The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  This day would be different.

  Isobel rolled over and looked down at her husband, at the silver in his beard and his hair, at the lines on his face and the harsh line of his mouth. She saw him for the hard warrior he was, the older man whom she would survive. There was no tenderness in her heart in this moment for this man. She saw only what he had cost her, what he had taken, how he had used her for his own gain.

  She saw only that he was less of a man than Fergus and hated him for that.

  Stewart’s hand slipped from her hip as he dozed and his mouth slackened. She waited, watching, heart racing, until his breath slowed.

  He would never forget this day, to be sure.

  Isobel licked her lips and steeled her resolve.

  She lifted the needle with its sharp point.

  And she drove it into his eye with all of her might.

  She would have done the same to the other, but Stewart roared in pain and seized her wrist. She bit him so that he released her, then pulled out the needle. He snatched at her but she kicked him in the groin, stumbling from the bed. He lunged after her and swore, one hand upon his bleeding eye and the other at his crotch.

  His man had already raced up the stairs and flung open the door. “What is amiss?” he demanded, his gaze darting between Stewart and Isobel.

  “I do not know. I welcomed him as ever, but then he cried out.”

  “Bitch!” Stewart bellowed. “Deceitful, wicked bitch!”

  She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Perhaps a fit or fury,” she said to Stewart’s comrade. She lowered her gaze demurely. “I regret that he did not find his pleasure.”

  “Ah!” said the guard.

  Stewart began to swear more vehemently. He stumbled across the chamber, blood streaming down his cheek from beneath his fist, and tried to snatch at Isobel.

  “He would finish what was left undone,” she whispered even as he roared.

  His guard swore in astonishment. “Blood runs from his eyes!”

  “God in Heaven! What has he done to himself?” Isobel whispered in mock horror. “I will get old Helga from the village!”

  “Do!” the guard insisted. “Make haste, my lady.” He moved then to seize Stewart and forcibly guide him back to the bed. “My lord, you must be still.”

  “Seize that witch...”

  “My lord, I beg of you, show a care for your own welfare...”

  Isobel ran, but she did not run to Helga in the village. She raced down the stairs and seized Gavin, carrying the sleepy boy. She spat on the girl, Agnes, when that whore might have tripped her and shoved her aside. Stewart was welcome to her charms!

  Isobel fled to the stables and to the stall of the horse she had saddled the night before, after the ostler had retired. All her preparations had been made. She donned the kirtle left there and the boots. She seized the packed saddlebag she had left in the stall, then flung on the cloak folded beside it. She leaped into the saddle, hiding her son beneath the cloak, and holding him fast against her side.

  “Hush, Gavin,” she said and he obeyed, curling his heat against her and closing his eyes. She raced the palfrey toward the gate. “My husband is stricken!” she cried to the sentries. “I must fetch help with all haste!”

  The guards opened the portcullis, fools that they were, and Isobel galloped out of Dunnisbrae at speed. She took a breath of precious freedom, not caring how much she had left behind. Fergus would buy her more garments, and Killairic was far more prosperous that Dunnisbrae had become. Her father had oft said that good fortune must be claimed not waited upon. The sound of Stewart’s rage carried to them even at a distance and Isobel shivered.

  She was rid of him, for good.

  “Mother?” Gavin whispered. “What is wrong with Father?”

  “Naught more than he deserves.”

  “Then why are we leaving?”

  Isobel kissed the top of her son’s head. She loved him more dearly on this morning than she had yet, for he was the key to the success of her scheme. “We ride to Killairic.”

  “But why?”

  “To meet some friends, Gavin.”

  “But Father...”

  “Is only angry this morn. He will be fine by the time he breaks his fast.”

  “But...”

  “Hush, Gavin. All will be well.” Isobel touched her heels to the horse’s flanks, smiling at the prospect of success.

