The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  Leila gestured to the water glistening in the distance. “And what lies out of view? Is it the ocean itself?” It amazed her that she could ride further west, then sail south and eventually back to the Mediterranean again, then onward to Palestine. Would it take longer by sea or not? It would be much farther, to be sure.

  “Eventually, but first a traveler must sail around the Rhinns of Galloway, then between Ireland and the western Isles.” Her confusion must have shown because he smiled. “The western islands are the realm of the Kings of the Isles, laid bare to both wind and sea.”

  Leila wanted immediately to see them. Fergus’ affection for his homeland was more than clear and she could understand his feelings. This journey had awakened her taste to see even more of the world than she had. “I thought there was a king of Scotland. Duncan mentioned as much when we left Haynesdale.”

  “And so there is, but the isles have always been reluctant to bow to authority from afar. They were claimed by the Irish from across the sea, and thence by the Vikings, crossing another sea. The highlanders would claim them and the English would claim them, and the Scottish kings try to contain them as well. In the northern islands, the Norwegian king makes claims. Alliances are uneasy in these parts and always shifting.”

  “That sounds familiar,” Leila said wryly and Fergus smiled.

  “I imagine that situation is familiar to more people than not.”

  “And your home?”

  “Is a small holding, as you see, but sits at a junction of a kind. That river is a border between Galloway and Scotland, although sometimes this side of the river is pledged to England. From the southwest and northwest, the Kings of the Isles have their lands and often dispute who holds what. Up Solway Firth and on this shore, much news and many warriors travel. My father is trusted to ensure a careful alliance between kings and lords, and Killairic has prospered as a result of his efforts.” He spared Leila a fleeting smile. “My marriage will secure his responsibility for the future.”

  Leila did not ask about Isobel this time. “Tell me of Galloway,” she invited instead.

  “To the immediate west of Killairic are the lands of the Lords of Galloway, my cousins. They are much inclined to warfare. I was named for Fergus, Lord of Galloway, who died just before I was born. His sons, Uchtred and Gille Brigte, battled over his territories until Gille Brigte killed his own brother and claimed his lands.” Fergus’ lips tightened to a grim line. “It was a barbaric end for a savage warrior.” He paused, then added with care. “They are unpredictable allies despite our blood bond.”

  “Or perhaps because of it,” Leila suggested. She considered the gently rolling hills and wondered at them being scarred by warfare.

  Fergus nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “And Killairic?”

  “Granted to my father by the English king upon the surrender of Fergus, to defend the border between his lands to the east and south, and those claimed by Fergus’ sons to the west. The Scottish king agreed to the grant, and marriage to my mother secured my father’s alliance with the Scottish king.”

  “She was related to him?”

  “His niece.”

  “So, your father is of Galloway and your mother of Scotland.”

  “Aye.”

  Leila had to ask. “And the lady Isobel?”

  “Her kin are of the Kingdom of the Isles but have no claim to that throne. She has Norwegian blood, as do many on the islands. They are tall and fair, with golden hair and eyes of blue.”

  Leila could not help but think that she, small and dark, would compare badly to a woman of such queenly stature. She had already noted that the Franj had great preference for women with blond hair and wondered if her hope of finding a husband who cared for her might be doomed.

  She straightened in her saddle. She would not expect failure, not before she had tried to succeed.

  “Her father fought for Fergus and was granted a holding to the west of here, closer to the sea. Dunnisbrae it is called. We knew each other as children, and it was decided early that our nuptials would balance the ambitions of the English king to expand north and west from Carlisle.”

  “And so your marriage will have you torn between loyalties?” Leila asked, trying to keep her tone as dispassionate as his. In truth, she was fiercely interested in this Isobel who had claimed Fergus’ heart so securely and hoped the lady deserved Fergus’ regard. She had already divined that Duncan did not think Isobel trustworthy, which made her doubly intent upon making her own assessment.

  She supposed she would have that opportunity soon.

