The Crusader's Kiss Page 7

  There was always a chance that the baron would step aside in the name of justice.

  A small chance, to be sure.

  “Sir Royce Montclair is known for his greed hereabouts,” Anna said, unable to hide her scorn. “He shows great enthusiasm in gathering taxes, purportedly for the crown, though there have been those who doubted that all the coin went to the king’s court.”

  “But there is doubt no longer?” Fergus asked.

  Anna gave a short laugh. “There are no longer any who express their doubt. He is…thorough in eliminating dissent in his holding.”

  Bartholomew saw her lift a finger and point into the forest. He frowned as he followed her gaze, seeing there was an area to one side of the road that was blackened and burned. It was strange to see the blackened stumps of the trees amidst freshly fallen snow, the sky clear overhead, in the midst of such a vigorous forest.

  “There was where he routed those who last rose against him in rebellion. They fled into the woods and he had a great circle set ablaze. His men stood around the perimeter, waiting for the fire to consume them all.” She shuddered so that Bartholomew gripped her hand beneath his once more. “I still hear their final cries in my dreams,” she concluded, her voice husky.

  “When was this?”

  “Two years ago.” He felt her straighten, and she pulled her hand from his grasp.

  Who had she lost in that blaze?

  “Where were you?” he asked quietly, but she did not reply.

  “Has Sir Royce a wife? Or family?” Duncan asked.

  “He has a wife, for his marriage was arranged by the crown. He returned from Winchester with her eight years past.”

  “Her name?”

  “Lady Marie de Naumiers. She has yet to bear him a child, though, and is seldom seen outside the keep’s walls. There is no gossip, for she brought her own maids, and they seldom leave the keep either.” She paused. “He is said to have been wed before, but that his first wife died after the death of their only child. He remained unwed for so long that the king arranged the match with Lady Marie.”

  The village appeared ahead of them, its location evident because the trees were cleared and huts were visible. As they rode closer, Bartholomew saw that there were few people for a village of such size. They were dirty, as Anna had been, more dirty than been the case in other villages where their party had stopped. Those villagers who watched their progress were wary. He saw an older couple step out of one house, then two men of roughly his own age, one with a single infant and the other with a pair of very young children. What had happened to the mothers? He heard goats bleating but could not see them.

  A sturdy man looked up from his garden, which could only have had cabbage at this time of year and that beneath the snow, and glowered at them. His wife watched sullenly from the portal to their hut. The company rode closer together without exchanging any words, for there was hostility in the manner of those who observed their progress.

  “Where are the children?” he asked Anna softly.

  “Who would willingly bring a child into this realm?”

  It was but half an answer, though Bartholomew guessed she would not confide more. Were these the survivors of the fire? Or the only ones who had not fled?

  Had Anna and Percy been alone in the forest? He would have to ask her later.

  “Pull up your hood to be sure you are not recognized,” he murmured.

  “Aye, husband,” she said, her tone as close to biddable as he might have expected. In other circumstance, he might have smiled at her manner.

  But they passed through the last of the forest and he saw the keep of Haynesdale in its full majesty. The sight drew him to an astonished halt. In contrast to the hard scrabble and dirt of the village, the wooden curtain wall around the keep was high and straight. The keep sat on the top of a mound, commanding the entire area, a vivid pennant snapping from its square tower. The keep was large, far larger than he might have imagined, and it bore no resemblance to any place he recalled. It seemed that Anna’s notions of coin for taxes remaining in the barony were not unfounded, for such a fortress would have been costly to build.

  “What a fine keep,” Bartholomew said, unable to hide the wonder from his voice. “Is this holding so likely to be assaulted as it appears?”

  “A man with few allies and fewer friends might fear as much,” Anna whispered. “Construction began before the wedding and took years.”

