by Jenna Kernan
‘This is how they live,’ she said, in an odd tone. ‘This is your life when you have committed to a religious house.’
‘I’m sure Gerard is not so confined,’ Nicholas said, since she seemed dismayed at the prospect of such an existence.
‘And Gerard’s not a Templar,’ Guy said. ‘’Tis only the Templars who are shrouded in mystery. Why, according to their own Rule, a brother may be expelled from the order for revealing its secrets, so they must have something to hide.’
Guy shook his head. ‘I don’t like staying here, my lord, right in their midst,’ he said. ‘Who knows what kind of strange rituals they practise? And what if our reputation has preceded us? There might be secret tunnels leading from one preceptory to another and a prohibition against any who discover them. Why, there could be a hidden entrance leading right into this room.’
Nicholas doubted such a thing would fit in their tiny chamber, and he was growing weary of his squire’s nonsense. Rothston was a small property, with a few residents who did not pose a threat to a knight and armed companions. And no underground passageway could lead from here to Roode, some seventy miles away. Yes, there was nothing to stop Gwayne from entering this place, unless there was some proscription against him. But Nicholas did not think ’twas the Templar who followed them.
‘We are safe within these walls and it is late, so let us seek our rest,’ Emery said. Nicholas glanced at her in surprise, for she spoke to Guy in a gentle tone that, nevertheless, brooked no argument. ‘Lord de Burgh needs his sleep, for he did not get any last night.’
Guy’s uneasy expression changed to one of alarm as he swung towards Nicholas. ‘My lord, you must take care of yourself—’ he began.
But Nicholas stopped any further speech with a sharp glance, for he had no intention of engaging in this discussion in front of Emery.
The squire sputtered, as though he would say more, then his brows furrowed. ‘And just why did you get no rest last night?’ he asked, eyeing them both with suspicion.
Nicholas felt a moment’s dismay, as though he had been caught out by his father, before regaining his composure. ‘I was keeping watch,’ he said. ‘Since we were out in the open, I was wary of being seen, should we be followed.’
Guy paled, but this time he kept his worries and his theories about the Templars to himself. ’Twas a small mercy for which Nicholas was thankful and he looked to Emery in gratitude, but she had turned away. He eyed her thoughtfully, arrested by her slim figure and the quiet strength and authority she exuded.
He and Guy had been alone so long that Nicholas had forgotten what it was like to have someone take care of him, or rather someone else take care of him. Oftentimes, his squire seemed overly concerned for Nicholas’s welfare, his behaviour more annoying than helpful. But Nicholas reacted differently to Emery’s steady manner.
Perhaps it was her gender. Nicholas had known precious few females in his life until his brothers began to wed and those women hadn’t remained at Campion. By the time his father remarried, Nicholas was full grown and eager for adventure, not coddling. Now, suddenly, he longed for a woman’s touch, a woman’s comfort, a woman’s solace.
But it was too late.
Chapter Eight
Emery blinked into the darkness, unable to relax, even though the men had given her the bed. Lord de Burgh had pushed it against the door to placate Guy, who was certain that they might be rousted in the night by evil monks, and now she found herself staring at the worn wood at her feet as though it might suddenly burst open.
She told herself the notion was ludicrous, yet she remained tense, while the squire’s low snoring indicated he had found some rest, despite his worries about hidden passageways and powerful cabals.
Emery shivered, though the small cell was oppressive. As always, there was just enough truth in Guy’s wild claims to make her anxious. The religious houses were influential and nearly autonomous, and she had seen a secret chamber riddled with bizarre carvings that even Guy could not imagine.
As for the rest of his theories, they were easier to dismiss, especially since he spoke of little else. But Lord de Burgh had been comparably silent on the subject, making what he did say more alarming. Even if he possessed no special abilities beyond a warrior’s honed senses, when he said he thought someone was out there, Emery believed him.
