by Karen Ranney
“You suffered no ill effects, Sebastian? No wounds?”
“A scrape upon my knuckles where a blade sliced against my glove, but that is all. I thank you for the wifely concern.”
“It is little enough; I did nothing but sit there.”
His smile broadened. “And you feel guilty about that?”
“No,” she confessed. “At least I did not scream. It was a great temptation.” She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the rays of a fading sun with one bandaged hand. “You fought very well, Sebastian.”
“It was what I was taught to do, my lady wife. Protect what is mine.”
He seems to me the equal of a god. He seems, if that may be, the god’s superior, who stands face-to-face with me and watches the words that flow from my mouth. The words of Catullus were heretical. She was collecting a bouquet of such thoughts. But she had already been punished ably. The disease that separated them, that kept them forever apart, was a ripe form of hell. Penance enough for her thoughts.
She watched him as he turned away. In a moment, he stood beside Jerard, exchanging words with the injured man.
She was not certain that she knew about love. She’d heard the ballads and read the philosophers and poets. She loved God and had loved her parents. But what she felt for Sebastian was different both from what she’d heard and read and felt in the past.
There was a place in the middle of her chest that felt hollow and achy. It seemed to expand when she saw him, when he came near. Her eyes too easily felt the sting of tears. Her blood raced as if to catch up to her thoughts. She had been forbidden to touch him, yet she felt closer to him than to anyone else. He’d lured her with his words, humbled her with evidence of his honor and sacrifice.
The sun was behind them, the glow of its descent gifting the sky with orange-and-red streaks. Sebastian’s armor seemed to be afire. His face was shadowed by a few days’ growth of beard. His eyes looked tired, horizon-weary. His chestnut hair was spangled with the eternal dust of the hot summer roads, and his tunic needed to be brushed.
The world might see him as a strange knight, who garbed himself in silence and sorrow. But she knew him for what he was, a man of great dimensions, who grieved, and yearned, who viewed life through eyes of tolerance and acceptance. She knew his loyalty and his protection of those who were weaker.
There was no more honorable man than the one who stood there, his head bared in the light of a setting sun, his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Or one she loved as much.
“Lady Juliana?” A gentle hand upon her shoulder shook her awake. The sky was dark, but she had no idea if it was midnight or the hour before dawn. She yawned and opened her eyes, smiling at Jerard.
Sebastian stood watching her, his arms folded in front of him. She transferred her smile to him. Dawn, then. Time to be about their journey again.
She yawned widely, caught herself and placed her hands over her mouth.
“Do you know, I had the oddest dream,” she said a moment later. “All about trees that spoke and flowers that sang. They spoke to me in verse.”
“Is that what battle does to you, Juliana?” There was amusement in his tone. “Perhaps you are becoming a prophetess like Hildegard of Bingen.”
“Are you teasing me, Sebastian?”
“You sound so amazed at the prospect, Juliana.”
She smiled at him, muffling another yawn. “I used to wonder at her visions. She was consulted by kings, did you know? I read a portion of her Scivias once. The abbess has a copy.”
“Why did you wonder at her visions?” There was still that note of gentle amusement in his voice.
“It does not seem to be a talent for a nun to have, that is all.”
“More like a sorcerer?”
“Or a wizard.” She tilted her head and looked at him. Jerard had left them, the men-at-arms were some distance away. They were, for the moment, alone.
“What is it you need at Montvichet, Sebastian? Is it the treasure?”
“Did you glean that information from Jerard?”
She nodded.
“It is what the Templars are demanding in exchange for Langlinais.”
“Instead of your ransom?”
“I cannot help but wonder if it was inflated for just this purpose.” He studied the line of sky where it lightened with the coming of dawn.
“It would make sense for them to have fostered the attack upon us, Sebastian. Especially since they did not wish you harmed.” She looked up at him, wishing he would sit beside her, knowing that he would not.
“You noticed that, too?” He smiled. “It is, perhaps, not a wise thing to have a wife as intelligent as you.”
“Are you a heretic, Sebastian?” Did she ask him that question because of her own recent thoughts?
His smile broadened. “A strange question to ask a crusader.”
“I think you see the world from a different place than I,” she said. “Neither higher nor lower, simply different. You do not hate all Saracens, and I’ve seen your pain at the fate of the Cathars. You question the Templars whereas most people are in awe of them. There are some who would chastise you for your tolerance and others for your doubts. Was it your education in Paris that makes you think as you do?”
“Yet it is you who question nuns with visions,” he said with a smile.
She returned his smile. “Well, then perhaps we are better matched than we both thought.”
“A greater tragedy if it is so.”
“Is it, Sebastian? Or a sign that I should always be with you?”
“We have been wed since you were a child, Juliana. All your life has been spent in preparation for linking it with mine. I am a habit to you, nothing more. A refuge, perhaps, for the loneliness of the convent.”
Her laughter seemed to startle him. “Oh, Sebastian, I spent fourteen years preparing myself for misery. I dreaded our marriage, was eternally grateful for those years you went on crusade. The day I learned of your summons was the worst of my life.”
