The Crusader's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Truly, there could not have been a woman more different than Anna. She slanted a glance toward Bartholomew, for he must be accustomed to women like Marie. She felt aware of her own shortcomings.

  At least in posing as a noblewoman.

  Marie paused on the threshold, as if ensuring that all appreciated her beauty before she proceeded. She was lovely. She was garbed in silk of a golden hue, the fabric shimmering even in the wan sunlight. She might have been an angel setting foot upon the earth. She might have been a vision from afar; Anna was aware that every man and boy in their small company caught his breath in awe.

  Marie, Lady of Haynesdale, deigned to greet them. There had been speculation that Marie no longer drew breath, that she had been imprisoned by her husband or even that she had fled. All of those situations would have explained the lack of a son.

  The way Marie floated to Royce’s side, an adoring smile upon her lips, did not.

  Anna glanced up to find Bartholomew apparently transfixed by the lady and did not like it a whit.

  “Guests, my lord husband,” Marie cooed. Anna could not describe her voice otherwise. “What a marvel, and so thoughtful on your part. I yearn for an evening of good company.” The lady fluttered and spoke with a slight accent, her dark lashes dropping demurely even as her rosy lips curved in a smile. “What a delight it shall be to have guests at the board on this dreary winter night.”

  Before Royce could protest, the lady swept forward to greet the new arrivals. That she targeted Bartholomew did little to improve Anna’s mood. “Sir! I am Lady Marie of Haynesdale, and I am delighted to welcome you and your party to our humble abode.”

  Humble? Anna recalled how the carpenters and laborers had been driven to build this keep with all speed, and the estimates of how much coin had been expended. There had been word in the village that the king himself did not possess a keep so fine.

  Marie meanwhile offered her hand to Bartholomew and addressed him in fluid French. Anna fumed in silence, doubting it was a coincidence that the lady’s wimple was so sheer that her pale throat was fully visible through it, as well as the pale swell of her breasts.

  And Bartholomew, curse him, not only replied with charm and grace, but looked.

  Though he did reply in English and turn almost immediately to her. “And this is my lady wife, who has recently put her hand in mine, to my own good fortune,” he said, gesturing to Anna. “Anna de Beaumonte.”

  Marie barely spared Anna a glance. “Charmed, I am sure,” she said, then encouraged Bartholomew to introduce her to the others. Somehow the lady contrived that he was the one to escort her into the hall. Anna disliked how she laughed and flirted with him in French. She did not have to understand the words to recognize the lady’s intent.

  Nor it seemed did Royce. His brow was dark when he offered Anna his elbow. The sole benefit of his sour mood was that he did not deign to converse with her or even grant her more than a cursory glance. She might have kept her head down had she not been astounded by the splendid interior of the great hall. Lavish tapestries hung on each wall, larger than she might have believed possible to weave. There were two fireplaces and servants were stoking the fires in them both.

  Royce said something to her. It had to be French, for Anna did not understand.

  Anna smiled. “What a welcoming hall you have, sir.”

  He frowned a little at her and she ducked her head, letting her hood hide her features from him. “You do not converse in French?”

  “I was raised in an abbey, sir, that of St. Mary in Whitby. The nuns chose not to speak French, so I never learned it.”

  “I see. And your kin?”

  “My mother died when I was young, sir. Perhaps you knew of her? Elizabeth de Beaumonte was known to many, so the sisters have told me.”

  “Indeed. A beauty much admired, and one who died too young.”

  “I thank you, sir.” Anna crossed herself, in memory of her own mother as well as Elizabeth, whom she had never known.

  “Raised in the convent,” Royce mused. “Of course, one heard that was your fate, but it seems you have left that life behind.”

  He turned a piercing gaze upon her and Anna’s heart fluttered. That eye patch did make him look menacing, and what she knew of him did not temper the impression. “Aye, sir, and not by choice. I was abducted by a villain of foul intent, but was so fortunate as to be aided by a noble knight.” To her relief, she blushed easily. “He fair stole my heart with his gallantry, and I chose to wed him rather than return to the abbey.”

