One Knight (Knights of Caerleon Book 2)

by Ines Johnson

"No …" Gwin shoved the word past her throat, but to her ears, it came out as a croak.

  “I hate him.”

  She knew Lance referred to Merlin. But she was beginning to wonder, if it wasn’t Merlin barring them from one another, would it always be something else standing in their way?

  “I hate him for what he did to you all these years, for the terror he brought to this community. But I won’t allow the poison of wishing him dead to seep into my heart. I saw you save him. I understand why you did it. You’re not that person.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  “I would never want you to be anything or anyone but who you are.”

  “Lance.” She gazed up at him, this man who owned her soul. “I love you, too.”

  “I know.”

  He held out his arm for her. She slipped her fingers into the crook of his elbow. She pressed her shoulder to his. Her head brushed his shoulder cap. Her hand slid down his bicep. Her fingers rested at the fleshy part of his palm just below his wrist. And then she captured his fingers in hers. Somehow, she felt like the captive.

  A week ago this would be scandalous. A day ago it would’ve been enough. As the sun rose on this new day, it was a beginning. One that Gwin was determined to end with new vows; vows that would bring their hearts, their souls, and their bodies together.

  But for this moment, it would be enough.

  15

  The Knights’ Code came with the expectation that men, and now women, show strength in violent combat, but also steadfastness in the delicate manners of the court when they were off the battlefield. In Lance’s estimation, the battlefield of marque floors was a far more treacherous place than a war zone.

  He walked with Gwin down a stony path in the heart of Paris while conflict clashed inside of him. He loved her, that was as true as the sun gave warmth. But the rest of the words he'd just uttered to her were lies.

  He could give a flying fig tree about his courtly vows. The Knights’ Code could go hang itself on a tree. This woman held his heart. She consumed his spirit. He needed to give her his body. Right now he could only give her his arm.

  The pads of Gwin’s fingertips curled into his flesh, pushing the stake of their claim deeper into his person. The brush of her shoulder against his was enough to knock him down. The sensation of her thigh against his, even in the jeans that molded her trim legs, made his knees want to buckle and bend to her earlier request.

  She wanted him. Not just carnally. She wanted a life with him.

  The problem was that it would be a love in the dark, and he would not go there. He would not go into a locked room, or behind a closed curtain, or run off into a distant land like his father had with his mother. No, he would not bring that shame on either of them. Now, if her bastard of a husband died …

  “A charm for your wife, sir?” A street vendor inserted himself in their path. His thick French accent lacing his English words.

  Lance's hand was on his brooch, ready to release his sword before the man rolled the R in "sir." Lance faltered at the question mark. His finger fumbled on his weapon at the word the man had used to describe Gwin.

  Gwin’s eyes were fastened to the piece of costume jewelry. Her fingers dug into his bicep. He wasn’t sure what had thrilled her. The title the salesman gave her or the trinket he offered.

  Lance pulled out his wallet. The Euros he found inside were crisp at the edges. In a century, he’d never had occasion to present a trinket of his affection to his lady. Though every battle had been won in her honor.

  Sliding the cheap bracelet over her fingers and onto her wrist felt like he was making an oath. The look in her eyes let him know that she felt the same and that she made the pledge to him as well.

  “Are you honeymooning in Paris?” asked the street vendor, holding up more wares, hoping to make another sale.

  Gwin didn’t answer. She turned to Lance and awaited his response. Hope glittered in her gaze.

  “We’re just passing through,” Lance said. “We’re on our way home.”

  Gwin’s face fell at the hard truth.

  Lance tucked her hand in his elbow, the bracelet rolling against his skin. He turned them on their way.

  They walked aimlessly in the market for a few moments. The sun was high enough that Notre Dame would be open now. It was about a thirty-minute walk to the gothic cathedral. Lance knew the Templars couldn't have followed so quickly if they were even headed this way. Still, he’d relax once Gwin was back in the safety of the fortified magical castle of Camelot.

  “Why do I feel so much ley energy here?” asked Gwin. “Are we close to Notre Dame?”

  “This is Carreau du Temple. There was a Templar site here before progress overrode it.”

  “Do you believe any of what Malegant said? About de Molay?”

  “That a Grandmaster of the Templar Order was a wizard? That he was working for our side?”

  Gwin shrugged, her shoulder blade pressed into his forearm. “It’s possible. A lot of knowledge was lost between Camelot and the Templars during that time. It was hard to know who to trust.”

  Lance had been born far after that time period. But he’d heard many of the old knights speak of their time when they fought beside the Templars and then how things changed.

  “But it’s not possible to turn a person to stone,” said Lance.

  Gwin didn’t immediately respond. “I’m not so certain of that. Most myths have their basis in truth. There are stories of Medusa whose power was petrification, turning men to stone.”

  “She’s not real. We’ve met the Olympians.”

  Last year, the Lady of the Lake, Vivian, had swum off and married the Greek God Poseidon. Vivi and Psi were living happily in Athens. Psi kept the former merlady plied with designer shoes, leaving her to never want to jump into the water again.

