The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  Farquar smiled at her and she knew he would assist her. They had found common ground in their concern for the plow horse.

  Enguerrand halted behind her.

  “The stall must be swept out,” she said to the Templar. “So that it is dry and clean beneath Nellie’s feet. It is the wet and the mire that compounds the problem.”

  The knight translated and Farquar nodded, then beckoned to his boys. They swept out the stall, working around Nellie who regarded them with some curiosity. That, too, was a change for the better. The two palfreys that had returned from Outremer with their party also leaned over their stalls to watch and one nuzzled Leila from behind. She swatted away the nibbler, heard a playful nicker, then was nuzzled anew.

  Farquar said something and Enguerrand replied before translating. “He says they trust you and I told him it was no wonder. You were the one who tended them best and anticipated their needs.”

  Leila and Farquar shared a smile. She gestured to Nellie’s hoof. “The shoe must come off and stay off until there is improvement.” She picked up Nellie’s foot and braced it against her knees as her uncle had taught her. Farquar, once Enguerrand had shared her advice, brought his tools and pried the offending shoe loose. Leila liked that he was gentle and was amused that they both murmured soothing sounds to the horse. She examined the hoof and put out her hand for the hook to clean it without thinking, surprised when Farquar anticipated her request. She pointed to the swollen area and he nodded, indicating another bruise on the side. When she ran her finger along the hoof on one side, he fetched his file and they trimmed it down a little bit more.

  Then Leila lifted a finger in warning. She gestured and one of the boys gave her Fergus’ flask. At her indication, he opened it.

  “Eau de vie,” she said to Farquar who sniffed it and blinked. “We must hold the foot fast. This will sting her, but will cleanse the wound.” Enguerrand translated, then the boys braced the horse and Farquar held Nellie’s foot. Leila carefully poured a measure of the liquid over the injured foot and felt a ripple pass through the horse. Nellie snorted and stamped one of her other feet and tossed her head. Leila held the hoof until it dried. Farquar pointed to the one side, where the wound already looked less angry, and nodded approval.

  “The Romans wrapped the hooves of their horses in leather,” Leila said. “Nellie must walk a bit to aid her digestion, so we will do the same to keep the hoof clean. Once she returns to her stall, the air will aid more than the leather.”

  Farquar listened intently to Enguerrand’s translation, then fetched a piece of leather and a length of narrow rope. Leila nodded approval and they encased the hoof, only letting Nellie put it down once the leather was secured. Leila stood up and brushed off her kirtle. She had a small bag of roots, ginger and turmeric, and half a dozen apples from the kitchen. She used her eating knife to cut them up into chunks, sharing quarters of apple with the two palfreys until Nellie turned in curiosity, her ears flicking. She put the remainder in a feed sack, let Nellie sniff it, then backed away.

  Nellie’s tail flicked. Her ears pricked. Leila held out a piece of apple and the closest palfrey nickered, stretching her neck over the stall for it. Leila gave it to her and Nellie snorted. Leila then offered another to the plow horse. Nellie exhaled, then took a step closer, putting her weight on the injured foot. She was hesitant at first, but then took another step, stretching her neck to seize the apple.

  Farquar grinned and the boys would have clapped their hands, but he silenced them with a gesture. Leila backed up again, compelling Nellie to follow her. It took some time but the temptation of the treat was too much. Nellie followed her the length of the stable and back, then her belly rumbled and she farted with gusto. Leila let her have the contents of the feed bag after that effort. Nellie chewed through the ginger, turmeric, and apples, then gave a mighty belch.

  By the time the boys had led her back into the stall and removed the leather from her hoof, she was touching the toe of it to the ground as she had not before. She belched three more times before Leila left the stables, then loosed another noisy fart. Leila and Farquar nodded and bowed to each other.

  “Tomorrow,” Leila said in Gaelic, then held up the spice bag.

  “Tomorrow,” Farquar agreed, his satisfaction more than clear.

