Little did she know that she would bear him a daughter before the first of their three sons arrived.
Tuesday, September 1, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Drithelm and Saint Giles of Provence.
Epilogue
By the time Gaston’s party crossed the boundaries of Valeroy, he had a veritable list of concerns about his new life. The last deed he wished to do was to disappoint Ysmaine, but he feared his lack of experience would cause him to err.
They were numerous, due to Ysmaine’s suggestion. Fergus had joined their party, along with Duncan and the two squires in his service. That knight had been long in discussion with the Grand Master at Paris, and Gaston did not doubt that the Scotsman carried some missive to London on his behalf. The boy Laurent had been compelled to bathe, which made him look both younger and more delicate. Gaston hoped the boy survived the winters in Scotland.
Bartholomew also rode with them, along with four of the knights from the Temple who rode to London with Fergus. They had another six squires, and along with the palfreys burdened with Fergus’ gifts for his betrothed, the party was of considerable size.
There was a balance to be struck between appearing resolute and aggressive, and Gaston believed he had struck the balance right. The Grand Master had offered as many men as Gaston wished, but he had selected only the four. He would not have minded to have Wulfe in the party, but there had been no word from that knight after he had ridden in pursuit of Christina. Gaston wondered if they would ever meet again.
He had endeavored to gather as much information about his future holding and local politics as possible while in Paris, but still he felt poorly equipped for the responsibilities ahead of him. He was blessed indeed to have Ysmaine at his side, for she had a knowledge of secular matters beyond his own.
The appearance of the keep of Valeroy on the horizon made Gaston think of his lady’s parents and their reaction to her nuptials. They had not chosen him, and indeed, they might not approve.
He considered the appearance of his party and decided upon a change. “Ride in pairs,” he instructed the others. “We approach as visitors not invaders.”
“That is good thinking,” Ysmaine said softly, her eyes shining. Indeed, he could not miss the delight in her expression as she surveyed her home. “Is it not beautiful?”
Valeroy was beautiful, prosperous, and so clearly well administered that Gaston felt his lack of experience more keenly. He tried to hide his trepidation, but his perceptive wife reached to touch the back of his gloved hand.
“Fear not, Gaston. They will approve of you most heartily.” She had recalled his hope that she arrive at his holding richly garbed without him making any reminder. In Paris, she had sewn the green silk into a wondrous garment with Radegunde’s help. The pair of them had worked long hours upon the embroidery and though she vowed there would yet be more, even now, Ysmaine looked like a queen. He was beyond glad that she had chosen this garb for this day, but still feared their reception.
“They did not choose me.”
“They had no such opportunity.”
“I did not ask your father’s permission to take your hand.”
“There was scarce a chance to do so.”
“Your wrist is broken,” he reminded her, suspecting that he as a protective father might find that a sign of disregard or at least carelessness.
She smiled. “I would never have seen this place again save for you, and they will not forget it.”
Gaston swallowed as the gates drew nearer.
“Gaston, I am hale, I am richly garbed, I am escorted, and I have a ring upon my finger,” Ysmaine said, her voice soft but scolding all the same. Gaston glanced at her and she smiled. “It is likely that my father remembers you, as well.”
That was not reassuring in the least, not when returning to France put Gaston in mind of his uncle’s desire to be rid of him. He did not know Amaury’s alliances or friendships and felt that he entered an uncharted realm. What man could negotiate his way without surety of alliances, both spoken and unspoken, in his fellows?
He hoped he did not err at Valeroy out of his ignorance. There was but one opportunity to make a first impression, and he would have Ysmaine’s parents think well of him from the outset.
The porter hailed them and Gaston made a decision. “You speak for us first,” he bade Ysmaine. “For this is your home.”
She smiled, clearly thrilled that he granted her this responsibility. “Good day!” she cried, raising her voice as she addressed the porter merrily. “Is that yet you at the gates of Valeroy, Odo of Brittany? If so, my father is fortunate to yet be so well served.”
An older man stepped out of the gatehouse, his astonishment clear. “Lady Ysmaine? You are returned! Praise be to God!”
“Praise be to Mary,” Ysmaine corrected with a smile. “For I return with a husband and defender, who has ensured my safe journey from Jerusalem itself.”
This Odo looked between Gaston and Ysmaine with wonder. “Many feared you dead, my lady.”
“And I was nearly so.” She spoke with a crisp authority that was not displeasing. “Please send word to my parents that we arrive, Odo.”
The porter bowed and retreated, shouting for a boy to run to the hall ahead of them. He opened the gates, beckoned to the ostler, and walked beside Ysmaine. Gaston liked well this balance between deference and conviviality and pledged to learn more of how it was encouraged from his wife. “All are well here, my lady, but your sister, the lady Jehanne, was wed in April.”
“Truly?” Ysmaine’s pleasure was clear. “And the match is good?”
“Your father was most satisfied with it, and he seemed an amiable knight. His repute is excellent.”
“That is most pleasing to know. I thank you for these tidings, Odo.” Ysmaine halted her horse and addressed. “I fear you wish to ask me of Thibaud, but do not wish to be bold, so I will tell you the worst of it. I know you were good friends and long comrades.”
