The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  He begged the indulgence of Leila, noting how she scanned his features before she nodded, then seized Isobel’s elbow and marched her from the hall. The boy ran behind them.

  “Fergus!” Isobel said with pleasure. “I had no notion that you were so intent upon being alone with me.”

  “How else should I chastise you for your rudeness?” he demanded. “What ails you that you would insult my lady wife in our hall? What seizes your wits that you would touch me as a lover in the company of my wife?”

  Isobel smiled up at him coyly. “You would rather I wait until we are alone?”

  “I would rather you recall that you are Stewart’s wife.”

  “Stewart!” Isobel made a dismissive gesture, even as they reached the door to the healer’s hut. Fergus opened the portal, urged her inside, and left the door open while he lit a lantern. Isobel wrinkled her nose at the simplicity of the place, but Fergus did not care about her pleasure.

  The boy was less insulted than his mother. Indeed, he was already eyeing the pallet with such yearning that Fergus guessed he was exhausted.

  Fergus gestured to the pallet with clean bedding upon it. “You will be sufficiently comfortable here until your departure in the morning. There is oil in the lantern and you will not need a fire on so mild a night. They will give you bread to break your fast in the kitchens.” He inclined his head and bowed slightly. “I wish you a good journey to Dunnisbrae, for I doubt I will see you again.”

  Isobel’s dismay was clear. “You cannot believe that I will leave Killairic for Dunnisbrae?”

  “Of course, you will, and you will do as much before noon on the morrow.” Fergus smiled thinly. “I would not have you be without shelter when night falls and it is a long ride.” He nodded to Gavin, then turned to leave.

  Isobel pursued him, snatching at his sleeve. “Fergus! I left Stewart to come to you! I have no plan to return to Dunnisbrae, and truly, Stewart might not have me back.”

  “He is your husband. Of course, he will welcome your return.”

  Isobel’s expression was sly for a moment, then she appealed to him again, looking feminine and vulnerable. “But he beats me, Fergus. I cannot bear to stay with him.”

  Fergus glanced to the boy, who was visibly listening. “Then you must appeal to the king for sanctuary and to the bishop to have your match annulled.”

  “I thought you would aid me.”

  “You were wrong.”

  Anger simmered in her gaze, but Fergus did not care. He stepped out of the hut, pausing to turn back and meet the fury in Isobel’s eyes. “Even if I were inclined to assist an old friend, your rudeness to my wife since your arrival would kill that impulse. Farewell, Isobel.”

  “Farewell!” she echoed in outrage. “Your wife?” She lunged after him and drew him to a halt, her words falling in an angry torrent. “Just because you have a Saracen whore in your bed does not mean that your obligations to me are done. We were betrothed, Fergus.”

  “And you chose to wed another. That is an effective means of ending a betrothal.” He shook off her grip. “Godspeed to you, Isobel. Do not be so fool as to return again without your husband.”

  “And what of my son?” she cried. “What of our son?”

  Fergus turned to look at her in confusion.

  Isobel smiled. “Oh, aye, Gavin is our son, Fergus. He is your son.”

  “We laid together but once...”

  “And it was sufficient, to be sure. The proof accompanied me this day!”

  “Gavin is Stewart’s son. I see his father in him.”

  “You are deceived!” Isobel retorted. “We were intimate. I conceived. You were gone! What was I to do, a woman with a rounding belly but no husband? My father would have been outraged. I seduced Stewart and ensured that we were discovered, then my father insisted upon the match. I told Stewart that I bore his son, and he believed me.” She was triumphant, which said much of her nature. Fergus could not believe that any person of merit would take such pride in a deception of such magnitude.

  She was also lying.

  “But you wed Stewart three months after my departure. Surely he noted that the boy was born three months too soon?” he asked quietly, knowing this was not the least of the issue with her tale.

  The boy watched with wide eyes, clearly uncertain what to think. Fergus hoped he did not understand it all.

