The Princess and the Templar

by Hebby Roman

  Caught off guard, Raul awkwardly parried the blow. And the next. Meeting thrust for thrust, Raul called to Sean and Evan to cover his back. And to Cahira, he hissed, “Get on your horse and ride.”

  “Nay!” The leader shouted, retreating before Raul’s onslaught. “Stop her!” He licked his lips. “I want a taste o’ Her Highness afore we run her through.”

  One of the brigands broke from the circle and grabbed Cahira. Raul cursed. How did they know Cahira was a princess? And he’d made a fatal error; these weren’t common thieves. It was obvious the “robbers” meant to kill them and ravish Cahira.

  With that thought, his gut twisted and a red mist filmed his vision. Letting loose a savage howl, he lowered his head and raised his sword. But the circle of brigands closed in, a human wall of flashing steel. Beset and outnumbered, Raul wielded his sword with fiendish alacrity, desperate to reach Cahira. Obviously confident of the outcome, Raul watched as the leader retreated a pace, allowing his men to counter Raul’s attack.

  Raul heard a muffled scream and then…silence. He needed to get to Cahira, but he had to break through first. Focusing on cutting down his attackers, he fought with the strength of two men, so desperate was he to save Cahira.

  Bang, clang, clatter. The furious cacophony of metal against metal throbbed in Raul’s blood. Pressed on all sides, the remaining six brigands swarmed over them like an angry beehive, slashing at him and his knights from all directions. So vicious was the fighting, they raised the dust of the road and shredded the soft summer air of the Highlands.

  Raul chopped and cut, parried and thrust. The brigands met steel with steel. Blades clashed, the jarring impacts pounding Raul’s arm and shoulder. His sword found flesh, but two against one took their toll. His chain mail afforded some protection, compared to the thin tunics the brigands wore but—still it was not enough. He wished for his shield, but there hadn’t been time to retrieve it from the back of his saddle.

  The brigands’ blades nicked him, gnawing like a hungry wolf pack. Raul’s blood poured from a dozen wounds, and the air turned foul with its salty-metallic scent.

  With Sean and Evan at his side, they edged closer and formed a three-sided wedge, each of them fighting for their lives. Like him, his knights were covered in blood, and the hoarse rattle of their breaths mingled with his own.

  Slowly, inch by inch, he maneuvered them toward the side of the road, hoping to put the sheer cliff at their backs. One of the masked men must have guessed his intent and rushed him. Raul tripped his attacker. Once down, he ran him through.

  Jerking his sword free, he registered the angry hiss of a blade directed at him. He jumped to one side—but not quick enough. The sword bit into his left shoulder. Bright crimson spurted, but the pain didn’t come, only a strange numbness. Pivoting quickly, he ran through his attacker before the bandit could raise his sword again.

  Sean downed a man, too, and Raul pressed their advantage, savagely hacking. The brigand leader stood to one side, watching. Their leader was the key. If they could kill him, the others might lose heart and flee. Raul brought his sword up and rammed through the others, aiming for the leader’s throat.

  But the brigand chief was fresh and quick on his feet. He feinted and danced away. Sweat rained into Raul’s eyes, clouding his vision. Pain swamped him, pulsing in waves. His left arm hung loosely at his side, and his sword arm was almost spent. He struggled to raise the heavy blade.

  A curse and then a groan smote his ears.

  Evan dropped, taking one of the brigands with him. Seeing the young knight fall, Raul shuddered and tasted the black bile of despair. Maddened by the death of his friend, Sean cursed and screamed threats. He rushed the remaining two brigands, swinging his sword in a wide arc.

  Raul opened his mouth to call a word of caution.

  Too late. One of the men dropped before Sean’s desperate onslaught, but the other buried his blade in Sean’s neck. Gurgling and spitting a river of blood, Sean’s eyes rolled in his head, and his legs crumpled. The gorge-raising stench of death enveloped Raul, choking him.

  A woman’s shriek shredded the air.

  The remaining attackers were caught off guard by the scream and glanced back. Seizing the moment, Raul fled for the cliffs. The dark mouth of a cave beckoned, but he could not desert Cahira. Instead, he wedged himself between two boulders with the rock wall at his back. Panting, he raised his sword, praying he could last long enough to kill the remaining men and rescue her.