Odo dropped his gaze, evidently guessing what she would say. “He will not return, then.”
Ysmaine spoke gently. “I fear not. He died in my defense and is laid to his rest in Ornans, outside Besançon.”
Odo crossed himself, his grief clear, then looked up at Ysmaine again. “Thibaud told me before your party left that he would willingly die to ensure your welfare, my lady. He would be joyous to see you returned to Valeroy.”
“He made it possible, and leaves me forever in his debt,” Ysmaine acknowledged. “I will ask my father to order a mass for Thibaud here and will have one said weekly at my new abode on his behalf.”
“You are most kind, my lady,” Odo said and kissed the hem of her kirtle.
Gaston took note of the devotion of her father’s men. He should be so fortunate as to have men sworn to his hand who would lay down their lives in defense of his own children.
“You must teach me how this balance is struck,” he said to his wife when they rode on. “For his deference is as clear as his affection.”
Again, Ysmaine touched Gaston’s hand. “My father is fair but firm, a man who keeps his word and protects his own. His courts give timely justice at a fair price, and he is generous with those on his holding.” She met his gaze. “You will strike this balance readily, Gaston, for you have much in common with him.”
Gaston could not reply for they reached the portal to the hall itself. An older man and woman stood together in the bailey, their hands clasped. He recalled his father’s counsel that a man should look to the mother of his bride to see the future, and so he studied Richildis. She was slender and elegant, and her gaze was direct. She was an attractive woman, and a regal one.
“Ysmaine!” she cried and his wife slipped from the saddle to run to her mother. They embraced tightly as her father looked on, and tears were shed by all three of them.
“You are home,” Amaury whispered, his hand upon his eldest daughter’s shoulder.
“You are too thin,” Richildis scolded, but Ys
maine only laughed.
He bit back a smile at the realization that Ysmaine had already taught him something of women for he could read her mother’s thoughts clearly. She surveyed her daughter, clicking her tongue that she was so thin then she surveyed him openly. Gaston did not doubt that she estimated his wealth and endeavored to guess his character. Her gaze fell to the silk bliaut, and he would have wagered she put its value within a penny. Richildis then looked at her daughter’s left hand, and Gaston was glad he had seen fit to buy a gold wedding ring in Paris.
The parents turned to him expectantly but he had already dismounted.
“My husband,” Ysmaine said, and Gaston knew he had her parents’ attention fully.
He bowed low. “I am Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine,” he said, then offered his hand.
Richildis could not hide her delight. “So close as that?” she whispered, then hugged her daughter again. Indeed, the love within this family could not be disguised.
Amaury’s grip was firm and his gaze steady. “I see Fulk in your eyes and in your stature,” he said with satisfaction and Gaston felt relief. “Doubtless I should taste it in the bite of your blade should we meet in battle. No man could look upon you and doubt your father’s name.”
“I am glad to know of this, sir. I have been gone many years, after all.”
“And much has changed in your absence,” Amaury agreed easily.
Gaston realized that the information he sought might be gained from his lady’s family. “I fear I have lost track of those who will be my neighbors, and hope I do not give offense where none is due.”
Amaury considered him, but said naught.
“Do you know if my mother is still at the same foundation?” Gaston asked. “Neither she nor I have been permitted private correspondence, but Ysmaine would like to meet her. I, too, would be glad to see her again.”
“I am not certain,” Amaury said. “Richildis may know more, or at least who best to ask.”
Gaston inclined his head in thanks.
Amaury continued, apparently making conversation. “There were those who said you would not leave the Templars even for the prize of a holding.”
Gaston was certain Ysmaine’s father sought to warn him of his reception. “I understand my niece is lately wed, to Millard de St. Roux,” he said, keeping his tone mild.
Amaury’s gaze flicked over Gaston’s party. “And so she is. You knew of this?”
“Marie wrote to advise me of Bayard’s death and mentioned the marriage. I was permitted to receive a missive of such import.”
Amaury nodded, his gaze trailing over the group. “You must come into the hall and refresh yourselves.”
Gaston chose to misinterpret that man’s glance. “I apologize that our party is so large, sir, and would not expect your hospitality to extend to those knights who accompany us. My comrades travel to London and beyond and would readily take their relief at an inn.” He knew how he might reassure his wife’s father. “We travel together at Ysmaine’s suggestion that our parties be joined. I thought her counsel most sensible for the road can be dangerous.”
Amaury’s eyes lit. “You confer with my daughter, then?”
“Of course, sir. It is long since I left these parts and her knowledge is invaluable.”
Amaury smiled and beckoned to the rest of the party. “I welcome you and all of your comrades to Valeroy. There is a hind for the midday meal, and more than sufficient for all.” His voice dropped. “Indeed, the hunting is most fine this year. I wonder whether you might linger a day or two here that we might ride out to hunt together.”
Gaston understood that Ysmaine’s father would grant him advice and news of his neighbors in the forest, where they could not be overheard. Indeed, here was a familiar technique as well as the information he sought. “I am honored by the invitation, sir, and pleased to accept.”
