The Crusader's Handfast Read online

  The urge to explain such a situation would make it sound like a falsehood.

  He trudged beside Gaston, tired and disgruntled, aching anew from the loss of Gwyneth, regretting that the only honorable course was to deny Radegunde and her allure.

  The two men made their way back to the larger road from the courtyard of the inn without exchanging another word. The city was beginning to bustle already, many carrying fresh bread, others disposing of buckets of slops, still more harnessing horses or leading carts into the center of the city for their daily trade.

  Gaston cleared his throat once they were on the larger road. “I wonder if you might do a favor for me this day, Duncan, should your obligations to Fergus permit as much.”

  “Me?” Duncan was surprised by this request. “You would not ask it of Bartholomew?”

  “I would leave him to stand guard over my lady wife and her maid,” Gaston said, which was a reassuring notion. “If Wulfe is not returned to the Temple, I intend to follow the trail we took yesterday and seek him out. Perhaps he has been injured or is in need of aid. I would not leave my wife and her maid undefended in the inn, not given what occurred last night.”

  “I doubt the Templar has need of your assistance, sir. Wulfe is most fierce in battle.”

  Gaston grimaced. “I should not have left him to continue the fight alone. Everard might have had allies.”

  “Your duty was to your lady wife, sir, and she was injured. You should not blame yourself.” Duncan cleared his throat. “Either Wulfe continues to pursue his quarry, or he has succeeded but sees little reason to return and tell you all of his success.”

  “But he should return to the Temple and make a report. He is beholden to the order, after all.”

  Duncan pursed his lips, recalling all too well the passion between Wulfe and Christina. He also recalled the knight’s defiance of the Grand Master of the Paris Temple and was not certain Wulfe would return to be reprimanded and disciplined, not if any other choice were available to him.

  Gaston, of course, would not have been swerved from his obligation, however distasteful he might find it might be. They were different men, to be sure.

  Duncan thought it tactless to suggest that a knight sworn to the order might choose to linger with a courtesan instead of report for discipline.

  “He might have chosen to return to Outremer with all haste instead,” Duncan suggested. “He was most determined to aid in the defense of the Holy City.”

  “Perhaps.” Gaston frowned. “Still, I would like to be certain of his welfare.”

  Duncan nodded. “He might be at the Temple this morn, sir.”

  “He might be, and if so, my curiosity will be satisfied.”

  “But if he is not, you would have me accompany you to learn more.” Duncan thought it prudent to travel in pairs in this city. “If my lord Fergus can spare me this day, I should be glad to do as much.”

  Gaston shook his head. “Nay, Duncan, you mistake my meaning.”

  “Do I, sir?”

  “I would have you seek information for me, if you please, independent of whether I seek out Wulfe or not.”

  Duncan did not understand and was certain that was clear from his expression.

  Gaston gestured back to the heart of the city. “There used to be a tavern near the Palais Royale where mercenaries exchanged tidings of barons offering employment. I remember it from years past and we did ride by it again yesterday. If that tavern is not the one where such tales are shared, they will know of the current favorite. Your countrymen are highly favored here for their valor in battle, so none will think twice of you enquiring after employ.”

  Duncan frowned, wondering whether Gaston knew some detail he did not. “But I am not seeking employ, sir,” he said with care, hoping it were true.

  “Nay, but I wish to confirm whether one Millard de Saint-Roux is seeking to hire mercenaries.” Gaston’s eyes twinkled. “You might feign to be other than you are, Duncan.”

  Duncan smiled in understanding. “And you would have me listen for his name. I understand.”

  “Even suggest it as a rumor, if need be.”

  “Who is this nobleman, sir?”

  “My niece’s husband. The missive informing me of my brother’s death included also the tidings of her nuptials.”

  This Millard might have hoped that Gaston would not return from Outremer to claim Châmont-sur-Maine, the better that he could claim it for himself. Or he might be making preparations for a confrontation, should the legal heir return. Gaston’s inquisitiveness made good sense to Duncan.

