The Crusader's Handfast

by Claire Delacroix

  “And you defend the Breton March,” Lady Ysmaine said.

  “Aye.” Lord Gaston grimaced.

  “Will we be attacked?”

  Lord Gaston kissed his wife’s hand. “Not if I can steer a course between these kings and their desires. This is the matter that concerns me most.”

  “If any man can do as much, Gaston, it will be you.”

  “I thank you, lady mine, but I have one concern.”

  “Will you ride to Outremer again, Gaston?”

  “Nay, Ysmaine. Such journeys are behind me, but we may undertake a smaller journey.” Lord Gaston turned to Radegunde, and she flushed to have been caught listening so openly. She curtseyed and would have apologized, but Lord Gaston made a gesture of impatience. “I would not speak in your presence, Radegunde, without the expectation that you would hear my words. I know full well that you will not repeat them.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “What has Duncan told you of Killairic?”

  “That it is fair, but not as fair as Mormaer, where he was born.”

  Lord Gaston smiled at this.

  “That it is lies upon the western coast of Scotland and is stoutly defended.” Radegunde frowned, striving to recall more. “That Fergus and his father are men of good repute and that justice is maintained at Killairic. I have the impression of it being a fine and prosperous estate.”

  “And its enemies?”

  “He told me of none, sir, although it seems all holdings have some opponents.” Did Lord Gaston mean to ride to Scotland? Did he know more of the wedding plans of Fergus and Isobel?

  And what of Duncan?

  Lord Gaston looked thoughtful. “Indeed, though I do not believe it stands upon the March.”

  “Nay, my lord, nor do I.” Radegunde took a breath and decided to ask what she desired most to know. “Lady Isobel, the betrothed of Lord Fergus, is from a neighboring family, but Duncan feared her affections might have changed while Lord Fergus was gone.”

  “He was right,” Lord Gaston said flatly and her heart sank. “I had a missive from Fergus, advising me that there would be no nuptials celebrated at Killairic this spring. Lady Isobel wed another and already has borne her spouse a son.”

  Then they would not ride to Scotland and she would not see Duncan soon. Radegunde spun to hide her reaction and busied herself with folding her lady’s chemise.

  What if Duncan did not return? What if he could not? Radegunde had never wanted to consider the possibility of being without him.

  “While he was so loyal to her!” Lady Ysmaine declared. “How outrageous! After he bought so many gifts for her? Never have I seen a man so smitten as he.”

  “Never?” Lord Gaston asked, clearly seeking her smile, and Lady Ysmaine laughed.

  “Seldom,” she corrected, her eyes sparkling. “She is not worthy of him, to be sure!”

  Lady Ysmaine gasped suddenly again, her grip tightening on Lord Gaston’s hand. This contraction was longer and more vigorous, adding to Radegunde’s concern for the babe’s health.

  She realized that Lord Gaston watched her closely and imagined that he saw her fears. She smiled for Lady Ysmaine, though, knowing that it could be fatal for the mother to lose hope. “Perhaps you will sleep better this night, my lady, with your labor behind you,” she said cheerfully.

  “God in Heaven, I did not know a child could come so quickly.”

  “Impatient to see the world, it is clear,” Radegunde said briskly. “Fear not, for we are prepared.” She called for more maids then, summoning both hot water and the birthing chair that had been prepared for her mistress.

  “Would you rather I stayed or left?” Lord Gaston asked his wife.

  Lady Ysmaine clutched his hand. “Stay, Gaston, for I will not fear my fate when you are here.”

  He kissed her hand again, then Radegunde gestured to both of them. “I would have you walk a little, my lady.”

  “Tell me more, Gaston,” Lady Ysmaine entreated when she was on her feet. “You spoke of a journey. When and to where?”

  But Lord Gaston had no chance to reply. Another contraction bore down upon the lady and she tipped her head back as she shook from head to toe. Her water broke and the dark fluid spread across the floor.

  Lord Gaston lifted his gaze to meet Radegunde’s and she forced a smile. “Where did this one come by such impatience?” she asked lightly, though she knew that Lord Gaston understood her concern well enough.

