Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride

by Lynna Banning

  Good. She was not a child who needed tending.

  Pages ran forwards to help them dismount and unload the baggage from the pack mule tied behind Benjamin’s mount. The instant she slid off the cream mare an icy shard of fear stabbed beneath her breastbone.

  She was here at last. She could turn her dream into a triumph…or she could make such a fool of herself that no one, not even Benjamin, would ever speak to her again. Worse, perhaps they would laugh at her.

  Her chest felt as if jagged rocks were piling up behind her ribs. She was not just frightened, she was petrified!

  She swallowed hard. ‘Benjamin, I am…I am somewhat afraid.’

  The old man sent her a quick sideways look. ‘All things have their price, little one. Especially great adventures.’ His black eyes twinkled.

  She frowned at him. ‘Oh, Ben…In truth, I am very afraid.’

  Benjamin um-hummed beside her. ‘Tell me,’ he urged in his soft rumbly voice.

  ‘I cannot explain, exactly. All my life I have dreamed of the time when I would leave my father’s house and seek my own destiny.’

  ‘Ah, and here you are, are you not?’

  She turned her gaze away from his narrow wrinkled face and focused instead on the portcullis behind them. Any moment Reynaud would clatter over the drawbridge. She did not want him to know she was afraid. She resented his dutiful overprotectiveness. And his disapproval of her.

  ‘One part of me can hardly wait!’ she blurted. ‘Another part of me wants to turn back and ride to the safety of my father’s house.’

  ‘Which do you want most?’ her tutor queried in his gravelly voice.

  She drew in a shaky gulp of air. ‘I have ridden all the way from Granada to follow the joyous art. Gai saber it is called in the courts of Aquitaine. What I want most is…is to try.’

  Benjamin merely nodded and his black eyes softened. ‘And, so?’ he murmured.

  Yes, she would try. She would do it this very night, exactly as she’d planned these many months. She caught a passing page by the sleeve and tugged him to attention. ‘I would speak with the Lady Alais. In private.’

  The boy’s eyes widened for an instant, then he raced off and disappeared through a narrow doorway. Leonor lifted her harp, wrapped in a nest of carpets carried on the pack mule, squared her shoulders and marched towards the castle entrance.

  Chapter Four

  From the rampart overlooking the bailey Reynaud watched for a moment longer, his pulse jumping in an irregular beat at the sight of the slim girlish figure in the white turban.

  With a curse he turned away from the battlement and descended the narrow circular staircase. He had important business here in Moyanne besides looking after Leonor. Whoever was to contact him while he was here, with instructions for disposing of the Templar gold hidden in his saddlebags, would use the coded password de Blanquefort had given him. Beyond that, his Grand Master had told him nothing.

  So he must wait. But each time he laid eyes on Leonor, a warm rush of blood beat in his chest, and the darkness inside him lifted. Though his spirit was weary, his body was becoming frighteningly alive.

  In the great hall the huge stone fireplace stood empty. Moyanne’s summer heat left the evening air balmy and still until long past Lauds. It reminded him of Syria, except that nights there were never quiet.

  The smoky flames of rushlights illuminated the noisy company assembled in Count Henri’s hall. The count and his lady-wife Alais welcomed him with unfeigned cordiality, yet again he felt out of place, neither Frankish nor Arab.

  To his surprise, Reynaud found himself sitting in the place of honour at Count Henri’s right hand. Henri himself, the count confided, had served as a Hospitaller. He had a fondness for knights of a military order, even the rival order of Knights Templar.

  A portly wine server made his leisurely rounds from the raised dais to the linen-covered trestle tables abutting each end. Reynaud drank deeply from his overflowing cup and tried to screen out the noise and bustle. Lords and ladies in silks and ribbons, knights, churchmen in sombre robes, even children were crowded together in the warm, sweat-scented room.

  He focused on the nimble juggler in the centre area. Dressed in tight red hose and a belled cap, the fellow tossed yellow apples into the air, bouncing them off his arms before catching them.

  Count Henri leaned towards him. ‘Later,’ he said in an undertone, ‘there will be dancing.’