  Gwin’s hand slid down Lance’s forearm. Their wrists bumped. He caught her fingers with his. He told himself it was for her protection. He was certain he set a record for breaking his vow of candor in a single day.

  “What about the stories of stone circle maidens?” she said. “Just about every culture that has stone formations have these tales of girls being punished for dancing on the Sabbath, or accused of witchcraft, or running off with a lover …”

  Gwin bit her lower lip and looked away from him. But she did not let his arm go. In fact, she squeezed him tighter as though she were afraid he’d slip through her fingers, or that she would be turned to stone for committing a few of those sins.

  “It’s funny how it’s always the woman who gets punished in these stories,” she said.

  Lance had no response. His mind was far too focused on the five fingers wrapped around his bicep and the other five laced with his fingers. His only thought was that a life of stone would be a worthwhile punishment for these stolen hours with the woman he loved.

  16

  The flying buttress of Notre Dame Cathedral rose into the dawning sky. The doors would be opening at any moment. Although closed doors were no deterrent to a knight and a witch. A few blocks away from the holy place, Gwin felt magic underfoot. There was also the ghost of something dark and hopeless, filled with great suffering.

  Gwin knew some of the stories of the Templars. Those tales were mainly of their demise. She did remember the story of the Friday the 13th Massacre.

  “This is where they burned them?” she said.

  “No,” said Lance. “It was done on the Seine. They were tortured, then burned, then drowned in the river.”

  “Burned and drowned? That’s typically what humans do to witches.”

  A breeze unsettled her hair. Gwin felt the gooseflesh on her arms raise.

  Lance had been right back in Champagne. Magic could not raise the dead. However, objects, places, and beings held onto magical energy long after the container began to decay. The Seine, the place of Grand Master Jacques de Molay’s demise, wasn’t that far away.

  France had a relatively low rate of accusati
on and execution when it came to witchcraft. So what had happened here? What was the source of this energy she felt? Could some of the Templars who perished have had magical blood?

  Lance gave her a tug, urging her toward the cathedral and the ley line that would take her home.

  Gwin held back. She opened herself and listened closely to the magic underfoot. There was so much suffering in the trace of the past. She couldn’t stand to see anything or anyone suffer and not do anything about it.

  “Gwin, it’s time to go home.”

  “There has to be more to this story,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me you believe Malegant?”

  “Not entirely. But what if there were wizards in the Templar Order? They began under the guidance of the son of a witch. What if there were more magical offspring in the ranks?”

  “We would’ve known that. There would’ve been records.”

  “Precisely. There must be a record of the origins of the Templars who perished.”

  “If there is, we’ll come back and find it.”

  “But we’re already here,” she said. “We can pop into a hall of records or a university’s library.”

  “I’ll not keep you out in danger any longer.”

  “It’s a library. What harm would that do?”

  “Your sister nearly had her soul taken from her body at a college not too long ago.”

  “Please. I want to help.” She also wasn’t ready for her time alone with Lance to end. Before he could cut her off, she looked up and saw her salvation. “The Abbey Bookshop. Surely they’ll have some history books I could peek inside. It would just be a few moments.”

  Lance looked to her, then to the side where the bookstore was situated, then over at the cathedral, and finally back to her. The journey already had his head moving in the negative. “I need to get you back home. Everyone will be beside themselves with worry.”

  “Then you can call them and let them know we’re fine and that we’re doing a little recon.”

  “Recon?”

  “Please? Just a little longer?” She laid her hand on his chest, right over his beating heart. It was a bold move, but she was bolder now. Now that she knew the time they could be together was within reach.

  She could see in his eyes that he knew she wasn’t just talking about finding more facts. She wanted a little more time alone with him before they had to go back to their roles, back to their separate corners, back to not touching unless one of them was hurt.

  The tension in his jaw released. “Enough time to make the phone call.”

  Gwin bounced on her toes. Lance tried and failed to hide the small smile that played across his lips at her happiness.

  He led her into the bookstore. Still arm in arm. The smell of must and aged paper hit Gwin as the bell tinkled over the shop door.

  They approached the reference desk. Gwin asked for directions to the ancient records on the Knights Templars. She was delighted to see they had a sizable corner.

  Lance asked to use the shop’s phone and the pretty clerk allowed him in the “No Customers Beyond This Point” area with a toothy smile and a flip of her hair. As Lance passed the clerk, as he picked up the phone, as he placed it to his ear, his gaze never unlocked from Gwin.

  Satisfied that she had Lance’s attention over the clerk, Gwin turned her mind to the old books. The tomes didn’t look ancient. But when she pulled one down and opened it, the writing inside of the new bindings was ancient.

  Gwin bent her head down over the book in her hands. As if pulled by an invisible force, her fingers leafed through the pages and settled on one entry. The entry was for Jacques de Molay, the last Grand Master of the Templars.

  The entry began at the man’s beginning. He was born in a French territory that had been ruled by the Holy Roman Empire. His family was of minor nobility. De Molay was dubbed a knight at the age of twenty-one in the Chapel of Beaune Commandery. Shortly after his knighting, he went to the East.

