The Crusader's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  “Are they here?”

  “Nay, they sent the boys but stayed in the village. Wallace wished to see the fields tilled, but he no longer has either horse or ox to pull the plow. Royce sold them a year ago, as if Wallace had not enough to bear.”

  “How so?”

  “Kendrick and Anna resolved between them to see Anna’s mother freed when she was arrested by the baron.”

  “Just over two years ago?”

  “Aye. I do not know what they planned or how much havoc they managed to wreak, but they were captured instead.” Esme frowned. “Kendrick was executed, his head hung upon the gates of Haynesdale as an example to us all of the price of treachery.” She shook her head. “He was but a boy to me yet, though he had seen twenty summers.”

  Bartholomew set aside the remainder of his porridge.

  “It was a month before Anna returned to us, bruised and filthy. She escaped that foul keep, naked, in the midst of the night. Perhaps they left her untended for they believed her near death. Perhaps another would have died or fallen broken in the road, but she is not one to surrender.”

  “Nay, not Anna,” Bartholomew murmured.

  “She crawled to the village, without being detected, and truly the elements were with her, for it was a foul and stormy night. She knocked and then collapsed outside my door. Oswald gathered her up, then declared that he could tolerate the cruelty no longer. We were all so fond of her, you know, and to see her in such a state was more than we could bear.”

  “I can well imagine.”

  “We fled that night, all of us, in the midst of that tempest, and made to take refuge in the forest. We were outlaws then, for we defied the will of the baron.” She swallowed. “Oswald thought Sir Royce would see reason when the mill wheel ceased to turn and there was no flour for his bread. He thought we might be able to negotiate, for the baron needs his villeins as much as the peasants need their baron.”

  Bartholomew guessed that had not been the case. He waited, watching the play of emotion on the older woman’s features.

  “The others came soon after us, a tide of villagers fleeing the baron’s wrath. The number of us in the forest was swelled beyond all expectation. We knew there had been those taking refuge in the forest already, but we did not find them before the baron’s men were upon us. The knights encircled us, trapping us in a small space. They rode their steeds around us until the storm stopped and the stars came out overhead. We were wet and cold, fearful, even before they set the trees afire. I thought they would not burn after the fire, but the knights persisted until they did. Oswald saw that we would be killed. He made us flee before the circle was fully closed. I feared I would slow them too much. They would not leave me behind, my good sons.” She halted then, her words turning husky. “Oswald on one side and Edgar on the other, then Willa stumbled and Oswald lifted me in his arms.”

  Bartholomew reached out and took her shaking hand. She clutched at his fingers and he felt her shaking. “You do not need to tell me of it.”

  “I do,” Esme insisted. “I do. For Oswald lives only when his valor is remembered.” She took a shaking breath. “He carried me, even as Rheda carried Anna and urged Nyle to speed. Edgar aided Willa, but they fell behind with their two young ones. Willa was with child and very near her time.”

  “Yet Rheda managed to carry Anna herself?”

  “Anna was so thin, she might have been a child. We fled into the darkness, away from the fire, having no good sense of direction. A horse and rider appeared before us. I can see them yet. We turned and fled into the undergrowth, but were not fast enough. I was looking over my son’s shoulder. I saw the warrior lift the crossbow. I saw him take aim and I closed my eyes to pray. But Oswald was struck. He stumbled once, then fell over me. Rheda was felled a moment later, Anna crushed beneath her. Nyle cried out and ran, though I reached for him. I know he did not get far for I heard his shout of pain.” She shook her head and her tears fell. “I could not move. I did not want to move. Those I loved had been stolen from me, and there was only fire and death on all sides. Indeed, I wished only to die myself.”

  Bartholomew watched and listened, wishing he could change what had occurred.