  “Such a coincidence,” he mused.

  “Perhaps.” Gaston shrugged, then cast a glance at Duncan that did not hint at the same indifference as his gesture. Indeed, his voice hardened. “Or perhaps not.”

  “Do you know this knight, sir?” Duncan asked, guessing that his companion’s reaction was rooted in past experience.

  “I knew him many years ago, when we trained for our spurs,” Gaston admitted. “We were not good friends—that possibility was eliminated by the animosity between our fathers—but I was not truly surprised that he never embarked upon crusade.”

  “What matter stood between your fathers?”

  “I do not know. My father and I were not close. He lavished attention upon his eldest son and heir, as was fitting.”

  Duncan did not think it was particularly fitting for a father to favor one son over another, but his own had done as much and he knew it was common. He declined to express an opinion. “Perhaps they simply disliked each other.”

  Gaston met Duncan’s gaze steadily. “Or perhaps there was more to the tale than that. They were both mercenaries, Duncan, I know this much.”

  “And you would know more before you reach Châmont-sur-Maine.”

  “In truth, I would know more before I reach Valeroy. I mean to seek the counsel of Ysmaine’s father, for his holding is not so far from the one that comes to my hand.”

  “And more tidings will grant a more complete tale,” Duncan said with a nod.

  Gaston frowned. “Matters were seldom simple when I was a boy, though I did not know all of what transpired,” he confided. “Châmont-sur-Maine stands just to the north of Angers, with one foot in Anjou and the other in Brittany. My father was granted custody of it by Geoffrey of Anjou, as a reward for loyal service, and with the expectation that he would defend the frontier for the Angevins.” Gaston met Duncan’s gaze. “There were times when he believed it of greater import to ally with Breton lords, with a view to the end result. I must steer my way with care, as he did before me. I would know whatever you can learn of recent events along the Breton March.”

  Duncan nodded again. It did not hurt that aiding Gaston in this would ensure that he was far away from Radegunde for the day. He realized that Gaston awaited his response. “I should be glad to do as much, sir, provided that my lord Fergus can spare my services.”

  * * *

  On top of the vexation of Duncan’s manner this morn, the future Radegunde dreaded was closer than she might have hoped. Indeed, she had only just brought hot water for her lady to bathe when she learned the truth.

  Though the day before she had feared her future mightily, it was the last matter weighing upon her thoughts this morn. She was consumed with questions about Duncan. Why had he been so indifferent this morn? They might have been strangers, and their fine night of dancing forgotten—never mind those fiery kisses. Was it so difficult to believe that she knew her own mind? All she desired was a night of affection, no more and no less, and Radegunde found it annoying that she had evidently chosen the one man disinclined to fulfill her wish.

  A man of honor, just as he had said.

  She supposed that meant her scheme had little hope of success. Her ankle ached, but she ignored it, striving not to limp at all. Surely the dancing was worth a little pain.

  As disappointed as she was with Duncan, Radegunde had duties to perform. Her first step into her mistress’s chamber had her
composing a list of tasks to see completed this day. Doubtless Lady Ysmaine would wish to go to church and must be suitably attired. Her garb was dirty from their long ride, and it would require all of Radegunde’s skills to see all put aright with speed. The lady’s bandaged wrist should be checked and her boots would need a polish…

  “Radegunde!” the lady declared at the sight of her. Radegunde noted that her mistress’s hair was unbound and in need of a good combing. Her injured wrist would make it difficult for Lady Ysmaine to perform many feats herself, though she often combed her own hair. “I do apologize for last night. I should have welcomed you into the chamber after my lord husband had his pleasure.” Lady Ysmaine blushed in a most comely way. “But in truth, I would not have summoned you much sooner than this.”

  “I understand, my lady,” Radegunde poured hot water into a bowl for her mistress. The steam rose as she fetched the sponge that her lady favored from the saddlebags. They had a fine piece of soap, too, given to her lady as a tribute and gift by that merchant Joscelin. Doubtless he meant to entice her future trade, but it was a fine tactic. The soap was fine and smelled of roses, with petals pressed into it. If she had possessed a single coin of her own, Radegunde would have bought a piece herself to give to her mother before they had left Provins and Joscelin behind.