  Reynaud hid a grimace. Before he had made his vows, dancing with a woman had brought him pleasure. Now he contented himself with watching the assembled guests for a glimpse of Leonor. When he had assured himself that she was safe and protected, he would count the hours before Compline and then sleep.

  He gulped the rich, sweet liquid in his wine cup and tried to concentrate on his host’s conversation over the rattle of eating knives and bursts of laughter. But his gaze moved from face to face, for the thousandth time studying knight and noble lady alike.

  Where was Leonor?

  ‘Drink up, Reynaud,’ the count urged. ‘Our meal will be…’ he slanted an amused look at Lady Alais ‘…delayed somewhat. My lady-wife’s favourite hound whelped this afternoon. She promised a pup to the cook.’

  Lady Alais covered her husband’s hand with her own. ‘Cook could not decide which of the six she preferred, my dear. Truth to tell, neither could I. They are all quite handsome.’

  She glanced at Reynaud. ‘Perhaps you, Sir Reynaud, would like a companion?’

  Reynaud shook his head at the tall, still elegant older woman in the simply cut, dark blue gown. ‘Not I, lady. I travel overmuch to care for a pup. Neither have I time in which to train it.’

  In truth, he found it difficult to stay in one place for very long. He was footloose, and when he had time on his hands he tended to brood. He welcomed orders that sent him on another journey.

  Alais gave him a gentle smile. ‘A pity. I fear there are too many pups to keep, but I cannot bear to see them drowned.’ She turned to the heavy-set man on her left. ‘My Lord Robert, have you a hound?’

  Henri chuckled and saluted his wife with his raised wine cup. He drank, then winked at Reynaud. ‘I’ll not drown them,’ he said in an undertone. ‘But if she thinks I will, it will spur her to find homes for the little brutes all the quicker. Women, bless them, are soft-hearted creatures when it comes to young things.’

  The count’s face stilled for an instant. ‘Perhaps it would not be thus if she had had babes of her own.’

  ‘You have no offspring, my lord?’

  ‘I have a son,’ Henri said quietly. ‘His mother died in birthing him. He was a man full grown when Alais came to me as a bride.’

  ‘Does he still live?’

  ‘Perhaps. If God wills it. I have not seen him for thirty summers. He was fostered with my brother, Roger of St Bertrand, at Carcassonne and thence travelled across the sea to Jerusalem. A handsome lad he was, before he left.’

  ‘I met many from Navarre while in the Holy Land. How was your son called?’

  ‘Bernard,’ the count replied. ‘But he was not a knight of your order. He was also a Hospitaller.’

  Before he could question the count further, a young boy appeared at the far end of the hall, a harp slung over one slim shoulder. A floppy velvet cap drooped over his features.

  Count Henri’s eyes went wide with surprise, but Reynaud’s heart lifted. A troubadour! He had not heard a troubadour ballad since he rode out of Vezelay as a squire twenty years past.

  And God knew his weary heart was hungry for solace.

  Leonor paused at the entrance to the main hall and waited for her aunt’s signal from the head table. Quickly she adjusted her grip on the harp and pushed a stubborn strand of hair up under her green velvet cap. Benjamin gently squeezed her arm. ‘Go with God, little one,’ he whispered. ‘Shalom.’

  The moment had come. Her heart leaped like an untamed hawk straining at its jesses.

  The sting of poetry had always sent a thrill to her
midsection, like being blown aloft by a holy breath. When she sang the words of her heart, the world stopped turning, and for a brief moment she felt at one with all humankind.

  But only in the land of Aquitaine, where Great Eleanor ruled, was there a woman troubadour. It was whispered that at Eleanor’s court there were even women poets!

  Yet this was Moyanne, not Aquitaine. Perhaps they would not welcome a woman troubadour. Her mouth went dry as a thistle.

  At her aunt’s beckoning gesture, she started forwards, her heart thudding in her ears. If she glanced down at the loose-fitting silk tunic, it would be visibly fluttering over her chest with each beat. Better not to look.

  She raised her chin and gazed across the hall. Next to her Uncle Henri sat Reynaud, tall and dark-haired in his white surcoat. She focused on the eight-pointed crimson cross emblazoned on his chest and willed her shaking limbs to carry her forwards, towards him.