  “And is this a defiance of your mother’s plan for your future?”

  “Nay, she merely wanted me to be raised in safety and to learn my prayers well, that I might one day be a good wife to a better man.” Anna smiled. “And so that day is come, and I have proof that God has held me in the palm of his hand, all these years.”

  “Not so many years as that,” Royce mused. “You are young.”

  “The better that I might give my husband more sons, sir,” she dared to say.

  “And there is a fine sentiment,” the baron said with approval. He cleared his throat and she felt the weight of his gaze land upon her again. “Elizabeth de Beaumonte,” he repeated, considering the name anew. “What happened to your father’s wealth?”

  Anna did not know, so she contrived a plausible tale. “The crown claimed it, sir, and the king holds the seal.”

  “Your husband should appeal for it to be granted to him.”

  “I could not say, sir. It is not a woman’s place to be so concerned with the worldly matters of her lord husband.”

  He arched a brow. “Indeed? And what is her place?”

  “To obey, sir. Of course.”

  Royce sniffed. “I should have found a convent bride,” he muttered, then raised his voice. He called for wine and for ale, then seated her at his right hand at the board. Anna could not believe that she would be compelled to make conversation with this man, above all others. She glanced toward Bartholomew, but he was leaving the hall with Royce’s wife. That woman laughed lightly at some jest he made and Anna found herself seething that he was so quickly gone.

  What of his pledge to remain by her side?

  What of his defense of her? The baron lifted her cloak away from her shoulders and she lost the protection of the hood. Leila accepted its weight from him, then bent closer to adjust Anna’s veil. She felt exposed before the baron’s keen gaze and bowed her head, averting her face slightly.

  Royce laughed. “Surely your lord husband has banished your shy nature by now.”

  “I am not accustomed to the company of men, sir,” she said, pretending to be very modest. “I do apologize if my modesty gives offense.”

  “On the contrary, I find it most refreshing.”

  Anna gritted her teeth and stared at her hands, as Royce lifted his chalice and drank to her health.

  She would murder Bartholomew with her bare hands when he returned.

  If he returned.

  If she survived.

  To her relief, Fergus leaned forward and asked about the keep and its construction. He professed a need to improve the defenses of the keep he would inherit and admired Haynesdale with such fulsomeness that Anna felt Royce thaw. In a matter of moments, their host was explaining choices made in construction, likely to show his own cleverness and the weight of his purse. Fergus and Duncan encouraged him with their curiosity and expressions of envy, so that Anna could look down at her hands in silence.

  And seethe that Bartholomew was evidently so taken with the charms of Marie. Was it not just like a man—or a knight—to forget all but his own pleasure? What of Percy? What of the entire reason they had entered this cursed place? Anna bit down on her disappointment, telling herself that she was the fool, for she had begun to hope that Bartholomew might be different.

  She had been right about him from the first and it was not a realization that gave her pleasure.

  * * *

  Bartholomew did not know why L
ady Marie was so determined to be alone with him, but he was not one to cast aside an opportunity. If they were to save Percy and recover the reliquary, he needed to know the location of both. When Marie hovered at his side like a butterfly, he dared to ask to see the marvels of the keep.

  He did not have to feign that he was impressed by its size and construction.

  He did ignore the press of her breast against his side, and the dance of her fingertips over his arm. He professed a fascination with the keep’s defenses, and she granted him a tour in excess of what her lord husband might have found fitting. He was shown the chapel, the kitchens, the staircase to the tower. He was shown the curtain wall, the defenses and the stores of weaponry for the guards.

  He counted the Captain of the Guard, four knights, and either seven or eight men-at-arms, all employed in the guarding of the keep. It seemed that Sir Royce believed in stout defense. There had to be a dozen squires, but they hastened this way and that, and were of so similar a size and age that he was not confident of their exact number.