  “I lied, for the safety of both of us,” Isobel said. “I went to my cousin on the isles and gave birth to the boy there. He was born at the Yule. I lingered for the winter, then returned to Dunnisbrae, and told Stewart the boy was younger than he was.” She sneered. “He knew naught of babes and their size, and he trusted me.”

  Fergus thought that said more good of Stewart than of Isobel. “Whether this tale is true or yet another lie, it matters little. Gavin cannot be my son.”

  “I say he is!”

  “And you lie, Isobel,” Fergus said, his recurring dream at the forefront of his thoughts. “All children in my family are born with red hair.” He glanced back at the yawning boy, even as Isobel’s lips parted in dismay. “Stewart is your father, Gavin. Never doubt it.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Fergus! Even if that is true, you cannot compel me to return to Dunnisbrae...”

  “I can and I will. Farewell, Isobel.” Fergus left the hut then, ignoring the way she shouted after him, and strode back to the keep with purpose. He told Stephen to have Isobel’s palfrey saddled at first light. He spoke to Xavier about the morning, ensuring that it was understood that Isobel and Gavin could break their fast in the kitchens.

  Enguerrand and Yvan were bent over their chess board and his father was reminiscing with Murdoch. Fergus wished them all a good night and climbed the stairs to the solar, to Leila, and to a misunderstanding that had to be put right.

  Saturday, May 21, 1188

  Feast Day of Saint Helena

  14

  Isobel was outraged.

  She was accustomed to having her way, and to ensuring it by whatever means were necessary. How dare Fergus choose his dirty little infidel over her? How dare Fergus insist that she lied about Gavin?

  And how dare he send her back to Dunnisbrae? Stewart never had beaten her, but she feared he might do as much after events of this day. She could not return to the keep that had been her father’s holding.

  It was unjust!

  She had to compel Fergus to let her remain at Killairic. He could not be so indifferent to her fate as he would have her believe. She needed only a few more days to wear down his resistance and gain her sole desire.

  But how? He was gone and she was left in this barren hut for the night, with only her son for company. Even the comforts of the hall were denied to her, and this travesty added to her indignation.

  Isobel marched around the small hut in a tight circle, thinking furiously as Gavin watched her with uncertainty. How could she set all to rights? That was when she noticed the array of dried plants hanging from the beams of the roof. They were brown and dusty, but the sight reminded her that this had been the healer’s hut.

  Herbs! They had been key to the success of the first part of her plan.

  Isobel flung open the cupboard that stood in one corner and rummaged through its contents. She would make herself ill. She would ingest some herb or root that would void her stomach. She would be pale and weak, and Fergus would not be able to cast her out. Indeed, he might insist that she be moved to the hall. If he set his whore to tending her, she could tell the other woman more lies, perhaps even encourage her to leave of her own volition.

  Aye, it was the perfect scheme.

  Its weakness lay in Isobel’s limited knowledge of herbs and healing plants. She sniffed at the various leaves, but doubted any would be strong enough. She could not find the one she had used just weeks before. She had need of a root, for that was where the potency of the plant was concentrated. She found two different ones, stored separately and with a care that indicated their power. She sniffed them
both and chose the largest rhizome of the one with the sharpest scent. She then pivoted to meet Gavin’s gaze.

  “Run to the keep,” she instructed him. “Tell Laird Fergus that I am taken ill.”

  “But you are not, Mother.”

  “Aye, Gavin. I am.” Isobel bit the root and chewed it, grimacing at its bitter taste. She managed to swallow that mouthful and take another bite before the convulsion seized her, barely giving her time to realize that she had made a terrible mistake.

  * * *

  Leila was sitting on the side of the bed, her innards in turmoil. Could it be true? Could Gavin be Fergus’ son? She knew he had been chaste in Outremer, or even since leaving Killairic, but what about before that? Had his betrothal to Isobel been celebrated in a most earthy way? It might well have been.

  What were the ramifications for her if Fergus acknowledged Gavin as his son? Leila doubted that her position would be secure, even if she did bear a son to Fergus, for hers would be the younger and thus not the heir.

