The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  The little party followed his direction and dismounted before the chapel. The miller’s son halted the cart and Hamish helped him to lift Isobel. All were silent and the villagers crossed themselves solemnly. Together, Hamish and the miller’s son moved Isobel on to a board. Murdoch and Yvan aided them to carry her into the shadowed darkness of the chapel. Fergus followed out of respect.

  The chapel had no windows and there was only a beam of light from the open door to illuminate the interior. The sole piece of furniture within it was the table that served as an altar. The cup and plate must have been locked away, for the table was bare. It was cool inside the chapel, and the floor was of beaten earth. They were lowering Isobel’s corpse before the alter when the chapel was plunged into sudden darkness.

  All five of them started and spun. No doubt they each believed, as Fergus had, that the door had swung shut. Then Fergus heard a bar drop and knew otherwise. He lunged for the door but by the time he reached it, it was too late. The heavy wooden portal was secured from the outside, and he could not wrench it open.

  “Stewart! Open the door!”

  “Never!” that man said, his tone more characteristic. “You have taken what was mine, Fergus. Now I will take what is yours to see my vengeance served.”

  “Stewart!” Fergus roared, but he realized the other man had moved away. Stewart shouted for horses, and Fergus heard Tempest whinny in fear. There was a sound of racing hoofbeats, then Stewart’s voice again.

  “We ride to assault and seize Killairic!” He shouted and Fergus heard the clatter of arms and horses, as well as the stamping boots of soldiers. “My lady will be avenged upon those who saw her dead—and may the Lady of Killairic be prepared to welcome me.” He laughed. “Take your leisure this day, Fergus. I will have a tale of conquest to share with you upon my return.”

  Leila!

  “Stewart!” Fergus bellowed and shook at the door. He hammered upon it, to no avail, and even with the aid of the others, could not force it open. “He will kill Leila to settle the score,” he whispered. “And I have left her undefended.”

  His father would protect Leila but was scarcely at his greatest strength. Fergus could not be certain that Enguerrand would defend her, given that man’s lingering suspicions that Leila had stolen the reliquary.

  Fergus turned to the others in appeal, even as the sound of Stewart’s forces riding out carried to their ears.

  They must have been preparing to do as much before Fergus’ arrival.

  Stewart must have concluded that Isobel had gone to Killairic and had already planned his assault. If he had not done the noble deed and brought Isobel home to rest, he would have been at Killairic to defend it.

  Did Agnes have any part in this?

  “We must escape this chapel with all haste!” His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but he could see that there was little in the chapel that could be used to their advantage.

  “We must aid Lady Leila,” Hamish agreed.

  “But the walls are sturdy and the portal is barred,” Murdoch said.

  “There is not a single window,” Yvan agreed. “Only a dove hole in the roof.”

  They all tipped their heads back to consider the dove hole that Yvan had noticed. It was covered, for it was not Whitsunday, but it gave Fergus an idea.

  “And naught that can be used to batter the door,” Murdoch agreed. “We are trapped.” The miller’s son looked fearful at this and glanced toward the shrouded Isobel.

  “But it is all timber,” Fergus said and the others turned to face him. “We must uncover the dove hole, then light a fire. The smoke will escape while we burn a hole in the walls to aid our own escape.”

  Yvan and the miller’s son moved the table so that it was beneath the covered hold. Murdoch stood atop it, then helped Hamish to climb to his shoulders. The boy’s fingertips brushed the underside of the roof and Fergus feared he might be too short. But Hamish jumped a little and managed to poke at the cover so that it was dislodged. Sunlight came through the hole and the sense of triumph was tangible.

  “Who has a flint?” Fergus demanded.

  The miller’s son grinned and removed a flint from his purse. “I never am without one, my lord.”

  Fergus grinned in turn and accepted the flint, then chose a corner to begin their fire. “To the right of the altar,” he decided. “It faces south and will be the driest. It also faces away from the village. Those remaining may not notice it as soon.”

