The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  The Templars, too, kept an eye upon that saddlebag, as did the infidel whore.

  Agnes wanted very much to see what was in that bag.

  It was not long before Fergus announced to all that he would make a handfast with his whore. Agnes was not surprised. If he wanted to continue to savor the infidel’s charms, he would need a tale for his father. The old man had a firm moral code, and Agnes had been careful to let him believe that she shared his views.

  She had thought all along that it might prove advantageous to do so, and on this day, it did. The steward came directly to her after visiting the solar with the couple.

  “Do you know much of the tasks of a lady’s maid?” Iain asked, his intention clear to any who looked.

  Agnes smiled. “I know how a woman dresses and how she washes,” she said, adopting a modest manner. “And I believe I know how to follow commands, sir.”

  “Indeed, you do,” Iain acknowledged. “Lady Leila has need of a maid, and I think you will suit well.”

  Lady Leila. Agnes hid her sneer with a docile smile. “Are you certain I can be spared in the kitchens, Iain?” she asked, feigning concern. “Perhaps I should begin on the morrow, after the feast.”

  Xavier snorted and bent his attention upon his sauce when Iain glared at him.

  “That is thoughtful of you, Agnes, but I am certain Xavier can manage without you.”

  The cook harrumphed. “Take her,” he invited. “She does not contribute that much to the effort. Perhaps we will do better without her in the way.”

  Iain’s lips thinned. “Lady Leila has need of you now, for the handfast will be before the evening meal. Come along, Agnes, and I will present you to her.”

  “Of course.” Agnes turned her smile upon Xavier. “I am sorry, but the onions are done.”

  “Half of them at best,” the cook noted with disapproval. “Do not fear that I will be challenged to replace one so lazy as you. Go! And welcome to it!”

  Steward and cook glared at each other, at odds in their view of Agnes as in so many other things, and Agnes considered that this change in her situation could only be an improvement.

  Perhaps the whore might teach her some exotic skills, courtesy of her experience in the Orient. Perhaps she might talk in her sleep. Surely, there could only be advantage in gaining access to the solar, even if it was simply in the quality of information she could provide to Laird Stewart.

  Agnes had time to feel pride in her situation before they reached the solar. Iain rapped once on the door, which was partially closed.

  That was interesting. The old man had always left it wide open.

  The warrior, Duncan, opened the door wider, his manner unwelcoming. He no longer had his saddlebag, a fact Agnes would not have noticed if she had not been so curious about its contents. Agnes glanced past Duncan in time to see the whore put it in the treasury, then Laird Fergus closed and locked that door. He gave the key to the infidel, who put its cord around her neck. He then passed Agnes on his way out of the solar, Duncan fast behind him.

  Iain introduced her to the whore, and Agnes bowed low, as subservient and humble as ever she had pretended to be, even as her thoughts flew.

  Duncan had been trusted with something of sufficient value for it to be placed in the treasury.

  And the whore had the key.

  Agnes was going to find out what was in that saddlebag, if it was the last thing she did.

  * * *

  Leila immediately disliked the girl.

  The maid’s gaze was too quick, her manner too furtive, her smile too smug. There was a satisfaction about Agnes that reminded Leila of a cat, content with its situation, certain of its future. She was a pretty girl, to be sure, with a long braid as dark as ebony, eyes of clear blue, and skin as fair as milk. She was slender and had a tendency to open her eyes wide, as if innocent or awed, but Leila sensed that Agnes was cunning.

  Hers was an instinctive and powerful reaction, which meant that Leila would trust it. It did not hurt that she had been unobserved when the girl arrived in the doorway. Fergus had taken Duncan’s saddlebag from Leila and she had turned slightly as she stepped back. She had noticed the girl after she had placed the saddlebag in the treasury, when she turned away as Fergus locked the treasury. Agnes’ sly expression was gone so quickly that it might never have been, but Leila had seen it and she took it as a warning.