  Worse than being newly constructed and large, the keep would be heavily armed. Bartholomew knew a moment’s dread, for he would make his future within these walls or ensure that he had none. How would they find and free Percy? How would they reclaim the prize in Duncan’s saddlebag? How would they escape?

  How would he avenge his father and assert his birthright? The odds were considerable against Bartholomew’s success, greater than any man of sense might have hoped. He had expected a manor house, perhaps a small motte and bailey, but not a fortress. An appeal to the king’s court would be doomed to failure, if this baron was so allied with the crown that his marriage had been made by the king.

  Nay, he must prove himself worthy, by proving the baron unworthy.

  Somehow.

  He was the seed of Nicholas.

  He had to ensure that Anna and Percy were safe, even if all went awry.

  Bartholomew touched his spurs to Zephyr’s side, sending the destrier forward more quickly. He led the party to the gates and raised his voice. “Hoy there! We seek shelter in the name of Christian charity!”

  At his cry, the porter came forward. Their names were taken and in but moments, the portcullis of Haynesdale was raised in reluctant welcome.

  “Into the very gates of Hell,” Anna murmured, and Bartholomew could only close his hand over hers and give a minute squeeze of encouragement.

  * * *

  Marie, Lady of Haynesdale, had believed for years that there could be no worse fate than to be an heiress. Paraded before men deemed to be suitable husbands day after day, compelled to be charming at meal after meal, forced to visit holding after holding had been a particular kind of torment. To always smile at the arrangements made for her approval, regardless of her thoughts on the matter, had left her cheeks aching and her attitude poor. She had been convinced that naught could be worse than to be well known as a bride with a hefty dowry—or to have had such an exacting guardian.

  Now she knew better. To have been an heiress was far worse.

  She was but a wife. A barren one. And this life was horrific.

  Marie stood at the window and looked over the bleak forests of her husband’s holding and despised what her life had become. There were no dinners, no visitors, no excursions, not even any parties led to hunt since her husband had vexed every living soul beneath his hand. Or executed them. There were no fawning suitors, no adoring troubadors, no men staring after her with such yearning that her heart raced. Even if a man with blood in his veins had dared to come to their hall, her husband’s foul repute would ensure that the guest never raised his gaze to hers.

  There were only barbarians and brutes as far as she could see.

  No doubt the greatest barbarian and brute was the one who came to her each night, took his due, then left her alone in that broad, cold bed.

  The mercy was that she had only once been compelled to look upon him without the patch over his eye. To think that she had once imagined his appearance dashing, and mysterious. Dangerous and alluring. Seeing what was beneath the eye patch had curdled her heart.

  He was marred.

  He was unworthy of her.

  He gave her no sons. She began to think he did as much apurpose, the better to keep her captive in this abode.

  Marie supposed Royce had guessed the resentment in her heart, for he had ensured that there was never a weapon in her proximity.

  How she loathed him.

  How she hated his desolate holding.

  No number of furs could keep her warm as she slept. No brazier could pierce the c
hill of her chambers. The floors might have been wrought of ice. The chill emanating from the stone floor was so vehement that she swore it would never be driven from her bones. Even the so-called summers in this foul abode offered only rain and tepid warmth.

  She was tired of meals that filled the belly but did not delight the senses. She yearned to hear music again. She longed for the warm caress of the sun upon her face, the sound of laughter, the flavor of good wine.

  She yearned even more heartily for the company of handsome young men. Knights. Troubadors. Princes and dukes. A king on occasion.

  But there was only Royce, and as finely wrought as he once had been, knowing the truth of his nature vastly diminished his appeal. He had looked more appealing at the king’s court, where he had stirred himself to converse and to charm.

  Marie had been charmed, more fool she.

  And now, she had no power, no control over her days, no ability to make demands or be heard. She was her husband’s property and so was all the lovely wealth her father had accumulated. Royce spent it with gusto and used the tale of it to borrow more.