  She rose from the bed to pace, restless in her uncertainty. She felt the situation more keenly because her own courses were a week late. Was it simply the change in diet and situation, or had she conceived?

  If Fergus welcomed Isobel’s return and acknowledged Gavin as his own blood, Leila doubted that she would even be permitted to remain at Killairic. Where would she go, especially if she had a babe in her belly?

  Haynesdale, she decided, liking the notion as soon as it occurred to her. Bartholomew had been her friend for many years. He and Anna would give her shelter. Aye, she would ride to Haynesdale. It would take her less than a week, and she was certain she could manage the journey without incident. Perhaps Murdoch would escort her...

  “What did she say?” Fergus demanded from behind her.

  Leila spun to find him standing in the portal, waiting on the threshold as if he were uncertain of her reaction.

  She took a breath. “That the boy is yours.”

  Fergus shook his head and stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. “The same nonsense she said to me.” He came directly to her and took her hands within his own. His gaze was piercing. “You know it is a lie, do you not?”

  Leila shook her head. “I do not. You might have been intimate with her before your departure. I cannot fault you for that.”

  “I was, at her insistence, though I spilled my seed on the linens out of concern for this very result.”

  “That is scarcely a guarantee.”

  Fergus smiled and tugged his own hair. “The red cannot be disguised, Leila. Every child in my mother’s family is born with red hair. Mine was almost as bright as that of Hamish when I was a boy.”

  “Every one of them?”

  “Every single one.” Fergus smiled down at her. “Gavin is not my son. He cannot be. This tale of him being born nine months after my departure sounds like a lie, one contrived because Isobel finds Killairic more alluring than Dunnisbrae. I do not think Stewart could be so readily deceived in such a matter, either. I fear that Duncan saw her truth, that she thinks solely of her own comfort and not that of any other.”

  “I feel sorry for the boy.”

  “As do I.” Fergus sighed and shed his boots. “She gave no consideration to the fact that he stood there, that he could hear her words. When they arrived, she did not spare a thought to his discomfort or his hunger.” He shook his head. “Her disinterest in the welfare of her own son is most troubling.” He unbuckled his belt and unwound his plaid, granting her a smile that warmed her to her toes. “I am sorry for her words this day, Leila, but she will be gone in the morning at least.”

  “I doubt her claim will be dismissed that easily,” Leila could not help but say. Fergus granted her an enquiring glance. “I wonder what she said to Stewart when she left. Will he welcome her back to Dunnisbrae?”

  “If he does not, it has been her own doing.” He shed his chemise and came to take her in his arms. His caress was welcome and his touch warm. He touched his lips to her temple in that gentle way that awakened the heat within Leila, and drew her against himself. He speared his fingers into her hair and tipped her head back, smiling down at her. “Matters could have gone much further awry this night,” he murmured. “Yet we defeated her scheme for we worked together.”

  “Do you ask if I mean to welcome you abed this night, my lord?” Leila asked with a smile.

  “I do, my lady.”

  “You are always welcome in my bed, Fergus.”

  “And you, Leila, are always welcome in mine.” Fergus bent to capture her lips with his own and Leila stretched to her toes to welcome him. Just before their lips touched, someone hammered on the solar door.

  “My lord!” Murdoch said in his familiar growl. “My lord, you must come. It is Lady Isobel!”

  “I will not tolerate any interruption from her,” Fergus said firmly and did not relinquish his grip upon Leila.

  “But, sir, she sent the boy to say that she was ill. He seems most upset.”

  “God in Heaven,” Fergus whispered. “Is there no limit to her disregard for the child?”

  They both seized their cloaks and boots. Fergus raced down the stairs, calling for aid, and Leila followed as quickly as she could, wondering what Isobel had done.

  Perhaps the portent of Fergus’ nightmare had not been dispelled, after all.

  * * *

  Isobel was not ill: she was dead.

