He grinned.
“Okay. We’ll play it your way for a bit longer, but I won’t wait forever, you know.” He leaned forward to kiss her, allowing his lips to linger on hers so that she had to force herself not to respond. From the gleam in his eyes, she knew he was aware of her struggle. “Bye, babe. For now.”
She watched the car speed away.
“All right, love? Is he gone?” Her father put his hand on her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“For good this time, I hope.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“Too much of a know-it-all for my tastes.” He gave her a quick hug. “And nowhere near good enough for my little girl,” he added gruffly.
***
The small procession had reached the little chapel and stopped beside the ancient yew tree that bounded its graveyard. Lord Andrew twisted round to speak to his wife, riding pillion behind him.
“There—you can see the manor now, just ahead. We are almost home, sweeting.”
Maude nodded, turning away from the sombre burial site to gaze out over the river and the marshes, listening to the call of the birds circling above. Her body ached from travelling and she thought longingly of her feather bed, less than a mile away now.
It had been Andrew’s idea to make the pilgrimage to Winchester, to pray to Saint Swithun for Hugo’s safe return. It was ten years since Hugo had left Moreton, and although they never spoke of it, Maude knew that Andrew missed his brother deeply. It was at Winchester that she had realised she was pregnant again, and the news had cheered her husband, causing him to curtail further visits and take his wife directly back to Moreton. Sitting behind him on the great horse, her head resting against his broad back, Maude smiled to herself. She could not regret telling him of her condition. She might find his fussing and concern irksome at times, but it had banished some of the sadness from his eyes, and his words that morning had given her even more happiness. He had laid his hand over her stomach, smiling.
“Our fourth child, Maude. We are truly blessed. If it is a boy, we will call him Hugh, after my brother.”
Hugh. And would he, too, be called by the more familiar name Hugo? Could she bear it? Maude swallowed a sigh. Of course she could. It would be a boy, she was sure of it. And he would be born at Moreton. Another child to add to her growing family, to fill her days and ease the pain of Hugo’s absence.
***
After a restless night, Anne Lindsay was one of the first shoppers in the High Street on Saturday morning. Once her purchases had been made, she made her way to the church, where she found Clara Babbacombe and Mrs. Gresham arranging fresh flowers for the Sunday service. The church was cool after the sunny High Street, and the light pouring in through the stained glass windows was split into multicoloured bars, like a confused rainbow.
“Hilda, did you say we have some more Oasis in the hall? I wonder if you’d be a dear and fetch it for me…” Miss Babbacombe looked up from her flowers. “Morning, Anne. Looking for the vicar?”
“Hi. No, not really. I wanted some inspiration. I’m looking for some proof that this church has a Templar connection. I’ve searched the records and come up with nothing. I was hoping the church itself might yield some evidence.” She gave a rueful smile. “I’m probably being a bit fanciful, but it’s become a matter of importance.”
Clara Babbacombe’s shrewd eyes twinkled. “Ah, yes. I heard your professor came looking for you last night.”
“He’s not actually my professor, but he certainly brought the fight right to my door.”
“So what’s he like?”
Anne blushed faintly. “Quite nice, actually.”
“Going over to the enemy, my dear?”
“No, no, of course not. But I was expecting a dry, dusty academic, and he isn’t anything like that.”
“Oh? I’m sorry I didn’t see him. What does he look like?”
Anne considered the question. “Blue eyes, fair hair—a bit boyish-looking. And he has a strong chin.”
Miss Babbacombe raised an eyebrow. “A strong chin? What on earth does that mean? Does he use it for weightlifting, hang heavy chains from it—”
“No, of course not! Just—strong. I know it sounds crazy. He is rather attractive, actually.” She laughed, “I haven’t thought that about a man since Malcolm died. Do you know what I mean—oh—sorry—”
“No, don’t be.” Miss Babbacombe held up her hand to show she was not offended. “I do know what you mean, as a matter of fact.”
“Was there someone, once?”
Miss Babbacombe smiled. She seemed to be looking far into the past. “Oh yes, there was someone, a long time ago. He was a soldier, killed in action in Cyprus.”
“Oh, I am sorry. And—was there never anyone else?” Anne asked gently.
“I was never prepared to take second-best.”
A sound at the door broke into Clara Babbacombe’s reverie and she looked past Anne. “Ah, here’s Hilda coming back. I’d better get on with this arrangement. And I won’t keep you any longer from your research, my dear, though I doubt you’ll find anything much to help you. The clock tower and all the western end of the church was rebuilt in the nineteenth century after a fire. The Lady Chapel is possibly medieval and might be more interesting—that and the apse are the oldest remaining parts of the building.”
Starting by the door set into the west end of the south wall, Anne made her way around the inner walls of the church, slowly moving towards the chancel arch that separated the round apse from the rest of the church. The stone inscriptions of Moreton’s former residents were all nineteenth century and, although the chancel arch and wooden screen were older, they clearly did not date back beyond Tudor times. She opened the gate in the iron railings and went into the small Lady Chapel. Here the stone effigy of Hugh of Moreton was fixed upright to the wall. He was depicted in armour, the stone shape of his legs patterned to represent chain mail, the pointed toes resting on the floor. Anne studied the crossed feet, the hands clasped over the handle of a large double-edged sword before her scrutiny moved up to the face. The carved eyes were blank, but it was still a kindly face. Humorous even, as if he was smiling at her. She heard footsteps and glanced back to see Deborah walking towards the Lady Chapel.
