Little doubt was there that Wolfram did not attend the tale alone. A murmur tripped through the assembly, and well it seemed that the sounds of merrymaking fell curiously silent. All eyes turned to the minstrel and impatiently awaited his next words. Even those at the head table listened, their hands poised in midair as they forgot the tender morsels they brought to their lips. Outrage registered on the lutenist’s lovely visage, and Wolfram imagined that she was not alone in having doubts about the veracity of this tale.
“Great power does the Grail grant to the family who tend it, for they are gifted with the divine right to rule. This is the legacy of the Grail. Kings they throne and dethrone from their remote and unassailable fortress, by dictate of the Grail.”
A ripple of disapproval rolled through the assembly, and Wolfram barely noted that the king himself rose to his feet with a frown.
Yet the minstrel continued undeterred.
“And those of the family, those pledged to the service of the Grail, move among us all. Their men wed in secrecy, sworn to reveal their legacy to none, their women wed openly and bring the heritage of the Grail to bless other families. When a child is born of these matches, this child is summoned to serve the Grail. Thus had Parzival been summoned, though his lineage alone was not enough. Well had he to prove himself worthy of the gift awaiting him.”
To Wolfram’s astonishment, the lutenist stopped playing and glared at her companion.
“Stupid fool,” she hissed in outrage, though doubtless her voice carried farther than she intended. “Would you see all of us dead?”
Us?
To his credit, the minstrel looked as dumbfounded as Wolfram felt. The tone of the room changed subtly, a rustle of curiosity rippled through the ranks of those who had attended the chanson, and well it seemed there was markedly less activity in the hall.
“Of what do you speak?” he murmured to the lutenist in an undertone rife with anger and confusion. His words, too, carried to other ears, doubtless because of the unnatural quiet in the hall.
“Of what do you speak?” the lutenist retorted sharply, her emerald eyes flashing furiously. “Who granted you the right to share the tale of my family with any who would care to listen?” She shoved to her feet and jabbed one fingertip in the astounded minstrel’s chest. “No right have you to tell this tale, no right have you to jeopardize the safety of a family you do not even know!”
The king’s fist hit the board, and his voice rose in a roar that demanded attention. “What family would you say he jeopardizes?” he demanded regally. The lutenist spun, her anger not abandoning her at this interruption.
“My family!” she declared hotly. “The family of Pereille. I am Genevieve de Pereille!”
Genevieve de Pereille!
The assembly gasped as one, but Wolfram could recall only one thing. He had seen that name on the genealogy in the Master’s office. ‘Twas she!
The collective gasp seemed to recall the lutenist to her senses. She glanced about herself, as though she had just realized where she stood and what she had said, and all the color drained from her face.
Genevieve de Pereille. Wolfram recalled the parchment unfurled on the Master’s desk and knew the Temple might be seeking this woman. Her location might be sought even now for a waiting commission from a nameless client.
Surely ‘twas that knowledge alone that prompted his desire to see her free of this place. Any fool knew that crown and Temple did not see eye-to-eye on many matters, and should Genevieve be imprisoned here, the Temple might well be unable to fulfill a contract.
Surely ‘twas Wolfram’s pledge to serve the Order first.
Impulsively Wolfram darted forward.
“Guards!” roared the king from the dais.
“Guards!” cried the assembly in echo of his order. The guests rose to their feet, pressing closer to Genevieve, that they might catch a better glimpse of her, but Wolfram shoved his way impatiently through their midst.
As he pushed closer, Wolfram saw that fear had paralyzed Genevieve and that she knew not what to do or where to turn. A space there was around her, for all feared to touch her. The minstrel who had accompanied her had fallen back against the wall, his face a mask of astonishment. Clearly he had thought his tale no more than that. Wolfram stepped boldly into the space beside the lutenist, and her gaze lifted to his with all the shock of a startled doe’s.
“‘Tis true?” he demanded in a hoarse undertone. She shivered and closed her eyes, gathering her lute close before her. When she met his gaze again, there were tears in those glittering green eyes.
