“Or keep us out of sight,” Wulfe agreed. He directed the party so that the knights could best defend the rest of the party, doing so with an efficiency that showed he was decisive in battle. Gaston could admire that. Many a battle was lost due to hesitation.
They conferred briefly about changing mounts, so that the knights rode their destriers. Wulfe, Fergus and Gaston changed horses, but Everard decided to continue on his palfrey. Gaston could not ride to battle on any other steed than Fantôme. The dapple destrier tossed his head so that his black mane rippled in the wind, and Gaston chose to believe that the horse wished it to be thus as well.
Within moments, they were on the move again, a new fear forcing them onward.
Gaston kept Ysmaine’s palfrey hard at his left. He wondered whether she perceived the import of his change of mount. “Are you certain it is Saracens?” she asked him in an undertone.
“A large army moves west, lady mine,” he admitted grimly. “And we no longer possess one, according to the reports.”
“Then he means to seal the ports,” she murmured. To his relief, she did not faint or quail in fear, but gripped her reins and gave the palfrey her heels. Radegunde clung to her mistress, her eyes wide.
“We shall make it, Ysmaine,” Gaston vowed. “A small party is more agile than an army.”
“Truly?” She glanced at him, her eyes so clear a green that he could not lie to her.
“We shall make it,” he vowed, then winced. “But not, perhaps, with much margin to spare.”
Her gaze flicked to Fantôme, though she did not comment upon his choice. “You should don your helm,” she said tersely.
Gaston shook his head. “It will catch the light of the sun and reveal our party to be more heavily defended. I have heard that it is oft good to be under-estimated.”
Her quick smile was filled with a resolve that he could only admire.
He spurred his destrier, and Fantôme leapt forward. Ysmaine encouraged her palfrey to match the larger horse’s pace, and they thundered down the path beside each other. He hoped they could reach Acre and claim that promising future together.
But he did not think it would be easily won.
In that moment, Gaston knew that he would do whatever was necessary to ensure his bride’s safety.
Whatever the cost to himself
* * *
It was madness.
They encouraged the horses to gallop with a speed that was beyond good sense. The knights’ urgency to reach Acre’s gates told Ysmaine that they were not so certain of their survival as they might have the rest of the party believe. She hoped none of the horses threw a shoe or stepped into a hole. That beast and its rider might well be left behind, for the safety of the others.
The road was no better than a wide track, and she had to ride before Gaston in some places. The destriers, at least, seemed to understand the situation, for they ran full out alongside their knights. Perhaps they were accustomed to this, or perhaps they responded to the mood of their masters.
The stars were coming out when the track rejoined the road from Nazareth to Acre, and the walls of the port city loomed on the horizon. Ysmaine and Radegunde shared a smile of relief, even as Wulfe stood in his stirrups and looked back to the east.
“They set camp at Nazareth, I would wager,” he said and relief rippled through the company. He nodded to Gaston. “You were right in this, at least. We shall make the gates, but barely so.”
Gaston did not respond, and Ysmaine wondered what he suspected that the others did not. “The time to slow our pace is not this moment,” he said tersely and slapped the rump of his destrier.
The Templar seemed to have learned his lesson, for he spurred his own destrier, setting an even quicker pace now that they had gained the main road. It was nigh deserted, for the hour was late, and Ysmaine hoped the gates of Acre were not closed against them. She watched as the walls drew larger, her heart thumping with hope that this last obstacle would be overcome.
Their assailants came out of the hills with alarming speed, a company of bandits with cloth wrapped across their faces. They seemed to appear from naught. Even in the twilight, Ysmaine could see that they were not Christians, for their steeds were saddled more simply and their garb was different. She noted that the horses were like fine palfreys, then saw the flash of blades and heard a warning shouted at them in another language.
“God in heaven,” Radegunde whispered and crossed herself.
Ysmaine looked to Gaston, not surprised to find his expression grim. He seized the small pouch bound to his belt and slammed it into her hand, then slapped the rump of her steed so hard that the beast jumped.
“Ride on!” he roared and the entire company surged forward with new speed.
Gaston, though, turned his destrier to confront their attackers. He drew his blade, making himself a target, and took up position in the middle of the road.
The Saracens shouted and descended toward him like a dark cloud.
“Nay!” Ysmaine shrieked, twisting in her saddle. “Gaston!” She reached for the reins of her palfrey, but Wulfe’s steed was suddenly beside her. He seized the reins and hauled the horse onward, taking command.
“Ride on!” the Templar bellowed, echoing Gaston.
“Nay!” Ysmaine cried, though less vehemently than before. She turned back to watch, Radegunde’s fingers digging into her skin.
Her husband sat proudly, his sword drawn, his reins tight in his fist, as the Saracen party surrounded him.
“He is alone!” she protested, trying to tug her horse’s reins from Wulfe’s iron grip.
“He has chosen for the good of us all,” that knight said through gritted teeth. “Do not waste his sacrifice.”
Sacrifice. The very word sickened Ysmaine. The horses galloped forward, the men grim, and Ysmaine was the only one who looked back.
Gaston was outnumbered.
