Another Place in Time

by Tamara Allen

  Other Saracens were plundering, women and children already bound under guard to be carried off into slavery. The attackers might be mere bandits or an advance unit of Saladin’s army. Maybe foragers who’d seen fit to harass Christians wherever they encountered them.

  A warning cry rang out—a number of Saracens hurried to their horses; others turned, swords in hands, eyes betraying surprise and hatred, but above all, fear.

  William gritted his teeth. Along with the other knights, he couched his lance in his elbow and aligned the triangular shield. Together, they drove into the Saracens like a thunderbolt, the sheer force grinding the Saracens into the dust. William’s lance broke in the chest of an enemy, and his heavy destrier toppled the Saracen’s horse. He let the ashwood shaft drop away, then pulled his sword from its scabbard and hacked at the enemies, who turned and ran, cowards that they were.

  Two brethren pursued one infidel who made a desperate bid for escape, but a sergeant had his crossbow cocked and shot the bastard square between the shoulders. The man lost his balance on his galloping horse, tilted first to the left, then the right, and eventually fell backwards, foot caught in his stirrup. His horse dragged him for several hundred yards across stones and dried bush before he finally came loose and lay motionless.

  William left the dying foes to the sergeants and squires, who finished the wounded off before they searched them. Saracens kept their valuables on their bodies, which provided some immediate satisfaction to those who killed them. It was a ghastly thing, plundering a still-warm body, but the Saracens’ outlandish customs had caused the Christians to adopt many a ghastly behaviour.

  William pulled his helmet off and turned his horse to face the fighting pilgrim, who only now lowered his sword and shield. His wide-brimmed hat half-obscured a fierce face, sharp features under the blond, unkempt beard. Standing tall and proud, he was clearly no stranger to knightly skills, having felled the three Saracens whose bodies lay at his feet.

  Master Arnauld rode in a circle, then removed his helmet and spoke to the survivors. “We will escort you to our preceptory, where, with God’s grace, you will be safe.”

  The pilgrims had no horses but the draft animals on the carts. It would be fastest to take them to the fortress on the Templars’ horses. William nodded toward the fighting pilgrim and motioned him to come closer, then bent down to offer the man a hand. “They may return with more men. Saladin’s army is close.”

  The pilgrim gripped his wrist and mounted the horse. His arms closed around William’s waist, and his solid body pressed closer than any man had been for a long time. William usually liked to keep his distance from others, but even the master took a wounded man on his destrier. The old symbol of the order, two knights on one horse. Sometimes, that was simply a necessity.

  “Who are you?” demanded the pilgrim.

  William bristled at the gruff tone, but after standing alone against Saracens and being barely rescued alive from slavery or worse, the pilgrim could be forgiven his lack of manners. “Brother William Raven. And you?”

  There was a long pause. “William Raven? Of Kent?”

  “Yes.” William turned his horse and followed the other brethren back to the fortress, too aware of the other man behind him, the touch and press of his body as inevitable as unwelcome. It unnerved him, too, that the pilgrim knew him, but then, he had been famous in his time, even if that life now lay far behind him. “Who are you?”

  The pilgrim didn’t grace him with an answer, not even when they reached the fortress. There, servants were helping the pilgrims off the horses and leading them away to the guest quarters, where they would receive care for their wounds, water, and food.

  Relieved when the man dismounted, William expected him to leave with his companions, but the pilgrim turned and met his gaze in a clear challenge. Something about the defiant look, the flaring nostrils . . . William racked his mind for a memory. The longer they held each other’s gaze, the more urgent the question became. If not for the hat, he might be able to recognise him.

  But this way, all he had was a vague sense that he knew the man, or at least had encountered him before. William had crossed blades all over Europe with friend and foe, ever hungry for the next challenge, unable to settle down for fear of being known for what he was.

  “You do not remember,” the pilgrim said, sneering. He pulled off the hat to bare blond, sweat-matted hair. “I shall help you, then. Remember Metz.”

