Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride

by Lynna Banning

  He looked down into her eyes and she fell silent until the droning of the rebec ceased and the dance ended. Reynaud lowered their clasped fingers until they stood facing each other, jostled by retreating dancers. Slowly he drew her into the protective shadows of the far wall.

  He closed her hand in his and held it down, near his thigh. In silence he twined his fingers in hers and gently tucked her arm behind her back. Unable to help himself, he drew her towards him.

  What was he doing?

  He had but two choices. He could hold her in his arms, as he ached to do, or he could walk away.

  ‘Reynaud,’ she said quietly, ‘you are hurting my hand.’ Instantly he disengaged his fingers from hers and slid his hand up to encircle her wrist. ‘Your pardon. Being close to you is…difficult.’

  ‘Then,’ she questioned gently, ‘why do you not release me?’

  He could tell she was smiling, though he could not bring himself to look into her face. He could not answer over the hot ache in his throat. He swallowed hard and tightened his hand about her slim wrist. ‘I fear you are in danger, though you may not be aware of it.’

  Her eyes flared. ‘I am aware. I sought it.’

  ‘Then have a care, Leonor. Trust no one.’

  She hesitated half a heartbeat, and a soft light kindled deep within her grey eyes. ‘Not even you, Reynaud?’

  He pressed his arm across her back, lowered his head to hers and spoke near her ear. ‘Hear me, Leonor. I fear for you.’ And God help me, I fear for myself when you are near.

  ‘You need not fear,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You are a Templar. And my cousin. I would trust you with my life.’

  ‘Then,’ he whispered, ‘you are indeed foolish.’

  Her smile faded. ‘Ah, no. I think not,’ she said quietly. ‘You are the friend of my childhood, Rey. I know you disapprove of what I do, but you are still my friend, are you not?’

  ‘I am that,’ he said, his voice rough with emotion. As a Templar, he could never be more than her friend. He opened his lips to ask about the words of her song, but Henri appeared and whisked her off again. He waited an hour, but she did not return.

  At supper the next evening Reynaud sat curling his finger around the base of his wine cup until his knuckles ached. Another of Count Henri’s snail-paced evening meals, and still Leonor had not made an appearance. He had glimpsed her earlier in the day, walking in the south garden with Benjamin, their heads bent together. He wondered what they had been discussing so intently. He had tried to find her that afternoon, to no avail. If she were indeed the messenger from his Grand Master, he would need to find out from her where he was to deliver his Templar gold.

  Why was she not present at the evening meal?

  Benjamin was also nowhere to be seen. That did not surprise him; except in Granada, few Jews, even respected scholars, mingled with the dinner guests in a Christian household. But neither was Benjamin’s bony black-robed form visible in the assortment of servants, pages and peasants crowding against the far wall, waiting for the leavings of gravy-sopped bread and meat scraps.

  The words of the conversation on either side of him buzzed in his head like swarming bees. Benjamin could take care of himself, could make himself inconspicuous as an ant if need be. But Leonor?

  Never. She was far too noticeable with that mass of black hair and those large grey eyes. The scent of her hair, sweet roses with a hint of sandalwood, tormented him. He inhaled slowly, struggling to still the hammering of his heart.

  ‘What say you, Templar?’ the count shouted over the clank of cups and the din of laughter. ‘Can the Christian Reconquista succeed against the infidel in Spain?’

  Reynaud unclenched his fingers and took a deep swallow of his wine before answering. ‘Your son Bernard yet fights against the Saracen. Have you never wondered why?’

  The count leaned towards him. ‘My son is a Hospitaller. Wherever he is, he will not rest until the infidel is vanquished, in both the Holy Land and in Spain.’

  ‘God’s mercy on you, then, Henri, for he will be absent from you for a long time. It will not be a simple victory in Jerusalem or in Spain.’

  The count’s bushy grey eyebrows arched upwards. ‘Oh?’

  Reynaud directed his gaze straight into the older man’s hazel eyes. ‘It is an easy matter to take a castle, even an entire city. It is not so easy to reconquer a people. Spain has been home to both Christian and Saracen ever since the Arabs wrested the land from the Roman Goths four hundred years ago.’

