The Crusader's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Esme crossed herself. “God in Heaven, but I remember that night,” she said softly.

  Anna swallowed. “In truth, my mother gave the lady her own garb and aided in her escape. She came to our home, which must have been humble to her, but my mother said she was gracious and grateful. When the keep was set ablaze by the attackers, my father kept the lady from trying to aid those who were surely lost. They said the keep of Haynesdale became the old baron’s funeral pyre.”

  More than one crossed themselves. “The old burn is still haunted,” muttered someone. “You can hear their cries of pain when the wind rises.”

  “At Christmas,” added another grimly.

  “Fiend,” said a third and spat at the ground.

  “By morning, the fire was spent, the keep reduced to ash and the air filled with lingering smoke,” Anna continued. “Villagers had been gathered up by the attackers and imprisoned. My parents had retreated to the forest with the lady and her son and watched in horror as Royce’s men strode through the remains of the village, setting fire to homes and routing those who were hidden away. It was declared repeatedly that Royce would show mercy if the lady Gabriella surrendered herself to him.”

  There was silence at this, and more than one woman eyed Anna with compassion, for her own ordeal was not as secret as she might have preferred. Again, she saw Bartholomew take note of the reaction and felt his gaze upon her.

  Her cheeks were hot, but she continued. “My mother said the lady Gabriella seemed to be filled with new resolve by this sight. There were three men loyal to her husband beyond doubt. My father found them, at her request, and they stood witness as she declared the plan. She knew there could be no triumph for her son on this day, not when he was such a young boy. She charged the knights to take her son to the queen, whose court was in Aquitaine, and surrender him to her safekeeping. She wished for him to come of age in that court, to train as a knight, then return to avenge his father.”

  She took a deep breath. “To ensure that he would be known as the rightful heir, Lady Gabriella had my father heat the signet ring of the Baron of Haynesdale and press its mark into the flesh of the boy, right over his heart. He was branded with the evidence of who he was, that none could doubt him on his return.”

  More than one villager grimaced in sympathy and Bartholomew looked at the ground.

  Anna paused. “My mother said he was born valiant, for though the flesh was seared and the pain must have been considerable, the son of Baron Nicholas did not make a sound.”

  There was a murmur of approval at this.

  “The lady then kissed her son’s brow and bade him be good, and she did not watch as the knights disappeared into the woods with the boy. My mother said she wept silent tears. Then she strode back into the village, challenging Royce to show the mercy he had promised. She said she would come to his bed if he released the villagers. He did, and they watched in awe as she mounted behind him on his steed and went to his holding to become his new wife.”

  “Poor lamb,” Esme said.

  “There were those who thought the lady had been disloyal to her husband’s memory, and still others who believed she had seen only to her own advantage. My mother said she had seen the love blossom unexpectedly between the baron and his wife, and she advised all to wait and see. And so the tidings of the truth came within days. The lady Gabriella had hidden a knife and attacked the new baron when he came to her bed. She had stabbed him in the eye before he realized her intent, then when his men were summoned to his aid, she plunged the dagger into her own heart. She killed herself before them all, rather than pledge herself to him, and avenged her lord husband. Royce bears the mark of her rejection still.”

  Anna heard the outrage in her own voice. “Royce paid the escheat on Haynesdale with Baron Nicholas’ treasury, and there was none who dared to raise a protest against him. None who would be heeded, at least. He sought the signet ring with fervor but never found it. He learned bits and pieces of the truth, sufficient that he sent knights in pursuit of the missing boy, but we heard naught of what transpired. In the meantime, he built a new keep for Haynesdale, funded by the taxes he imposed upon us.”

  “It grew larger with the dowry of his second wife,” noted Edgar.

  “Aye, it did. My father was one of the first to become an outcast, but he was not the last, and now the forests of Haynesdale are home to more of us than the village.”

  Anna turned to Bartholomew. “And since that day of Haynesdale’s loss, we have waited. We have told the story of Baron Nicholas and Lady Gabriella to our children and our brothers. We have endured the tyranny of Sir Royce and we have prayed for the return of Luc Bartholomew, the son of Baron Nicholas, and the rightful Baron of Haynesdale.”

  Anna reached into her chemise and tugged out the ring that hung there on a lace. “What no soul knew was that the lady Gabriella surrendered her husband’s signet ring to the care of my father, that it might be hidden until her son’s return. I am the daughter of the smith and this is the signet ring of Baron Nicholas.” She held it up so that it caught the light. “My father held it in trust until he was taken to Royce’s dungeon to confess what he knew. My mother kept it hidden until she, too, was taken to the dungeon to surrender what she knew. I know that neither of them admitted the truth, for I yet have the ring.”

  The entire company was silent.

  “And on this day, against all expectation, I have found the mark made by my father, burned into the flesh above the heart of her son at the command of Lady Gabriella. I have seen the scar that fits this ring.” She turned to Bartholomew and offered him the ring, dropping to one knee as she did so. “The mark of your legacy is returned, sir, as your mother decreed it should be.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Anna endeavored to make it impossible for Bartholomew to leave.