  He needed a miracle.

  Pain lanced through his shoulder, reverberating down his arm and making his head spin. Shaking his head, he spread his legs wide and waited.

  The leader turned and advanced on him, threatening, “And now, cur, you shall die.

  “Nay!” Cahira screamed, terror clawing at her. She struggled and kicked the man who held her. He merely laughed and whispered obscene promises in her ear.

  Shuddering, she tried to pull away from his fetid breath and the awful stench of his unwashed body, but he only tightened his grip. His arm encircled her waist like a steel band, and one of his hands brushed the underside of her breast.

  She’d watched as Evan and Sean were cut down. Saw blood pouring from Raul’s shoulder. They’d fought against overwhelming odds for her sake. But she could fight, too. Da and her brothers had trained her well. ’Twas better than being a lamb led to the slaughter, better than cringing in horror as they hacked Raul to pieces.

  “I feel sick,” she gasped, “all this blood.” Swooning, she fell back against her captor, making a choking noise. “I think I’m going to—”

  With a curse the brigand thrust her away. “She-bitch, you’ll not loose yer gorge on me.”

  She whirled around, kicking high and hard. Her foot found its mark. Gasping, he doubled over, dropping his sword and clutching his private parts. She bent down and grabbed his abandoned weapon.

  “Bitch!” the man yelled and backhanded her. White-hot pain exploded in her jaw. Staggering under the impact, she lost her grip on the sword and fell to her knees.

  Mildread, who had her face buried in the packhorse’s flank, burst to life, flinging herself at Cahira’s attacker. “Ye’ll not touch milady, you bastard.”

  The man grasped his sword and straightened. His face was blotched red and spittle ran from his lips. With one hand, he grabbed Mildread by the hair. With the other, he plunged his sword deep into her belly. “Whore,” he snarled.

  Mildread whimpered, her body folding in upon itself. Cahira covered her face with her hands, trying to erase the hideous sight. Her friend and servant swayed, skewered on the brigand’s blade, the lifeblood pumping from her.

  With glazed eyes, Mildread turned and looked at Cahira, her mouth working. But no words came. She slumped forward and the murderer withdrew his blade, tossing her on the ground like a well-gnawed bone.

  A blinding rage ripped through Cahira, setting her on fire. Her heart pumped, like some great engine, thundering in her ears. Strength and determination flowed into her. She grabbed a discarded blade from one of the dead and plunged it straight into the heart of Mildread’s murderer.

  His eyes opened wide, and he grasped the blade in both hands as if to pull it out, calling her whore and bitch and worse. Then his eyes filmed over and his voice sputtered. His hands dropped to his sides, and he pitched headlong like a felled oak.

  Pulling the sword free, she turned. Raul and the brigand chief fought one-on-one. The other two men had dropped back to catch their breath. Even if Raul could kill the leader, the others would finish him.

  But not if she finished them first.

  With a blood-curdling shriek, she swung at the nearest man, bringing him down with one stroke. The other brigand turned and lifted his sword. She dodged past him and joined Raul, her back to the cliff.

  “Get back,” he gasped. “Princess, no, you mustn’t…” The harsh rasp of his breath swallowed his warning.

  He managed to parry the leader, but she could see he was tiring q
uickly and strained to lift his sword. “Better to die fighting than lay beneath these murderers,” she replied, hacking and thrusting.

  Raul merely grunted and fought on. But ’twould only be a matter of minutes. Blood ran down his arm and pooled at his feet.

  She forced herself to concentrate. Cut, slash, feint, and lunge. The blood rushed in her veins and throbbed in her head. Her body felt like one thundering heartbeat.

  But was it her heart? No, ’twas the earth shaking beneath her feet. The brigand chief glanced over his shoulder, and then she knew for certain. Those were hoof beats, echoing from the ravine’s walls and churning the ground.

  Someone was coming. Be they friend or foe, she knew not.

  A cloud of dust and the jingle of harness answered her desperation. Six knights galloped toward them, the red cross of the Templars emblazoned on their tunics.