But if the Templar and his squire were not in pursuit, then who? Was another member of the order, besides Gwayne, seeking them out, as Guy so often suggested? What of Gerard’s own brethren? Her brother had warned Emery not to trust anyone, which included the Hospitallers. What part did they play, if any?
That thought led to another, more insidious one that Emery had long avoided, but could not any longer. Now, in the darkness, she finally faced the fact that Gwayne and Harold and her brother all seemed to be intent upon one thing: the parcel. With her uncle dead and Gwayne rousted for the time being, at least, that left only one person likely to be seeking the prize.
Emery loosed a shaky breath. Although she didn’t like to consider such a possibility, she was forced to wonder whether the shadowy figure on their heels was Gerard. But how did he know they had recovered his pouch? And why wouldn’t he simply come forwards? Surely he recognised her, even in her male guise, for she was wearing his old clothes.
Perhaps he was wary of Lord de Burgh. Yet, supposedly, he had asked the great knight for aid. Did her brother fail to recognise him, as well? By all accounts, Gerard had not seemed to be thinking clearly, so Emery wanted to dismiss most of his behaviour as the product of injury and fever.
Yet, whatever the cause, there was no denying the importance he’d placed upon retrieving the parcel that had once been in his possession. And although Lord de Burgh had spoken no more about the statue, Emery could guess what he had been thinking—what they all had been thinking—what was a Hospitaller knight doing with such a precious object?
Had he got into some kind of trouble, not of his own devising, or had he forgone his duty, armed with a stolen valuable with which he intended to start a new life? ’Twas not unheard of. Men deserted their families only to be discovered in another village, with a second wife and children.
Still, Emery did not want to believe Gerard capable of such perfidy, for it would mean he intended to abandon her, as well as his vows. Although he had already left her to their uncle’s machinations, this would be far more deliberate—and painful. Emery closed her eyes against the possibility, only to open them abruptly.
Had she heard a noise beyond the door? Stiffening, she held her breath, listening intently in between Guy’s low snores. Now there was no mistaking the sound of footsteps outside the room and Emery looked to Lord de Burgh in panic.
’Twas too dark to see whether he was alert, so Emery reached for her own small sword, wary of raising an alarm. She waited for one long moment, her heart pounding, her arm stiff with tension. But just as she expected the door to rattle, the footsteps continued on past the chamber, to be joined by others. And Emery released her grip upon the weapon in relief.
If Guy were awake, he might have suspected that a host of Templars were preparing to attack them in their sleep, but Emery knew better. The brethren were being called to prayer, not combat. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she settled back upon the bed. But still she found herself listening to the night noises and wondering if any of those footsteps might belong to her brother.
* * *
Oxley was a long, weary day’s ride from Rothston, and Nicholas was glad to reach it, though Guy looked ill pleased at the sight of a preceptory far larger than those they had visited before. While Nicholas did not share his squire’s distrust of the Templars, he was wary of the marshy land they had drained here, over which a damp, unhealthy air lingered.
It seemed an odd place for a hospital, or perhaps a likely location, Nicholas thought, with a frown. For
whatever reason, this was one of the few Templar properties that provided care for the aged and ill members of the order, including those who had fought in the Holy Land.
As such, ’twas the most likely spot to learn of Robert Blanchefort. Still, Nicholas was not prepared when the good brother who welcomed them not only recognised the name, but told them Blanchefort lived at Oxley. That was the good news.
The bad news was that he was insane.
‘Or so they say,’ Guy whispered, ever suspicious. ‘Perhaps they don’t want us talking to him.’
However, after conferring with his superior, the brother led them towards a massive oak, lit by the last of the sunlight. He pointed to where a bench under the dappled leaves was occupied by a lone figure. The Templar’s hair was nearly as white as his robe and his hands rested upon his chest as though he slept. Although Guy might claim his pose was that of the tomb, he seemed harmless enough and the brothers would hardly allow a dangerous man to roam the grounds at will.
Still Guy hung back. ‘How do we know that it really is him?’ he whispered.
