The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  But it was Leila who claimed his attention.

  Given the duration of his absence and his chastity, Fergus supposed it was inevitable that he had begun to notice other women, particularly one in whose company he had journeyed so far. Four years was a long time, almost an eternity. Was it not reasonable that his memories of Isobel faded?

  Fergus was glad to be home. He told himself that he was glad of his pending nuptials, and of the promise of soon seeing Isobel again.

  But the truth was he dreaded Leila’s inevitable departure.

  Or worse, her need to become a whore to survive. He could not let that happen. He must find her a spouse, a man of honor who would treat her well. He owed her that much, to be sure, but he would have to decide quickly.

  As Fergus strode through the village, his chest was tight at the familiarity of it all. He had been glad when the villagers spilled forth to welcome him home, and greeted them, each and every one. The sight of his father at the portal to the keep had been a more profound relief than Fergus could have believed possible.

  He had feared that the shadow he sensed might have been his father’s death. To see Calum hale and laughing, if a little more white of hair than silver, if leaning a little more on his cane than before, was the most welcome sight in all the world.

  “Father!” Fergus embraced his father, feeling a new frailty in the older man. It made him feel protective of his father and doubly determined to never leave home again.

  “My boy,” Calum said with obvious pleasure. “My boy, home again, just as promised.” He shook his head, then surveyed Fergus with pleasure. “A boy no longer, but still one to keep his every promise.” He ruffled Fergus’ hair as if he were a small boy, though he had to stretch upward to do it.

  “Of course!” Fergus agreed. “And I have brought you gifts...”

  “The only gift I need is you by my side,” his father declared. His eyes lit as he glanced over the company. “And with such a noble escort.” Calum greeted the Templars in careful French as they bowed deeply before him.

  “It was the command of our grand master that our comrade Fergus be escorted to his home, after his exemplary service,” Enguerrand said, using the tale they had agreed upon.

  “Indeed?” Calum lifted a brow. “You shall have to tell me of your exploits, my son.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “Did I hear correctly about Kerr?” his father asked in a murmur.

  “You did,” Fergus agreed, recounting another tale they had agreed upon. “We were beset by thieves outside of Venice and Kerr paid the price.” He did not like lying to his father, but he and Duncan had resolved that there was nothing to be gained by revealing Kerr’s deceptive nature after the boy’s demise.

  Calum’s lips thinned. “Someone will have to deliver that news,” he said beneath his breath and Fergus nodded.

  “I will tell Isobel, of course.” In truth, Fergus was more concerned with the sight before him. Duncan was approaching with Leila, and Fergus could not look away from her. His heart leaped to see her eyes sparkling as she jested with Duncan and her laughter was merry. She wore the dark green kirtle that Radegunde had given to her and a cloak of wool in a deep golden hue. Her boots were plain and sturdy, and she had not a gem to her name, but she was radiant all the same.

  Surely, he could find a husband who would treat her with the honor she deserved?

  “And Duncan returned with you, as well.” Calum embraced Duncan like another son and not like the hired man-at-arms he was.

  “I pledged to return him hale to you, my lord, and so it is done,” Duncan said.

  “And so you did, and so you did. Never did a laird have a more honorable warrior sworn to his cause. I thank you, Duncan.”

  The back of Duncan’s neck turned ruddy at this praise, but Calum gave him no opportunity to reply. The older man gave his cane to Fergus and clasped Duncan’s shoulders in his hands. “I welcome you to Killairic as a guest on this occasion, Duncan, for I do not doubt our wager has been repaid time and again between here and Outremer.” Calum smiled. “Indeed, I am now obligated to you. I owe you much, Duncan, for taking this ruffian into your custody and bringing him home again.”

  “The honor was mine, my lord,” Duncan said, apparently unable to keep himself from bowing. “I am as pleased as you to see him safely returned home.”

