The Crusader's Handfast

by Claire Delacroix

  The import was clear. They would rule together.

  Lord Amaury saluted them both and stood on the step below them, the two knights flanking the lady. Millard was the next to make his obeisance, followed by three women who had come out of the chapel. Duncan readily identified the oldest, with her silver hair, to be Marie, Bayard’s widow. The other two must be her daughters, the older one who stood with Millard being Azaläis, the younger, much less confident, being Rohese.

  The priest was there and he bowed before Gaston, then stood beside him as they faced the company. Each man in Gaston’s party dismounted, then went to Gaston, kneeling before him and kissing his ring in obeisance.

  They were within the walls of the keep, and Gaston held both the seal to his inheritance and the signet ring.

  But Duncan did not believe for a moment that the other man’s claim was secured.

  * * *

  There was only one deed worse than a journey, in Radegunde’s view, to make for extra labor and that was a move. The move of a nobleman and his wife, even a pair as austere in their possessions as Lady Ysmaine and Lord Gaston, increased the work even more.

  To be met with resistance, if not something closer to defiance, was more than Radegunde could tolerate. The solar had to be settled, her lady’s possessions unpacked and her bed made with fresh linens, her jewels locked in the treasury and all arranged before Lady Ysmaine finished the ceremony of obeisance with Lord Gaston. Radegunde knew well that her mistress would be tired after such a day and was determined that both Ysmaine and the babe she carried had a chance to rest in peace before the evening meal. Radegunde had no patience for the tardiness of Lady Azalaïs in vacating the solar, for that woman had known well enough when Lord Gaston would arrive.

  No less that his claim was the true one.

  Worse, the maids in the employ of Lady Azalaïs, her mother, and sister were slow and mutinous. The solar was dirty, the braziers overflowing with ashes and the strewing herbs on the floor so old and dry that they had to be filled with vermin. Lady Azalaïs’s trunks had to be moved, and Radegunde did not care where. There was a knot of whispering maids on the stairs, resentful in their sidelong glances as they did naught at all.

  Radegunde took command of the noble chamber, casting open the window shutters and then setting any maid she could find to work. They could protest and mutter all they wished: the new and rightful lady of the keep would be served and served well. The old strewing herbs were swept away and burned in the great hall. The braziers were emptied of ashes. The carpets and the mattress were beaten in the bailey, the very walls washed and the floor scrubbed. There was not time to fetch clean herbs from the village, a constraint of the keep’s island location, but soon enough, the solar was sufficiently clean to suit Radegunde.

  She cast out every piece of furniture save the great pillared bed itself. It was wrought of dark wood and heavily carved, the canopy nigh at the ceiling. It was old, and she had to wonder whether Lord Gaston and his older brothers had been conceived upon it. The mattress was soundly beaten.

  She summoned new candles and positioned her lady’s trunks. Lord Gaston’s possessions were also brought to the chamber, and Bartholomew helped her to make all as right as the pair would expect. He assisted her in hanging the new velvet drapes for the bed, for she was not tall enough. Lady Richildis had insisted upon supplying them, and they were most fine. The new mattress was placed on top of the existing one, and new linens tucked over it. There were plump pillows and several furs, as well as a coverlet of silken velvet for her lady’s pleasure. There were several thick carpets from Valeroy, as well, and Radegunde had them placed by the bed. The braziers were lit so that the chamber was filled with a welcoming glow. She sent a maid to fetch a meal and wine for the lady and lord, then glanced out the window that overlooked the bailey.

  Lord Gaston was leading his lady to the great hall.

  Radegunde summoned hot water for a bath and was glad they had brought a tub from Valeroy, for there seemed to be confusion about the ability to supply one in this keep. She could not believe there was not one, only that the defiance continued. She closed the shutters to keep the chamber cozy.

  The tub was full, the water steaming and the air scented with lavender when the noble couple appeared at the portal.

  Lady Ysmaine’s relief was more than clear. “Radegunde, you are a prize, to be sure,” she said, exhaustion in her voice.

  “I have summoned a repast for both of you, my lord.”

