Crusader Captive Read online

  “To me!”

  Her heels dug into her mount’s sides. Heart pounding, Jocelyn wove through the stunted trees lining the cliffs and thundered up the slope.

  Simon dismounted slowly and waited while she threw herself from the saddle. His arms came around her with a fierceness that crushed the air from her lungs. Heedless of the men charging up the road after her, she thrust up on her toes to cover his mouth, his cheeks, even his chin with greedy kisses.

  He returned them before burying his face in her hair. His hold was so tight she was sure her ribs would crack. Laughing, gasping, near sobbing with joy, she tried to ease back.

  “Simon! I beg you. Let me draw a breath, then tell me what you do here!”

  He gave a small grunt and loosed his grip. Only then did she realize he wasn’t holding her so much as using her to hold himself up.

  And his face! Sweet Lord, his face! Now that she could see past her tears of joy, the sight of him shocked her to her very core. He was so gaunt. So drawn and gray. His eyes, once as blue and bright as the sky itself, were dull and rimmed with red.

  “Simon! Are you ill? Have you taken a—?”

  She broke off when he lurched against her. Wrapping both arms around his waist, she staggered under his weight and cried to her men to give her aid. It took three of them to support him.

  “Lay him in the grass beside the road,” Jocelyn ordered frantically. “One of you go now, and fast! Fetch Sir Guy. Have him bring a wagon. And Lady Constance. Tell her—”

  “No.” The protest was little more than a rustle of air from between Simon’s gritted teeth. “I can…ride. Help me…back ahorse.”

  Since his knees had given way and he was dragging those supporting him to the dirt, Jocelyn paid no heed to the ridiculous request.

  “Do as I bid,” she snapped at her men. “Lay him there.” Whirling, she stabbed a finger at one of the others. “Get you to the keep.”

  The groan that ripped from Simon’s throat when they stretched him out on the stubby grass stopped Jocelyn’s breath in her throat. She dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands trembled so badly she couldn’t loosen his mailed hood or shove it back from his sweat-drenched forehead.

  “Can you speak, Simon? Tell me where you hurt.”

  His red, crusted lids lifted. For the merest instant, a faint gleam pierced the dull glaze in his eyes and the ghost of a smile pulled at his lips.

  “Where…do…I…not?”

  “This is worse than before. Much worse.”

  Lady Constance’s grim assessment sliced like a sword through the stillness pervading Jocelyn’s bedchamber. Her hands were gentle as she bathed Simon’s naked form, but her face wore a most grave expression.

  “I’ve never seen such grievous wounds.” She tossed the sodden, bloody rag into a bucket filled with reddened water and stretched out an imperious hand. “Give me another cloth.”

  Jocelyn jumped to do her bidding. She’d hovered at the older woman’s side ever since her men had hauled Simon up the stairs and into her bed. A half-dozen others hovered nearby, ready and willing to give aid. Another of her ladies was among them. Two maids. A page poised to run and fetch as commanded. Two beefy men-at-arms to help lift and turn.

  Sir Guy was there, too. As was Sir Thomas. The king’s cousin pulled at his sparse red whiskers and asked yet again the question still burning in Jocelyn’s mind.

  “Why is he here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has he brought a missive from the king?”

  “We found no missive among his garments,” she bit out.

  “That’s another thing. Why was he wearing the stained tunic he left Fortemur in? Didn’t you tell me he was preparing for induction into the Order of the Knights Templar when you departed Blanche Garde?”

  She gritted her teeth, praying for patience, and nodded.

  “Then he should have been wearing the Templars’ white mantle and red cross,” Sir Thomas pointed out unnecessarily. “Unless he failed the tests,” he added scornfully. “It’s often so with men as big as this one. They present a fearsome appearance but cannot endure the most trivial—”

  “You don’t know of what you speak,” Guy interrupted fiercely. Newly appointed by Jocelyn to fill Sir Hugh’s position as castellan, he didn’t bother to disguise his disdain for the king’s cousin. “I was with de Rhys at Blanche Garde. I saw firsthand his bravery on the field.”