  It was the only possible outcome, after all, with a scheme so infallible as this.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when Fergus noted some agitation at the village gates. A woman shouted and it looked as if a palfrey had arrived. It was unusual for a horse to arrive alone, particularly ridden by a woman, and Fergus headed for the gates to investigate. The sentry argued with the woman and though Fergus could not discern their words, he feared he recognized the woman’s voice.

  Had his vexation with Isobel summoned her to Killairic? It seemed as much. He feared that Leila might imagine it were so. He quickened his pace, hoping he was wrong.

  He was not. It was Isobel. She wore a heavy cloak and a plain kirtle and her voice was raised in anger. Her hair was loose and her manner imperious.

  “Of course, Laird Fergus will see me,” she insisted. “You must escort me to the hall. I must speak with him immediately...”

  “Then do as much,” Fergus invited, knowing his annoyance showed. How would her arrival at his gates alone be construed? He doubted Stewart would approve and suspected that man might blame him for Isobel’s choice. Fergus needed no new friction with Stewart, to be sure. Leila might be concerned, given his own nightmare. “There must be good cause for you to have ridden so far without escort.”

  Relief lit Isobel’s features. “Fergus! Stewart had a fit this morn and I feared for my life!” A murmur passed through the company of those who had gathered in curiosity and Fergus wondered if Isobel had desired to start the tale. She leaped from the saddle and reached up to lower her son to the ground. The boy looked uncertain, and rightly so. “I feared for both myself and Gavin and fled, knowing you would offer us sanctuary.”

  It was a risky matter to offer a haven to another man’s wife, especially the wife of a warrior like Stewart. Fergus did not appreciate that Isobel embroiled him in her troubles and wondered if she meant to make this a habit.

  He would halt the inclination now.

  Fergus folded his arms across his chest. “A fit?” he echoed. “That does not sound like Stewart. I thought him a temperate man. Are you certain you did not provoke him?”

  If Stewart had not threatened Isobel before this day, Fergus wagered there was some detail omitted from her tale. Her quick sidelong glance at his query confirmed his suspicions.

  It was odd that after four years apart, he found her so much less enticing than once had been the case. In fact, Fergus wondered how he had missed Isobel’s quick expressions, the ones she tried to hide, the ones that revealed her words might not be the fullness of the truth. Even without the warning of his dream, he distrusted her.

  What had she done this morn?

  “Temperate?” she repeated with a laugh. “His is harsh beyond belief, cruel even.” She cast herself at Fergus, an entreaty in her eyes. “I was in despair, Fergus, until your return. I knew that if I left Stewart, you would stand by our betrothal. Let us wed this very day that I might have sanctuary at Killairic. You have a priest, do you not?”

  Fergus frowned and stepped back, extricating himself from her embrace. “What madness is this, Isobel? You are wedded to Stewart...”

  “I have left him!”

  “You exchanged your vows before a bishop. You have borne his son.” He gestured to the boy, who simply watched. He looked pale, to Fergus’ thinking, and had to be in need of a hot meal. “Have you eaten this day?”

  “Nay, of course not. I fled for my life!”

  Fergus scanned the gathered company and spotted the smith. “Farquar, would you take Gavin to the kitchens for me, please? Tell Xavier that t
he lad has not eaten all day.”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  Intriguingly, Gavin did not look to his mother for her approval but simply followed instruction. Doubtless the boy was starving.

  “What madness is this, Isobel, that you would not ensure the boy was fed?” Fergus demanded of her.

  Isobel’s expression turned sly and she clutched at his arm. “Fergus, we must speak in private. There is much you do not know.”

  “I know all I need to know,” Fergus corrected. “You chose to forget our betrothal and wed Stewart instead. What is done cannot be undone.”

  “You would conclude differently, if you knew the whole of the truth,” Isobel said, her tone challenging.

  “I doubt as much. I have a wife, Isobel, and I will not put Leila aside to better suit your convenience.”

  “A wife?” Isobel scoffed. “Is that what you call an infidel who meets you abed?”

  “We have a handfast.”

  “A handfast is no firm bond, Fergus, and you know it well.”

  “My word is my bond, and I have given it to Leila.”