“He’s nice, isn’t he?” Deborah stepped through the gate and came up to stand beside her. “We’ve always known him as Hugh of Moreton, but do we really know that?”
“I think we can be pretty sure of it,” Anne told her. “The oldest records state that there was only ever one effigy laid in this church, that of Hugh of Moreton.”
“I remember this was my favourite spot when we came into church with Sunday school. Sometimes they let us help with decorating the church for Easter or Palm Sunday and I always made sure I brought something for him. There’s a little gap between his hands and the sword handle, see? I used to bring a few leaves, or a flower or something.” Deborah stared at the worn effigy and began to twist the ends of her hair between her fingers. “Funny how your mind works, isn’t it? I used to dream up all sorts of adventures—knights in armour rescuing me from dragons, that sort of thing. I still come in to say hello, sometimes—like today. Stupid, really.”
“No, it isn’t. I think it’s perfectly natural, especially because it’s so peaceful here.” Anne smiled at her. “I’m looking for clues about the age of the church. Do you want to stay and help me?”
“I’d love to, but I’ve got to collect the groceries for the restaurant and get back to help Dad. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. See you tonight—more costumes to sort out at the village hall!”
“Yes. See you then. ’Bye.”
Alone again, Anne turned her attention back to the effigy in front of her. A stone block was set into the wall beside the figure, the lettering worn away with the centuries, but it was just possible to read the name of Hugh of Moreton, and the date of his death in Roman numerals.
“I need more evidence,” she murmured. “
There must be something! If only you could talk. If only you could tell me the truth.”
Hearing a discreet cough behind her, Anne turned quickly to find Aubrey Bodicote hovering anxiously by the railings.
“I’m sorry if I intrude upon a moment of reflection…”
“No, not really. Just wondering how to find out the true history of this place. The Records Office and County Library only have a few papers dating back to the thirteenth century, certainly not a full account.”
“It’s a pity the church’s own records were destroyed in the fire of 1886.” The vicar smiled. “You’d like to prove the legend about Hugh building the church on his return from the Crusades.”
“I really would, but there’s no proof. I’ve found evidence that a Hugh of Moreton did own this land, and the stone in the wall tells us he died in 1325, but there’s no mention of his going to the Crusades, and nothing to say that he was a Templar. Besides, I’ve now found that the Templars had already been disbanded by then.”
The vicar’s kind old face creased into its habitual worried lines. “Oh dear, is it so important to you?”
Anne smiled, stepping out of the Lady Chapel and walking with him back to the door. “No-o, I don’t suppose it matters that much, really, at least only to gratify my own vanity. I quoted the legend when I wrote that piece for the paper, and someone has challenged it.” She gave a sigh. “And the most galling thing is, they’re probably right—there is no truth in the legend.”
“Then put it aside, my dear. Pride can lead us on many false roads, you know.”
“Oh, I do know, but I can’t let it rest until I have at least researched it thoroughly. I really don’t like to be beaten.”
“And what if you prove the legend false?”
“Then I must come clean, I suppose. But at least I can pass on my findings to you, so that the truth will be known by everyone.”
Chapter Fourteen
To the two Templar knights hidden amongst the cedars it was clear that the travellers were doomed. From their vantage point on the hill, the knights watched the Muslim raiders on their small, swift horses sweep down to the road and surround the little party, sunlight flashing on their blades as they engaged the guards. It was a common occurrence in the Levant. Once pilgrims were out of sight of the huge crusader castles built to defend the routes, they were easy prey for marauders.
“I never cease to wonder at the stupidity of these pilgrims!”
Hugo smiled. “Nay, Brother Giles, not stupidity. Innocence. They believe it is their right to travel in this land.” He sighed and loosened his sword. “Come, brother. We will help them.”
The two knights set off down the hill towards the battle scene below them, and Hugo prayed they would be in time to save at least some of the pilgrims. The guards put up a brave fight, but their adversaries were cunning fighters, and by the time the Templars reached the road there were less than a dozen combatants still mounted. Bodies littered the ground, and riderless horses shivered nervously at a distance as the knights set their mounts to the charge, uttering their battle cry.
“Vive Dieu! Saint Amour!”
Hugo drew the heavy double-edged sword and held it high, slashing down with deadly effect as he charged into the fray. In an instant his experienced eye summed up the situation. Four guards were fighting in a circle, trying to defend two females huddled beside the remains of a broken litter. The arrival of the two knights caused a momentary confusion. Hugo swiftly dispatched an attacker and swung his horse about to confront another. Even as he moved, he saw that two of the raiders had broken through the guards and reached the two women. One of the men snatched the nearest woman and threw her across his saddle.
“Giles!”
“Aye, brother. I see it. You go after her. I can hold them!”