  Leila might have to be served by an untrustworthy person, but she did not have to let the girl guess at her suspicions.

  She disliked that there was one alliance at Killairic that she would not be able to make, but there was naught for it. Leila recalled Radegunde’s custom of sleeping in the chamber with Lady Ysmaine, unless Gaston and Ysmaine intended to be intimate. Radegunde often joined them in the chamber once their coupling was complete, and she had herself joined Bartholomew and Anna in their chamber when they had posed as a married couple at Haynesdale. It was an advantage for a maid to sleep in the solar, which was often warmer and offered greater comfort than the kitchen or the hall. Leila did not wish to cause offense by challenging custom, but she was not going to sleep with this viper awake in the solar.

  Which only meant that Agnes had to be so exhausted each night that she had no choice but to sleep, and to sleep deeply.

  Leila doubted that the girl realized just how thoroughly they two were going to clean the solar—or how much of the labor she was going to be compelled to do.

  * * *

  Fergus sat in the hall with his father, listening to a summary of events since his departure. He was thinking, to his own surprise, about Leila.

  He had been thinking about Isobel first, but it seemed that every consideration of Isobel led him to Leila. He supposed that was natural, for he had been betrothed to one and would marry the other.

  What did he truly know about Isobel? She was beautiful, she smiled at his jests, she was obedient to her father’s will. They both were, he supposed, for they had agreed to wed at the suggestion of their parents. They had spent time together, but mostly in the company of others, at celebrations and when riding to hunt. They had been intimate once, but that had been so furtive that he scarce recalled the details.

  He could not suppress the conviction that he knew more about any of his companions on this journey than about his betrothed.

  Maybe even more of Leila.

  It was an interesting notion. He did not know if Isobel lingered abed in the morning or rose early. He did not know what her mood would have been after a long day riding in the rain, much less how she would have responded to a need to sleep in a stable. Or in a field. It was true that travel and its hardships unveiled all secrets.

  Fergus knew far more about Leila than about Isobel, to be sure. He knew that Leila would keep her word at any price, and fulfill any promise she made. He and she held the merit of a vow in the same high esteem. He knew that she was courageous, for she had left her home over a question of principle. He knew that she was clever and resourceful, and that she accepted the challenges of travel with a tolerance that echoed his own.

  And he knew that she kissed with a sweet heat that haunted him truly.

  Aye, and the second one had been more scorching than the first.

  Leila. Even thinking of her in his father’s hall, knowing she was setting the solar to rights, knowing that they would pledge a handfast within hours, heated him to his toes. Was it simply the price of chastity?

  Or would his desire for Leila linger beyond one night?

  Fergus could not imagine as much. It was chastity at root, and some admiration of Leila was only natural. He doubted that his heart could be surrendered again so soon, certainly not if his beloved had been compelled to wed Stewart. His affection was more steady than that! The handfast was a compromise, an arrangement of good sense, and he would use the time to find Leila the husband she could love forevermore.

  The one who would give her a son with blue eyes.

  Fergus watched as the maid Agnes appeared at the base of
the stairs with a bundle of linens. She strode into the bailey and returned moments later, evidently having assigned their washing to a woman in the village.

  The curtains from the bed were carried out to the bailey next. Fergus could see the dust on the dark cloth even from the other side of the hall. Again, Agnes seemed to have found an ally in the village—or one more willing to ensure that the new lady’s will was done. She disappeared into the kitchens once she was rid of the curtains, where laughter was heard.

  Leila herself appeared, clearly seeking the girl, and went into the kitchen in pursuit of her. No words were necessary to explain her stern expression, or her finger pointing up the stairs. Agnes trudged back to the solar, and Fergus fought a smile.

  It seemed that Leila’s plan to win alliances at Killairic had some limitations.

