The Crusader's Kiss Read online

  The Crusader’s Kiss

  The Champions of Saint Euphemia #3

  by

  Claire Delacroix

  A company of Templar knights, chosen by the Grand Master of the Temple in Jerusalem to deliver a sealed trunk to the Temple in Paris. A group of pilgrims seeking the protection of the Templars to return home as the Saracens prepare to besiege the city. A mysterious treasure that someone will even kill to possess…

  His dream of becoming a knight achieved, Bartholomew heads home to avenge his parents—only to find himself hunted and in need of the assistance of a most unlikely and unpredictable ally. Anna seeks justice with a disregard for the law that shocks Bartholomew, but the bold maiden’s tactics are as effective as her kisses are seductive. Does she truly wish to aid him in regaining his legacy, or is she using him as a pawn in some scheme of her own?

  The Champions of Saint Euphemia

  The Crusader’s Bride • The Crusader’s Heart

  The Crusader’s Kiss • The Crusader’s Vow

  The Crusader’s Handfast

  The Crusader’s Kiss

  by Claire Delacroix

  Digital Edition

  Copyright © 2016 by Deborah A. Cooke

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by The Killion Group, Inc.

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright preserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Dear Reader;

  One of the most interesting things about writing stories all the time—and one thing that frequently surprises people who aren’t writers—is that I don’t always know how the story is going to work out. Some stories seem to have an energy of their own, and with those books, I feel like the last one to know what’s going to happen. Bartholomew and Anna’s book is just such a story. I knew Bartholomew had a secret. I guessed that Anna had a grudge. I believed that they would have to work together to see everything resolved, but couldn’t see how it would happen. They seemed too different to me, yet their dialogue showed the energy of attraction right from the outset.

  I knew the book would be set in England, so I began to compile images for my storyboard on Pinterest that were evocative of medieval England. Quickly, I saw a theme in the pictures that I was choosing: they reminded me of the Robin Hood story. As I delved deeper, I saw that there were similarities between that story and Bartholomew’s history, but even more interesting, I discovered (or rediscovered) that the true story behind that of Robin Hood is believed by some scholars to be almost concurrent with the story of the Champions of Saint Euphemia. (As is often the case, there are several possibilities for the origin of the legend, and there are other scholars who insist that the legend has no basis in truth whatsoever.) I enjoyed using elements of the legend in this story.

  It was easy to see that Anna would be the leader of the thieves in the woods, just because of her rebellious nature. Does she have a justification for seeing herself as a leader? I love how her disregard for the laws of the nobility contrasts with Bartholomew’s respect for justice and order. What a wonderful time I’ve had with this pair: the woman who accepts no authority and the man who must learn to assert his own. I hope you enjoy their story as well.

  One of the other projects I’m enjoying is the writing of Duncan and Radegunde’s story, The Crusader’s Handfast, which is being published in monthly installments between December 2015 and May 2016. I had thought that the arrival of Gaston and Ysmaine at Châmont-sur-Maine would be part of Bartholomew’s story, but it really wasn’t. Whose story was it? When I saw that Radegunde had an eye for Duncan, I knew. Like so many servants, this pair knows a great deal more about their knights and ladies than those nobles realize, and they also work to ensure that their lords and ladies win their happy endings. The reader letter for The Crusader’s Handfast is on my blog, so you can read a bit more about how this story evolved. It will be published as a complete book in both print and digital formats in July 2016.

  Also, the Champions are being produced in audiobooks, just a little bit later than their publication in digital and print editions. The entire series is being narrated by Tim Gerard Reynolds, and he’s doing a wonderful job. As of this writing, The Crusader’s Bride is available in audio. Check my website for links and updates on that process.

  As always, please follow my blog or subscribe to my monthly newsletter to keep up to date on all the news. The newsletter contains advance notice of most sales on my books, as well as chances to win audiobooks, cover reveals, and updated news of releases. You can also choose which news you’d like to receive, in case you don’t read in all of the same sub-genres in which I write.

  Until next time, I hope you are well and have plenty of good books to read.

  All my best,

  Claire

  The Crusader’s Kiss

  Sunday, December 6, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Nicholas

  Prologue

  Châmont-sur-Maine

  Bartholomew was torn between his loyalties. He knelt in the chapel all night before his investiture as a knight and wrestled with his decision.

  When Gaston offered to dub him a knight, Bartholomew had immediately thought that he might return to England. As a knight, he could challenge the villain who had stolen the holding that had been his birthright. As a knight, he could defend justice and ensure that his parents were avenged. As a knight, he could claim his family holding of Haynesdale if it had been abandoned and appeal to the king for its return to his hand. His first thoughts had been all of opportunity and triumph.

