by Traci E Hall
“Take care,” Bartholomew said. “The stream weakens the trail.”
They rode in single file behind Bartholomew, with Everard in the front, then Fay, then Eleanor, then Mamie, then Dominus.
She ducked, narrowly avoiding a low-hanging branch. “Watch for the—”
Thwack. “Ouch!” Dominus said.
Chuckling, Mamie turned around and smiled. “I tried to warn you.”
“I was lost in thought.”
“Oh?” How intriguing. What would he be thinking about that rendered him unaware of his surroundings?
“Turn around before it happens to you,” he said. “I have a much harder head and can take the injury.”
“I have been accused of having a hard head as well.”
“Turn around, Mamie.”
Bartholomew called over his shoulder. “We are almost to the clearing—look for rubble. It will be remnants of Apollo’s Temple.”
They entered a square grassy area, walled in naturally by the trees. Long ago, someone had planted this sanctuary. It still offered them peace now. The air seemed to change, as if charged with storm currents.
Mamie slid off of Bahi’s back, tying the reins loosely to the branch of a laurel.
Eleanor wore an expression of bliss, her face upturned as she stood in a ray of sun. “There is love here,” she said, pressing her hands to her waist.
Mamie strode toward the queen, standing on one side while Fay joined them on the other. Eleanor took their hands and raised them high. Energy from the earth made her feet tingle, her bones sing, and her blood hum. Power, shared among the three women, shimmered around them like a gossamer veil.
“Do you feel that?” Mamie asked, less trusting than Fay and Eleanor of the elements.
The other two women smiled without answering. Fay tilted her head, rolling her shoulders and stretching, as if to make room for the power inside her. Mamie lifted her chin, accepting the heat of the sun on top of her head, sealing the mystical inside her body.
She knew the men were there, heard them tie the horses, but what they did was not as important as being part of what happened now. She’d felt this to a very small extent when they were at Athena’s Well in Pergamum. Catherine had the ability to intuit things, while Mamie had preferred the tangible.
But now she sensed Eleanor’s inner strength grow, gifting the queen with blessed feminine energy that flowed outward, surrounding them all. Mamie could feel it and wondered if this, whatever it was, was the secret to Eleanor’s power.
Bartholomew cleared his throat, breaking the spell. He’d laid out two blankets, one for him and his knights, and one meant for the ladies. To be kept separate, naturellement.
Mamie bit back a sarcastic observation and got out the wine and food. One more person did not make a difference when she’d ordered plenty. Two jars of wine and small earthenware cups. Flatbread, olive oil, and cheese. She handed over a portion of the bread, but Bartholomew shook his head.
Mamie became aware of the time that had passed, moments, where she was under thrall of the sacred and feminine power inside the grove.
What had the men, these religious knights sworn to God, thought of their strange behavior?
The queen roamed the pond with Fay, gazing at the waterfall. Mamie waited, uncomfortable in the men’s silence. She felt as if sensuality dripped from her flesh, her breath, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. If the men before her were not devout, she would have felt more settled. Dominus met her gaze, his eyes widening with understanding she glimpsed behind the blue veil. He blinked, and it was gone. He looked away.
Not always a knight. He lived in a man’s world and knew the temptations of the flesh.
The delights, she corrected herself. She accepted no shame in enjoying a man’s touch.
After a few minutes, Eleanor strolled toward the blanket, sitting gracefully. “This is a blessed space. But I am surprised, Bartholomew, that you would join us here.”
Everard nodded, obviously wondering as well.
“Ovid wrote of Apollo turning the water nymph Daphne into a laurel tree—he raped her when she tried to get away from him. The ancient people of Antioch named this to be the sacred grove. Pagan mythology,” Bartholomew said dismissively.
“I know of Ovid,” Eleanor countered in a tone that thrilled Mamie to her core. It was the way she spoke when teaching of love and chivalry and equality between a man and a woman. “His ‘Metamorphoses’ is an epic tale of love.”