  “Oh, so? Well, all I can say is that he doesn’t look brave now. He looks like some oaf flayed by his master for stealing a pig or—”

  “Get out!”

  Jocelyn whirled on him, her hands curling into claws. She’d had enough—more than enough!—of this blood-sucking leech.

  “Get out of my chamber and out of my keep!”

  Thomas stumbled back a step, his jaw dropping in sheer surprise. “What do you say?”

  “You heard me. I want you gone within the hour. You and your whey-faced wife.”

  “You…you cannot order us away,” he stammered. “Baldwin himself appointed me steward of Fortemur.”

  “I am unappointing you.” Fire and fear for Simon blazed in equal measures in her heart. “Sir Guy, escort this man from my sight.”

  “Gladly.”

  Her new castellan hustled the indignant and still stuttering knight to the chamber’s door. Had she given the matter a second thought, Jocelyn wouldn’t have doubted King Baldwin would support this summary dismissal. He, like the queen, knew full well the timely arrival of Fortemur’s troops had helped to turn the tide of battle. They owed her almost as much as they owed Simon.

  That brought her back full square to the question still burning in her mind. Why was he here?

  She got her answer late that night.

  She’d abandoned all pretense and refused to leave Simon’s side. She no longer gave a groat who knew he was in her bed, or that she ached with her whole being to join him there.

  She couldn’t slide in beside him, of course. His wounds were too grievous to risk aggravating them. All she could do was banish everyone but Lady Constance from the chamber and pull a stool close so she might stroke his bruised and battered hand.

  Minutes crawled by. Hour dragged into hour. Constance gave way to weariness and slumped in the chair she’d placed on the far side of the bed. On the verge of utter despair, Jocelyn laid her head on her crossed arms.

  “You are…the sun…”

  The hoarse whisper jerked her head up. Hope leaped like a dancing unicorn in her heart. “Simon!”

  Her glad cry brought Lady Constance bolting upright. So thrilled were both women to see him awake and his eyes clear that they near missed the words he added on a soughing breath.

  “…that ends…my darkness.”

  Jocelyn whipped her gaze from him to Lady Constance and back again. She’d heard those words before. But where? When?

  It burst on her of a sudden. The troubadour, Blondin, had sung that very line in the great hall, strumming his mandolin all the while. And just as quick, the full verse scrolled through her head.

  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.

  Dear God! This life and the next?

  The fear that Simon had dragged himself into the saddle and made the tortuous journey to Fortemur only to bid her farewell clutched at her heart like a mailed fist and squeezed so hard she couldn’t draw a single breath. If not for Lady Constance’s tart comment, she might have crumpled to the rushes into a sobbing, shapeless mass.

  “So, de Rhys. You’ve decided to rejoin the living.”

  “Indeed I…have, lady.” With an effort that was painful to watch, he smiled. “In more…ways than one.”

  That slow curve of his lips arrowed straight to Jocelyn’s heart. “Simon,” she said with a catch in her voice. “Please, please tell me. Why have you r
eturned to Fortemur?”

  “To…take you…to wife.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Simon’s wounds healed more slowly this time than they had previously.

  Jocelyn could only wonder how he’d found the strength to endure such obvious agony. Each time she thought on what he must have gone through, she wavered between fury and pride.

  “I did it for you,” he told her when at last he was able to rise from her bed and bathe. “For us.”

  She’d had pages haul buckets of heated water to fill the wooden tub. It was large enough for Jocelyn and at least two of her ladies to fit comfortably on bathing day. Simon fit, too, although he had to bend his knees almost to his chin to be accommodated.

  Jocelyn had dismissed the pages. Told the maid to leave her bucket of soap and quit the chamber, as well. His recovery was new enough that she wanted this time with him for herself alone.

  “And the Grand Master?” she asked, dipping a cloth into the soft soap. “Does he agree you are no longer bound by your vow to join the Templars?”

