Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride Page 12

  At the far end of the tilting yard, the herald, cocky as a popinjay in a red tunic with black silk trim, bawled the identity of each knight as he presented his painted shield to the sound of copper-coloured shawms blasting an ear-splitting fanfare.

  ‘René de Noyon.’

  ‘Gisbert du Clary and his nephew, Jean.’

  ‘Baudoin de Beziers.’

  ‘Bernard de Rodez,’ the herald called, his voice growing hoarse. ‘Son to Henri, Count of Moyanne and lord of Château Rodez.’

  Leonor jolted upright. Because de Rodez had entered the tourney, he would keep himself here, at Carcassonne, instead of sniffing out Reynaud’s destination and riding after him.

  Or would he? She shivered, recalling his words. All the better for what I have in mind for you.

  She shut her eyes and murmured a quick prayer. When she opened them again, the herald had cleared the field for the first event.

  The shawms blared. The herald strutted to the centre of the yard. ‘Silence!’ he shouted. ‘The tourney will begin.’

  Bernard de Rodez jostled his way to the front of the throng, eager to challenge the other knights.

  ‘Baudoin de Bezier,’ the herald shouted. ‘Challenger, Bernard de Rodez.’

  The horns sounded again and the two knights rode forwards, their mounts kicking up the sand beneath their hooves. The two combatants took positions at opposite ends of the tilt yard, separated from each other by the padded centre barrier. Both were covered in grey chainmail tunics that extended below the knee; their slitted helmets showed only the barest hint of human eyes behind the metal. Leonor strained to make out the devices painted on each man’s shield. Were it not for those identifying markings, all the entrants looked alike.

  One knight wore a bit of crimson veil pinned to the crest of his helm, showing that he fought for a particular lady.

  Leonor watched each knight swear his oath to fight with honour, then take up the lances offered by their attentive squires. She had sat across from Baudoin de Beziers at table yestereve—a tall, silent man of mature years with an unruly thatch of grey-streaked russet hair. He had seemed self-conscious, had bumped the washing basin when it was presented and had slurped his garlic-and-leek soup. Leonor had noted his obvious discomfort in the company of women and tried to make conversation with him.

  Now, the shy man of the evening before looked nothing like this menacing figure clad in grey mail, anonymous but for his sleeveless surcoat marked with the black and gold of Beziers. Leonor shuddered. Brother could fight brother and never know it.

  Baudoin de Beziers took up his lance and raised one mailed hand to lower his visor. The crimson veil atop his helm fluttered as he nodded at his squire.

  ‘En joue.’

  The horses surged forwards, thundering towards each other on opposite sides of the barrier. At the last moment, each rider raised the blunted tip of his lance and aimed it straight at his opponent.

  It was over in a heartbeat. De Beziers tumbled off his horse and lay face down on the ground. His squire darted forwards, followed by a fresh-faced knight, young Jean du Clary.

  Leonor guessed the younger man had only recently been knighted; his unscratched spurs still gleamed like new.

  ‘Opponent unhorsed on the first pass,’ bellowed the herald. ‘Three points awarded to Bernard de Rodez.’

  Leonor watched the Hospitaller raise his hand to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. De Beziers then limped off the field and the pages darted out with their watering cans.

  The scent of damp earth mingled with the flowery perfumes of the ladies and the odour of horses and sweaty men. A sudden chill swept up her backbone. A real fight, such as Reynaud might face, would not smell like a tourney. A real battle would be thick with blood and the stench of death.

  She must not think on it. Purposely she focused her gaze on young Jean du Clary. His squire, just a few months younger than the knight he served, was arming Jean for battle, handing him his gloves, then setting the heavy helm over his straight black hair.

  The young knight adjusted his visor as the herald marched forwards. ‘Jean du Clary challenges Bernard de Rodez.’

  The young knight lifted his lance into position. De Rodez did the same.

  It was not fair, Leonor thought. Pitting an experienced warrior like de Rodez against a new, untried knight. It broke the unwritten code of fair play governing such events. Perhaps de Rodez would make it easy on the boy.