  “It is an evil thing for a mother to see her child die before she breathes her last,” Esme said. “And her grandchild as well. That was a dark night, darker than any I have ever known, for I had no wish to survive. And so it was that Oswald protected me even in his death. I was overlooked by the marauding knights, for we were just another pair of corpses in the mire. A great burning ring of fire lit the sky that night, one that I shall never forget—for its heat, for its brilliance, for the sounds of those dying within its blaze.”

  “The new burn,” Bartholomew murmured.

  “It was uncommonly cold when I awakened, the sunlight so bright that it hurt my old eyes. The trees were blackened all around me, and smoke rose from the ashes. I thought I dreamed when I heard movement near me, for it seemed that all the world was dead and gone. It was Anna, her fingers grappling against the ground. I found my strength then, and moved from beneath Oswald. I cried out and Edgar found us, for he had been seeking us. He rolled Rheda away and found Anna alive. We stumbled away from there together, and soon those who lived as outlaws in the forest found us. They took us to their haven, clothed and fed us, and it was not long before Anna rounded with child. She named her Kendra.”

  “After the father.”

  Esme nodded. “Anna was not the sole one to see hope in that babe’s birth, but I knew from the first that Kendra would not thrive. She was small and sickly, too thin and too pale.” Esme bit her lip. “I was not surprised that the sweet babe did not survive her first winter, but I wept all the same.”

  Bartholomew held Esme’s hand while she mastered her tears, hoping that his presence gave her strength. “I thank you for trusting me with the tale of Oswald,” he said quietly, aware that others began to stir. “I would have liked to have known such a brave and good man.” It was not a lie, for he had only a vague recollection of the miller’s son. They had not known each other in truth, though they had met, that long ago morning on the floor of the mill.

  “I thank you for your kindness, sir,” Esme said, her words yet uneven.

  Bartholomew was resolved then that although he could not change the past, he would affect the future of these people. How could the king be persuaded to take his cause? He did not know, but his first task was to free Duncan.

  “And now you would leave us,” she said, a hint of accusation in her tone.

  “And now I would do what must be done,” Bartholomew corrected.

  “It will be dangerous.”

  “No man of merit shirks a dangerous obligation.” Bartholomew took the purse from his belt and put it into the older woman’s hands. “Please give this to Anna for me.”

  “Because you leave,” Esme accused.

  “She will want to spurn the gift, but I trust you to convince her otherwise.” He heard his voice drop deeper. “There might be a child.”

  Esme caught her breath. “Coin will not be what she needs.”

  “But it is what I can give.” Bartholomew lifted the older woman’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “Be well, Esme. I hope our paths do cross again.”

  “As do I, sir. As do I.”

  Bartholomew stood and turned to stride away, but Esme cleared her throat so loudly that he glanced back.

  “Ask Father Ignatius for his keys,” she advised. “I have no doubt that he will entrust them to you, and your quest may be simpler.”

  Bartholomew smiled, for he had forgotten the priest’s ring of keys. He had the key to the dungeon and had thought it sufficient. There had been others on that ring, though. “Indeed, it will, Esme. I thank you.”

  * * *

  Anna awakened and stretched with leisure. She felt wondrous, both satisfied and desirous of more, both at ease and filled with anticipation.

  Because of Bartholomew.

  She smiled and reached for
him, only to find herself alone.

  Anna sat up with haste, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She wore only her chemise though the fur-lined fullness of Bartholomew’s cloak was wrapped around her. It was light at the mouth of the cavern and she could see fresh snow falling. She heard Percy playing with the dog and pulled the cloak over her shoulders. It was when she gave the cloth a tug that she discerned the weight upon it.

  Her crossbow.

  The pale wood shone on the dark wool cloth and she stared at it for a moment, wondering that Bartholomew had left it by her side. The quiver of bolts was beside the candle and tinderbox.

  Where was his armor?

  Why could she not hear his voice?

  Filled with dread, Anna swept to her feet. She was not reassured to discover that every piece of Bartholomew’s garb was gone, save the cloak, as well as every weapon, save the crossbow. She hastened to the opening of the cave in time to see Percy cast a stick for Cenric, who raced after it, tail wagging.