  Fergus was aware that Leila could not understand what his father and Duncan were saying, but did not know how to gracefully translate for her without drawing attention to the fact that she was Saracen.

  But then, he supposed that was no secret, with her golden skin and dark hair. She looked exotic and had been increasingly the focus of attention since their departure from Paris. The villagers eyed her with wonder, and he guessed there was speculation in their whispers.

  Was her inevitable departure at root of his portent?

  His father was hale, which was a relief, but the shadow had not dissipated.

  “And who is this flower of the east?” Calum asked, switching from Gaelic to French. He gestured to Leila. “Is this your companion, Duncan? Dare I hope that you have lost your heart and mean to plan a future as a wedded man?”

  Leila flushed and lowered her gaze, her dark lashes sweeping over her cheeks in a gesture so feminine that it stole Fergus’ breath away.

  “I am not so fortunate a man as to have won this beauty,” Duncan said with a rare flourish. “This is Leila...”

  Leila interrupted him smoothly. “I am Leila binte Qadir lufti al-Ramm, sir,” she said, bowing low before Fergus’ father. “I am honored to meet you.”

  Fergus knew he was not the only one astonished by her full name. Why had he never asked her what it was before? Murdoch Olafson stepped forward, perhaps to ensure he had a better view of Leila, and Fergus granted that old warrior a hard look.

  Murdoch seemed to be amused, but if he had any notions about Leila, Fergus would ensure they were dismissed along with that predatory smile.

  “And I am delighted to welcome you to my home,” Calum said to Leila. “How did you come to be in this party?”

  “I sought the protection of this company in Jerusalem and my lord Fergus was kind enough to honor my request.” Leila’s French was quick and smooth, so much better than Calum’s that it took the older man a moment to understand her meaning.

  “A damsel in distress,” his father said then with satisfaction.

  Leila smiled, her gaze flicking to Fergus. “One might say as much, sir.” She was beguiling when her eyes sparkled so. Because they were so dark, Fergus thought of stars in the midnight sky when they twinkled.

  “And who better to defend you than Knights of the Temple?” Calum continued. Enguerrand and Yvan said nothing, but stood a little straighter. “I am honored for your presence to grace my home, Lady Leila, for so long as you would choose to be my guest.” He gestured to the hall even as his words reminded Fergus that Leila would visit for a short time only. “Please, come and restore yourself from your journey. I warn you that I will pester you for tales of distant lands.”

  “I thank you, sir, for the kindness of your hospitality.” Leila bowed again.

  “The honor will be all mine, for you will help me with my French. I forget it in these hills, and the practice will be welcome.” Calum chuckled and reclaimed his cane. He winked at Fergus, then offered his arm to Leila. “Have you journeyed west before, my lady?”

  “This is my first such trip, sir.” She took Calum’s arm as if she needed his support. Fergus saw the way she slipped her hand beneath his father’s elbow, letting him lean upon her a little without anyone being the wiser. She was kind and he liked that well.

  “Then you knew only Outremer before that departure from Jerusalem?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “You must find Scotland vastly different from your home.”

  “The weather is considerably different, sir, and so is the food, but people, it seems are much the same wherever one travels.”

&nb
sp; “And that has long been my thinking as well,” Calum agreed, leading Leila into the great hall. Fergus and Duncan followed, the Templars behind them. The fires had been stoked to blazing and the high table was already set up. Iain, his father’s steward, was straightening a length of embroidered linen atop it and directing the placement of candles. He spared Fergus a warm smile and welcomed him home before calling to the cook that there had best be enough bread for the evening meal.

  That launched a typical and friendly dispute between Iain and Xavier the cook, both of them defending their skills and domains, and taking offense at the meddling of the other. In truth, they both were similar in nature, being older, unmarried men devoted to Fergus’ father’s service and comfort. He found himself smiling at the familiarity of it all as they bickered.

  “You had best mind your labor instead of mine,” Xavier concluded, indicating the arriving party. “You have not set enough benches in the hall for all of the company.”

