The drawbridge settled into its closed vertical position, the ropes ceased to creak. Both gate and portcullis were barred against intruders. The hounds barked as they raced back and forth in renewed frenzy with the arrival of their masters. Burly men shouted futilely for the release of the bridge. The Master smiled. The water in the moat was blessedly high this autumn, and the outer walls of the Ville Neuve were as smooth as glass.
The fortress of the Temple was impenetrable.
And well should it be, for the Temple stood outside the jurisdiction of all authority, of hierarchies both secular and ecclesiastical. ‘Twas right and good and the Master had no qualms about exercising his authority.
Answerable solely to the Master of the Temple of Jerusalem was the Master of the Temple of Paris, and thence responsible to the Pope alone. No other held sway over his choices and to no other would he bow in deference.
But a little time did he need to solve this particular problem. The last threat to his security was secreted within the walls of his own domain. Brought to him she had been by the most loyal of his sergeants, and she would be dispatched, quietly, mayhap by that same sergeant, afore any could put together the pieces of the puzzle.
The Master’s future would be secure once more. He would open the gates when all was resolved.
And none could compel him to open them sooner.
His eyes narrowed as a man unmistakably garbed rode into the square opposite, the chilly wind tossing his fair hair into disarray. Displeased he looked, his mood revealed by his gesture even from afar, and the Master smiled at the sign as the hounds bayed at his very gates.
Answerable to none in France was the Master of the Temple.
Not even to Philip le Beau, king of all France. And well did Philip know the truth of it, though he liked it naught. Had the Order not defied him openly in the past? Openly and brashly, but naught was there any could do. Denied entry to the Order Philip had been but three months past, and though the king had been near to fury at the slight, no retaliation had there been.
Indeed, there could be none. Papal orders, issued time and again, protected the autonomy of the Templars. Not a hand could any king lift against the Master of the Temple. ‘Twas decreed repeatedly by Rome. And the repository of the treasury of the king within the Temple’s own vaults added a modicum of additional security. None other had the resources to handle the financial demands of a court the size of Philip’s, though it likely irked Philip’s pride to have his house funds secured by those who slighted his will. The very thought filled the Master of the Paris Temple with a satisfaction well earned.
Truly, he and his brethren deserved no less than to protect all of Christendom, unmolested by the partialities of petty rulers. Little understanding had self-absorbed men like Philip of the greater obligation before them. No less than the saving of every soul in Christendom was the responsibility of the Order’s leaders and the retrieval from infidel hands of that land held most holy.
But kings overlooked such duties in the pursuit of material gain. And popes had responded accordingly, that the most important task in Christendom not be left unfulfilled.
To be sure, the Templars guarded their own material gains and were sure to collect their tithes in a timely fashion. But for a greater good was this destined, a nobler end than the expanding wardrobe and extensive household needs of a vain man.
Jerusalem awaited the Templars. And one day they would return to that fair city triumphant, to claim its hallowed ground for Christendom. God above could permit naught else, though man below would need extensive resources to accomplish the task. The Templar treasuries, the bounty of their estates, the men sworn to the Order’s service, these would form the backbone of the force destined to reclaim that most sacred central jewel stolen from the crown of Christendom.
“The gates remained barred at my word,” the Master informed the keeper tersely. That man nodded his understanding and returned his attention to his post with a sharpness that did his training proud.
No finer league of men was there than the Order’s own. The Master basked in a glow of pride for an instant, then turned his back deliberately on the king, knowing full well his departure would be seen and noted.
As he walked away, his pace as leisurely as if he were a man with naught on his mind, the Master heard Philip’s shout and permitted himself another slow smile.
* * *
Wolfram led Genevieve through the twisting streets of the Ville Neuve at breakneck pace, and her thoughts jumped ahead almost as quickly.
This was Alzeu’s killer. And Genevieve had foolishly accompanied him, though she knew not where they were destined.