She had surprised him, she could tell.
“I had never thought of your fearing the day I would send for you.”
“It was our union that frightened me, Sebastian but I have found only joy with you.”
“Joy? Even with what you know, you can say such a thing?”
She nodded.
“Did you know that the word heretic comes from the Greek hairetikos, meaning able to choose?”
It was such an awkward attempt to change the subject that she could only smile at him.
“Perhaps it is not a wise thing to have a husband who studied at the great universities.”
He smiled back at her.
“The men, Sebastian. Are they well enough to travel?” She’d heard the muffled screams of the man who’d been burned the night before, and wondered at his courage. She would not have been as brave.
“Indeed, they would be insulted at the notion that they are not.”
“You are not going to tell me about the treasure, are you?”
“A little of it, perhaps. Magdalene left me a message,” he said. “In the care of an elderly villager. He cried all during the time he delivered it to me. Evidently, Magdalene was as kind and as gentle to this old man as she had always been to me. I was to go to her room, and find a small basket. It was a gift, not to me, but for me to do with as I would. It took two days to find the basket, but I’ve still not decided what to do with it.”
“What was inside?”
“For that answer you must wait until we reach Montvichet,” he said, smiling.
“And after that, Sebastian?”
He glanced away.
“After that, Sebastian?” she repeated. The beating of her heart accompanied each word.
She looked up at him. Once again, she had the feeling that they spoke without words. Words that might be improvident to speak, but were felt regardless. Declarations of emotion that circumstance had made impossible. Love and longing so strong that they could almost be fe
lt in the air between them.
You will be forever in my heart wherever I am.
Do not leave me, Sebastian.
I must, Juliana.
Chapter 28
Sebastian was solicitous from that day forward, but he rarely looked at her. Where before she’d thought him aloof, now it was as if he were separating himself physically not only from her but from all of them. Had he truly decided not to return to Langlinais? She didn’t know when the thought had occurred to her. She couldn’t measure the moment, or hold still the hour. But she felt it, a strong and certain knowledge as if he’d already said good-bye.
You must not love me, Juliana.
Was that the reason? Because he wished to spare her pain? He was preparing her. It was an intrinsic knowledge, one she fought against even as she recognized it. The moment was uncertain, the day was unknown, but one day soon he would simply disappear from her life.
Montvichet was their destination. Beyond that, she didn’t know. He had not spoken of what he would do after he’d procured the treasure, whether he would travel to the Templars or have Jerard take it for him. Would he see her home to Langlinais, and then disappear?
Yet however much she might recognize the fact of his leaving, her heart could not bear the cost. She walled off the pain, bid the door be closed and barred against that precise hour he left her.
She watched him now as he sat on the other side of the encampment, staring off into the distance, searching the impenetrable line of forest or examining the night sky.
“May I serve you, my lady?”
Juliana started, so involved in her study of Sebastian that she’d not heard Jerard approach.
She nodded, holding out her left hand. She only wore the bandage when she applied the salve now. She was healing well, the sharp lines in her flesh knitting together. She might not be as fortunate with her writing hand.
The game had been plentiful on their journey, the roasted hare she was offered now as finely cooked as any she might have eaten from the Langlinais kitchens.
Jerard stood in front of her, staring at something in back of her. The expression on his face was lit by the fire, and it hinted at revulsion or disgust.
“What are you looking at, Jerard?” She glanced over her shoulder, but only darkness met her gaze.
He didn’t turn his attention to her as he answered, just remained staring at the mountaintop. “Montvichet, my lady.”
“That’s Montvichet?” Her heart seemed to plummet to her toes as she raised her head, her eyes scanning the height of the mountain.
Jerard nodded. He turned his eyes to her.
“I hate that place, my lady. It is one of ghosts and sorrow.”
She had no words in response, surprised at the depth of feeling in his voice. She’d rarely seen Jerard stirred from his usual pleasant equanimity.
“Were you there, then? With Sebastian?”
He nodded.
“The memories, my lady, remain with me even now.”
His eyes looked haunted as he stared at the mountain’s summit.
The approach to Montvichet was steep and winding. The distance to the valley below seemed to be magnified by the fact that there was a sheer drop off one side of the road and a cliff face on the other.
The horses appeared nervous as Jerard led them up the summit, Faeren’s reins held tight in his right hand while his left held the lead to his own mount.
The stunted olive trees were made smaller the higher they climbed. The lake in the distance with its odd-colored red bank, the holm oaks with their dark green and white leaves—they all seemed like tiny replicas of the real world.
Juliana walked with one hand upon the sheer rock face. But she did not seem frightened. Hadn’t she told him that she was tired of being afraid? She had sat silent and pale as men had died around her. And then had surprised him with her assessment of their circumstances. A Templar plot and his own surreptitious observations—none of these things had escaped her.
He closed his mind to the thought that her courage would be needed in full force in the coming years. The people of Langlinais would need her.
