Crusader Captive (8 page)

His first song was a tribute to the beauty and grace of a duchess who went unnamed. It didn’t take long to identify her as the ubiquitous Eleanor of Aquitaine, however. Particularly when Blondin made reference to the queen’s supposed affair with her flamboyant, fair-haired uncle.

’Tis said she has a smile

Like the dawn,

Eyes like the doe,

And a heart so large it

Can accommodate not just a king,

But a count.

His sly and most unsubtle emphasis on the word
heart
was not lost on his listeners. The verse drew snorts and guffaws from the men, smothered laughter from the women. The troubadour assumed an innocent air, as if he didn’t understand their titters, and strummed another tune.

This one made reference to the Lady of Fortemur. It began with the usual paeans to her hair, her eyes, her wit and beauty. It ended with reference to a certain Eastern potentate who must needs watch his back—and his front parts—should he mishandle a bride whose grandfather taught her how to wield a gelding knife.

Jocelyn joined in the applause when he concluded but was hard pressed to keep her smile in place. Particularly when he leaned an elbow on the table in front of her.

“Your coming marriage is the talk of Antioch, lady.”

“Is it?”

“Indeed.” His clever fingers played with the strings of his mandolin. “My patron, the prince, discussed it with the king when they were both in Jerusalem for the Feast of St Cyril. From all accounts, Baldwin and his lady mother are most anxious to see this joining done.”

Troubadours, wandering minstrels and jongleurs were as eagerly welcomed for the news and gossip they brought as for their entertainment. Jocelyn didn’t care for this bit, however. Nor for the comments that followed.

“There are rumblings that more Turks are rallying to this young lion, Saladin. All agree he represents a most dire threat. One our king intends to deal with. First, though, Baldwin must needs secure his western borders. You should expect to go to your nuptial chamber soon.”

No one at the table except Sir Hugh could guess what it cost Jocelyn to lift her shoulders in a careless shrug.

“Women dispose what men compose. Now come, most eloquent and clever poet. Sing us a song of love true and unblemished.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

He didn’t have to dig deep into his repertoire for a much-loved favorite. The tale was as old as time. A fair maid. A brave and handsome knight. Fates that conspired to keep them apart despite every wrenching sacrifice, every heroic effort. It ended with the lament of the hero as he lay dying in his lady’s arms.

Your whisper brightens my heart.

Your kiss feeds my soul.

You are the sun that ends my darkness.

I will be faithful to you forever,

In this life and the next.

Jocelyn couldn’t keep her glance from drifting to the lower boards. Every ear strained to hear Blondin’s song, every eye was on his brightly garbed person. Except Simon’s. His gaze lifted and locked with hers.

She was not such a ninny as to think she’d tumbled into love with the man in the space of just a few days. Not the kind of courtly love celebrated in this heart-wrenching song, at any rate. The feelings Simon de Rhys roused in her were too carnal, too hot and eager and impure. Even now she had but to look at him to see him in the stable again, water coursing over his muscled shoulders and trickling down his belly.

And yet…

By all the saints! There was no “yet,” she reminded herself fiercely. She was a fool to let her thoughts wander to what could not be.

And even more of a fool to catch her breath when the boards were pushed back, the musicians struck up a lively tune and Simon wove his way to the head table.

“May I partner you in the dance, Lady Jocelyn?”

Sir Thomas’s ruddy face turned brick red at such effrontery. His wife sniffed. Lady Constance lifted a brow. Sir Hugh shot dagger looks from his seat. Traditionally, the lady of the keep opened the dance with the most senior of the knights present. Jocelyn knew she courted gossip but pushed back her chair with a sense of recklessness.

“Gladly.”

Simon could scarce contain himself while she rounded the end of the high table to join him. He had but to gaze at her, or recall the dreamy look that had crossed her face when the troubadour sang of courtly, unblemished love, to feel the wanting rise up to almost choke him.