  ‘You do not hate them, the Saracen?’

  ‘A few, aye. Most, I respect. Some—my uncle Hassam in Granada for one—I hold dear.’

  Just then Leonor appeared in the doorway, clothed in a silk gown the colour of sapphires, the wide crimson-lined sleeves brushing the floor at her feet. A lanky squire at her side carried her harp. She looked like a queen. A suffocating warmth filled his chest and he struggled to control his ragged breathing. Even if he could steel himself to look upon her, he was not sure he could bear to hear her sing again.

  But if she was in fact the agent he was to meet, he must identify himself to her tonight.

  Across the hall their gazes met and held, and in her soft grey eyes he read a question. Under his surcoat his heart jumped erratically. What question?

  She glided to the centre of the hall, the squire trailing behind, then lifted the carved instrument from the boy’s hands and sent him a smile of gratitude. Conversation in the hall faded to a hush.

  Blushing crimson, the youth backed into a seated knight, nearly overbalancing them both. The knight righted the stammering squire and clapped him on the back. ‘In love now, are you, Galeran? Well, perhaps it’s time. Might as well learn about heartbreak when you’re young.’

  Leonor waited until the squire had fled and the guffaws died down, then seated herself, detached her tuning key from the gold chain at her waist, and bent her head over the strings. She plucked softly, and when she was satisfied, she set the harp aside and rose to make a polite reverence to Lady Alais and Count Henri.

  Again her glance locked with Reynaud’s. Against his will, he held her eyes until his skittering pulse sounded in his ears. At last, she sent him a slow smile, and his senses exploded.

  His body burned with longing, and he closed his eyes to control the tightness in his loins. In all his thirty-two years he had never seen such a beautiful woman. Poor Galeran. He knew exactly how the youth suffered.

  She began her song and Reynaud gulped a mouthful of wine. If she was the agent sent to meet him, she would again sing of the silver swan. And if she did, he must find a way to answer with the second half of the coded message.

  He motioned to the wine server to refill his cup. Mesmerised, he watched Leonor’s slim form move subtly with the music, drinking in every nuance in her voice, the rich poetry of the verse.

  She began a second verse. Her voice floated over the melody echoed by the harp, and suddenly the words smacked into his brain. Know you the silver swan?

  He sucked in his breath.

  Over the edge of his wine cup he glimpsed a movement at the back of the hall. A black-cloaked figure stopped, then crept forwards again, advancing step by step like a cat. Closer, now. A few arm-lengths more and he would be able to make out the man’s features hidden under the loose hood.

  The stranger’s hard blue eyes studied the throng of listeners, then peered at Leonor. She drew the song to a close and raised her head expectantly, her hands poised over the harp strings.

  An odd silence descended over the hall. No one moved. No one so much as coughed or cleared his throat. The silence stretched until the humming in his brain set his teeth on edge.

  It must be now. Answer with the correct response. He should have spoken before, but he could not bring himself to believe Leonor was involved. Now, hearing the words for the second time in two nights, there was no mistaking it.

  Still, he hesitated.

  He must speak. As soon as she delivered the message to h
im, her task would be complete and she would be safe. Then he could leave Moyanne, leave Leonor in the protection of her uncle, and ride away from the sweet torture he endured every minute he was in her presence. Every league he put between them drew the danger away from her.

  He opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, a gruff voice spoke from the shadows.

  ‘The silver swan, lady? It sings but once, then dies.’

  Reynaud froze, an icy hand clamping his spine. That was the correct response. But who…?

  Leonor sat without moving, her eyes on the stranger. A pulse throbbed at her throat.

  Reynaud swung his gaze away from her to see the unknown speaker’s face.

  Chapter Eight

  A burly, sandy-haired man with a short, grey-streaked beard and ice-blue eyes stepped out of the shadows and stalked towards Leonor. An ankle-length tunic of dun-coloured linen showed beneath a fine overrobe of red damask trimmed in fur too heavy for the warm, stuffy Moyanne summer.

  Reynaud’s gut tightened. He rose from his place at the head table and strode towards Leonor, still seated in the centre of the hall. A rustle of whispers accompanied his every step.

  The stranger approached from the opposite direction. ‘My lady, I would speak with you. In private.’