  “I know best how to see the hall prepared.” Iain sniffed the air delicately. “Is that burning venison I smell?”

  Xavier swore with gusto and stalked back to the kitchen. Iain shook his head, then turned upon the man rolling a cask of wine into the hall.

  “Not here, not here,” the steward complained. “It must be mulled, for it is the last of the wine. Take it to the kitchen and see if that fiend will spare you a place on his fire to ensure his laird’s pleasure.”

  “If you mean to mull the wine, I have brought some spices for the kitchens,” Fergus raised his voice to interject and Iain’s eyes lit with pleasure.

  “Indeed, sir? They would be most welcome.” The older man came closer, bowing before Fergus. “Do you have a list of them, sir? I would add them to the inventory of the spice box before they can be dispersed without regard for their expense—as some people are wont to do.”

  Fergus bit back a smile, for it was easy to guess who Iain thought might be guilty of that crime. “I regret that I did not list them fully, Iain, but Hamish has been learning his sums.” He beckoned to his squire, giving that boy the means to escape the affectionate welcome of his aunt and uncle. “Hamish can record them in the ledger for you accurately, if you will lend him a scale. It will be good practice for him, and you, I know, must be too busy for such tasks on this day.”

  “And excellent notion, sir.” Iain nodded at Hamish. “You can use my counting room.”

  Hamish bowed and followed the older man, standing much taller than he had on their departure. Of course, he was four years older and much grown.

  His aunt and uncle beamed with pride as Hamish left the hall. The boy would see them again at the board this night, for Fergus would ensure as much.

  Fergus supposed he should consult with Hamish about his desire for the future. Did the boy wish to continue his training and be knighted? He had begged to accompany Fergus for the adventure and Fergus had taken him and Kerr as he had no squires before his departure. Perhaps Hamish could train at Haynesdale.

  “I will need peppercorns and cloves first,” Iain said to Hamish. “Dare I hope that there is cinnamon? For that would be a fine addition as well.”

  “There is, Iain, as well as star anise,” Hamish replied and Iain’s delight was clear. “I negotiated for it myself.”

  “Did you? I scarce remember the taste of that spice for it has been so long. What an adventure you must have had...”

  Meanwhile, boys were dispatched from the hall to bring the baggage and Calum headed for a seat set close to the fire. Leila helped him to take a seat and he granted her a smile of gratitude. She sat beside him at his invitation and visibly shivered. “You will need a man to warm you on our nights here, my lady,” Calum teased and Leila blushed again. “Have you chosen one yet?”

  “Not I, sir. I would not be so bold.”

  “Then we will find you one,” Calum said, giving her hand a pat. “A robust warrior with a tender heart, one who will defend you and honor you, as all men of merit should do for their wives. Do you like a song, my lady?”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  “You have come to the right land to find a husband. We have poets aplenty in these parts, and men whose songs charm the birds from the trees.”

  Leila seemed to be fighting a smile. “Indeed, sir?”

  “You sound skeptical, my lady.”

  “She has heard me sing, sir,” Duncan interjected.

  Calum laughed, his gaze flicking between Duncan and Leila with such delight that his conclusions were clear. “Perhaps we shall have a wedding at Killairic, after all,” he said with pleasure, then caught himself. His gaze darted to Fergus and the entire company fell ominously silent.

  Fergus’ heart stopped.

  It was clear that something was amiss.

  2

  “After all?” Fergus echoed, knowing that every gaze was locked upon him. The hair pricked on the back of his neck, and he found it remarkable that no one explained his father’s comment. Indeed, the hall was filled with a fearsome silence. “Surely, Isobel and I will be married at Killairic, Father.” The words were as dust in his mouth, for he was watching Leila. Her interest in the conversation was most clear.

  As clear as Murdoch’s interest in her.

