The Crusader's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Those in the forest had gathered to confer as soon as Duncan and Anna had returned. They had remained awake all of the night, debating their course. The young boys had immediately gone to the old village to ensure that both Herve and Regan were uninjured, and had helped them to collect the herd of goats again before night had fallen.

  “Royce baits a trap for us,” Edgar says with surety and not for the first time. “He anticipates that we will try to save the true son and will kill us all for it.”

  “He will kill Bartholomew first,” added Stewart grimly. “Mark my words.”

  “Unless he kills him slowly,” added Edgar, which did little to improve the mood of the company.

  Anna swore softly and paced. The snow had melted away in her established path, but still she walked restlessly. “There must be a way. Royce will send the taxes to the king soon, by the word of the guards, and we can ensure that wagon never leaves the forest.” She turned to face the others, flinging out her hands. “That coin could pay the escheat!”

  “But Bartholomew will be dead by then, unless we contrive a way to save him,” Lucan said, his manner sober.

  “He might escape!” Percy suggested.

  The entire company shook their heads as one. “There is no way out of that dungeon alone, lad,” Duncan said, then ruffled the boy’s hair. “It is a well-designed prison, to be sure.”

  “But someone might have aided him,” the boy insisted.

  “Who in that place would aspire to see justice served?” Edgar demanded. “If there was a man who believed in any thing other than his own survival in that place, he would have defied Sir Royce already.”

  “And been slaughtered for it already,” agreed Stewart.

  Anna paced anew, then turned to confront them. “What if one of the guards left the hall? What if he could be captured, and one of us take his place? Then we could aid Bartholomew.”

  Duncan frowned. “He would not only have to leave the hall, but be out of sight of the sentries.” He shook his head. “They will not leave the keep.”

  “We could draw them out,” Anna insisted. “We could set fire to something Royce values.”

  “The mill?” Stewart suggested.

  Edgar winced. “He will not see the blaze until the building is nigh destroyed, for the old village is too far away. I say it is not worth the sacrifice.” He raised a finger. “One day, we may have a good baron and be restored to our village, and then we will need the mill.” His words fell into silence, for with Bartholomew captive, none had much hope of that good baron appearing.

  Anna sat down hard. “We cannot fail. Not now that the true son is returned.” The ring on the lace around her neck seemed heavier on this morning.

  Father Ignatius cleared his throat. “Where are my keys?”

  Duncan reached into his belt and offered them to the priest, his expression revealing that he had forgotten they were in his possession. Bartholomew must have granted them to him.

  The priest fingered them, then held up one of the smaller ones. “This unlocks the portal near the chapel.”

  The others straightened with interest. Perhaps they, like Anna, had forgotten about it.

  “But Bartholomew used it. They will watch that path,” Anna protested.

  The priest squared his shoulders. “I will wager that they will not kill a priest come alone to offer last rites to a condemned prisoner.”

  All gazes turned to him. Anna bit her lip. “They might only hesitate.”

  “It might be long enough.” Father Ignatius then removed two other keys and tucked them into the small purse that hung from his belt. The ring of keys he carried openly. He glanced down at the ring then blinked with feigned surprise. “The key to the chapel and its treasury appear to have been lost.”

  Anna bit back a smile. She had not realized the priest could be deceptive.

  Nor that he would take such a risk.

  “Yours is a doughty wager,” Duncan murmured. “I am not certain I would take it.”

  “But I will,” Father Ignatius said with conviction. He straightened, his eyes filled with fire. “I will.”

  * * *

  The guards tried to rouse Bartholomew, but he grunted in protest and remained rolled in Gaultier’s cloak. His face was well hidden, but evidently they were convinced by his garb that he was the other man. There were many jibes and jests, but finally they left him alone.

  “He will regret that he does not see this one swing,” said one warrior.

  “I wager that he regrets the wine yet more,” countered another. “Do you not smell it on him?” They laughed together and went to the dungeon to gather the prisoner.

