Crusader Captive Page 9

  He untied the reins of her barb and held it steady while she mounted with the lithe grace he’d come to think of as hers alone. He was about to mount, himself, when a shout rang through the air.

  “Lady Jocelyn!”

  Simon spun around. His hand went instinctively to his sword hilt, but the page that came running along the cliff’s edge wore the red and black of Fortemur.

  “Lady Jocelyn,” the boy panted when he drew closer. “Sir Hugh sent me to find you.”

  “Why?” Her glance flew to the ramparts, as if searching for a spiral of smoke or some other signal of disaster. Seeing none, she asked the boy sharply, “What’s amiss?”

  “Blondin has arrived!”

  Chapter Seven

  “Blondin!”

  Jocelyn’s heart took a quick leap. This was all she needed to set the seal on a day she knew she would never forget. Eagerly, she turned to Simon.

  “Have you heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s well known here in the East. His verses are most lyrical and filled with biting wit.”

  “Ah! So he’s one of the troubadours we spoke of just moments ago?” A smile creased his cheeks. “One who will sing songs to your face?”

  The reminder sent heat into her cheeks.

  “He spends most of his time at the court of his patron, the Prince of Antioch,” she related as they mounted, “and only rarely travels this far south.”

  When he did, it was an occasion for great laughter and a chance to hear the latest juicy bits of gossip.

  “How fortunate that you don’t leave until the morrow,” she told Simon. “Blondin’s visits are always an occasion for everyone to dress in their finest feathers.”

  Except he had none, she remembered belatedly. Besides his borrowed breeks and coarse wool tunic and the hauberk Sir Guy was even now having altered for him, he possessed no other garments. Not that he would need them when he was inducted into the Knights Templar. Whatever he brought to the order would belong to the order.

  But tonight, Jocelyn decided, she would see him clothed as befitted a knight. He rode her grandsire’s destrier. He could wear one of his mantles, as well. The idea took hold of her as she and Simon rode through Fortemur’s mighty gates. They parted at the stables, since he insisted on currying and feeding Avenger from his own hand so the warhorse would imprint his scent.

  As Jocelyn hurried across the bailey, she saw at once that Blondin’s unexpected visit had wrought as much excitement as de Rhys’s conquest of her grandsire’s destrier had earlier that afternoon. Cook fires flamed bright in the kitchen sheds. Geese and boar roasted on spits. Two maids hurried through the garden, pulling up turnips and leeks by the fistful to throw into baskets. Even Lady Constance looked flustered when Jocelyn encountered her on the stairs to the great hall.

  “Where in heaven’s name have you been?”

  “On the cliffs.”

  “You’ll fall to your death there one of these days.”

  The older woman clicked her tongue in disapproval but was as excited as the rest of the keep’s residents. Too excited, thankfully, to comment on Jocelyn’s disordered hair and clothing.

  “Did you get word that Blondin has arrived?”

  “I did.”

  “He and his assistants are taking wine and meats in the great hall with Sir Thomas and his wife. You’ll wish to greet them, I’m sure.”

  “I do indeed. But first I must tend to another matter.”

  Lady Constance nodded, clearly preoccupied. “In the meantime, I must see to the puddings and boiled bacon. I ordered two cauldrons fired. The foodstuffs should be cooked in time to use the hot water to wash with before we sup.”

  Thankful she had such an efficient lady to tend to these chores, Jocelyn slipped down the stairs to the cellars. Even in the heat of summer Fortemur’s massive walls kept them cool and dry. Bypassing the locked chambers that stored precious spices and the one holding salted meats, she made for the counting room. It was here she reviewed rents and revenues thrice monthly with Sir Thomas. Here also where she kept the castle’s supply of gold beasants and the trunks containing her most precious belongings. The keys to the room were on the ring that hung from her girdle.

  One key opened the lock on the door, another the chest where she’d stored those of her grandfather’s things she hadn’t given away after his death. She knelt beside the chest and stifled a familiar stab of grief.

  Sir William had been big and bluff and swift to exact retribution for any crime, be it large or small. Jocelyn had learned the fine art, and often crushing responsibility, of governance at his hand. And from him she’d inherited the absolute determination to hold what was hers.

  Her aching grief had dulled in the months since his death, but the pangs sharpened as she lifted the trunk’s heavy lid and the costly scent of sandalwood drifted from the carefully folded garments. These had been her grandfather’s finest. Some of the robes were trimmed with the fur of lynx or fox, others lavishly embroidered with gold or silver thread.