Yet worse, Wolfram now knew her identity, as well. He might well guess her intent to see Alzeu vindicated and strike before she could. Well she knew the man was experienced beyond her in such matters.
For the first time, Genevieve realized the fullness of her folly in so boldly declaring her identity. She would be hard-pressed indeed to see her way clear of this muddle, and her heart began to pound in trepidation.
Indeed, for all she knew, those who had ordered Alzeu dead might well see an advantage to her own demise.
Genevieve’s gratitude dissolved in the cold lump of fear that took up residence in her belly. Yet again, impulsiveness had steered her false. When would she ever learn? Not a soul did she know within these walls, and indeed, Genevieve knew not whether she could even leave the Ville Neuve without Wolfram’s aid.
Her last two silver deniers had she granted to the woman with the cart. Now she was penniless and within the power of the man who had dispatched her brother. Even Odo’s companionship looked a brighter option at this point in time.
Mayhap Genevieve had made a slight error of judgment in trusting an assassin.
They ducked through a labyrinth of alleyways and skidded around a corner, no sounds of pursuit carrying to Genevieve’s ears. A man stepped out of the shadows and she gasped, her hand falling of habit to the hilt of her dagger. ‘Twas just a young man on some errand for his master, and he spared her and her companion no more than a passing glance.
Genevieve breathed a sigh of relief, her fingers dancing on the hilt of the blade. The touch of cold steel beneath her hand reminded her suddenly of her quest and her gaze darted to the intent man beside her.
She had sworn to kill him.
And she had best see her way about the task quickly, lest she lose the chance.
He glanced over his shoulder, as though seeking any behind them, but the narrow alley was abandoned. Straw was cast on either side of the way and the smell of mucked-out stables assaulted Genevieve’s nostrils. Her pulse thumped in her ears.
They were going into the stables. And if her ears were right, no one else stirred here. Well might this be the opportunity she had awaited.
She would disarm him.
Then she would take Alzeu’s vengeance.
* * *
Always had Wolfram thought the tales of Grail were fanciful fables, no more and no less. But never before had the name of a real individual been associated with them, at least in his hearing.
And never, certainly, had he held the soft and small hand of that person within his own. Wolfram’s heart took a dizzying lurch and he dared to glance over his shoulder to Genevieve as they reached the doorway of the stables where he thought she might well hide.
She smiled sunnily and his heart missed a beat. Wolfram was suddenly certain there was not enough air in all of Paris to fill his lungs.
He checked the street with markedly less than his usual finesse. Curse this woman for the way she addled his wits! Mercifully, no one was about. Indeed, the smell of cooking on the wind and the sound of crockery revealed the common folk to be planning their evening repast. The golden sunlight basked the cobblestones in its bright glow and the sound of the dogs faded into the wind far behind them.
Well it seemed that their flight might have been no more than illusion.
But ‘twas not. Still endanger
ed were they. Fear pricked within Wolfram, and he wordlessly tugged Genevieve into the darkness of the stables. ‘Twas warm, the air redolent of the sweet leavings of the horses. He slid the door closed behind them and the darkness enveloped them like a black cloak.
She moved closer to him and instantly Wolfram regretted his choice.
The scent of the fresh hay stored above pricked at his nostrils, mingling with the other earthy smells of the stables, but even that was not enough to hide the soft musk of her scent. Dark ‘twas, and intimate beyond compare. Wolfram’s heart pounded yet faster as Genevieve moved a step closer to him. He fancied the fullness of her breast brushed against his arm and wondered what had possessed him to bring her here.
Alone they were in the darkness. Alone in the privacy of this warm and welcoming place. Wolfram swallowed with difficulty and wondered what madness had taken possession of his mind.
Although he had told himself that he helped Genevieve escape because the Master might well be seeking her out, here in the darkness, the truth was not so easily evaded. He had helped Genevieve because he would not see ill befall her.