He knew he’d crossed the bounds by asking her to tread the boards with him. A knight who sat so far below the salt had no business approaching a lady as highborn as Jocelyn of Fortemur. Yet he could no more have stopped himself from taking the hand she held out to him than he could have stopped breathing.

A now-familiar knot tightened in his gut as he led her to the center of the hall. It wasn’t merely lust this woman stirred in him. He’d passed beyond that. What he felt for her was dangerously close to the hopeless, heedless passion the troubadour had just sung of.

Luckily, the tune was a familiar one and the steps simple enough that he didn’t have to fear tripping over his own feet. Not that he could have concentrated on his steps even had he wished to! The Lady Jocelyn dazzled him. Enthralled him. Aroused a hunger at once base and yet as noble as that song.

Had his kisses put that rosy tint in her cheeks? Had he nuzzled the creamy flesh showing above her gown’s bodice? Their stolen hours together now seemed like a dream. One he would have to banish—or at least censor—during the years of celibacy ahead.

But for now, for this moment, he could feast his eyes on her glowing face and vibrant beauty. He could breathe in, as well, her delicate scent of musk, colored tonight with a touch of jasmine.

The movement of the steps took them down the line of dancers. At the end of the row, he gripped her waist, lifted her four inches off the floor and swung her in a circle. Laughing, she regained her footing and took his arm while they retraced their way up the line.

“You’re surprisingly light on your feet for one so…so…”

“So big?” he supplied with a grin.

“So big. And more than passing handsome in that robe, if I may be so bold as to say so.”

“You may, lady.”

The smug reply drew another rippling laugh from Jocelyn. The man had a wit about him, she acknowledged. She’d glimpsed it briefly in the cave, when his eyes had taken on a wicked glint. If she hadn’t turned her head at that moment, she might have been tempted to tease another such response.

But the expressions on the faces of those watching her so intently killed every impulse to laugh and tease. Thomas was leaning forward, his scowl deep as he followed their every move. His beak-nosed wife was no less attentive. Worse, much worse, Blondin slanted inquisitive glances their way as he strolled the hall. Jocelyn would be hard put to protect Simon from the king’s wrath if the troubadour linked de Rhys’s name to hers in one of his sly songs.

As soon as the tune ended, she loosed her hand and tipped her head in a gracious nod. “I thank you, Sir Simon. You partner a lady well.”

In more than just the dance. The unspoken message lay in the smile she gave him.

“Now, if you’ll escort me back to the table, I must signal the pages to bring in the next course.”

He complied, then bowed and pressed a kiss on the back of her hand. It was no more than a common courtesy, but Jocelyn felt the heat of his lips burn like a brand. She covered her involuntary shiver well…or thought she did.

Sir Hugh waited until another song had struck up to lean closer and murmur in her ear.

“You’d best have a care, lady. You don’t want to show de Rhys too much attention.”

“As you say.”

“Nor,” he added with the candor of a long and faithful advisor, “should you take him again to your special cave. It’s not safe, for either of you.”

Jocelyn fought the flush that threatened to rise above the neck of her gown. “He leaves on the morrow, Hugh, as soon as we have outfitted him with the accoutrements I promised him.”

The castellan grunted and settled back in his chair.

Chapter Eight

T
he courier arrived shortly after dawn the next morning. He’d ridden through the night and clattered across the drawbridge on a lathered mount. Chickens and swine scattered at his approach. Stable lads scurried to take his reins.

Sir Hugh sent one of the keep’s guardsmen to notify Jocelyn. He caught her just as she and Simon were on their way to speak to Will Farrier and his parents about the possibility of young Will becoming Simon’s squire.

“A royal courier has arrived, milady!”

The announcement brought Jocelyn’s head around with a snap. Her heart seemed to stop dead in her chest before starting again with a painful kick.

“Sir Hugh sent me to find you,” the guardsman panted. “He and the courier await you in the keep.”

Her stricken gaze flew up to lock with Simon’s.

