Anne Herries - Promised to the Crusader

‘Please don’t go,’ the girl cried and clung to the young man in desperation. ‘Don’t leave me, Zander. If you go, I think I shall die of a broken heart. I cannot bear it if you leave me.’ She loved him so much and her life would seem empty without him.

Zander was tall and strong, but still a youth, being no more than seventeen years of age. He bent his head to drop a kiss on the girl’s fair hair, hiding the pain her entreaty caused him.

‘I must go, my dearest heart,’ he whispered, his throat catching with emotion. ‘You know I love you and shall until the day I die—but my father was murdered and most of his lands have been sold to pay debts. My mother has gone to a nunnery to weep for him, but I must avenge his death. To become strong enough to demand justice for my father, I must join the crusade and become a knight. Only then may I avenge my family and claim you as my bride.’

She gazed up at him, her eyes as blue as the summer sky above them, her pale hair wild about her face. Somewhere a meadowlark sang, but she did not hear its sweet song. All she knew was that the person she loved most in all the world was going away and she might never see him again. She tugged at his simple short tunic, her face strained with grief.

‘What shall I do if you are killed?’ she asked pitifully. ‘How can you leave me so?’

‘You are not alone, Elaine. Your father loves you dearly and will care for you. If I am killed, then you must forget you ever knew me.’

‘I shall never forget you,’ she vowed passionately. ‘You are the only man I shall ever love.’

‘You are but fourteen,’ Zander said and smiled tenderly. His hair was the colour of night and his eyes grey with a silver light in their depths. She thought him beautiful, his sweet singing voice a romantic delight, for he sang songs of love to her and played with her in the meadows all the summer long, making her chains of daisies. ‘I do truly love you, but your father would not let us wed. He has promised that if I return a knight with a fortune I have won for my valour, then he will look kindly on us, but until then I can offer you nothing.’

‘I care for nothing but you…’ What would all the gold in Christendom matter if he were killed and did not return to claim her?

‘I will not take my wife to a hovel and expect her to live like a pauper.’ Zander’s mouth hardened, his eyes becoming flinty. ‘I must go, Elaine. When my quest is over I shall come for you.’

‘And if I am wed?’ she demanded, her head high, eyes bright with pride. He had refused her and she would not beg for his favours.

‘Then I shall wish you happy and go away.’

‘You do not love me as I love you…’ She turned away, hurt and angry because he would not listen, but he caught her arm, swinging her back to face him. Then he bent his head, his mouth taking hers in a kiss of possession that told of the man he would be one day—a kiss that had her near swooning for love of him. ‘Zander, forgive me…I love you…’

‘And I you.’ He touched her cheek with his fingertips. ‘Take care, my beloved. I shall dream of you—and I swear that one day I shall come back to claim you.’

So saying, he pushed her gently from him and left her standing there as he mounted his horse and rode away. Elaine stared after him, tears trickling down her cheeks. She loved him so desperately and she was afraid that he would never return.

The knight stood in the middle of the field of carnage and looked about him at the dead and dying. Friends and enemies lay side by side, united in death, as they could never be in life. He had come here to this land called the Holy Land as a young man, filled with zeal and a burning desire to carry the Cross and bring the true faith to the heathen. All he had found was a terrible despair born of grief, pain and the disillusionment that comes from discovering that the king he had followed could on occasion be as cruel and unjust as the Saracen enemy. Indeed, at times the enemy seemed to be more merciful than the Christian knights who slaughtered prisoners without mercy.

As he found the youth he searched for amongst the fallen, Zander de Bricasse felt his sorrow deepen to the point where it became almost unbearable. The boy was a newcomer, fresh from his village in England where he had been recruited to fight the king’s wars—just as Zander had been five years earlier. He had fought so many terrible battles and survived, but this lad Tom had died in the first brief moments of his first encounter with the enemy. His mother and sweetheart would wait hopefully for a letter or a message that he was safe and well, but they would wait in vain. Tom would never go home.

Zander scooped the boy into his arms and carried him away from the stench of blood, the heat and the dust. He could not take the lad home to his mother, but he would bury him with honour in a place of peace that he knew of and he would send word to England of his brave death in battle. And then what would he do?

Zander felt his cheeks wet and knew that he was crying—crying for a boy he hardly knew. Or was he crying for the boy he had once been and a life he’d known so many long years ago? Into his mind came the picture of a beautiful young girl and the promise he’d made her to return and marry her once he’d made his fortune and avenged his father’s cruel death.

Depositing his precious burden in the shade of an olive tree by a pool that never dried no matter how hard the hot sun beat down on the land, Zander began to dig the grave that must hold Tom’s body. He would pray that the boy’s soul went to heaven—but where was heaven and where hell? Surely if there was a hell it was here in this terrible sun-drenched land.

Zander was no longer sure if either existed. As he worked, his tears dried and his resolve grew. He was done with this war and the cause he’d thought so just. He was not sure that he even believed in God anymore. Perhaps the heathens were right in their beliefs and his people were wrong to try to impose their religion.

It no longer mattered to Zander. He felt empty, drained of all emotion but pity for the waste of life. All he wanted now was to go home and find peace.

Would Elaine still be waiting for him—or would she have married long ago? He knew that he must return to England, to the home and the village of his birth. He was ready to seek the revenge that must be his—and then to claim the woman he loved.

As he rose from his knees after saying the words of prayer that the boy Tom deserved, Zander heard a yell from behind him. He whirled round even as the huge Saracen charged, sword in hand, arm raised to strike. Four others followed, sharp scimitars raised. Zander was unprepared, his sword abandoned for the spade to dig his friend’s grave. He saw it lying beneath a tree—but could he reach it before they cut him down?

Zander knew a moment of despair. ‘Forgive me, Elaine,’ he murmured, and it seemed that soon his blood too would stain this place of peace.

‘You will do as you are told, Elaine.’ Lord Marcus Howarth glared at his beautiful niece. ‘Your father indulged you and allowed you to stay at home and wait for the return of a man who may already lie dead in Jerusalem. Now your father is dead and I am master here. The Earl of Newark has asked for you in marriage and I see no reason to refuse his offer. He is a powerful man and your marriage would make us stronger here at Howarth.’

‘Please, I beg you, sir,’ Elaine Howarth cried. ‘Do not force me to this marriage. I dislike the earl and my heart belongs to Zander. If he is dead, I would rather go to a convent and spend my life in prayer. I gave him my word that I would wait when he left to follow the king and I shall not break it.’ Her blue eyes flashed defiance at him. ‘I refuse this marriage. No matter what you say I shall not wed a man I despise—nor shall I break my word to Zander.’