“I have never heard of him,” Everard said with a shrug.
“A Roman poet,” Bartholomew explained.
“That is like calling my grandfather a singer.” Eleanor scoffed. “William, Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony, Count of Poitier, created art by combining song and poetry, some to the cadence of church chants.”
“I meant no offense,” Bartholomew said, ignoring the jar of wine and the food Mamie offered. He kept his tones measured, in stark comparison to Eleanor’s passionate outburst.
Mamie dipped a corner of her bread into the dish of herbed oil and took a bite. Eleanor championed lovers and art. While devout, she believed in the sacred power of women despite the church’s denunciation of them as evil.
Places such as this grove, bursting with female energy, made Mamie question once more the dogma the church taught regarding man, woman, and God.
The temple might have been built to Apollo, but it was because of his desire for Daphne that the grove was here at all.
Dominus listened, impressed with Bartholomew and his knowledge of Roman history. His own schooling had touched on classical literature, without lingering there. He knew the rudiments of mathematics—enough to do some accounting. He could read and write, again, not as a scholar, but what he knew served him.
He would rather be fighting the Turks than sitting on a blanket, unable to drink the wine or, more importantly, touch Mamie. She needed to be touched. Her sensual gaze rocked him to the core, unsettling his belief in what he was doing for the bishop. Was anything more important than making love to the woman on the blanket across from him?
Mamie leaned forward, as if she enjoyed the philosophical banter between the queen and the commander of Antioch.
Why had Bartholomew invited himself along? Last night had been a special occasion, commanded by Prince Raymond. Otherwise it was against the rules for a Templar to break bread with any other than another religious group, so the wine and cheese sat on the blanket, untouched.
“Ovid’s works are epic,” Eleanor said, her beauty luminous in the shaded grove. Her hair, auburn and wavy, reached the blanket. She spoke with passion, which sparked something in Dominus’s heart. Not an answering passion but a prodding to listen. She was captivating. Charming.
Non, only one woman held his passion. He returned his gaze to Mamie. Her curly red hair coiled down her back, peeking from beneath her veil. Riding behind her had caused him both agony and joy. Her voluptuous form teased his senses, and he damned himself for accepting the bishop’s quest.
Nothing to be done for it but to find the answers he sought. The closer they came to Jerusalem, the sooner his mission would be complete. Would Mamie mind being the center of his attention for a few weeks, until his desire for her was sated? Months. Non, for eternity.
He imagined her surprise as he took off his white tunic and denounced the oath. As he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, she would grace him with her gap-toothed grin, melting like butter in the sun. All for him.
He shook his head, his lower body reacting to the thought of her naked. Even partially clothed—hell, he wanted to hold her however he could.
Eleanor lifted her cup of wine. “He was an artist. Have you read Heroides? A collection of letters from women to their lovers, artfully written in poetic form.”
“Erotica,” Bartholomew said dismissively. “Popular, but then came the fall of Rome, making way for the dawn of truth, with morals and strength of character in Christianity.”
Everard made the m
istake of nodding. Dominus decided to maintain a neutral expression and keep his head safe from either party.
“You agree,” Eleanor challenged the younger knight. “When you have never read these for yourself?” She turned to Bartholomew. “I suggest you begin by educating your men before instigating an argument over the merits of love.”
“I do not mean to argue or discuss, even, love,” Bartholomew said, holding up his palms. “I have felt the pangs of a broken heart, and I would not risk it again. I was married to a woman who meant everything to me, and when she died I vowed I would never love another. I chose to honor God instead. That was twenty years ago, but I still remember the ache as if it were yesterday.”
This confession startled Dominus. The commander had made it clear that women were not welcome on his personal quest to please God.
Mamie nodded empathetically, as did the queen and Fay. Everard wisely said nothing. The young knight learned fast.
“You have my condolences,” Eleanor said, softening her tones. “I give voice to my opinions, when perhaps I should hold my tongue.”