  “You will have no shortage of friends in this abode, Lady Leila, if you heal their only plow horse,” Enguerrand said as they returned to the hall.

  Leila cast him a smile. She was not thinking of allies. She was thinking of a horse being able to walk again, even a little bit, and how being in Farquar’s smithy had been the closest thing to being home again.

  But the Templar was right. She could and would make Killairic her abode.

  * * *

  Isobel had learned much since putting her hand in that of Stewart MacEwan.

  She had learned the price of a hasty decision, to be sure, and the folly of impulse. More importantly, she had learned to never cultivate the suspicion of her husband—and since he was inclined to seek peril in every shadow, that was difficult to achieve.

  She was pregnant again and as sick with the child as she had been with the last two. She despised the ordeal of pregnancy but Stewart had been mightily vexed with her failure to bring his second son to light. Did she dare to oust this child, as well?

  Isobel might not have done as much but Fergus was returned. Fergus! And he looked even more handsome than he had four years before—as well as more prosperous. Dunnisbrae seemed poor and mean after he had ridden away, dark and dirty and desolate. Isobel hated it and her husband anew.

  There had to be a way to change her situation for the better.

  She knew, though, that only a fool would give any indication of such thoughts to Stewart. She returned dutifully to the hall, as if she had forgotten Fergus, and resumed her interrupted meal.

  “You are forgetting your gift, Isobel,” her husband said from behind her, his tone mocking. “How could you forget a present from your former betrothed?”

  She was desperately curious about the gift, but would not reveal that to her jealous spouse. Stewart marched to her side and placed the trunk on the board beside her. Isobel fairly itched to open it, but she barely glanced at it.

  “Are you not going to open it?” Stewart prompted.

  “I have no need of a gift from another man,” Isobel said. “My lord husband provides for all of my desires.”

  “Then perhaps one of the women in the village will welcome whatever filthy infidel trinket he has brought for you,” Stewart said, so obviously trying to provoke her that Isobel had to keep her gaze downcast lest he see the flash of her eyes.

  “Perhaps,” she agreed.

  Stewart’s eyes glittered and he shoved the trunk at her. “Open it.”

  Isobel knew this test well enough and she steeled herself to try to succeed at it. “It smells,” she said, as if repulsed by the trunk. It did smell, of spices and the salt of the sea, of foreign places and adventure, and all the things that Isobel desired. It smelled of promise and hope and far, far more than she had gained in this match.

  Fergus had handfasted to an infidel.

  It was the kind of gallant gesture a man like Fergus would make.

  But he should be wedded to her. Surely he could be convinced to cast the infidel aside once she was wed no longer.

  “Open it.”

  She shrugged as if her husband was tedious. “Must it be now, Stewart?”

  “Open it!” Stewart commanded and, when she did not move, opened the trunk himself.

  Isobel expected it to contain some trinket that she could easily find boring, but instead, the most wondrous length of blue cloth spilled into her lap as Stewart seized the trunk and dumped it. She was sitting before the fire and this cloth was illuminated by the firelight in such a way that she gasped aloud. It shone, gleaming with silken threads. It was soft and supple, woven so fine that it was a marvel beyond compare.

  And it was vibrantly blue.

/>   The same hue as her eyes.

  Fergus!

  “A lover’s gift,” Stewart snarled and seized the cloth from her lap. It was a wide piece, long enough for a kirtle even though she was tall. Maybe even enough for a short pelisse as well. Isobel cried out against her will as the cloth was snatched away and felt it slip through her fingers.

  Stewart balled it up and knotted it, anger in his gestures. “A man who sends a gift like this has an expectation,” he growled. “Do not be so fool, Isobel, to even think of fulfilling it.” And he strode from the hall with the cloth, fury and purpose in his every step.

  Isobel knew what he would do. She rose and went to the door, holding her belly as she watched Stewart stir up the blaze in the bailey that the sentries kept to warm their hands.

