12
Châmont-sur-Maine
The messenger assumed he would be spotted quickly.
He had no certainty of how protective a former Templar might be of his holding, and also no desire to be killed before delivering his message. The messenger dismounted while still under the protective cover of the forest and surveyed the village and keep. It was late afternoon and the gates to the village were still open.
To ensure he was not regarded as a threat, he led his horse out of the forest and walked the last increment to the village. He knew the moment he was spotted and was not surprised to see two armed sentries step into the opening of the gate. He drew no weapon and made no quick moves, but continued to walk steadily closer to their watchful figures. His steed, a fine and fast mare, tossed her head, content to walk beside him after their long journey.
The messenger paused outside the gates, knowing he was within range of any archer, and held out the missive in his gloved hand. He spoke in French, knowing that his accent would betray him as a foreigner, but then, his garb probably had done as much already.
“I have a message from Outremer for Lord Gaston de Châmont-sur-Maine,” he cried.
The sentries exchanged a glance, then one stepped forward. “From the Temple?”
The messenger shook his head. “The Temple has fallen,” he said, for it was a fact. His choice of words did not reveal his own alliance. “This message is from a man who begs the assistance of Lord Gaston.”
The sentry offered his hand. “Give me the message and I will see it delivered. You can wait here for any reply.”
“Nay.” The messenger raised the missive to his chest, his hand closed around it, and took a step back. “I swore to put it into his hand myself.” He was aware of the peasants who had gathered to watch the exchange and wondered what they whispered to each other. The local dialect was almost incomprehensible to him and he feared that by entering the village—if he were invited to do so—he might be stepping into a trap. A trickle of cold sweat slid down his back, but he held his ground.
The sentries conferred quietly but only for a moment. “You will leave your horse and your sword here, and Raoul will escort you to the gate of the keep. It will be Lord Gaston’s choice to meet you or not.”
The messenger bowed, a lump in his throat. “I thank you for this courtesy,” he said, hoping that all was as it appeared. Would he die suddenly and so far from home? He hoped not, but there was little choice. He had to deliver the missive. He left his mare with the quiet sentry and surrendered his sword before he followed the first. He never looked back, for he knew that a man’s posture could decide his fate. He was uneasy crossing the bridge to the keep, but spared only a single glance to its towering height.
As he crossed the threshold of the keep, he prayed that Lord Gaston was as thoughtful a man as he was reputed to be, and that his own life would not end this day.
Gaston was surprised, as he seldom was.
He did not know the man who stood before him, but he knew his kind. The visitor had seen perhaps fifty summers and had worked hard for most of those years. He was sturdy and undoubtedly strong, a man with a lined face and grim manner that revealed his trade as a warrior. He had removed his gloves and shoved them into his belt, and Gaston saw his history in his hands. The visitor’s garb was plain, his boots and gloves sturdy and well-worn. His armor was repaired but in good care. He traveled without a squire, and a fading tan revealed that he had been in warmer climes of late. His eyes were narrowed and his lips were thin, and Gaston recognized that he was a man who had done what needed to be done.
Gaston was reminded of Duncan and dozens of other men who earned their way with their blades. He was glad that the sentries had taken the sword of this one, but was certain this man carried several more knives.
He would be fast in their use.
Gaston looked the messenger in the eye as that man approached. The messenger dropped to one knee and offered a scroll graced with a seal Gaston did not recognize. The writing that Gaston could see was Arabic.
“Who sent you?” Gaston asked in Arabic. His speech was less fluid than it had been in Outremer, but he knew he was understood.
The man’s gaze flicked in surprise. “A friend to me and a stranger to you,” he replied. “The message provides the introduction.”
Mindful of the possibility of poison, Gaston tugged on his gloves. He accepted the scroll and retreated to the window. He turned it in the sunlight, finding nothing unusual about it. Who would send him a message? The expense of dispatching the messenger over such a distance would have been considerable, and Gaston could not think of what appeal to him would merit the cost.
He broke the seal and opened the missive, unfurling it with care. There was no powder within it or other unpleasant surprise, just a few lines of Arabic script.
It began with compliments about his reputation for honor and trustworthiness, then continued with an entreaty that he direct the messenger to Leila binte Qadir lufti al-Ramm, if Gaston knew her location, or to dispatch the messenger to someone who did know her whereabouts. In the event that Gaston did not know Leila or her location, the sender asked for that information to be sent as a reply.
This must be the full name of Leila, the girl who had been disguised as the squire Laurent, and had left Jerusalem under the protection of Gaston’s small party. He ran his fingertip over the signature. “Hakim ben Yasir lufi al-Ramm,” he read, then glanced back to the messenger.
That man bowed his head. “He sent me.”
“Do you know the contents of this missive?”
The messenger smiled a little. “I have had time to think about it,” he admitted. He made to reach beneath his tabard, but Gaston cleared his throat and he froze. One of Gaston’s men stepped forward and the messenger raised his hands. “There is a second scroll in a pouch hung around my neck,” he supplied in halting French.
Gaston’s man retrieved the scroll, then brought it to Gaston.
It was addressed to “Little Flower” with a tiny illustration of a flower beside the words.
Gaston raised his gaze to the messenger.
“His niece,” that man supplied. “She disappeared, and he believes you know where she is. He wishes to find her.”
To what purpose? Gaston did not know precisely why Leila had been determined to leave Outremer. He had not been aware of her gender when she joined their party in disguise but truly, her choice indicated a certain desperation. Would the uncle’s intentions be clear from his missive? Or would he attempt to deceive Leila to encourage her return? Gaston considered the question for only a moment before he broke the seal on the message to Leila.
The messenger gasped, but Gaston ignored him. He saw at a glance that this message was much longer and would take him time to understand fully. “See that the visitor is fed and offered refreshment in the hall,” he commanded. “I will have a reply for him shortly.”
He gave his seneschal a hard look and knew that the messenger would be guarded and kept from seeing too much of the keep’s interior. He climbed the stairs to the solar where his lady’s counsel could be sought.
Radegunde, Gaston recalled, had been friendly with Leila. Perhaps his wife’s maid would make more sense of this missive than he could. Undoubtedly, she would know more of Leila’s reason for fleeing her home. He would not imperil Leila now, but the endearment and the tiny flower made him wonder if she was missed.
It was not within Gaston to be cruel, and he felt the weight of responsibility in making the right choice for the fugitive Saracen.
He wished only to make the right choice.