The Crusader's Kiss Page 10

  “Oh!” Leila pivoted to face Anna, her hands rising to her lips in dismay. Genuine or feigned? Anna could not say. Truly, the other woman was far better at disguising her true intent. Perhaps Anna could learn from her. “My lady, you have not made your prayers this night.”

  Anna was uncertain why the other woman had made this suggestion and was momentarily uncertain of what to say. She was supposed to be a woman raised in a convent, after all. Perhaps Leila meant to reinforce the tale.

  “I would not trouble our host and hostess,” Anna said with a smile. “I can pray here.”

  “Nay,” Bartholomew said with unexpected heat. “There is a chapel in this keep. I will escort you to it that you might pray as is your custom.”

  Before she could agree or disagree, the knight claimed her elbow and led her from the room. He set a sharp pace and seemed to know his destination. Anna could only scurry along beside him, wondering at his intent. “I do not need to pray,” she whispered.

  “Of course, you do,” he whispered back. “I believe I have found Percy, but we still have to find the contents of Duncan’s saddlebag.”

  Anna’s heart thrilled that he had discovered her brother’s location. He had been using Lady Marie to orient himself!

  She considered his words but was confused. “And you think to find those contents in the chapel?” What had been in the bag? Anything of value would have been taken the treasury. Any foodstuff would have gone to the kitchens or pantry. Anna frowned.

  “Without doubt,” Bartholomew murmured with conviction. “The difficulty will lie in retrieving it from there.” He spared her a quick sidelong glance as they stepped out into the bailey. “You may need saintly intercession this night, my lady.”

  Anna felt her lips part in surprise. Saintly intercession? That could only come from a saint’s bones.

  Which meant Bartholomew’s party had been carrying a holy relic.

  Who were these knights?

  Chapter Five

  Cenric. The dog had his father’s middle name.

  It could not be an accident.

  And the dog itself was the image of the hound Bartholomew had known as a toddler. Hours before, he could not have described the beast for he recalled only its loyalty, but one glimpse of this dog, and he knew it to be his Whitefoot’s twin.

  Perhaps his descendant.

  He had to take the dog with him on the morrow.

  Along with Percy and the reliquary. There would be cause for celebration if their party managed all three, that was for certain. He knew more of the keep’s defenses, which was good, though he still had need of a plan.

  Leila’s suggestion had been a most sensible one. He hoped that taking Anna to her prayers on this night would give him the opportunity to discover the location of the reliquary, which might provide a better idea of how to retrieve it. He spoke to a servant of their scheme, and that man ran for the priest. He took Anna to the chapel, and they found the heavy wooden portal locked securely.

  “Too many keys,” he said under his breath.

  “She will have them,” Anna replied, flicking him a hot glance. “You might put her interest to good use.”

  “I already have learned the layout of the keep from her, sweet wife,” he murmured, then bent to kiss her forehead. “She wishes for more, but I fear you will exhaust me with your passion this night.”

  Anna stiffened as if dismayed by this prospect, but Bartholomew had no opportunity to reassure her. Again, he sensed that she had known abuse by a man and would have reaffirmed his own intent, but he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He had to content himself with squeezing her hand, then turning to greet the priest.

  * * *

  Anna was disconcerted by Bartholomew’s words, and might have argued his assertion, but they were no longer alone. When Bartholomew released her from his embrace, he turned a smile upon the approaching priest.

  Anna caught her breath. It was Father Ignatius.

  From the village.

  Of course, it was. There was no other priest closer than York.

  Anna’s heart leapt for her throat, then plummeted. Father Ignatius had been priest in the village all of her life. He had baptized Percy and buried her parents. He likely had wedded them and baptized her. There was no soul more likely to recognize her than Father Ignatius.

  And no soul with less capacity for deception.

  Anna bowed her head, her heart hammering. Surely he would not reveal her? Anna averted her face, that her veil might conceal her features, even as her panic rose. Was it too much to hope that the change in her garb would keep the priest from looking too closely?