  Still there had been a seed of doubt. Gaston had been more than good to him. That knight had found Bartholomew, orphaned in the streets of Paris, when he had been only a young boy. Gaston had not only ensured his welfare but trained him as a squire when he was too young and small to be one. Though there was only a little more than ten years between them, Gaston could have been Bartholomew’s father, given the role the older knight had played in his life. Now, Gaston not only would knight Bartholomew—at considerable expense—but had offered him an opportunity as Captain of the Guard, defending the borders of Châmont-sur-Maine.

  Did he not owe it to Gaston to take this role?

  Bartholomew’s doubts had increased when the party arrived at Gaston’s newly won holding to discover that the husband of Gaston’s niece was displeased to find Gaston arriving home and hale. It was clear to all that Millard had aspirations to claim Châmont-sur-Maine for his own, and might well have done so already if Gaston had been further delayed. Though the matter had been resolved in Gaston’s favor, Bartholomew was aware that his good friend could face additional challenges. Gaston might well need every blade he could summon to his side.

  Which duty should Bartholomew fulfill? Was it better to right an old wrong or to ensure that another matter did not go awry in future?

  Just days before, Wulfe had arrived for B
artholomew’s investiture as a knight, a radiant Christina by his side. That former Templar’s tale of returning to his family abode and being accepted by his father had been an inspiration. Wulfe, to Bartholomew’s surprise, had been not only a bastard but one spurned by his sire. He had won a title and the hand of Christina in his own.

  Because Wulfe had dared to hope for it.

  Nay, because he had dared to seek it out and claim it.

  Indeed, the fact that this fine holding of Châmont-sur-Maine came to the hand of Gaston argued in favor of Bartholomew going to England. A younger son without a legacy, Gaston had believed he would serve as a Templar for all his life. That such a rich reward had come to the knight Bartholomew admired most in all of Christendom was a welcome indication that he might prevail himself over the villain who had stolen Haynesdale.

  It would have been easier to be certain of his path had he known what awaited him at Haynesdale. What had truly happened all those years ago? Bartholomew had been too young for his memory to be reliable. He knew he had been sent away. He dreamed of fire and he bore a scar, burned into his own flesh. Who had attacked their abode? Did his mother still live? Did the villain still hold the estate?

  Would the king heed Bartholomew’s appeal? He knew that the Angevin kings demanded that all holdings in England revert to their control upon the death of a baron, so that the king could see the responsibility bestowed anew. This practice was to ensure that the king’s faithful men were always in power and always rewarded. Henry and his kin did not recognize inheritance in those lands beneath their control—save by the gift of coin. The escheat could be bought but Bartholomew had no coin to secure his claim.

  If he departed from France, would he betray Gaston’s trust and fail in his own quest, as well? He could argue the merit of both courses and see the risks of both.

  Bartholomew eyed the reliquary on the altar and wondered whether Saint Euphemia had interceded for Wulfe and Gaston. Their party had defended the saint’s remains all the way from Jerusalem, at some peril. Would she do as much for him?

  How could he chose between two paths, both honorable yet both filled with peril?

  He supposed this was the task of a knight.

  Perhaps this decision was his true test.

  That evening, Bartholomew had been washed and shaved, and his beard had been shaved. He had donned a new chemise and chausses and entered the chapel in reverent silence. The reliquary had been revealed and the priest had kissed it, then placed it upon the altar. Gaston had placed the sword with which Bartholomew would be girded before it, and he had been left in silence to prepare himself for his vows.

  The portal had been locked and the chapel had become both dark and cold.

  It had been hours. Bartholomew’s knees hurt. His belly was empty. His mouth was dry and his fingers were cold. Still, he prayed, hoping for one choice to offer itself as more important than the other.

  The night passed slowly. He might have dozed, yet on his knees, save his thoughts were churning. The chill of the stone rose through his body and seemed to close around his heart.

  Gaston or Haynesdale?

  It seemed Bartholomew had knelt for an eternity when he saw the sky lighten beyond the windows of the chapel and heard birds stirring. He raised his gaze yet again to the altar, to the sword that would soon be his own. Its pommel gleamed in the darkness. It was a fine blade of Toledo steel, its hilt simple and strong. Gaston had chosen a weapon that would serve Bartholomew well all his life. The pommel had a round crystal in it, much like Gaston’s own, but this orb had a fragment of the True Cross trapped within it. The sword and the spurs Gaston would fit to Bartholomew’s boots on the morrow symbolized his new role and responsibility.