  The brigand chief cursed and lowered his sword. Signaling his remaining man, they ran for their horses. But ’twas too late. The Templars swept in, and like yeomen sowing grain, they struck the brigands down.

  Cahira trembled, blinking her eyes. Her mind whirled with questions. A dozen small injuries stung her, but still she stood, transfixed and dumbfounded. Wanting to believe they’d been saved, but too astonished to credit it.

  “Arnaud?” Raul croaked and toppled over.

  ****

  “Fetch the satchel from the packhorse,” Cahira said to no one in particular, not recognizing any of the men but knowing they were Templars and her saviors. “Sir Raul keeps his medicines there. I would bind his wounds.”

  One of the Templars bent down and lifted Raul in his arms. Turning to his men, he said, “Roland, fetch the satchel and a blanket. Alain, gather wood and start a fire.”

  Glancing at her, he added, “I’ll take him to the road where we can lay him flat.”

  Cahira nodded, her limbs hanging lank with weariness, an exhaustion that threatened to consume her, like a giant ocean wave, overwhelming a ship. She yawned, as drowsy as if she hadn’t slept for a fortnight. But despite her weariness, her heart thundered in her ears and her hands shook. Her body trembled, consumed with terror for Raul’s life.

  She shook off her exhaustion. She must care for him, just as he’d cared for her. Determined, she placed one foot in front of the other, but her legs wobbled and the earth tilted. One of the Templar knights grasped her elbow and steadied her.

  “Thank you, Sir Templar.” She swayed on her feet. Exerting her will, she lifted her head and thrust back her shoulders.

  Bowing, the Templar released her. “I’m called Maslin. You must be Princess Cahira.”

  How odd he should know who she was, when she had no idea who these strange Templars were, except they must be friends of Raul.

  “And your leader’s name?” she asked.

  “Sir Arnaud de Fortier, milady.”

  “Arnaud” was the name Raul had called before he fell. So, he’d recognized his friend. Grateful, she straightened her spine and felt the slow seep of hope repair her ragged resolve.

  But then she made the sad mistake of pausing to gaze at Seth and Evan, lying slaughtered in the dust. Looking upon their young faces, twisted in death, she shuddered and her heart was shredded in twain.

  They’d helped to take her castle, ’twas true, but she couldn’t fault them. She’d come to know them as simple but honorable knights intent upon their duty. She remembered them sleeping, sweet as cherubs, beneath the crofter’s apple tree.

  How unfair was death to take them this way?

  Bending her head, tears pricked the backs of her eyelids, threatening to break free. She clasped her hands and fingering the heavy cross at her throat, she prayed Sean and Evan would find ultimate peace in their final rest.

  With faltering steps, she moved to where Mildread lay, face down in the dirt. A low keen stirred the quiet air, and she realized the sound came from her own throat. Dropping to her knees, she gathered her maidservant in her arms and rocked her, back and forth, back and forth.

  The simple movement gave her a brief respite from the terrible pain swelling in her heart. Kissing the top of Mildread’s head, she clutched her friend. More prayers formed on her lips, and unshed tears burned the back of her throat.

  The world stilled and receded. A bird swooped overhead, and Cahira felt empty, so bleak and hollow. Lives so quickly spent—lives she held dear. Midread was dead, more death and grief. How could she face it?

  A low groan recalled her from the dark and dreary place her heart resided, and she glanced up, needing to gather her wits and courage. They’d laid Raul on a blanket beside a smoldering fire. His satchel was open, its contents spilled upon the ground. She must go to him and see that he lived.

  For he must live.

  If he didn’t, she couldn’t bear it.

  She shook her head, recalling how Raul, her brave Templar, hated to fight. Yet he’d defended her against the Bruce, and he’d taken on the brigands who outnumbered them and would have killed them all.

  Sinking beside him, she lifted his head into her lap and stroked his black, wavy hair. ’Twas passing strange to touch him without fear of recrimination. And she clung to that simple comfort with a fierce hope in her heart.

  His skin was warm to the touch, flushed even, and she knew he lived. Knowing thus, her spirits lifted, and the world fell away for nothing else mattered…not her castle or her lands or her legacy. ’Twas enough to know he lived, to know she would gaze into his black eyes again and match her wits against his.

