When the imposter heard voices, he doused his light. He realized that the squires bickered overhead, their voices carrying through the opening to the hold, which he had not fully secured.
He should have guessed that the boys would know the secrets of their knights.
“I tell you there is treasure,” insisted one in a whisper. The eavesdropper listened with interest. “They were granted it from the preceptor himself and entrusted with delivering it to the Paris Temple.”
“I should think not,” scoffed a second boy, also in a whisper. “I could believe a missive or a token, but not a true treasure.”
“Why not? Jerusalem will be taken. I heard Gaston say as much, and my lord Fergus agreed.”
The first boy was a squire of the Scotsman, then. The eavesdropper could not believe it was the younger boy, the red-haired squire who was so clumsy. Nay, it would be the older one, the blond one who he had already guessed was a collector of secrets. There was a slyness about that boy, however pretty his features.
That trait might prove most useful.
“And what has that to do with the matter?” protested the second. His accent convinced the eavesdropper that this was the other squire of the Scotsman, the clumsy Hamish. “You do not know that the city will be attacked, let alone that it will fall. You think you know everything…”
“They carry the Templar treasure, fool! It was hidden in the Temple in Jerusalem. They could not let the Saracens claim it!”
“But the treasure is said to be magnificent and extensive. No man has seen all of it, and we are but a small party. I think you create a tale.”
“We are entrusted with the best of it,” the first boy whispered in excitement. “The prize jewel of the hoard, to ensure its safety.”
“I think not.”
“I think so! I will find it and prove as much to you!”
“If you find it, you will sell it.”
The boys argued, then shushed each other. The eavesdropper considered the contents of the hold again, knowing the Templar treasure was not in baggage in the hold.
Where then?
He would watch Kerr for the rest of this journey, in case Fergus’ squire discovered the prize. And as soon as possible, he would search Wulfe’s person for that missive. It was less than he had hoped to achieve on this sea journey, but it would have to suffice.
Venice might offer the opportunities he sought.
* * *
Tempers were wearing thin by the time the ship sailed toward Venice. The space was cramped, the fare was poor, and the days were hot. Ysmaine’s hands had turned pink and then brown, and she did not doubt her face had done the same.
In contrast to Bartholomew, who conversed with her with ever increasing animation, her husband remained taciturn and kept his secrets close. Ysmaine supposed that another woman might have accepted his nature to be as it was, but she believed he had learned this secretive behavior from the Templars. All she could do was overwhelm his doubts with her own actions.
Fortunately, Ysmaine, had an unholy measure of persistence.
Though they had stopped repeatedly, the fare had been limited, and she was not the only one who had lost weight. The companionship of the others wore thin, as did the manners of the seamen, and Ysmaine was more than ready to find her feet on solid ground again. Gaston spent much time conferring with Wulfe, perhaps comparing their memories of battles fought in Outremer, although he was gracious to her and she was aware that he kept her warm during the night.
Bartholomew had tried the liniment, as agreed. Ysmaine tried it upon her own hand first, and then upon Bartholomew, after a mere week. It warmed the skin in a most satisfactory way, but was not yet as potent as it should be. She thought it would be of sufficient strength by the time they reached Venice.
On the day after they left Ragusa, Ysmaine awakened early. Her monthly courses, which had been unpredictable of late due to poor nutrition, had begun, and she had to tend to herself. Gaston was awake, and she pointed to indicate her need for the garderobe. Radegunde snored contentedly. He gestured that he would accompany her but Ysmaine shook her head, then gave his hand a squeeze before she made her way across the deck. She felt him watching her and was glad of his protectiveness.
She would have to tell him about her bleeding and hoped he would not be overly disappointed.
When she left the privy Gaston had contrived for them, Ysmaine paused to look up at the stars, marveling at their numbers. A shooting star drew a pale line across the firmament, and she made a wish as she watched its progress. When it faded, she made to return to Gaston and glimpsed a shadow moving against the darkness of night and sea. There was a man near the entry to the hold, she was certain of it.
