The Crusader's Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  If the man intended to charm her, he was more successful at it than she might have expected from a warrior previously sworn to chastity.

  “My mother always said that a good match was a partnership, sir,” she said, hoping to convince him of the same notion, but Gaston’s smile was fleeting.

  “Indeed,” he acknowledged. “And now, I bring tidings you may not welcome.”

  Ysmaine guessed the import of his crisp tone. Gaston was a knight, a former Templar, and a fighting man. She recalled the bustle that had filled the Holy City just weeks past and feared what Gaston had learned. “The King of Jerusalem rode to do battle with Saladin,” she said, hoping against hope that the battle had gone favorably for the Christians.

  In her limited experience, individual battles lasted months and wars could endure for years. To have tidings already, and tidings so dire that Gaston was solemn, could not be a good portent.

  Indeed, he leaned close to her. “We must wed this very morn, my lady.” There was an urgency in his tone that set Ysmaine’s heart to racing.

  “Has the king lost?” She could scarce consider it.

  “Nay, the battle continues,” he said with care, and she knew by the way he averted his gaze that he knew more than he confessed to her. “But I will depart this day for there is a party destined for Paris that we may join. It will be safer to ride in company, and simpler if we are wed first.”

  “Departing today?” Ysmaine was dismayed only by the timing. “But that is impossible. Radegunde is not sufficiently healed to move…”

  “There is no choice,” Gaston said flatly. “She will be treated with every courtesy and comfort I can grant her.” His gaze was so steely that Ysmaine understood that he saw no other choice.

  She and Radegunde could accompany him or be left behind. She could not imagine that their fate would be good in that circumstance. They had one opportunity to return home, because of Gaston.

  God in heaven, but she was fortunate to have made an alliance with this man.

  * * *

  “Can you tell me what you know, sir?” Ysmaine wished to know as much of their circumstance as possible, though she feared her intended would not think such matters a woman’s concern.

  Gaston glanced over the walls and the people in the streets, as if seeking something or someone she could not see. His very manner made Ysmaine wary, and she followed his gaze, noting only now how people moved more quickly. Where the Street of Herbs merged with others to become Saint Stephen Street, leading to the city gate of the same name, there was a throng of pedestrian traffic. There were more pilgrims than usual carrying their belongings as if to leave, and all hastening to the gate.

  Where would they sleep? How far could they walk this day? The ports were distant, and she doubted such a crowd could be accommodated on whatever ships might be in the harbor.

  She clutched Gaston’s hand in newfound fear, but he closed his own fingers over hers.

  He was as steady and reliable as a rock.

  “There is no cause for alarm,” he said softly. “Merely caution.”

  “I see.” Ysmaine understood that he would not tell her more of the situation when they were standing in the street. She hoped he would do so later. His gaze locked with hers once more, his intense manner sending a thrill through her. “You must trust me, my lady, though I recognize it is a bold request to make.”

  “And if I do not?” Ysmaine had to ask.

  He bent and touched his lips to her ear, as if planting a kiss upon her cheek. “Then you may never see France again.”

  The situation was dire, then. Ysmaine caught her breath and closed her eyes, giving every appearance of being overwhelmed by his touch. It made sense that they would know the truth of the battle within the Temple, and that a knight like Gaston would know best what was to be done.

  All the same, it was discomfiting to put her life and that of her maid into the hands of a virtual stranger.

  You must trust me, my lady.

  Ysmaine reminded herself that Gaston had not lied to her, but more importantly, there was that integrity in his manner. It was easy to doubt that he had ever told a falsehood in his life. He might be wrong about the outcome of whatever tidings he had heard, but he believed what he was telling her.

  And she believed him, whether it was folly or not.

  Aware that at least one of the sisters watched their conversation, Ysmaine straightened with a smile and a light laugh. “Your ardor, sir, is most persuasive. I, too, will be glad to have our vows exchanged.”

  “Now, my lady,” Gaston said with heat, his hand closing around hers with possessive ease. “It must be now, at the Temple.”