  At the signal, the younger knight dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks. The horse jerked forwards. Gathering momentum, du Clary aimed his lance at his opponent’s chest. With a crack the dulled point smacked into de Rodez’s shield, then slid sideways into his shoulder, pushing him off balance.

  The older knight managed to stay in the saddle while his horse hurtled on, but at the end of the yard, he slumped over and slid to the ground.

  A shout went up. The youthful knight rode to the judges’ stand, removed his helmet and bowed his head. Leonor noted that his face shone like a fresh-scrubbed boy’s. His lips trembled with the effort of not grinning at his triumph.

  De Rodez remounted, settling his helmet under one arm while his warhorse danced in obvious anticipation. His lips thinned into a cruel line, and he smiled that odd smile that sent ice through Leonor’s veins. He settled the heavy iron helmet over his head and snapped down the nose piece with an ominous click. Then he reached for his lance and spurred the horse forwards, towards Jean du Clary.

  Leonor’s breath caught. De Rodez had not waited for the herald’s signal! Young Jean would be caught off guard, before he could spur his horse. She could not bear to watch.

  A shout went up from the onlookers, and she half-rose from the bench and hazarded a glance at the field. Jean du Clary had been unseated. But by the time de Rodez had turned his mount for a second pass, the young knight was on his feet. His squire pressed a sword into his hand just as de Rodez thundered past him, his lance aimed at the boy’s heart.

  Jean leaped backwards and the lance embedded itself in the hard-packed sand.

  Cries of ‘foul’ filled the air. De Rodez paid no attention. Leonor watched in horror as the bulky Hospitaller wheeled his horse once more and rode straight for du Clary. He was going to run him down!

  Just as the horse reached him, Jean jumped to one side. De Rodez jerked hard on his reins, and the great destrier pawed the air. Seizing his chance, Jean fastened both hands around de Rodez’s left knee and pulled with all his strength.

  Unbalanced, the older knight tipped sideways. Jean grabbed him about the neck and pulled him from his mount.

  The crowd cheered.

  ‘Well done!’ someone shouted to Leonor’s right. Count Roger leaped to his feet and gripped the pavilion railing with both hands. ‘’Tis within the rules,’ he shouted. ‘De Rodez is unhorsed!’

  The herald made a hurried mark on his roster. ‘Three points awarded to Jean du—’

  His voice was suddenly drowned out by shouting. ‘Look out!’ Watch to your left.’

  A squire thrust a sword into de Rodez’s right hand. With a hoarse cry, he raised it over his head and lunged forwards.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sword point caught young Jean du Clary just above the breast bone. De Rodez sliced through the light surcoat and, without the slightest hesitation, pushed the blade into the gap in the chain mail. The sword tip crunched through the hauberk Jean wore underneath.

  Du Clary staggered back a step, then sank to his knees, his left hand clasped to his chest. His breathing laboured, he reached his hand to the ground to steady himself. A crimson stain spread where his palm rested.

  Gasps arose from the crowd, followed by an uneasy silence. De Rodez’s sword had not been blunted, as required by tourney rules.

  Jannet’s fingers gripped Leonor’s arm. ‘Pauvre petit,’ she breathed.

  ‘Yield, lad,’ Gisbert du Clary called to his nephew from the sidelines. ‘Save yourself.’

  ‘Disqualify de Rodez,’
someone else shouted. A chorus rose in agreement. ‘Penalty! A penalty!’

  ‘Examine his sword.’

  ‘Put him on the barrier!’

  ‘Stop the joust!’

  Oblivious, de Rodez stepped forwards and yanked the helmet off the boy’s head. ‘No one,’ he hissed, ‘no one unhorses me and lives to brag about it.’

  In the sudden hush, his words carried all the way to the judges’ stand. Leonor strained to hear the boy’s reply.

  Jannet leaned towards her husband. ‘Roger, you must stop this. De Rodez will kill him.’

  ‘Nay, my love,’ the count soothed. ‘De Rodez will but teach the boy a lesson.’

  ‘No!’ Jannet’s eyes flashed as she challenged her husband. ‘He will do more than that. I hear it in his voice.’

  Count Roger gave her a long look, then turned his gaze towards the field. Raising one hand, he signalled the herald.