  Reynaud’s body suddenly went cold. That was no young minstrel. That was Leonor gliding towards him! And, God save her, she was wearing trousers! What was she thinking, entering the hall in a man’s garb? And carrying a harp?

  Women did not perform in public. Certainly not a high-born woman like Leonor, educated in languages and versed in court etiquette. Surely she knew better. Henri’s guests would not listen to the music a woman would make. They would shout until she ceased singing.

  Unable to breathe, Reynaud followed her progress through the horde of servants and guests in the crowded hall. She looked so small. And defenceless. Her simple embroidered tunic reached almost to the floor, and on her head she wore a matching green cap with a jaunty feather. But under the boy’s apparel she was unmistakably female! The delicate bones in her face, her graceful, sinuous motions screamed Woman.

  His breath choked off. Did no one see what was so apparent to him? She was safe only if none realised she was female! He ground his teeth in an agony of frustration. It was too late to stop her.

  The room buzzed in anticipation. Leonor advanced to the centre and bowed courteously to the count and Lady Alais.

  Alais leaned towards her husband. ‘My dear, this is the harper I told you of earlier.’ At her significant look, Henri turned his full attention towards the youth.

  Leonor sank on to a round wooden stool and bent her head to check her tuning. The hall quieted.

  Under his surcoat Reynaud began to sweat. The crowd would not receive her well. How could he protect her in this foolhardy venture? He had stashed his sword belt, along with those of the other knights, with the burly guard at the hall entrance. Now, he had no weapon.

  Silence dropped over the hall like soft mist. When the hush thickened, Leonor straightened, pulled the harp back on to her right shoulder and plucked a single chord.

  Then she began to sing.

  In spite of his pounding heart, he could not shut out her voice. What beautiful music! Her voice was low and melodious, rich in timbre. A woman’s voice, not the voice of the girl he remembered.

  And such poetry! The words, in Arabic, described the soaring of a lark, the flight of a heart in ecstasy. The verses were so beautifully wrought that his chest tightened.

  The backs of his eyelids began to burn. Not since his youth had a song touched him so deeply. His throat ached. He wanted to weep. The throb of her harp through his soul was almost painful, the longing aroused in him gnawing at his vitals.

  Ah, he could stand no more. He clenched his hands until his knuckles cracked, and then, mercifully, the mesmerising voice and the murmur of the harp faded into silence.

  He waited, scarcely able to draw breath.

  Leonor dipped her head in a subtle obeisance to the count and Lady Alais but remained motionless on her stool. Reynaud could not take his eyes off her.

  No one made a sound. At his elbow, Count Henri gaped open-mouthed at the slim figure in the centre of the hall. ‘By the saints,’ he breathed into the lingering hush.

  She raised her head at last, and Reynaud saw that her grey eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  Pandemonium broke out. Nobles and commoners alike banged their wine cups on the table and cheered until they were hoarse.

  Reynaud drew in an unsteady breath. She had enchanted them. Thank God. Thank God!

  She rose, stepped to the high table, and knelt on one knee before Count Henri and Lady Alais. Then she reached a small, fine-boned hand up to her feathered cap and with a quick motion drew it off and placed it across her heart.

  Hair the colour of black silk tumbled down her slender back.

  The crowd gasped. ‘A woman!’ someone shouted. ‘The minstrel is a woman!’

  Reynaud was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, intending to head towards the wooden rack of swords at the front of the hall. Never before had he felt such an overpowering need to protect someone.

  He halted as an underlying truth burned into his brain. Never before had he felt such a gut-deep yearning to touch another human spirit.

  But a woman? His vows forbade it. He had to escape whatever it was pulling his soul to hers.

  The shouting of the dinner guests echoed in the stone hall and then, abruptly, all noise ceased. His body began to tremble.

  She would play again.

  He didn’t think he could stand it.

  Chapter Five

  Reynaud rose to escape from the table, but the count turned to him. ‘Stay, man,’ he commanded in an undertone. With a hand heavy as a mace, he pressed Reynaud back into his seat at the linen-covered table.