  Perhaps Isobel awaited Fergus’ return at Killairic. Leila had never asked the whereabouts of his betrothed. Her innards clenched at the prospect of seeing Fergus wed his beloved in the next few days. No doubt the celebration would not be delayed any longer after his return.

  Would Isobel tolerate Leila’s presence at Killairic?

  While her thoughts spun, Fergus laughed. “It is an established way to ensure that a man best keeps his obligations.”

  “I suppose as much,” Leila had to concede. “I thought yours was a love match.”

  “It is, but that is a fortunate coincidence. Even if Isobel and I were not in love, we might be fated to wed all the same. The alliance is a good one for both families and both kings.”

  And if Isobel had not possessed a lineage that would offer a strategic alliance, then Fergus might not have been permitted to wed his beloved. Leila’s lips thinned that some matters remained the same in all lands.

  That was the moment she realized how little advantage there could be to any man in wedding her. She had no family connections, fortune, or powerful alliance to offer. And she was not blond. It might well be that no man would find her alluring in this land where women were so much more fair, much less come to love her. The prospect was sobering. Would she even be able to ensure her survival as a whore?

  Perhaps that explained Fergus’ silence. Perhaps he understood the challenge that faced her better than Leila did.

  Nay, she would not lose hope. Not now. Somehow, Leila had to find a future for herself and she was determined that it should be in Scotland. The adventure, she reminded herself, had only just begun.

  The forest closed around the road ahead as it dipped down to a river, and Fergus halted his destrier.

  “Enguerrand, will you take the lead?” he asked the more senior Templar. Fergus was more cautious that Leila might have expected upon entering a copse so close to his home. “And Yvan, I would have you at the rear. I will follow Enguerrand with Duncan behind me, then Leila, the squires and the baggage.”

  “Do you suspect an attack?” Enguerrand asked.

  Fergus’ eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I have become too cautious.”

  “Better safe than sorry, lad,” Duncan said heartily, and Leila remembered his assertion that Fergus could glimpse the future. Had Fergus not said that he spied a shadow ahead? Would he be cheated of his homecoming on the very threshold of Killairic? Her heart beat a little more quickly and she glanced around them.

  They organized as instructed and rode onward at a steady pace, all of them scanning the forest on either side as the progressed. Leila thought of the assault upon their party at Haynesdale and listened keenly for any indication that they were being watched. She heard none, but that did not mean they were unobserved.

  It was not a great distance through the forest, but it seemed longer because of their concern. The trees parted abruptly, granting a closer view of the keep they had glimpsed earlier and it looked even more prosperous at close proximity. The insignia was of a golden stag leaping on a green field. Leila felt the tension ease in both Duncan and Fergus.

  “He lives,” Fergus whispered, then gave his destrier his heels.

  Leila understood immediately. He feared that his father might have passed away in his absence. Her heart clenched that his concern had been unfounded.

  Meanwhile, Fergus raced his stallion to the gates, hollering with joy as he rode. Tempes
t tossed his head and ran with abandon, clearly sharing his knight’s joy. It was also clear that Fergus felt safe within sight of the keep. The gates did stand open, though Leila had to believe they were secured at night. A few villagers left their tasks to see who approached, and Leila heard them shout in greeting. Duncan had been teaching her Gaelic in the evenings, and she was pleased that she could understand some of what was said.

  It helped that they said what she anticipated they might say.

  “’Tis my lord Fergus! He is home!”

  “The laird’s son is returned!”

  “All hail, the return of my lord Fergus!”

  People spilled out of the cottages, the mill, and the keep itself, surrounding Fergus. Their happiness was as evident as his own. He leaped from the saddle and shook hands, accepted kisses, was hugged and clapped upon the back repeatedly. He might have been greeting family instead of those pledged to his father’s service. Leila approved of this warm relationship between laird and villein. Children ran through the delighted crowd, geese honked, dogs barked, and goats bleated. Leila heard Fergus laughing and smiled herself at such merriment.