  A shawm rent the air just as de Rodez set his sword point at the base of du Clary’s throat. He forced the young knight backwards until he lay prone, staring with widened eyes at the burly knight looming over him.

  The herald’s raspy voice grated in the quiet. ‘The match is declared—’

  Too late. De Rodez thrust his blade home and Jean du Clary’s head lolled to one side. Blood gushed from the wound in his neck.

  Leonor screamed. This was no tourney! This was purest murder. Then the clamour about her faded, the pavilion’s gay colours blurring into a haze. She fancied the plank floor rose to meet her nerveless body, but with a jerk she grabbed the railing and hauled herself upright.

  Bernard de Rodez had killed that young knight in cold blood!

  Had enjoyed killing him.

  The pavilion, the meadow with its coloured tents and gaily caparisoned horses began to revolve about her. She gulped deep mouthfuls of air. When her vision cleared, she began to sweat.

  Then she leaned over the railing and retched until she tasted bile in her throat.

  Reynaud was right. The world was ugly indeed.

  Sickened by the needless death, Leonor fled to the privacy of her chamber with a pounding headache. Inside, she had just thrown herself on the bed when she started at the sight of a figure in one corner of the room.

  She bolted upright. ‘Benjamin! What are you doing here?’

  The old man’s body unfolded from the single chair, and in an instant she was clasped in his arms, sobbing out the whole story. Benjamin rubbed her back, his bony hand moving up and down between her shoulder blades.

  ‘Hush, little one.’

  ‘Oh, Ben, there is more,’ she wept. ‘Much more. Reynaud and I…’

  ‘Hush,’ Benjamin whispered. ‘I know. I am not so old that I have not eyes in my head.’

  ‘And now he has gone on some Templar mission, and I—I fear for his life.’

  ‘What is this mission? Where?’

  ‘I know not. He would not tell me. And that odious man, Bernard de Rodez—’

  ‘Aye. I watched him slay that young knight in the lists just now. I knew how you would feel. I came straight to your chamber.’

  ‘Ben, what should I do?’

  ‘Do? Well, little strong heart, one does what one must. What one can. I understand there is a troubadour competition this evening, and you—’

  ‘I cannot. Not after today. I have no music in me, only darkness.’

  Benjamin nodded. ‘The world is what it is. Still, it needs music, songs that tell of events we might otherwise forget. The nightingale does not cease to sing on the battlefield, Leonor. It must sing all the louder. That is your dream, is it not? To sing?’

  Her head drooped against his chest. ‘You are right,’ she whispered. ‘As always.’

  Benjamin tipped her face up and planted his lips on her forehead. ‘At last you accept the truth!’ he joked. ‘Now I must go and search for that young scamp, Galeran. Guard yourself, Leanor. De Rodez is unpredictable.’

  When Benjamin stepped outside the door, he stumbled into a round oak tub and four serving maids carrying buckets of hot water. Jannet had sent them.

  Leonor bathed and lay sleepless on her bed until the sun dipped low. Then she rose, listlessly drew on a clean chemise, settled a rose silk gown over it and girdled it at the waist with a linked chain of gold. She went down to supper with an aching heart.

  The evening meal was subdued. The knights and ladies of Carcassonne and the nobles from Toulouse assembled quietly at the long trestle tables and ate in silence. Everyone, except for Count Roger, drank too much wine.

  Low murmurs of discontent rolled about the hall. Jannet looked inquiringly at the count, but he shook his head. ‘Do not concern yourself,’ he whispered. ‘Such things have happened at tourneys before. While regrettable, no one can be blamed.’

  ‘Not true,’ Leonor murmured into Jannet’s ear. ‘Bernard de Rodez should be blamed. Why does no one accuse him?’

  ‘I know not,’ Jannet replied softly.

  Leonor stared at her friend. ‘This must be how wars start. Some small, ugly incident, like a foolish youth’s death, feeds an existing rivalry, and before a year is out, men who were once friends and allies are arming themselves against each other.’

  Jannet’s dark brows rose. ‘Young du Clary’s death was needless,’ she whispered. ‘De Rodez has no concept of honour or the rules of a tourney. He is an animal.’