She could not spy him again and wondered whether her eyes had deceived him. Gaston welcomed her back against his side and wrapped her cloak around her. “Are you well?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that gave her shivers.
“I have my courses,” she confessed. “So, we have not yet wrought a child.”
He ran his fingertips down her cheek and cupped her chin. “I cannot be so surprised, for we have met abed only the once.” He sighed. “And this way, none can doubt that any child you bear is of my seed.”
Ysmaine blinked. “Who would doubt our word?”
He grimaced. “Who can say? It is better to avoid any such questions.” He nuzzled her ear, kissing her there in a way that sent shivers over her flesh. “And I cannot regret that we must try yet more.”
Ysmaine curled in Gaston’s lap, once again assaulted by that pleasurable sensation, the one that promised so much more. She tucked her feet up and felt his enthusiasm, then surrendered to a most satisfactory kiss. Her heart was thundering when Gaston lifted his head and he inhaled sharply even as his arms tightened around her.
“Do not tempt me so soon as this, lady mine,” he murmured and his voice was most deliciously rough. “You shall have a chamber to call your own soon enough.”
Ysmaine could not wait.
Wednesday, July 22, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Mary Magdalene and Saint Agnes.
Chapter Twelve
At morning’s light, it was revealed that some argument had erupted between the squires, and Laurent had clearly been found wanting. Ysmaine had fallen back asleep, but she awakened to the sounds of a scuffle and the sight of Gaston trying to intervene. In the end, Kerr had a black eye, and Bartholomew won a scolding from Gaston so severe that his ears were red with mortification even when they sailed into port.
Hamish was missing, which was cause for some alarm, until the boy was discovered in the hold. He had been struck on the head and was not coherent, the size of the lump making Ysmaine insist that an apothecary be found as soon as they reached the port. The bags stowed there had been investigated, it proved, a revelation that prompted consternation in both Fergus and Joscelin. Ysmaine saw Gaston’s eyes narrow at this.
Ysmaine noted that the dirtiest of the Fergus’ saddlebags was yet in the custody of Laurent. Though he had jested about its defense being a test, she began to wonder. As far as she could recall, the boy had had that bag in his possession since they had left Jerusalem. He dragged or carried it everywhere, though it was clearly heavy.
What was in it?
Ysmaine had thought the boy’s manner a case of devotion but now she wondered. It seemed that every soul in their party had discovered that their baggage had been examined without their knowledge. Ysmaine thought of the missive Gaston carried and wondered whether it was the sought prize, or whether the party had been entrusted with the delivery of more than a letter.
She did not believe that a mere piece of correspondence could encourage such persistent searching of their baggage. There was something else entrusted to the party, something Gaston knew about and for all his insistence upon honesty, refused to tell her about.
The Templars, after all, were said to hold a magnificent treasure in the Temple of Jerusalem. If they had guessed Saladin’s intent, m
ight they have wanted to ensure its safety? If she had a prize to see taken safely back to Paris, Ysmaine would have chosen Gaston for the quest.
If she was right, where might that prize be?
By her reckoning, there was only one bag that had not been searched.
But what might the Templar treasure be? The rumors she had heard were wild and varied, from heaps of gold, to mysterious tokens that could summon deities or invoke wealth upon any man. Fergus’ bag was not small, but not so large that he could have been carrying a king’s ransom in jewels and gold.
It was time Ysmaine discovered the truth.
After all, some soul sought to discover it, and if they succeeded, Gaston would be disgraced. She could not let her husband fail in his last, albeit secret, mission for the order.
She had to look within that bag.
* * *
In the end, Ysmaine’s search was contrived more readily than she might have expected. They docked in the harbor and there was much disarray as the horses were unloaded along with the rest of the party.