  Agnes descended next with the down mattresses from the great bed and carried them into the bailey. She returned quickly once more, and Fergus assumed she had again found someone to do the labor assigned to her. She climbed to the solar, looking proud of herself, then quickly reappeared, burdened with straw pallets and wearing a frown. She carried them outside, muttering under her breath with displeasure. Agnes must have been less successful in finding assistance with this task, for she was gone longer and was flushed when she entered the hall again. The pallets would have been left in the sun after being beaten, Fergus knew.

  The girl then fetched a broom from the kitchens and carried it up the stairs to the solar. Fergus heard furniture being moved. No doubt, every corner of the room was being swept clean.

  A disgruntled Agnes carried buckets of ash down from the braziers, and Calum cleared his throat.

  “The Saracens had a fondness for cleanliness that far exceeded that of most in the west,” he commented. “I remember it well. Their homes were a marvel.”

  “Indeed,” Duncan agreed.

  “Killairic will benefit from Lady Leila’s inclinations,” Fergus’ father said with approval. “I see it now.”

  When next Agnes appeared, the line of her lips was mutinous and her braid was becoming undone. She was breathing more heavily as she trudged up the stairs, with a bucket brimming with water and a brush.

  His father glanced after the girl. “She has not worked so hard since her arrival here,” he said beneath his breath, then chuckled. “It will not harm her.”

  “I wonder at Leila’s ability to communicate with her,” Fergus said. “She speaks little Gaelic and I doubt Agnes speaks French.”

  “I suspect your intended is a resourceful woman,” Calum said. “She has that look about her.”

  “As we saw, some commands can be given by gesture,” Duncan contributed.

  “I should ensure that all is well, just the same,” Fergus said, excusing himself. “The girl looks to be vexed.”

  His father was clearly amused by his departure. “Cannot bear for her to be out of sight?” that man asked Duncan as Fergus left them together. “I cannot blame him. She is a beauty, to be sure. I am quite delighted by the promise of more conversation with her. Did you know that her uncle was a smith?”

  Fergus climbed the stairs, moving quickly and quietly, and peeked into the solar. He wanted to see what was happening before announcing his presence. Already he could see the difference in the solar. The dust and cobwebs were gone from the corners, and the rushes had been piled outside the door. It smelled cleaner, too.

  Agnes was on her knees, scrubbing the floor and casting poisonous glances at Leila at regular intervals. Leila ignored her, but he doubted she was oblivious. The bed had been stripped to the ropes that held the mattress and the wooden frame itself. Leila was unpacking the trunks of gifts he had brought for Isobel, sorting the items on table beneath one window.

  There was a goodly pile of cloth of various weights and in many lengths, and Leila had arranged it by color. There were leather belts and purses, and embroidered silken shoes, and stockings so fine that they were like gossamer. Fergus was a little surprised to see it all assembled, for he had forgotten about some of the cloth.

  Leila worked without expression, pausing only once in her task to glance back at Agnes, then point imperiously to a corner the girl had missed.

  “It looks like a different chamber,” Fergus said in French, announcing himself. Agnes hastened to her feet, wiping her hands on her skirts and curtseying to him as she smiled. He nodded at the bucket, indicating that she should continue. Her lips tightened and she dropped to her knees once more, failing to hide her resentment.

  “Must you do it all in one afternoon?” he asked Leila. “Agnes will despise you.”

  The girl glanced up at the sound of her name, her expression revealing that she did not understand what was being said. She clearly thought she might have a reprieve. But Leila turned to her and pointed to the floor. Agnes picked up the brush once more, and Fergus saw her eyes flash before she lowered her gaze.

  “I think there is little to be lost there,” Leila said calmly. “There will not be fondness between us, no matter what I do.”

  “I thought you meant to win allies.”

  “She will never be one such. I will not worry about what cannot be changed.”

  “I could find another girl to be your maid.”

  “I will not be the infidel who finds this one lacking. There is a proverb, after all, about keeping those you trust close to your side and those you do not trust even closer.” She cast an assessing glance at Agnes. “I will ensure that she sleeps well each night, though.”

