The Crusader's Handfast

by Claire Delacroix

  “Poor lamb,” one of the women from the village murmured and her husband offered her a napkin to blow her nose.

  “The knight was relieved of all he had won that day, dishonored as the other knight had declared he would be. He took his sister home to be buried and learned that the tale had been delivered swiftly to the lord who had taken them in. That man was furious and felt that the young knight had acted rashly at great expense. Such was his anger that the knight never told him the truth. He abandoned his armor and weapons, his horse and all his belongings, and he left his life behind. Disheartened, he went into the forest, determined to die there alone as penance for his own folly.”

  So it was his tale. Radegunde’s father was a nobleman, Duncan had reached too high in taking her hand in his. The realization made the wine churn in his belly.

  “There is a tale to dispel the most festive mood,” muttered one man.

  “But that is not the end of it,” the storyteller said, raising a finger. “For he quickly learned that he was not alone in the forest. Not only were there many creatures sharing the woods with him, but there was a beautiful young woman who came to forage for plants. He became aware of her first because she sang softly under her breath, and the sound drew him like a moth to a flame. He found himself fascinated by her, following her, awaiting her return, but never daring to speak to her. He feared that he would lose the solace of beauty in his life again and so he remained silent.”

  “Perhaps she saw the truth of his heart, but knew she had to speak first,” Mathilde said into the silence of the hall.

  Duncan smiled at the reaction of the company, for they had not guessed until this moment that the tale was rooted in truth. They chattered to each other and looked between the storyteller and Mathilde—who had eyes only for each other.

  “And so he was blessed with her companionship, because she was bolder than he,” Radegunde’s father said.

  “Perhaps she simply did not know what was at risk,” Mathilde replied.

  “Perhaps it was best that way,” Radegunde’s father said, his voice hardening. “For tidings came to his ears one day some years later that the knight who had killed his sister was actively seeking the brother. It seemed he wished the truth to be silenced forever, and the brother had no doubt that this knight would do injury wherever was necessary to see his end achieved. And so the brother left the beautiful woman, though he loved her in truth, though she had borne him a strong son and a daughter every measure as beautiful as herself.”

  “He left only because he feared they would be injured by the villain, as his sister had been,” Mathilde provided.

  Radegunde’s father bowed his head. “No man could bear the weight of such a crime laid unjustly at his door. Not twice in one life.” His words were thick and his voice husky. Then he raised a hand. “But such was the hold this woman held over the brother’s heart, that he could not forget her or even stay away forever. He returned to her furtively, when he could, stealing moments of pleasure with her at intervals that were too far apart. He missed speaking with her and seeking her counsel. He missed the easy confidence that had once been part of their match, but he feared to jeopardize her welfare. He was as a mouse, taking crumbs from the table that would not be missed, not daring to hope for more. He missed the births of his three additional sons, but loved them all dearly just the same.”

  “Surely one day, the hero of your tale must leave the woods and seek justice,” Lord Amaury said, no speculation in his tone.

  Radegunde’s father bowed. “Surely so, and he does as much this day.” He straightened and surveyed the company, pride in his stance and a challenge in his eyes. “He stands before you, and appeals to Lord Gaston and Lord Amaury for justice against the fiend who has stolen all from him.”

  Mathilde raised her hands to her lips. Radegunde’s eyes were wide, but those of her brother Michel were even wider.

  “Zounds!” Lord Amaury declared as he rose to his feet.

  “Amaury!” Lady Richildis whispered. “Do not speak thus before the company!”

  “Whyever not?” Lord Amaury boomed, his face alight. “The fairest knight I have ever met on the field is alive, when all thought he was dead. Thierry de Roussignon! I thought to never see you again!”

  “Not even in Heaven, Amaury, with the repute I was given,” Radegunde’s father jested and Amaury laughed.

  “I never believed you guilty of it,” he retorted. Amaury left the high table and marched to Radegunde’s father, shaking his old comrade’s hand heartily, then granting him a hug fit to break his ribs.

  “Then the old tale was rooted in truth,” Gaston said quietly.