  Leonor gripped her hands together in her lap. Reynaud must not return while de Rodez remained at Carcassonne. She knew of the rivalry between Templars and Hospitallers. If de Rodez pressed his hostility to the breaking point, it would be a fight to the death.

  She stared down into her wine cup, numb with grief for the young knight who had been killed and with fear for Reynaud. She did not even hear the herald’s first call for the troubadour competition until Jannet gently pressed her arm.

  She looked up to see two men step forwards, their instruments slung over their shoulders. How could they even think of singing after du Clary’s murder? Her own shaking hands could not hold her harp steady, much less pluck out a tune.

  The first harper approached the herald with a swagger. He was dressed in black except for a round gold medallion that hung about his neck on a linked chain, and his shining blond locks fell below his shoulders like a girl’s.

  From the sighs of the ladies, Leonor guessed he had quite a following. Perhaps he had sung at Great Eleanor’s renowned courts of love? If so, she could learn much from him.

  ‘Brian St Clare,’ he announced to the herald. ‘From the earldom of Orkney.’

  His harp, she noted, was strung with silver wire.

  The second harper, his brown robe patched and threadbare, looked like a friar from some impoverished monastery. Plump as a ripe peach, the man’s ample torso strained the seams of his shabby tunic.

  ‘Andreas is my name,’ he announced in a loud, friendly voice. ‘From…nowhere and everywhere, if it pleases my lords. And,’ he added with a wink, ‘their most fair ladies.’

  His fat red cheeks crumpled into a grin. A wandering jongleur! Like as not he would know songs from far-off places. What would he make of her Arab zajal?

  Jannet pinched her arm and she jumped. Seated, she raised her gaze to the herald. ‘I would enter the competition also, with Count Roger’s permission.’

  The count grinned. ‘Granted. I hear she plays like an angel. I will wager twenty gold bezants she walks away with the prize.’

  Leonor rose to address the herald. ‘I am Leonor de Balenguer y Hassam, my lords. My home is in Granada.’

  Murmurs rippled up and down the tables.

  ‘Though I am but a woman, still I would play for Count Roger and his assembled guests.’

  ‘My lady,’ a merry voice boomed, ‘you look to be lovely enough to grace any man’s hall with both music and beauty.’ Andreas the harper sent her a flourishy salute, his black eyes twinkling.

  ‘Let her try her hand,’ Brian replied with a shrug.

  ‘Accepted,’ croaked the he
rald. He coughed and reached for his wine cup. ‘Draw lots, then, to see who will play first.

  Leonor selected the shortest straw. She would play last. She gripped her fingers in her lap and listened to the other two harpers.

  Too soon it was her turn. Swallows dipped and swooped in her belly, but slowly she rose to retrieve her harp from its place behind the dais. She surveyed the crowded tables and found the eyes of the diners following her every move. A cold lump of fear congealed in her chest. She raised her chin, looked out over the sea of heads to the doorway at the far wall where a black-robed figure stood.

  Benjamin.

  Just two songs and she could escape up the stairs to her chamber and be alone with her thoughts. She drew in a long, careful breath. Two songs only. She would make them her best.

  Quelling the fluttering in her stomach, she sank on to the low stool and pulled the harp back to rest on her shoulder. Lord, let my fingers not shake! She lifted her hands, placed them on the strings and plucked a single, soft chord.

  ‘Hold,’ a gruff voice shouted from the back of the hall. ‘I challenge the Lady Leonor’s right to play for this Christian company.’

  Bernard de Rodez strode forwards and tossed his glove down on the floor in front of her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Leonor’s throat closed over a knot the size of a pomegranate. Count Roger directed a hard look at the brawny knight before him. ‘What mean you, de Rodez? Lady Leonor may have lived in Granada, but she is as Christian as you or me.’

  ‘Half-Christian, all Christian, it makes no difference,’ de Rodez spat. ‘She is damned to hell.’

  Trembling, Leonor rose to face him. ‘For what offense?’

  ‘Aye, explain yourself,’ chorused several voices.

  She kept her gaze fastened on Bernard de Rodez’s hard, cold eyes. Despite the thumping of her heart, she managed to keep her voice steady.

  ‘For what offence?’ she repeated.