The Crusader's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Gaultier chuckled, then prodded him to leave the mill, the tip of his blade at Bartholomew’s back.

  “My maid!” Marie protested.

  “Someone will fetch her,” the Captain of the Guard said with indifference. “Hasten yourself back to the keep, my lady, if you mean to survive this day.”

  “I would take his counsel,” Bartholomew added and Gaultier struck him in the back of the head.

  “You may give your opinion when you are asked for it,” he snarled and Marie seized the opportunity to flee.

  * * *

  Anna flung herself down into the snow beside Duncan.

  The older man spared her a glance. “He follows your scheme, though I counseled against it. Did you come to see the outcome?”

  “I came to help.” She watched as Bartholomew stepped into the mill and heard Duncan begin to count beneath his breath. He lifted his bow and aimed it toward the old keep. Anna saw a man loitering there.

  She loaded her own crossbow.

  “I will not miss,” Duncan said tightly.

  “You cannot hit three,” Anna replied.

  “There is no one else in the clearing.”

  “Save the two goatherds, neither of whom is either Herve or Regan.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Herve is old and walks with a staff. I doubt he has suddenly had such a remarkable recovery from his rheumatism.”

  Duncan pursed his lips. “Not in this weather, to be sure.”

  “While his sister Regan is tiny, only as tall as my shoulder.”

  The Scotsman nodded. “And no one else tends the goats?”

  “No one else wrought like a man-at-arms.”

  “Who shall we take first?”

  “Leave the one in the ruined keep. He is of a size with Bartholomew and must be Gaultier.”

  “There would be repercussions from his demise, to be sure.”

  She nodded. “And no voice of reason to halt the others. Once he enters the mill, I will take the left one posing as a goatherd, and you the right. If others reveal themselves, we shall take them as we can.”

  “One maid is on the road with the horses, just in the cover of the forest.”

  “Aye, I could hear her. She must have been fearful for she talked to the steeds.”

  “The other is with Marie.”

  “I would not see either of them injured, nor even Marie,” Anna said, even as Gaultier stepped away from the ruined keep. He moved quickly toward the mill, drawing a knife from his belt. He flattened himself against the wall outside the portal, surveyed the clearing, then abruptly ducked inside.

  Marie screamed.

  Duncan and Anna fired their crossbows as one. The two goatherds fell silently, then there was a roar from the direction of the road. The goats bleated and ran for the distant fields.

  Three more warriors burst from the forest and raced for the mill. They looked smaller than the others, or perhaps younger, but it mattered little. They were armed.

  Anna leapt to her feet and loaded another bolt. “Left,” she muttered.

  “Right,” Duncan replied.

  Again, two bolts flew through the air. Duncan’s target moved suddenly and his bolt missed. Anna’s sank into the chest of the assailant she had targeted. The two surviving men pivoted and raced toward them.

  “After you,” Duncan said, and Anna took her shot.

  The one on the left fell with a cry after her bolt sank into his eye.

  The one on the right tumbled to the ground a moment later, Duncan’s bolt in his throat.

  They both loaded their bows again and stood silent, listening.

  They could hear swordplay coming from the mill, then it suddenly ceased. Marie screamed again, then there was silence.

  Had Bartholomew succeeded in their plan?

  Surely Marie would weep more loudly if her intended lover had been killed?

  Surely Bartholomew would shout in triumph is he had killed Gaultier?

  “Back,” Duncan advised and they retreated to the forest. They had barely reached the undergrowth when Marie ran out of the mill. She fled up the road, undoubtedly toward the point where her maid waited. She was weeping.

  But for whom?

  Anna might have gone to find out but Duncan laid a hand on her arm. To her relief, Bartholomew appeared next, his hands held high. He had been divested of his belt and weapons, and Gaultier urged him forward at the point of a sword. The Captain of the Guard immediately spied his fallen troops and gave a shout. Four more men galloped out of the forest to encircle their commander. They led a fifth steed, though it was merely a palfrey. Gaultier bound Bartholomew’s hands behind his back and mounted the horse with the empty saddle, then they cantered back toward the point where the road disappeared into the forest. Marie’s wails could be heard, then the sound of the party moved toward the new keep.