  She lifted her chin, her eyes flashing. “You gave it to me first.”

  “And you disregarded it, thus freeing me from any commitment to you.” Fergus sighed. “Go home, Isobel. Go home to Dunnisbrae. Make amends with Stewart for whatever you have done and be content with your lot.”

  Fury flashed in her eyes before she dropped her gaze. “Content,” she muttered so softly that only Fergus could have heard her. “Why should I be content with less than my father chose for me?”

  Fergus leaned close to her. “Because you already chose to abandon his arrangement.”

  Isobel licked her lips, spared a glance at the villagers, then laid her hand upon Fergus’ chest. “Have mercy, Fergus. I have journeyed all this way to speak with you. Will you not hear me out and offer me a measure of hospitality?”

  Fergus did not point out that her husband had failed to offer him and Hamish such courtesy. It was too late for her to ride back to Dunnisbrae before dark, and he would not be to blame for any crime befalling her in darkness. Gavin had to eat, and he supposed that he would have to offer Isobel a meal, as well.

  She could ride to Dunnisbrae in the morning.

  He turned and pointed. “The midwife’s hut stands empty. You and the boy can sleep there this night. I will welcome you to the board for the evening meal.” Fergus knew his lack of enthusiasm showed, but was surprised by the rage that shone briefly in her eyes.

  Then Isobel laughed, as if he made a jest, but there was no merriment in her eyes. “A hut? Fergus, you tease me! I will stay in the keep itself, of course, as befits my birthright...”

  “There is no room,” Fergus said, interrupting her. “And it would not be fitting for you to sleep in the hall with warriors.”

  Isobel’s tone was sweet, too sweet. “As I recall, there are two chambers in Killairic’s keep.”

  “One occupied by my wife and me, and the other by my father.” Fergus held her gaze. “I will oust neither for a neighbor who arrives uninvited.”

  Isobel inhaled sharply but bowed her head so quickly that only Fergus guessed her wrath. “As you wish, my lord,” she said with a sweetness that had to be feigned. “I look forward to seeing you at the board.”

  Fergus returned to the hall, knowing that he had made the best possible compromise but distrusting Isobel’s intent all the same. He could not dismiss the memory of his dream or the fact that his dread had redoubled when Isobel entered Killairic’s gates.

  * * *

  Even though Fergus had warned her about their guest, Leila was startled when she came into the hall and found Isobel there.

  The tall, slender beauty with hair of gold could be no other than Fergus’ former betrothed. She spoke to a young boy, as flaxen-haired as she, her expression so sweet and serene that Leila was reminded of a Madonna she had glimpsed in a church on their journey north. She thought it might have been in the chapel adjacent to the cemetery where they had buried Kerr.

  She distrusted the other woman and disliked that she had arrived at Killairic’s gates unannounced and uninvited. Even without the warning of Fergus’ dream, Leila would have disliked how readily Isobel could anger Fergus. She had a power over him yet, and one Leila would have preferred to have seen dispelled.

  Isobel glanced up at Leila and her smile was cool. Then she stepped gracefully across the hall. Leila noted that the other woman was almost as tall as Fergus and felt at a disadvantage. Isobel’s manner in greeting Leila was such that she might have been lady of the keep herself, which only increased Leila’s determination to conquer Gaelic. Leila was certain that her suspicions about the other woman’s malicious intent were correct, but she smiled politely all the same.

  “It must be so strange for you in Scotland, Leila,” Isobel said, omitting any form of address. Leila knew it was no accident. She spoke slowly, evidently intent upon being understood. “Fergus’ stray Saracen, so far from home.”

  “Fergus’ wife,” Leila replied. “In her new home.”

  Isobel laughed, as if with pity. “But I understood you made only a handfast.”

  “Surely the pledge of a man like Fergus has merit.”

  Isobel shook her head. “Surely men are the same in all the world, Leila, especially in the matter of their pleasure. Why, Fergus pledged himself to me before his departure to the east. I doubt he was chaste.”

  “I believe he was.”

