by Ines Johnson
"Thank you, kind sir," said Gwin. "Now would you mind lowering your blade on my companion?”
“I’m an observant man in my old age. I notice you, my lady, wear a wedding band where your companion does not. I notice you call him companion instead of husband. I know no knight of honor would dare dally with a lady, especially a witch, that was not his wife.”
That called Lance up short. Already, the familiar feeling of heat spread through his body. Not a heat of desire, a feverish heat that left him feeling ill to his stomach. A sickness that wracked his person. A debilitating malady that had never been within his control.
“If he were a knight of Camelot, he would abide by the code of chivalry,” said the Templar.
The blade at Lance’s gut ceased to be a dilemma. He unclenched his fists and let his hands hang at his side. He was defenseless against these accusations.
For one hundred years, he'd lived by the code, determined to prove himself worthy of honor and eschew the caste his father's actions had bred him in. If Lance were honest, he'd acknowledge he'd danced on the edges of the code when it came to Gwin. There had never been any physical impropriety before today. But for decades, there had been infidelity in his heart, in his mind, in his soul.
“Sir Lancelot is all that is honorable and good. He’s the best man I know.” Gwin stepped in front of Lance, inserting herself between Lance’s gut and the Templar’s blade. “I’m nearly widowed, and I intend to make him my husband very soon. So, good sir, if you intend to take his life, you’ll take mine as well.”
The Templar’s sword lowered at Gwin’s good word. However, Lance saw in the Templar’s eyes that the man’s estimation of him hadn’t raised an inch.
The old man sheathed both swords, and then turned to Gwin, offering his arm. “Nearly widowed?”
Lance felt the sigh of relief sail through Gwin’s body as she took the proffered arm. “It’s a long story. My name is Gwin.”
“I know who you are, my dear. I may live a world away from Camelot, but I know its tales well. I am Sir Bernard Darvill, at your service.”
“You’re of the original Order of Templars?”
Though Sir Darvill had held his swords like a man of twenty, his body moved like a man past his prime. His back hunched now that the danger was over. His knees creaked as he moved.
“I’m likely the last of my kind,” the old man said. “I can trace my line back six hundred years. I’m 105 just this past year.”
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a day over ninety,” Lance muttered.
The knight glared. Nothing wrong with his hearing apparently.
“The order had dwindled to only a few families during the time of my grandfather. My brothers didn’t choose the life. Unfortunately, I had no sons. So, the line ends with me.”
“My grandfather, Sir Galahad, only had daughters,” said Gwin. “No sons. His two daughters kept the name. The line of heritage has done quite nicely with the three Galahad girls that remain.”
“Daughters would’ve been lovely, but I had no children. I had no wife.” He paused, looking off into the distance out of a stained glass window. They’d come up a creaking stairwell into what looked like an abandoned church.
Lance knew the look Sir Darvill wore. The old knight may not have had a wife, but he had loved once. Likely from afar if the crinkle at his eye was a clue.
“I had loved,” Darvill confirmed. “I chose my duty over her.”
Gwin looked down to the flooring as they made their way through the pews. She didn’t turn to look at Lance, who trailed behind Gwin and Darvill. She didn’t need to. They were seeing their future play out in the sad eyes of the old knight.
"I watched her move on with her life, marry and have children, then grow old and lay to rest. I watched over her her entire life, loving her from afar as I kept my vows. It was enough.”
That last line was spoken with a hint of bitterness coating the longing. Lance saw a flicker of regret in the old man’s eyes. It was the same flicker he confronted in the mirror each day.
It was a lie. What Sir Darvill had traded, love for duty, it wasn’t enough. Lance wouldn’t call the man on his broken vow of honesty. He was more interested in not repeating the man’s lifelong mistake.
“It’s been a long time since a witch or one of Arthur’s knights has graced this place,” said Sir Darvill, his voice perking up. “Tell me, what brings you two here to the Commandery of Arville?”
20
They left the church and moved across the grounds. Behind the property was farmland, but woods bordered the fertile ground. Gwin knew from her quick research into the Arville Perceptory that the stone church was built in the twelfth century. There were three semicircular archways that symbolized the Holy Trinity.
To the right of the church was a Tithe Barn. The doors to the barn were open. However, it was clear to see the innards were empty. As too was the actual barn that should’ve housed livestock.
“Are there others?” asked Gwin.
“It is only I,” said Sir Darvill. “I am the last of my kind. No boy band. Just a solo act.”
Sir Darvill turned and sneered at Lance. Before the elderly knight turned back to face Gwin, Gwin saw Lance raise his arms as though to say What did I do to you? Lance’s gaze fell to where Gwin’s arm rested in the crook of the Templar’s elbow.
Gwin chuckled, giving Lance an affectionate smile. She’d seen his face fall when Sir Darvill had attacked his honor. That was a wound that cut deeper than a sword.
Lance had pulled his mask of nonchalance over his features. It was his Hostess smile. The two of them had that in common, always hiding what they truly wanted. Well, that would end soon.