  “The shard of the true cross,” Anna whispered to Duncan. “They cannot have that blade.”

  He grimaced, for he evidently had guessed what she would do. “Run, lass, for they will be back for their dead.”

  “Whistle if you see them,” she said.

  “Twice,” Duncan agreed and gave her a sample. Anna nodded and raced toward the mill. She looked left and right before approaching the portal, then glanced back toward Duncan from the threshold. She could see no sign of him. She hastened into the shadowed interior, then halted in dismay at the sight of the fallen maid.

  She bent and touched the other woman’s throat, but she was dead.

  Anna crossed herself, then surveyed the interior. She could see the glimmer of a scabbard on the far side of the common room. She hastened toward it, well aware that she might not have long, and recognized Bartholomew’s belt and scabbard. His dagger was still in its scabbard but his sword was on the floor. She slid it into the scabbard, astonished by its weight, then heard a double whistle.

  She stood and heard the approach of hoof beats.

  The granary!

  Anna leapt up the stairs, wincing when a step creaked in protest. She flung herself into one of the large lidded storage bins and lowered the lid. She laid Bartholomew’s belt on the floor before herself and loaded her crossbow, pointing the tip of the bolt at the rim of the bin.

  If any soul were fool enough to open it, he would have a bolt in his eye as reward. From such close range, it might well pass right through his skull.

  She hoped it was Gaultier.

  Anna held her breath and waited.

  The hoof beats halted outside the door and she heard the scuffle of boots on the stone threshold. “Aye, she is dead enough, to be sure,” a man said, then raised his voice. “Fetch the wagon from the keep. I see three fallen near the road and there must be another two men.”

  “Aye, sir!” Hoof beats raced away.

  Anna listened. How many had come into the mill? What did they do while they waited? She heard boots on the floor, and thought there was more than one man nearby.

  “Three squires and two knights dead this day,” grumbled one man. “There will be a price to pay for that, mark my words.”

  “Do not forget the maid. She was a fetching one,” a man said with regret.

  “Aye, you always fancy the ones you cannot have,” said the other.

  One pair of footsteps drew closer.

  “Why would she come to this place? It is primitive and cold.”

  “But no one would hear her cry in pleasure.”

  “She will cry on this night, you may be certain. He will beat her black and blue.”

  “He might give her to us.”

  “Nay, not his legal wife.” The man’s voice brightened. “But maybe her other maid, as a lesson.”

  “If so, Gaultier will take her first, and what he leaves will not be worth the sharing.”

  Anna shuddered at the truth of that.

  “I suppose I will have to go with the taxes now,” said one man without real pleasure. The other man murmured something and though Anna strained her ears, she could
not discern his words. She lifted the lid of the granary with the top of her head, just slightly, so she could hear better.

  One man laughed. “Aye, you are right. Whether it is Winchester or London, there will be more whores there than here.”

  “What if we have to take it to Anjou?”

  “You should be so lucky as to have a French whore for one night in your life.”

  “Maybe I should seduce Lady Marie.”

  “This is a gamble not worth the taking.” Their voices grew louder and Anna ducked lower, easing the lid down.

  “What is this?” the man asked in closer proximity. “Someone climbed these stairs this day. Look at the dust!”

  “Small footsteps,” agreed the other man. “Not the knight.”

  “Maybe the lady thought to have him there.”

  “Maybe she sought a fine bed.”

  They laughed as one, even as Anna sat like a woman struck to stone. She scarce dared to breathe. She closed one hand around the cold pommel of Bartholomew’s sword, and prayed with all her heart that they not find her.

  “What is up there, anyway?”

  There was the creak of a boot on the stair, then the clatter of hoof beats. Anna heard the groan of a wagon’s wheels, then the sound of a body being cast into it.