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Nicholas said. Leaving Guy and Emery behind, he approached the sleeper. ‘Robert Blanchefort?’
At the sound of his name, the Templar roused himself and greeted them as though he were wide awake and knew them well. Perhaps the man’s madness was only the result of battle and old age, Nicholas thought. After introducing himself, he joined the knight on the bench, while Guy and Emery seated themselves on the grass, just out of reach.
‘Ah, you have a sword for me!’ Blanchefort said, eyeing Nicholas’s weapon. ‘And mail, as well, though I cannot use that short coat. I would be covered when I face the Saracen. ’Tis far too dangerous to be unprepared.’
Nicholas wondered if the old knight thought himself still at war, which, while sad, hardly made him a lunatic. But then Blanchefort leaned forwards, his pale eyes shining a bit too intently. ‘He’s coming for me, you know. He’s been here.’
Was he speaking of an enemy long vanquished? Nicholas did not know, but he tried to wrest control of the conversation. ‘I’ve found your pouch,’ Nicholas said gently. ‘Did it go missing?’
But the elderly knight, seemingly lost in his own world, ignored the question. ‘He haunts me!’ he said suddenly and with such anguish that Nicholas flinched. ‘I told them he was here, but they didn’t believe me. He slips in and out of the shadows like a wraith, accusing me, though I told him I don’t have it. I gave it up long ago.’
Nicholas felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the mention of a shadowy pursuer, but far too many years had passed for the same person to be harrying them both, unless Blanchefort was talking about recent events.
‘When?’ Nicholas asked.
Blanchefort looked off into the distance, as though he might spy someone lying in wait even now. ‘Ever he has haunted me since that night.’ He swung back towards Nicholas. ‘You don’t know what he is capable of. Others have come asking about him, as you have, but they don’t understand. There’s no stopping him.’
‘Who?’ Nicholas finally asked.
‘The Saracen.’ Blanchefort practically spat out the words. His expression was bitter, as though he suffered a fool in speaking with Nicholas. ‘And you are no match for him.’
Was Blanchefort talking about the infidels he had fought in the Holy Land or a specific person from those foreign climes? More than likely his mind had been broken by what he had seen and done in battle, but Nicholas knew there might be some grain of truth in his ramblings, so he listened as the man continued.
‘The spoils of war, that’s what William called it. He said others had amassed plenty in the sacking of
heathen cities, so what was to stop us? He found out soon enough when the Saracen came after us. He paid with his life,’ Blanchefort said.
‘’Twas not for William, who saw only riches for himself and would have renounced his vows for them. ’Twas not for any of us, and so I told them,’ Blanchefort said, shaking his head. ‘But they thought ’twould assure victory to any who possessed it.’
At first Nicholas thought the old warrior might be talking about the very thing that lay hidden in his pack. But a gold statue possessed no powers, certainly not to sway the outcome of battles, and he realised ’twas foolish to seek enlightenment in the ravings of a madman.
As if aware he was losing his attention, Blanchefort suddenly reached out and grasped Nicholas’s arm with surprising strength. ‘He will not rest until he has it.’
‘What?’ Nicholas asked, with no little impatience. ‘What is it?’
The question was a mistake, for the Templar’s hand dropped away and his expression hardened. ‘Would you trick me?’ he asked. ‘Others have tried. They have come here, seeking what we found, but I don’t know what they did with it. I don’t know where it is—’
Blanchefort broke off in a sob, as though wretched beyond bearing. And, if Nicholas hadn’t feared a worse reaction, he might have produced the knight’s old pouch to see whether the answer lay inside. Instead, he retrieved something else and stretched out his hand.
‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’ he asked.
Blanchefort reared back in horror. ‘Where did you get it?’ he whispered, shaking as he stared down at the piece of parchment with its strange markings. Nicholas didn’t reveal that he had found it on a dead man; he didn’t have to.
