The Crusader's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Anna strode past Bartholomew, another bolt loaded and trained on the bowman. She reached the man’s side and kicked his crossbow out of his reach, then rolled him to his back with a nudge of her foot. His hand slid limply to the earth beside him and his blood stained the snow. He stared at the sky, unseeing, and his chest did not rise again.

  Anna waited a long moment, watching for some sign of life. She then removed the bolt from her own crossbow and slung it over her back. She claimed the fallen man’s crossbow, removed its bolt, then returned to Bartholomew.

  She dropped to one knee before him and offered the weapon on the flats of her hands. “My lord,” she said and bowed her head.

  She paid homage to him.

  “You have killed one of the baron’s men,” Bartholomew said, when he had recovered his speech. “You have made yourself an outlaw in truth.”

  “I have saved the true baron’s life,” Anna corrected, that familiar fire in her eyes as she looked up at him. “And I have ensured that he is armed.”

  “And I wager that Sir Royce will know the truth of your identity soon enough,” said Duncan, his eyes gleaming as he watched. “You will be hunted to the ground, lad, sure enough.”

  * * *

  Bartholomew could not leave Haynesdale, not without seeing justice served first!

  Anna was aware of his resolve, though, and knew he would do as much if she did not intervene. She admired his respect for the law—indeed, that would make him a good baron and overlord—but she disagreed with his conviction that justice would prevail. Anna had learned to expect the opposite. Justice was won when those who could dispense it had little choice in the matter.

  Particularly when it came to righting a wrong. In her view, Bartholomew’s appeal to the king would be vastly improved if he had already claimed the barony from Royce.

  Even if that required Royce’s demise.

  How could she change Bartholomew’s thinking?

  He took the crossbow from her, and she noted how he admired its craftsmanship. It was a finely made weapon, and a baron—in her view—should be a warrior, as well. He had an archer’s hook on his belt, so she knew he could use the weapon and well. Anna gave him the fallen man’s quiver of bolts, as well.

  Though he accepted both, he made no acknowledgment of her obeisance, much less Duncan’s comment.

  “You are too weakened to go far this day,” he said to Duncan instead. “I would not have come to your sanctuary while the baron’s men pursued us, Anna, for I would not have put the villagers at risk. I would ask you for shelter, though.”

  It was not what Anna truly desired of him, but it was better than him leaving immediately.

  Perhaps she would have a chance to persuade him.

  “Of course.” Anna rose to her feet and gestured for them to follow.

  Duncan stood with a small groan, but kept a good pace when Bartholomew took his arm. “That bastard beat me truly,” he said through his teeth. “Though it was not a fair fight.”

  “His kind does not fight fair, Duncan,” Bartholomew agreed, and Anna was glad that he had some understanding of the nature of the men beneath Royce’s command.

  To her relief, both men moved quietly through the forest. It made no sense to blindfold them, since Bartholomew had come from the refuge earlier that day, and she thought it might be a good sign of trust not to suggest the blindfold for Duncan. She still guided them on a circuitous path to ensure they were not followed. The snow was falling with greater volume which meant it would quickly disguise their tracks.

  When they reached the edge of the haven, she heard a whistle, like that of an owl.

  Moments later, they were seated beneath a lean-to, where soup simmered on a low fire. If Duncan was surprised to find so many people hidden in the forest and living as outlaws, he hid his reaction well.

  “You are saved!” Percy cried and flung himself so hard at Duncan that the Scotsman near lost his balance. “He saved me!” he declared to the others and Duncan ruffled his hair.

  “It is likely too much to hope that you will give up thieving,” he said gruffly and Percy laughed.

  That Duncan was Bartholomew’s friend and had been brought by Anna would have been sufficient to see him welcomed, but Percy’s greeting ensured his welcome was even warmer. Edgar found him a seat by the fire, and Willa served him a brimming bowl of soup. There was yet a bit of bread left and it was given to Duncan without discussion. The soup was thin but warm, and Anna saw Duncan’s surprise when he tasted it.

  “Chicken?” he asked, looking about himself. The company laughed.