  Guy de Metz. William felt cold in the scorching midday sun. The shadeless, murderous heat allowed no escape, and he stood, transfixed.

  Guy. Of all people. Him, here. The scion of an eminent family in the city of Metz, with lands and riches far beyond anything William had ever achieved, even at the height of his fame and fortune. Guy. His shame, his sin, his guilt. Bearded, sunburned, in his simple pilgrim’s clothes, it was hard to recognise the fashionable young nobleman he had been, what, only six years ago?

  Guy followed the other pilgrims, but his face betrayed anger. The man held the key to destroy him.

  The thought sobered William as if a loaded crossbow were pointed at his heart. He had to force himself to turn away, but it was hard to breathe the hot air. Terror had set into his soul, and fear and longing, because he remembered Guy now. Remembered his own flight from what had begun during that saint’s festival in Metz, when the nobles jousted and celebrated. He’d run as far as he could, seeking solace and redemption, until, finally, the Templars had welcomed him. They knew not his sin, but they told him that all his past misdeeds would be forgiven if he fought the heathens rather than his Christian brothers. That he would go to Heaven if he fell in service of the Lord. This had been the most generous offer for which he could have hoped. Unable to escape his shame, he’d finally found peace of a kind in subservience to God.

  In his quarters, he cleaned the dust away and shed the armour, but hardly managed to grasp one clear thought for the memory of Guy. When he lay on his bed that night after prayers in the chapel, his soul had not received comfort from the holy words. He was unworthy. He still remembered a strong neck bent underneath his, and Guy’s breath hitching as William drove into him, again and again, taking his fill of the young noble’s strong body in unspeakable, sinful ways. The memory made him hard, made him ache for the other man. If he’d hoped to escape his sinful attraction, this now completed his shame.

  According to the order’s rule, he shared the chamber with another knight, a German by the name of Conrad, and he was guiltily thankful that night for Conrad’s deep sleep. Nothing short of an earthquake woke the German. Certainly not the small sounds William made as he touched himself, eyes tightly shut, willing his hand to be Guy’s hand, Guy’s lips, even.

  An enthusiastic student of sin, Guy knew no shame. He’d demanded William give up control of his body, and his soul with it; compared to that, this was a pale shadow of a memory.

  William pressed his teeth together and made himself breathe levelly as his own calloused hand forced his desire. His body responded too readily to both memory and touch. Closer. Like that rushed, near-painful encounter in the narrow, dark alley of Metz. Or the stolen, illicit pleasure in a bath house, where Guy had laughed at the prostitute servants and sent them away with a mocking, “Nothing I can’t handle.” Guy’s wet, glistening body, bruised where he’d been hit, the most beautiful thing in the world to William when they kissed, wrestled and fucked vigorously enough to nearly topple the tub and cover the floor in soapy water.

  Grunting, Conrad turned on his bed. William froze, heart beating painfully in his throat. Don’t wake. He peered at Conrad, who faced him now, face slack in sleep, lips open. Oh, the risk. All Conrad had to do was open his eyes, and he’d know exactly what William was doing. But William was too close to stop.

  As silently as he could manage, William spat in his hand and slid it back under the light cover. His palm closed around the tip, squeezing the most sensitive part until his mind clouded and all he could think was Guy. A few more po
werful movements with his tight fist brought him to completion with a choked, miserable sound. The madness, the passion that had possessed him with Guy had sunk its hooks back into his flesh. He lay there, despairing, as the sweat on his skin cooled in the night that was as unforgivingly cold as the day was hot.

  He’d hoped Guy would be gone the next morning, but Master Arnauld dashed those hopes when he told the assembled knights that Guy de Metz, who had been on pilgrimage to Jerusalem with his entourage, would join their fight against the heathens.

  William suspected he was the only Templar who felt those words like a blow. Many knights on pilgrimage joined a fighting order for a short time. The Church encouraged it; the defenders of the Holy Land were always desperately short of men. The fighting orders were already stretched thin to protect what they held, and they couldn’t dream of expanding that protection. But why now, why here, and why not the Hospitallers? Or, William thought with the blackest of misgivings, the leprosy-riddled Lazarites?

