by Lara Adrian
Ariana shook her head. "No, of course not. I am sorry if my being here is an intrusion in any way, but I am in desperate need of help, and I had nowhere else to turn."
"Please," said the Templar, slowly stretching out his arm to indicate his private meeting room. "Come in, dear girl, and tell me what is wrong."
Ariana accepted his invitation, striding past him and through the open door of the antechamber. She tried not to gape at the lavishness of the place, so incongruous to the outward modesty of the Templar church. Although compact, the room held a wealth of fine appointments. Ariana's wet boots came to rest softly on a thick wool rug that nearly ran the length and width of the floor. No less than a dozen costly candles burned in polished brass holders, their sweet beeswax scent drifting like a mild perfume on the rarefied air. The warm glow of candlelight filled the chamber, illuminating the gilt-edged spines of countless books, volumes of texts lining wide stone shelves carved into the room's very walls. At one end of the chamber stood a large wooden desk. Ornately carved and meticulously maintained, it dominated the small space. On the wall behind it hung a large tapestry depicting in colorful detail the crucifixion of Christ. Tragic though it was, Ariana all but froze, staring at the beauty of the design.
"Please," prompted the Templar official as he entered the chamber a few paces at her back. "Sit, dear child, sit."
She eased down into a small chair while the church official crossed the room to pour a cup of claret from a silver decanter. Ariana declined the drink when he offered it to her. Savoring a sip of the aromatic wine, he then seated himself at the desk, occupying a cushioned throne that would not have been at all out of place in a royal solar. "Now, tell me what brings you here, and how the brethren might help you."
"'Tis about my brother, Kenrick," Ariana said, and proceeded to explain the bizarre series of events that had transpired since she first received word of his abduction and ransom.
* * *
"Oh, dear. Dear oh dear oh dear." Brother Arnaud dashed down the circular passageway to the back of the Templar church as fast as his feet would carry him. He ran out a darkened doorway and into the yard behind the stone chapel, the smooth soles of his leather shoes slipping and sliding in his haste to cross the snowy courtyard.
Pell-mell, breathless with excitement, he raced toward the stables and commandeered himself a mount with nary an excuse to the gaping stablemaster. Out the churchyard he rode, and up the thoroughfare of the city, kicking the swift-footed horse into a hard gallop to speed toward a huge stone castle that loomed on the outskirts of Rouen.
A shout to the watchtower guards admitted him quick entry. They knew who he was, they understood the importance of his role as spy to their powerful overlord. Lathered nearly as much as his huffing mount, Arnaud leaped to the ground of the inner bailey and vaulted up the stairs as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. Once inside, he was shuttled to the solar to deliver his valuable news.
"She's here!" he gasped, all but falling upon the door of the private antechamber, stumbling in with nary a knock of warning. Mustering his composure, he pulled himself up from his sprawl on the cold slate floor. "Forgive the interruption of your, er...your work, my lord, but I have just seen her. She's here. The girl is here in Rouen."
A noble head crowned in thick, bright gold hair lifted from where it had previously been bent down, enjoying the bounty of a young maid's particularly ample bosom. Cold blue eyes flicked up, piercing the young monk from across the room. "The Clairmont woman?"
"Yes. Dear, oh dear, yes, my lord. She is speaking with Master Delavet this very moment--come asking after her brother, so she is."
"She is here?" demanded the man who could turn Arnaud's blood to ice with the merest unholy glance. "At the church? For how long?"
The novice Templar swallowed hard. "Mere moments, my lord. I came as quickly as I could to tell you. I thought you would want to know."
A black curse hissed from between clenched teeth as Arnaud's true master thrust away his pouting plaything and rose from his chair. In three swift strides he crossed the space of the chamber floor, knocking Arnaud aside as he stepped out into the corridor and shouted for someone to ready his horse.