  “I fulfilled my vow. I took every step required of me to join the order. What I could not do was lie before God, the Grand Master and my fellow knights.”

  That’s all he would tell her. All else that occurred at Blanche Garde, apparently, would remain shrouded forever in secrecy.

  “Oh, Simon.” Gently, carefully, she washed arms and a chest so lacerated it near made her weep. “Could you not have reached this decision before you were subjected to such torture?”

  “No, Jocelyn. I had to go through the induction rituals.” His mouth curved above his soapy chest. “They were a small enough price to pay for the Lady of Fortemur.”

  “Ha! I would guess the fact that you convinced the queen to confirm her gift of Blanche Garde to the Templars whether you took command of it or not had as much to do with the fact that you’re here as aught else.”

  “I suspect you’re right.” His smiled widened. “The Grand Master didn’t draw a whole breath until Melisande put her seal to the documents.”

  That he could grin and make light of the ordeal that had come close to killing him almost robbed her of speech.

  Almost.

  Thoroughly incensed on his behalf, she was preparing to tell him what she thought of such machinations when he leaned back against the tub and regarded her through the screen of his sun-tipped lashes.

  “Enough of the queen and the Grand Master. I would speak of us.”

  She sank onto her heels and let the cloth dangle from her hands.

  “What’s left to say? You’ve already informed me that you returned to Fortemur to take me to wife. I have to assume the queen and her son agreed to the match.”

  “They did.”

  “So?”

  He reached for her hand and lifted it, cloth and all. His lips brushed the inside of her wrist with a kiss that made her pulse leap like a startled palfrey.

  “So, lady, will you have me?”

  “You know I will.”

  He dropped another kiss on her wrist. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, but above it his eyes were grave.

  “I bring you nothing, Jocelyn. Not so much as a groat that I may call my own.”

  “Do you think I care?”

  “You may not, but I do.”

  Men! They would ever measure their worth by the dram.

  Her heart full to overflowing, she surged up on her knees. “I’ll tell you what you bring me, Simon de Rhys. A strong arm I know will ever protect me. A heart so pure it would not, could not, violate an oath once given. You bring me joy, as well, and laughter and the most damnable lust. It fills every part of me,” she confessed with a grimace. “I can’t tell you how I ache for you to regain your strength enough to sate it.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. The rich sound filled the chamber even as he tightened his grip on her wrist.

  “Ah, sweeting, I’ve regained enough strength for that.”

  “What are you…? No!”

  Her shriek of protest got swamped by a mighty splash as he pulled her into the tub. Legs flailing, she flopped about like a speared sturgeon before he righted her.

  “Are you mad?” She spit out a mouthful of soapy water. “Out of your head from pain?”

  “Truth be told, I’m feeling better by the moment.”

  Since his hand had burrowed beneath her sodden skirts, Jocelyn could not but take him at his word. And when he shifted her so she straddled his hips, she felt even more insistent evidence of his recovery. Terrified that she would add to his hurts, she tried to wiggle away off his lap.

  “This is idiocy, Simon! You’ll injure yourself.”

  “No, sweet Jocelyn, I won’t. But for the love of God and all the saints, be still!”

  The incident in the bathing tub convinced Jocelyn that Simon had recovered enough to exchange vows with her. Determined to see the deed done as quickly as possible, she harried Father Joseph into posting the banns that very afternoon. Then she shocked him with her insistence they need only remain nailed to the chapel door for three days.

  “But daughter,” he protested, blinking his watery eyes, “Church law proscribes a minimum of three weeks.”

  “I know, Father.”

  The kindly priest scratched his sparse gray hair. “A decent period of waiting is necessary, you know, so anyone with objections to the union will have time to come forward.”

  “I know,” she said again.

  All too well! There were any number of objections that could be brought. Consanguinity was often cited as grounds to bar or annul a marriage—even after fifteen years and two children, as with the King of France and his soon-to-be former wife, Eleanor. Rape, adultery, incest and murder by one party or another were also reasons to prevent or dissolve a marriage. Nor could any couple say their vows in time of fasting, such as Lent or Advent. Then there was the condition that caused her the most secret worry—that one or another of the parties involved might have taken monastic or religious vows.