  As Radegunde helped Lady Ysmaine to the birthing chair and looked between her thighs, she prayed that all would be well and the babe would be hale.

  * * *

  Torvean, south of Inverness, Scotland

  There would be no Beltane fires on this night.

  Indeed, it seemed to Duncan that there was little left to burn in the lands he remembered as verdant and lush with heather. The ground was scorched and blackened, the few trees lifeless, and he fancied he could still smell smoke in the air. On his ride north, he had heard of the devastation the previous summer, the pillaging and the slaughter, but naught could have given him sufficient warning for the sight.

  This was his father’s achievement: the land ravaged and barren; the people scattered and doubtless terrified. Scavengers dogged his steps, wolves so close behind that his stallion was disquieted. Dark shadows circled overhead, birds of prey awaiting their opportunity. Wolves howled at close proximity. Duncan guessed they were at least four. Caledon nickered and flicked his ears, more than glad to run a little faster.

  The devastation made Duncan want to weep for all that had been lost.

  The only good thing was that he had not brought Radegunde with him. She was safe, as no one could be in his homeland at this time. It was rife with rebels and outlaws, men who would sell their souls for a penny and were more than willing to take what was not their due.

  Duncan might have despaired, if he had not such confidence in the merit of his countrymen. They had need of a leader upon whom they could rely. Perhaps the King of Scotland would provide that governor.

  Fergus’ father had been more than willing to release Duncan from his service, once his beloved son was safely returned home. The lady Isobel had not been at Killairic to meet her betrothed, and a shadow had touched the older man’s brow at Fergus’ question about her welfare. Duncan was not surprised that she had wed another, for he had long thought her fickle, but could not guess the fullness of any suspicions Fergus might have had. He might have lingered, but the younger man had insisted Duncan leave the hall, in search of his own fate, the better that he might keep his word to Radegunde.

  One of them should be happy in love, Fergus had said.

  There had been tidings at Killairic about Scotland and war, battles that had taken place since their departure for Outremer and boundaries that had shifted. Of greatest import to Duncan was the decisive battle in Galloway that had brought those lands beneath the hand of King William of Scotland. He was not surprised that own kin still battled for Moray. The assassin Murdoch had spoken of Adam’s death, but Duncan had sought more detail.

  In the fall of 1186, the earl of Atholl was said to have massacred a band of outlaws at Coupar Angus, not so far north of Perth and the Firth of Tay. Some sixty men had come raiding out of the north, led by one known as Adam, and finally taken refuge in a church. The earl of Atholl had not respected the law of sanctuary, probably because of the violence of their deeds, and had burned the church to the ground with the villains locked within it.

  Had it been Duncan’s older brother or another rebel? Duncan wished he could be certain. That the raid had been so far south indicated to Duncan that his father had not abandoned the notion of claiming the Scottish crown for his own—or for one of his sons.

  But kingship should not be earned in violence and destruction. A crown won in such a way could not be held. Duncan had seen it time and again. His father desired power but not responsibility. His disregard for all the people whose homes had been destroyed and whose kin had been sl
aughtered filled Duncan with outrage.

  He had ridden north with vigor, following rumor of his father toward Inverness, the ancient seat of the Picts and later the Mormaer. As soon as he passed Urquhart in the Great Glen, he saw the damage. North he rode, ever north, needing to know his father’s location and intent, needing to find a haven for himself and Radegunde.

  It might well be at Killairic.

  Or Châmont-sur-Maine.

  He wanted it to be here, in the land he loved best.

  The light was fading when Duncan heard the predators draw nearer, emboldened by the darkness. Ahead was the silhouette of the keep on the hill at Inverness. The river Ness flowed beside him, better than any compass in guiding his path. Immediately before him was a new stone cairn, high and long.