  Isobel laughed again. “Proving only that you believe men’s lies while I have learned my lesson. I should never have surrendered my maidenhead to Fergus, but four years ago, I was still trusting.”

  Leila supposed that she should not have been surprised that a betrothed couple had been intimate, especially before one of them departed on a long journey. She could not think what to say, but Isobel gave her little chance.

  She turned an adoring smile upon her son. “Gavin so resembles his father, does he not?”

  “I could not say,” Leila admitted in some confusion. “I have not met Stewart MacEwan.”

  Isobel laughed merrily at this, as if Leila jested with her. “You must see it, Leila,” she said in a confidential tone. Her eyes shone. “You must know.”

  If Isobel meant to imply that Gavin was Fergus’ son, Leila would wait for her to say it aloud. She held the other woman’s gaze, fairly daring her to do it.

  Isobel did. “Gavin is three years and three months of age,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming. “I married for the sake of Fergus’ son. I was with child and had no defender. Until Fergus returned to Killairic. I left Stewart this morning for the sake of Gavin. A son should be raised by his blood father and no other. Do you not agree that would be best?”

  “Not for me,” Leila said, referring both to the notion of Gavin remaining at Killairic and her own childhood in her uncle’s home.

  Isobel’s lips twisted. “Nay, the sole course best for you would be your immediate return to the lands of your own kind.” Fergus appeared at the base of the stairs, and Isobel continued in a quick whisper. “You will never be accepted as one of us. Your insistence upon remaining can only destroy Fergus and the regard that others have for him here. I know he acts with honor: give him the opportunity to do as much for his own son. If you care for him, surely you care for his advantage.”

  Isobel was a viper to be sure, a viper who spewed venom with very word. Leila did not respond but went to Fergus to ask him some detail about the meal. He surveyed her and concern lit his eyes as he perceived that she was disturbed. His gaze flicked to Isobel as his lips tightened.

  “Sit between my father and me,” he said tersely and Leila nodded agreement.

  Calum descended the stairs in that moment, his features brightening at the sight of her, and Leila escorted him to the board. The older man spared their guest only a quick greeting, then continued to speak French to Leila as he took his place.

  She did not miss the warning in the other woman’s eye
s, and knew this matter was not yet put to rest. To Leila’s thinking, Isobel could not leave Killairic soon enough.

  * * *

  Isobel’s allure was diminishing so rapidly that Fergus could not imagine he had ever seen any merit in her. When he had changed and descended to the hall, he knew at a glance that Leila was upset. Her features were composed and her manner quiet, her thoughts hidden so surely that he knew something had gone awry.

  Isobel looked pleased with herself, which meant she had said something to his lady wife. Fergus doubted it had been true, but could scarce discover the truth as the company sat down to the evening meal. He kissed Leila as if they had been parted for longer than had been the case and felt a little tremor in her response. He hoped his touch reassured her and kept his hand upon the back of her waist. He seated himself between the two women, certain this would simplify matters. He also invited Murdoch to sit by his father, so that the two warriors could share a trencher while he shared with Leila.

  Isobel took this in poor humor, clearly having believed that she would share with Fergus instead of her son.

  All the same, Fergus’ plan was ill-fated. Isobel pressed herself against him and talked ceaselessly to him. He thought she scarce took a breath, for fear that he might glance at his wife. He knew that she spoke in quick Gaelic, thick with dialect, deliberately so that Leila could not follow her words. She said little of import, merely reminding him of some event in their shared past or spoke of some mutual friend, but clearly intended to demonstrate that they shared a history that Leila did not.

  Leila ignored Isobel, turning her attention to Calum. As much as Fergus admired her grace and good manners, he disliked that Isobel would so insult Leila in their home. He could not utter more than a word, though, and his temper rose steadily during the meal.

  By the time the trenchers were cast to the dogs, he was furious with Isobel.

  When she entreated him to accompany her to the healer’s hut, lest she become lost on the way, Fergus ceded to her request immediately. He had more than sufficient to say to his former betrothed.