Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride

by Lynna Banning

  He inhaled the musty scent of horse dung and hay and stepped into the deepening gloom between the stable and the curtain wall and found himself facing an alcove built into the stone. Pale light winked from an arrow slit at its centre.

  A voice spoke from the shadowed embrasure. ‘Reynaud?’

  He jerked towards the sound. ‘I am Reynaud. Who is it that calls?’

  ‘A friend.’

  He peered into the enclosure, tightening his hand on his sword hilt. ‘Show yourself, then.’

  A whisper of cloth, then a shrouded figure unfolded itself from the shadows, looked carefully to left and right and straightened before Reynaud. Gold-flecked brown eyes stared into his.

  ‘Your name?’ Reynaud demanded.

  ‘Brother…Pierre.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Saint-Foy de Conques,’ came the quick answer.

  Reynaud studied the narrow, lined face before him and held out one arm. ‘Greetings to you, then, Brother Pierre. Your business?’

  Brother Pierre grasped his hand in the secret Templar handshake, thin lips twitching. ‘Your business it is, I fear.’

  Reynaud raised his eyebrows and waited in silence. The brown-robed monk hesitated, coughed and hesitated again. ‘I suppose I must tell you sooner or later. It is just that—’

  Reynaud’s gut clenched. ‘Tell me, then, and be done with it.’

  ‘It will not be easy, my son.’ Brother Pierre lowered his voice. ‘Granted, Bertrand de Blanquefort has great faith in your prowess in the field, as well as your skill in…diplomacy, shall we say? But there is a limit to what one man—even one such as yourself—can do.’

  Reynaud’s heart began to pound. The man paused, tapping one lean forefinger against his lined cheek. ‘Still, de Blanquefort must have his reasons, so here it is.’

  The monk bent his legs at the knees and sank downwards until his angular frame rested on his haunches. The shapeless brown habit settled on the ground about him like the shroud of a nesting guinea hen.

  The monk poked a bony finger at the hard-packed earth and drew a crude map. ‘Here sits a chateau. A small fortress, let us say. A resting place for—’ he shot a glance at Reynaud, kneeling beside him ‘—a treasury of gold.’

  Reynaud nodded, careful to keep his expression blank. ‘And?’

  With his fingernail the monk scratched a mark on to the earth. ‘And here is the only gate to this fortress. It is heavily guarded. Now do you see?’

  Reynaud drew in a careful breath. ‘I see that whatever treasure lies within those walls is sought after by others, and that whoever controls the gate, controls the treasure. Louis of France, most likely.’

  ‘Exactly. But what lies inside does not belong to Louis. In fact, Louis knows nothing of its existence. It is the treasury of the Knights Templars. By God’s law, it belongs to the Pope.’

  Reynaud narrowed his eyes. ‘The king of France sets himself against the Holy Father?’

  Brother Pierre nodded and dropped his voice to a murmur. ‘De Blanquefort is the pope’s man, but the fortress, Rennes-le-Château, now belongs to Louis. It came to him from a vassal who died without issue.’

  ‘Why not simply attack and drive off the French king’s knights?’

  The monk laid his frail hand on Reynaud’s arm. ‘No, my boy. You see, it works two ways. Louis does not know of the secret hiding place inside the walls. And the Pope—’ Brother Pierre grinned and shrugged his shoulders ‘—thinks to keep the treasure safe. So, why not let Louis of France protect it for him?’

  Reynaud rose to his feet. ‘Why tell me of this?’

  The monk squinted up at him in the dim light. ‘Because, my son, the only way to add gold to the treasury is to infiltrate the château. Your orders are to slip past Louis’s forces at the château gate and deposit the gold you carry for the Templars inside the château. In this way, the treasure increases, you see.’ He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. ‘Louis does not know of the treasury. Nor does he suspect that under his royal nose, the Pope’s golden goose grows fat.’

  Reynaud snorted. ‘Slip past…? And live to tell of it?’

  ‘Mayhap not,’ Brother Pierre replied, his voice calm. ‘But perhaps, if it be the will of God.’

  Reynaud’s stomach somersaulted. ‘One man against an entire fortress? It is a fool’s errand.’