  Leonor turned an assessing gaze on the man. ‘About what, my lord?’

  Reynaud winced at her directness, but marvelled that her voice sounded so calm. Only the fluttering pulse in her throat betrayed her unease.

  ‘The words you sang just now,’ the man said in an undertone, ‘offer one part of a puzzle. I present its mate. I believe you have something more to tell me?’

  She opened her lips to reply just as Reynaud reached her side.

  ‘Do not,’ he said in a voice intended for her ears alone. ‘Tell him nothing, Leonor. This man is false.’

  Leonor’s eyes widened. ‘But he answered—’

  Reynaud closed his hand over her shoulder. ‘Please, Leonor, say nothing. Trust me!’

  ‘Nay, lady,’ the stranger interjected softly. ‘Trust me! This Templar—’ he spat the word in Reynaud’s direction ‘—is the one who is false.’

  Leonor remained silent for a long moment. ‘You are not known to me, my lord.’ She looked up at the man with cool, grey eyes. ‘And so I would have your name, if you please.’

  The stranger drew himself up and bowed. ‘I am Bernard de Rodez. Count Henri’s son.’

  Onlookers gasped, and a babble of voices rose. Count Henri, his face pasty, bolted from his chair and clutched the table edge. The buzz of whispered questions rose and ebbed around them like restless waves in the sea.

  Reynaud felt his world tilt. The count’s son? Bernard of Moyanne was Bernard de Rodez?

  ‘And you, Templar?’ Leonor said, her voice low.

  ‘You know who I am. Your cousin, Reynaud.’

  A light flared in the stranger’s blue eyes. ‘Only “Reynaud”? Nothing more? Reynaud of…what?’

  Reynaud blinked. He levelled his gaze on the count’s son and stepped in close. Keeping his eyes on the stranger’s mottled face, he measured out his words. ‘I am bastard-born,’ he said quietly.

  Bernard de Rodez’s pale eyes did not blink. ‘A touching story,’ he sneered. ‘You are not landed, then. Or titled.’

  ‘True,’ Reynaud said. ‘I know not who my father was.’ He let out a long breath. He did not like this man.

  ‘A landless bastard parading in Templar robes would certainly lie to gain information,’ de Rodez growled. ‘And a fortune in gold as well.’

  ‘That is false,’ Reynaud replied quietly.

  De Rodez snorted and dropped his voice even lower. ‘I can prove my identity by merely calling out to my father.’ He waved a thick arm towards Count Henri, who clung, frozen, to the trestle table. ‘But you? You have no way to prove who you are.’

  ‘That, too, is false,’ Reynaud said. The chatter of voices began to swirl around them, like the clacking of geese.

  De Rodez planted his feet apart, caressing his sword hilt with blunt fingers. ‘Well, then? Shall you prove your claim by force of arms?’

  Reynaud chuckled. ‘You will not succeed in goading me into swordplay. The man who strikes such a blow has run out of ideas. And that, I have not.’

  At Leonor’s questioning look, he smiled. ‘Say nothing to this man, Leonor.’

  Her eyes rounded. ‘But he gave the proper response.’

  ‘As would I, had I been given the chance.’

  She looked from one to the other, her face stricken. ‘One of you is lying.’

  ‘True,’ Reynaud said. Then he bent and put his lips to her ear. ‘I venture that your father did not know of your…other mission, for Emir Yusef.’

  Bernard de Rodez jiggled his sword hilt. ‘What is all this whispering?’ he shouted over the mounting noise around them. Suddenly he surged forwards and seized Leonor’s forearm. ‘You, lady! Come with me!’

  Instantly an expectant hush fell over the hall.

  From under her heavy lashes, Leonor gave the burly man a long look. ‘If, my lord, you are indeed my Uncle Henri’s son, then I am your cousin by marriage. And, Cousin, while I do not question your heritage, I do reserve the right to make my own decision about where I go and with whom. And about two men who now present themselves in the same role.’

  Reynaud stared at her. Hassam, I see now why you treasure her so. She is brave and quick and impossible, all at the same time. There is none to match her in all the world.

  ‘Lea, you must trust me,’ he murmured. ‘Not this man, no matter who he claims to be. Your message is intended for me.’