“Mayhap it’s not the summons you fear,” he said in what she knew he intended as a reassuring tone. “Mayhap the king merely wishes you to send a levy of men-at-arms to counter this threat the troubadour spoke of last night.”

“Mayhap,” she got out on a ragged note. “Although after the news Blondin brought regarding Saladin, I very much fear otherwise.”

Spinning on her heel, she retraced her steps. Simon accompanied her back to the keep. Sir Hugh met them just inside, with Thomas of Beaumont hovering at his elbow.

The king’s cousin looked as tense as Jocelyn felt. With good reason, she thought grimly. When she married, her husband would assume control of her estates and Thomas’s lucrative stewardship would end. The landless knight would have to throw himself once again on the king’s largesse to find another fief to skim monies from.

“Where is the courier?”

“In the great hall. Lady Constance has supplied him with food and ale.”

Nodding, Jocelyn hurried past servants still gathering scraps from the morning meal to give to the poor. Sir Hugh fell into step with her. Sir Thomas hurried alongside. She didn’t think to address Simon. Her mind was too full, her thoughts too churning with emotion. Yet the sound of his steady tread a few paces behind was oddly reassuring.

Odd, and most absurd. He’d done all she’d demanded of him, Jocelyn reminded herself fiercely. His role in this farcical masque was done. She must needs face what lay ahead alone. The grim realization added a sharp edge to her voice as she addressed the dust-coated courier.

“I am Jocelyn of Fortemur. You have a message for me?”

“Aye, lady.”

The courier scrambled to his feet and drew a folded parchment from the leather pouch slung over one shoulder. Her heart thudded at the sight of the seal pressed into the red wax. One large cross with four smaller crosses in each corner. The insignia adopted but recently by King Baldwin III as part of his deliberate campaign to separate himself from his mother’s long and very active regency.

Disgusted by the tremble in her hand, Jocelyn took the parchment and broke the seal. Her eyes skimmed the few lines of Latin script. Her breath rattled in, then out again as she read them a second time. Then she lifted her gaze to the others.

“The king has received word that Saladin has made overtures to the Emir of Damascus.”

She had to force the words out through a throat gone tight and dry. All her hopes, all her fears, stared her in the face.

“Baldwin…” She struggled for breath. “Baldwin fears the emir may be considering an alliance with Saladin. The king would spike those plans by proceeding with my proposed marriage to Ali ben Haydar forthwith. He instructs me to prepare to travel to Damascus within the fortnight.”

“So he would still give you to that thrice-damned despoiler of young virgins!”

Sir Hugh followed his disgusted exclamation with an oath so foul it moved Sir Thomas to protest on his cousin’s behalf.

“Why do you curse? The match has been months in the making. It would appear even more urgent now.”

Hugh ignored him, his gaze locked with Jocelyn’s. “What will you do?”

“Go to Jerusalem at once and explain.”

“Explain?” Thomas echoed, frowning. “What is there to explain?”

Jocelyn paid him no heed. Her thoughts were already winging toward all she needed to do to ready for a swift journey.

“I’d best instruct my ladies to pack a trunk.”

Sir Hugh nodded. “I’ll order your escort and have my mount saddled.”

“No!”

She wanted no hint of Sir Hugh’s part in her desperate scheme to reach the king’s ears. She, and she alone, would bear the consequences of her actions.

“I would that you remain at Fortemur. Sir Thomas will need your wise counsel in my absence.”

The self-important steward issued an indignant protest. “I’m well familiar with my duties, lady. I need him not.”

“And you require a strong arm to lead your escort,” Sir Hugh said. “You’ll be forced to spend at least one night on the road, mayhap two. You must have protection.”

“Sir Guy can command my escort. Or…”

She paused, and when her gaze shifted to Simon, she knew she’d just made another pact with the devil.

“Simon de Rhys has shown he’s well enough to sit a warhorse,” she said, ignoring the frowns directed at her by both castellan and steward. “I have no doubt he can swing a sword as well, if need be. Since he, too, must needs travel to Jerusalem, he can captain my guard.”