  “Well?” shouted a man outside the mill. “Is there another in here?”

  “Aye, there is,” agreed one of the men in the mill and the pair of them departed. Anna closed her eyes in relief. When she heard the party ride away, she bent and kissed the pommel in gratitude.

  Though she did not leave her hiding place until she heard Duncan’s voice an eternity later. “Lass?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “We can be away now, if you move with haste.”

  Anna did not need a second invitation.

  * * *

  Marie was seething.

  How dare Royce interfere with her scheme and deny her any opportunity for escape from this foul hole?

  She retreated to her chamber as if retiring for the night, well aware that Royce expected her to weep for her lost lover. He came to her, of course, intent upon proving his ownership and sated himself with tedious speed.

  She pretended to sleep when he was done, and was glad to hear him leave. She smiled when he locked the portal to her chamber from the outside.

  There were moments when it was good fortune to be wedded to a stupid man. Marie waited until the stairs had finished their creaking, until the floor overhead groaned beneath Royce’s bed. She waited until the squires had finished their scampering, and the tower had grown quiet.

  Then she rose and retrieved the key she had stolen years before. It fit perfectly into the lock and the portal was opened with nary a sound. Emma followed her, keeping her distance at Marie’s gesture.

  They reached the great hall, which had fallen into shadows. Only one candle burned at the high table. Gaultier stood there alone, his tabard mired and his hair disheveled. He lifted the cup that she had not deigned to empty at midday and drained it. Marie drew back into the shadows, unable to believe her good fortune.

  Or her husband’s frugality.

  Gaultier loved his wine, but Royce seldom shared with his men.

  The Captain of the Guard cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, then drank the rest of the wine from the other abandoned cup on the board. He smiled when he lifted the small pitcher that had been poured for Royce and Marie, the one she had treated with the sleeping potion. He poured its contents into Royce’s cup and downed it, scarcely savoring it at all.

  He had consumed two doses of the sleeping draught, perhaps on an empty belly. Marie hovered in the shadows, watching and hoping.

  She did not have to wait long to learn that Finan’s concoction was potent.

  Saturday, January 23, 1188

  Feast Day of the virgin martyr Saint Emerentiana

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bartholomew ached in places he had not known he possessed. He would have sworn that his fingernails hurt, that his hair was bruised, that his very marrow had been smashed. Gaultier had been thorough in his beating, and Bartholomew had been tied down to ensure he could not defend himself.

  Had he lost a tooth? All he could taste was blood and his lips were so swollen that he could not tell.

  He understood now why Duncan had not been quick on his feet in their departure from Haynesdale. The dungeon was damp and dark, but his one eye was nigh swollen shut. Worst of all, Gaultier had discovered the mark on his chest. If he had not been condemned before, the mark sealed it.

  The seed of Nicholas must die.

  Bartholomew had been divested of his mail hauberk and aketon, then flung down into the dungeon. He lay on the dirt floor. He fought the desire to moan and could not help wishing that he did not awaken in the morning.

  All was lost.

  He had failed to fulfill Anna’s scheme. He had betrayed his parents’ memory. The people of Haynesdale would suffer for his arrival here, and it seemed there was naught of merit to result from his days.

  He had many hours to consider his folly in the night, but in the end, he feared the night would be too short. He was to be hung at dawn. This was Royce’s justice and his heart ached that the people of Haynesdale would have to endure it forever.

  The trap door overhead opened suddenly, loosing a beam of light into the dungeon that stabbed him in the eye. Bartholomew did moan then and rolled toward the darkness. It could not be morning yet, could it?

  He moved just in time, for another man was cast down into the dungeon. The body hit the dirt floor hard, but his new companion made no sound of protest.

  Was it a corpse?

  Bartholomew drew back in disgust, but the rope ladder was suddenly cast down from the opening. He could see a woman descending with purpose and in silence. She gestured to him with a stern finger for silence.