  There was no knight watching them.

  There were no other footprints in the snow.

  Bartholomew was gone and had been gone for some time.

  Worse, he had no intention of returning. The crossbow made that most clear—he had vowed to give it to her when he left Haynesdale for good.

  But he was the rightful heir! He could not abandon them now.

  “Anna!” Percy cried and raced toward her, his eyes glowing. The dog ran right behind him, still carrying the stick. “Bartholomew bade me stand guard while you slept.”

  Cenric came to lean on Anna, his tail wagging in welcome.

  “He is gone then?”

  “Aye, at the dawn.”

  “Do you know where?”

  Her brother gave her a disparaging glance. “To save his friend, of course. That is what good knights do.”

  He had gone to Haynesdale keep. And once he had freed Duncan—if he succeeded in doing so—he would leave.

  Anna’s lips set and she turned back to the cavern to dress in haste. Bartholomew would not follow his scheme without hearing her thoughts on the matter first. The rightful heir could not simply ride away. It was his obligation to help the villagers of Haynesdale.

  If Bartholomew had forgotten as much, Anna would be more than glad to remind him.

  * * *

  Haynesdale keep was even more quiet than Bartholomew had expected.

  There was only one guard at the gate and that man seemed to doze at his post. Two men walked the summit of the wall, but their manner was desultory. The snow was beginning to fall more thickly and he wondered whether they were cold. He would have been, if his heart had not been beating with such vigor.

  How many more were there? He knew four had ridden out in pursuit of their party the day before. Had those men returned? Had the Captain of the Guard ridden out, or did he remain at the keep? Bartholomew did not have a full tally of how many warriors labored beneath Royce’s hand. He could not hear horses at all and the village could have been a graveyard.

  There would be Lady Marie and her maids, of course, but surely she lingered abed on a winter morn like this one. He had to assume that some servants were in the kitchens, so he would avoid that area as well as the great hall itself.

  He eyed the keys Father Ignatius had given him. The smallest one was for the chapel in the village, though the priest had confessed it was not locked. There were no valuables there any longer and Father Ignatius did not wish to deny those remaining villagers the solace of prayer in a sacred space.

  The next, which was nigh the same size but more ornate, was for the treasury in the keep’s chapel, where the reliquary had been secured.

  The next largest was for the chapel within the keep.

  The fourth opened a portal in the curtain wall near the chapel.

  The final key in his possession was the large plain key to the dungeon that Father Ignatius had given him earlier. Bartholomew considered the fourth key and recalled the layout of the keep.

  The chapel was on the far side of the bailey. Bartholomew had not noticed the door in the wall near it, but he had not been seeking it. It might be the easiest way into the keep.

  He eased around the perimeter of the keep, remaining in the shadows of the forest. He moved only when the sentries were turned away, for he could not rely upon the bare trees to hide him completely. The snow fell more quickly, making the world seem silent.

  That only meant that sound carried farther. He could hear the footfalls of the sentries, for example.

  On the far side of the keep, Bartholomew hid behind a tree, waiting for the sentries to turn their course toward the front gate. If he made any sound on this flight to the wall, they would discern him and raise their bows. Once against the wall, he would be out of their view again. He peered around the tree and eyed the distance. It was a good hundred paces, all devoid of cover. Snow covered it all like a blanket of white, disguising any small obstacles. There was a depression before the sides of the motte rose to the curtain wall, and he wondered how deep the moat was on this side. He had to believe it was frozen.

  The guards paused to chat directly over the door. One gestured to the forest and Bartholomew slipped behind the tree again, fearing he had been discovered. He heard the other laugh, then the grind of heels on the walkway. They had parted ways and each were pacing a solitary circuit back toward the gates.

  Bartholomew took a deep breath and ran.