  “But Radegunde cannot walk so far as the Temple, and I cannot leave her behind, sir.”

  “Of course not.” Gaston lifted a finger and his squire led the palfrey out of the shadows on one side of the street. “I brought the palfrey for this very reason. Perhaps you might ride with her, to ensure she stays in the saddle.”

  Her intended had come prepared. Again, Ysmaine had that sense that she no longer struggled alone, and she liked Gaston’s practicality very well.

  “I shall fetch our belongings, sir. We have very little, and the sisters will assist Radegunde to the portal.” Ysmaine spun away, but Gaston caught her elbow in his hand, tugging her to a halt. She turned to confront him, her heart leaping when he smiled. He took her hand, pressing a small stack of silver pennies into her palm and closing her fingers over it.

  “One must pay one’s debts, my lady, or one’s name carries no honor at all.”

  Ysmaine stared at the coins in awe. “Sir, you spend too much in my name,” she protested, for she felt she should, though she was relieved to be able to pay the sisters. She did not like to beg for charity, and she shared Gaston’s view about paying one’s debts.

  “It is expended in my name. You will be my wife and your debts are now mine.” Gaston bent and touched his lips to hers, as confident that she would accept his salute as she would take the coin. It was a kiss as practical as the man himself, firm and dry yet dispassionate in a way that seemed too cool to Ysmaine. She wanted to provoke a reaction from him, and to surprise him, to have him look at her with that admiration she had glimpsed already.

  She wanted more from marriage than safety and sons, she realized.

  She wanted passion and partnership. Indeed, Ysmaine wanted love, like the love her parents shared. It was Gaston’s gift to her to revive her yearning for the future she had always desired but which she had lost hope of ever possessing.

  Impulsively, Ysmaine curled her hand around the back of Gaston’s neck and deepened their kiss. She tasted his surprise, but pressed herself against him, letting all in the street believe what they wished. His arm locked around her waist with astonishing speed and he lifted her to her toes, slanting his mouth across hers as if he could not resist the feast she offered. Their kiss sent a fire through Ysmaine’s veins, and she knew with utter certainty that trusting Gaston was the right choice.

  She could almost believe that he felt the same way.

  Gaston fairly tore his mouth from hers and looked down at her, his eyes glittering with a desire that echoed her own. He seemed struck to silence, which Ysmaine could only assume was a good sign for their future and their match.

  “My lady, we must make haste,” he said, his words hoarse.

  “Aye, sir, I would hasten to exchange vows with you, as well.” Her own voice was husky and her chest was tight when she touched his cheek with her fingertips. A wondrous joy had unfurled within her, one that gave her hope once again.

  “God in heaven, sir, I hope with all my heart that you survive our nuptial night,” she whispered. Gaston blinked, clearly astonished, and Ysmaine found herself smiling as she turned back to the dormitory.

  Her heart was light again, and the world filled with new promise. Perhaps it had not been a curse that had brought her all the way to Jerusalem, but destiny, driving her to the man she was fated to wed.r />
  Ysmaine’s smile broadened at the appeal of that notion.

  Chapter Four

  Wulfe could not believe his situation.

  It was absurd that he should be compelled to wait on the command of another brother, and worse, that he should be dispatched from the Holy City when every blade was needed. An entire night had passed in idleness! He did not have the missive, which had been entrusted to the French knight, and he had no notion of what treasure they were to carry, much less where it was.

  The sole advantage to the delay was that his steed was sufficiently rested. It was a significant detail, but for Wulfe, it was not enough.

  He paced in the stables of the Jerusalem priory, filled with restless impatience. He had discovered the location of the stall where this French knight’s horse was stabled, and at least he could acknowledge that the man had a fine dappled destrier. That Templar’s horse had been groomed and nosed in the hay, a dark palfrey tethered beside him.

  They were not even saddled.

  And there was no sign of the man.

