The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance

by Claire Delacroix

  Leila had told him of her home in Jerusalem, at his request, but he sensed that the tale was thin, as if she did not wish to confide in him. He felt that he was told the version any stranger might hear. He offered to help her to learn more Gaelic and her acceptance was less than enthused. She was certain he had more important matters to attend. He asked her to teach him Arabic and she demurred.

  Murdoch had gone to Iona in his stead, as planned, and Fergus thought he had made the right choice in that, at least. He knew that Leila had ceased her lessons with the priest, though she still went to the smithy every day. He had no desire to force her to convert, though he did wonder why she had abandoned the plan when she had been so intent upon it.

  It must mean that she reconsidered her plan to stay.

  The birds had arrived from Carlisle and the dovecote had been completed. Leila took them beneath her care and gave them much attention, but said naught about them being her nuptial gift. He had visited the dovecote at her invitation and tried to share her pleasure that they had laid eggs.

  He could not, for her smile did not reach her eyes.

  Fergus was pacing in frustration when he was summoned by the guard on watch. He studied the approaching figure, wondering at his arrival. The horse had the slender grace of the horses bred by the Arabs, which troubled Fergus. Such beasts were uncommon even in Paris and virtually unknown in Scotland. Something about the rider’s trap and his garb made Fergus recall the dust and sun of Outremer, and he wondered that this arrival wore no insignia.

  He could not think of any incident that would prompt a man to pursue him all the way from Palestine.

  Surely Leila had not expected to be pursued? Was this man’s arrival what she awaited?

  Fergus could not wait for the man to reach the gates. He strode out to meet him on the road, well beyond the gates. The wind was up and Fergus knew there would be rain by the evening. He supposed this man would be their guest, though he balked at that.

  The arrival was dressed in the Frankish fashion, but his garb did not look quite right, as if he mimicked a style he had seen but was himself accustomed to dressing otherwise. His skin was tanned and his eyes were green, his features lined, and his gaze sharp.

  The man eyed him warily, then dismounted, his gaze falling to the signet ring on Fergus’ finger. “I seek Fergus of Killairic,” he said, his French slow and accented.

  “And you have found him,” Fergus replied, propping his hands on his hips. He supposed he did not look very welcoming, and he did not care. “Why do you seek me?”

  The man raised his hands. “I bring a missive. It was read first by Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine, for he was the one to direct me here.”

  Fergus frowned in his surprise. Gaston had sent the man here? “Where is it?”

  “In a pouch beneath my tabard.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Jerusalem.”

  Fergus nodded understanding, even though he was mystified. He could not imagine why Gaston would have granted directions to anyone, and thought of the safety of the reliquary. He pulled his knife from its sheath, thinking it made sense to be wary, even though he sensed no threat from the visitor. “Move slowly. If you deceive me in this, it will be your last living deed.”

  The man nodded. He eased one hand beneath his tabard then removed a leather pouch from beneath his clothing. He opened it slowly to reveal a furled scroll. When he freed it from the pouch, Fergus saw that its original seal had been broken. Fergus did not recognize that mark, but there was a new one of red wax with Gaston’s insignia alongside it.

  He told no lie about Gaston, at least.

  Fergus frowned at the script, which was familiar to him but also illegible. “This cannot be intended for me. I do not read Arabic.”

  “It is addressed to Leila binte Qadir lufti al-Ramm and is a message from her uncle. Lord Gaston implied that you might know her location. I am charged to deliver this to her with my own hand so would appreciate your assistance.”

  Fergus hesitated. Was this from the uncle who had arranged Leila’s marriage? He doubted any other relative would have troubled to send a message so far. Could it be good tidings? Or was it a threat? Could it be a deception, meant to lure her back against her own better judgment?

  What should he do? He wanted to protect Leila, but accepting the missive would reveal that he knew her location—or even indicate that she was hidden here at Killairic. On the other hand, he did not want to deny her any contact with her family.

  “Karayan,” Leila said from behind him, and Fergus realized that she had not only followed him but recognized the visitor. He spun around to see her approaching quickly, then turned back to find the messenger had dropped to one knee.

  “How is it that you are here, so far from home?” she asked the man in French, then switched to Arabic. Fergus assumed she said the same thing and watched the messenger’s hardened features melt into an affectionate smile.

  He replied to her and she hesitated only for a moment before plucking the scroll from his rough hands. She frowned at Gaston’s seal, then met Fergus’ gaze. “Lord Gaston gave him directions?”

  “Apparently so.” He watched her think about this for a moment, her gaze lingering on the broken seal.

  Then she nodded briskly and Fergus was pleased at even this short glimpse of her former manner. “Might I request that Karayan be shown hospitality?” she asked. “I will read this message. He is charged to wait for a reply and I will give him one by the morning. He will be a guest at Killairic for only one night and only if you find that acceptable.”

  Karayan looked between the two of them, clearly attempting to guess her meaning.