  She closed her eyes as Stewart threw the cloth into the fire, his expression savage as it burned. She felt sickened that he should destroy her gift rather than see her happy—or elegantly garbed—and turned back to the board. It was then that she noticed that there was still something in the chest.

  Needles, so fine and sharp. And silk thread for the embroidery she had never practiced much before her wedding. Isobel seized them both and tucked them away, hiding them from her husband.

  Her stomach roiled and she was sick yet again in the bucket that was always close at hand. God in heaven, how she hated pregnancy. She thought of Fergus saying farewell to her, recalling how beautiful she had felt in his presence, and yearned to feel that way again.

  “Do not be so foolish as to lose this one, as well,” Stewart muttered from the portal. “I wed you for sons, and I will have sons. Do not deny me in this or any other matter, Isobel.”

  “Nay, my lord,” she managed to say. “Of course not, my lord.”

  But rebellion had been awakened in Isobel. Aye, for with sharp needles in her possession and Fergus handfasted to a pagan, she once again had the means to see her own advantage secured.

  This time, she would wed for her own benefit.

  She and Fergus had lain together once, because she had begged him, but neither Fergus nor his whore knew that Isobel had not conceived before Stewart claimed her.

  She could ensure that Stewart had no opportunity to share the truth.

  * * *

  Though the rain was merely a mist for the first hour or so, by the time Leila went to the smithy, it was falling steadily. It fell with even greater vigor when she visited Margaret, and ended any discussion of her visiting the gardens. By the evening meal, the rain was falling in sheets. It did not cease and this amazed Leila. She could hear it drumming on the roof, smell it in the air that wafted into the hall, and see the rivulets of it winding their way across the floor. No wonder the hills were so green!

  The fires in the braziers smoked more and the stone of the keep radiated a chill that penetrated to her very marrow. Leila wrapped herself in a fur pelt from the bed and looked out the window of the solar into the darkness, wondering about Fergus.

  He was late.

  He had missed the evening meal, even though they had delayed it, and she knew he was not one to break a pledge.

  The sun was gone, the clouds allowing no light from moon or stars. Did he know his way well enough to find it in such darkness? Could his horse have slipped and been injured? Could a path have been washed out?

  Could Stewart MacEwan have taken exception to Fergus’ visit?

  Could Isobel have made a demand of Fergus that he found impossible to deny?

  Only one day wedded and Leila’s chest was tight with fear for their future together. She clutched at the pelt and stared into the night, worrying as she seldom had before. It was the powerlessness of her situation. There was not one thing she could do to aid Fergus. She could not even ride out in search of him, for she had only the most vague idea of the location of Dunnisbrae.

  She could not help but feel that Isobel had won...something. And Leila feared the import of that.

  “And so you reside in a land you must find hostile,” Calum said from behind her and she jumped, startled out of her reverie. She turned to find him in the doorway of the solar and wondered how long he had stood there, watching her.

  “It is very beautiful,” she admitted.

  “And very cold, compared to Outremer,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “Have you ever seen such rain? I would wager not.”

  Leila shook her head. “Never.”

  “It is hard on the joints to be sure, but I missed it on my journey east.”

  “Will you tell me of your journey to the east?”

  He granted her a sharp glance. “Only if you leave the window and trust in Fergus to keep his word,” he said gently.

  “I do, but it seems so much could have happened...”

  “Or perhaps nothing more than a swollen river requiring them to take a longer route. Come down to the fire, Lady Leila, and I will tell you a tale.”

  She could not refuse his invitation and locked the door to the solar behind them. She took his elbow, ensuring that he did not slip on the stairs, and smiled to see that Iain had anticipated them. Two chairs were together in one corner, two braziers facing them with fires blazing in each. Leila felt pampered that so much resource should be expended on her behalf and she thanked the steward.