  Perhaps he meant to depart the next day, or the one after that. Perhaps this Gaston did not share Wulfe’s determination to do his part to aid the cause of the Christians in the Holy City. Wulfe paced and growled beneath his breath at the delay.

  In the adjacent stall, a man who could only be a Scottish barbarian and thus the former Templar they were doomed to include in their party, sat on a barrel and sipped his ale. He would be no good to them besotted, though he might not be any good to them at all. This Fergus had a look of complacency about him, like a milk cow turned out to pasture, content to wait until coaxed back to the barn. Though Gaston has spoken long and quietly to him the night before, Wulfe had not bothered. Indeed, he could scarce understand a word the man said. If naught else, Fergus appeared to be taking half of Jerusalem home to his betrothed.

  Fergus had a russet-haired squire with freckles across his nose who snored as he slept, and a slightly older blond one with eyes that darted back and forth. Wulfe would not have turned his back on the boy in a fight.

  He thought little of the count who meant to accompany them, and even less of the merchant. Between the three of them, Wulfe doubted there was any token of value left in all of Outremer. They carried more trunks and bundles and saddlebags than Wulfe had owned in all of his life. Those two men sat and chatted together, evidently content to wait as long as necessary. Wulfe chafed at the delay.

  That he should be sitting idle while other brethren rode to war was absurd!

  Wulfe would not have believed it, had he not been living it.

  “The tales are true,” he muttered, confident that none other than his squires would understand his German. Every knight and lay brother he had encountered in this establishment had clearly been French.

  Perhaps that was the problem. Certainly, Wulfe had no admiration of the French. They were too concerned with appearances and cautious to ride to battle—with the exception of the Grand Master, of course. They had a disdain for the dirty labor of war, and he regretted yet again that he had not found a welcome in the ranks of the Hospitaliers.

  At least, though, the French were not Scottish. The only merit of those warriors was their bloodlust, and this Fergus looked to have none of it either.

  “The Jerusalem priory rots from within,” Wulfe grumbled and paced the length of the corridor again. “The brethren are comfortable and complacent, which can only diminish their effectiveness.”

  “Aye, sir,” agreed his older squire, Stephen.

  Wulfe did not believe for one moment that the preceptor had told him the truth. The King of Jerusalem err in his strategy and abandon a precious source of water? It could not be so. Wulfe slapped his gloves against his palm and gritted his teeth, snared by his sworn oath to never deny an order from a superior.

  The preceptor knew it, of course. That was why he had ordered this mission be undertaken.

  But what folly! To ride out of Jerusalem now was madness. They should stay and defend the priory, not abandon their brethren in a time of need. Or they should ride north to aid the troops led by the king. To leave the Latin Kingdoms was the worst decision possible. Wulfe paced more quickly. He did not care what they took with them, what missive or what token from the crypt. He would rather lend his sword to the fight.

  The sooner they were away on this ridiculous excuse of a quest, the sooner he might return and contribute.

  Even that was infuriating, for Wulfe was to answer to this knight who had clearly gone soft in the comfort of the Jerusalem priory. Teufel had been brushed down, fed and watered and saddled, and was stamping to depart with as much impatience as his master. Wulfe had eaten and refreshed himself, as had his squires.

  Yet there was no sign of Gaston. The watch had changed and he knew it had to be mid-morning.

  “The problem with this priory is that it is impossible to see the street,” Wulfe complained to Stephen who nodded rapid agreement. “A man cannot take the mood of the city from within such stout walls. Indeed, a man might forget that the city is even beyond these walls and be oblivious when its occupants seethe in discontent. Nay, a citadel should be solid but precarious, its view sweeping, like the priory at Gaza. No man ever felt truly safe within those walls. No man ever took his survival for granted there. Such uncertainty ensures vigilance.”

  “Aye, sir,” Stephen agreed and bowed.

  “This entire building could be destroyed, and we should learn of it too late to make a difference to our own fates,” Wulfe complained. “Where in the name of God has that man gone?”