The Master’s intent mattered naught, in truth, and that realization troubled Wolfram beyond compare. When had he ever acted in the specific interests of an individual? Always for the Order had he lived, not even for himself, and the very idea that he had pursued a path strictly to see this woman safe was beyond belief.
Her breast pressed more fully against his arm and his body responded with enthusiasm. Mayhap ‘twas not so far beyond belief as he might like to think.
Had Genevieve compelled him to break the Rule yet again? Too much ‘twas that she tempted him with lustful thoughts, too much that he had foolishly granted her a coin not his to give without a second thought, too much that he had been plagued by unfitting dreams. For the first time in his life, Wolfram had responded intuitively on this day, plunging into the king’s court in pursuit, a lie quick to fall from his lips, with nary a thought to either the Order or the Rule.
He heard the soft rhythm of her breathing too close at hand and his mouth went dry. Waiting for his cue she was, and Wolfram fancied he could feel the weight of her gaze upon him.
He recalled the sweet press of her lips against his and inhaled sharply.
Nay! He did naught to betray the Order! Odo maintained the Order was pledged to protect Genevieve’s family. And Genevieve was the last of that family. Yet more important, she had clearly been endangered. ‘Twas the Order’s objectives he had aimed to serve by aiding her.
‘Twas no more than that. There. Good sense that made indeed.
“Are we to hide here?” she prompted softly.
Well it seemed that her whisper fanned Wolfram’s throat with a gentle breeze that launched an army of goose pimples across his flesh. He became aware of the weight of her precious lute within his grip, just as he caught a whiff of her scent. Panic flooded through him at the very thought of being alone here with her.
“Aye,” he responded, even more tersely than was usually his manner. “I mean, nay. You alone are to hide here. Upstairs will you hide, where none will see you.”
Wolfram thrust the lute toward her in the darkness, managing to put an increment of distance between them in the process. Genevieve caught her breath, as though surprised to find the instrument’s smoothness bumping against her. She gripped its neck, her fingers brushing against Wolfram’s in the process in a most disconcerting manner, and he stepped hastily away.
The move eased him not. Indeed, he felt the absence of her warmth beside him with an acuteness that did not bode well for his resolve.
“What of you?” she asked gently. It seemed to Wolfram that her voice was lower, softer, more silky in the darkness than he had recalled, and he swallowed nervously.
“I...I have a pallet,” he muttered. “In the dormitory. ‘Tis my place. ‘Tis where I sleep.”
“And you would leave me alone here?”
Wolfram backed away from that seductive voice and hit the back of his head soundly on a pillar that help up the loft. He swore, the soft ripple of her laughter doing naught to reassure him. “Alone you must stay,” he asserted with what he hoped was unassailable conviction.
Her fingertip landed in the middle of his chest, feather-light and cursedly accurate. Wolfram’s heart stopped cold.
“Surely you would not abandon me here?” she whispered, and his pulse began to thunder in his ears.
“Little choice have I,” Wolfram confessed stiffly. He endeavored to back up farther, but the cursed pillar obstructed his course.
Her hand flattened against his chest, and he did not dare to breathe. When he felt her toes touch his, Wolfram knew full well that she was too close, just as he knew there was naught he could do about it. Her breasts nudged against him and he closed his eyes, terrified that she would touch him again, yet knowing all the while that he would be terribly disappointed if she did not.
“Will you not return to keep me warm this night?” she purred, and her breath fanned Wolfram’s throat.
“Nay, not this night,” he said hastily. “‘Tis against the Rule to leave the dormitory, though certain I am that you did not know such a thing....”
“Where is the ladder?” she asked with that same gentleness of manner peculiar to females alone. Too long had it been since Wolfram had been accustomed to such a sound, yet the chasm of the years did naught to feed his immunity.