The Templar lifted his head, his face pale. ‘Yes, I have seen his mark before,’ he said, sounding remarkably lucid. ‘’Tis the Saracen’s. ’Tis the sign of his handiwork. ’Tis the sign of death.’
* * *
At the sight of the brightly coloured piece of parchment, Emery’s heart had lodged in her throat, making her aware of little else. She was so alarmed that, when a brother approached, for one wild moment she believed all of Guy’s warnings. Would they be seized by the Templars? Put to death? But the smiling figure did not appear intent upon doing them harm, only in helping Robert Blanchefort back to his room for the night.
The elderly knight had been struck silent, completely undone by the odd paper, and, for once, Guy, too, was quiet, staring wide-eyed at what Lord de Burgh held in his hand. Only the arriving brother seemed unaffected, for he greeted Lord de Burgh with a smile.
‘Do you play?’ he asked, inclining his head towards the strange item.
‘What?’
‘The Moorish Game,’ the brother said. ‘What you have there is called a card, though there are other names and many other designs. Most have depictions of different numbers of coins, cups, swords, or such, though some carry only foreign words for rulers. Where did you come by it? I have never seen one outside the Holy Land.’
Whatever Lord de Burgh answered, Emery did not hear it. She stared unblinking at the ‘card’ even as the smiling brother led Blanchefort away, leaving the three of them alone under the great oak. Only then did she manage to look up at Lord de Burgh, tearing her gaze away from the thing that had graced her uncle’s corpse.
‘You kept it,’ she said, uncertainly.
‘I thought it was important,’ he said. ‘’Twas obviously left as a message of some sort, perhaps as a warning.’
‘’Tis probably in some secret language known only to the Templars,’ Guy whispered, armed with new fodder for his theories.
But Lord de Burgh shook his head. ‘’Tis more likely just what the monk said: part of a betting game learned from those in foreign climes.’
Guy snorted. ‘Or that is what they would like us to believe,’ he said. ‘If such a game is well known in the Holy Land, then why is this the only one of these so-called cards in all of England?’
‘Actually, there is another,’ Emery said in a low voice. She flushed guiltily, for she had never spoken of the parchment Gerard had left behind. But she had kept it close and produced i
t now, wrinkled and creased, to present to Lord de Burgh.
‘I found it after Gerard stayed with me,’ she said. ‘I had forgotten about it until I saw the one...on my uncle, but there was no time to speak of it.’ And in the days that followed, Emery had faced more pressing concerns.
Taking the card, Lord de Burgh examined it carefully alongside the other. At first Emery thought the two were identical, but then she noticed subtle differences.
‘This has two swords and yours only one,’ Lord de Burgh said.
‘With curved blades,’ Guy muttered.
‘I thought it was a snake,’ Emery said. No matter what its meaning, she found the image repulsive and threatening, perhaps deliberately so.
Turning the card, Lord de Burgh narrowed his eyes at the words Gerard had written. ‘“Trust no one”,’ he read aloud. His dark brows lifted. ‘I wonder if that includes your brother?’
Although Emery had her doubts about Gerard, she was reluctant to share them. She told herself that her brother could not have changed that much, but it had been years since they’d been close. And Gerard had always been easily swayed, which made it simple for their uncle and perhaps others, far worse, to prey upon him. Still, he had a good heart. Else how had Harold convinced him to join the Hospitallers?
Emery shook her head. ‘I would not have thought so before Gerard left for the Holy Land,’ she said. But she could not imagine what might have happened to him there, for such an experience had broken Robert Blanchefort. Had it broken Gerard, as well? Had he been ill when he stumbled upon her doorstep, or was he more permanently...damaged? Emery eyed Lord de Burgh bleakly, yearning for some words of comfort from the great knight.
But ’twas Guy who spoke. ‘Do you think you ought to be brandishing those things about so freely for all to see?’ the squire asked, his expression wary.
Emery felt a sudden rush of affection for the young man who seemed to harbour no suspicions about