  It seemed long odds to escape this keep without detection or pursuit.

  It would be longer odds to claim it by force.

  The castellan was a tall, thin man with a grim countenance, and it was more grim as he warned the lady that there was only sufficient flour for bread for another month. It was evident to Bartholomew that the castellan would have preferred not to have had to share that bread with guests.

  “We shall eat venison,” the lady declared, dismissing the concern, and Bartholomew watched the seneschal frown.

  Aye, he had never known a castellan who liked to see his counsel disregarded.

  In the kitchens, there was a cook and a saucemaker, neither of whom were plump, and a number of serving maids. A stocky woman appeared to be in charge of the cleaning and bullied the younger maids to do her will. He did not have an impression of a happy household.

  Two elegant maids trailed behind Marie in silence, until she dismissed them to await her at the board.

  Bartholomew was told the location of Marie’s chamber, as well as that of her lord husband, and she made a jest as to how readily he might find her chamber from his own.

  Indeed, she had commanded that he and his lady wife should have the chamber directly beside her own in the tower, while her lord husband’s solar was at the summit. Bartholomew saw Timothy taking the bags and Anna’s crossbow to that room and nodded approval at the boy. The others were to be quartered in the chambers over the stables. The kitchens were in the space between the stable and tower, the chapel on the far side of the bailey, the well in the middle and the high wall around all.

  The dungeons were below the tower, and Bartholomew took note of the location of the stairs. The keys, he had to assume, were either near the dungeon entrance or in Royce’s possession.

  They did not enter the chapel, and he was not shown the treasury. Was the treasury at the summit of the tower? The reliquary had to be secured in one or the other. He could not think of how to ask without arousing suspicion.

  It was Saturday. Perhaps they would stay to mass the next morning.

  Bartholomew was so consumed with creating a plan that he did not pay much attention to the lady’s chatter. She ushered him through a doorway, and he realized only once he had crossed the threshold that it was a storage chamber. He turned to depart, thinking she had erred, but the lady closed the door behind them. They were plunged into darkness, and the click of the key in the lock seemed overloud.

  Had she guessed his intent?

  Marie collided with him suddenly, backing him into the shelves. Did she stumble? Bartholomew took a step back and found a wall behind him, then the lady’s lips at his ear. “Sir, I must cast myself at your mercy,” she whispered. “I entreat you to aid me in my distress.”

  Was this a trick?

  “Of course, I should be glad to be of service to my noble hostess,” he said with care.

  Her hands were on his tabard and he could smell her perfume. He decided to believe that she wished to confide in him quietly, but her hands began to rove across his chest.

  In a caress.

  “You are mostly finely wrought, sir,” she whispered. “And I have need of the services of such a man.”

  Should he cast her aside?

  Was there more to be gained by remaining in place until she had her say? What would be lost if he spurned her and she was insulted?

  “My husband’s seed does not take root, despite these many years of his efforts,” she continued in a heated whisper. “I have need of a child. I no longer even care of its gender, but a son would be best.”

  Bartholomew blinked. She wished for him to lie with her?

  Her voice dropped lower, her frustration clear. “There are never men in our hall, never noblemen at our board. No knights, no guests, no barons, no hale men within three days’ ride!” She seized fistfuls of his tabard and shook him. “Sir! I must have a child!”

  Bartholomew tried to recall the example of Gaston’s diplomacy and chose his words with care. “My lady, I have much sympathy for your plight, but I am a wedded man. I would be faithful to my wife and my vows.”

  “She was raised in a convent!” Marie hissed. “What pleasure can she give you?” Her hand was beneath his tabard before he realized what she did. Her fingers closed over him, granting him an intimate caress.

  Bartholomew seized her shoulders and pushed her away. “She is my wife. You must know that what you suggest is wrong.”