  Bartholomew waited until he was alone, then marched to the armory, keeping his hood high. It was just past dawn, the sky growing light with the promise of another fine day. The man on duty at the armory bowed, but did not turn from his post. Bartholomew nodded then strode past him, as if fetching a weapon.

  He pivoted in the shadows to watch.

  The guard’s interest was captured by the sight of the prisoner being urged to the summit of the curtain wall. Gaultier was hooded and staggered, making incoherent protests as they pushed him onward. Evidently the potion still held him in thrall. The guards were rough with him and he was struck repeatedly as he was led to his demise. They mocked him as the son of the true baron and tripped him more than once.

  The sentry outside the armory chuckled.

  It was almost too easy to assault him from behind when all eyes were on Gaultier. Bartholomew had him trussed and silenced in a heartbeat, then stole his helm and left him hidden in the back of the armory. He took the other man’s place and watched with satisfaction as the rope was fitted around Gaultier’s neck.

  He had taken the man’s place not a moment too soon.

  Royce appeared in the portal to the hall, sipping from his chalice as he crossed the bailey. A trio of men were loading a wagon with trunks that appeared to be heavy despite their small size. Royce paused to offer advice to the knights wearing his colors, who evidently were going to escort the wagon.

  What was it?

  Where was it going?

  When all was evidently as he desired, Royce strolled to the middle of the bailey. He ensured that he had a fine view when Gaultier was dragged to the summit. That man cried out incoherently, but the baron simply waved a hand. It was a signal, for Gaultier was immediately shoved from the parapet. There was a thump as the Captain of the Guard’s body collided with the inside of the curtain wall, and he thrashed at the end of the rope for horrifying moments.

  Then he went limp.

  Bartholomew saw a trail of blood drip down the wall but could not regret the passing of that villain.

  “Display his corpse!” Royce cried. “Be sure the renegades in the forest know that their leader is dead!” He spat into the bailey. “And there is the last of Nicholas’ seed.”

  Royce returned to supervise the loading of the wagon. The body was hauled up again, then cast over the outside of the curtain wall beside the gate, still hanging from that rope. Bartholomew supposed the hanging had been on the inside of the bailey so Royce could witness it.

  He was pondering his path when he heard a slight sound behind him. He was alert when someone tried to seize him from behind.

  Bartholomew spun and had his blade at the assailant’s throat before he realized it was Father Ignatius. The priest had seized a knife in the armory, but he knew little of such fighting. Bartholomew flung the priest aside and out of harm’s way, then flipped up the visor of the helm. The priest had made to attack him again, but halted in sudden recognition.

  “I thought I had come too late!” he said with pleasure.

  Bartholomew had no chance to reply.

  “What is amiss there?” Royce cried, having heard the scuffle.

  “I must remain hidden,” Bartholomew murmured.

  “Of course,” the priest agreed.

  Bartholomew seized Father Ignatius and shoved him into the bai
ley. “The priest, my lord,” he said, trying to imitate Gaultier’s voice. He hoped the helm helped disguise the truth.

  “How diligent you are, Gaultier,” Royce said. “I had thought you would be on the parapet this morn.”

  “The armory was undefended, my lord,” he replied gruffly. He shoved Father Ignatius forward. “Doubtless he came to offer last rites.”

  “But is too late for such a ritual.” The baron strolled closer, still sipping from his chalice, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I thought you had abandoned us, Father.”

  “I have been ill, no more than that,” the priest said. “I would not have put the health of you or Lady Marie in peril.”

  Royce pursed his lips, his skepticism clear. “Then you know naught of the attempted theft of the reliquary from the chapel?”

  “I know that my keys are missing,” Father Ignatius said. He lifted the ring hanging now from his belt, and Bartholomew saw that it had only three keys. “I thought I had misplaced them but when I found them again, the keys to both chapel and chapel treasury were missing.”

  Royce considered this for such a long moment that Bartholomew feared he would not accept the explanation.