  He had intended to ride for the Precious Well, Fuaran Priseag, at Clacknaharry, for he felt in need of Saint Kessock’s protection. A silver penny was a small price to pay to be guarded from curses and to dispel evil. Duncan was not superstitious, but he felt the presence of evil keenly in his homeland and anticipated a closer encounter with it when he found his father. But his progress had been slower than hoped. He would never reach that well and find shelter before night fell, not on this day.

  The gates of the city of Inverness would be closed soon, if they were not so already. He touched his heels to Caledon’s flanks, determined to make the walls. Truly, he was uncertain that he would find a welcome there, but there were few other choices.

  Only a fool would sleep out of doors in this wasteland.

  Caledon cantered alongside the cairn while Duncan surveyed it. There was something about it that captured his attention. Its size, perhaps. How newly built it was. Aye, there was not a blackened stone to be found in its construction. He had a sense that it marked a great battle, and that many warriors slept forever beneath it.

  Then a wolf howled close behind him, so close that Caledon nearly reared.

  Another wolf added its voice to the haunting cry, then another and another. Duncan could see their silhouettes, their heads down as they moved rapidly toward the ones that howled. It might have been a summons. The cry grew in volume, unceasing, making the hair stand on the back of his neck. Caledon fought the bit in his fear, but the wolves did not target Duncan.

  Nay, they converged on a point far ahead and to the left. Duncan urged his steed onward, hoping he would see what drew them. A fallen animal? If so, they were best left to their meal, and their focus upon it might give him time to reach the gates.

  “For the love of God!” a man roared in Norman French. “Scatter, you fiends!”

  Duncan heard the man shout a battle cry. Montjoie. Aye, he had heard that invocation before.

  The wolves barked in a frenzy and he knew the man ahead fought for his survival. Duncan did not care for the man’s alliance. He could not stand by while one more warrior met his end unjustly.

  Duncan turned Caledon hard and galloped in the direction of the man’s voice. He soon spied the warrior, on foot and surrounded by snapping wolves, their eyes glowing in the darkness. The cornered knight wore a chain mail hauberk and heavy boots and gloves. His head was bare and his hair was dark. His tabard was mired, but Duncan could see the insignia of William II, the red lion rampart, on the front. As soon as the warrior swung his blade at one, that wolf jumped back, but the others moved closer.

  They surrounded him and would wear him down, then fall upon him when he was too exhausted to defend himself.

  He would be eaten alive.

  It was no way for a man to die.

  Duncan loaded the crossbow that Fergus’ father had given to him, a most elegant gift that the older man believed would be of use to the warrior. And so, on this day, it would be. He shot one wolf in the back of the head and the creature dropped, to move no more.

  Two more he killed with bolts to their chests, then the pack divided, half of them turning upon him with snarls. He spoke to Caledon with low insistence, hoping the steed’s fear would not make him unpredictable.

  Another wolf was felled with a bolt from the crossbow, then Duncan saw a shadow gaining behind him. He had not yet reloaded the bow, so pulled his knife. When the wolf leaped at Caledon’s haunches and bared its teeth, Duncan buried the blade in the beast’s throat.

  The wolf fell to the ground, uttering one last growl before it was silenced forever.

  The knight had rallied and killed two wolves with his sword. Another, perhaps the largest of the pack, made to attack the warrior from behind, but Duncan felled the beast with his crossbow. Several of the wolves backed away then, their manner appearing to be wary as they sidled away from the men.

  The warrior dropped to sit on the ground, as if his legs would no longer support him. He held his blade aloft and breathed heavily as he watched Duncan’s approach.

  Duncan rode to the other warrior’s side and immediately saw that his thigh was bleeding. The wound had been bound at some earlier point, but the bleeding had not stopped. The trail of fresh blood would have drawn the wolves.

  “Out of the fat and into the fire,” the man said in Norman French with a grimace, looking Duncan up and down, his gaze lingering on Duncan’s plaid. He spat at the ground, then glared at Duncan, perhaps thinking he would not be understood.

  Duncan dismounted. “You should ride,” he said, replying in Norman French. “I am due for a walk.”

  The man was surprised, but not quick to accept Duncan’s offer. “Because you would rather kill me yourself?” he asked with suspicion.