Actually, no. It had already ended. Yesterday was the last day that she would ever deny or suppress her feelings for this man. From this and every day forward, she’d live in the light of truth. That truth was that she loved Lancelot and had every intention of being his bride, his wife, his partner for life.
With that knowledge, Gwin practically skipped along as Sir Darvill led her to the commandery’s central holding; the preceptory. A preceptory was the headquarters of any knights’ property. Gwin hadn’t been to many outside of those that belonged to Camelot. It was too dangerous to go to old monastic commanderies because it was unclear if it was now a Templar stronghold. The building they walked into was dubbed The Center for Chivalric Orders, but Gwin knew it was originally a stable.
In its heyday, the commandery would be used mainly for farming, religious life, and military training for knights awaiting deployment to the Crusades. History told this place had fallen to the Hospitallers of Saint John of Jerusalem. The turrets were a Hospitaller addition. Gwin knew so because she could tell the pinnacles were covered with chestnut tiles, better known as shingles. The tithe barn was also made of chestnut. Only the chapel told of its ancient connection to Camelot. It was built with stone, as Camelot built its castles and strongholds.
"The history records told that this place was bought by Hospitallers after the Templar Order was abolished," she said.
“We had to hide what we truly were for a time,” said Sir Darvill. “My ancestors called themselves Hospitallers, but we never abandoned what we truly were. After the Friday the 13th Massacre, and later the French Revolution, we kept a low profile. My grandfather had the idea to turn the land into a tourist attraction to hide in plain sight. It’s evident we don’t get many venturing out here to see the dregs of an ancient way of life that has nearly died out.”
The true allegiance of this place was most evident in the preceptory's Great Hall. On the wall hung the vows of the Templars. Today's Templars followed ten pillars of Chivalry. The original Templars followed twelve. The first two of the twelve read:
Preserve the ancient origins of religion and spirituality.
Seek communion with the feminine face of God.
If she had any more doubt, all of her defenses relaxed now. Sir Bernard Darvill was a friend of Camelot. A wit
ch would know no harm in his care. She only wished she’d known he was out here sooner. She would insisted he come back with them to Camelot and be amongst his own kind because the original Templars were protectors of magical kind just as like their brothers, the Knights of Camelot.
“Now, how can I be of assistance to you, my lady?”
"We're looking for records of Jacques de Molay's time in the East." She decided not to go into the reasons why. Though Gwin had lived her entire life in a world of the fantastical, she knew that the idea of men turned to stone was a bit out there.
“De Molay spent a lot of time here,” said Darvill. “Much of his writing is stored here.”
Darvill led them into a room that looked like an ancient library. That wasn’t their final destination. He pressed a stone and a doorway opened revealing a secret passageway. Fluorescent stones lined the walls and ceilings shedding colorful light. Inside the room were rows upon rows of ancient binders. Gwin knew her cousin, Loren, and her bestie, Nia, would expire on the spot over the sight of the tomes.
“You’ll find de Molay’s journals over there," said Sir Darvill. “I’ll prepare luncheon and leave you to it.”
“We won’t be staying that long,” said Lance.
Darvill glared at him as he made his way to the door. “In my days, knights were hospitable. They always offered sustenance to their guests, especially if that guest was a lady.”
Lance grit his teeth, obviously reaching for patience. “You’ll understand, sir, that I need to return the lady to the safety of Tintagel Castle.”
“Are you saying this fortress isn’t safe, sir?”
Lance’s mouth opened and closed. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. Gwin decided to step in and soften the blow.
“We would love a repast before we journey home,” said Gwin. “You’re too kind, Sir Darvill.”
Sir Darvill turned to beam at her. He gave her a deep bow that she worried he wouldn’t rise from. He managed to rise, but not before he glared at Lance and then turned to leave.
“What did I do to him?” grumbled Lance.
“You’re used to being perfect,” Gwin said as she took a seat and opened the first book.
“No one thinks I’m perfect,” said Lance. “I’m a bastard, remember.”
“No." Gwin's fingers paused in turning the page. They had to get this straight right now. "You are not a bastard. You were born out of wedlock. That is not a smear on your character. It's not even a smear on your mother's character because she loved and trusted your father. The only person whose reputation should be tarnished is the former Sir Lancelot, who I hope is being tormented in hell for what he put both you, your mother, and his wife through."
A tentative smile started at the corner of his mouth. His voice was soft and halting when he spoke. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so uncharitably about another living soul.”
“Life is a miracle and precious. Your life is precious to me. I don’t care how you got here, only that you are here.”
He brushed a hand over his face, likely trying to hide his emotions from her. She’d allow him this one last time. But this was it.
She would not spend her life in an old crypt, aging and alone. She would reach for the one she loved and hold him near for the rest of her days. But first, she had a mission to complete.
Gwin put her head into the book as Lance milled about the room. He couldn’t seem to keep still, vacillating between watching the door, watching her, and playing with the brooch that contained his sword.
Jacques de Molay had kept meticulous notes of his time as Grand Master. The journal Gwin found first was the last journal he’d written. In it, she learned of the struggles of the last days of the Templars. De Molay wasn’t only contending with his enemies of the crown and in the church, he also fought off other orders.
