THE DRAGON TREE
by Marsha Canham
Copyright 2012 by Marsha Canham
Smashwords edition
ISBN 978-0-9877023-9-5
The Dragon Tree was originally published as My Forever Love. This is the author's revised and edited cut of the previously released print book.
All right reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Marsha Canham.
This Ebook version is dedicated to my son Jeffrey
who makes me proud to be a mom every day.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
September, 1191
The sound was like that of tearing silk. Tamberlane did not see the arrow coming, but he heard it and ducked to the side, avoiding the barbed tip by such a small allowance that he felt the hot lick of air singe his cheek. He swung around, his sword raised before him, long threads of blood spinning off the tip like strings of red pearls. His mantle, once white, was as crimson as the cross pattee that marked him as a Crusader. His armor was rent in a dozen places. The links were split and broken by blows that brought his blood forth to mingle with that of the countless Saracens who had harried and attacked the Christian army every inch of the way along the sun-scorched road to Jerusalem. They were less than twelve miles from the city gates and despite the Saracen army being scattered across the desert, their leader, Saladin, refused to relent. Word had reached the English camp the previous day bringing news that fresh Turkish reinforcements had arrived to bolster the infidel’s numbers as well as fortify the Holy City’s defenses.
There was fighting every day. Bloody, violent, pitched battles started when the boiling yellow eye of the sun rose over the sand dunes, and ended when it sank red and vaporous into the desert night. King Richard, called Lionheart by his men, had been determined to reclaim Jerusalem and had marched his army through the August heat in miserable conditions, but even his seemingly boundless strength was beginning to flag. He woke with fevers and putrid bowels nearly every morning, yet was always the first to appear in armor, his leonine mane burnished gold by the hot sun.
Tamberlane had been in Outremer four years longer than his king. He knew the merciless heat of the desert. He knew the unrelenting hatred of the Saracens who lauded those among them who were killed in battle as martyrs for the faith. Fanatics all, they fought hard and they fought shockingly well. They crept through the desert like an army of black ants, able to vanish down hidey-holes in the sand without a trace, and to move like the wind on magnificent horses bred for speed and endurance.
On this particular day, the attack had been launched with a hail of arrows that had rained down upon the tiny coastal village where Richard had set up camp. The terrible steel-tipped deluge had killed soldiers and townspeople alike, leaving the ground soaked red with blood.
Tamberlane had found himself standing in the midst of chaos. The sun had turned the fine desert sand into shimmering clouds of dust. There was panic in the village as the people flew in all directions. Some ran with their hands over their heads as if that would shield them from the arrows that continued to fall all around them. Some merely stood and screamed and waited for death to find them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tamberlane saw a woman dart from behind a mud hut, a babe swathed in blue blankets clutched in her arms, the only thread of bright color in the otherwise dun and gray chaos. An arrow jutted from her cheek, pinning the cloth of her veil to her face.
The next instant, he was swinging his blade again, his attention diverted by an enormous Saracen wielding a starburst—a spiked iron ball tethered to a length of chain. The ball streaked across his chest, narrowly missing the bulk of wool and armor. The look of a zealot’s hatred was in the Saracen’s eyes as he lunged forward a pace and wielded the chain in another lethal circle.
Tamberlane’s own faith had once been equally fierce and uncompromising, his obedience blind, his convictions unshakeable. He had been knighted on the eve of his twenty-first birthday and by nightfall the following day, had knelt before a tribunal of warrior monks and pledged his sword, his life to the Order of Knights Templar. He had foresworn all material possessions, forfeited all earthly desires and ambitions, and pledged his service to God, vowing—earnestly and eagerly so—to become a lifelong servant and slave to the Holy Order.
“Do you swear to God and to our dear Lady Mary to be, all your life long, obedient to the Master of the Temple and to the Prior who shall be set over you?”
“Yea, with the help of Almighty God, I do swear it.”
“Do you swear to God and to our dear Lady Mary to observe all your life long, the manners and customs of our Order without question, doubt, or reservation?”
“Yea, with the help of Almighty God, I do swear it.”
“Do you swear to God and to our dear Lady Mary that you will, with the utmost strength and powers which God hath bestowed upon you, help as long as you shall live to conquer the Holy Land of Jerusalem; and that you will, with all your strength, and honor, keep guard over all that which the Kingdom of Christ possesses?”
“Yea, with the help of Almighty God, I do swear it.”
Two months later, he had been on a ship bound for Cyprus, his white mantle as unspoiled as his confidence, for he had yearned since he was a stripling boy of twelve to one day wield a mighty sword in God’s name. His faith was like an intense light, as searing and hot as the desert sun.