  Jocelyn still didn’t know what had occurred at Blanche Garde. Odds were she would never know. She intended to take no chances, however.

  “Three days, Father. Then I will take Sir Simon to husband either with your blessing or without.”

  The arrival of a royal courier that very evening forced her to scuttle those hasty plans. The message from King Baldwin informed Jocelyn that his cousin, Thomas of Beaumont, had lodged a complaint against her. His royal ward, it was alleged, had obstructed Sir Thomas in the performance of his duties as steward. The king himself would come to Fortemur to look into the matter. While there, he would stand witness to her marriage to Simon de Rhys. His mother, he added with magnificent understatement, had graciously deigned to accompany him. They would arrive ten days hence.

  Within minutes of the courier’s arrival, Lady Constance had thrown the entire keep into a frenzy of cleaning and cooking in preparation for the royal visit. Every bed curtain in the keep was carried outside and beaten to remove any hint of dust. Geese were mercilessly plucked for fresh feathers to fill bolsters. Precious peppercorns and spices were brought from the storeroom to be ground with mortar and pestle. Hunters were sent to bag fresh game.

  As the date approached, the ovens were raked out and fresh fires lit, while a small army of cook’s assistants kneaded mounds of dough for bread and cakes. Suet puddings joined hams, and boars’ heads in the cooking pots. The boards were scrubbed, and precious wax candles were placed in holders.

  As chatelaine of the keep, Jocelyn kept every bit as busy as her people. Between consulting with Lady Constance on decisions ranging from what course to serve when, riding out with the hunters and harrying her ladies into completing the gown she would wear for the ceremony, she scarce had time to draw breath.

  Simon stayed similarly occupied. Accompanied by Sir Guy, he inspected the armory, the gatehouses and guard posts. Before long, he knew the name of every pikeman who patrolled the curtain wall and every young, eager squire in traini
ng. He also recommended—and Jocelyn approved—a series of improvements to Fortemur’s defenses. Included among those recommendations was one for the construction of stone watchtowers to replace the wooden pyres used to signal danger or potential attack. Ali ben Haydar’s eldest son had not as yet launched any acts of reprisal for their father’s death. They could yet come, however.

  While all this was going on, Jocelyn’s vassals began to arrive from near and far. As did the neighboring lords and ladies she’d invited to the festivities. The day before the king and his mother were to arrive, Fortemur was full to overflowing with guests from every corner of the kingdom.

  So beset was Jocelyn from all sides that Lady Constance insisted she must needs slip away for an hour or two and breathe some sea air. She found the perfect opportunity to do just that when Sir Guy and Simon said they were going to inspect the first of the new watchtowers.

  The tower sat atop the hill most directly above the keep. Others would stretch in an unbroken line the length of Jocelyn’s domain, Sir Guy explained. Nodding, she gripped her skirts in one hand and used the other to steady herself while they climbed to the top. The men-at-arms who took turns standing watch day and night awaited them below.

  The view from the circular platform at the top of the tower took her breath away. Gnarled and twisted olive trees stair-stepped up the rocky slopes behind. Before her, achingly blue Mediterranean stretched as far as the eye could see. And there, set atop a wall of bedrock washed by waves, Fortemur loomed solid and square.

  This was the land that had bred her, Jocelyn thought fiercely as she breathed salty air into her lungs. This was where, pray God, she would breed strong sons and daughters. The perfume-drenched harem she’d been sentenced to but short weeks ago now seemed nothing but an evil dream.

  Simon, too, breathed deep as his assessing gaze swept the shoreline. He, however, was more concerned with the tower’s construction than with the unmatched beauty of the scene it provided. He thumped his foot on the planking, peered at the stones lining the fire pit and rapped a knuckle on the great iron cauldron that would send flames and smoke shooting into the sky day or night. With a grunt of approval, he turned to Fortemur’s recently appointed castellan.