  The monk drew himself up to Reynaud’s level and reached a claw-like hand towards the scarlet cross sewn on his surcoat. ‘That it is not, Reynaud. It is an order from your Grand Master.’

  His heart thumped to a stop. So this was his mission, to bring the gold the Pope needed to hire mercenaries to fight Louis of France. He spat on to the dirt. The perfidy of Christian against Christian disgusted him. Was he to risk his life for a rivalry between pope and king? Likely he would die obeying such an order.

  A sick feeling flooded his belly. He had sworn to obey his Grand Master, and the vows of a Templar were broken only at the price of an ignominious death. He had no choice.

  The distant sound of pipe and tabor, laughter and raucous voices floated on the air. Somewhere life was not in jeopardy, it was simply being lived. He thought of the years before he had taken his vows, the years when he had felt free. Then he had questioned everything.

  Now he obeyed orders.

  Suddenly he wondered at himself, questioning such orders. Was he turning into a rebel? One part of him wanted to fulfil his obligation; another part wanted…wanted…? An unsettling chill crawled up his backbone. There were no words to describe the hunger he felt.

  He felt that he was two people. Another person lived inside his body, one he never knew existed.

  He must obey his Grand Master. Better to die in honour than in disgrace. At least then the struggle of life in this world would hold some meaning. It was honour among men that held civilisation together.

  Brother Pierre gripped Reynaud’s shoulder. ‘There is a secret passage, through the château curtain wall.’

  A secret passage would not save him. To get to the passage he would have to breach the guarded wall itself. Alone. Death would hound his every step.

  ‘Show me.’

  Brother Pierre knelt on the ground once more. Hunching his shoulders, he scratched a few lines in the dirt, then hastily scuffed them away with his sleeve.

  But not before Reynaud glimpsed the layout and shook his head in disbelief. After a long moment he stood slowly. Deliberately he tipped his face up towards the last flaming rays of the sun as it sank into evening.

  How beautiful the world was. Cruel and ignorant, yes, but God in His wisdom had made it lovely for man to look upon. After half a lifetime of fighting, of treachery and death, he was finally beginning to see the beauty of the universe and let it ease his spirit.

  He thought of Leonor. She was the touchstone for the joy he felt in being alive.

  Tomorrow he would risk losing all he was beginning to care about. He twisted to face the monk.

  ‘I will ride at dawn.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reynaud sipped his unwatered wine and stared unseeing at the faces along the trestle table, mulling over Brother Pierre’s parting. The monk had signed the cross against his chest, looked furtively about, then slipped away into the night.

  He shook his head and took a gulp of wine. He must think, must plan this trip with care. Suddenly he wanted to see Leonor, speak with her before morning. Before he rode away.

  A murmur of voices rose around him, then fell into a hush. Beside him, Count Roger sucked in his breath. ‘What a beauty!’

  Leonor stood at the far end of the hall, her long ivory gown shimmering in the candlelight. The silk shaped itself to her body and fell into gentle folds at her feet. When she moved, the fabric glimmered as the light caught silvery threads woven into the material. A wide band of pearl-encrusted crimson silk gleamed from neckline to hem, and a narrower girdle embroidered in silver and crimson belted the gown at the waist, dipping to a vee at her belly.

  She was s
o radiant he could not breathe.

  She started towards him. When her eyes met his, a fierce drive for possession burned in his soul. He could die tomorrow, but tonight the sweet rhythm of life pulsed through him. The thrust of carnal desire bit into his groin.

  He stood to greet her. Ah, how he longed to say all the gentle sweet words he could not allow himself to utter aloud. This was agony. Another hour and he would crack wide open with the need to speak. The need to lay her sweet body under his.

  Her gaze caught and held his. ‘Walk with me.’

  Without a word he took her hand. They threaded their way through dozing hounds and bustling servants until he felt a wash of cool air on his skin. He tugged her to a stop.

  ‘Lea, I leave tomorrow. At dawn.’

  Without answering, Leonor began to climb the spiral stone staircase to the castle roof. At the rampart, she stopped and raised her face to the night sky. The scent of jasmine mixed with new-mown hay intoxicated like the rarest perfume from the East.