  Leonor gave a little moan and broke free of de Rodez’s grasp. For an interminable minute her grey eyes probed first de Rodez and then himself. At last she gave a tiny shake of her head and shrugged. ‘I trust neither of you.’

  She moved to face Reynaud, close enough that he caught her scent of roses and the dusky spice of sandalwood. He drew back, his heart hammering. She must not trust de Rodez! If she did her life could be in danger.

  De Rodez pivoted away from her with a snort of disgust.

  In that instant Leonor reached out, cupped Reynaud’s face in her hands and drew his head down to hers. Her breath fluttered in his ear as she whispered three words.

  ‘Tonight. Trust me.’

  Count Henri lurched forwards and laid a shaking hand on Bernard de Rodez’s shoulder, then clasped his thin arms around the stocky knight. ‘My son! My son!’

  ‘Father.’ The gruff voice was cool. Detached.

  Leonor wondered at the stranger. He did not remove his hand from the well-worn sword hilt; neither did he return the count’s embrace. Was he indeed Henri’s heir? After a separation of close to thirty summers, as Aunt Alais had told her, how could the two men recognise one another?

  ‘Bernard,’ her uncle choked out. ‘I knew you would come some day, I knew it. Just the other day I was telling Alais—Oh! But you do not yet know Alais, my wife. After your mother died…’

  The old man’s voice faltered.

  ‘You remarried,’ Bernard de Rodez finished for him. ‘Are there children? Other heirs?’

  ‘No,’ Henri replied. ‘I have no son but you, and now you have returned at last. I thought I should not live to see—’

  ‘I do not stay, Father. I have business in Spain, and then I return to the Holy Land.’

  ‘Not stay? But surely…’ The glow in her uncle’s lined face dimmed. Leonor’s heart contracted at the pain in the old man’s eyes.

  Reynaud turned away with a ragged indrawn breath, his shoulders hunched and tense under the Templar robe. ‘The bastard,’ he breathed. He clenched his fists at his side. ‘The count has not seen his son since boyhood. You would think—’

  Leonor covered his tightly balled hand with her own. ‘It is between them, Rey. Fathers and sons often hurt each other. You can do nothing.’

  But she wondered at the brusque manner in which the Hospitaller de Ro
dez spoke to his father. His words were cruel. She shot a glance at Reynaud’s strained face, watched his nostrils flare as he struggled with his own emotions. Trembling with anger barely kept in check, he shook his head.

  Count Henri made a motion to draw his son off to one side of the hall, but de Rodez resisted. Deliberately the stone-faced knight reached down with one hand and plucked his father’s fingers from his arm. Then he pivoted and his gravelly voice addressed her.

  ‘Madam, I would speak with you. In private.’ He strode to her side and gripped her arm above the elbow, squeezing her flesh until she bit her lip to keep from crying out. ‘Come,’ he muttered.

  An arrow of fear pierced her belly, but she managed to keep her voice even. ‘Very well, my lord,’ she replied. ‘Since you insist.’

  She flashed a look at Reynaud, sending him a silent message with her eyes. Trust me. Then, without a backwards glance she tugged her arm free and moved towards the doorway, Bernard de Rodez breathing audibly at her heels.

  She paused in the outer corridor, but de Rodez prodded her up the circular stone stairway to the castle rooftop. Guards were posted along the rampart, and she resolved to speak with her cousin de Rodez only within their sight.

  She reached the battlement and turned to face him.

  A shaking hand pressed Reynaud’s arm. ‘Come, Templar,’ Count Henri said in an unsteady voice. ‘Drink with me.’

  Reynaud reached an arm around the older man’s shoulders. He prayed that Leonor would trust him, and not de Rodez. At least he hoped she would not give the message to the Hospitaller. Slowly he guided Henri back to the high table, where he lowered the count on to the wooden chair, and settled himself beside the trembling man.

  Henri sat motionless, his face naked with anguish. A hand of iron closed around Reynaud’s heart. Bernard de Rodez did not know how fortunate he was to have a father. A father who welcomed him home. A father who loved him. He clamped his jaw shut until it ached. Count Henri did not deserve such treatment.