He was possessed suddenly by a vivid image of his mother before the hearth. She laughed, as he readily acknowledged she had done often, her cheeks rosy and her fingers drifting across—
Wolfram would not think it. He would not permit the softness of such memories to invade his mind. He slammed the door within his mind that led to that sweet recollection, knowing full well the horror that would tread quickly upon its seductive heels. Wolfram lifted one hand and resolutely pushed Genevieve, and temptation, away.
“Something troubles you?” she whispered, and indeed, Wolfram could hear the concern in her voice. It wrenched at his heart, and for one fleeting moment, he considered confiding in her.
Then he recalled his place. The business of the Order alone occupied his interest. That the woman should be safe required no confessions from him. Wolfram strode across the stable. “The ladder is here,” he fairly snapped, welcoming the rigidity of his customary formality. No need was there to confide in a stranger, no matter how fetching she might be. “You should hide immediately against the possibility of further pursuit.”
Genevieve hastened toward him in a manner that made his heart skip as she evidently followed the sound of his voice. What if she had been hastening to him, and not merely safety? The very thought made his knees weaken. Wolfram’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he braced himself as her petite shadow drew nearer. She hesitated beside him with her free hand on a ladder rung, but he offered naught.
“Could you hold my lute?” she asked finally. Wolfram gritted his teeth and shook his head but once. He could not afford to touch that instrument again. Its music and the very touch of it undermined his determination to forget the past.
“Nay. ‘Tis best that you carry it.”
An awkward silence followed his words, making Wolfram wish he could draw back what must have seemed unnecessarily churlish. Genevieve tipped her head back, and he imagined she looked to him with loathing in her gaze.
No matter. Indeed, ‘twould probably be easier to deliver her to the Master should they not be amiable.
Would the Master order the same fate for Genevieve as her brother?
The very thought wrenched Wolfram’s heart in a manner that was most unfitting. He wished suddenly and desperately that her dispatch might be granted to another, should his suspicion prove correct.
To his further dismay, Genevieve paused unexpectedly on the first rung. Though he could not see more than the pale oval of her face, he knew well that her eyes were even with his and that she gazed at him. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as yet
another part of his anatomy rose to the occasion.
“You are indeed most clear-thinking,” she whispered. “I would thank you for your aid this day.” Before Wolfram could respond or question her intent, Genevieve leaned closer and kissed him full on the lips.
‘Twas as if she aimed to feed his burgeoning doubt. Though Wolfram thought as much, he was powerless to move away and deny himself her touch. No fleeting kiss was this, for she pressed herself against him with unprecedented abandon. The sweetness of her scent inundated him and drew him ever closer. The taste of her passion made his head spin, and of naught could he think but Genevieve.
What if he did not tell the Master of her presence? The intoxicating thought flooded through him unexpectedly, and Wolfram was shocked at the magnitude of its appeal.
What if he stayed with Genevieve?
In the span of a heartbeat, his mind conjured the image of Genevieve lying bare in the straw while he worshiped every curve of her soft skin. He wanted to hear her moan, he wanted to feel her wrapped around him. His own passion astounded him with its intensity. Drowning in the softness of her lips, Wolfram was, though there was naught he could do about it.
He gasped in surprise, as much at her boldness as at his own response, and her tongue slipped adroitly between his teeth. Warm pleasure rolled through Wolfram, and his free hand was lodged in the neat indent of her waist before he knew what he was about. Genevieve leaned fully against him, the heated press of her breasts against his chest awakening every fiber of his being with a vengeance. His second hand joined the first without a thought, the way his fingers nearly met on her back making him groan aloud.
Never had he burned like this for a woman. Indeed, never had he had a woman, but Genevieve’s touch was intoxicating beyond compare. Well enough could Wolfram understand earthly temptation now as he never had before. He smelled the heat of Genevieve’s skin and imagined himself licking the faint patina of exertion from her flesh. He readily pictured her gloriously nude before him as she had been in his dream, or, better yet, beneath him, and his desire raged unchecked.
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