  It was Marie’s maid.

  “Hasten yourselves!” the lady herself hissed from the floor above. She held a lantern so its light shone down into the pit.

  Bartholomew sat up with interest. He saw that other man was Gaultier and no longer regretted his fate. That man rolled to his back and stirred, grumbling as he made to open his eyes.

  The maid punched him in the face, showing unexpected strength. Her lips were tight and her expression furious. Gaultier fell back with a low moan and she struck him again. Bartholomew heard a bone crack. She then came to Bartholomew and untied his hands. She tugged at the hem of his tabard.

  “Take all of it off,” she commanded in French. “You will leave this hole as Gaultier.”

  The ruse was enough to have Bartholomew on his feet, filled with new purpose. He stripped off his tabard and chemise. “But we do not resemble each other that much,” he argued quietly.

  “You will when we are done,” replied the maid. “It has been commanded at the lady’s request that the prisoner will be hooded for his execution so none will know until it is too late.” She took a steadying breath as she offered him Gaultier’s tabard. “And Agnes will be avenged.”

  Bartholomew was astonished. Gaultier would die instead of him? He did find the notion of Royce executing his own Captain of the Guard most fitting. He would not weep for this man who had so abused Anna and killed Agnes.

  In moments, he and Gaultier wore each other’s garb. They were of a size, fortunately, for the maid insisted that even their boots be exchanged.

  She then seized his chin, turning it toward the light. “His left eye must be pummeled so that it swells like yours. He needs a bruise on his jaw, just so. I would do it myself if I had the strength,” she added and Bartholomew did not doubt it. She lifted his hands. “Break these two fingers, as well.”

  “But he did not break mine, not quite.”

  “He tried and it will be remembered.” The maid was grim. “They document injuries in this place.”

  “He may protest,” Bartholomew noted. “Or cry out for aid.”

  She chuckled. “He will sleep at least two days, thanks to t
he potion. It was made for two men, but he drank nigh all of it.” Indeed, his tabard smelled of spilled wine. He must have fallen under the influence of the potion when there was still a measure in the cup. His revival in the dungeon must have been his body’s last protest against the brew.

  Bartholomew nodded, well content with this plan. Indeed, he found it most satisfying to ensure that Gaultier’s injuries matched his own.

  It was not long before he had climbed the rope ladder to the keep. Lady Marie met him there, her eyes glowing. “So you are the true son of Nicholas!” she breathed. “And rightful Baron of Haynesdale!”

  Bartholomew glanced left and right, not wanting to discuss the matter when another might overhear them.

  Marie kissed his cheek with undisguised satisfaction. “The future is ours, sir. I will ensure it.”

  Anna’s plan came to rights, but Bartholomew felt little joy in the achievement. A future bound to Marie was not one he yearned to have, but it seemed to be the sole way he might survive. He recalled Gaston’s diplomacy and said little, making no promises.

  This did not seem to trouble Marie.

  He was soon in Gaultier’s own bed, with that man’s cloak wrapped around him and his hood pulled over his face. He rolled to face the wall, far more comfortable than he had been in the dungeon. Marie kissed his cheek again, her anticipation clear, and he thanked her gruffly for her aid.

  The women swept away, the patter of their footfalls fading quickly. The night watch called the hour, and the sentry’s voice echoed through the hall.

  Otherwise, all was silent.

  Yet Bartholomew was wide awake. The tide was changing and he dared not sleep until all was won.

  * * *

  “We have to save him,” Anna insisted yet again. She was vexed beyond belief, fearful of Bartholomew’s condition and unhappy that there was evidently naught she could do to help him.

  “And how do you suggest the feat be accomplished?” Duncan asked one more time, his impatience clear. He reiterated his objections, and it helped little that Anna agreed with all of them. “There is no way into the keep save through the gate. The sewer can only be used for an escape. And no living soul will pass through that gate unseen.” He shook his head. “Even with two knights dead and three squires, the keep is yet well armed.”