  “I thank you, Radegunde,” Lord Gaston said. “But I cannot linger.”

  “Gaston!” the lady protested, and he kissed her hand.

  “The treasury key is not yet mine, Ysmaine,” he said and gestured to the portal. “And I will have every key to this lock before I retire for the night.”

  “You are suspicious, sir.”

  “I am cautious, lady mine, and will grant my trust when I perceive it to be deserved.”

  Lady Ysmaine smiled. “Or there is no opportunity left to deceive you.”

  The pair smiled at each other in perfect understanding.

  “I will survey the stables, the hall, and the stores. I believe we should ride to hunt this afternoon, to ensure that there is sufficient fare for the feast two days hence.” Gaston pursed his lips. “It might give Millard and me the opportunity to better our understanding.”

  “Mind you watch his aim,” the lady counseled tartly and Gaston smiled.

  “I have survived this long by keeping my wits about me, lady mine. Do not fear for my fate now.” He kissed her brow. “Partake of the preparations Radegunde has made and even slumber a bit. I will escort you to the board when it is time.”

  Ysmaine smiled and sat down with a sigh of relief.

  Lord Gaston granted Radegunde a glance. “I will send Bartholomew to guard the portal,” he said, and she nodded understanding. He strode from the solar then, raising his voice to summon his squire. Radegunde heard him greet Lady Marie on the stairs and forbid her from visiting Ysmaine in the solar, then ushering her back down to the hall.

  Lady Ysmaine lifted her circlet and set it aside. “I did not expect it to be so tiring.”

  “You were concerned, my lady, and fearful of the outcome. That always adds to the effort.” Radegunde bustled around her mistress, divesting her of her finery before the bath cooled too much. “And now you may take your relief.”

  “Indeed. I am most impressed by this chamber. Tell me you did not have too much to do to make it our own.”

  Radegunde only smiled. Lady Ysmaine had settled into the bath water with a sigh of contentment when there was a discreet tap at the door. There was no screen in the chamber, and Radegunde resolved to find one. Instead, she only opened the door enough to have a glimpse of Bartholomew outside.

  He offered her a pair of keys. “It is a beginning,” he said, revealing that he held a third.

  “It is the trouble with an old lock. There is no telling how many keys might have been cast.”

  “Indeed. Gaston may send to Paris for a new one.”

  Radegunde nodded at the wisdom of that. “And does he ride to hunt?”

  Bartholomew nodded and took his place by the door. “Lord Amaury and Fergus ride out with them, while Duncan, the Templars, and I remain here.”

  Radegunde thought that splitting the company made good sense, and she was glad that Duncan remained in the keep. Doubtless he guarded the reliquary himself.

  “It seems that Millard welcomed the opportunity to become better acquainted,” Bartholomew continued. “Perhaps we misunderstood his greeting.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  Bartholomew smiled. “You gain some of Duncan’s wariness in the time you spend with him,” he teased. Radegunde could not help but smile in return. “But Millard already presented Gaston with a fine gift.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. Hunting gloves of finest red leather, tooled and embroidered.” It was clear that Bartholomew was impressed. “They are magnific
ent. He said he had them made when he heard that Gaston would return.”

  “Hunting gloves?” Radegunde echoed. “Did Duncan see this?”

  Bartholomew frowned. “Nay. He is in the chapel…”

  “Did my lord Gaston don them?”

  “He could scarce have done anything else, with the whole company watching!”

  Radegunde seized Bartholomew’s sleeve. “Guard my lady, I beg of you. I must see Lord Gaston warned!”

  “But they have ridden out already,” Bartholomew protested as she ran past him. “And warned of what?”

  But Radegunde had not a moment to spare. She saw an echo of the past in the present and had to ensure that Lord Gaston did not touch those gloves to his lips.

  They might well be poisoned, like those of Conan, the duke who had crossed the Breton March in defiance of the Angevin king and wiped his mouth with his hunting glove at Château-Gontier.

  Then died there.