  Anna feared that it was.

  “I do apologize for so troubling you, Father,” Bartholomew said smoothly as the priest sorted through his keys. Father Ignatius carried a ring with five keys of various sizes. What would they open? Anna could account for two. The chapel here in the keep and the village chapel. What of the others? There was no gate on the cemetery and Father Ignatius did not lock the portal to his own home, as a matter of principle. He might have a key to some entrance to the keep.

  Did she dare to hope that one key might be for the dungeon?

  As her thoughts flew, Bartholomew continued to charm the priest with the false tale of Anna’s background, and her enthusiasm for prayer. “Morning, noon and night,” he confided in the priest. “She prays most frequently.”

  “I am not one to find fault with that,” Father Ignatius said with his usual amiability.

  “Again, I am sorry to trouble you so late,” Bartholomew said.

  “It is no trouble to administer to the faithful, my son. It is my calling.” The priest unlocked the portal, revealing a chapel of simple elegance. It had high windows, though at this hour, no light came through them. The priest strode forward to light beeswax candles. There was clean linen on the altar, but naught else.

  Not a relic to be seen.

  There must have once been one, to see the chapel blessed. Had it been lost? Stolen? Sold? Or was it hidden here? Perhaps beneath the floor.

  There was no other door and the windows were too high to be reached easily from outside. They were also small, undoubtedly due to the cost of the glass.

  “Come, come, my child,” Father Ignatius encouraged. “God’s house is always open.”

  Anna dropped to her knees before the altar and folded her hands. She did say her prayers, asking first for their safe escape from the hall and the retrieval of Percy, for the future welfare of all of them, and the restoration of the knights’ prize. She was distracted by the possibility of their carrying an item of such value. How would it be retrieved from a locked chapel, even if they could find it?

  Was it not wrong to steal from a chapel? She had to think it would be.

  She had to think it would be worse yet to deceive Father Ignatius, a man who had only been kind to her.

  Bartholomew was on his knees at her right, making every sign of praying himself. Perhaps he was. Father Ignatius knelt on Bartholomew’s right, saying his own prayers. After this had continued long enough for Anna to repeat her prayers three times, Bartholomew nudged her with his foot.

  She thought it an accident, but he did it again. Harder.

  She was supposed to do something.

  Ask for saintly intercession, she supposed.

  Bartholomew stood, genuflected and thanked Father Ignatius again. “I leave you to your prayers, my lady,” he said with a bow, then retreated, leaving her alone with Father Ignatius. Anna heard the doors close behind her, and knew that she was supposed to ask after a reliquary, if not find it.

  Without knowing what it was.

  Without revealing that she fully expected it to be in this chapel.

  And she was to trick a man who had only been good to her. A priest!

  Curse Bartholomew again!

  * * *

  Anna took a deep breath. “Father,” she said, speaking in a high voice that Father Ignatius might be less likely to recognize. �
�I would ask for your aid.”

  “Indeed, my child.”

  “I fear to disappoint my husband.”

  “Why would you fear such a situation, my child? He seems most amiable.”

  “But I grew up in the company of nuns, Father, and know little of a man’s needs and desires.”

  “I am certain that your noble husband will make his expectations clear. You have only to cede to his requests.”

  Anna had the urge to grind her teeth. Father Ignatius was also one of the most tolerant and understanding people she knew. Now that she considered the matter, he always counseled patience. She let her voice rise a little higher. “But I know little of administering a secular household, Father. What if I err?”

  “But I am certain the nuns taught you of such duties. Did you have no tasks while in their foundation? I know that the sisters of Saint Mary cleave to the rule expecting each to contribute to the welfare of all.”

  “I helped in the tending of the gardens, Father,” Anna lied, halfway expecting that some higher authority might smite her for lying to a priest in a chapel.

  There was no bolt of lightning.

  “And doubtless your husband’s holding will have gardens, too,” Father Ignatius continued in a soothing tone. “You will find solace and familiarity there.”