  His father grimaced. “Surely not,” he said quietly. “I am sorry, Fergus.”

  Fergus thought he must have misunderstood. “Has Isobel fallen ill?”

  “Nay,” Calum said, his frown deepening.

  Iain had paused in the portal to the kitchens and looked back. He was ashen and motionless, as if he had been struck to stone. Hamish frowned in confusion as he looked between them all. Duncan was grim. Murdoch folded his arms across his chest and watched the exchange as if entertained. Leila’s eyes were wide and she clearly strove to follow the conversation.

  Fergus asked the inescapable question. “Is she dead?”

  His father winced. “Isobel is married, Fergus.”

  Married?

  Fergus was outraged and he felt betrayed. How could his beloved be wed to another? It could not be true! “But how can this be? Isobel is my betrothed.”

  “No longer,” Murdoch noted in his gravelly voice.

  Fergus spun to face that man. “She pledged to wait for me!”

  “It seems the lady changed her thinking,” Duncan noted.

  “But we love each other,” Fergus protested.

  “I would wager that your admiration was not returned in equal measure, lad,” Duncan said quietly.

  Fergus realized from Duncan’s tone that he, of all those who had just returned, was not surprised. Duncan shrugged, then dropped his gaze to his boots. Leila inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing in his defense.

  Still Fergus could not believe it.

  “But we are betrothed!” he protested again. “We are pledged to each other...”

  His father shook his head. “All the same, she exchanged vows with Stewart MacEwan...”

  “Stewart MacEwan?” Fergus paced the hall, astonished twice in rapid succession. He knew he had experienced doubt, but he had not broken his vow. Isobel should not have done as much, either. She had promised. And Stewart? How could she love Stewart? “But he is twenty years her senior!”

  Calum shrugged. “That does not appear to be an issue. She has borne him a son in your absence. She ripened with a second child, but I heard that something went awry.” Calum shook his head and most of the company crossed themselves.

  Two pregnancies? So quickly as that? Fergus had been gone almost exactly four years. He felt his eyes narrow as he turned to face his father again. He found Leila’s eyes snapping, her arms folded across her chest, and appreciated that she was insulted on his behalf.

  Something in him stirred at the sight of her fury, something he did not wish to consider in this moment.

  There had to be an explanation, and he immediately thought of one.

  “Did her father compel her choice?” Fergus asked tightly.

  His father shook his head. “Not as I
heard it.”

  Fergus exhaled. He paced. He was livid that a sworn word would mean so little to Isobel, that his trust had been so badly misplaced, that her love for him had been so fleeting. He was devastated that his loyalty had been so rewarded. How could she have done this? What would his life be without Isobel by his side? Fergus shoved a hand through his hair and did not wish to consider it.

  “When did they wed?” he asked, disliking that his father winced and dropped his gaze to his hands.

  “Three months after you left,” Murdoch supplied.

  Three months? Only three months? Had she thought so little of Fergus as that? His pride was pricked, to be sure, which did not add to his composure. If Isobel had waited a year or two, he could have understood her choice, at least to some extent. She might have believed him dead, or unlikely to return.

  Three months made him wonder whether she ever meant to wed him at all.

  That shook him to his marrow. He loved Isobel and had been faithful to her, yet she had forgotten him so quickly as that. He felt sickened and empty.

  Fergus could not look at Leila, for fear that she would guess the depth of his despair.

  The boys were bringing in the many boxes of gifts he had brought for Isobel and the sight of them made him feel like a fool. All the time that he had been shopping for her, she had been married to Stewart. All that coin he had wasted, buying gifts that would never be granted to the recipient. He had been chaste. He had been true. He had kept his vow. Was that of no merit to the woman who had said she loved him and promised to wait for him?

  And Stewart MacEwan. To be cast aside for such a man—a rough warrior of little scruple and much older than himself—was galling.

  Could Isobel have been compelled to wed Stewart, despite his own father’s view?