  She sat in a keep built with her father’s coin, as much a prisoner as that poor brat who had been dragged to the dungeon earlier in the day. Marie felt sympathy for the boy only because his plight was so similar to her own.

  Granted, he had no food, no light, no bed, and likely shared his chamber with vermin, but Marie was inclined to overlook such petty details.

  She had been wronged, in her view, and there was no way to change her circumstance save to deliver to Royce a son and heir. She had tried to conceive, she truly had. She allowed him to do what he desired to her, as disgusting as it might be. She was certain that a little more masculine company would be vastly encouraging, but after that regrettable incident in Winchester on their wedding night, Royce was disinclined to trust her.

  He had vowed that she would not leave Haynesdale until she bore him a son, for then the boy would undoubtedly be of his blood.

  She doubted that he had imagined it would take so long.

  Perhaps she should fight him again on this night. It did arouse them both when they argued before mating. Marie pursed her lips, considering.

  And then she straightened. There was a party on the road headed toward the gates of the keep.

  Strangers.

  Guests.

  Knights!

  God in Heaven, there were even two Templars in the party. What a feast!

  She had to intervene before Royce dispatched them from the gates.

  “Agnes! Emma!” Marie spun from the window and called again for her maids. She tipped open her trunk and began strewing garments across the floor. Royce could not keep her captive if there were guests. Nay, she must greet them as Lady of Haynesdale and he would not dare to rebuke her before strangers.

  And perhaps one of them would plant the seed that Royce apparently could not sow. At this point in time, Marie was prepared to do any deed to return to the pleasures of the king’s court and abandon this festering backwater. Let Royce remain here, in the place he valued more than aught else, let him rot here with their son, and she would dance in palaces again.

  The gold kirtle. She cast it across the bed, eyeing the shimmer of the silk with approval. Aye, she would look like the prize she had once been in this garb.

  Marie smiled. If Royce were so overcome with desire at the sight of her in all her finery that he felt compelled to visit her bed this night, that deed might well disguise the contribution of a guest to her lord husband’s quest for an heir.

  * * *

  Anna would never have expected to enter Haynesdale willingly. But here she was, riding beneath its portcullis as she endeavored to look accustomed to such affluence and perhaps a little bored. It was a better choice than revealing that she was terrified. She was glad to have Bartholomew’s solid strength ahead of her and welcomed the feel of his mail under her fingers.

  She hoped by every saint that the baron did not guess the truth.

  She had to find Percy quickly. But where? The keep was enormous. There could be more than one dungeon in this place.

  Despite her impatience to achieve their goal and depart, noblemen, it seemed, did naught with speed. Bartholomew dismounted, then lifted her down to the ground, his fellows dismounting as well. She chafed to hasten ahead but Bartholomew’s movements were leisurely. He smiled down at her, as if they were a loving couple, and pressed a kiss to her hand. “Patience, my lady,” he murmured and Anna exhaled in an attempt to calm herself.

  She doubted her success, for Bartholomew’s eyes danced with humor.

  She touched her fingertips to her crossbow, slung from his saddle, in an apparently absent gesture. She saw from his slight smile that he understood.

  “Timothy, if we are to be entertained here, I would have you ensure that Zephyr is brushed down. Please bring our bags and the bow to us when you are done.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Bartholomew ran his fingertips over the crossbow. “You know that I cannot bear to let any prize from my sight, be it weapon or wife.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Anna glared at him. Bartholomew smiled.

  The squires kept custody of the reins, after the knights dismounted, and Anna noted that no one stepped forward to escort the steeds to the stables. They stood together in the middle of the bailey, horses behind them, the baron’s men keeping to the perimeter. Leila remained behind Anna with her head bowed.

  “Such a breach of hospitality,” muttered one of the Templars. “Are we to be treated like vagabonds instead of guests?”

  Anna tugged her hood over her brow, just in case any soul looked too closely. In the forest, it had been easy to trust in the protection offered by a change of garb, but now that she stood within the bailey of Haynesdale, she was terrified that she would be recognized.