Then the party scattered. Bartholomew was dispatched to find accommodation for them all, while Fergus took Hamish to an apothecary. By midday, they were all installed in a small house with a pleasant courtyard, far enough away from the port to be quiet. The landlady was retained to cook for them, but she would not lay the board for dinner until the sun had set. They shared a simple meal of bread, ham, cheese and wine, the fare more than welcome after the lack of variety on the ship. It was hot already, the sunlight bright in the courtyard and more than one member of the party began to yawn.
Gaston saw the portal locked and granted the keys to Ysmaine, then took Bartholomew with him to seek out provisions for the horses. Fergus returned with Hamish and the apothecary’s instructions that the boy not ride a horse for at least three days. After a brief argument, Wulfe threw up his hands and left the house in what was clearly poor temper, Stephen and Simon running behind him.
Ysmaine guessed that he would have preferred to ride out more quickly than that.
Everard declared himself exhausted and retired to sleep until the next morning. Joscelin left their abode to visit some fellow merchants in town who were friends he saw seldom. Fergus looked to be as tired as Everard, so Ysmaine suggested he sleep until the meal, as well. He readily agreed.
The courtyard beyond the common room must have once been larger, but the greater part of it had been roofed. There were stalls for the horses, though the end adjacent to the courtyard was open, granting a view into the shadowed shelter. Ysmaine could even see Laurent dozing atop his precious burden in the back corner. Kerr followed Fergus up the stairs, while Hamish slept, purportedly under Ysmaine’s watchful eye.
The house fell quiet and filled with the sounds of slumber. The landlady’s activity in the kitchens could be heard at a distance, as could the bells from the church towers. The horses stamped, as if reassuring themselves that their hooves were on solid ground, and gradually, Laurent fell into a deep sleep. The boy slumped over the bag, his grip lax, then slid away from it to collapse on the floor. He was not roused, even by this movement.
Ysmaine’s heart squeezed. The poor boy must be exhausted.
But his condition created the opportunity she sought. She roused Radegunde and insisted in a whisper that the girl watch for any arrival, as well as tending to Hamish. She then crossed the courtyard silently, her heart in her throat.
Gaston had declared his intention to take her to the markets this very day.
There might not be much time.
* * *
The imposter could not believe his good fortune. He turned his cloak inside out and pulled the hood over his face, then followed Wulfe and the squires at a distance. The knight strode through the streets of Venice with purpose and some annoyance. Irritation made him careless and confident, for he glanced back only once.
He spoke to many in the market, his Venetian so fluent that even when the imposter caught a few words, he could not understand.
When Wulfe rapped at the portal of a house, the imposter ducked into a doorway farther down the street to watch. There could be no doubt of the occupation of the woman who opened the door, nor the role that of the large male slave who stood by her side. That man looked up and down the street with suspicion, then folded his arms across his chest to glare at Wulfe.
Undaunted, Wulfe spoke to the woman.
He disappeared inside the house with the boys following, the slave surveying the street once more before following them.
The imposter smiled. Wulfe went to a courtesan. He would be both naked and occupied. Here was the opportunity the imposter needed most.
And if his search went awry, any violence would be readily explained by the location where it had occurred. He strode away, confident he could find the location again, and sought a disguise.
He would return later, when Wulfe was perhaps drunk and certainly abed.
* * *
Ysmaine went directly to the bag so carefully guarded by Laurent. She stood beside the boy for a long moment, ensuring that Laurent continued to sleep. As she waited, she studied the way the bag was bound, knowing she would have to make it look exactly as it was to avoid detection.
It seemed that growing up with a number of sisters, each of whom was curious beyond compare, was good preparation for her task. She gave Laurent a minute nudge and the boy curled up in a ball to sleep, increasing the distance between himself and his precious burden.
Ysmaine did not linger. She untied the bundle with rapid fingers, then found something heavy within. It was large and hard, about the size of two hand spans in every direction. She ran her hands over the bundled shape, trying to guess its contents.