And once they reached the city gates, they would go their separate ways. Jocelyn would not have Simon present when she faced the king any more than she would Sir Hugh.

She kept that thought uppermost in mind as she rushed to fulfill the rest of her bargain. She’d promised him the accoutrements required by a Knight Templar. And, she insisted, he would have them.

While her ladies packed what she would need for the journey, Jocelyn accompanied him and Sir Guy to the castle armory. Luckily, the ironsmith had completed the alterations to a hauberk that would fit Simon’s broad shoulders. He’d also had the tanner stitch a leather surcoat to wear over the chain mail so the sun would not blaze down on it and cook its wearer alive.

After they were assured of the fit, Sir Guy provided a helm, lance, battle-ax and mace from those stored on wooden racks within the armory. Then Jocelyn once again turned her attention to the matter of a squire. She sent a page requesting her farrier, his goodwife and their youngest son to the keep. Once they’d arrived, clearly nervous and unsure why they’d been summoned, she laid the choice before them.

“You know I’ve spoken with Father Joseph regarding Will’s wish to go into Holy Orders.”

Tom Farrier nodded. The grime of his profession was caked deep in the creases of his face and beneath his nails. His shoulders were as broad as hewn oaks, his arms and thighs heavily roped with muscle. If the son grew to fill the father’s shoes, Jocelyn thought, he would do well indeed as a squire.

“I’ve promised to buy his admittance into an order when he comes of age and so I will. Or,” she said slowly, “should he wish it and you agree, I’ll outfit him so he may accompany Sir Simon and join the ranks of the Knights Templar as a sergeant when he has proven himself.”

“Milady!” Shaking with excitement, the gangly, thatch-haired youth whooped with delight. “I will serve him most faithfully, I swear. If…” He turned an eager, hopeful face to Simon. “If you’ll have me.”

Simon’s keen blue eyes measured him from head to foot. “What do you know of arms, lad?”

“I’ve worked the bellows for my father this many a year. He’s taught me to hone a sword blade to a feather’s edge and keep rust from chain mail by oiling it with essence of camellia and clove.”

His words spilled out in an excited rush, one atop the other and filled with earnest entreaty.

“I can fletch a crossbow bolt, even a quarrel if necessary. I swear to you, sir, you may trust me with your mace or war ax or halberd or lance…”

Simon held up a hand to interrupt the fervent litany. “And horses? What do you know of them and their barding?”

The lad’s face fell. “Not as much as I do of arms and armor,” he admitted. “The only horse I’ve been allowed to ride is the dray my father uses to haul wood for the fires. She moves with the speed of a slug.”

His profound disgust had Jocelyn biting her lip to hide a smile. The dray horse was big and powerful but did indeed plop one hoof in front of the other with great deliberation. She said nothing as Will and his parents awaited Simon’s decision.

“Well,” the knight said after several moments of consideration, “you’ll have time to test your seat on something brisker during the journey to Jerusalem.”

“You mean…?” Will’s eyes blazed with joy and disbelief. “You mean you’ll have me?”

“Aye, lad. As long as you understand that I’ll work you until your bones ache and you want to weep with weariness.” His face set, Simon brushed aside Will’s stammering assurances that he understood full well. “Most boys spend years as a page before they become squires. Then they must learn battle tactics and often earn broken bones or bloodied heads before they accompany a knight into the field. You won’t have that luxury. You’ll need to learn, and learn fast.”

“I will, I swear!”

“You’d better. Both our lives depend on it.”

Tom Farrier left beaming, his wife alternating between pride and tears. Their son almost skipped out in his impatience to gather his belongings.

With Simon’s outfitting in hand, Jocelyn turned her attention to her own. She hurried up to her chamber to find her maids almost done with packing her traveling trunk and that of the lady she’d selected to accompany her on the journey. Lady Beatrix was wife to one of the keep’s lesser knights. She had no children as yet, was only a few years older than Jocelyn and could sit a saddle almost as well. She would have no trouble making the hurried journey.