  The rest of the party were similarly surrounded once Fergus had been welcomed. The Templars were regarded with wonder. A bearded man with dark eyes and a leather apron stepped forward to run his hands over the flanks of the horses, and Leila guessed he was the village smith. Hamish was plucked from his saddle and hugged by a great bear of a man with an enthusiasm that made the boy blush crimson.

  “Uncle Rodney,” the boy protested but without much vigor.

  “And a kiss for your aunt Mhairi, if you please,” a buxom woman said, seizing Hamish to kiss his cheeks. Hamish was surrounded by this pair, who spoke to him quickly. Leila watched the woman tousle the boy’s hair and guessed that they were talking about how much he had grown.

  “You are one less than before,” the blacksmith noted, his gaze flicking over the party. He had a low resonant voice that commanded attention and the villagers fell silent after his words. Leila saw several count the party, pointing fingers as they did so, and the word ‘Kerr’ rose like a whisper though their ranks.

  Fergus nodded and bowed his head. “Alas, Kerr was killed on our return home. He is buried in the mountains west of Venice.” This Leila did not understand completely, but she heard ‘Kerr’ and ‘Venice’ and guessed what tidings Fergus had shared.

  Murmurs slipped through the company at these sad tidings and most people crossed themselves. One who was clearly a priest—for he wore a crucifix on a cord around his neck and his hair was tonsured—said something and gestured to a small building downriver. There was a cross on the roof, indicating that it was a chapel. Leila guessed that he invited the others to attend a mass for Kerr. Fergus spoke to him and the priest nodded, then hastened to the chapel.

  Leila doubted she would be welcome there. In some parts of Palestine, holy places were shared between faiths, but it seemed unlikely that there would be similar tolerance here. She was probably the first Saracen these people had ever seen.

  Duncan was greeted warmly and embraced another tall warrior tightly. That man looked to be of an age with Duncan or even older, and his long hair was mingled silver and gold. He wore a patch over one eye, and he alone wore a chain mail hauberk in the company. His gaze flicked to her and he smiled. Leila dropped her gaze, her heart racing at his obvious appreciation. Was he a man whose attention she should cultivate? She had spent so long in the company of men yet disguised as a boy that she had forgotten any feminine arts and allures.

  It might be timely to recall them.

  She noticed that Duncan hefted his saddlebag to his shoulder when he dismounted, keeping the precious relic close by his side when his horse was led away. He came to help her from the saddle and she knew that the villagers—and that warrior—were watching her closely.

  “And so we reach our destination,” Duncan murmured to her in French as he offered his hand. There was understanding in his eyes as he held her gaze.

  “I must find a husband, Duncan,” Leila whispered. “Have you any advice?”

  “That rogue will not suit,” Duncan said. “He has not a denier to his name, though I do not doubt that he will attempt to charm you.”

  Leila smiled. “Thank you, Duncan.”

  “You can do better.” Duncan winked and led her toward the open portal. “Come and meet Calum, Laird of Killairic.”

  “And your patron,” Leila said, recalling Duncan’s pledge to serve the man who had once saved his life.

  “Indeed.”

  “I hope he will release you from his service, now that Fergus is safely returned.”

  “We shall see. We shall see.”

  “What of your friend?”

  “Murdoch Olafson.” Duncan nodded with approval. “There is a warrior to have at one’s back, but not one to speak for the likes of you. I am glad he remained with Calum while we were gone and do not doubt he will demand a full accounting from me at earliest opportunity.” Duncan gave her a look. “I will tell him to leave you be, for you are lady not whore.”

  Leila nodded, well aware that Murdoch watched her still.

  An older man with white hair had come to the portal and stood there, leaning on a cane, his eyes alight as he regarded Fergus. He was dressed in the style of French nobles, in a long robe of heavy cloth but with a length of plaid cloth handing from his shoulder like a cape. The pin holding the cloth shone in the sun, for it was set with a purple stone. He embraced Fergus with such obvious affection and pleasure that tears rose to Leila’s eyes. Father and son spoke quickly, so quickly that Leila found their words incomprehensible.