  Her Templar, how she loved him.

  Love. ’Twas an odd word for the way she felt. A word that leapt into her mind without her understanding where her feelings were leading. For she’d dreamed of love and despaired of never knowing it.

  Aye, she loved Raul more than life itself, she suddenly realized with a sense of awe. But at the same time, her heart sank, for her love was doomed. He was bound to his Order, and even if he forfeited his duty to the Sinclair, he would never break his sworn oath to the Templars.

  “Princess Cahira, we must cleanse his wound and apply the cauterizing iron to staunch the blood,” one of the Templar's explained, interrupting her thoughts. “You might want to retire and let Roland see to your injuries.”

  “Sir Arnaud, that’s your name?”

  “Oui, Your Highness.”

  “A Frenchman.” Swallowing, she searched her memory for the French words she’d so painfully acquired from her brothers’ tutor. Switching to her schoolgirl French, she managed, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, and I thank you for saving our lives.”

  He bowed and took her hand, kissing it. “Enchanté de faire votre connaissance.” Shaking his head, he added, “I only wish I had found you sooner. Then maybe—”

  “You’re Raul’s friend?” She purposely cut him off, for she couldn’t bear to think of the lives lost today.

  “Oui, we were in Cyprus together.”

  “But how did you—”

  “Your Highness,” he interrupted, “I would answer your questions. But first, I must attend to Raul.”

  “Aye, you’re right. Please, may I hold him whilst you see to his wound?”

  “It won’t be easy or pleasant.”

  She met his eyes.

  He bowed his head. “As you wish, Your Highness.” Then he turned to Maslin. “Prepare graves for the dead. We’ll say Christian prayers later.” Maslin inclined his head and called for the others to assist him.

  Cahira sighed. So much death—would she ever be free of its devastating grasp? The bone-deep weariness and daily sadness, remembering everyone lost to her? But Sweet Jesú, the Lord be praised, Raul still lived. Stroking his forehead, she murmured soft words while she watched Arnaud cleanse his wound.

  Arnaud found the cauterizing iron in Raul’s satchel and heated it in the fire. Placing two fingers on Raul’s throat, he said, “His heartbeat is strong. That’s good. And it’s well that he sleeps.”

  With those words, he lifted the iro
n from the fire. The metal glowed with a reddish cast. Cahira bit her lip. Arnaud brought the iron down against Raul’s shoulder.

  The sizzling hiss of metal against skin reverberated in her ears, and the stench of burning flesh assaulted her. Closing her eyes, she averted her head, while holding Raul’s shoulders as tightly as she could. He jerked awake and tried to rise up, babbling incoherently.

  She forced him back down, feeling his pain as if it was her own, a writhing torment, sinking its long claws into her. Raul thrashed against her, but she clutched him to her breast as she would a babe. What only took seconds, seemed to hang in abeyance for a lifetime.

  The pressure lifted, and Arnaud said, “’Tis done.”

  Releasing her breath, she collapsed on Raul’s chest. The world swirled around her. Red crosses on white tunics danced before her eyes.

  “Milady, milady,” a voice called.

  But she couldn’t form an answer as the blackness crept over her.

  ****

  Raul was drowning, a huge weight pressed on his chest, pushing him under and dragging him down. His lungs filled with water and his heart strained, fair to burst. Gulping for air, he raised up. But the lancing pain in his shoulder brought him to the ground again. With a groan, he touched his shoulder, but his hand encountered a thick bandage.

  And then slowly, as if his memory played hide-and-seek, he remembered. He had fought the brigands, and one of them had sliced open his shoulder. And then he remembered more—so much more. Sean and Evan lying in pools of their own blood. Shuddering, the memory chilled him to the bone, and he felt so cold, so very, very cold, despite the campfire beside him, flickering a feeble light against the dark night.

  They'd been attacked in the morning. He must have slept the day through.

  He would have given anything to bring Sean and Evan back, to give their young lives a second chance. Why did he, despite all his best intentions, lead men to their deaths?

  So much blood and dying; how he hated it and wished for a peaceful life.

  But that was not meant to be. Men like him were left little choice; do your duty or beg for a crust of bread to stay alive.