The Crusader's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Were the others trapped? He had to assist them!

  He turned from the window, only to find Marie confronting him with a thin knife. “Surely you do not mean to decline my offer?” she said and he watched Emma slide a small chest into a sturdy sack. She moved covertly, as if to evade her mistress’s attention and he wondered what was in the trunk.

  And what she meant to do with it.

  “I mean only to fetch the priest, of course,” Bartholomew said.

  “He is safely in the chapel,” Marie said. “With Agnes and the reliquary.” She smiled. “I had intended to flee, but now we might remain here,” she said. “I find the view much improved from this tower room.” She chuckled darkly. “And you need not fear that you might share Royce’s fate.”

  In truth, Bartholomew did wonder just how Royce had fallen from a chamber he knew so well. The glint in Marie’s eyes suggested that the baron had had assistance.

  He chuckled, appearing more confident than he felt. “Nay, I will not be so fool as to fall out of my own window!”

  Marie’s smile broadened. “I meant that you should not have to fear that your wife will present you a daughter who was fathered by the Captain of the Guard.”

  Bartholomew blinked. “I do not understand.” Did he hear a footfall on the stairs? Emma backed into the corridor slowly, the sack held behind herself. The bulge within it was larger, and he guessed she had added to its contents. What was the maid’s scheme? He could smell fire and hear shouts, which did naught but add to his concerns.

  Marie laughed, oblivious to her maid’s actions. “Nor did Royce, poor man. He never listened to servants, but they know all. It is folly to ignore them.” Her eyes shone. “Royce’s first wife conceived by the Captain of the Guard, who was the youngest son of the Duke of Arsent. Even better, she told Royce that the babe had died when it had not.”

  The story had to have some relevance but Bartholomew could not guess what it was. He wished she would hasten the telling. “Why?”

  “Perhaps because Royce had discovered the affair and had her lover executed.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps she no longer trusted her lord husband.” She met Bartholomew’s gaze. “Perhaps the girl resembled her father. There must have been a reason for her to trade her babe with the stillborn daughter born to the smith’s wife.”

  Bartholomew was astonished.

  “But the smith is dead, as is his wife, and the girl died two years ago. Royce never knew that Anna, the smith’s daughter, was truly the babe of his own wife, but the cook told me of it. Perhaps one of the servants aided in Anna’s escape, but she could never have survived the abuse Gaultier visited upon her.” Marie smiled again. “But I will be faithful, sir, so long as you are not cruel.”

  “That seems a fair wager,” Bartholomew said and bent over her hand. How could he escape this situation?

  “Provided you survive this day,” Emma said with such malice that they both turned. She seized the door and slammed it, a key turning audibly in the lock. “It would suit me well to see you burn with the rest of this place, you selfish viper!”

  “Emma! What have I ever done to you?”

  “Eight years in this place,” the maid cried from the corridor beyond. “Eight years past the end of the world, eight years with only the venom of you and your demands.” Her voice rose in fury. “And what is Agnes’ reward at the end of it all? She died for your indiscretion, yet all you could do was defile her body, shaming her memory with the appearance that she carried a child out of wedlock. You deserve no loyalty from me or any other.”

  Marie shook the door handle. “Emma! I command that you open this portal.”

  “And your command will be defied.”

  “Emma!”

  Bartholomew surveyed the chamber. He supposed they could knot the bed curtains and lower themselves out the window, though he was not certain the cloth would bear the weight. There was no rope to be seen.

  Marie spun and noticed the missing trunks. “Emma! Did you steal my coin?”

  “It is mine now, my lady,” the maid sneered. “And may it make me more happy than it has done you.” Her footsteps sounded on the stairs, then she grunted and Bartholomew heard her fall. She swore and there were sounds of a struggle. He peered through the keyhole in time to see Anna fighting with the maid on the stairs. That Emma desired to keep hold of the sack of coin above all else betrayed her.