  And indeed, her strategy was a good one. He felt the hope surge through the bedraggled company of villagers, so weakened by their history in this place, and he was not immune to the power of their desire. They looked at him with relief in their eyes, and he knew they had endured much. He knew they deserved to return to their village and live in peace.

  Truly, their welfare was his responsibility.

  He could not blame her for trying to force his hand. She felt strongly about the future of these people and believed that he erred. She had had no opportunity to learn a respect for justice, not beneath Royce’s hand, but Bartholomew could not undermine the law before he even claimed his holding.

  He felt the urge of the entire company to ride forth and claim Haynesdale, to slice down Royce and restore his father’s line to the barony. But it was not that simple. And he feared that these people would face much more hardship if he acted with such folly.

  It was his task to act with prudence and protect these people, to uphold the legacy of his forebears.

  To convince the villagers of Haynesdale of the merit of justice once more.

  Bartholomew had been composing his argument when Anna had reached into her chemise. When she withdrew the lace that had so intrigued him, her hand had been closed over the prize that had been trapped between her breasts. She tugged the lace over her head, holding his gaze. When she opened her hand, he was astonished to see what rested on her palm.

  It was his father’s signet ring.

  “Praise be that the true son is returned,” she said softly.

  Duncan whistled quietly through his teeth.

  “So, this was how you knew,” Bartholomew murmured.

  “It matches perfectly,” she said with conviction and those attending her words exchanged glances. “The seed of Baron Nicholas is returned.”

  The company cheered.

  Bartholomew knew what Anna desired of him. He wanted to claim the ring more than anything else in the world, but he knew he could not do it. It looked so small, but the responsibility it carried was a heavier burden than its actual weight.

  He stood and took a step back. “Only the king can make a baron of
the realm, Anna,” he said with quiet heat.

  The villagers stared at him in shocked silence.

  “But will you not reclaim your legacy?” demanded a tall man, perhaps the cooper.

  “You do not realize what you ask,” Bartholomew said. “I would not imperil you more.”

  “We want to go home!” cried the tall man’s wife.

  “We want to live in the village and tend our gardens,” insisted Willa.

  “And plow the fields as they should be,” declared the alemaker. “Grow grain for bread and for ale.”

  “How long it has been since we have tasted your ale?” murmured his wife.

  Edgar dropped to one knee before Bartholomew. “Take us home, my lord. I would follow you to do whatever needed to be done.”

  “Aye!” came the chorus of assent.

  Bartholomew sighed. “And what would I be asking of any who followed me? To offer themselves for slaughter against trained and armed knights?” The villagers exchanged glances as he counted off Royce’s forces on his fingers. “There is Royce, there is Gaultier, there are four more knights and at least a half a dozen men-at-arms.”

  “Eight,” the red-haired man affirmed.

  “Eight then, plus the others means thirteen armed and trained warriors, prepared to kill in their liege lord’s defense.” A ripple of unease passed through the company. “We have few swords, few daggers, no armament and solely two men who have tasted the kind of battle we would face.”

  “One at less than his full capacity,” Duncan added.

  “But…” Anna protested, but Bartholomew held up a finger.

  “Add to those fourteen the squires, most of whom are training for battle as part of their service. I saw at least a dozen of them, and they are armed, as well.”

  “We are outnumbered,” murmured the red-haired woman to the man beside her. He nodded grim agreement and Bartholomew saw hope die in many a face.

  “Add to that the fortification of the keep itself. It is tall and well-wrought, designed to keep attackers at bay. We have no siege engines or horses. We cannot besiege a fortified keep with loose stones and bare hands, not if we mean to triumph.”

  “We have our fury,” Anna said. “That is not to be overlooked.”

  A few villagers agreed, but Bartholomew heard his own tone grow impatient. “There is passion and there is folly. I have seen enough to know the difference, and I have seen enough of futile death to suffice for all my days and nights.” He shook his head. “Nay, I would be no better than what you have known if I were to lead you all in such an assault. It would be irresponsible and wrong.”

  Father Ignatius nodded quietly, his expression approving. “He is his father’s son indeed,” he murmured but Bartholomew did not reply.

  Anna challenged him anew. “You could have attacked from inside, while we were all there. He would not have suspected such a feat.”

  “Sir Royce was my host,” Bartholomew countered. “I could not betray his hospitality with treachery.”

  Anna gasped. “But you endeavored to steal from him!”

  “I tried to retrieve what had been entrusted to our party,” Bartholomew corrected. “And I ensured your brother’s freedom. To take more than our due when we were guests would have been wrong.”

  “Surely Haynesdale is your due!” cried Edgar.

  “It might well be, if I can claim it and if I can pay the escheat. We like to believe that holdings should pass from father to son, but since the Angevin kings claimed England, that is no longer the law. I will not kill Royce to make this claim.” He bit off his next words. “I will not ignore the law for my own convenience.”