  Radegunde did not doubt that others knew the tale as well as her mother—and Lady Eudaline had been most concerned about poison, after all. She ran down the stairs as quickly as she could, hoping against hope that she could reach the hunting party in time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hunting party was gone.

  Of course.

  Radegunde could scarcely hear the departing horses as she crossed the bailey. When she reached the gate, they had long since passed over the bridge. She insisted that the guard let her through the gate and peered at the party in the distance. They were too far away to hear her shout and already they coaxed the steeds to a gallop.

  They would be out of sight within moments.

  She had to wonder whether that was Millard’s scheme.

  Her heart in her throat, Radegunde spun to seek Duncan. Bartholomew had said he was in the chapel. She did not trouble to hide her haste but ran to the small chapel and burst through its door. Duncan was bent on one knee at the altar, his saddlebag by his side, the priest before him. Several other members of the household were also at prayer. Duncan glanced up at the sound of her arrival.

  He took one look and genuflected, then strode toward her. To her relief, he brought his saddlebag. “What is amiss?”

  She stretched up to whisper in his ear. “Millard gave fine gloves to Lord Gaston, and he donned them for the hunt this day.”

  Their gazes clung, and she knew their thoughts were as one.

  “I will ride out immediately in pursuit,” he said grimly, then passed her the saddlebag. “I do not yet know my accommodation. Will you keep it for me?”

  “Of course.” Radegunde recognized the weight of the reliquary within the bag and knew her lady’s chamber was the best place to see it secured. That Duncan had not yet surrendered it to the priest or his treasury told her much.

  Duncan grimaced. “But I do not like that we will be so divided.”

  “The Templars remain here, and Bartholomew.”

  He arched a brow. “While my lord Gaston, his wife’s father Lord Amaury, Fergus, and myself are outside the gates.” He shook his head. “I do not like it, Radegunde, but there is naught for it.” He took her hand in his and strode for the stables, calling for his horse to be harnessed anew. The steed had just been brushed and blew out its lips to find the saddle upon its back again.

  “You have run farther than this in a day,” Duncan reminded the destrier, giving it a hearty pat. It snorted but turned to leave the stables readily enough. He swung into the saddle and Radegunde felt that some of his concern cast a shadow over her own heart. He bent and caught her chin in his hand, giving her a sweet kiss.

  Then his gaze searched hers. “Suspect all,” he whispered, his eyes dark, and Radegunde nodded.

  “Be careful,” she whispered, fearing for him.

  Duncan smiled to reassure her, then turned the horse to ride out. She held his bag close to her chest and followed him across the bailey. Duncan raised his voice at the gates and the guards let him pass. He urged the steed to a canter on the bridge itself, and she glimpsed the horse galloping along the shore in pursuit of Gaston’s party.

  “Is aught amiss?” a man asked, and she found one of the Templar knights beside her. It was Enguerrand. His gaze dropped to the saddlebag, then met hers again.

  “I hope not,” Radegunde replied, keeping her voice low. She urged him aside and spoke quietly, not wanting to be overheard by the ostler or stableboys. “Do you know the tale of Conan, the duke who crossed the Breton March?”

  “The one who died at Château-Gontier?” Enguerrand did not lower his voice—vexing man! Radegunde held her finger to her lips but he ignored her. “Of course. My family seat is in Anjou. Further east than this, but the tale was oft told. Why?”

  “Did you ever hear about his gloves?” Radegunde whispered.

  Enguerrand shook his head. “His gloves?”

  “That they were responsible for his demise?”

  “Nay, it was his valor and his folly in defying his liege lord, if not the divine vengeance for those who are faithless.”

  “He was murdered, by the tale I heard,” Radegunde said, for it was imperative that the Templars, her lady’s sole allies in this keep while her husband was at hunt, should appreciate the peril. The ostler cast them a glance of disinterest and she hoped he was not listening to their words.

  “How?”

  “By poison applied to his gloves,” Radegunde confessed quietly. “A preparation that he would ingest when he wiped his mouth after a hard ride.”

  Enguerrand’s eyes narrowed and finally his voice dropped. “Such a scheme must have been laid far in advance.”