  Hamish took his knife and began to make shavings from the interior of the walls. The miller’s son watched, then did the same. The Templar grimaced, then took his knife to the legs of the table that served as an altar. Murdoch joined the task. Within moments, Fergus had a pile of tinder against that corner. When the flint sparked and the tinder lit, he hoped they would reach Killairic in time.

  15

  It was midday and Leila was in the solar, hoping for some hint of Fergus’ return. He was not the only one who felt a portent of doom on this day.

  Yet the horizon remained tranquil and devoid of any riders. She turned away from the window and busied herself with tidying the chamber.

  Perhaps she looked too soon.

  Perhaps she had need of a task to occupy her.

  “There is smoke!” someone cried from outside the hall and Leila ran back to the window to look. It was true. A thin dark plume of smoke rose in the southwest, though at considerable distance.

  Was it at Dunnisbrae?

  Had Fergus set the fire or was he in peril?

  She clutched the sill and watched as the smoke grew in volume, until it billowed into the sky in a dark plume that terrified her.

  She was more terrified by the movement on the distant hills. The dark cloud of a company approached, all of them on horseback. They rode with haste, dust rising behind them and Leila did not believe their appearance to be a good sign.

  “Look!” She ran to the summit of the stairs and called to Enguerrand. “A company approaches!”

  He hastened up the stairs and his expression turned grim as he looked upon them. “They ride to Killairic. Is this company from Dunnisbrae?”

  “I could not say.”

  “I do not think Laird Fergus is amongst them,” the Templar said. “I would recognize his horse.”

  “And that of Yvan.”

  “There is not a knight amongst them.”

  “But still they can do damage.

  “Indeed.” Enguerrand left her side and leaped down the stairs. Leila heard him shouting orders to close the gates and see the hall defended, but she was thinking of Fergus’ dream.

  Surely Killairic would not be burned in his absence?

  Enguerrand returned to her side and they stood together in terse silence, watching the company draw near. Leila caught her breath when she spied the two riders who had pulled ahead of the others. A girl led on a palfrey, her dark hair loose behind her.

  “Agnes,” she whispered.

  The man following behind rode a larger heavier steed, and the sunlight glinted on his armor. “And I will guess Laird Stewart,” the Templar added.

  Leila eyed their course and guessed their destination. “They mean to retrieve the reliquary from her hiding spot,” she said and knew the knight agreed. She pressed the key to the solar into his hand. “I must stop them from continuing to the keep.”

  The knight frowned. “But you cannot go alone. And I must remain to lead the defense of the keep in Laird Fergus’ absence.”

  “I must go,” Leila insisted. “If he seeks to avenge his wife, only my death will suffice.”

  “My lady!” Enguerrand roared, but Leila was already running down the stairs. If the price of saving Killairic was her life, she would gladly pay it.

  For Fergus and his future happiness was the only matter of import now.

  * * *

  Agnes was certain of the success of her new scheme.

  Laird Stewart had been disinterested in whatever tidings she brought from Killairic, though he
had allowed her to remain at Dunnisbrae with Nolan. Agnes had despaired of retrieving the treasure and putting it to use, but the flight of Lady Isobel had changed all. Laird Stewart had mustered his troops all day and made provisions to attack Killairic immediately to reclaim his wife and son.

  He had heeded her tale of the reliquary the night before, though found little merit in her suggestion of negotiating with it to take Killairic without striking a blow. The man yearned for vengeance and only the shedding of blood would suffice.

  That impulse had visibly multiplied when Lady Isobel’s corpse was brought to Dunnisbrae. She was in the crowd of villagers when Laird Fergus arrived and ducked low to keep from being recognized. Lady Isobel dead? It was one more crime to place at the feet of the whore. She was thrilled when Stewart locked all those arrived from Killairic into the chapel, insisting that justice be done.

  His quest for vengeance began at Dunnisbrae.

  And without Laird Fergus to defend her, the infidel would finally get the fate she deserved.