  After the assembly, Guy approached him. William turned away. Guy touched his shoulder, which made William face him again and grip the bastard by the front of his shirt.

  “You dare touch me,” he hissed into Guy’s face. Anger surged inside his chest, as if the ignominy of the night had been Guy’s doing. He raised his free hand and balled it into a fist.

  The peace he’d found in the order seemed precarious all of the sudden, and he hungered to retain it. Until now, it had been his only peace in this constant war with the Saracens.

  Guy’s hands closed around William’s fist, but his stare never wavered. Those light blue eyes showed no fear, only anger, but behind the hostility— he saw an unspoken question.

  “William!” Master Arnauld shouted. “Unhand him at once!”

  William bared his teeth in a feral sneer, still staring at Guy. Disobeying a direct order was unthinkable, and William knew well the punishment for fighting against fellow Christians. He had seen men stripped of their white cappa or flogged to the blood for infractions.

  “Don’t you touch me,” he repeated, and let Guy go.

  During the next two days, William felt like a lion in a trap. Wherever he turned, whatever he did, he caught glimpses of Guy’s blond hair. He could hardly eat. He even stumbled over his words in prayer during the day. At night, the other man followed him into sleep. Guy’s very presence in the same fortress made William’s body betray him, reminding him of a lust he’d hoped he’d left behind. While Conrad remained oblivious, William was forced to satisfy the hollow ache in his body. The craving, forgotten for so many years, now returned like an enemy army—with reinforcements and even more devilish tricks.

  On the third day, it was William’s turn to train with Guy. The marshal gave out the pairings, treating Guy just like any Templar. The pilgrim had to be ready to stand with them in battle when they rode out.

  William could not decide whether he was horrified at having to meet Guy, even if it was with a sword in his hand, or delighted at the opportunity to take out his anger on the man.

  After a restless prayer, William strode onto to the field outside the fortress. Servants and squires stood ready with lances and horses, and William took off his cappa to avoid soiling or tearing it. In the manner of monks, he kissed the red cross before he folded the garment and handed it to Hamo.

  His chain mail glinting in the sun, William mounted his destrier and rode to the far end of the field, where a servant handed him his jousting lance and shield. Opposite, Guy had just put on his helmet and climbed into the saddle, where he gripped the reins and shield.

  William drove his spurs into the stallion’s flanks. The beast flew into a gallop, the massive, powerful body stretching under him as he lowered the lance and couched it, aiming at Guy’s shield. He remembered the jousts, the ladies in their colourful clothes, and the roar of the crowd. He’d been among the best professional jousters in Europe. Germans, English, Italians, and scores of French—no matter who had dared to meet him on the field, they all had tumbled into the dirt. Here, his deeds were for God alone and flushed no fair cheek.

  The other Templars watched critically; nobody cheered or laughed, eyes didn’t widen in shock at the clash. With a resounding crack, William’s lance broke on Guy’s shield. At the exact same moment, Guy’s lance broke on his. The force of the impact numbed William’s shoulder and he bit down on a curse. Guy was good—

  much better than he had been six years ago. The younger Guy would already have been unhorsed.

  And now Guy even raised his hand in a salute. Mocking him. William’s pride flared, and he tore a fresh lance from a servant’s hand. Without pause, he charged again at Guy, who had barely enough time to take a fresh lance himself and spur on his own horse.

  The second pair of lances broke, and again, they both remained seated. William narrowed his eyes; his laboured breathing echoed in the helmet.

  Damn that bastard, damn him to Hell.

  He, William Raven, who had fought as champion of earls and counts, very nearly undefeated on the jousting ground and certainly on the battlefield, was the best there was. If he’d had one political bone in his body, his military prowess alone would make him a master of the order eventually.

  Their combat drew more watchers. Servants, squires and knights alike came closer, no doubt to watch William Raven taught a lesson in humility.