  Fergus eyed her, unable to guess her thoughts when she spoke with such purpose. Had she expected the message or the messenger? Did she know the contents of the missive? He had the sense that she had already chosen her reply, which made no sense.

  He also understood that she was not inclined to confide in him.

  “He is known to you, so, of course, he is welcome in our home,” Fergus said, noting how her gaze flicked to his when he said ‘our.’ “I must ask, though, that he surrender his horse and all of his weapons.” He could not even think about Leila departing with this man, but also could not imagine why else he had come so far.

  But if it was her heart’s desire to return to Outremer, he would not stop her.

  No matter what the cost to himself.

  Leila spoke quickly to the messenger, who nodded. At the gates, he began to divest himself of his weapons. Fergus beckoned to a pair of guards, one of whom took custody of the horse while the other accepted the messenger’s weapons.

  “She will be cold,” Leila called after the one who led the horse away. “Please put her in the stall at the left end, for it is warmer, and find a blanket for her.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  She spoke again rapidly and the messenger shook his head. She glanced up at Fergus, her grip tight on the scroll. “Neither of them have any illnesses, but I suspect both are more hungry than they prefer to admit.”

  “They will both have our best hospitality.” He held her gaze for a long moment. “You are lady here, after all.”

  She smiled then, tears shining in her eyes as she closed both hands around the scroll. “Thank you, Fergus,” she said quietly, then turned and strode to the gardens with purpose, her head down.

  She looked so unhappy that Fergus’ heart clenched tightly.

  And it was in that moment, as he watched her walk away, that Fergus truly realized the threat he had sensed for so long. The peril before him was the risk of losing Leila. She could depart with this messenger, because of whatever word he had brought her or despite it, and Fergus would never see her again.

  He could not bear the thought.

  Yet at the same time, if leaving Scotland would restore her smile, he would not obstruct her departure. He loved Leila, but he loved her sufficiently to want her happiness more than anything else. Her sadne
ss of late had been almost too much to bear. If she wanted to return home that badly, he would not stand in her way.

  “Leila binte Qadir lufti al-Ramm,” Karayan said with satisfaction and nodded once.

  “The choice will be hers to make,” Fergus informed the other man in French. “And I will defend it with all the power I can muster.”

  He held the messenger’s gaze, waiting until that man nodded understanding and agreement. Then he indicated the hall. “Come. Our fare is simple but it is plentiful. You are welcome at Killairic, Karayan. I hope our hospitality suits you well.”

  The older man bowed. “It cannot fail to do so.” He raised a fist to his chest. “It lifts my heart to see Leila well. All else is simply more blessings.”

  * * *

  It was against all expectation.

  A missive from her uncle.

  Leila sat on the stone bench beside the dovecote and listened to the cooing of the birds. She stroked the parchment and failed to swallow the lump in her throat. She recognized her uncle’s script and there could be no disputing the little flower he always drew after her name. She ran her fingertip over the ink, smiling a little in memory of his protectiveness. The arranged marriage aside, he had always been kind to her.

  Hakim had not needed to take her in. He had not been required to raise her alongside his own daughter. He had been a good father.

  She hesitated to open the missive, to break that seal, for she feared its contents. Was Aziza well? What of little Kamal? Surely her flight had not caused repercussions for her family? Leila was not certain what tidings Karayan brought, and she did not want to be surprised if they made her weep. She took a breath, then broke Gaston’s seal, knowing that knight must have been convinced of the merit of both message and messenger to have confessed her location.

  Leila swallowed then unfurled the scroll. There was a dark stain on one side, about the size of her uncle’s thumbprint, and she bent to smell it, smiling a little at the familiar scent of ash. She could close her eyes and see the smithy again, the hot sun on the roof, the smell of steel and fire and leather.

  Leila tried to read the missive slowly, wanting to savor this unexpected gift, but her gaze danced over the message. When she was relieved that it brought no bad news, she read it again.

  * * *

  My dear Leila, beloved flower and blessing of our house—

  This missive carries both an apology and an entreaty, and I hope it finds you well. In fact, I am greedy with my wishes. I would not only have my message delivered into your hands, but I would have you sufficiently well to read it. I would have your heart still open to my words despite our disagreement. I would have Karayan find you promptly, and also return to me with a message from you—if not with you yourself by his side. I wish for much, more than perhaps is my due, but I cannot stop the wishing all the same.

  I fear for your fate and for my own part in driving you from the safety of my home. I cannot blame you for making your choice, given my refusal to consider your view of Ahmed. I can only hope that the price you have been compelled to pay for fleeing with the Franj has not been too high. I know much of these men, more than I would wish to know, though truly, few men will show themselves to be honorable when a young beauty begs for their aid. I fear that you may have paid for your escape in the oldest of ways.

  And so I write to you, not only to apologize, but to remind you that you are as my own daughter. You are welcome in my home now, as ever you were, and you are welcome regardless of what you have done or what has been done to you. You think, perhaps, that I will be shamed if you were to return unmarried and with a child fathered by a Franj. You might not believe any protest I might make in my own defense, so I will tell you this, a story that proves the intention of my heart.