* * *
In all his seventy-two years, the old Templar master had never before heard such a wild, strange tale as the one he'd been fed by Lady Ariana of Clairmont. He shook his head, reflecting on the distress he saw in her innocent gaze, yet unable to credit her fantastic story of mystical treasures, stolen gemstones, and men who were not men at all, but beasts of some unexplainable origin. He had listened patiently, sympathetically, while she pleaded her case, understanding of her distress even as he sent her on her way a few moments ago. That she mourned the loss of her brother was clear enough, mourned him so keenly it had affected the poor child's mind.
"God bless her, the dear, wretched thing," he murmured aloud, turning his attention to a bit of correspondence that waited on his desk. He was so engrossed in his study of the letter, he didn't realize anyone was there with him until he glanced up to reach for his pot of ink and quill.
"Oh!" he exclaimed with a start, his tired old eyes meeting with the always unsettling stare of the brethren's chief benefactor in Rouen. He stood beside the huge desk, offering nothing by way of apology or excuse, save a vague smile. On anyone else, the insubordinate stance would be construed as defiance, or worse, thinly veiled disdain. But on this man, it was merely indicative of his unflappable confidence. It was merely his way. The Templar master smiled, hopeful that this visit might signify another generous donation for the brotherhood's coffers. "Lord de Mortaine, welcome. You tread so lightly, I scarcely heard you come in."
"I understand you've had a visitor. A woman."
The old monk chuckled. "Goodness, but there is little that escapes you in this town. We did have a visitor. A most peculiar one at that."
"This woman. What did she want?"
"Ah, me. Her brother's gone missing, it seems. He was of the Order, so she came here hoping for help in finding him, although I suspect she wanted something more than that, the poor creature."
"Something...more?" Cool and compelling, the hard blue eyes narrowed on the old master. "Explain."
"She's not right in the head, my lord. Talking of legends and sorcery as if they truly exist. These are dangerous times to be speaking such wild notions. Someone less sympathetic than I might take her for a heretic."
"Yes," the nobleman answered, considering. "She should be careful."
"A piteous thing, to see someone so young and vibrant suffer such a misfortunate affliction. Do you know, she would have me believe that her brother is being held for ransom somewhere here in the city because he uncovered the location of a mythical treasure--some nonsense about a Demon Chalice."
De Mortaine gave a deep, strangely amused chuckle. "Dragon Chalice, you old fool."
The aged monk grunted up at him, dumbstruck by the malice he heard in the man's usually silky voice. "You know of this thing, Lord de Mortaine?"
His question went wholly ignored. "The chit is carrying a satchel of papers and journals. Did you see them?"
"Satchel? What papers?"
To his utter shock, de Mortaine launched at him over the desk like a madman, grasping the front of the old man's robes in his fists and wrenching him out of his seat. "God damn it, Delavet! The satchel--did she show it to you?"
"N-no! She showed me nothing--merely told me her tale and asked me to help her locate her brother. What is the meaning of this?"
"What did you tell her? Where did the foolish little bitch go?"
Master Delavet trembled to see the deadly fury blazing in the nobleman's eyes. He had never seen such evil, such black intent. Loathe as he was to turn that ugliness onto another person--particularly a disturbed and unsuspecting young woman--the elderly monk realized that he was terrified that de Mortaine meant to kill him.
God forgive him, but he was worse than terrified. He was weak, and willing to do anything t
o prevent his death at any moment.
Hating himself for the cowardice that cropped up in his heart, he murmured a handful of damning words. "I told the girl...I would send word of her brother if I...could. I sent her...to the Cross and Scallop Inn."
He spat the words out in a rush, gasping to drag in a gulp of much-needed breath. He felt de Mortaine's hands tighten around his throat. Saw the gleam of satisfaction light in the younger man's queer blue eyes an instant before he heard the violent crack of his own neck, snapping in the ruthless grasp.