  There was a sudden fanfare, then Sir Royce himself appeared in the portal to the hall. He was much older than Bartholomew and not as tall. His hair was white, though he looked virile and hale. There was the patch over his one eye, but despite that—or perhaps because of it—he was a striking man. He was garbed richly and stood with confidence, a trim man who had earned his way with his blade.

  And his savagery.

  Anna had to restrain her urge to spit upon him. Bartholomew tightened his grip upon her fingers, evidently having guessed her reaction and granted her a quick sidelong glance of warning. She smiled at him, though she knew her anger showed in her eyes when he arched a brow. She stared at her toes then, apparently demure, and fumed. If they had hurt Percy…

  Bartholomew put her hand in his elbow and closed his fingers over her own.

  “Welcome to Haynesdale,” Sir Royce said, his manner not particularly welcoming. The men bowed to each other, then exchanged introductions. Anna kept her gaze downcast, even as her heart thundered in fear.

  “To what do I owe this unanticipated honor and pleasure?” Sir Royce demanded. Though his tone was fulsome, a sharp edge of suspicion touched his manner. Anna spared a glimpse at him, only to see that his eye had narrowed and he surveyed the company assessingly. Aye, it was easy to recall his brutality when his expression was as forbidding as it was in this moment. He considered the two Templars, and Anna wondered whether it had been their presence that had seen the gates opened at all.

  “Circumstance alone,” Bartholomew replied with apparent cheer. “We ride north but my lady wife tires. We had hoped for a night of rest and would beg your hospitality.”

  Anna grimaced, disliking that the stop should be blamed upon her supposed feminine frailty. At least with her head bowed, none could see her expression. Bartholomew’s grip tightened upon her fingers as if he had guessed it.

  He was cursedly observant.

  “But why are you on this road?” Royce asked. “Few appreciate its charms.”

  “And so we were fortunate to do as much,” Fergus said, his Scottish accent more pronounced than it had been. “For I thought I recalled th
e way to Carlisle, but discovered I had erred. This is the mark of my years in Outremer. I nigh forgot my way home!”

  The men laughed together at this, though Royce only smiled.

  “Your holding has fine forests,” Duncan said with approval. “Are they held in trust for the King of England?”

  “Of course they are,” Royce snapped. “Still you do not tell me why you are here.”

  “I return to my own wedding in Scotland,” Fergus explained with ease. It was as if the knights had not noted the rudeness of their potential host, but Anna knew they could not have missed it. He gestured to Bartholomew. “And my good friend from France accompanies me to wish my lady and I well.”

  Bartholomew bowed. “And I have been so fortunate as to find a bride myself.”

  Anna curtseyed low, keeping her head bowed. She could feel Royce looking at her and prayed silently that he would avert his gaze without realizing who she was.

  Fergus indicated Duncan. “My man, of course, escorts me as ever he does, and we have been blessed by the companionship and defense of these two noble knights.”

  “Templars,” Royce huffed. “I do not mean to be rude, but why do you have such companions as these?”

  “These two knights have served with the order,” replied one Templar, his manner so resolute that none would dare challenge him. “So great is the respect of our Grand Master that he insisted we escort Laird Fergus to his home.”

  Royce was unconvinced. “I have never heard the like,” he protested, and Anna feared he would send them from the gates. “I regret that I have no space for guests on this night…” he began, but there was a flutter of activity at the portal to the hall. Sir Royce fell silent and Anna dared to hope they had won a reprieve.

  Chapter Four

  All eyes were drawn to the portal as a woman of considerable beauty emerged from the shadows. Truly, she could not have timed her appearance better.

  It was Royce’s lady wife.

  Anna had not seen her since her triumphant arrival at Haynesdale, but Marie was just as slender and her hair just as dark as it had been eight years before. She appeared to be just as elegant and poised, as well.