  “I do not understand,” Fergus said.

  Leila avoided his gaze. “Surely you know that it is customary for a maid to sleep in the solar, as one of the benefits of her post. She must sleep or I will not.”

  Fergus thought that Leila’s suspicion of Agnes was undeserved, for he did not imagine that his father would have any servant in his hall who could not be trusted. Still, he did not blame her for feeling alone in his home, and uncertain of her safety to some extent. Who would not feel vulnerable in a foreign land, not speaking the language well?

  In time, she would come to trust the girl, he hoped, or they would find another maid.

  In time, he knew she would learn Gaelic and her confidence would grow.

  “She will sleep in the hall this night,” Fergus said. “I am not so interested in additional companionship on the night of our nuptials.” He savored Leila’s quick smile, but her words revealed that he had not changed her thinking.

  “All the same, the solar should be cleaned, and I will have it done on this day.”

  “On the morrow, more hands could help.”

  Leila turned to confront him, her hands on her hips and a glint of resolve in her eyes. “On the night of my nuptials, I will meet my husband in a clean bed, in a clean chamber,” Leila said firmly. “There will be no dirt, no sweat, and no vermin.”

  Fergus had to acknowledge that this was only reasonable.

  “Also, I think it wiser to have fewer persons in the solar at any time, and that the door should be locked in our absence.” She met his gaze briefly and he knew that she was being protective of the reliquary entrusted to them.

  All the same, this was wrong.

  Fergus cleared his throat. “I appreciate that this is not the home you know and that you would be cautious, but if you wish to be trusted, Leila, you must trust first.”

  She held his gaze, unflinching. “I will trust those who earn my trust.” When he frowned, she dropped her voice to a murmur. “I think it only reasonable to be cautious where such a prize is concerned. Let them blame it upon my being from afar. It will be safer that way.”

  Fergus respected Leila’s thinking, though he knew there was only one key to the treasury and doubted the lock would be readily compromised. He also saw that her thinking would not be changed in this moment. It would take time for her to trust all at Killairic, perhaps after the reliquary had found a haven.

  He did not want discord between them on the day they would take their vows, so
he changed the subject.

  “I did not realize I had purchased so much,” he said, surveying the piles of cloth.

  Leila cast him a warm smile as she opened yet another trunk, revealing even more fine cloth. “You are a generous lover, to be sure.”

  “Is that a criticism?”

  “Of course not! It is a good trait to be generous. I simply wish the lady had returned your esteem.”

  Fergus leaned against the wall, wanting to watch her expression. She seemed to very mysterious to him in this moment, and he wanted to know her thoughts. “But then we should not be making a handfast this day.”

  Leila’s dark gaze flicked to his. “We would not.”

  “Would you regret that?”

  She put down the cloth she held, granting him her complete attention. “Of course. I told you just days ago that you are the kind of man I should like to wed. That was not a lie and it has not changed. I also appreciate that your offer ensures my security in this land.”

  “I would ensure that we have time for you to find a lasting match, to meet a man you can love fully,” Fergus said.

  Leila’s gaze flicked away from his. “You are a good man, Fergus. And as a result, I regret that you had such affection for a woman who broke her vow to you and that your generosity appears to have been misplaced.” He watched her brows draw together as she ran an admiring hand over the cloth.

  “Then let us put it to good purpose,” he said, liking that his words erased her frown. “First, choose for yourself. Which cloth will you make into a kirtle first?”

  “The red, I think,” Leila said, touching a length of crimson wool blended with silk. “It is a joyous color.” She shook her head. “I will need assistance, though. I confess that I have little talent with a needle, and do not even know how to make the kirtles that women wear in this land.” She winced. “My uncle thought it a failure that I did not try harder to sew.”

  “My mother despised sewing as well,” Fergus confessed. “She was much happier riding to hunt.”

  “Truly?” Leila’s eyes lit.