  “Esme brought her hens from the village two years ago,” Anna said. “She refused to leave the flock behind, so we have eggs instead of the keep.”

  Duncan bit back a smile and clearly savored the soup. It seemed to restore him greatly, though the bruise on his face looked sore. She wondered how many other bruises he sported, for Royce’s men could be cruel.

  Willa refilled the bowl with a smile. “I wish we had better, since you have been in Haynesdale’s dungeon.”

  “It is the finest meal I have eaten in a long while, lass. I thank you for it.”

  Percy demanded the tale of Duncan’s escape and Bartholomew told some of it, though Anna expected he was unduly modest. Duncan’s quick sidelong glances confirmed her suspicions. He gave her great credit for saving him from the archer and showed the bow to the others. Duncan asked if any man had a steel, and set to honing their daggers while the boys watched with interest.

  The snow fell thickly, blanketing the world in white and bringing a peaceful quiet to the forest. All the while, Anna puzzled over the question of how to convince Bartholomew to stay, or to overthrow Royce before he departed to the king’s court. He could be gone months once he left, for the king was likely in Anjou, and crossing to France in winter could be precarious. He might not return at all. The very notion chilled her, like a hand of ice closing around her heart.

  Her dismay was not entirely for fear of the future of Haynesdale.

  Nay, she would miss him.

  And she would miss the conviction that the true son would return, no less the hope that such a belief gave her. She surveyed the tired group of villagers and feared that many of them would lose hope, as well. She could not bear to see them suffer more than they had.

  Which meant that she had to make use of the time that Duncan rested to try to persuade Bartholomew of her chosen course.

  In addition, she should seduce him as oft as possible before he departed, the better that she might conceive his heir. There could still be a true son. Though Anna put little stock in her sensual allure, her night with Bartholomew had been wondrous. Perhaps he found her enticing despite her inexperience. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Perhaps she should put the gathering of the villagers to use in pursuing her first goal.

  “I have a tale to entertain you on this cold day,” she said, raising her voice to the company. They nodded and gathered closer, more than amenable to her suggestion. “It is a tale of which many of you know parts, but I know the whole of it. On this day, perhaps we will learn the ending.”

  “Anna,” Bartholomew warned in a growl, obviously anticipating which tale she would tell, but she ignored him.

  “Once upon a time,” Anna began. “There was a baron who held the seal of Haynesdale. He came from a long line of noblemen who had been lords of the same holding, son after father, father after son. Their lineage was Saxon, though they had taken Danish brides when Knut held thrall in England. When the conqueror came and all old rights were swept aside, the baron of that time saw the course of change. He surrendered his seal to the new king, in exchange for the welfare of his people.”

  “A wise choice,” murmured Duncan. “It is a rare man who can see his way through war with his holdings intact.”

  The company nodded agreement with this before Anna continued.

  “William admired the baron’s bravery and his repute. Though the holding was claimed by
the crown, the crown granted it anew to the baron in exchange for his faithful service in future. The baron not only served William but took a Norman bride, at the king’s suggestion.”

  “A tradition at Haynesdale, evidently,” Bartholomew said but again, Anna ignored him.

  If he meant to warn her that he could not ask for her hand, he wasted his breath. She knew he was born higher than she, and she understood how such matches were arranged. She was not some witless village girl. She lifted her chin, granted him a look, and continued.

  “And so it always has been with the Barons of Haynesdale: they honored the past but defended the future. They upheld the law but were unafraid to fight in defense of what they called their own. They blended the old ways with the new, just as they blended their bloodlines, to ensure the safety and prosperity of those beneath their hand. Perhaps because of their reputation for honor and justice, perhaps because their holding was not so rich as that, and perhaps because Haynesdale was a little too far from the king’s court, they were trusted by the crown.”

  “Perhaps it was that they never defied a king’s will outright,” contributed Father Ignatius. “Or rose in rebellion against the crown.”

  Anna smiled. “Or perhaps it was because they paid their tithes on time, and sent gifts to the king with regularity. The Barons of Haynesdale were able to pass their holding and title down through their own blood sons.”