  “Wrong? It is wrong for me to rot in this filthy burg! It is wrong for me to be denied the one thing that would deliver me from this place!” Marie made a growl under her breath, then seemed to steady herself. She continued with low heat. “Sir, do not imagine that my relief will be lightly won. There are those who do not survive the peril of bearing a child, and certainly all women endure the curse of Eve in so doing. Your part would be trifling.”

  “But…”

  “But I ask for naught you cannot spare.” Her tone turned pleading. “But one visit. Perhaps two. While your lady wife sleeps.” Her voice dropped lower than it had been thus far. “She need never know.”

  “It would be wrong.”

  “No one need ever know. Indeed, I will welcome my husband to my bed on the morrow. No one will ever guess that it is not his child.”

  “There are others…”

  Marie interrupted him crisply. “I have no taste for Scots, and the red hair that appears suddenly in their children might reveal my deed. Your coloring is like mine and that of my husband. I choose you.”

  “The Templars surely share my coloring…”

  Marie laughed. “I have but one night to see this done. Even I do not imagine my charms to be sufficient to tempt such a knight to abandon his vows so readily. It must be you.”

  Bartholomew did not know what to say. He would not do it, but telling Marie as much might put the entire party in peril.

  She slid her arm into his elbow, as sinuous as a snake and as sly as a fox. “You must think about it, I see,” she said smoothly. “I like a man of principle. Your seed will have integrity.”

  She led him forward, and he heard the key turn again in the lock. Marie opened the door a crack and listened, then urged him into the corridor. Her manner changed immediately, though the invitation lurked in her eyes.

  “But you must be famished!” Marie declared, speaking so loudly that any might hear her. “A knight so robust as yourself has need of every fine morsel we can summon.”

  “Indeed, it has been a long ride this day,” Bartholomew acknowledged. “And even longer since we have dined on fine fare.”

  “Then come, come to the hall,” she insisted, tugging him by the hand with such a playful manner that they might have been courting. She leaned close to him before they entered the hall once more and dropped her voice low, her gaze filled with invitation. “I find my husband’s hall is quite dull after the revels I knew in France,” she whispered. Her hand trailed across his chest. “Pe
rhaps you, sir, since you are said to be so gallant, might amuse me later this eve with some tales from the court.”

  “I should be glad to regale the hall with any tidings from afar.”

  Marie’s laughter was throaty and her gaze was knowing. “That was not my meaning, sir, and you know it well,” she murmured. “I will summon you once your lady wife sleeps.”

  How would she know?

  Was there a means for Marie to spy on their chamber from her own? There must be. Bartholomew no longer wondered at their being granted the chamber beside the lady’s own. How would he evade her scheme? He had no desire to aid in her quest, though he could well understand that her situation was troubling. He also had no wish to set her against their small party.

  Nor did he want to anger his host. He would need every memory of Gaston’s talents to see them free of this place and unscathed!

  In lieu of a comment, Bartholomew only smiled. He stepped into the portal to the great hall, that he might be in view of her husband, and bent low over her hand. “I thank you, Lady Marie, for your kindness in showing me the stables. I have relied long upon the goodwill of my steed and would ensure his comfort wherever he rests.”

  “Knights and their steeds,” she laughed, complying with his excuse. “I know your habits well.”

  Bartholomew bent lower and brushed his lips across her fingertips. “You are most indulgent, my lady. I thank you for it.”

  “How could I resist?” she murmured for his ears alone. “And now I await your indulgence.”

  Bartholomew pretended not to have heard. He straightened and turned, escorting her to her husband’s side, well aware that Anna eyed him with disgust.

  She could not hide her thoughts to save her life, to be sure, but in this case, her manner could only aid in their deceit.

  Indeed, Marie chortled under her breath. “I see that the old rumor is true, sir.”

  “Which rumor is that?”

  “That the plain ones are the most easily driven to jealousy, for they are not confident of their hold upon a man’s affections.” She shrugged. “I suppose it is only reasonable.”