  The clatter of eating knives and drinking cups ceased. Quiet descended over the crowded hall and Reynaud clamped his teeth together. Without discourtesy to his host, he could not escape.

  Leonor adjusted the tuning on one peg, idly strummed her slim fingers once, twice across the strings in a seemingly spontaneous melodic pattern. A tune gradually emerged, and then a countermelody bloomed underneath it.

  Her long fingers floated over the harp strings, her slender hands like winged birds in motion. Her hair, dark as midnight, fell forwards to obscure her features, and when she brushed it back in the quick, unconscious gesture he remembered, something tore at his gut.

  She was seven and twenty now, and she took his breath away!

  The last notes of the song resonated off the thick stone walls, and Leonor lifted her head and met his gaze. Beneath the dark, arched brows her smoke-grey eyes sent him a challenging look.

  His throat closed.

  ‘So, my friend.’ Count Henri chuckled. ‘I wager you did not recognise her at first. She is a feast for the eyes, is she not?’

  Reynaud sat without moving, unable to speak.

  ‘My lord?’ Leonor’s low, clear voice at his side jerked him to attention.

  ‘Since you have lately returned from the land across the sea, is there some music you would hear? The count asks it in your honour.’

  Reynaud flicked a glance at Count Henri, who was grinning at him over his wine cup. Damn the man. The count bobbed his head as if to say, Well? Does she not make an exquisite troubadour?

  Reynaud swallowed over a lump the size of the juggler’s apple. ‘I do have a request.’ He watched Henri settle his bent form back in his chair, his lips twitching in anticipation.

  Leonor’s grey eyes lifted to his. ‘And that is?’

  He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘I wish to talk with you. In private.’

  Count Henri choked out, ‘Talk?’ He eyed Reynaud in exasperation.

  Reynaud nodded. ‘Talk,’ he repeated. He shot the count a swift look. ‘I mean no discourtesy, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘For the moment, might I have your indulgence?’

  A frown creased Count Henri’s ruddy forehead. ‘Indulgence?’ In the next instant his eyes brightened. ‘Oh! Yes, I see now. You young cousins would be private, of course! Forgive my slowness.’ He tapped his skull with one beringed finger. ‘My age, you know. Go now, and talk.’

  Leonor’s eyes widened. ‘But, Uncle—’

  ‘Whsst,
child. Do as I say. You will be glad for it, I promise you.’ Henri waved her away. ‘Go! Go! Shoo!’

  Leonor reached across the table and patted the old man’s hand. ‘Never before have I been allowed to be private with a man, Uncle. Thank you!’

  At Henri’s startled look, Leonor sent him a dazzling smile. ‘I am sure the experience will greatly further my education.’

  Reynaud suppressed the laugh that rose in his throat. A man stood little chance against that one.

  Leonor beckoned. ‘Will you follow me, my lord?’

  In the narrow passageway just off the great hall, Leonor turned to face him. ‘We are private now, my lord. What did you wish?’

  His face betrayed no emotion save for an odd tightness about his mouth, but his eyes spoke volumes. They were green as the winter sea, and wary. He reminded her of a falcon her father had once trained—disciplined and powerful. He looked like one who could kill a man in a heartbeat, then fall to his knees and pray for forgiveness.

  He stood looking at her while she studied his strained, unsmiling face in silence. Never in her entire life had she wondered so about a man. His features were young, but his eyes looked old. Something about Reynaud drew her like a silver coin to a lodestone.

  ‘Why do you look so sour?’ she murmured.

  ‘I have my reasons,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I would wager you have dark places inside you that few, if any, have plumbed. Rey, I do not wish to be your enemy.’

  He took a step forwards. For all the strength of his broad shoulders and length of limb, he was oddly graceful. Would he dance as beautifully as he moved?

  A slow, delicious heat crept into her belly. She wanted to touch him. What was she thinking?

  She forced herself to look into his face. ‘You wished to speak to me?’

  Reynaud fought the impulse to reach out and drag her against his chest. His hands ached to twine his fingers through that silky hair. ‘Leonor, you need not address me as “my lord”.’

  ‘“My lord” implies no allegiance, only the respect due to a knight of a holy order.’