He was surrounded.
She could not bear to watch him die, nor could she avert her gaze. In that moment, Ysmaine knew that the man who had taken her to wife possessed every honorable trait she had hoped to find in a husband.
And he would die.
“Gaston,” she whispered, her tears rising along with a fierce hope that she already carried his son. That was the sole thing she could give him, the sole honor that he deserved, but with only one coupling, Ysmaine feared she might fail her lord husband in that task.
Her curse had claimed another husband, and it was bitter that this was the sole one she had wanted.
* * *
As Gaston had told Ysmaine, he always known his life might end thus. There had been a hundred times when he had thought his days finished, that he had been sure he would die in service to the Templars, and he found it ironic that it should be so, but after he had left the order. Still he was duty-bound to see to the protection of the quest granted by Brother Terricus, and the defense of his lady wife. There was far more at stake than his own life.
He needed only to survive until the party made Acre’s gates.
To Gaston’s surprise, he found himself less at peace with this eventuality than he had declared himself to be.
Because of Ysmaine. He regretted only that he had not had more time to spend with his lady wife. He had wanted to win her regard, her heart, her love, and to have had sons with her. Gaston suspected that it would have been good to grow older with his lady, to have had decades together and many sons in their hall.
But it was not God’s will that his life should be so, and Gaston tried to accept that.
At least his choice should see to his lady’s survival.
He wished she had not sewn half his coin into his tabard. She would have need of it, but it would be claimed by whosoever killed him instead. He regretted that even this measure of worldly gain would be denied her.
The missive would be lost as well, though he wagered that Wulfe and Bartholomew could report what they knew to the Grand Master in Paris. There was no telling whether Terricu
s had included some other detail in the missive itself, but Gaston could do naught about that now. The treasure was with the departing party, and he prayed that it would safely reach Paris.
At least the quest had not been compromised due to his error.
Curiously, though, it was Ysmaine’s fate that troubled Gaston the most, and the promise of the future now denied to him, not the errands of the Temple. That was a new perspective for him, but it seemed he would not have the opportunity to savor it overlong.
The Saracens circled their horses around him, their faces hidden behind the scarves they wrapped around themselves to fight the dust. Their eyes glinted as did their blades, and their sleek horses stepped proudly. They did not fight but tried to provoke his response, probably intending to weaken him or make him strike out in error. They did not attack, which surprised him until he realized the truth.
They awaited the one who would choose his fate.
Or they wished to take him alive, that he might be interrogated.
Gaston was not so foolish as to try to engage when he was so outnumbered. Although the delay made him fear the end result, he knew that every moment that passed improved Ysmaine’s chances of survival.
And he had no qualms in trading his life for her own.
Chapter Nine
The party rode even faster than they had before. The horses galloped wildly and any pretense at a formation was lost.
Bartholomew cried out and would have ridden to Gaston’s aid, but Fergus seized his horse’s reins. “You have been ordered!” he reminded the squire, who was clearly frustrated.
Ysmaine tried to tug the reins free of Wulfe’s grasp that she might aid Gaston, but the Templar held fast. The palfrey might have slowed or heeded her, but Duncan rode around her to take Gaston’s place and seized the palfrey’s halter on that side. The horse fought the bit, not liking to be so restrained, but their choices made it run with greater vigor.
“Use your wits, my lady,” Duncan growled. “You know his desire and you know it to be right.”
“It is not fair!”
“Little enough is fair in this world,” the older man retorted. He spared her a bright glance. “Do not compel me to answer to Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine before St. Peter himself.”
Ysmaine caught her breath, not wanting to even think of Gaston dying.
“He may escape, my lady,” Radegunde whispered but Ysmaine shook her head. She twisted in the saddle to look back, her vision blurring with tears as she saw the lone knight surrounded by the enemy.
There had to be two dozen of them.
Gaston was lost.
One of the Saracens lifted a blade and it flashed against the night. Ysmaine turned back, her heart hammering, wanting to remember this husband alive. The walls of Acre rose high ahead, the gates barred, and the horses thundered toward them.
Wulfe abandoned her side, spurring his horse to race ahead of the party. “Open the gates, for the mercy of pilgrims!” he roared in French, then repeated his request in German. “The Temple rides in their defense!”
Ysmaine thought he would be declined, but evidently his tabard and insignia had been seen. One of the great wooden portals was opened slowly, the opening wide enough for two horses to ride abreast.
“Do not slacken your pace!” Wulfe bellowed, drawing his destrier to one side as he flagged the entire party into the security of the city. “They are fast behind us!” he called to the keeper.
A volley of flaming arrows were fired into the night, and Ysmaine followed their course. They struck the ground behind the last palfrey with deadly accuracy, creating a line of fire across the road. She saw the silhouettes of riders beyond them, riders dressed in flowing garments whose horses whinnied and turned back.
The front of an army? Or bandits?
Of Gaston, she could glimpse no sign.
The gate was closed behind them, the heavy wooden portal falling home with a thud that made the ground rumble. It was barred and their horses slowed their pace. A man leapt down from the gate and ran beside them, talking to Wulfe. They spoke quickly, Wulfe telling the man what he had witnessed on the road this day.