  “But, Father, I am so fearful. I have no one, neither kith nor kin, other than my lord husband. If he turns me aside, what shall I do? Where shall I go?” She tried to sound even more agitated. “What if I anger him, without knowing what I have done? What if I fail to conceive his child? What if I bear him only daughters? Father! I am so afraid!”

  The priest laid his warm hand over hers and Anna ensured that her fingers shook. “You have led a sheltered life thus far, my child. It is only reasonable that you should feel trepidation on this change in your circumstances.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Is your husband cruel to you?”

  “Nay, Father. He has been only kind.” Anna could not lie about that. She let her voice tremble. “But still, that could change if I err.”

  Father Ignatius gave her fingers a little squeeze. “Let us pray together, my child,” he said with his usual calm confidence.

  “I wish I could ask for the aid of a saint,” Anna whispered, hoping she sounded desperate. “The sisters would have let me kiss the finger bone of Saint Mary. Even the prospect of her intercession always soothed my fears.” She shook her head and bent more deeply over her hands, pretending to weep. She could feel the priest watching her.

  Anna had time to think that her efforts had been for naught when he abruptly stood up.

  One key on his ring proved to open a door set into the wall to the right of the altar. Anna had not even discerned it, for it was so well crafted that it was nigh invisible. She could not see its contents when Father Ignatius opened the door, for his figure blocked her view, but when he turned, she saw something gold in his hands.

  It was not small.

  It was studded with gems and gleamed in the candlelight.

  She ducked her head to hide her astonishment. Was this what Bartholomew’s party had carried? Where had they gotten it?

  Was this what Percy had stolen? No wonder it was missed!

  “Do you know the legend of Saint Euphemia?” Father Ignatius asked.

  Anna shook her head for she did not have to lie. “Nay, Father.”

  She peeked to see that he regarded the reliquary with some wonder of his own. “She was a virgin sworn to purity in her love of Christ. At her father’s command, she was tested and tortured, but she refused to worship false gods as he so desired. She died a martyr, but her relics have done wonders. She defends the righteousness of good choices.”

  Anna stole a look through her veil as Father Ignatius paused before her.

  “This treasure is lately come to us, by some divine design, but perhaps you are the reason why.”

  She feared then that he had guessed the truth. “I do not understand, Father,” she said in that high voice.

  “That you might ask for her aid, of course. That the saint might give you confidence in your choice of husband. But a day ago, I could not have offered you this solace, my child.” He held the reliquary before Anna. “Perhaps Saint Euphemia will give you strength.”

  “I thank you, Father,” Anna whispered. She leaned closer, her eyes downcast, her gaze flying over the marvel before her. She had never seen an item so richly adorned or so precious. It must contain the saint’s head, for it was of the right size.

  It was also the right size to account for the bulk of the stolen saddlebag.

  How had Bartholomew’s party come to carry this prize? Surely they had not stolen it?

  Anna watched her breath fog the surface of the gold, knowing she had never seen any thing so fine as this. She bent and touched her lips to one large amethyst. She could smell the scent of roses, which was said to emanate from holy relics, and felt awe to be in the presence of Saint Euphemia herself. Anna prayed in truth then, that Bartholomew and his companions were not thieves, that they might succeed in freeing Percy, that they might all escape unscathed.

  Father Ignatius leaned closer.

  “Lady Anna, are you certain you have confided all of your concerns?” he asked softly. “You seem most troubled and I would be of assistance.”

  “I am much recovered, Father. Thank you.”

  And Anna made the mistake of looking up.

  She met Father Ignatius’ gaze and saw that he had recognized her. He frowned and her mouth went dry.

  “Anna?” he asked, clearly astonished.

  “Father Ignatius,” she managed to say, an entreaty in her tone. She felt her cheeks heat as she flushed in guilt.

  Before she could defend herself or request his support, the door creaked at the other end of the chapel. Father Ignatius straightened, and the door was flung wide just before Royce’s voice filled the chapel.

