle.”

  Duncan fabricated a tale, knowing he had unearthed the very tidings that Gaston had sought. He had to leave, but not too quickly, the better to tell Gaston of all he had learned. He had another cup of ale, to disguise the timing of his departure, then there was a cheer as the whores burst into the tavern and began to slide through the crowd, seeking some employ of their own.

  They were lushly curved, bold in their caresses with welcome in their smiles. Not a one of them was foul to look upon and their prices astonished Duncan. But then, this city was filled to bursting with their kind and likely quite competitive. One eyed him, her dark eyes glimmering with sensual intent, yet Duncan was surprised to find no interest within himself. She seemed to take that as a challenge, for she targeted him, draping herself over his shoulder and kissing his cheek. Her breasts rubbed against him, doubtless by design, and her fingers were in his hair.

  Duncan extricated hims
elf with an effort. He had been reminded of his future in the company of these men who could not rely upon having one. When he had returned to Scotland, Duncan knew there was but one deed left undone that might haunt him.

  It would not be the refusal of this whore’s charms.

  Nay, it would be the failure to claim one last kiss from the beguiling Radegunde. He drained his cup, wished his companion well, and left the tavern intent upon gathering that very token.

  After all, he had to tell Gaston what he had learned and doubtless would see Radegunde at the inn.

  * * *

  There could be no mistaking the identity of the new arrival. Aye, he was a Scot, but in a tavern full of Scots, still there was something about this one that caught the eye. He had a stance that reminded Murdoch of Domnall. A decisiveness in his movements. An expectation of authority.

  The blood of kings would out.

  When this man turned, there could be no mistake. The set of his eyes, the line of his mouth, even the tilt of his chin, all were reminiscent of his father.

  Murdoch had finally found Domnall’s missing son, after his long hunt.

  Domnall would be pleased. He had not approved of the disappearance of his middle son, even though he did not approve of that son’s choices. It was no longer sufficient to disown Duncan and guarantee that Duncan never had a crumb from his father’s table. In these times, Domnall would ensure that his youngest, Guthred, was left with clear title, so had dispatched Murdoch to see Duncan dead.

  Murdoch had followed Duncan south and then west, the intermittent trail leading him finally to Killairic. He had reached that keep a mere six months before, long after the laird’s son had departed for Jerusalem, Duncan as his defender, but not so long before their anticipated return. Murdoch could have waited at Killairic, but the old man—laird and father of Fergus—had asked too many questions. Murdoch preferred to avoid suspicion.

  Murdoch could have lingered in London, but he had no confidence that the party would journey that way. Paris was the place to await Duncan’s return. Murdoch thought the city a necessary stop upon their route north, and Scots were easily found in this burg. Also, being in Paris offered the advantage of completing his assignment before his prey set foot upon Scottish soil.