  They were supposed to have gone to her husband as part of her dower. Not that the Emir of Damascus would deign to wear them. They were too heavy for the heat of the desert, and too Frankish in design. So it was only fitting, she thought with a touch of defiance, that she should gift one of these robes to the man she’d taken to her bed in a deliberate and most desperate scheme to avoid being sent to the emir.

  She dug deeper into the chest and found the garment she sought. Ironically, the soft, fine wool was dyed a color called Saracen blue—so named for the brilliant skies of the East. The hue matched almost exactly that of Simon de Rhys’s eyes. She pulled the robe from the bottom of the pile and held it to her face with both hands. Part of her knew she should be shamed to her depths to kneel here, clutching one of her grandfather’s prized garments, and think of the eyes that had skimmed over her naked flesh just hours ago.

  Another part shivered with a forbidden thrill. She might never have experienced that thrill if not for Simon de Rhys. She doubted the emir, if she were given to him, would take the time to pleasure a frightened virgin. Or even believe that she should be pleasured. Jocelyn had heard whispers of dire mutilations to suppress all carnal desires. And not just to the eunuchs who served in harems.

  That would not be her fate!

  It could not!

  Shuddering, she dug out a lavishly embroidered undertunic, slammed the trunk’s lid, locked it and left the counting room. She hurried up the tower stairs and almost burst out onto the steps that led to the bailey. So precipitate was her ascent that she had to take a deep breath before calling to the gangly youth making his way across the bailey.

  “You! Will Farrier!”

  The youngest son of her farrier bobbed his head. “Aye, milady?”

  “Have you seen the one called Sir Simon?”

  “I have, lady. He’s in the stable. I just spoke with him,” young Will added in his solemn, wide-eyed way. “He says he leaves on the morrow to join the Knights Templar.”

  “So he does.”

  “Would that I could go with him!”

  His fervency didn’t surprise Jocelyn. The Knights Templar had earned their reputation as the foremost and most fearsome warriors in the land. Every young page or squire in training viewed them as models to be emulated on the field of battle. Not all, of course, wished to join them in their Holy Orders.

  Jocelyn considered that as she crossed the bailey. She’d intended to consult Sir Hugh about which of the squires in training at Fortemur might act as Simon’s squire until he acquired one of his own. Will Farrier might do instead. Quite well, in fact.

  The boy was not yet eleven but tall and overly serious for his age. And so very, very devout. He served the castle priest assiduously at morning Mass and sang every Pater Noster and Ave Maria in a high, clear voice that would no doubt change with age. Jocelyn had already discussed with his parents and with Father Joseph sponsoring the lad’s entrance as an oblate into one of the
monasteries here in the Holy Land when he came of age.

  Mayhap he could join the Templars instead. Will hadn’t trained for battle, but he had assisted his father at the bellows. He knew how to forge a blade and shoe a horse. Since he was from the lower orders, he could train to become a sergeant. In that capacity, he could care for Simon’s weapons and ride into battle at his side.

  She would speak to his parents, Jocelyn decided. But first she would—

  “By all the saints!”

  She stumbled to a dead stop just outside the thatch-roofed stable. The familiar odor of horse sweat and manure filled her nostrils. The sight of Simon stripped to the waist filled every other sense.

  He stood beside the horse trough, his muscles rippling as he washed himself with a rag and a handful of the soft, squishy soap the laundresses brewed from mutton fat, wood ash and soda. One of the stable boys balanced precariously on the edge of the wooden trough with a bucket in hand.

  At Simon’s nod, the lad tipped a bucket over his head. Water sluiced down his chest and wet his breeks, molding them to his powerful flanks.

  Jocelyn’s fingers tightened on the folded robe she held in her hands. As she stared at the bulge at the jointure of his thighs, the sensations from the crystal cave came sweeping back. The wild joy of it. The glorious licentiousness of it.

  Then Simon turned so the stable boy could sluice his back and every wicked, sinful thought flew out of Jocelyn’s head. His stripes were healing, but were still so red and vicious that she wondered how he could bend, much less have been able to service her as he had.

  How selfishly she’d used him! How thoughtlessly! The realization shamed her, and made the gift of her grandfather’s warhorse and robe seem paltry by comparison. Chagrined, she waited until he turned again and saw her to explain her errand.

  “I brought you one of my grandfather’s robes,” she said with a huskiness she couldn’t keep from her voice. “He had not your height, but he was broad of shoulder.”