“It was a long time ago,” Bartholomew said. “I was a different man.” He took a deep breath, searched the perimeter of the grove, and exhaled. “Now, if I may get on to the reason I wanted to meet with you here.”
Dominus looked up. Direct. The commander had a plan? He should have realized the old man had been hiding his true motive. What would he say to the Queen of France? Queen Eleanor had a less-than-virtuous reputation, while her husband, King Louis, was a pious and just man. Dominus knew the commander’s opinion on that too.
A mysterious smile hovered around Eleanor’s mouth, while Fay and Mamie could have been statues, giving away none of their thoughts. It was as if the queen had expected such a thing to happen.
“I am commander of the Knights Templar of Antioch.” Bartholomew brushed his fingers against the edge of the blanket. “I have been appointed with the care of the Templars within the city, ensuring that our fraternity is safely guarded from harm.”
“Like what?” Fay asked, an edge to her voice. “Daphne’s Grove?”
Bartholomew gave a little cough. “Our purpose, back when we were the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, was to aid pilgrims as they made their way through to the Holy Land of Jerusalem. Danger came from the Turks or other Muslim tribes attacking the travelers for gold or food or even to make them slaves.”
Mamie brought her hand to her lower lip, then rested it again in her lap.
Dominus wished he could tell her how he would keep her safe with his life. She had no need to fear. Ever. He’d silently watched over her this past year, and he would continue to do so.
“The Knights Templar have grown in number due to our support from Rome and the pope. It is a strict sect, but we offer a way for men to be honorable in spite of their primal human nature.”
Everard seemed to be saying a prayer of agreement, nodding, his eyes closed. Dominus considered doing the same but decided against the charade.
“We are all seeking our best spiritual selves,” Eleanor said, as if trying to find common ground, where women were so obviously not welcome.
“Men have a darker side than women,” Bartholomew countered. “To conquer, to rape, and to pillage is part of us.” Everard looked concerned, Dominus noted, whereas he had accepted that part of himself a long time ago.
The nature of man was not far from that of the beast.
Mamie slid a look at him, caught his gaze, and fought a smile. He’d be willing to wager she’d accepted the primal aspect of her nature too.
“Your point?” the queen asked, every nuance in her tone a reminder that she was royalty.
“I heard that the king might not fight to regain Edessa, despite the original purpose of the pilgrimage.”
Dominus stayed seated, but it was difficult. Bartholomew had heard what?
Eleanor, Mamie, and Fay remained still. Waiting. Silent.
Bartholomew fidgeted, wiping his palms on his cloak. “I would seek the truth from you. I do not care for rumors, nor do I make decisions based upon partial facts and hearsay.”
Eleanor bowed her head, anger bracketed around her mouth. “Admirable qualities. Where did you hear such a thing?”
“I cannot say.”
“I do not know what you are speaking of. Therefore, I am not in the position to say anything, one way or the other.” Her stature dared Bartholomew to push.
The old man slammed a fist onto the blanket. “Even if it means saving lives?”
“Whose lives?” Eleanor countered. “I would die for my people. Aquitaine and France. Are we in danger?”
“No more than you were before,” Bartholomew said, his voice less adversarial. “But if the king chooses to dismiss his duty in saving Edessa from Nur ad-Din, then we are all in danger.” He held the queen’s gaze. “Antioch will be the next to fall.”
Eleanor raised her chin, skewering Bartholomew with a look. “I do not care to be threatened. Nor does my husband, King of France.”
“It was not a threat, Queen Eleanor.” Bartholomew held up his hands, and Dominus felt a stab of pity for the fool.
“Explain. Quickly. Or I will have your head for treason.”
An idle threat, since the Templars owed fealty to the pope, and did not answer to royalty—something that gave them great power, unless they abused it. Dominus breathed a sigh of relief when Bartholomew did not correct the queen.