  What of the key to the portal in the wall?

  He held his breath, fearing Father Ignatius would be caught in his lie, but Royce only frowned.

  “Let him go, Gaultier,” he commanded, then addressed the priest. “My lady wife’s maid died yesterday and I am certain she would appreciate your solace. Perhaps you might say a prayer for Agnes.”

  “It would be my pleasure, sir. If you could unlock the chapel, we might celebrate a mass for her.”

  Royce nodded and indicated that Father Ignatius should precede him to the chapel. “Watch him,” he commanded Bartholomew. “I believe he lies, but it is unwise to be quick to kill a priest.”

  “True enough, my lord.”

  “But if he gives you any cause for further suspicion, do not hesitate to act.”

  Bartholomew bowed agreement. He eyed the men who milled around the cart, waiting while the squires harnessed the horses that would pull it forth.

  He had to go with the wagon.

  He had to take the place of one of those men.

  Royce cleared his throat. “Gaultier?” he said, then gestured to the interior. “I granted you a command! First, you sleep late, then you ignore an order!”

  Bartholomew mumbled an apology.

  There was naught for it. If he revealed himself in this moment, there were too many men who could defend Royce.

  “Of course, my lord.” Bartholomew bowed and headed for the chapel. He turned at the threshold to find Royce still watching him, then entered and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Father Ignatius began to pray loudly over the coffin at the altar. Bartholomew waited only a moment before he opened the door an increment.

  The gates were being opened and Royce stood peering out at the forest beyond. One of the knights by the wagon laughed with his fellows, then strode toward the sewer at the back of the stables, lifting the hem of his tabard as he walked.

  Here was his chance.

  * * *

  “Nay,” Anna whispered when she saw the corpse hanging from Haynesdale’s curtain wall. Her throat tightened and her tears rose, for she would have recognized Bartholomew’s tabard in any place. He could not be dead!

  They could not have arrived too late.

  Her heart struggled against the notion that Bartholomew breathed no more. Would she not have known instinctively that he was gone? It seemed impossible that he was no longer of this earth.

  Yet the corpse could be naught other than what it was. His tabard and boots were unmistakably his own. She might be a coward but she was glad of the hood, for she did not want to see his face after he had been hanged.

  “Aye,” Duncan murmured and dropped his brow to his gloved hand.

  They were hidden of the undergrowth of the forest opposite the gate of Haynesdale. The sun had barely risen from the horizon, yet Bartholomew had already been executed.

  Anna felt the despair of the other villagers behind her and heard Percy sniffle.

  The portcullis opened slowly, the rope creaking as the iron gate was drawn up. Anna nestled lower in the snow, wondering what transpired. Royce strode out of the gate and propped his hands upon his hips. He shouted in a booming voice. “Behold Luc Bartholomew, the only son of Baron Nicholas, hung until he was dead for possessing the audacity to assault my lady wife.” His voice became louder. “There will be no other Baron of Haynesdale, save me, from this day forward. Do not defy me again, or your lives will become worse than they already are. There will be no more mercy shown to vagabonds and outlaws. Return to the village this day and become loyal villeins—or die!”

  He pivoted and returned to the keep as the villagers muttered to each other. “He never had any mercy,” Stewart grumbled.

  “So, naught has changed,” agreed Edgar.

  When Anna expected the portcullis to close again, a pair of horses rode beneath it. Knights in Royce’s colors rode the two stallions. A pair of palfreys pulled a wagon, one man-at-arms at the reins and two more riding at the back of the wagon. One of them might have been a squire, for he was smaller. Another pair of horses rode behind, warriors mounted on their saddles.

  “The taxes,” Anna whispered.

  Duncan rubbed his mouth. “Is the reliquary dispatched to the king or yet within the walls?” he murmured.

  “Father Ignatius will claim it, I am certain.” Anna eased back into the undergrowth, edging away from the road. She knew what she had to do.

  “Where do you go?” Edgar asked in an undertone.