  Millard, Duncan noted, eased away from the table. Duncan pulled his knife covertly but Fergus rose smoothly to his feet and blocked Millard’s path. Fergus leaning against the wall with insouciance and smiled when Millard glared at him.

  “But why tell your tale now?” Lord Gaston asked. “Why share it here?”

  Radegunde’s father straightened, his tone becoming solemn. “First, because you are returned and I heard long ago of your thirst for justice,” he said and Lord Gaston inclined his head. “And also because the villain who ensured my sister’s demise is here, sir.” Thierry lifted a finger and pointed at the head table. “His name is Millard de Saint-Roux.”

  “What madness is this?” Millard demanded, even as the hall erupted in chatter. “Am I to stand accused by a stranger in the hall of my wife’s own kin?”

  “Have you a defense?” Lord Gaston asked.

  “I have no need of one,” Millard retorted. “It is his word against mine, and this tale is such folly that no one can put credence in it.” He glared at Gaston. “You were not there.”

  “Not I,” Lord Gaston acknowledged. “Not at a tournament where men play at war. One hears tales, though.”

  “Gossip,” Millard said disparagingly.

  “Not gossip, for I was at that tournament,” Lord Amaury said smoothly. “I remember the death of that maiden and the accusations made against her brother.” He placed a hand upon the shoulder of Radegunde’s father. “Accusations that no one who knew this knight believed.”

  “His patron believed them, by his own tale,” Millard argued. “Surely that baron knew him better than most.”

  “Surely that man above all others might have spoken in haste and grief,” Lord Amaury countered.

  “This is madness,” Millard said, as if he could dismiss the accusation with his attitude. He made as if to leave the board, but Fergus did not let him pass. “I will not remain to be so insulted. Is it not sufficient that my wife was laid to her final rest this day?”

  Lord Amaury turned to Lord Gaston, his hand open in invitation of a decision. Gaston pursed his lips. “This should be the king’s justice,” he began to protest, but Radegunde’s father spoke in the same moment.

  “I will abandon the charge against you,” Thierry said to Millard with pride. “If you will allow divine justice to decide the truth.”

  “What is this?” Lord Gaston asked.

  “Mortal combat,” Thierry said with grim resolve. “Let God ensure that the innocent man triumphs, for He knows the fullness of the truth as well as we two.” He offered his hand, and Millard glared at him for a charged moment.

  “The ultimate judge,” Lord Amaury murmured.

  “Games of war,” Lord Gaston said.

  “God’s will being done,” Lord Amaury countered. He placed a hand on Lord Gaston’s shoulder. “It might be best.”

  “Aye, it will be.” Millard leaped the high table, marched across the floor and seized his challenger’s hand. “Let God support his own,” he declared. “I will see this lie silenced.”

  “We shall see a liar silenced, to be sure,” Thierry replied.

  Duncan ran a hand over his brow. Would there be a second funeral on this day? Lord Gaston and Lord Amaury conferred, the older man’s manner insistent.

  Meanwhile, Millard and Thierry strode to the bailey with equal
resolve, squires hastening ahead of them to muster armor and weapons. The company rose and flowed toward the bailey with obvious excitement, many refilling their cups before they left the hall. Duncan saw Mathilde grip the shoulder of Lady Richildis’ maid, then take a breath and follow the villagers. She kept her gaze downcast and he guessed that she believed this was the shadow she had feared.

  He sought Radegunde only to spy her slipping from the hall. Who did she follow? He glanced back at the high table and noted that Lady Ysmaine looked pale, although Lord Gaston attended her. Did Radegunde fetch something from the solar for her lady? Duncan surveyed the company and saw that Lady Marie and her daughter Rohese were missing.

  Did they mean to retrieve the book for Millard? Or had they another objective?

  Did Radegunde pursue them?

  Duncan stepped back into the shadows, letting the company flow past him, as he debated his choices. Should he aid with the preparations for the mortal combat and leave Radegunde to learn what she could? Or should he pursue her, in case she had need of protection? If she meant only to retrieve a token for Lady Ysmaine, his aid would not be needed.

  When he saw Benedicta head toward the stairs, his choice was made. That maid’s manner was covert, and it was too easy to recall her dislike of Radegunde.