  Agnes’ own fate had to improve, as well. She knew it when Laird Stewart summoned her to ride to Killairic with the host, the better for her to point out the location of the prize. Nolan had saddled the palfrey she had stolen from Killairic with Stephen’s aid, undoubtedly guessing his laird’s intent in advance.

  Laird Stewart would claim both treasure and Killairic, and he was without a wife. The obvious reward to grant Agnes was to make her lady of all.

  They rode hard that morning, pushing the horses toward Killairic. Agnes smiled when Stewart roared at her to lead him to the prize, and she pulled away from the company, liking that she was part of a great scheme. Nolan granted her a wave and the ragged company continued toward Killairic. They would surround the keep, by Stewart’s command, but remain out of range of those on the walls.

  “It is here!” she said to Stewart, slowing her palfrey just inside the patch of forest and slipping from the saddle. She led Stewart toward her hiding place. The warrior’s boots left deep imprints in the soil, but it no longer mattered. Agnes would have no further need of the sanctuary and her prize would be moved this very day.

  She reached the hollow tree and reached into its interior, her heart in her mouth. She smiled when her fingers brushed the soft cloth of the chemise and she felt the bulk of the reliquary.

  “And what is it again?” Stewart asked.

  “I do not know. It is gold and covered with letters, as well as large gems,” Agnes said, cradling the bundle in her arms. “They called it a reliquary.”

  “A holy relic and a treasure then,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

  “One beyond compare,” Agnes agreed and offered the bundle to him.

  Stewart did not take the burden, but only brushed aside the cloth, leaving the weight of it Agnes’ grip. He unveiled the prize with haste, then he frowned. Agnes felt her mouth drop open, for she held a rounded piece of wood.

  She stared down at it, unable to explain how the gold had changed to wood.

  Before she could speak, Stewart struck her. The back of his gloved hand landed so hard upon her cheek that Agnes staggered backward. She dropped the wood and scrambled to pick it up, even knowing it had no value.

  “Stupid wench,” Stewart snarled and kicked the wood aside. He raised his hand again and Agnes cowered. “To think that I believed you, a lying, deceitful peasant...”

  “But it was here. It was gold. It was beautiful.” Agnes stammered incoherently, even as she realized why the whore had not been punished. “She took it!” she cried, right before Stewart struck her again.

  “As if I would believe another lie,” he snarled and spat upon her, then turned to return to his horse.

  “You should,” a woman said in heavily accented Gaelic. “For, this time, Agnes tells the truth.”

  The whore! Agnes spun to look and found the whore standing in the shadows of the forest, closer to the river. Her arms were folded across her chest and her expression was guarded.

  Stewart took a step toward her. “Who are you?”

  “She is the Saracen whore Laird Fergus handfasted,” Agnes supplied.

  Stewart smiled a little as he surveyed her. “I can see why. Though she is swarthy, she has an allure. Perhaps I will have her next.” He stepped toward the infidel and her eyes narrowed.

  “You must speak slowly,” Agnes said. “She scarce speaks Gaelic.”

  “And what truth do you claim Agnes tells?” Stewart asked, doing just that.

  “Agnes stole the treasure,” the whore said. “I stole it back.” She smiled, looking cunning and confident in Agnes’ view. “If you desire it, we must bargain.”

  “I do not need to bargain with an infidel,” Stewart snarled and seized the whore by the arm. She was clearly too small to defend herself against him, for she stumbled and could not shake free of his grip. He flung her to the ground and stood over her, his pose threatening. When she spared him only a scathing glance, he seized a fistful of her hair and drew her to her knees. “Here is my offer, infidel.” Stewart bit off his words slowly. “You will surrender the treasure to me now and I might let you live.”

  She parted her lips, no doubt to negotiate, but he struck her so hard across the face that she fell to the ground, stunned.

  “Understand that I am not inclined to let Fergus keep his pleasure when he has cost me mine,” Stewart smiled coldly. “Surrender the treasure and I might let you live.”