The Lady of Fortemur departed her keep after a rushed noon meal. Half of her eight-man escort rode in the van, the other half to the rear. In between rode two pages, Lady Beatrix, a pack mule with provisions for the journey and another mule bearing the hastily packed trunks.

After conferring with the sergeant of the guard and confirming the order of march, Simon positioned himself at the head of the column. Despite his protest, Jocelyn did the same. She had no desire to eat the dust of the road. Or so she informed him. Yet they both knew the truth. Fate had given them a few more hours together. They were each loath to waste them.

Nor did they.

Once they gained the main coastal road heading north, the going was slow. Merchants and caravaneers plied the busy thoroughfare with long lines of camels or mules strung out behind them. Jocelyn’s troop jostled for space with pilgrims of every nation. Some traveled in large companies with armed escorts. Some were afoot and had banded together with two or three others for safety.

Simon remained vigilant at all times, but slowly, albeit reluctantly, satisfied some of the questions Jocelyn still harbored about him.

Bit by bit she learned of his years as page, then squire to a minor baron. And of the battle where the baron had gone down and Simon had deflected the vicious blow that would have decapitated the Duke of Angoulême.

“Henri knighted me right there on the field.”

“He must not have put a high value on his life if he didn’t give you lands and a title as well as your spurs,” Jocelyn commented.

“He might have, had he not taken sick and died less than a week later.” Simon’s mouth curved in a rueful grin. “Henri was battling his son and heir when I deflected that blow. As a consequence, the new duke was not particularly pleased that I extended his father’s life, if only by a few days.”

“How did you make your way after that?”

“By hiring out my sword and taking prizes in tourneys.”

It was a common practice for younger sons to hire out as mercenaries. Particularly sons whose fathers had left them no patrimony. Intensely curious about the man who had bound his youngest son to a life of celibacy and service to the Church, she probed deeper.

“Tell me of your father. When did he contract the wasting sickness?”

“Six months ago. I took ship for the Holy Land not long after.”

“So…” Her breath caught. “So the sickness may have already claimed him?”

A muscle twitched in the side of Simon’s jaw. The possibility had occurred to him, too, Jocelyn realized. More often than not.

“Wouldn’t his death release you from his vow?”

“Not according to the Bishop of Clairvaux.”

The terse reply silenced her for some moments. The saintly bishop’s name was as well known here in the East as it was in the West. The Second Crusade was due in great part to his personal efforts.

The Pope himself had commissioned the bishop to recruit Crusaders. At Clairvaux’s insistence, he’d granted the same indulgences for this great cause as had been granted in the First Crusade. The bishop had then expounded to such length on the taking of the cross as a means of gaining absolution for sin and attaining grace that he’d been able to incite not just kings and queens, but huge armies of the faithful. After preaching in a field filled with listeners, the entire crowd reportedly enlisted en masse. When cloth merchants ran out of material to make crosses, the bishop was said to have given up his own outer garments so they might fashion more.

That the Second Crusade had so far failed dismally in its objective of reclaiming territory lost to the Saracens in no way detracted from the bishop’s renown. Nor, judging by Simon’s presence in the Holy Land, from Clairvaux’s ability to convince sinners that this was a path to redemption.

“What of your mother?” Jocelyn asked after a moment. “Does she, too, expect you to hold to your father’s vow?”

“She died when I was a babe.” His voice went hard and cold. “After my sire beat her senseless, I’m told, for ordering stewed rabbit to be served at the high table when he’d specifically desired it roasted.”

“My God! And this is the man who forces you to give the remaining years of your life to the Church?”

When her outburst was met with a stony silence, Jocelyn bit back another sharp comment. Who was she to harangue him for holding to his concepts of duty and honor? Firmly suppressing the urge to dissuade him from a course she now considered most misguided, she sought less controversial topics.