  “What is this?” the baron demanded. “I told you to keep that secured!”

  Anna heard his footsteps as he strode toward her and she closed her eyes, praying for salvation in truth.

  * * *

  It was here.

  Bartholomew followed Royce into the chapel, relief flooding through him at the sight of the reliquary. His first reaction was profound relief that the reliquary had been located.

  His second was the realization that something had gone awry. The priest was staring at Anna, as if he had seen a ghost. Anna was utterly motionless, apparently frozen in place.

  There was only one possible explanation: the priest had recognized her.

  The priest took a cautious step backward, his gaze still fixed upon Anna, and opened his mouth.

  Bartholomew had to do something to keep him from uttering the truth.

  “Zounds!” he cried heartily. “What a prize you have hidden in this place!” Royce turned to look at him. Bartholomew cast up his hands and kept talking. “What a marvel! Sir Royce, you are indeed blessed to have the custody of such a treasure. No wonder your estate prospers as it does!” He laughed heartily. “We should all have the blessings of the saints upon our worldly deeds.” He marched forward and dropped to his knees before the priest, narrowing his eyes as if he read the inscription. “Saint Eu….”

  “Euphemia,” the priest said. “It contains a relic of Saint Euphemia.” He cleared his throat, his gaze sliding to Anna again. Her eyes were wide and she shook her head minutely. The priest frowned.

  The sooner that man was left alone, the better.

  Bartholomew kissed the reliquary, stood, then genuflected, his hand locking around Anna’s elbow. “Come, my dear wife, you have had a long day and are in dire need of your sleep. Your morning prayers will come soon enough.”

  He gave the priest a hard look and to his relief that man seemed to have composed himself.

  “Sir Royce, surely your lady wife awaits you?” Bartholomew continued in the same jovial manner. To keep Royce from speaking to the priest, he seized the baro
n’s elbow and urged him from the chapel. He set a brisk pace, compelling both Anna and their host to make haste across the bailey.

  And away from both priest and chapel.

  “What a day this has been!” he enthused. “We shall sleep well this night, my lady, thanks to our gracious host. Sir Royce, I must thank you for your hospitality. Never have I seen such a marvel as this keep, or that sacred treasure you hold in trust. You should send word to the king that he might come and worship in your chapel, for surely he would be glad to cast his eyes upon such a prize.”

  “Perhaps…” Royce began but Bartholomew interrupted him.

  “Of course, you might be concerned that such a marvel would tempt him, and so it might tempt many a man. I would be so bold as to suggest that you invite the archbishop as well as the king, along with all their retinues, that they might each ensure the other’s good conduct. You might host quite the festivity at Haynesdale.” He gave a laugh as if anticipating that event with joy. “Indeed, my dear wife, we might have to return to Haynesdale for it. You have not yet seen me joust and I do not doubt that the king would appreciate such entertainment.”

  “I do not think,” Royce managed to utter at the base of the stairs.

  “Oh, the revenue,” Bartholomew mused, interrupting the baron. “One thinks often of the cost of hosting such a venture, but one must expend coin to earn it.”

  “Truly?” Anna prompted.

  He beamed at her. “I have never told you, my lady, of the coin that flows into the coffers of those barons who host tournaments. It is true that the events come with expenses, for there must be feasting and there must be wine, and there must be ransoms paid, but the bounty that is earned in taxes and wagers. I knew a lord who hosted a tournament, invited all the best knights, then put a high toll on all roads leading to his gates from his borders.” Bartholomew laughed. “He told me he had earned tenfold the cost of the event before it even began! Can you imagine? Tenfold!” He paused before the portal to their chamber and wagged a finger at the very interested baron. “And his repute!” Bartholomew gave a low whistle. “The bards sang of him. The ladies yearned for him. The knights honored him. The king favored him. Truly, there was naught he could do wrong. ’Twas clever beyond all.” He leaned closer to Royce, his manner confidential. “When I have a holding, you may be certain that I will host such a tournament, for I know it would be a sound venture.”