  “I seldom speak of Outremer,” Calum said as he lowered himself into one chair. “Fergus knows, of course, but I doubt he thought it of interest to you.” He patted the seat opposite him. “Come and let me tell you what I remember of your homeland, then you can tell me what has changed.”

  “I doubt that some matters have changed at all,” Leila said. There was a fur pelt on the chair and she nestled into it, welcoming its soft thickness. Fergus’ father beckoned and Iain brought two more silver pelts, one for each of them. Fergus’ father tucked his over his knees and sighed contentment. “A cup of mulled wine and I will feel most indulged,” he said, granting a glance to the steward.

  “There is only a small measure left in that cask, my lord.”

  “And time it is that we enjoyed it.” Fergus’ father waved and Iain bowed, then retreated to do his bidding.

  Leila smiled as she tucked the pelt over her lap and found herself warming.

  “Better?” he asked and she nodded.

  “I thank you, sir.”

  “Sir? You will call me Calum.”

  “But...”

  “My hall, my rules,” he said firmly. His blue eyes glinted with humor even though his manner was gruff.

  Leila could not take offense, not when his eyes sparkled so. “And so it shall be, Calum,” she said and he smiled. “When were you in Palestine?”

  “Just over twenty years ago. We answered the call, like so many others.”

  “We?”

  “My oldest and dearest comrade, Alasdair Campbell. Our mothers were sisters and we were of an age with each other.” His brows waggled. “We found trouble together, to be sure.”

  Leila smiled. “Like me and my cousin, but my mother was the sister of her father.”

  “Ah, much the same. And so it was that when Alasdair heard the summons to defend Jerusalem, he was determined to answer the call.” Calum frowned. “I was wedded already and had one son.”

  “Fergus.”

  He nodded. “I was less inclined to journey so far, but Alasdair’s betrothed had died of a fever before their nuptials were celebrated. I fear he blamed himself for her demise.”

  “But why?”

  “He thought a man should love the woman he would wed, just as I loved my Eileen.”

  “And he did not love his betrothed?”

  Calum shook his head. “She was the daughter of a powerful clansman and their marriage was to make an alliance. And to be sure, Nyssa was not the easiest woman to admire. She was prone to bouts of anger and would say much when she was riled. Alasdair is a temperate man, one who says little but means all he does say. Their match might have been good for an alliance, but their natures could not have been more different. And so
it was that he felt guilt when she fell ill and died, and blamed himself for not loving her more.”

  “Perhaps she should have loved him more,” Leila suggested. “And learned from his manner.”

  “Perhaps so, but when the call came, Alasdair believed it offered him a chance to repent. He wished to journey east on crusade as an act of pilgrimage and to beg forgiveness at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.” Calum nodded. “Because he was my best friend and because I feared the result if he made such a journey alone, I agreed to go with him.”

  “And your wife, Eileen?”

  “Oh, she thought little of the notion, to be sure. But she desired a second son, if not a third, and after Fergus was born, she had not conceived again.” He winked. “It was not for a lack of effort on our part.”

  Leila smiled.

  “So, I found merit in the notion of pilgrimage and penitence, and so, we went together.” Calum sighed. “It was the spring of 1165. Fergus was three summers of age. I remember looking back to see Eileen on the top of the tower, holding him in her arms. The sun was in her hair, blazing copper it was, and he was waving with all his might. I know Eileen wept and truly, I shed a tear of my own. I had not thought until that moment that I might not see them again, and I very nearly turned back.”

  He fell silent then, lost in his memories, and Leila realized how dearly he had loved his lady wife. She let him remember for a few moments, content to sip her wine and watch the flames as he did, to listen to the sound of the rain and hope that she and Fergus might one day share a similar love.

  “But you did not turn back,” Leila prompted finally, gently drawing her companion back to his tale.

  Calum cleared his throat and shook his head. “I had no real notion of how far it was to Outremer, much less how difficult a journey it would be. It took us almost a year to reach Constantinople. We finally found passage there to Caesarea, but that was where we parted.”