During the intervening four years, however, the brilliance of that light had begun to fade. Unshakeable faith had been eroded by doubts and misgivings. Unquestioning obedience had been tested by the laughter of the Brothers who watched while ragged, beggardly Muslims were chased down for sport and their heads mounted on pikes like trophies. It was tested each and every time he witnessed the murder and slaughter committed in the name of Christianity. And it was strained nearly to the edge of breaking after the Lionheart ordered the execution of twenty-seven hundred prisoners—many of them women and children—after the months-long siege of Acre had ended in a negotiated surrender. The prisoners had submitted themselves as hostages, trusting the English king’s promise to set them free, but a week after Richard had taken control of the city, he had ordered them all dragged outside the city gates and executed.
The Templars had been in the forefront, carrying out the butchery without reservations. It had taken a full day to complete the slaughter, a day throughout which Ciaran Tamberlane kept his head down and his back turned on the many attempts the Muslims made to rescue their people. That night when he retur
ned to the city, he could barely bring himself to look at the bloody horror strewn outside the gates. Nor could he, for the first time since taking his vows as a knight and a Templar, bring himself to give thanks in prayer to a God who commanded such a terrible price for His love.
Yet here, two months later, he was still fighting under the black and white silk Beauseant, still rallying to the Crusader’s battle-cry: Remember the Holy Sepulchre!
Tamberlane shouted it now as he bared his teeth and braced himself. The Saracen warrior was windmilling the chain and starburst in a great hissing circle overhead, preparing for a second lunge. Ciaran's gaze flickered for a split second—it followed the woman with the arrow in her cheek who was running a gauntlet of clashing soldiers and rearing warhorses. The bundle in her arms was nearly knocked free, but she stumbled to keep her balance and kept running away from the burning village toward the open sand of the desert.
The ball swished close enough to scrape the steel of his helm and brought Tamberlane’s concentration sharply back into focus. The Saracen was a big bastard and there was too much power in the trunk-like arm for the English knight to hold off a direct blow with his sword; the blade would likely snap like kindling.
Taking a calculated risk, he waited for the next sweeping revolution and stepped swiftly into the circle carved by the arcing ball. The chain caught him high on the arm, driving the links of his mail into his flesh, but the ball whipped around and lashed the Saracen in his own back, the three-inch spikes driving deep into his body and shattering his spine.
The Saracen screamed, spraying Tamberlane’s face with bloody spittle as he fell forward. The knight shoved the sagging body aside and once again, his gaze was lured away by a flash of bright blue wool.
The woman and babe had reached the far side of the road and were stumbling into the soft sand along the bank. She looked weak and dazed, for her footsteps staggered side to side and she went down twice, hard onto her knees.
Tamberlane’s sea green eyes flicked again, this time to the pair of mounted Templars who had also seen the woman and were breaking away from the melee to give chase. Both had their swords drawn and while they were as filthy and crusted with dust and blood as Tamberlane, he thought he recognized one of them by the configuration of dents in his helm.
Hugh de Bergerette had been first to offer his sword for the slaughter at Acre and last to walk off the bloody killing field, covered head to toe in gore and seeming to revel in it.
Tamberlane stepped hastily over the body of the dead Saracen and ran toward the open sand, intent on cutting across the path of the two Templars. He had been fighting all morning in the oppressive heat and wore fifty pounds of heavy mail and armor, but he reached the woman’s side just as the knights reined their horses to a halt beside her.
Without thinking of the consequences, Tamberlane lifted her up from where she had fallen and placed her behind him, using his body as a shield.
De Bergerette's eyes glittered through the visor of his helm. “Stand aside, Brother. We do God’s work here.”
“God’s work is over there,” Tamberlane said in a low voice, “where men fight back with swords and pikes. This is but a woman, sorely wounded, with a babe in arms.”
“Babes in arms grow to become men at arms,” the second Templar snarled, pointing with his sword. “Now stand aside, in the name of God.”
Tamberlane heaved a breath from his lungs. He startled the knight by reaching up and grabbing the out-thrust sword by the blade, yanking it out of the hospitaller's hands. Taking it in both gloved fists, he brought it down over his knee, hard enough to snap the steel at the hilt.
“I have seen enough senseless slaughter committed in the name of God to last me a thousand lifetimes.” He threw the broken halves of the sword onto the ground in disgust. “I’ll not bear witness to another.”
The Templar whose sword lay in pieces on the ground was so shocked he jerked back on the reins, which set his horse to skittering sideways on the sand.
“She is a filthy paynim,” he hissed. “You would break your sacred covenant with God in order to defend this whore?”
Tamberlane gave no response other than the one they could see blazing in the cold green eyes. Because his features were obscured by grime, shadowed by helm and camail, it was that selfsame eerie color that brought a flash of sudden recognition to de Bergerette’s ugly face.
“Tamberlane. By God’s teeth, it is Ciaran Tamberlane who lusts after the foul-smelling bitch. Is the babe yours, then? Is that why you place yourself and your oath to God before them?”