  The whore looked up at him, assessment in her dark eyes. “She said Gavin was the son of Fergus.”

  “He is not!” Stewart roared and struck her again. Her lip was swelling as was one eye. Agnes was glad at the limited extent of her own injuries. The infidel did not cede, though, but spat at Stewart in disdain. He grasped the whore’s hair again and forced her to her feet. “I might have need of a whore, but let us see how well you please me first. Give it to me.”

  “It is not here,” she said, her manner still defiant.

  “Then take me to it!” He flung her ahead of himself with such force that she barely kept her footing, then turned back to Agnes. “Do not imagine that you will remain behind to tell another of this. Mount your horse. The whore will ride with me, the better to ensure that she remembers where she had left the prize.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “You will follow and do as I say, or I will hunt you down, Agnes. You will regret your choice, but not for long.”

  Agnes swallowed and nodded, for Stewart frightened her mightily. She would not have been the infidel for any price in this moment, but she also had the wits to ensure she did not draw his wrath.

  It was only a matter of time before he had his fill of the whore. Agnes would not be next.

  Indeed, her scheme to become Stewart’s wife showed a decided flaw now that she had witnessed his truth.

  What she had to do this day was survive.

  * * *

  Enguerrand remained hidden in the forest until the sound of Stewart’s departure had faded. He did not like leaving the defense of the keep in the old laird’s care, but his primary obligation was to the Temple and thus to its treasures.

  He no longer could guess whether Leila truly knew the location of the reliquary, but he was charged to defend it. He would follow, at a distance, and intervene to possess it, if possible.

  He would also leave a trail that Yvan and Fergus would know how to follow.

  And if Stewart strove to kill the lady Leila, Enguerrand would intervene to ensure the secret of the reliquary’s location was not lost forever.

  * * *

  Their horses were gone.

  Fergus swore with a savagery that clearly astonished his fellows, but he did not care for their opinion. They had kicked out the back of the chapel after starting the fire, and their sudden appearance had startled those few who remained. Several villagers were trying to put out the fire at the chapel, but Fergus did not care if all of Dunnisbrae burned. There was not a steed in Dunnisbrae’s village. Indeed, there was not a man in the village or the keep. St
ewart had assembled an army of peasants and laborers, but if they were sufficiently intent upon their prize, Fergus knew they might win.

  Killairic, after all, was thinly defended in his absence.

  The few women remaining there retreated into their huts with haste. Fergus seized the sleeve of one woman who was evidently terrified of his intent.

  “What of the horses?” he demanded. “Did the laird take them all?”

  She nodded and he released her with a curse, then strode to the gates. The sole sign of Stewart’s raiding party was a cloud of dust in the distance.

  “We shall never reach Killairic in time to be of aid to anyone,” Yvan said grimly from beside him.

  Clearly, this had been Stewart’s plan.

  In frustration, Fergus whistled for Tempest.

  “Silence,” Hamish said, despondent beside him.

  Fergus heaved a sigh and began to walk. His long strides took him ahead of the others and the miller’s son trailed behind them all. He whistled again, with less expectation of success.

  He straightened when there was an answering nicker.

  To Fergus’ astonishment, Tempest cantered into view, his reins trailing and his step high. The stallion was agitated and fighting the bit, but he came to Fergus.

  “I wager he threw whoever was fool enough to try to ride him,” Hamish said, his tone much brighter.

  “I wager he did,” Fergus said. It took him a few moments to settle the stallion sufficiently that he could swing into the saddle, and by then, Yvan’s stallion had appeared as well. That horse was just as skittish and had the bleeding mark of a lash upon his rump. Yvan’s lips thinned and Fergus guessed that if he ever knew who had struck his horse with such savage fury, he might well return the favor.

  The palfreys did not appear and Fergus could only conclude that they had been taken by Stewart’s party. He was torn between defending the others and riding to Leila’s aid, but Murdoch scoffed at him. “Go, lad!” he cried. “We can walk back in time to hear of your triumph.”