  “Which makes it worse, not better. Someone anticipated that he would defy his liege lord and planned accordingly.”

  Enguerrand fixed her with a look. “Who told you of this? And what matter if it is true?”

  “My mother told me the tale as a warning.”

  “Your mother, the wise woman?” His voice boomed again, and Radegunde yearned to strike him.

  “Aye.”

  The Templar’s lips tightened. “A wise woman would know best how it might be done. To others, it might seem a tall tale. How much did you learn of your mother’s arts?”

  Radegunde was insulted that his tone filled with suspicion. “Only enough to aid my lady when her time comes, if necessary,” she snapped, then whispered anew. “What is of import is that Lord Millard gave Lord Gaston a pair of gloves this day.”

  “Aye, I saw them.” Enguerrand smiled. “They were most fine. A truly thoughtful gift.”

  “And Lord Gaston is wearing them to hunt.”

  Enguerrand glanced between Radegunde and the open gate, his frown deepening. “But you cannot be accusing…”

  “Can I not?” Radegunde continued in quiet haste. “He did not welcome Lord Gaston’s arrival with joy. He loses his stewardship of this holding with Lord Gaston’s return.”

  Enguerrand’s gaze flew to the tower, and she saw that he finally understood the peril. “Our party is divided,” he murmured. “Duncan rides to warn Gaston and he will be protected by the others if need be. The lady must be defended by those of us who remain.” He raised his voice to shout to Yvan, one of the other Templars, then turned a glittering gaze upon Radegunde again. “I sincerely hope that you are wrong,” he hissed, his gaze boring into hers. “But if you are right, or if any soul in this keep dies of poison, you had best be prepared for questions, for you alone are the daughter of a wise woman.”

  Radegunde gasped in outrage at his implication.

  The Templar’s gaze fell again to the saddlebag before she could correct his thinking. “And you had best surrender that to me.”

  “I will not,” she retorted.

  “You are but a maid and that bag…”

  Radegunde stepped back and raised her own voice. “Belongs to my man, Duncan MacDonald. I have been entrusted by him with his belongings, and I will keep them with me in my lady’s chamber.” She saw the Templar’s gaze flit over the stablebo
ys who were now listening avidly and watched his lips tighten.

  Before he could argue with her, she marched away, holding the saddlebag tightly against her chest. She was aware of a shadow moving beside her when she stepped into the bailey and glanced that way to see that it was Laurent.

  Fergus’ squire.

  Leila, by Duncan’s telling. Now that Radegunde knew the truth, she wondered how she had missed it. Disguised as a squire, the Saracen girl had guarded the reliquary from their departure from Jerusalem and Radegunde knew she was trustworthy. Only the fact that she had kept herself mired in dung had kept others from looking too closely.

  The smell of her garb was still enough to bring a tear to Radegunde’s eye.

  “You there,” she said crisply. “I would have your aid in ensuring that all is to my lady’s satisfaction in her chamber. Come along. I doubt you will be missed.”

  And Leila might win a fair prize in exchange.

  The squire bowed low, then scurried after Radegunde.

  In Duncan’s absence, she would keep all of her allies close.

  * * *

  Duncan knew he was being followed.

  Again.

  Ever since the assault in the forest, he had wondered about the Scotsman who had attacked him. The fact remained that Duncan had not recognized him. He had not known his tartan either. Had the man been in the tavern in Paris? If so, Duncan had not noticed him there.

  Was the attacker truly a Scotsman, or simply another man garbed as one of his fellow Scots?

  Why did the man follow him? Was it because of the reliquary? It was impossible to know whether Wulfe had caught Everard and naught said that Everard did not have an ally either—or had not bought one. That Paris tavern was likely well known as a place to find able men in search of labor that paid well.

  And Duncan could believe that there were more than a few who had no scruples.

  An assailant seeking the reliquary might have believed it to be in Duncan’s possession when he and Radegunde had left the protection of Valeroy’s walls. Indeed, it could have been a gift intended for the convent where Gaston’s mother lived.