  There was little record of his life for twenty years during those times. Until he became Grand Master.

  How did he make such a leap from provincial knight to the leader of the entire order?

  Gwin looked up to see that Lance was still on the phone. His gaze still locked on her, but his expression was pinched. Arthur or possibly even her mother must be giving him an earful. More reason she was not ready to go back home. If she found something important she might be able to prolong their adventure even more.

  Looking back down into the pages, she saw that there was an attempt at a merger between the Templars and the Knights Hospitaller. The move appeared to be pushed by the Papacy. The pressure urged the leadership of the Templars to also merge with other military orders of the day and be placed under the authority of one king. But de Molay declined any attempts at mergers.

  The readings told of how de Molay aimed to reform the Order during the waning days of the crusades. In de Molay’s time, the Order had amassed great wealth, which King Philip and Pope Clement had their eyes on. The world knew how this story ended; with a bloody massacre on a Friday morning.

  The next page was a transcript of de Molay’s speech on the day of his death.

  It is just that, in so terrible a day, and in the last moments of my life, I should discover all the iniquity of falsehood, and make the truth triumph. I declare, then, in the face of heaven and earth, and acknowledge, though to my eternal shame, that I have committed the greatest crimes but it has been the acknowledging of those which have been so foully charged on the order. I attest - and truth obliges me to attest - that it is innocent! I made the contrary declaration only to suspend the excessive pains of torture, and to mollify those who made me endure them. I know the punishments which have been inflicted on all the knights who had the courage to revoke a similar confession; but the dreadful spectacle which is presented to me is not able to make me confirm one lie by another. The life offered me on such infamous terms, I abandon without regret.

  The transcriber told that the Grand Master spoke these words while standing on a platform over the Seine. On the scaffold of his death, de Molay had cursed his accusers, the King and the Pope.

  King Philip and Pope Clement died within the year. Curses were a dark magic not practiced in Camelot. Just because men died didn’t necessarily mean de Molay was secretly a wizard.

  What was interesting was the words of de Molay’s curse. They were spoken in Latin and also in Arabic.

  Gwin’s Latin was a bit rusty. Her Arabic was a bit better since it was frequently spoken by the elderly in Camelot who’d either come from or spent time in the Holy Lands of the East. These words on the page could possibly be a curse. If de Molay had magical blood.

  The sun shone through the window of the bookstore. Gwin scrubbed her eyes. She leaned back, rolling her head.

  She needed to learn more about de Molay and his background. After reading his biography, she knew just the place to do it. Now she just needed to convince her escort to take a detour before they went home.

  17

  Lance kept his eye on Gwin as the phone rang. He ignored the shop clerk as she loosened a button on her blouse and leaned over, allowing her cleavage a freedom he wasn’t interested in. Lance instead looked at the buttoned-up lady bent over a musty book. The shop was mostly empty at this time of day, but he trusted no one and no thing when it came to her safety.

  He looked from the door of the shop to the table where Gwin sat. Her head was buried in the book. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders. She brushed it aside with a hand. He knew that expression. It was her determined expression.

  She was determined to solve the mystery of the Stone Templars. The problem was the riddle amounted to the ravings of a madman. A madman that was still on the loose and could likely be headed toward this very city.

  The thought of Malegant or one of his ill-trained goons getting their hands on Gwin again had Lance's hands balled into fists. He heard a crack and noted that he was near to destroying the phone
in his hand. He had to get her home and quick.

  He turned his attention back to the phone. He braced himself after the first ringing. He was certain he’d hear a gruff tone, demanding, filled with accusations and disappointment at his actions of having a lady out all night in his presence.

  He cared that the reputation he’d work so hard to keep spotless would be tarnished. But it was nothing to the idea of him ruining Gwin’s immaculate image. His shellacking would have to wait because the phone rang and then rang some more.

  Until finally, a grumpy lion roared into the receiver. “What?”

  Arthur answered on the fifth ring, which was unlike him. There was anger in Arthur’s voice, but the tone sounded more like a roar of annoyance that the King of the Jungle had been roused from his rest and not the worry that one of his subjects had been out all hours of the night.

  So, he hadn’t been up all night with worry?

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” said Lance. “I lost my phone somewhere between the house fire in Champagne and the ride to Paris. This is the first chance I’ve had to call.”

  “Who is this?” Arthur growled.

  Had he misdialed? But no, Lance was certain of the numerical code he’d dialed. And that was Arthur’s deep voice, though not filled with the usual perceptiveness and alertness of his leader.

  “It’s Lancelot. Tall, redhead. Good with a sword. Your second in command.”

  “Who is it, Arthur?” came a feminine voice.

  Lance recognized Morgan’s voice. Though Arthur and Morgan hadn’t taken their official marriage vows, they lived their lives as husband and wife day and night.

  “We’re sorry we’ve worried you,” Lance began. “But we’re both fine.”

  “Worry?” said Arthur.

  “We?” said Morgan. Lance could hear her ruffling in the background. She’d likely pressed her ear to the phone so that she could hear too.

  “What we are worrying me?” said Arthur.