“I have been praying for a way to get our message to the king, your husband, regarding the plight of those Christians trapped in Edessa, waiting for respite.” He licked his lower lip with a dry tongue. “Queen Eleanor, you are the answer to my prayer. Would you, on behalf of the Knights Templar, Prince Raymond, and Count Jocelyn, speak to King Louis and urge him to go to war immediately?”
Chapter Ten
Dominus kept his expression as neutral as he dared. Louis did not plan on going to Edessa? He looked to Eleanor, Mamie, and Fay. The ladies were quiet and controlled, while the queen vibrated with fury. Bartholomew, Commander of Antioch, dared to speak with her behind her husband’s back? This explained why he’d changed from being against the Templars’ coming to the grove to actually joining their expedition.
“King Louis swore an oath to recover Edessa, thus fortifying the area surrounding Antioch. If he chooses to carry on to Jerusalem, that leaves Edessa in the hands of the Turkish enemy Nur ad-Din. Antioch will be in danger.”
“King Louis of France makes his own decisions. He will do what he is guided to by God. For the good of France and Outremer. I support his decisions with my vassals from Aquitaine.” She rose in a fluid motion, while Bartholomew stumbled to his feet. “I want you to go back to Antioch, and take your Templars with you. I have not decided yet whether or not to tell my husband of this conversation.”
“It is on behalf of your uncle that I speak,” Bartholomew said, his words rushed. “He asked that I broach the subject with you. If you feel you can assist him, perhaps by speaking to King Louis, and swaying him toward freeing Edessa, he would be grateful.”
“Why did my uncle not come? We had a private conversation where he could have brought up the subject himself.”
“He did not wish to cause any acrimony between you and your husband. I ask again, Queen Eleanor. Will the king fight for Edessa?”
“Quiet.” Her voice did not rise, though the air around them shook. “I warn you.”
Dominus watched as Eleanor gathered her strength, as if pulling it from the air. A breeze wafted over them, where there had been none before.
Commander Bartholomew had the good sense to look apprehensive.
“I will not answer this question. I do not like being put in this position. If my uncle wishes a conversation with me, then he needs to see me.” She briefly closed her eyes. “I do not speak for Louis.”
Bartholomew bowed his head. “Thank you. I will pass this message along.” He acted as if he had not mightily angered the
queen. That he had not, perhaps, just offended her to the point that she would never help him achieve his aims. Was the man that ignorant? Male or female, nobody in power liked to be backed into a corner.
Everard seemed stricken silent by what had transpired. Dominus chose to say nothing, watching Mamie as she waited for Eleanor’s direction. Bartholomew gestured to the men. “Come with me.”
Dominus hesitated. “I would stay and finish guarding the ladies, as we had offered. The road back could be dangerous.”
Mamie patted the short sword at her hip. “We will make our own way back safely.” She scowled at him, as if he were somehow responsible for Bartholomew’s actions.
Eleanor dismissed the commander and turned to Dominus. “Tell Princess Constance we are here, so she does not worry.” Then she turned back to Bartholomew and smiled without a trace of congeniality. “You can send a message to the king as to our location. I would not like for him to be upset in any way.”
The blood drained from Bartholomew’s cheeks. “Of course.”
The men mounted their horses, following Bartholomew from the secluded grove. The air chilled as they went farther down the trail. Dominus, not a man to believe in spirits, acknowledged to himself there was something mystical about the place. He’d seen the air around the women when they’d joined hands in prayer. It had shimmered, like heat off a rock in summer.
“This conversation is not to be repeated,” Bartholomew said.
“But,” Everard, youthful, naïve knight, dared to say, “why would you ask Queen Eleanor to speak to the king? Why not ask King Louis? Patriarch Aimery blessed the king and the pilgrimage this morning during prayers.”
Bartholomew was quiet for some time. Finally he answered. “Men and women, in love, do things that seem irrational. King Louis is in love with the queen. We all thought that if she asked him, he might consider doing it just to make her happy.”
“He swore an oath. Should that not be enough?” Everard asked, looking at Dominus for confirmation. “The entire Crusade was called together to save Edessa.”