Chapter 15
Ariana picked at her meal of rabbit stew and hard, stale bread, having had little appetite even before she tasted the meager fare at the pilgrims' inn. The Cross and Scallop was a hive of activity. Travelers came and went all the while she sat there--a constant change of faces, an increasingly agonizing wait as Ariana occupied a quiet corner of the tavern room, eager for word from the Templars. She was beginning to think it would not be coming any time soon. If at all.
The aged man she had met with had been accommodating enough, but there had been an element of disbelief in his kindly old gaze as she'd explained her situation. She'd seen pity in his eyes, and now she wondered if he merely sent her off with false hope that he would inquire after Kenrick with his contacts about the city. Perhaps he expected she would simply take her outlandish tale and go away. In truth, she rather wondered if the old monk considered her completely mad. She certainly might, had she been asked to entertain so wild an account as the one she'd presented to Master Delavet that morning.
With a heavy sigh, she watched as another group of pilgrims gathered their things and bustled out of the wayside inn, making room for a new round of lodgers who filed in immediately after them. Ariana studied her congealing bowl of stew as she burrowed out the center of a stale chunk of bread. She nibbled at it, then decided she couldn't eat after all and set the lot of her meal aside. Sweeping away the crumbs she'd made, she glanced up to find the innkeeper navigating his way through the thick crowd of newcomers, his gaze searching the tavern. He lit on her and headed her way, holding a piece of folded parchment in his hands.
"Dam'sel de Clairmont, oui?" he asked as he approached.
At Ariana's nod, he handed her the missive, pausing only long enough to sniff indignantly over her discarded meal. She quickly unfolded the parchment and scanned it, noting the old Templar official's signature at the bottom. A sharp glance up and across the room gave her a fleeting glimpse of Brother Arnaud's dark green robes and darting eyes, staring back at her from within the deep folds of his cowled hood. She stood up and tried to hail him, but he ducked out of sight as if he hadn't seen her, disappearing into the crowd before slipping out the tavern door.
Heart pounding with hope, Ariana read the message:
Your brother has been located. Return this evening at the vespers bell, and we can discuss how to best bring about his safe release from the men who hold him. Bring the satchel.
All the joy she knew as she absorbed the first few lines of Master Delavet's missive fled the moment her eyes settled on the end of his instructions. Bring the satchel. The Templar official had seemed only passing interested when she tried to tell him about the cryptic ransom placed on her brother's head, and he did not give her the opportunity to explain how she had lost the selfsame ransom before sending her off with a blessing of Godspeed and a vague promise that he would make some inquiries on her behalf.
Had he been in contact with Kenrick's captors, then? It seemed unlikely, or he would have to be aware that the demanded ransom was no longer in her possession. A dark thought flitted through her head, a suspicion that the old Templar might be using her somehow, testing her with this request for the satchel. It seemed unlikely, however. He had given her no reason to doubt him, and as it stood, he was her only chance of ever seeing her brother again.
It was a chance she simply had to take, she decided, when, some hours later, the bells of the many Rouen churches began to toll out vespers. Donning her mantle as though girding herself for battle, Ariana made the short trek from her corner table to the door of the inn. She passed through the crowds as neatly as she could, glad to feel the rush of crisp, fresh air as she stepped out into the street.
Night was soon to fall. The snow that blanketed the ground and spattered the facades of the tall, timbered buildings glowed an iridescent pale blue in the waning light of day. Although a fair number of people yet roamed about the streets, most of them were men, and far too many seemed to take notice of the fact that she was a woman alone as darkness began its descent.
Low murmured conversations drifted on the thin afternoon breeze, the masculine rumble of amusement and traded gibes echoing in the street behind her. Ariana hastened her pace. The Templar church wasn't far. If she hurried, she could be there while it was still light. Walking briskly now, she shot a quick glance over her shoulder as she turned onto the street that would take her to the Templar church. Ahead of her, just past the corner of the building she rounded, she heard a soft shift of movement.