“And I am equally pleased by the opportunity to spend time with my daughter’s new husband.” Amaury granted Gaston a sidelong glance that he understood well. “Indeed, I think I may feel compelled to accompany you to your holding, the better to see where my daughter will make her home.” He smiled. “You will indulge a father, I hope.”
“Of course.”
“Ah, I remember Fulk well, and his pride in his estate. It will be good to see that place again.”
“I hope you will give me the opportunity to return your hospitality,” Gaston said. “And bring as large a party as you choose.”
Amaury laughed and clapped Gaston on the shoulder. His eyes gleamed and Gaston knew they understood each other. “Indeed, I could do no less, for I see that my daughter has chosen well.” He sobered and met Gaston’s gaze steadily. “Fulk would be proud of you, make no mistake in that. And I am glad of my daughter’s choice.”
“I am honored by it,” Gaston agreed.
They shook hands again, then Gaston led Ysmaine to the high table in her father’s hall. Her sisters greeted her with delight, as did many of the servants, and he was pleased to see her joy. She brought so much advantage to him already, and he knew they would meet the challenges of the future together—as well as savor its joys. Ysmaine was radiant, as brilliant as a well-cut gem, and Gaston was resolved that his home would be the setting that would favor her best.
Indeed, he would make it so.
The lady who had claimed his wary heart deserved no less.
* * *
Ready for more of The Champions of St. Euphemia?
Read on for an excerpt from
The Crusader’s Heart
Book #2 in the series
Coming October 20, 2015
Excerpt from
The Crusader’s Heart
The Champions of Saint Euphemia, Book #2
by Claire Delacroix
A company of Templar knights, chosen by the Grand Master of the Temple in Jerusalem to deliver a sealed trunk to the Temple in Paris. A group of pilgrims seeking the protection of the Templars to return home as the Saracens prepare to besiege the city. A mysterious treasure that someone will even kill to possess…
A valiant warrior sworn to the order of the Knights Templar for life, Wulfe resents being dispatched to Paris just when the Latin Kingdoms are at their most vulnerable. He is determined to fulfill his duty as quickly as possible and return to fight for justice—but the courtesan he defends in Venice is resolved to remain at his side until she saves his life in return. The alluring and perceptive Christina will not be left behind, and soon Wulfe finds himself forced to choose between his vows and his heart…
The Crusader’s Heart
Venice—July 1187
Wulfe could not believe his ill fortune. The list of his woes was long indeed, and he ground his teeth as he marched through the twisted streets of Venice in search of relief.
First, he had been compelled to leave Jerusalem just when that city was doomed to face a challenge to its survival as a crusader holding. As a knight and a Templar, he knew his blade should be raised in defense of the Temple, not undertaking some errand that could have been managed by a clerk or lay brother.
Worse, this duty demanded that he ride all the way to Paris to deliver said missive, which meant that by the time he returned to Outremer, any battle might be completed. He might miss the opportunity to defend what he loved best, which was an abomination by any accounting.
Thirdly, he had only the appearance of leadership of the party that traveled with him. In reality, he had to cede to the dictate of Gaston, a former brother of the Temple who secretly was in command of this quest. That a knight who had left the order was more trusted than Wulfe was salt in the wound.
That Gaston made choices Wulfe would never have made, and Wulfe had to present them as his own notions, was galling. It was Gaston’s fault that the mission had so nearly failed at Acre, for Gaston had insisted upon riding for that port instead of departing more quickly from the closer port of Jaffa. Wulfe snarled that he should be blamed for such a close call.
Though it
was somewhat mollifying that Gaston had defended the party alone when they had been attacked and might have paid for his error with his own life.
Still, had the choice been Wulfe’s, no one would have been compelled to render any price at Acre.
The final straw was that Wulfe had been saddled with the most vexing company imaginable for the journey to Paris. A fortnight trapped on a ship with them all had left him nigh murderous.
There was Gaston, so calm and deliberate, so unshakeable in his confidence, that Wulfe was tempted to challenge him to a fight. He wanted to see Gaston riled over some matter or another. There was Gaston’s wife, Ysmaine, a beauty who, like all women, should neither be trusted nor riding with knights on an errand. Indeed, she had evidently acquired toxins and brought them along. Such irresponsibility was yet another source of annoyance to Wulfe.
There was Gaston’s squire, Bartholomew, a man of such an age that he should long ago have been knighted himself. Wulfe had no patience for men with little ambition. Although the younger man did not appear to be lazy, Wulfe could not understand why he did not aspire for more. It was unnatural to be content with one’s lot.
Another former Templar, Fergus, had completed his military service and returned to Scotland to wed his betrothed. Wulfe could not comprehend why he would stick to the date of his planned departure when the Holy City was likely to be besieged. Indeed, he could make no sense in the decision of any of these men to abandon Jerusalem in its moment of need.
That the secret treasure they carried in trust for the Temple in Jerusalem was entrusted to the care of Fergus, another brother who had left the order, and not himself, made Wulfe’s blood fairly boil. He did not even know what the prize was!
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