  She cast him a grim look. “To the bend in the road. That wagon will not arrive at its destination.”

  “But without Bartholomew, we have no need of coin for the escheat,” Duncan protested. “We must find the reliquary.”

  Anna shook her head. “Royce cares solely for his gold and his taxes. He has taken the one person I loved most, so I shall take what he loves most.”

  “It would be fitting vengeance,” Edgar agreed, then followed Anna.

  “I would see him cheated of his desire,” Stewart added.

  “I would see him discredited before the king,” added Lucan. “A baron who does not pay his taxes will not remain baron long.”

  “It might be our best hope for change!” said Rowe and there was a chorus of assent.

  They gathered around Anna, murmuring to each other of their enthusiasm for her ploy. Only Duncan did not move.

  “Will you not join us?” Anna asked.

  The Scotsman shook his head. “He taunted us,” he said softly and the company sobered. “What if it is a trap?”

  “Or a feint,” Anna agreed, seeing his logic. She crouched down beside the older man. “Let us divide our ranks. Half shall go with me to attack the wagon. The rest shall remain with you, in case there is a second wagon to depart or some opportunity created by Father Ignatius to see Bartholomew avenged.”

  “I must reclaim the reliquary,” Duncan insisted. “It was my responsibility to defend it.”

  “So, we are agreed, then,” Anna said to the others. “The first priority must be to save the reliquary. Beyond that, all damage we can do to Royce is welcome. It will be our vengeance for the death of Bartholomew.”

  They nodded with resolve, and it was only moments later that she led one band through the forest. Percy remained in Duncan’s care. Her company flitted like shadows through the forest, taking a shorter and more direct path, toward the bend in the road.

  Anna fully intended that the blow they dealt to Royce was severe.

  * * *

  The smell of cedar rose to Father Ignatius’ nostrils from the coffin in the chapel. A candle burned on the altar, as if to keep the fallen in the light. He lifted the lid and winced at the injury that had been dealt to the maid who lay there. Even though she had been cleaned for burial, the savagery of the wound could not be disguised
.

  He felt Lady Marie come to stand beside him. Her maid came to stand on his other side and bumped against him as if she stumbled. He caught her elbow and she bowed her head, weeping. He supposed the two maids must have been close and the death of one would be difficult for the other to bear.

  “I tire of living with barbarians,” Lady Marie said through her teeth and he saw the tears in her eyes as she surveyed the dead maid. The other maid fell to her knees before the altar. “I will linger in this hole no longer.”

  The lady was resolute, hatred for her husband shining in her eyes.

  “How will you depart? How will you see yourself defended?” Father Ignatius asked and Lady Marie smiled.

  “It is best you do not know, Father, for you might be compelled to speak the truth when it is not convenient.”

  There was merit in that argument.

  “Where is the reliquary?” he murmured, his glance darting to the treasury beside the altar. The door to the cabinet hung askew, revealing that the space was empty.

  “He means to send it to the king as a gift,” she said through her teeth.

  The priest took a step toward the portal. “But the taxes are being dispatched to the king. We must hasten to intervene!”

  Would Bartholomew discover its presence in time?

  Was that why he had left the chapel?

  Marie shook her head. “Nay, that wagon is a trick, intended to lure the rebels in the forest so they can be captured. Those trunks are filled with stones. Both taxes and gift will be dispatched only when the road is deemed to be safe.”

  Father Ignatius feared then for Anna and her fellows.

  “But where is the reliquary?”

  “He keeps his treasury close, stored in his chamber at the summit of the tower. No man can enter that place without Royce’s express permission.”

  How could Father Ignatius retrieve the reliquary then?

  Lady Marie leaned closer. “I would see Royce cheated of all he has stolen and cast out naked in the night, if it is the last deed I do.” She raised her gaze to that of Father Ignatius. “This keep was built with my inheritance, a prison wrought for me of my father’s coin! I will reclaim my dowry that I might wed the man I desire to father my sons.”