  Duncan squeezed Leila’s fingers, evidently noting her reaction. “You do well with Gaelic. Soon you will speak as quickly as they do.”

  “I hope as much.”

  Duncan sobered, his gaze assessing. “Do not wed against your instincts, Leila, simply to see the matter resolved.”

  “You know I will not, Duncan. That is why I fled, after all.”

  “Aye, that is true enough.” He held her gaze, his own filled with conviction. “Know this, lass. If ever I have a home, you are welcome within it, be you wedded or not, for so long as you should choose to stay.”

  A lump rose in Leila’s throat at his unexpected offer and relief flooded through her. “Thank you, Duncan. I do not know what my fate will be, so your generous offer is most welcome.”

  “None of us know our fate, lass, none of us.” Duncan took a deep breath. “But I will do all that I can to make a home for Radegunde. I know that she would welcome your company as much as I would be honored to have you as a guest.”

  Leila blinked back unexpected tears. “Thank you. You are a good friend, Duncan.”

  “For a Franj,” he teased, a merry glint in his eye.

  Leila laughed. “For a Franj,” she ceded, for she had learned that there was much more diversity in Christians from the west than she had once believed. “I hope I am a good friend for a Saracen.”

  “The best I have ever known,” he agreed promptly.

  “And how many Saracens do you call friend?” Leila teased, her mood lightened by his offer.

  “Only one, but she is worth a thousand others.” Duncan grinned. “Why, we crossed the breadth of Christendom to find such a friend.”

  “That was not the sole reason you journeyed so far.”

  “True enough.” Duncan dropped his gaze quickly to his saddlebag. “But few need know the truth of it.”

  Leila nodded without looking at the bag. What would happen to the reliquary now that they had reached their destination? Could it truly be hidden in this keep forever? Or would the Templars take it to another sanctuary?

  Would she be entrusted with the truth?

  If naught else, she would do her part to see the prize defended, as she had before.

  * * *

  The change in Leila’s appearance was most troubling.

  Fergus had known that she was a maiden all alon
g, of course, ever since that first day in Jerusalem. He had caught glimpses of her hidden truth on their journey. A quick smile that was unabashedly feminine. A flash of a wrist too delicate to be that of a boy. But seeing her in women’s garb had been a revelation.

  She was a beauty.

  And that kiss.

  That kiss.

  It had been wholly unexpected, yet not unwelcome. His powerful reaction to it had been a surprise. The memory tormented Fergus. His lips burned in recollection of it in the middle of the night. His pulse leaped at the sight of her. His dreams were filled with the possibilities of what would have come next, if he had not stepped away and returned to the festivities in Bartholomew’s new hall. He would have sworn that each time he licked his lips, he tasted Leila’s sweetness, though it was impossible.

  It had been a fortnight and still he thought about that kiss at all hours.

  He had even dreamed of Leila, holding a babe with golden skin and eyes of blue. The child’s hair was dark and wet, as if it had only just been born, and Leila appeared to be tired but radiant all the same. Curiously, Fergus knew it was a boy.

  The boy had to have a father from the west for his eyes to be of that hue. That should have reassured Fergus that Leila would have her desire fulfilled, but the vision had troubled him greatly. He had awakened on the night it had come to him and wondered at her future. Would she be happy in Scotland? Who was the father? Would that man treat her with honor? Leila looked delighted in his vision.

  That beguiling sight, coupled with the memory of that kiss and his questions, meant that Fergus found Leila dominating his thoughts more than he thought she should.

  It was clear he had been chaste too long. His marriage to Isobel could not be celebrated soon enough.

  And what of Leila? He had to find her a good husband, with all speed.

  As Fergus approached his father’s keep for the first time in four long years, he was surprised to find himself wondering what Leila would think of his home. Nay, he had wanted her approval. It was impossible to keep himself from riding alongside her, telling her about it, watching for her reaction. Leila’s admiration of Killairic gave him enormous pleasure—more pleasure than was reasonable. He should be concerned with how soon he would see Isobel or even what she would think of his gifts for her.