Too late, she realized her mistake. Someone was there.
A wall of darkness rose up before her, blocking her path.
She let out a startled gasp, but not before a thick wool blanket came down over her head, blotting out the scant light of the fading day. She tried to scream but when she opened her mouth, a large hand clamped down over her face from the other side, snuffing her cry of terror. Kicking, thrashing, twisting, Ariana fought to escape the iron bonds that held her prisoner beneath the large swatch of wool. All to no avail.
With one hand over her mouth, the other snaking around her waist to pull her flush against the unyielding mass of his body, her captor dragged her off the street. Ariana kept trying to scream. She kept struggling, kept uselessly trying to free herself from the person who held her in an unrelenting, merciless grasp. She heard the whicker of a horse somewhere nearby, then felt her captor's hold on her shift slightly as a stirrup jangled and he mounted the beast. Less than an instant later, she was seated up there with him, hoisted off the ground by her arm and flopped prone onto the horse's back before she knew what was happening.
A nudge of her captor's thighs sent the beast into a brisk canter. Each fall of its hooves jarred Ariana's stomach where she lay sprawled across the wide expanse of the horse's back, her assailant's strong hand the only thing keeping her from jostling off. Although she yearned to be free, Ariana clung as best she could, terrified of a fall onto the swift-moving cobbles of the street beneath her. She felt the rider turn his mount around a corner, then felt the beat of the horse's gait grow smoother as it cleared the town gates and fell into a gallop.
She did not know how long they rode, nor where she was being taken. Ariana knew only that they were some distance outside of Rouen when the man who held her finally slowed his huffing mount and drew it to a halt. He leaped down, then pulled her off the back of the horse.
"Let me go!" she shouted now that she was able. "Let me--go!"
She renewed her fight the instant her feet touched ground, but when she would have struggled and thrashed to rid herself of the thick blanket that shrouded her, her captor suddenly reached out and whisked it off her head. Her gaze flew to the face of the man who kidnapped her from the city, and she let out a particularly choice curse.
"Braedon!" she gasped in outrage and confusion.
She threw a glance at her surroundings, taking in the broken, ghostlike ruins of an old abbey, half-demolished walls standing charcoal gray against the white of the snow. Nothing but desolation this far out, and, in the distance behind them, the jagged outline of Rouen. Her meeting with Master Delavet, the negotiations for her brother's release--all of it lay out there, well out of her grasp.
She looked back at Braedon, panic tight in her breast. "Get away from me. How dare you do this?"
"It seemed necessary."
"You have no idea what you've done. You--you have ruined everything!" She broke away from him and grabbed for his mount's reins. "
I'm taking your horse. I have to go back before it's too late--"
"Back to your meeting with the Templars, you mean?"
"What do you know of it?" The accuracy of his assumption took her aback, but not for long before anger burned through her sense of surprise. "Oh, that's right. Lest I forget, you are the vaunted Hunter. What did you do, use your strange skills to track me down?"
His answering look held a wry sort of humor. "I had no need of my skills. I could find you anywhere, my lady. I knew you would go to Rouen, with or without Kenrick's ransom, stubborn little fool. Your intentions were obvious when you left last night."
"As are yours, now that I know the truth about you." She turned away from him and put her booted foot in the stirrup, prepared to mount the palfrey and hie herself back to the city. She barely had her toe in the ring before Braedon reached out and snatched the reins from between her fingers.
"You know my intentions, do you, demoiselle? You are so certain you know what I am about?"
"I know all I need to know. You lied to me--about everything, so far as I can see. You took the map from Kenrick's satchel and you burned it."
"I couldn't let it fall into their hands."
Ariana scoffed. "You've been after the Chalice treasure all along, just as that man--your friend, was he?--said back there at that inn last night. You've been using me!"
"'Twas you who came to me for help, remember? I wanted no part of this. I left it all behind me nearly two years ago. That's where I wanted it to stay."