The second knight brought his horse back under control and scowled. “Methinks you may be right, Sir Hugh. Shall we have a look? Shall we see if the babe has fair skin and the devil’s own green eyes?”
Tamberlane felt an odd emptiness encompass his body, a kind of mindless hollowness that spread to the very air around him. He heard the two knights baiting him, but their voices became muffled and the words indistinct. The sounds of clashing steel and the screams of men and dying animals faded and grew dim, replaced by the very acute sound of a single pendant of blood dripping off Tamberlane’s sword and landing in the sand below. The next thing he knew, the panting of the horses’ breaths were blowing like an armorer’s bellows and he was using that to time his motions as he swung his arm upward and smashed the jeering knight across the face with the flat of the blade.
Stunned by the sound of his Brother’s jawbone cracking and the screams that sent him staggering out of the saddle, de Bergerette’s instincts prompted him to raise his blade in defense against a second strike. But he was too slow. The movement put his arm directly into the path of Tamberlane’s blade, which was slashed with such rage behind it, that the steel took de Bergerette’s sword and gloved hand away in a gout of blood.
Tamberlane had no pity to spare on either of the injured knights as he reached back and took the woman by the arm. He started leading her across the sand toward the safety of the high dunes that ringed the village, but she misinterpreted his motives and assumed he had saved her for himself. She squealed and dug her heels into the sand; she clawed at his hand, tearing her nails on the scales of his mitons , scaled iron gauntlets that were fitted over woolen gloves.
He paid no heed. He kept walking, kept dragging her behind him.
Only when he reached the top of the first dune, did he pause on the crest a moment and look down over the sparkling expanse of the Mediterranean that stretched before them. As far as the eye could see, the calm blue waters shimmered under an even bluer sky, the waves showing pale foamy heads where they washed up on the shore as they had been doing for centuries gone by and would continue to do for centuries to come despite the horror, the turmoil, the war and bloodshed behind him.
Releasing his grip on the woman's arm, Tamberlane started walking again. He stripped off his mitons and threw them away. He unhooked the pennyplate camail from under his chin and removed his helm, discarding those as well. His hair, tonsured in the style the Templars favored, was stuck flat to his head with sweat; droplets slid down his neck and under his tunic as he worked to rid himself of the blood-soaked mantle, the underlying layer of mail, the padded leather gambeson beneath.
By the time he had stripped himself of everything but the sweat-soaked woolen shirt and leggings, he had reached the shoreline. He turned and started following the beach west, walking away from the sounds of fighting, away from the road to Jerusalem.
He walked for an hour, perhaps more, his steel-clad boots leaving indents in the wet sand. A stand of palm trees far in the distance held his focus and he kept walking toward it, accompanied only by his shadow. He had no idea where the woman had gone, had no recollection of when he had let go of her hand or when she had scrambled away... if she had followed or run off to hide behind the dunes.
When Tamberlane reached the trees, he just stood and stared up at the wide umbrella of swaying palm fronds. The sun was low enough in the sky that the air had cooled and a light scrift of san
d was blowing down the dunes toward the water. The leaves of the palms were slicing the sharp beams of the setting sun into blades that cut across his face and eyes, and finally cut through his lethargy. He looked slowly around and realized he was miles away from camp. He had no weapons, no armor. His hair and clothing were bloodstained and he wondered, vaguely if any of the leakage was his.
The warrior in him knew there would be consequences for his actions. It was a crime to raise a sword against another Templar, regardless of the reason. And if that reason was to defend an infidel, it would mean expulsion from the Order, full excommunication and disgrace.
Oddly enough, he did not care about his fate within the Order; he was obviously no longer fit to be a monk or a Templar if he found himself questioning every command issued by the Master. He did care about the men he had fought side by side with for so long. Templars would be forbidden to speak to him and the king’s knights would turn their backs, shunning him for a coward, possibly even a traitor.
Tamberlane sat on a piece of driftwood and bowed his head, cradling it in his hands. The watery heat in his eyes, he blamed on exhaustion—the same exhaustion that made him slow to react when he saw two elongated shadows stretching across the sand in front of him. They were wearing long robes and banded burnouses, that much he could tell from their silhouettes. Arabs? Saracens? Possibly men from Saladin’s camp returning from the village where they had witnessed the massacre by the tonsured warrior monks who called themselves Knights of God.
And now they had found one wandering alone, unarmed, miles from anyone who could hear his screams.
When he heard the unmistakable sound of a curved scimitar being slowly drawn from a leather scabbard, he was not too proud to whisper a faint prayer of relief, for a beheading would be fast and painless. Tamberlane bowed his head lower, exposing more of his neck for the cold kiss of steel. He closed his eyes briefly, not even turning to see who was delivering him from one hell to the next.
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