  “I thank you for the loan, but—”

  “It’s not a loan. I gift you with it.”

  “You’ve already given me all I need. All I could desire of you,” he added slowly.

  This wasn’t a conversation she wished the stable boy to hear. She sent him a stern glance. “You, lad. Give Sir Simon a cloth to dry himself with and leave us.”

  The boy scrambled to obey, and Simon used the cloth on his head and torso. Jocelyn followed its sweep over ropy muscle and smooth flesh. Wrenching her gaze from his chest, she shook out the robe so he could see the embroidery decorating the sleeves and hem.

  “I set these stitches myself.”

  He lifted one of the sleeves to inspect the intricate floral design. “They’re finely done.”

  “No, they’re not,” she countered with a rueful smile. “You don’t need to bend the truth with me. I know I have many skills. Putting needle to cloth isn’t one of them. But I labored over these stitches for many an hour. They’re a mark of the love and respect I bore for my grandfather. I would… I would that you have this robe, Simon, and wear it while yet you may.”

  That would not be long. When he completed his initiation, he would don the simple robe of a monk. Or, when he rode into battle, a white surcoat emblazoned with a red cross. The realization lay heavy between them as his eyes skimmed over her face.

  “Then I thank you, Lady Jocelyn. For this robe, and for all else you’ve gifted me with.”

  She nodded and spun on her heel. Moments later she plunged into the frantic bustle of a keep preparing for a lively night’s entertainment.

  By the time she’d greeted Blondin and his assistants and consulted once more with Lady Constance on preparations for the hastily assembled feast, she barely had time to wash and have the tangles combed from her hair. While one maid hastily rubbed crushed rose petals into her cheeks, another whisked one of Jocelyn’s best gowns from the clothes chest and shook out its shimmering folds.

  “No! Not the damascene.”

  She would eat pig slop before she would don the bliaut of costly figured silk, woven on two sides to give it a sheen so special that it was named for the place where it had originated. Tonight she wanted nothing to remind her of Damascus or its emir!

  “I’ll wear the ruby bliaut.”

  The gown was sewn from Venetian silk. As soft as a spider’s web, it boasted a square neckline cut low over the breasts and sleeves so long they dragged the floor. Beneath it Jocelyn wore a tunic trimmed with cloth of gold that showed at the sides when she walked. A chin band in the same paper-thin gold emphasized the long line of her throat and held back hair her maids brushed to a gleaming shimmer. She topped the headband with a circlet of beaten gold studded with garnets.

  As she pirouetted in front of the mirror, Jocelyn tried to convince herself that she hadn’t taken such pains with her hair and dress on Simon’s account. The effort was fruitless. The moment she entered the great hall, her glance swept its length and breadth until she spotted him.

  He was seated at the lower boards, as befitted his rank. And as much as she longed to have him join her at the high table, there he must needs remain. She’d no doubt stirred gossip already by gifting him with her grandfather’s robe. She dared not raise Sir Thomas’s brows further by inviting a lowly knight to share the high table.

  Lady Constance’s efforts had ensured that Fortemur rose to the occasion of a visit by the realm’s most renowned troubadour. Silver plates and gem-studded goblets graced the linen-covered high table. Gold saltcellars marched between them. Even the trestle tables where the lower orders ate had been scrubbed free of grease stains and sported precious wax candles instead of bowls of tallow belching their usual brown smoke.

  Sir Hugh, Sir Guy and Lady Constance were already in their seats. So were Sir Thomas and his pinch-faced wife. Jocelyn gave an inner sigh. The woman’s expression was so set in those dour lines that her cheeks would crack if she ever once smiled.

  And who could not smile at Blondin’s clever verses? After scurrying squires delivered the first course of boar’s head with brawn pudding, sugared partridge and venison shank with stewed turnips, the bard strolled the hall. He was a small man, thin and shorter by a head than most of those around him, but richly dressed in the latest fashions. He obviously took great pains with the luxuriant mane of hair that fell in shining brown waves well past his shoulders. Rings decorated the fingers of both hands and the heavy gold chain draped around his neck bespoke the worth in which his patron held him.

  But it was his voice that was his most precious possession. As clear and pure as the song of a lark on a bright spring morning, it soared through the great hall as his so-skilled fingers plucked the strings of his mandolin and his underlings accompanied him on flute and lyre.

  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.

&nbs
p; “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.