  And Radegunde’s conviction that she was wicked.

  Duncan drew his knife and followed, even more stealthy than his prey.

  * * *

  Could it be true?

  Could her father be a noble knight, one discredited by a liar and a rogue?

  Radegunde found it easy to believe that matters had been so. She hoped that her father fought better than Millard, and that justice was served this day. She wanted to watch, and also to give support to her mother, but something was afoot.

  Why did Lady Marie climb the stairs again?

  Why did she fairly drag Rohese with her?

  Radegunde would know the truth. She clung to the shadows as she pursued the pair, straining her ears to hear Lady Marie’s words.

  “It is as good a moment as any to solve the riddle,” she declared to her daughter, almost forcibly urging the maiden up the stairs.

  “I would rather watch the battle,” Rohese declared. “I want to see him die!”

  “He will not die, you fool.” Lady Marie’s tone was dismissive. “We must find some detail in our favor!”

  “Your favor, you mean,” Rohese complained. “It is your fault that all has gone awry, and your fault that Azalaïs is dead.”

  “What is the matter with you? Why have you become defiant on this day of all days?”

  “Azalaïs is dead!” Rohese cried. “She did as you bade her but it made no difference. She is dead, and it is your fault, and I will not do as you instruct. I do not want to die!”

  A slap echoed in the stairwell. “You will do as you are bidden…”

  “I will not!”

  A few footsteps sounded on the stairs, as if Rohese would flee, but then Radegunde heard her gasp. She peeked to see that Lady Marie held a fistful of her daughter’s hair and had her backed against the wall. “Do not be ridiculous,” Lady Marie said in a heated whisper. “We will triumph together or not at all.”

  “I will flee.”

  “Who will feed you?” Lady Marie scoffed. “Who will see to your welfare?”

  Rohese sneered. “As you do, Maman?”

  “Bite your tongue and fetch the book.”

  “I will not marry him.”

  “You will do as you are told.”

  Rohese made a little squeak, and Radegunde wondered whether she should intervene. Could she protect the maiden from her own mother? She imagined not, for Lady Marie would simply dismiss her—and Radegunde would never discover what detail Lady Marie sought and why.

  She trailed the women up the stairs to the top floor. Did they mean to enter the solar? Radegunde paused when she heard the sound of a scraping stone. She peered over the lip of the steps to see that a stone in the exterior wall outside the door of the solar had been removed. It concealed a space, where evidently Lady Marie had hidden the book because she removed it now. She drew a key from her belt then and urged Rohese to the door of the solar.

  “It is no longer your chamber,” Rohese protested as her mother unlocked the portal.

  “And yet it is the most private room in the keep. None will find us there.” Lady Marie gave Rohese a little push into the chamber. “We must learn what Lady Eudaline knew!”

  “Surely it will only be rumor.”

  “She might know of some deficiency in Gaston’s claim, or even in that of his father, Fulk. We might find evidence that Millard would welcome.”

  “You have drawn a web, Maman, from which there is no good escape.” Rohese gave her mother a look of disdain. “You should never have poisoned Papa.”

  Radegunde bit back her gasp of surprise, but Rohese was not done.

  “I did what had to be done,” Lady Marie insisted. “Just as you will do what must be done.”

  “Did you imagine that your lover would wed you, instead of Azalaïs? Is that why Papa had to die?”

  Lover?

  “Oh, you are a witless fool, Rohese! What merit is there in having eyes if you refuse to use them?” The daughter made another squeak, then the door to the solar was slammed behind the pair.

  Radegunde waited, then took a breath and crept to the door. She crouched before it and peered through the lock. She could see Rohese seated on a stool, the one that Lady Ysmaine used in the morning when Radegunde combed her hair. At her mother’s command, Rohese opened the book. “It does not open fully.”

  “It is no matter. Read the notes in the margin aloud. Here.”

  “You should command Benedicta or a maid to read it to you.”

  “Benedicta does not know her letters and I trust no other. Read!”

  Had Azalaïs been commanded to read aloud by her mother or by her husband? Radegunde hoped it had been Millard, for then there was a chance that Lady Marie did not know the book was poisoned, and did not deliberately condemn her other daughter.