  “That is as it should be,” protested one of the company.

  “With the payment of coin for the escheat, to be sure,” Duncan muttered.

  “When William the Conqueror claimed this land, he took suzerainty of it all himself,” Bartholomew contributed. “He granted titles to his favored barons, but on the death of the baron, the title and holding reverted by law to the crown. So it has been these hundred years in England. When a baron dies, the assignment of his holding remains the king’s own right.”

  “Some were more vigorous about this than others,” Duncan provided. “The current king, Henry, is less concerned with England than with Normandy, and prefers not to trouble himself with the assignment of holdings he deems petty.”

  “Then they can pass from father to son,” said Percy.

  Bartholomew smiled. “With the payment of coin to the crown, the escheat can be passed, it is true. Without one, who can say?”

  Father Ignatius shook his head. “It is no better than a bribe.”

  “And so it is not, but that is how suzerainty passes in England,” Bartholomew agreed.

  Anna cleared her throat, disliking this evidence of his resolve. “And so it was that there was a Baron of Haynesdale who was much loved by his people, and not that long ago. He was wedded as soon as he came to hold the seal, as is right and good. His wife was chosen for him by the king himself, and it is said that he was much smitten with her charms. They wed and returned to Haynesdale, where she quickly rounded with child. It was said that the Baron Nicholas was blessed beyond all—until his wife died in the bearing of their child, and the babe was lost as well.”

  Many in the company shook their heads, for they had seen women lost in childbirth. Esme listened avidly, and Anna knew she recognized the tale.

  “There is a stone in the chapel by the old keep where she was laid to rest. Perhaps it has survived the burn. My mother said a thousand masses were said for the lady, and a thousand candles burned for a year in her memory. She said Baron Nicholas was broken by his loss and that he could oft been found, praying at his wife’s tomb. The loss changed him, my mother said, for he refused to consider any suggestion that he might wed again. His heart was buried with his bride. That was his conviction.”

  Esme nodded sadly in recollection.

  “Baron Nicholas ruled for many years without a wife, and the prosperity of Haynesdale grew beneath his care. Our markets abounded with goodness. Our granaries were filled every winter. Our sheep were fat, and our cows gave plentiful milk. The years passed and the baron grew aged. And though this is the nature of all things, there were those who began to be concerned with the future. What would happen to Haynesdale when the beloved baron died? He had no son or heir, not even a brother. Who would ensure the protection of all those who lived beneath his hand?”

  A murmur passed through the company as all considered the merit of this question. More than one noted that Royce had no son and grew older, as well.

  “There was a meeting in the village, for a conviction was dawning that the baron’s advisors were leading him astray. Did one of them wish to take the seal himself? It could not be borne. My father was the smith of Haynesdale village, a quiet man who considered long before making his choices. He was much respected, and so it was that he was chosen to take the concerns of the village to the baron’s next court. You can be sure that many came to listen.”

  “I was there!” called an older alemaker from the group, and Esme nodded agreement. More than one in the company appeared to realize then that this was not a tale of wonder, but one of Haynesdale’s recent history. They leaned closer to listen.

  “My father was no orator. He could not beguile another with fine words and clever phrases, but he spoke always from his heart. He appealed to the baron as a villein who loved his lord dearly and did not wish to see all lost upon that man’s inevitable demise. Baron Nicholas listened to him, his fingers toying with his own beard as he sat on his great chair in silence. There were those who feared there might be retribution for my father’s audacity, and perhaps my father shared that concern. But when he had said all he had come to the court to say, and I doubt it was lengthy, Baron Nicholas thanked him, then left the court.”

  The company was silent, their interest clear.

  “There was no word from the baron for a week, though once again, he was seen in the chapel, praying at his wife’s tomb. The candles were lit once more and burned through the night, and masses were sung in her honor again. And at the end of the week, the baron strode into his bailey and called for his horse. He rode out that very day with a retinue of courtiers, journeying south to the king’s court with a speed that would have done a younger man proud. It was said later that he strode directly to the king in his chambers, then dropped to one knee and asked his sovereign to suggest a bride for him to wed.”