The top of the mountain split apart, as if a massive sword had cleaved the stone in two. Montvichet was situated on the larger of these two sections, reachable only by a suspended wooden bridge that swung over the gorge. It had been left intact during the siege, De Rutger realizing that he would need some way across the divide.
The village, scarcely more than a few daub-and-wattle huts, lay on the other side of the mountain and was accessible by a branch of the road they’d taken. Sebastian sent Jerard and a few of the men there to learn what they could.
Sebastian crossed the wooden bridge, Juliana behind him. He heard her gasp, but did not turn to reassure her. To do so would be to set the bridge swinging. Once he was on the other side, however, he turned and smiled reassuringly. Her face was pale, but her smile was anchored in place as she crossed.
He walked toward the gateway, Juliana at his side, and entered the stronghold of the Cathars.
Montvichet was carved from the mountain itself, its massive stone blocks tinted yellow by nature, bleached white by the glare of a late-August sun. The fortress now lay like a great animal’s bones, plucked clean. The walls had been breached during the siege; the gates lay on the ground. The refectory was in the corner to his right, the other public rooms aligned in front. The sleeping rooms stretched along the left wall. Every chamber had been pillaged.
Once, there had been an ancient fort here, but it had long since crumbled to dust. Yet, the bright blues and greens of a mosaic floor amidst the air of desertion and ruin was an odd taunt, as if saying that all things Roman would somehow endure.
Sebastian had found it much the same five years ago. Back then, he had been content with his place in the world, not recognizing his own arrogance and ignorance. Now he looked at that man and marveled at the blessings he’d had and never realized. He’d lost his siblings yet remained healthy. He’d won every tourney he’d entered while other men had lost their fortunes. He’d been born free and noble, allowed to learn from the greatest minds. He’d thought himself worldly five years ago. Yet, that young man had been puffed up with his own importance, and the only thing he’d truly known was the depth of his own idiocy. He’d been as pompous as a rooster, as untried as a chick.
The echoes of that man remained, but only in the regret he felt.
Five years had passed for him, but at Montvichet, it was as if there had been no passage of time. The dust upon the courtyard stone was thicker, but undisturbed. A few more stones had crumbled from the walls, barely noticeable among the greater destruction. Yet some hardy vines still entwined among the rocks, and from somewhere close came the song of a bird. And a gentle breeze took the heat from the air and perfumed it, instead.
The silence was that of waiting, as if the mountaintop fortress had stilled and become unmoving in time, anticipative of the perfect moment in the future to awaken itself. If ghosts spoke here, their voices were melodic and easily mistaken for a chime the wind might softly strike against a bell.
He almost stretched out his hand to Juliana before he remembered, so intense was the need to bring her forward, as if to introduce her to all the souls he’d never known. To seek from these long-dead people a benediction for this woman, that she might be spared any pain from him.
“Sebastian?”
Juliana’s voice called him back to the present. She stepped closer to him.
“One can almost hear a song.” She tilted her head as if listening. “Or the laughter of children.”
So, she felt it, too. As if it might be possible to catch a glimpse of something if he turned his head quick enough. Foolish thoughts.
Those men-at-arms who had not accompanied Jerard entered the courtyard with caution despite the air of abandonment. They searched each room, swords pointed upward until they had determined that Montvichet was indeed deserted.
On the other side of the mountain, the
horses were being readied for the journey across the bridge. Faeren took great exception to being led by anyone other than Jerard or Sebastian. He did not like the sound of his hooves striking the logs that comprised the bridge, and reared once. For a moment frozen in time, it looked as if the massive horse would plunge off the side into the gorge, taking with him the man who held his reins.
Sebastian turned and walked swiftly to the edge of the bridge, reached up with a gauntleted hand. He was too far away to grab the horse’s reins, and he doubted if the bridge could take the weight of two men and his horse. But Faeren steadied once he called to him, walking toward the sound of his voice. He’d had enough of rebellion, it seemed, once he reached Sebastian, and docilely followed his rider into the courtyard.
“You are perhaps the first four-legged creature ever to see this place,” he said, reaching up and stroking Faeren’s broad nose with fondness.
Juliana came to stand slightly behind him.
“Why did you bring him here?”
“A good knight is never without his horse.”
“Especially if he is being followed by Templars.”
“There is that,” he said, smiling at her.
Faeren snorted and Juliana stepped back.
“You are wise to be cautious of him. He’s old and perverse.” Faeren pawed the ground at that moment, drawing a laugh from Sebastian.
“Has he been with you long?”
“Ever since Cyprus. My own mount had been killed beneath me just before I was captured. I found Faeren there, an outcast just like me.” His smile lightened his words. “No one could control him, and I desperately wished to go home. Together we made a bargain of it, didn’t we, Faeren?” He stroked Faeren’s nose, then led the horse to the side of the courtyard where there was more shade.
Jerard approached through the gateway, a smile on his face. “My lord, the well has not been poisoned. The sides were knocked down, but the water tastes sweet.”
“I trust you tested that on a frog, Jerard, and not yourself?”
Jerard’s cheeks turned the color of bronze. “There are still a few people in the village, my lord. The information came from them.”