Hugo brought his blade crashing down upon his opponent and set his spurs into his horse’s flanks. The stallion surged forward in pursuit of the two raiders who were flying the scene with their prize. His horse was fresh and soon gained on his quarry. One rider slowed and turned in an attempt to stall Hugo and give his companion and the captive time to flee, but the Templar was ready for him. With only the slightest break in his speed, Hugo’s sword flashed and the man screamed as his right arm was severed.
The remaining rider was almost within reach. Hugo saw him glance behind and he gripped his sword, ready to strike, but before he could attack, the rider thrust the woman from his saddle prow. Hugo reacted instantly, hauling on the reins and swerving just in time to prevent his mount from trampling the inert form on the road. He hesitated; the rider was galloping away, and although Hugo was confident he could still catch him, it would leave the woman defenceless. He jumped down from his horse and knelt beside her.
The veil had slipped aside, exposing an abundance of soft brown hair spread about her shoulders. Carefully he lifted the still form, turning her until her head rested against his arm. The face was scratched and dusty, but apart from a darkening bruise on her temple there was little blood. Hugo pulled off his glove and brushed the grit from her face. The eyelids fluttered and she stirred, raising a hand to ward off his touch.
“Gently, my lady. You are safe.”
The words seemed to reassure her, and the hand fell back as she relapsed into unconsciousness. He lifted her, surprised at how little she weighed. He laid her across his saddle and, when he had mounted, he pulled her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. She stirred again, and he looked into her eyes. They were as green as emeralds.
“You are safe, lady.”
The eyes studied his face for a moment, before the lashes drooped again. Hugo set his horse to a walk, taking her weight on his arm to protect her from the jolting.
“Mary—my maid?”
“We are going back now, madam, to find her.”
But when they returned to the site of the attack, there were only bodies. Hugo stopped at a distance from the carnage and dismounted, laying the woman gently on the ground before going on alone to look for survivors. His glance swept over the scene. Travellers and attackers had fallen together. At the centre lay the servant, Mary, her throat cut and the blood blackening the dust around her head. Hugo spotted Giles, his white mantle stained crimson from his wounds. The knight was barely alive. Hugo touched the livid face, and for a moment the eyes opened.
“Hugo, how many live?”
“Just one. The woman. Her captor escaped.”
“We slew the rest—everyone.”
“So I see. It was well done, Giles.”
The dying man coughed, blood spattering his lips. “So much, to save one life.”
He raised his hand and Hugo grasped the fingers, his vision blurring with unaccustomed tears.
“When will they learn?” he muttered. “Why can they not see that it is not safe to cross this land with anything less than an army?”
There was no reply. Hugo released the lifeless fingers and rose to his feet. He caught three of the loose horses and returned to the woman, who had raised herself on one elbow, watching his approach.
“My maid?”
“Dead. All dead. Guards, raiders—everyone.”
She gazed up at him blankly. Mistaking her shock for cold insensitivity, unaccustomed anger flared within him. He fell on his knees beside her and caught her shoulders.
“Was it your doing?” he cried, shaking her, “Was it for you that these innocents died in this hell? May God forgive you, madam, for they are all perished, together with my brother knight!”
She shrank before his anger, her eyes darkening in fear, but she did not look away. Hugo suddenly felt very weary. He released her and rubbed a hand across his eyes.
“Sir, I am sorry for your companion. When we left Tyre, we were well prepared for this journey.” She struggled to control her voice. “My husband hired men to accompany us to Acre, but those souls lying over there are members of my own household. The rogues my lord paid to guard us stole away in the night, taking with them thr
ee caskets of money and jewels, leaving us no choice but to continue unprotected.” She turned her anguished gaze towards him. “Do I not deserve your pity, sir knight, rather than your scorn?”
“Madam, you deserve a husband who knows better how to take care of his own!”
He was surprised that she made no angry response, merely bowing her head. After a moment she said, “Would—would you grant me your aid to reach Acre, sir? My husband will reward you well.”
“I will escort you, madam, and I seek no reward except God’s. But we must move now.”
She looked towards the bloody scene. “Should—should we not…bury them?”
“To delay is to risk another attack. When we reach Acre we will pass on the word. It will be done. Now, can you stand?”
“I think so.” She looked past him to the horses. “More than that—I can ride.”
“There is no lady’s mount.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “As a girl I rode anything. I will manage as you do. When we reach Acre I will ride pillion behind you, as befits a lady, but until then we will get on faster if I ride alone.”
“So be it.” Hugo shrugged, led forward one of the horses and threw her up into the saddle, trying not to let his eyes dwell on the soft white leg and dainty foot she displayed. He handed her the reins.
“If we are to travel together, perhaps I should know your name?”
She held out her hand to him. “Agnes de Chercourt.”
“Hugh, humble knight of the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.” He bowed over her hand, but her fingers clung to him.
“An Englishman?”
“Yes, my lady.” Looking up, he found she was regarding him with a long, considering look. Then, as if satisfied, she released his hand.
“If you take the spare horses, sir knight, I will follow.”
Hugo led the way off the track and up the hillside into the trees, explaining that this would give them cover against any other bands of outlaws patrolling the area.
“How far are we from Acre?” she asked him.
Casting Samson Page 11