“Aye,” she admitted reluctantly, the words barely given voice. “‘Tis all true.” Sincerity echoed in her tone, for all its softness, and Wolfram knew she spoke the truth. He thrust his hand immediately toward her.
“Then come,” he said flatly. “I vow I will see you safe.”
Safe? Surely that was overstating his intent. But the relief dawning in those green eyes dismissed Wolfram’s qualms.
Without hesitation, Genevieve put her slender hand within his. No time had Wolfram to consider the marvel that she trusted him or the tentative warmth spreading within him now that he held her tiny hand securely within his own.
It mattered naught to him if she was relieved, for ‘twas to the Master alone he would grant her custody. Naught more was there behind his action than that. His conscience pricked, but Wolfram could spare it no time now.
“Give way!” cried the guards, and the crowd muttered as they parted reluctantly.
Genevieve gasped in sudden understanding of their plight, and she gripped his fingers more tightly. Wolfram squeezed her hand in reassurance, then they turned as one and ran.
Chapter Seven
Genevieve felt the difference the instant she touched him.
A tentative warmth there was dawning within the cold cavern of Wolfram’s soul, and Genevieve knew then that she had not misplaced her trust. Help her he would to the best of his ability, and little doubt had she that his ability was greater than her own.
They leapt of one accord toward the exit, the cries of the king’s guard rising behind them. Genevieve’s heart pounded, but Wolfram faltered naught. He dived through the tiny door at the back of the gallery, hauling her behind him when her footsteps failed to keep pace with his own.
In a corridor they were. Abandoned ‘twas, and the ends bent away, so that its path was not clear in either direction. The sounds of pursuit carried from the gallery behind them and Genevieve’s pulse raced in fear. Musicians swore as they endeavored to be obstructions and thereby protect one of their own. A sour key was struck, something cracked, a man cursed. Genevieve’s heart tore at the knowledge that some instrument had paid the price of her folly, but Wolfram was oblivious.
He lifted his nose to the air, then turned crisply to the right. When he broke into a run, Genevieve did her utmost to keep up. They slipped around a corner in the very nick of time. Footsteps broke into the corridor behind them. Genevieve caught her breath in certainty that they would be found out, but Wolfram merely fired her a quelling glance.
Silence was imperative. She understood his meaning at once and struggled to make her footfalls as light as possible.
A great staircase curved away before them and Wolfram took the stairs three at a time. When Genevieve slipped and bumped her lute on a granite stair, the instrument released a muted yet distinctive thump.
She winced, but Wolfram said naught. He lifted the lute from her grasp without ceremony, and for the first time in all her days, Genevieve permitted another to carry her pride and joy.
No time had she to reflect upon this instinctive trust, though, for they were charging down the stairs at breakneck speed. Only now could Genevieve smell the stables below, and only then did she realize what Wolfram had sought when he sniffed the air high above them.
They burst out into a courtyard Genevieve had not seen afore. A pair of guards jumped in surprise at their abrupt arrival, but Wolfram heeded them naught.
By the time they had recovered from their surprise, Wolfram and Genevieve were out of their reach. Wolfram ran full out across the cobbled courtyard. Genevieve thought to fight him for his folly in fleeing so openly.
Then she saw the great gaping maw of the gate. The spiked portcullis yet hung high, though she had only noted it when the cry rang out from far above.
“Close the gate!”
Genevieve gasped as a guard separated himself from the shadow thrown by the wall. Ahead of them he was, and he evidently spied them, for he lunged for the gatehouse. Wolfram muttered something Genevieve fancied was uncomplimentary. Well it seemed he ran faster, and she regretted that she hindered his escape.
So she ran.
The rope holding the portcullis creaked all too soon. Genevieve’s heart pounded fit to burst and she could not imagine they could clear the gate in time. Though she knew not what waited in store for them here, readily enough could she guess ‘twas not good. The spikes descended slowly, though well Genevieve knew they could be let fall with a vengeance if the keeper so desired.