  Fergus and Leila entered the hut, Murdoch and the Templars close behind. Gavin was kept at the portal by the knights, but Fergus knew he had already seen the worst. Fergus crouched beside Isobel’s body, noting her grimace and the contortion of her posture. He wondered that she had made a choice that led to a death of such pain.

  Leila was at the far wall, surveying the midwife’s herbs. Fergus did not recall that they had been in such disarray when he had been in the hut earlier.

  There was something clasped in Isobel’s hand. He uncurled her fingers to reveal the root there. Clearly, she had bitten part of it. Leila bent to sniff it, then looked at Fergus.

  “Do you know what it is?” he asked.

  “The scent is familiar, I think.” She gestured and Fergus sniffed the root himself, then sat back on his heels again.

  “Monkshood?” he guessed.

  Leila nodded. “I believe so.”

  “How strange that she and Kerr would be felled by the same toxin.”

  “Not so strange as that, for it is a poison of high repute and grows in most climes.” Leila glanced around the hut. “I would wager that every healer across the breadth of Christendom and all the way to China has monkshood amongst his or her collection.”

  “Why would Isobel kill herself? And why in such a painful manner?” Fergus shook his head. “I cannot understand it. She did not seem so troubled when I left her.”

  “What was her mood?”

  “She was angry because I denied her desire to remain in the hall, and because I refused to acknowledge Gavin as my son. Her will had been denied.” He raised his gaze to that of his wife. “I would have expected her to do injury to me, or even to you, but not to herself.”

  Leila bit her lip as she thought. “Was she learned in the use of herbs?”

  “Not when I left these parts but it has been four years. She would not be the first woman to find an interest in the healing arts after bearing a child.”

  “Nay, she would not.” Leila looked skeptical, and Fergus thought it unlikely that Isobel would have shown the patience to study any art. He could not think of a way to say as much without speaking ill of the dead, but he had always found her attention to be short-lived.

  With the exception of her interest in him.

  Unless, her interest in him had been short-lived and then reborn upon his return. He frowned, not liking Isobel’s death even though he had found her irksome. It seemed to Fergus that even their dispute was no cause for her to wish to die.

  “You should ask the boy what she did at the end,” Leila cou
nseled quietly.

  Fergus met her gaze. “You think you know.”

  “I merely guess.” His wife straightened, her thoughts hidden from him once more. Fergus wondered in that moment what it would take for Leila to open herself to him fully. He wished he knew, for he would do it. “The boy may know more than he realizes,” she added gently.

  “I will take her to Dunnisbrae at first light,” Fergus rose to his feet as he spoke to the Templars. He heard Leila swiftly inhale, but her gaze was averted. “She must be laid to rest with her kin, Leila. Surely you see as much. Dunnisbrae was her father’s holding and that of his father before him. Her brother is laid to rest there, as well.”

  “Of course. You must show every consideration to Lady Isobel.”

  There was a curious note in Leila’s tone. Was she jealous? Fergus hoped she was, for he would be glad to see their relationship deepen beyond affection into love. He could not see her features, for she was drawing a cloak over Isobel’s face. He wished there was time to discuss all the details with her, but that would have to wait until his return.

  In this moment, there were obligations to be fulfilled. He addressed the Templars. “We depart for Dunnisbrae at first light. See that no one enters the hut until then.”

  “Aye, my lord,” agreed Yvan.

  “We?” repeated Enguerrand, his gaze flicking to Leila. She stood a little straighter but pretended not to have noted his comment. “I must remain at Killairic. As you can surely guess, this disruption to the routine offers opportunities.”

  Fergus sighed. “Then you must remain, of course, Enguerrand.”

  Leila was again inscrutable and had stepped back into the shadows to watch and listen. Fergus changed to Gaelic to address the boy, ensuring that he blocked the view of the corpse. “Gavin, can you tell me if your mother said anything after my departure?” he asked. Gavin swallowed, his gaze clinging to his mother’s body. He seemed to have been struck dumb. Fergus guided him outside of the hut and crouched down before him there, repeating his question.