  “Because we have a better chance of making the city gates that way.”

  “Forgive my suspicions. I have not seen much mercy from your kind.”

  “I am just returned from Outremer,” Duncan said flatly. “And I have seen sufficient death for all the rest of my days and nights.” The man did not look convinced, so Duncan retrieved his knife from the dead wolf, holding fast to Caledon’s reins. The steed stamped, unsettled by the scent of blood, and Duncan led him quickly back to the knight.

  The man still watched him. His face was pale, Duncan noted now. How much blood had he lost? How badly wounded was he? Why was he on the hills alone? His wariness, though, made Duncan certain that his questions would be unwelcome.

  “And so I would ask you to choose. Will you accept my aid, or remain to die here this night?” Duncan asked. He gestured to the eyes glowing in the shadows, for the wolves had not retreated fully. “They will return to finish what they have begun. They do not forget.”

  “Aye. Wretched beasts. They seek only their own advantage.” The warrior’s eyes narrowed. “Why were you in Outremer?”

  “To serve a knight who joined the Templars.” Duncan eyed the darkening sky and gestured to the saddle. “Will you ride or not? I bid you choose, for I do not mean to feed the wolves myself this night.”

  The man almost smiled. “Gruff and practical, effective in battle. I could use a man like you.” He stood with an effort and hobbled to Caledon’s side, stroking the horse before he reached for the saddle. Again, he granted Duncan an appraising look. “A fine destrier for one so humbly attired.”

  Duncan snapped the reins out of the man’s hand. “There was a time when men in these parts shared their names readily and believed the best of those strangers they met, particularly those who had saved their lives.”

  “You have been away, to be sure,” the man retorted. “There was also a time when Gaels did not slaughter Normans.” He gestured to the cairn. “Three hundred warriors are there, but it was not enough to stem the hatred. Still they rise against us. I did not jest that you might have saved me to end my life yourself.”

  “And I do not jest that I have no such intention. I would not save a man to kill him with my own blade. Indeed, I would rather that I never again take the life of another.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I thought to come home, no more and no less.”

  “Have you a name?”

  “I was called Duncan when I lived he
re.” Duncan deliberately chose to confess no more.

  His companion smiled then. “And I am Fitzpatrick, Captain of the Guard of the king’s keep at Inverness.”

  Duncan lifted a brow. “Yet you have neither steed nor company.”

  The knight winced, then pulled himself into the saddle with an effort. “We rode out this morn to hunt the outlaws who have been harassing the city borders. They are the last of that rabble beneath the cairn. In the fight, my horse was injured and I was dismounted. I awakened alone, so they must have thought me dead.”

  Duncan could think of other possibilities, but he chose not to speak them aloud. He seized the reins of Caledon and began to walk briskly toward Inverness.

  “It is quicker if you take that path to the right,” Fitzpatrick informed him. “The gates are yet a goodly distance away but there are several houses on this route. They keep dogs and light fires to repel the wolves.”

  As if aware that they were being discussed, the wolves howled once more. Duncan looked back to see their shadowy shapes and their eyes drawing close once again. Would they devour their own kind? It would depend upon their hunger. They were bold to attack a man outright, to be sure, and he would wager that there was little for them to eat in such a devastated land.

  Caledon nickered and tossed his head, impatient to continue. Duncan began to trot alongside the horse as he wished to reach sanctuary soon. The destrier was only too glad to match his pace.

  They passed a cottage, just as Fitzpatrick had predicted, with a blazing fire before it and smoke rising from the roof. Duncan could see the bonfire before a second hut, not too far ahead. Were they Beltane fires after all? He thought not, for no one celebrated with dance and laughter. The fires burned while the people locked themselves away.

  He hated that his homeland had become a place of fear.

  By the time they passed the fourth cottage, Duncan could neither hear nor see the wolves. Caledon appeared to be less agitated, but Duncan knew that neither of them would rest easy before the gates of Inverness closed behind them.

  Would he be admitted? Or turned aside? His companion’s attitude did little to feed his expectations.