  Anger rose hot in his chest until he felt his heart would burst. They broke lance upon lance, always with the same result; both remained on their horses. The joust became a blur of dust and sweat and foaming horses, until Master Arnauld signalled for them to dismount and continue with swords.

  William didn’t want to fight like this; he wanted to crush Guy’s limbs with the mace, wrestle him to the ground and strangle him. But he obeyed the master’s order.

  Guy matched him blow for blow, giving him no quarter, seemingly impervious to the heat and dust that made sweat run down William’s face. Their shields clashed and William met Guy’s eyes through the visor. When did I learn to hate you? The thought made him draw back in shock, giving Guy the opening he needed. Guy battered him to the ground with his shield, sword tip seeking the gap between helmet and chain mail coif. William reached for the sword he’d let go, set his feet on the ground to push himself up when Guy’s sword lowered, pressing against the chain mail just over his throat. And in Guy’s eyes was nothing but determination.

  He’ll kill me. He’s grown into a man who can and will kill me. And he has good reason to.

  William could only stare. He couldn’t even find the words for prayer.

  His sword tip steady, Guy dropped the shield and clumsily pulled the helmet from his head. He dropped it into the dust, then undid the chainmail flap that covered the lower part of his face. His eyes now flamed with an emotion William could only assume mirrored the rage he felt.

  “Have you truly reformed, William?” Guy asked. “Have you?”

  “I’m a soldier of Christ.” Hopefully, nobody understood what this challenge was really about. He couldn’t bear to be known for what he was. Not here, where he’d been welcomed with open arms and given one chance at redemption.

  “Are you, now?” Guy sheathed his sword and composed his features. He offered William a hand to pull him up. William hesitated. He had to hide his secret, and Master Arnauld was watching. Enduring hostility would not be tolerated.

  He stood, and Guy held his hand and pulled him close, their armoured chests touching.

  “Meet me in the barn after midnight,” Guy whispered, then shook his hand and let him go, seemingly unconcerned.

  The brethren gave William wide berth for the rest of the day, but he knew that behind his back they jeered that William Raven, the undefeated, had eaten dust at the hands of a mere pilgrim.

  Speculation was rife about the stranger’s past. Guy did not talk about it, but instead professed humility.

  William fulfilled his duties and did not recall them afterward. He could not concentrate on the prayers, and
was glad for the time simply passing. He did not want to meet him, but knowing Guy, he would never leave if William did not follow the command. Guy would play this game until he received what he wished for.

  Seeing those memories so vividly in front of his eyes whenever William allowed his mind to drift was a slow, insistent torture. And it seemed like his mind could do nothing but return to it. He could not escape.

  With a sense of defeat, William stole away in the moonlight to the barn right next to the stables. A dark mantle covered his white cappa, hiding it from the eyes of the guards. He had never felt so unworthy of the garment. Inside the barn, Guy was already waiting for him. He motioned William silently toward the back, where they were protected from anyone casting a searching glance inside.

  The smell of grain and hay reminded William of summer and autumn, of more peaceful times, of endeavours other than war. A few moonbeams made their way through the windows higher up, casting light and shadows over Guy’s handsome face and making his blue eyes glow.

  “William,” Guy said, tasting his name as if he were weighing his soul. “You, of all places, here.”

  “And you, as a pilgrim,” William retorted.

  “I have committed a grave sin. The bishop told me to seek penance in Jerusalem.” Guy stared at him, as if to fix him to the spot with an unspoken challenge. “My sin is like yours.”

  William’s chest tightened; he knew Guy’s sin too well. They had committed it together. “Which one? Spilling Christian blood? Plunder?”

  Guy shook his head, dismissing the weak defence, and stepped closer. The monk’s habit did not protect William nearly as well as the armour had. His shoulders touched the wall before he realised he had stepped back. Guy’s palm came up to cup his face. The fingers of his other hand dug into William’s neck muscles. This touch was unbearable, and William pulled away. He’d much rather have ridden alone straight into the heart of the enemy, endured the relentless heat of the desert or a flogging for a crime than be touched by Guy. But his body remembered Guy and his heart beat faster at the touch.