  He eyed the parapet as he reached the moat, then said a prayer as he took the first step. He slipped down quickly and feared that he would be plunged into icy water—then his boots slid on ice. He was up to his knees in snow, but at least the moat was frozen. He slid across it, unable to keep from disturbing the snow, scrambled on to the opposite bank, and slipped. He slammed one knee on the lip of stone that confined the moat and closed his eyes at the pain. There was no time to linger, though. He limped onward, wincing as he barreled up the steep slope and fairly tossing himself against the curtain wall.

  He was panting, and sweat ran down his back. He stood there for a long moment, but there was no cry of discovery.

  To Bartholomew’s dismay, his path from the forest was abundantly clear. The sentries would not fail to see it when they reached this point on the curtain wall again. That was sufficient to send him hastening on. He eased along the wall to the door, fitted the key into the lock and turned it, wondering what he would find on the other side. He kicked the snow away from the bottom of the door, drew his knife and opened the door cautiously.

  It gave into a corner beside the chapel, one tucked into the shadows beside the armory. In truth, Royce’s armory was no more than a lean-to, with the only closed wall being that of the curtain wall behind it. It was hung thickly with armor and weapons, and he guessed that a smith might set up a forge just outside it when necessary. The array of armament cast many shadows, though, and gave him places to hide. The stable had a wall on this side with a door, so the steeds could not reveal his presence. The bailey was beyond, empty and wide, a space he had to cross to reach the entry to the dungeon. He closed the door behind himself and eased into the armory to consider his course.

  A warrior stood at the portal on the far side of the armory and clearly was not vigilant about his duties. The man yawned as he tugged up his gloves. This one was sturdy in build, though it was unclear whether sloth or indulgence was at root. Bartholomew wondered how loyal the men employed by Royce were to their lord baron. He certainly did not discern many signs of enthusiasm or dedication. He considered the man’s helm, which disguised his face, and his tabard, marked with Royce’s insignia.

  The wyvern rampant of Haynesdale.

  Bartholomew picked up a length of rope as he moved stealthily through the shadows of the armory, and then a bolt for a crossbow. He crept up behind the other man, then flung the bolt into the armor at the left. The man spun at the sound, his blade at the ready, but Bartholomew jumped him from the other side. They scuffled but Bartholomew had surprise on his s
ide. He knocked the warrior hard on the head so that he lost consciousness, then stole his helm, his knife and his tabard. He left the warrior trussed in the armory, a length of his own tabard knotted over the man to silence him.

  He took the man’s cloak and fastened it over his shoulders, holding it closed to disguise that he was more trim than his victim. Garbed as a knight of the household, Bartholomew crossed the bailey openly. He ensured that his pace was steady, as if all was routine. One sentry hailed him by name—Hermann—and he waved a greeting in reply, for the sound of his voice might reveal him. He was glad to step into the shadow of the hall, but scarce took the time for a reassuring breath.

  Bartholomew went directly to the dungeon. He unlocked the portal and kicked the rope ladder into the space. “Hurry yourself, varmint,” he growled. “You are given one last chance to say your prayers, but any protest will see the baron’s mercy withdrawn.”

  “Mercy,” Duncan repeated, his disgust clear. “What does this man know of mercy, much less justice? I decline to be dragged to a priest to ease his fears!”

  Bartholomew strove to keep his frustration from his voice. “I command you, prisoner, to hasten yourself.” He peered into the shadows below, only to find Duncan glaring up at him, the other man’s expression most stubborn.

  “And I command all of you to hasten yourselves to Hell,” Duncan retorted.

  Bartholomew gritted his teeth. He glanced about himself, but there was no one else in view. “Duncan,” he muttered. “Hurry!”

  Duncan took a step back, then peered at him with suspicion. “Who are you to call me by name?”

  Bartholomew swore. He hauled off the helmet and savored Duncan’s surprise. “Hasten yourself, worm!” he muttered, glad to see that the other man finally heeded his command. Duncan climbed the ladder, and Bartholomew found it somewhat satisfying to push him into the wall and bind his hands behind his back.