  Anna ripped the ring of keys from the maid’s girdle. She cast them at the door, shouting his name. They clattered against the door and fell to the floor on the other side.

  Bartholomew’s dagger barely slid through the space. He managed to catch the loop of the key ring and flick it under the door. He seized the keys, then unlocked the portal.

  Emma had forced Anna against the wall, her one hand clutching a fistful of Anna’s hair. Anna’s crossbow was on the floor, some distance away from them. Emma raised the sack of coin, prepared to strike Anna in the head with it.

  Bartholomew flung his knife. Emma froze, the knife buried between her shoulders, then the sack of coin fell from her grasp. Silver spilled across the floor.

  Anna wriggled free as the maid’s body fell, then snatched for her crossbow. Bartholomew tossed the keys in his hand so that they jingled and when Anna looked his way, cast them to her. She snatched them out of the air with a triumphant smile.

  “Who is this?” Marie demanded from behind Bartholomew. “She looks like the smith’s daughter.”

  “Aye, she is, though you have just told me that she is nobly born. I thank you for those tidings.”

  Bartholomew felt the thin dagger at his back and froze. “You will not abandon me here,” Marie whispered.

  He saw that Anna had loaded a bolt and held her gaze for a moment. Her lips set and he knew he could trust her aim.

  “I suppose you are right.” Bartholomew winked, knowing Marie would not be able to see his expression. He then ducked and Anna fired, the bolt striking Marie in the chest.

  She staggered backward, her surprise clear. Her fingers rose to the wound and she stared at the blood on her hand. “You reject me.”

  “I will never take such a traitorous woman to wife.”

  “You will never take any woman to wife,” Marie vowed. She seized a bell hung inside Royce’s door and rang it, ensuring that the noise was loud and long.

  Men shouted from below and there were footfalls on the stairs. Anna ran to Bartholomew as he retrieved his dagger. He seized her hand and she grabbed the sack of coin as he sought a means of escape.

  “There!” he said, pointing to a ladder at one end of the corridor. They climbed it in haste and he shoved open the trap door in the ceiling above it. He could smell the smoke rising from the bailey. He leapt on to the parapet, then aided Anna to follow. He kicked the trap door shut and pivoted to face the sentries who came to attack.

  They were only two, and one was injured.

  “The bailey burns!” Anna whispered. “All will be lost.”

  “Fergus arrives,” Bartholomew said, pointing to the plume of dust approaching Haynesdale. Even at a distance, he could see the white tabards of the Templars with their distinctive red crosses. “All will be saved!”

  One sentry shouted and aimed his bow at them. Bartholomew tugged Anna toward the stairs against the interior of the curtain wall, a plan forming in his mind.

  * * *

  Anna did not share Bartholomew’s confidence, but she trusted him.

  The guards blocked them from the wooden scaffold that was obviously his destination. He swung his sword and injured one, then gave her his dagger so she could defend his back. She wished there was room to load her crossbow, but the men were upon them. The smoke rising from the bailey was thick and she could not fully see what was happening below. She feared for all of the villagers, for Percy, for Duncan, and for Father Ignatius.

  How could Bartholomew scheme to save them? She knew he had a plan for he moved with purpose, battling their way closer to those stairs. Why would he des
cend into the bailey? They would only die with the others! And Fergus would not be able to aid them with the portcullis closed against him.

  Then Bartholomew slashed at the binding the scaffold to the curtain wall, using his sword to cut the ropes. He spun to cross swords with another attacker, then pivoted to slice another set of bonds. Anna could see his intent, but not understand it. She ducked beneath the swinging blades and cut another rope lashing, then moved to the fourth and final one that she could see. A pair of squires were scrambling up the steps, intent on aiding their fellows, and she thought Bartholomew might mean to eliminate any assistance.

  Instead he caught her around the waist when the last bond was cut and kicked hard at the scaffolding. It eased away from the wall, teetering slightly. Another bond below broke even as the squires shouted in dismay.