De Molay had allies in Cyprus, Persia, Spain, and even England. As the French King and Pope began to tighten the noose around the Templars’ necks, these other powers offered protection, if the Templars merged with their orders.
Orders from as far away as England. It would appear that the English King, Edward I, pressed the hardest. But de Molay maintained the Templar’s autonomy. He vowed the order would not be folded into another’s military. He wrote that he suspected there were traitors inside the order, angling to align the knights with the Papacy. The last entry was of de Molay contemplating a parlay that would take him to England. He wrote of a request to meet at Carnac with the king’s knights.
“I think I’ve found something.” Lance had stopped his pacing and was bent over a book.
Gwin went to him. Looking at the date of the writings, these were from de Molay’s early times as an ordained knight.
“This is from his time in Persia with the Mongols of the Ilkhanate,” he said. “There’s a ley line there, isn’t there?”
There was a ley line there, and a small community of magical kind. Gwin had never visited herself, but some of the wizards there had made the journey to Camelot a few times in her life. Morgan was always thrilled at their arrival. They were of the few magical kind who still practiced alchemy.
Gwin turned a few pages of the journal, and there it was. By the tiny intake of breath at her ear, Lance saw it too. Beside notes about petrification written in French, was a scrawled bit of Arabic. The same bit of Arabic a bystander had reported that de Molay had shouted on the day of his death by fire and drowning on a stake overlooking the Seine.
Gwin’s written Arabic was rusty. The language was often spoken back at home, but few wrote it. She sounded the words out, her voice quiet in the cavernous room.
“Taslib alqalb waljism lilhimaya.” It roughly translated to harden the heart and body for protection.
She heard Lance gasp. But it was louder than a gasp. The intake of breath wasn’t one of surprise. It was one of pain.
Gwin looked up to find Lance gripping his heart. His eyes went large. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His hand went for his sword but his fingers wouldn’t uncurl.
Gwin reached for him, her heart in her throat to see him in pain. When she touched him, his skin was rough, like tree bark. Under her fingertips, his flesh was smoothing out and getting colder, like stone.
He was being petrified before her eyes. It was the words. It was the spell. Lance was turning to stone.
21
Lance had been too busy watching Gwin's lips as they whispered the spell to notice that the words were having an effect on him. Whenever she spoke, the words always arrowed straight to his heart. These words were no different. But instead of warming his heart, everything went cold.
“Lance? Lance!”
Gwin’s words fell away. The sound of his name moving farther and farther away from him even though she stood right in front of him. She reached out to him, running her fingers over his face, his chest. The cruel reality was that he felt none of her touch.
He was trapped in a nightmare. Unable to close his eyes as the real world continued to turn around him. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He could barely think.
It felt like the phenomenon known as having a witch on your back. That paralysis that came with sleep that felt as though an old hag sat on your back or on your chest.
The witch in front of Lance was lovely with flawless skin that was coloring a panicked shade of red. Her bright eyes glistened with fear. Her kissable lips were stretched taut as she yelled words that he couldn’t respond to.
That’s when he started to panic. Gwin was in jeopardy. He had to save her. Had to protect her. But he couldn’t move his hand to raise his sword. He couldn’t lift his foot to place himself in front of her.
He was shaking, though his limbs were rigid. His heart raced, about to explode in the confined container of its prison. His gut, his head, all were rock hard and impenetrable. He couldn't reach out to her.
Lance had always thought he’d die by the sword. Or, if he was lucky, dragon’s fire while retrieving a t
reasure of Camelot. Maybe a raging demigod might break his spine after Lance successfully protected his city and his people. But this, this impotency to protect his lady, this was a fate worse than death.
And then, just as suddenly as he’d been rendered stiff and immobile, he was free.
Gwin’s healing hands were around him. She held him tight, brushing away the crust of gravel that had imprisoned him. Her heat suffused him, returning life to his limbs and his soul.
Lance threw propriety out of the window. He brought his hands around her. He lifted her light form onto his lap, locked his arms around her, and buried his face in her neck.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Gwin repeated the words on a loop. She ran her fingers through his hair, digging her nails into his scalp. With her other hand, she pressed her palm into his back, pulling him closer into her embrace.
“The curse is real.” Lance’s voice creaked like a twig breaking in half on a hot day.
He pulled Gwin even tighter to him, fitting her head in the crook of his neck until he felt her hot breath on his skin. The pulsing life of her was necessary after his brief foray into the dark stillness of that curse. He felt it clawing at his skin, still resting on the fine hairs on his forearms waiting to wrap him up again.
“There may be hundreds, thousands of men who were petrified hundreds of years ago,” she said. “We have to find them.”
Lance pulled away, just a few inches. Only far enough so that he could peer down into her face. “No, we don’t.”
Lance had not a care of finding Templars turned to stone. His mission remained the same, and he would not be deterred any longer. He was getting her back behind the impenetrable walls of Tintagel Castle. This adventure was over.
Gwin tilted her head back and frowned at him. For a second, Lance forgot that they were arguing. She looked lovely, adorable, kissable. It took his body turning to stone to release any more doubts, any more blocks. Gwin belonged in his arms.