  He spun at the sound of the gate opening and strode toward it with purpose. He was not surprised to see Gaston returning, though he was amazed that the man led a chestnut palfrey. A younger man followed the horse, the same man who had been in the chapel the previous day. He must be Gaston’s squire, although Wulfe thought him old for the task.

  When Wulfe saw the occupants of the saddle, his curiosity about the younger man was dismissed. He understood all too well the import of this errand. He could not believe the other knight’s folly.

  And he was not in the mood to bite his tongue.

  * * *

  Gaston was dazzled. He had been kissed before, of course, and he had granted kisses to women in his time, but never had his blood simmered as it did after Ysmaine’s kiss. She had kindled a desire within him that raged with such power that he felt he was a different man. His customary temperate manner seemed distant to him, terrifyingly so, and he could think only of a future of nights with this woman in his bed.

  Gaston never forgot his duties, much less his routines. He was never late or distracted from his purpose or otherwise beguiled by the temptations of the flesh.

  Was it natural for a man to feel so enflamed by his betrothed?

  Was there some witchery at root?

  His wits were addled, as much by Ysmaine’s kiss as by her words. She challenged and provoked him, as well as sending fire through his blood. He had nigh forgotten the need for haste in speaking with her, for he had wanted to linger and watch her eyes sparkle, to reassure her and to tempt her smile. He had felt a cur for doubting her, but once they were separated even by the distance of her being in the saddle, he wondered whether she had simply persuaded him to her will.

  He was not a man well accustomed to the wiles of women, after all, and that felt suddenly to be a lack. He had no sense whether Ysmaine was typical of a noblewoman or uncommon, and even less what to expect of her.

  Was he a fool to choose to trust her about her herb?

  Gaston hoped not. He hoped the truth was as she insisted it was, but he would be vigilant until he was sure. He was usually the one cautious to trust, but Bartholomew had learned well from his teaching. Aye, he would eat no morsel that Ysmaine had prepared for him, or drink of no cup she had seasoned. It should be simple to do while they traveled, and by the time they reached home, he would know whether his trust was misplaced.

  Ysmaine made him think overmuch ab
out their nuptial night, when he should have been thinking about their departure. He pondered her assertion that no man survived his wedding night with her, and wondered anew at it.

  Had she just been unlucky?

  Or was there a darker reason behind it all? When not staring into the lovely features of the lady or enchanted by her kiss, Gaston’s doubts could find fertile soil.

  Indeed, Ysmaine’s kiss seemed to have kindled a thousand questions, and Gaston scowled, disliking the change. He was decisive. He chose justly and deliberately, which was why he was so often right. He had simply become unaccustomed to indulging the urges of his body.

  That had to change if he were to have a son.

  Indeed, consummating their match would see many of these uncertainties resolved. He would survive, so she would cease to fret about his fate. Her touch would undoubtedly lose its power once he had claimed her, and matters could become simple again.

  There were sufficient details to be arranged to dismiss Ysmaine’s past marital history. She was noble. She cared for her maid, and her eyes sparkled in a most enticing manner. He needed only a son from his wife, and she was young enough to grant him several.

  All other details were irrelevant, at least for the moment.

  The gate had only just closed behind them when the knight who was to be his companion on the preceptor’s quest came charging toward him.

  “This is the errand you had to undertake?” Wulfe roared without preamble. He was so furious that he apparently forgot that he was speaking in German. He flung out a hand. “You had to collect your whores?”

  The maid caught her breath and lifted her head for a moment before she looked down at her hands again. Wulfe did not notice, but Gaston did. He glanced at his betrothed and saw Ysmaine’s confusion. It was clear that the maid understood German, but his lady did not. It was perhaps just as well, given how this tirade had begun.

  Although, given the bond between the women, he doubted that ignorance would last.

  “This is my betrothed,” Gaston interrupted firmly.

  “Your betrothed?” the other knight spat. He folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t recall that we brethren wed.”