It was a box of some kind, for it had hard corners, and a box heavily wrapped. Was it fragile? Precious? Ysmaine again observed the pattern of the protective cloth, then unbound its contents.
The smell brought a tear to her eye, and she realized she would have to ensure that the cloth did not touch her own garments. Her breath caught in her throat at first glimpse of a large round gem mounted in gold, and she was glad to be in the darkness of the stables. That gem, a huge amethyst sphere was mounted in gold and affixed to the side of the box. She pushed aside the cloth to see that beside it was another gem of green and a row of large pearls.
Indeed, it was a box, wrought of gold and studded with gems. It was a treasure to be sure and one of a value unimaginable. Ysmaine concluded as much before she saw the inscription and realized its material value was but a fraction of its spiritual worth.
St. Euphemia.
She stared in awe. This fine box was a reliquary, containing the sacred bones of a saint. Ysmaine had heard that the Temple in Jerusalem held the relics of St. Euphemia, specifically the saint’s head, but it had been but one of a thousand stories circulated about the mysteries of the order’s possessions.
That she should touch such a treasure was beyond all expectation.
Ysmaine held the reliquary in her hands, only half unwrapped, and considered the shape of it, so like a small chapel. She closed her eyes and was sure she could feel the sanctity of the martyr seeping into her palms, suffusing her, healing her body and soul.
This was the prize their party defended.
And what a treasure it was!
Ysmaine thought of the baggage being explored and knew this was the reason why. Someone was prepared to steal this prize! Laurent stirred, and Ysmaine knew she dared not linger. She wrapped the reliquary again exactly as it had been, her hands shaking in her haste.
The safe delivery of this treasure was Gaston’s secret mission.
And if he failed, there would be a price exacted from her new husband, to be sure. Whether it would be by the order of the Templars or by divine force, it mattered little.
Ysmaine had to figure out a way to help Gaston, to protect this prize and ensure its safe delivery to its destination. She bound the bag as it had been before and replaced it within Fergus’ belongin
gs, just as it had been. Laurent moved in his sleep, a frown marring his brow, and Ysmaine coaxed his hand to the saddlebag. The boy drew it closer, almost embracing it, and sighed with relief in his sleep.
Did he know what he protected?
Or only that Fergus had asked it of him?
Ysmaine surveyed the bag, ensuring it was exactly as she had found it, then spun at the sound of a woman’s laughter. She drew back into the shadows as Radegunde laughed again at something Everard said to her. He left the common room to step into the courtyard, stretching and then drawing a cup of water from the well.
Ysmaine’s heart pounded as he scanned the opening to the stables and she wondered whether she had been seen. She moved to the back of the stables and behind the horses, then strode into the last of the sunlight and feigned surprise at the sight of the knight.
“Sir! I thought you meant to sleep all the night long!” she said, as if jesting with him.
He laughed. “I have been, but am much restored. This cursed thirst will not be sated.” Everard lifted his cup to her in salute. “And you?” His gaze flicked to the stables and back to her. “Surely you do not undertake the duties of a groom?” The notion seemed to amuse him.
Ysmaine laughed lightly. “Not I! Gaston summoned Bartholomew with such haste that I wanted to ensure the steeds had sufficient water. Of course, I should not have doubted that he would accomplish all before he departed with Gaston.” She lifted her hands and made a face. “And now I must wash myself in truth.”
The knight smiled and finished his water. Ysmaine curtseyed and returned to the common room, her heart pounding even though she was certain she had evaded detection.
Now, she simply had need of a plan to ensure Gaston’s success.
* * *
Ysmaine had a vague recollection that the markets of Venice were fine, but she had been without coin when last she had passed through the city and had scarce glanced at the wares. Indeed, she and Radegunde had not spent much time in the fabled city, but had secured passage on a ship as quickly as possible. It had been food that had tempted her most, she recalled.
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