  Bartholomew cast her a cocky grin, then leapt at the wooden stairs, flinging their combined weight sideways against it. The wood creaked and groaned, then the entire structure fell into the bailey.

  With them atop it.

  The squires screamed. Anna braced herself for the impact and had the breath stolen from her chest when they crashed into the bailey. The fire leapt from the straw to the wooden structure, spreading with dangerous speed. Horses whinnied in fear and serving maids ran from the hall in terror.

  “The portcullis!” Bartholomew roared and Anna heard a surge of activity. “Fergus arrives!”

  Duncan bellowed, the villagers cheered, and the battle became more frantic.

  “Father Ignatius,” Bartholomew bade her, then swung his blade at a pair of attackers. He battled his way toward the gate, dodging fire and mayhem, shouting encouragement. His very presence fortified the villagers, giving them new strength and resolve.

  Anna raced to the chapel and unlocked the portal with shaking hands. Father Ignatius had the reliquary bundled against his chest. Without a word, they ran for the portal. The smoke was thick near the ground, but she spied Stewart and Edgar on the back of the second wagon. She shouted and the two men grabbed Father Ignatius and pulled him aboard.

  The high tower erupted in flame and a woman screamed.

  The portcullis creaked and the villagers cheered as it opened. The horses harnessed to the wagon needed no encouragement to surge through the gate and away from the fire. The untethered horses raced after them, the villagers spilling forth to safety with them. Anna dared to breathe a sigh of relief when Bartholomew swung through the gate after the last of them and scooped her off her feet.

  Father Ignatius bared the treasure in his possession and kissed its golden surface, his gratitude more than echoed in the hearts of those around them.

  * * *

  The villagers were tired and some were injured. Rowe the carpenter had been killed and was deeply mourned. Many of the other villagers had been hurt but Finan in the old village tended them well. Children ran to collect such stores and food as was available and they shared it all, gathering around a bonfire lit in the midst of the new village. The keep burned slowly and thoroughly, but in Bartholomew’s view, all of value had been claimed from within it. He made the boys promise to stay out of the ruins.

  Esme brought her chickens from the forest and Regan shared the cheese from her goats. The herd of goats grazed near the company. Stories were exchanged and comfort given. Rabbits were roasted over the flames and Bartholomew knew that he would have to hunt on the morrow to ensure that all could feast as they should.

  They had become too thin, the people of Haynesdale. He sat, watching and listening, savoring the tales and the camaraderie, knowing that sooner or later, his decision would be expected.

  Of course, it was Anna who asked it of him.

  She walked toward him, her features illuminated by the firelight, the resolve in her gaze prompting his admiration. She halted before him, then fell to one knee, offering his father’s ring on the palm of one hand.

  Again.

  “Only a king can make a baron, Anna,” he reminded her quietly.

  She met his gaze, her own steady and clear. “What will you do?”

  The company fell silent, their attention fixed upon him, their manner expectant.

  Bartholomew stood to address them. “The king is owed his taxes from the holding of Haynesdale,” he said. “I would deliver them to him, though it is likely his court is convened in Anjou in these days. Kings muster for crusade and he will consult with Philip of France.” He stood and shed the tabard that had belonged to Gaultier, flinging it into the bonfire. “While I am there, I will request that the seal of Haynesdale be granted to me, in respect for my lineage.”

  Anna glanced over her shoulder as Percy appeared beside her. He carried the sack of coin that Anna had claimed from the solar. He dropped to one knee beside Anna and offered it to Bartholomew.

  “For the escheat,” Anna said.

  “Nay,” Bartholomew said. “This coin was gathered from all of you, leaving you in poverty and hunger. If you give it to me, Anna, I will return it to the villagers. As Father Ignatius has argued, you did not receive protection or justice in exchange for your taxes paid. This coin is rightly yours.”