Bartholomew turned to Ysmaine. “I do not know why you weep so,” he said, his tone hard. “This way you are rid of him without staining your hands.”
Ysmaine was shocked, and she felt the other two knights turning to listen, along with the merchant. “I assure you I have no desire to be rid of my husband!”
“Nay? Then why did you acquire poison for him?”
The other men were startled by this, it was clear.
“He would not be warned against you, not Gaston. He trusted you, and now he has given his life, for you!”
“He sacrificed himself for all of us,” Fergus corrected gently.
Ysmaine straightened in the saddle, glaring at Gaston’s squire. “I acquired an herb from Fatima to aid my husband,” she said coldly. “For he had shown me such kindness that I wished to repay him.”
“With poison?” Bartholomew scoffed. “Remind me never to do a kindness for you, my lady.”
“If you knew any teaching about herbs, you would know that some which are fatal to eat are of benefit on the skin,” Ysmaine retorted. “I was taught by my grandmother to mix a salve for my grandfather.”
“God bless his soul,” Radegunde whispered and crossed herself.
Ysmaine continued hotly. “I wished to help with Gaston’s limp and asked Fatima whether she knew the herb. She had some but knew it not. When I told her of its use, she trusted me with a measure of its root.”
“So, you have this poison?” Fergus asked quietly.
“I carry it for my lady,” Radegunde said with pride, when Ysmaine might have preferred the girl keep silent.
“I wanted to help him,” she continued. “I wanted to be a good wife and see to his comfort.” Bartholomew looked chastened, but not entirely convinced. “And now, I shall have no chance to do so. Do not imagine that I am gladdened by this circumstance.”
Indeed, she was devastated by it.
The men exchanged glances and the party continued through the city. It was impossible to miss how preparations were being made for Acre’s defense. It had always been a fortress, of course, but men were storing arrows on the parapets and oil was being poured into cauldrons that could be tipped over invaders. There was a bustle and more than a tinge of desperation.
Wulfe finished confiding in the man from the gates, who ran a hand over his brow.
“They are close then,” he said. “We had feared as much. The new moon is tomorrow night.”
Everard inhaled sharply, glancing up at the sky. The moon was rising, and it was the barest sliver of light. Even Ysmaine knew that an attack on the darkest night of the month was the least likely to be discerned in time, but she had lost track of the days and nights of late.
“And ships?” Wulfe demanded. “We ride for Paris with urgency.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “On the business of the Temple?” he asked, then nodded without waiting for a reply. “That is no surprise. Two ships are in the harbor, preparing for departure on the tide this night. One is bound for Venice and the other for Sicily.”
“The Venetians,” Joscelin said, surprising the men with his interjection. “I have had dealings with them in the past. I will make a wager with them for our passage.”
Wulfe’s skepticism showed, even to the plump merchant.
Joscelin smiled. “We all have our talents, sir. Your skill has seen us this far, but mine lies in negotiating an agreement.”
“If ever men had need of one who could bargain with Venetians, we would be them,” Everard said heartily.
“Both ships are hard-pressed to take as many as they can,” the man from the gate warned. “And you are a large party.”
“You might not succeed,” Wulfe suggested to the merchant.
Joscelin smiled. “Perhaps you would like to make a small wager,” he invited with a confidence that Ysmaine found reassuring.
* * *
Gaston waited. The time passed with immeasurable slowness, and he could not hear the party that Wulfe led any longer. He prayed that Ysmaine would be safe.
Indeed, he prayed with a fervor he had never shown in supplication before.
When the stars were out, a lone rider galloped down the road toward them, and Gaston wondered whether these men awaited his arrival. They certainly straightened and turned their steeds to face him.
This would be scouting party, then, and intent upon capturing men upon this road to learn more of what the Christians did to retaliate. Gaston did not know whether to be glad that he had so few tidings to share. The shadows were growing alongside the road, the night sky illuminated only with myriad stars overhead.
As the horse cantered closer, Gaston watched Fantôme’s ears prick. Did his destrier know this steed? He surveyed it, but it was as fine as all the others. He could distinguish little of it in the night, and less of its rider.
The Saracens rode more slender horses, most of them of a chestnut hue, some with white socks. This one had a gleaming coat and a proud glimmer in its eye, but truly, he had seen a hundred so fine in their ranks.
The men greeted the new arrival with deference, a quick patter of Arabic reporting how they had found the party and what had happened. Gaston was surprised that the man even reported Ysmaine’s shout.
He, of course, gave no indication that he understood their words.
“Gaston?” the rider asked, his gruff voice more familiar than his steed. “The lady called you Gaston.” His French was better than Gaston’s Arabic, though he had been a diplomat in these parts too long to risk giving insult.
Particularly when he was so outnumbered.
Gaston answered in French. “For it is my name, and it is only fitting that a lady call her spouse by his name.” The man rode closer and Fantôme nickered a greeting.
The man stared at the horse, then peered at Gaston. “I know this steed,” he murmured in Arabic, then rode toward Gaston with boldness.
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