Wolfram surged forward with a sudden burst of speed. ‘Twas too late and Genevieve knew it, but still she ran with all her might. Their footsteps pounded on the cobblestones, their breath rasped in her ears. The gate was close, the portcullis yet higher than Wolfram’s head. Their pursuers gained the courtyard in a clatter far behind and bellowed. Genevieve did not dare to look back.
“Close the gates!” came the shout from behind.
“Aye, Captain!” responded the gatekeeper.
“Nay!” Genevieve cried. She heard the ratchet spin as the rope was released in full. Her heart sank with certainty that they were trapped within and doomed to some undoubtedly painful demise.
Wolfram swore and dived.
Genevieve was jerked forward, her hand held fast in his. She saw his intent and mimicked him as well as she was able. The lute within his grasp scraped along the cobbles and Genevieve cringed at the sound, even as the flesh was ripped from her palm and knee. The portcullis whistled overhead, and for a terrifying instant Genevieve glanced up to see those spikes descending directly upon her.
Her heart stopped, but she could do naught else but watch the gate fall.
Wolfram yanked her hand and she rolled. The spikes but impaled the hem of her fine new kirtle as they buried themselves in their iron receptacles with a resonant clang. The ground vibrated and Genevieve shook like a new leaf, but Wolfram granted her no time to reflect. He hauled her to her feet and her kirtle tore before he began to run anew.
Well did Genevieve think her very lungs would burst, and she thought to beg for clemency. She wanted to scream at him to slow his pace, but had not the breath for the task.
Then she heard the rope creak as the portcullis was raised again, and she knew they were not safe yet. Men shouted from within the courtyard behind. The unexpected baying of hunting dogs fairly paralyzed her with fear before that same fear gave new vigor to her step.
They were on the run in truth. With no one to help them. Panic flooded through Genevieve. Where would they run? Where would they hide? Where in this pitiless city might they find sanctuary from the king himself?
Wolfram seemed to have no doubt of his destination. He ran with a purposeful resolve that reassured Genevieve. Though she could not guess his specific intent, she knew he fostered no doubt at all. A destination had he in mind, one whose security he doubted not, and Genevieve permitted herself to trust his judgment.
Indeed, she had precious little choice.
He cut an unerring path through the city’s silent streets when Genevieve was forced to acknowledge she would have been lost long before. She dared not protest his breakneck pace, for well it seemed their very lives stood at stake.
Her mind could make little sense of its certainty that she had been lucky to cross paths with Wolfram again. That this man who had dispatched her own brother would save her hide made little sense, and she feared for an instant that he intended to betray her to some other dastardly fate.
Though if that was his intent, she had little enough time at this moment to fret about it. For now, she put one foot afore the other as fast as she was able.
The barking of those dogs echoing through the streets behind them was enough to chill her blood. Genevieve’s heart pounded in her ears and she felt her palms go damp. Was this how the hind felt in the woods when noblemen set to the chase? Indeed, she knew not if she would ever manage to catch her breath again.
They burst abruptly into a square, and Genevieve realized with astonishment that ‘twas the gates of the Temple itself that stood open before her. Here ‘twas she played, though indeed those days seemed longer past than they were.
And here business progressed as ‘twould any other midafternoon during the week. Carts were hauled through the gates ahead, women chatted, children dodged cartwheels and horses. Indeed, the baying of the hunting hounds was distant enough to almost be ignored.
Dread flooded through Genevieve at the distant sound, though, for she knew well enough that she would be denied access to this establishment. Had she not tried to gain entry before, to no avail? And where else might she go? If this was Wolfram’s sanctuary, ‘twas one she could not share.
Only too well could she imagine those dogs tearing into her flesh. She tugged at Wolfram’s hand, but his grip merely tightened around her.
“I cannot go here,” she cried in despair. He fired her a glance of such intensity that she almost wished she had held her tongue.
“Nowhere else have you to seek sanctuary,” he informed her tightly. Genevieve was forced to acknowledge that he spoke the truth, though that reality was far from comforting.
“But I cannot enter the Temple,” she argued.