  As it was, she would tell her mother of it.

  There was no clean chemise for her mistress this day, for they had been riding with all speed from the Saint Bernard Pass. Had Radegunde been granted access to the chamber last night, she might have washed one, but for this day, Lady Ysmaine would have to wear the one that was the least soiled.

  Radegunde would wash the remaining chemises and hang them in the sunshine of the courtyard this morning. Though the sun was not as warm as it had been, still they would dry by the evening. The kirtle her lady had favored for riding these past days was in need of a good shake, and there was a seam in want of a stitch or two. Belt buckles should be polished and stockings mended, the fur brushed out on her lady’s hood, and the chamber itself had to be swept. She would fetch fresh bread for Lady Ysmaine as soon as that lady was dressed, and take instruction while her mistress broke her fast.

  She might wish for warm milk, as well. Radegunde worked with purpose, anticipating her lady’s requests even as she sorted clothes and put matters to rights. She opened the shutters to admit the sunlight once her lady had donned the cleaner chemise, and stirred the last of the coals in the brazier so Lady Ysmaine could warm herself while Radegunde braided her hair.

  “Where did you sleep, Radegunde?”

  “In the stables, my lady. I thought it wiser to be near Bartholomew.”

  “And that is good sense,” the lady said with approval. She glanced up. “And did you do more than sleep with Bartholomew?”

  “My lady?” Radegunde did not have to feign her surprise.

  “He is a finely wrought young man,” Ysmaine said, no censure in her tone. “And Gaston means to dub him a knight. There is some suggestion that he means to return to the holding where he was born, but I wonder whether he simply seeks a better reason to remain in Gaston’s service.” She smiled. “A wife might be the reason he needs.”

  Yet another soul who wanted to twine her path with Bartholomew’s! “I barely spoke to Bartholomew, my lady, for he was desirous of his sleep.”

  “And were you disappointed?”

  “Nay, my lady.” Not by Bartholomew, at least.

  The lady twisted on the stool to study Radegunde. “You do not find him alluring?”

  “He reminds me of my brothers, my lady. More a boy than a man.” She squared her shoulders and declared her inclination. “If and when I wed, it will be to a man in truth.”

  The glint in her lady’s eye made Radegunde wonder how much choice she would have.

  “I understand, Radegunde. Do you wish to remain in my service, or would you remain at Valeroy with your mother?”

  “I have no desire to remain at Valeroy, my lady.”

  “Excellent. Then I shall find you a man at Châmont-sur-Maine.” Lady Ysmaine beamed. “I shall have to find another candidate who is a little older then. I would have you pleased with your husband.”

  “I thank you, my lady.”

  “Indeed, I would not have you miss the wonder I shared with my lord husband last night, Radegunde. Truly I am content this morn.”

  “Because there is affection between you,” Radegunde dared to say. “That is why I would wed for love, my lady.”

  “For love?” Lady Ysmaine laughed aloud. “No one weds for love, Radegunde, not even in the tales of the troubadours! Matches should be wrought of good sense, and then love will grow between husband and wife.” She stood, as content with her scheme as Radegunde was not. “I shall find you a man, older than Bartholomew, of fitting station and good temperament, a man with a trade who can provide for your welfare, and one wrought finely enough that you will be glad to bear his sons. Fear not!”

  “But my lady…”

  “Radegunde, if you had a spouse and joined him abed each night, I should not have to fear for your welfare at night. It makes good sense for you to wed sooner rather than later.” Lady Ysmaine smiled as her kirtle was laced. “You need not imagine that I shall make a poor choice for you. I have a good eye for a husband.”

  Radegunde could not return her lady’s smile. “Aye, my lady.”

  “You are concerned,” Lady Ysmaine said, her manner thoughtful. “You wish to approve the choice, then?”

  “Aye, if not make it.”