  ‘Look,’ she whispered.

  Stars glittered like millions of tiny diamonds against the purple-black sky. ‘I want to hold them,’ Leonor murmured. She stretched up one hand as if to touch them, then closed her fingers into a fist and pressed it against her mouth. The ache in her breast was sharp as a honed blade. She breathed in, struggling not to weep.

  ‘Leonor, I—’ He broke off. ‘I can offer you nothing. I must not even touch you as a man would.’ His voice shook.

  She suppressed a wild urge to laugh and turned away.

  ‘And there is another thing,’ he said, his voice quiet.

  A shard of cold, hard steel lodged in her belly. She waited, listening to his uneven breath rasp in and out, her heart constricting into a tight knot. ‘Say it, then.’

  He moved closer and gently cupped her shoulders in his warm hands. The heat of his body seared her skin, turned her backbone to jelly. Below her belly a sweet, hot ache bloomed. The tongue of that sweetness tormented her flesh, licked at her control. Reynaud took her hands in his own, bent his head and brought them to his lips. Softly he pressed his mouth into each palm. ‘Though I must leave you, know this: I am yours to command until the end of my days.’

  Her control snapped. ‘That,’ she said, her voice choked, ‘is not all that I would wish for.’ She closed her eyes, biting the inside of her lower lip. She could not bear the agony of watching him ride away from her a second time in this life. This time, he might never return.

  He pulled her to face him. ‘Leonor.’ His tone was rough as sifting gravel. ‘Lea.’

  She shuddered at the desperation in his voice, the longing and pain battling in his eyes. She did not want to hear his private words of farewell. She did not want to hear a farewell at all.

  She opened her mouth, but he cut her off with a tired gesture. ‘Do not say you do not wish to hear me. I must speak, and it must be now.’

  ‘I—That I know.’

  ‘You do not know,’ he returned. ‘I am pledged to the death in this matter for the Templars. I gave my word on it. Should it come to that, I would die willingly, save for one thing.’

  Her throat constricted so she could scarcely push words past her lips. ‘And that is?’

  He caught her gaze and held it. ‘I would have something of you.’

  ‘And that is?’ she repeated. Her pulse began to skitter.

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘One kiss. Tomorrow, before I depart.’

  Her heart leaped. ‘Yes,’ she said when she could speak.

  ‘And if I do not die, but return whole…’

  She waited, unable to force air into her aching throat. Her task for Emir Yusef was completed. Now she had an even greater one facing her—waiting for Reynaud’s return.

  He closed his eyes. ‘One night.’

  She sucked in air, then looked him full in the face. ‘What of your vows, Rey?’

  ‘My vows bind me to God,’ he murmured. ‘But what I feel is between you and me, Lea.’

  ‘Then,’ she answered, her voice unsteady, ‘it shall be as you wish.’

  ‘It is not as I wish,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘It is as it must be for me to go on living.’

  ‘And I also, Rey.’ She reached out one hand and laid it gently over his clenched fist. ‘Surely you know that by now.’

  He turned her hand, interlaced her fingers with his. ‘Aye. May God forgive me, I do know.’

  ‘May God forgive us both,’ Leonor said quietly. ‘For He alone knows both our hearts and the future.’

  The sun had scarcely risen, casting a faint peach-grey light into the tiny chamber, when Leonor heard a soft tap at her door. She raised herself on one elbow, smoothed her hair back from her face as the door swung open on silent hinges.

  ‘Reynaud,’ she breathed.

  He loomed in the doorway for an instant, a tall figure silhouetted in the pale light. Light glinted off the sleeves of his chainmail hauberk, visible under the Templar surcoat. Quietly he pulled the door shut behind him and she heard the soft, metallic chink of his body armour as he moved towards her.

  ‘I leave within the hour,’ he said, his voice quiet

  ‘So soon? Has it come already, when you are to abandon me once more?’ A lancet of pain stabbed her heart. ‘Men lead such separate, incomprehensible lives.’ She pushed down the hot lump of pain that choked her. ‘Selfish lives.’