Wolfram looked away, his profile stern, and his words were bitten out tersely.
“Pull up your hood—I shall contrive some tale,” he bade her tersely. “Say naught.”
To her astonishment, ‘twas as simple as that. A large group approached the gate, and Wolfram slid into the shadow beside the cart on the far side of the keeper. He placed Genevieve’s lute atop the mélange of goods atop the cart. Nary a word did he spare for the driver, who noted him not, though the woman who walked at the back of the cart watched Wolfram avidly.
Wolfram lifted a bale from the cart and dropped it on Genevieve’s shoulders. Her eyes widened at the weight of the burden, and the woman behind chuckled unkindly, though still she said naught.
Wolfram darted her a sharp glance, then stepped away.
“Keep your pace lively,” the older woman whispered warningly when Genevieve attempted to turn to see where he had gone. “‘Tis the only way you shall gain admittance unnoted.”
Genevieve glanced to the woman, distrusting the gleam in her eye. “You will say naught?” she asked in an undertone.
The woman smiled, though her expression was hard. “Not the first time would it be that a young, pretty woman was slipped into a monastery,” she confided. “And not the first time will it be that I have been compensated for aiding in such a task.”
Genevieve turned back to the road, the woman’s certainty in her lack of morals making her ears burn. Two pieces of silver jingled in Genevieve’s pocket, and well she knew the destination of those pieces now. Little doubt had she that the woman had heard their distinctive jingle, as well.
Far behind them, dogs barked in anticipation of catching their prey. Genevieve’s pace quickened as a shiver tripped over her skin. She felt Wolfram’s presence slip away and heard him exchange some pleasantry with the keeper on the far side of the cart as she passed beneath the gates of her salvation. The woman chuckled in anticipation of her prize.
Genevieve supposed sanctuary was well worth such a paltry sum.
* * *
The Master cursed under his breath at the sight of the dogs far ahead of him. Too long had it taken him to retrieve his steed in the confusion that had filled the king’s stables, and now he feared he had missed his opportunity.<
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Genevieve de Pereille! The very woman he sought had been right afore his eyes. What was more, the ever-loyal Wolfram had unexpectedly aided her escape. How that sergeant had known the Master’s own objectives, he could not guess, but he praised the day he had seen fit to accept the oath from Wolfram’s lips.
If only the guards did not capture him before he reached the gates of the Temple.
The Master spurred his horse onward and took a dizzying sequence of side alleys to circumvent the hunt. As ‘twas, he burst into the square opposite the Temple mere heartbeats before the first dog.
Several large parties were passing through the gates of the Temple.
“Brother Michel!” the Master cried, relieved to see that sergeant come out of the keeper’s hut with a questioning expression on his features.
The Master hauled his destrier to a halt and glared imperiously down at the man. “Has Brother Wolfram returned?”
“But moments past, milord,” the keeper responded quickly. “Indeed, he cannot be more than a hundred paces from here by now—”
“Close the gates!” roared the Master. Naught would be his advantage should Philip’s troops gain admission to the Temple. ‘Twas true their secular power did not extend within these walls, but once their larger forces invaded, there would be little effective argument the Master could make.
“Lift the drawbridge and bar the way to all who might enter!” He snapped his fingers impatiently when Brother Michel did not move, and the keeper sprung to life.
The keeper bobbed a bow and set immediately to his task, his assistant drawing up the bridge over the moat just as the first of the dogs approached the gate. The beast leapt after the lifting bridge and fell into the moat with a resounding splash. The entire baying pack was close on his heels, but the Master watched the bridge strain toward the late-afternoon sky with satisfaction.
‘Twas too late. The Temple gates were secure. The dogs lined the opposing shore and barked loudly in frustration while the bridge leisurely rose to its vertical position.
The Master of the Temple watched the riders approach, yet held his ground. He turned his mount to confront them proudly, knowing the sight he made on his white destrier with his cloak lifting in the autumn wind. The red cross of the Order blazed upon his white tabard, and his chin was high.
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