  There were nods of approval at the baron’s decisive choice.

  “The year was 1163, and King Henry II had just returned to England. He was intent upon putting his kingdom in order, and he liked that Baron Nicholas had remained loyal to him when Stephen and Matilda had challenged his claim. He also was impressed by the purpose shown by this older knight in his determination to do what was right. He vowed to ponder the question, then invited the baron to the board. A lady in the queen’s service ensured that she sat near Baron Nicholas, for she was intrigued by him. Gabriella was a beauty and a widow. Her nature was as different from the baron’s beloved wife as could be. She was said to be stubborn and outspoken. Her first husband had jested that she was better suited to lead an army than to ply her needle at embroidery.”

  There was a chuckle in the company at this, and Anna saw Bartholomew glance her way. “Many a man would prefer such a woman as his partner,” he said quietly and Anna blushed. The company nudged each other at that and her face burned as she continued.

  “Gabriella and the baron discovered that evening that they were both equally forthright. Baron Nicholas said he would never love another as he had loved his wife. Gabriella assured him that she would never love a man as she had loved her lord husband, and here, too, they found common ground. They were both practical, as well, and spoke of finances and expectations, their notions of justice, their taste for luxury, and a hundred other matters that first night. By the time the court retired for the night, each was convinced of the merit of the other.”

  Anna continued. “It was said that Baron Nicholas prayed that night for his wife’s blessing for him to wed this lady, in order to ensure the security of his holding. He was granted a sign, in the sudden leap of the flames on the ca
ndles in the chapel and took this as her agreement. The king had witnessed the felicity between the pair at his board the night before and pronounced that Baron Nicholas should wed the lady Gabriella. They exchanged their vows before the court the next day and returned the Haynesdale.”

  “I wager she was welcomed,” said one of the men in the company.

  “Aye, she was. The lady won the hearts of the villagers quickly, for she was kind yet firm. She gave alms and she granted good counsel and had an unerring sense of what was right. Those in service in her hall were treated well, and she suggested new possibilities to the baron. Their match appeared to be amiable, and indeed, she rounded with child within the year. The baron was seen to be concerned, but the lady might have been fearless. One the anniversary of their nuptial vows, Lady Gabriella delivered onto him a healthy son. The babe came quickly, as if she wanted to see her husband’s fears set to rest as quickly as possible, and there was much merriment in Haynesdale.” There was applause at this and Anna turned to the priest. “Father Ignatius, did you baptize the boy?”

  “Indeed I did. He was named Luc, which was the name of Baron Nicholas’ father, and Bartholomew, in memory of Lady Gabriella’s first husband. In the tradition of Haynesdale, his names blended two strains, just as the alliance of the marriage had done. He was a most robust child. Handsome and well wrought.”

  Anna saw Bartholomew start at the mention of the boy’s name.

  “He had a valiant heart,” Esme contributed. “It could be seen even when he was a boy, and he possessed a generous nature. He played with my Oswald when the lady Gabriella came to visit me.”

  “There was the day,” sighed a woman. “We did not appreciate our good fortune in our baron and his wife until they were gone.”

  Anna saw how Bartholomew observed the company. “It seemed all went well at Haynesdale but in truth, there was trouble brewing,” she said. “The baron battled a neighbor on his northern borders, one whose holding was not so prosperous and who had an avarice for what was not his own. His name was Royce, and it is said that once he saw the lady Gabriella, his attacks grew in ferocity. The two barons treated and it was believed that all might be at peace, for a few years at least. The boy was four summers of age when Royce’s men came in stealth. It was Christmas and Baron Nicholas had invited those on his holding to feast in his hall. The ale was tainted, by command of Royce, and all slept too soundly that night. The villains crept into the keep at Haynesdale, slaughtering any who awakened to challenge them, and murdered Baron Nicholas in his own bed. His wife would have been taken captive, for Royce desired her for his own, but she fled the hall, disguised as a servant.”