  Or maybe Rohese was defiant because she knew the truth. Radegunde bit her lip and listened. Soon enough, the familiar words came from Rohese’s lips.

  “I arrived as a new bride in 1153, knowing full well that my predecessor, Rohese, had been buried only six months.”

  Rohese paused. “Your grandmother,” Lady Marie said. “Your father insisted we name you in his mother’s honor.”

  Radegunde blinked at the bitterness in the lady’s tone, but Rohese continued to read.

  “She and her youngest son had been killed when a boat capsized. Fulk did not believe it an accident. He confessed that he was glad he had taken Bayard with him on that day’s ride, for he had chosen to do so in the last moment. He was but six years of age and should have been on that boat with his mother and younger brother. They had planned the excursion weeks before and the boy was disappointed to be denied it in the last moment.”

  Radegunde could hear Lady Marie pacing. It seemed that her steps were becoming quicker.

  “Fulk had suspicions as to who might be the guilty party. Châmont-sur-Maine had only come to his hand in 1142, by grant of Geoffrey of Anjou, as reward for loyal service. Fulk held it against the assault of Elias II in 1151, and the grant was reaffirmed by King Henry. But Fulk was not the sole one who desired such a gift from the king’s hand.”

  “And?” Marie demanded when Rohese fell silent.

  “The pages are stuck,” her daughter protested and Radegunde peered through the keyhole as the maiden raised her fingertips to her lips.

  She could not remain silent.

  “Do not lick your fingers!” she cried, bursting into the solar. Both women stared at her in anger and dismay. “The pages are poisoned. That is what killed Lady Azalaïs!”

  “A leap from the window killed my daughter,” Lady Marie corrected, her voice hard.

  Rohese looked between the two of them with obvious alarm, th
en let the book fall to the ground. “Maman! You could not have known!”

  Lady Marie seized the book and handed it to Radegunde. “Read,” she commanded. She pointed to her daughter when Radegunde hesitated. “And you, lock the portal. This one will not fly to her mistress to tell tales of me.”

  “Maman,” Rohese murmured, a warning in her tone.

  “I command her only to read,” Lady Marie said and her gaze was hard. “I believe no such whimsy about poisoned pages. If this one is so clever, let her defend herself.”

  Rohese went to the door and turned the key in the lock. She remained by the door, her eyes wide and her uncertainty clear.

  It seemed she learned much of her mother on this day.

  Radegunde knew that she could not overpower them both. Indeed, she wanted to learn what Lady Eudaline had written and knew she could foil the trap. She had to believe that some soul would come to her aid before too long, and she also suspected that Lady Marie would destroy the book if its contents condemned her or anyone she would defend.

  Under Lady Marie’s watchful eye, Radegunde fetched an old cloth and the pitcher of water that she had brought that morning for Lady Ysmaine. It was not yet empty and the water was clean. She donned a pair of gloves that Lady Ysmaine no longer favored and hoped her mistress would not mind the loss. They would have to be burned. Then she wet the edge of the pages, used her knife to coax the next page free, and continued to read Lady Eudaline’s confession.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Duncan crept up the stairs, uncertain where Benedicta had gone. Indeed, he could not see Lady Marie, Lady Rohese, or Radegunde either. The keep might have been abandoned. When he climbed to the top floor of the tower, though, he heard Radegunde’s voice from inside the chamber.

  Was she reading aloud?

  “The mercenary Sebastien de Saint-Roux had also served Geoffrey of Anjou, and believed himself deserving of reward. Fulk said they had argued when Châmont-sur-Maine had been awarded to him. He had no evidence that Sebastien might have been responsible for the subsequent demise of his wife and son, but believed his adversary capable of such violence in pursuit of his own ends. Fulk was vigilant in guarding Bayard and dismissed a number of men from his service because he was uncertain of their alliances. It seemed this was sufficient, for there were no other incidents. I bore Fulk another son, Gaston, which eased his concerns for the future, and the boys were as close as blood brothers. Sebastien’s son Millard was forbidden to enter the keep, even when he trained for his spurs at the same time as Gaston.”