  They stared at him in silence.

  Bartholomew turned to Duncan, well aware that he had disappointed the villagers, but he saw no reason to lie. “Give me your boots, Duncan, and I will clean them along with mine.”

  Chatter broke out amongst the villagers, whispers he could not hear clearly but doubtless filled with speculation. He imagined they blamed him or thought him a coward, but he knew the limits of what he could do. Bartholomew was aware that Father Ignatius followed him, but did not see the glance that the priest fired at Anna.

  He heard her footsteps behind them, though, and shook his head. How like Anna to refuse to accept any answer other than the one she desired. In a way, her passion was inspiring, but he would not be reckless with the lives of others.

  He could not simply seize what he desired, as Royce had done.

  Still, there had to be a solution. In this moment, Bartholomew was glad beyond belief that he had known Gaston and learned from that man’s experience.

  For it would take a diplomat and a man of integrity to see this victory won.

  * * *

  Father Ignatius found himself liking this knight more than he had liked any new acquaintance in a while. He followed Bartholomew to the stream, where the younger man squatted and scooped up a handful of snow. Father Ignatius watched him scrub his boots with fresh snow, then cast the mired snow into the stream before taking another handful. He was not afraid to work, this knight, or to perform tasks beneath his station when they needed to be done. And Father Ignatius respected the care Bartholomew showed for the villagers of Haynesdale.

  He had not made a jest when he had called the young knight his father’s son.

  Bartholomew did not acknowledge his presence, even when the priest took one of Duncan’s boots and began to clean it with the snow in the same way. The pair of them worked in silence together while Father Ignatius chose his words. Anna remained out of sight and behind them, doubtless both vexed and listening.

  “You startle them all,” he finally said, his tone mild.

  Bartholomew glanced up. “How so?”

  Father Ignatius smiled. “They have not known so many knights of merit in recent years, nor come to expect a man to act upon principle.”

  “I know of no other way to be.”

  “But you recognize why they have the expectation they do.”

  “Of course.” Bartholomew straightened. “But the fact remains that the king must create a baron by his own will. And in order for that to even be a possibility in the case of Haynesdale, Royce Montclair would have to be dead and the man who wished to be baron in his place would need coin to pay the escheat.” He shrugged. “Royce is not dead and I am not going to kill him.”

  “Because you do not have the coin for the escheat.”

  “Even if I did, it would be wrong to murder the man who held my desire, regardless of what he has done in the past. Surely I do not have to argue that with you.”

  Father Ignatius let the silence grow between them before he continued. “Do you remember the events of those days?”

  Bartholomew shook his head. “I remember fire. I remember my mother’s voice.” He cast a smile at the dog that had come to sit beside him. “I remember a dog much like this one but named Whitefoot.”

  Father Ignatius smiled. “I remember that dog. This one would be his great grandson, at least.”

  “Then he is related!”

  “Aye. Those of your father’s dogs that survived went to the miller’s abode.” The priest rubbed the dog’s ears. “But you must not have ever reached the king’s court in Anjou.”

  Bartholomew shook his head. “Nay. I suppose we were followed and the knights who had me in their care were betrayed and assaulted. I know only that I was awakened one night by one of them and bidden to run. He told me to go to the church where we had prayed that day and that he would meet me there. He never came.” The younger man frowned. “We were in Paris.”

  “You must have been frightened.”

  “I do not think I fully understood what had transpired. I was hungry, to be sure, and I knew that knights had defended me. My father had been a knight, after all, and my mother had entrusted me to the care of these knights. So, when I saw a knight come to that church to pray, I followed him. He wore the red cross of the Temple and I had never seen a surplice so fine.” Bartholomew
smiled. “He could not be rid of me, for I saw him as my sole chance of survival.”

  “There must have been other knights in Paris.”

  “I had eyes only for him. I followed him. I vowed to be of assistance to him. I swore to do whatever he desired so long as he took me with him.” Bartholomew shrugged. “Who knows how much Gaston saw of the truth? But after I made my case and struggled to prove myself by trying to help him, he surrendered. He lifted me to his saddle and took me with him, calling me his squire, though I was too small to be of much use.”

  “You grew.”

  Bartholomew smiled. “Aye, I grew. And he was destined for Outremer, I came of age in Jerusalem.”

  “You have been there all these years?”

  The knight nodded. “Most of them. We only left because Gaston became heir to his family holding and returned to France. He chose to dub me a knight once there, for he is both good and generous.”

  “A man of principle,” Father Ignatius said, guessing where Bartholomew had learned his code of honor.

  “Indeed.”

  “You could have come into the power of another less honorable.”

  Bartholomew nodded. “I could have, quite easily.”

  “It seems that God has held you in the palm of His hand.”

  “Perhaps so. Perhaps it was all Gaston’s doing.” They shared a smile. “I would not disgrace the honor Gaston has shown to me by doing any deed that would cause him displeasure. He used to negotiate for the Templars in Palestine, seeking compromise and balance.”