  They murmured then, and he realized that his decision had been anticipated by Anna’s triumphant smile. “We have agreed that we would see our taxes spent in this manner,” she said. “And that if you made this argument, it would only win our support more fully.” She bowed her head. “Praise be that the true son is returned, and there will be justice in Haynesdale again.”

  The villagers cheered and Fergus applauded, his pleasure in Bartholomew’s changed fortunes most clear. Duncan held the reliquary again, and Bartholomew knew they would continue to Killairic as planned.

  He raised his voice, addressing all of the company. “The men of my father’s line were renowned for their ability to blend old and new, to strike a balance between tradition and innovation. And here, I would continue this legacy. I will take the taxes to the king, that he has his rightful due, and I will gladly accept your offering of the coin for the escheat. I would grant you justice and defend you to the best of my abilities, if I am so fortunate as to win the king’s approval. But I suggest this onto you, that if Anna, the daughter of the youngest son of the Duke of Arsent and the Lady of Haynesdale, will have me as her wedded spouse, the king may find that blending of old and new most compelling of all.”

  The villagers hooted and stamped their feet at this notion, but Anna stood tall, her manner wary. “You would wed me to gain Haynesdale?” she asked quietly. “Because of the name of my father?”

  “I would wed you because I love you,” he replied. “And I would wed you this very night, before we know the king’s decree, so that you have no doubt of my reason. If King Henry has plans for this holding, wedding you might stand between me and Haynesdale. I think the risk a fair one, for I would rather live without Haynesdale’s seal than without the lady I love by my side.” He smiled at the way she blinked back her tears, noting that as ever, her thoughts were easily read.

  He had to tease her then. “Assuming, of course, that you will have me, Anna, even knowing our quest to the king might not end in success.”

  “He will not dare to defy our will,” she said hotly, then smiled as she offered her hand. “I am glad to put my hand in that of such a man of honor.”

  Bartholomew grinned and caught her close, swinging her around as the company cheered their approval. Father Ignatius cleared a path to them, intent upon supervising the exchange of vows, but Bartholomew claimed a potent kiss first.

  “I love you,” Anna whispered when he let her speak. “I think I loved you from the first, even when I thought you the most vexing man alive.”

  “Aye, you had a similar appeal,” he agreed with a grin. “Lady mine.”

  Anna’s expression turned mischievous. “Perhaps we are well suited then.”

  “I think there is little doubt of that.”

  Their gazes clung and Bartholomew saw the glory of the future in her eyes. Then Father Ignati
us cleared his throat and they turned as one, her hand upon his, and pledged their love to each other. The stars were shining over head, the bonfire was sending sparks into the night, the keep burned and the new one would be rebuilt. Bartholomew felt the spirits of his ancestors around him and the sense of homecoming he had yearned to feel now filled his heart with hope and tranquility.

  Because of the bold woman who stood beside him, for she had stolen not just the Templar treasure but his own heart.

  It would be hers forevermore.

  Thursday, March 17, 1188

  Feast Day of Saint Joseph of Arimethea and the Martyrs of Alexandria

  Chapter Fifteen

  Châmont-sur-Maine

  It had seemed that naught could go wrong, but when the day came for Bartholomew to plead his case before King Henry, Anna was fearful of the result.

  Perhaps it was simply that she was not in the habit of meeting kings.

  Much less asking for their favors.

  She and Bartholomew had journeyed south, with Leila and Timothy to aid them, after leaving Fergus in charge of Haynesdale. There was much to done, for Bartholomew wished to rebuild his father’s keep and restore the village to its former site. The villagers were enthusiastic and had begun the labor quickly. Their memory would be of aid to Fergus in directing the work, and Bartholomew had declared himself confident in his friend’s administration. Duncan, too, had remained at Haynesdale, for his place was with Fergus until that knight was safely home again.

  Bartholomew carried several trunks of coins south to make his plea to the king. Cenric had needed to be restrained to ensure he did not follow them, but Bartholomew said the journey would be too much for him. He had rubbed the dog’s ears and vowed to return, and Anna halfway thought the beast understood him.