  Behind the sword was the golden reliquary they had carried from Jerusalem to Paris for the Templars. The tale was that it remained in Paris, but to ensure its safety, Fergus would take it secretly to Scotland. The Grand Master in Paris had agreed that it might grace the chapel here, at Gaston’s request, so long as the portal was barred and none outside their party saw it—save the priest.

  Bartholomew had not seen the marvel himself until they had reached the Paris Temple and still he could not believe its richness. The reliquary was large and wrought of gold and gems embellished its surface. It was adorned with the name of the saint whose sacred relic was sheltered within.

  Saint Euphemia.

  Just the day before, Christina had recounted the tale of Euphemia’s life, including the miracle attributed to her at the Council of Chalcedon. There had been a dispute about the correct doctrine, so two scrolls, each describing one perspective, had been placed in the sarcophagus containing the saint’s relics and sealed there. In the morning, one scroll had been in Euphemia’s hand, the other beneath her feet.

  She had chosen which doctrine would be orthodox.

  She might help him to choose. Aye, it was her blessing to bestow.

  Bartholomew recognized this impulse as the right one. Should the first beam of sunlight to touch the altar land upon the sword—the sword given to him by Gaston—he would remain to defend Gaston’s legacy. Should the sunlight touch the reliquary first, he would choose greater risk and uncertain reward, the path of justice for his lost father. A martyr like Euphemia, after all, had become a saint by following her faith and holding to her convictions, no matter how uncertain the outcome.

  Aye, Bartholomew resolved, it would be so.

  His heart beat a little faster as the sky lightened yet more beyond the windows. Finally, a shaft of sunlight pierced the shadows, painting the west wall of the chapel a rosy gold. The sun rose higher and the beam of light eased closer to the altar. Bartholomew prayed as he watched its progress. He could not guess where it would land.

  The sunlight was slanting over the altar when he heard a footstep outside the portal. The priest spoke softly to another, probably Gaston, and the key was turned in the lock. The sunlight touched the corner of the altar cloth in that moment, and still he could not anticipate whether reliquary or sword would be illuminated first.

  The priest murmured a prayer from the back of the chapel. His soft footsteps came closer, the tread of a knight’s boots following behind. Bartholomew watched the sunlight move slowly, nigh holding his breath.

  The flare of light when the sun touched the gold was so bright as to blind him. The reliquary shone so vividly that it might have been ablaze, and truly, Bartholomew felt as if the saint’s will set his own blood afire.

  He would ride for Haynesdale, determine the truth of its situation, and strive to see his father avenged.

  Justice it would be.

  No matter what obstacle stood in his path.

  It would be his first quest as a knight.

  Saturday, January 16, 1188

  Feast Day of the Five Friars Minor (Saints Berardus, Peter, Accursius, Adjutus, and Otto)

  Chapter One

  Haynesdale in Northumberland, England

  Anna was on her belly in the snow, watching the party that camped in the forest she knew as well as the lines in her own hand. She was perfectly still, her crossbow loaded and hidden beneath the sheepskin pelt that disguised her figure from view. She might have been chilled, if her heart had not been pounding so hard in anticipation. Little Percy was nestled beside and partly beneath her, his eyes bright as he awaited her instruction.

  They were both dressed in simple dark garb that would blend with the shadows. Anna had bound her long hair beneath a cap and wore a man’s chausses and boots. She liked that she could run more quickly in such garb, and that she oft gained liberties when perceived to be a boy that might be denied her as a woman.

  It had been months since a party had ventured along this road, and longer yet since one had been fool enough to take their rest within the forest. It had been a hard winter and would likely be a harder spring. There were rumors of new taxes and tithes, though the harvest had not been a good one, and Anna would not be the sole one hungry.

  In truth, they had
expected a party to ride in the other direction, away from Haynesdale keep, for the baron always paid his taxes to the king after the Yule. Well aware of the thieves in his forests, Sir Royce always sent out scouts the day before the wagon laden with coin left for the king’s hall. Anna and Percy were watching for that sign.

  Instead, they had discovered a party of knights riding towards Haynesdale. It was most unusual. Sir Royce was not a frequent host. Anna debated the merit of summoning some of the others, but decided she and Percy could manage alone.

  This party’s wealth was clearly considerable. Their horses were remarkable beasts, so fine that Anna knew they would be readily recognized in any town’s market she might try to sell them—or even en route to those towns. She would have to forgo the temptation of the horses. Fortunately the palfreys were heavily burdened with saddle bags and parcels.

  What did these men carry?

  The men were armed more heavily and more richly than was typical in this corner of Christendom. They wore mail, each and every one of them, not merely boiled leather jerkins. Their boots were tall and polished, and they had helmets of fine design.