  “Do not be foolish, Radegunde.” The lady was dismissive of this notion. “But I will cede this: I shall say naught when I find a suitable man. I will suggest him to you first, and if you do not find the prospect of a match with him tempting, we shall continue to seek another. Is that a fair compromise?”

  It was far more than Ysmaine was obliged to surrender to her, and Radegunde recognized as much—even though she also knew it was far less than she desired. “I thank you, my lady.”

  The lady watched her with care. “Is there a man you already favor?” she asked softly.

  A part of Radegunde was tempted to declare Duncan’s name, but she knew it would be futile. Not only did he answer to lord Fergus, but he had made his lack of intention clear. “There is no one, my lady,” she said.

  “Indeed? You seem distracted this morn.”

  “I but think of all that must be done, my lady. Do you mean to visit churches in this city?”

  “I do!” Lady Ysmaine’s face lit with pleasure. “I would return to Notre Dame to pray for Christina and Wulfe, and I would visit Saint Julien-le-Pauvre. Gaston says it is most fine, and that he will accompany me. On this day, he has errands and would have me remain close to the inn. I thought to give alms at Les Innocents, if Bartholomew can be spared to escort me there.”

  “Then you will have need of the other kirtle,” Radegunde said. “And your cloak so that you are not chilled. The better stockings…”

  “And my boots, Radegunde. The streets of this city demand no less.”

  “Will you have bread this morn, my lady? It is fresh.”

  “Aye, and if there is honey or milk that would be most welcome.”

  “Or both?”

  Lady Ysmaine smiled. “Or both. I thank you, Radegunde.”

  Radegunde halted outside the portal to braid her hair and brush the last of the straw from her kirtle. Dread closed a cold hand around her heart, for the future she would avoid already drew near.

  Worse, there was little she could do to halt its progress. She would be wedded by the Yule, to be sure.

  And not to Duncan MacDonald, which was the most disappointing detail of all. Radegunde lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. If he did not desire her, and it appeared he did not, then that was Duncan’s loss.

  * * *

  Wulfe had not appeared at the Temple so Gaston was resolved to retrace the other knight’s steps. Duncan would walk with him as far as the island, then their wa
ys would part. Gaston sent a squire to fetch his destrier for him from the inn while Duncan changed his clothing.

  In a way, Duncan looked forward to the sound of his countrymen, if not the rough company of mercenaries. A sip of ale would not do him injury either.

  It also felt good to don familiar garb again.

  Duncan belted his plaid around his waist, smiling a little that he had carried it all the way to Outremer and back again. He laced his boiled leather jerkin over his chemise, eyeing the mail hauberk that he would not be sad to put aside forever. It was weighty, but it had saved his sorry hide more than once. He grimaced and donned it anew, beckoning to Hamish to lace the back of it for him.

  “It will mark your chemise,” the squire said and Duncan nodded at the truth of that.

  “But in this burg, I would not be without it,” he acknowledged. In a tavern of mercenaries, he might be glad of its burden.

  He heard a footstep and turned to find Fergus leaning at the end of the stall.

  That knight smiled. “So close to home as that?” he teased, and Duncan imagined that the younger man’s accent grew stronger with every day’s ride north.

  “Close enough. Have you need of me this day?”

  Fergus shook his head. “The Grand Master has sent a summons that I join him in his chamber for the midday meal.”

  “Why?”

  Fergus’ eyes glinted. “Perhaps he feels hospitable. Certainly, I welcome his invitation.”

  “For otherwise you should eat with the brethren in the refectory and be condemned to silence for the meal,” Duncan concluded. “Tell me that I am not the sole one ready to be home.”

  “You are not and you know it well,” Fergus replied with fervor. His expression softened and Duncan knew the knight thought of his betrothed. He stifled the urge to wince, for he did not share Fergus’ admiration of the fair Isobel. Indeed, Duncan knew that Fergus’ father shared his own doubts of the maiden’s heart and those doubts had contributed to the older man’s decision to send Fergus abroad for military service.