  Many years ago, your mother came to me when she knew she carried a child fathered by a Franj. He was a warrior, defending the claim of the Franj to our village, al-Ramm. He took far more than was his right, though I did not know of his wickedness in time. Indeed, I thought him to be a man of honor. It was the blue of his eyes, so steadfast, that tricked me into trusting when I should not have done. This man abandoned your mother after taking her innocence and planting his seed. She argued always to his merit, but he seized what he should not have touched and he left no provision for my sister or her child.

  For you.

  That is not the choice of the man of honor I had believed him to be.

  I welcomed my sister into my home and I refused to see her as shamed. She bore you and died in the delivery of you, leaving you alone in the world. I believe her heart was broken, for she faded during her pregnancy when she should have blossomed. After her death, we contrived a story that her husband had been killed in battle and that she had been a widow. This was the true reason why we left al-Ramm and came to Jerusalem, so that few would question the tale. It was true that there were raids and that the village was less safe than once it had been, but we began again to give you a life. I saw you raised in my house as if you were my own child, and the secret was kept between your aunt and me. We were determined to make right from wrong and to give you the upbringing you deserved. I bought a new shop, I found new clients and established my name again, and we made a new life in Jerusalem. It was not easily done but I do not regret it.

  Now your aunt is gone, her wisdom lost to me, and I am the sole keeper of the secret. I owe it to you, Leila, to tell you the truth of your parentage before there is no one left who knows it. You are half-Franj, and though I know the name of your father, I swore before your birth that it would never cross my lips again. I hope he is dead, denied by his own family, in justice for what he did to the mother of his own child. I pray he did not know of you, for then his heart would be darker and he would still be your father.

  Then you fled, and I feared that my scheme to keep the past secret had led you into peril. You could only have escaped with the Franj, and I hope that my error has not put you in peril. I hope you have not paid too high a price.

  And so I send Karayan in pursuit of you, though I would have preferred to go myself. As a Rūm, if not a Franj, he is more likely to pass without notice than I ever could. I pray daily that he finds you, and thank Allah that a man of such valor and dedication serves our family.

  If your mother’s fate has been your own, please do not fear my wrath. You are my sister’s daughter, the blood of my heart, as dear to me as if you were my own child. I would hear your laughter again. I would see your smile. I would know you to be safe and well. Aziza believes that you can do any deed and perhaps her faith is justified. I know too much of men, though, little flower, and I am afraid that you are alone, impoverished, and with child. I fear a repetition of the past.

  Let me help you.

  Let me offer her a haven.

  Please send word with Karayan that you forgive me for believing in the match I arranged. Please send word that you are well—or better yet, return home under Karayan’s protection. You know he can be relied upon. Aziza misses you. We all miss you, but mostly, we want you to be well and happy. Please let me know that you are so.

  * * *

  Leila blinked back her tears and clutched the missive. She stared unseeingly at the garden she had come to love so well. The bees were working in the flowers and the pigeons cooed over their nests. The hills rolled before her to the firth, which shone in the late afternoon light. The sky was streaked with gold and red as the sun dipped low, and some clouds were gathering overhead. The first raindrops began to fall, making the air look as if it was filled with silver. Leila did not move, merely tucked the missive into her sleeve to protect it. She loved it at Killairic, and if Fergus had been inclined to surrender his heart to her, she might have happily stayed.

  As it was, her uncle’s offer was not without appeal. Leila could go back to everything she knew and everyone she loved. She could play with Aziza’s baby and maybe find a husband to give her children of her own. It was tempting to slip back into the life she had known—althou
gh Leila knew that she had changed and that there might always be a yearning in her heart for what she left behind.

  Or whom.

  Her father had been Franj. She wished she knew more about him, then wished his nature had not been as her uncle described. She supposed she had been of two places even before she left Jerusalem.

  Half Franj.

  Half Christian.

  Was that why this land appealed to her so powerfully? Was that why she had had a sense from the outset that she could make a home here, with the right impetus?

  But she did not have that impetus. Fergus had said he did not love Isobel, yet Isobel’s son was at home in this hall. Would Gavin be named heir of Killairic because his lineage was pure?

  Still she was torn. She had not bled but it was too soon to know if she would miss her courses a second time.

  If she carried a child, would it be born hale after Stewart’s blow?

  Is she carried a child, would life be better for her child in Jerusalem than here?

  Was it important that Fergus had decided they would not travel to Iona together, when they had resolved she would be baptized there?

  Leila did not know and she hated this new indecisiveness in herself. She read the missive again, shielding it from the rain, then rolled it carefully and tucked it into her sleeve again. Her heart in her throat, she stood and turned to return to the hall. She would find out what was happening in Palestine from Karayan. It would not make a difference to her choice, but the gathering of information could only be sensible.

  Leila realized that Fergus was watching her from the doorway to the kitchens. She lowered her own gaze, feeling as if she had been caught, and felt herself flush. How long had he watched her? Her innards clenched and she wondered what he was thinking.