  She tossed back the linen coverlet and stood up beside the bed. The cool morning air washed her bare arms and neck. Shivering, she wrapped the silk sleeping robe Jannet had given her tight about her body and moved to the window.

  ‘Go, then.’

  ‘Aye, I must. But in good time.’ He moved to stand behind her, so close she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck.

  ‘I do not want—’ she began. Her voice sounded tight.

  Reynaud groaned. ‘That I know. You need not remind me of the effort it takes to ride away from you a second time. The first time you were but a child, and I a heedless youth who prized everything I did not yet have, but knew the value of nothing. Now…’

  ‘Now,’ she finished for him, her voice husky with unshed tears, ‘is no different. My heart was broken long ago. I thought never again to feel such pain.’

  ‘Lea,’ he whispered. He placed his palms on her shoulders, tightened his fingers to grip her hard. ‘Do not torment me. It is torture enough.’

  She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Drawing an uneven breath, she leaned her head back until she felt his chin graze her hair. She closed her eyes, fighting for control. I cannot keep him near me. Neither can I bear to see him go.

  He pulled her back hard against his chest and bent his head. ‘After I am gone,’ he murmured against the shell of her ear, ‘you must take up your harp and play.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘You can,’ he said softly. ‘You must. If God wills that I am to die, I would hear your music in my ear.’

  Leonor shook her head. For a moment his chin lifted away from her, then he slid one arm across her waist and turned her to face him.

  Try as she would, she could not stop the sobs that rose from her chest. She clung to him, her forehead buried against his neck, pressing her fingers into the metal-ringed sleeves of his hauberk until her nails ached.

  ‘I hate you,’ she sobbed, her voice muffled against his surcoat. Even with her eyes closed, she sensed his slow smile.

  ‘God be praised,’ he said carefully. ‘For if you loved me, I do not know if I could stand it.’

  She raised her head. His lips curved into a lopsided smile, but his darkened eyes shone with tears.

  ‘Why could you not just kiss me and be gone? Why must you wrench my heart so with your farewell?’ she sobbed.

  Because he may die, a voice reminded. Because he knows he may never see you again.

  She unclenched her fingers and moved her hands up to clasp him about the neck. ‘Forgive me, Rey,’ she whispered. She managed a shaky smile. ‘God must indeed
have forsaken you,’ she jested, ‘for I do love you. I have always loved you. And well you know it.’

  He made no reply, but tightened his arms about her. ‘Aye,’ he breathed. ‘God help us both.’

  Slowly his hands moved up her ribcage to her shoulders, then to her face. He placed his palms on her cheeks and tipped her chin up. When his breathing steadied, he bent his head and brushed her lips with his.

  Leonor’s heart stopped. ‘God,’ she said when she could speak, ‘is not going to help us.’ She opened her eyes, raised her face to his. ‘He is leaving it to us.’

  Reynaud inhaled slowly. A flame kindled in the emerald depths of his eyes.

  ‘So be it.’ Very slowly he cupped her face with his hands and again lowered his mouth to hers. At the touch of her lips, he made a soft noise in his throat and gathered her close.

  His mouth, sweet as honeyed wine, moved over hers, caressing, questioning. The taste of him was rich and dark as black plums. A hot clenching began below her belly.

  At last he lifted his head and with an inarticulate sound pressed her tight against him. Dizzy, she grasped his surcoat, crushing the crimson cross in her fingers.

  He reached up, unclasped her hands and set her apart from him. His mouth was not smiling now. His fine lips were hardened into a thin line.

  Enclosing her hands in his, he brought them down to waist level, then pulled them behind her back until the tips of her breasts strained against him. Once more she felt his slow mouth on hers, relished his body’s lingering seal on her lips. His entire frame trembled, and then she felt him straighten and release her.

  ‘Fare you well,’ he murmured. Without looking back he strode to the oak door and pulled it open.

  The chamber door swung shut. She stood without moving, listening to his footsteps recede down the passageway. The faint metallic ching of his spurs echoed off the stone walls. Her heart hammering against her ribs, she ran to the narrow window and looked out.