Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride Read online

  How de Rodez loved killing! Such a man did not fight like other men. He fought like one possessed of a demon. A blade of ice pressed into her heart. If de Rodez succeeded in killing the Black Knight, she would die as well.

  She knotted her fingers in her lap and looked to the field. Before her horrified eyes, Bernard de Rodez lunged at the stranger knight, slashing the black surcoat to tatters and striking the mail tunic underneath with a metallic clank.

  The Black Knight twisted away to avoid a second blow, then swiftly thrust his sword upwards. The blow glanced off the Hospitaller’s shield. The two men crouched, circling each other, looking for an opening.

  The Black Knight struck first. The blow knocked de Rodez backwards, but he regained his balance. Dropping his shield, he grasped his sword hilt in both hands and swung the blade sideways in a deadly arc.

  The stranger knight jumped aside, but not soon enough. The blade bit into the metal links under his left arm.

  Leonor winced. The blow hurt, for the man clapped his arm tight against his body, but he made no sound. He stepped neatly to one side, then sprang forwards, his own sword gripped in both hands.

  Now neither man had a shield! It could not last long. Unable to look away, she clenched her fists in mounting terror.

  The Black Knight sliced his weapon through the air with such speed it made a faint whoosh. The tip ripped into the mail over the Hospitaller’s chest. His breath came in great throaty gasps, and the rhythm now grew uneven.

  Leonor dug her nails into her palms. De Rodez was tiring.

  But not enough. He was a strong fighter, and well seasoned. It would not be easy to best him. As for killing him…She had seen no man capable of that since the tourney began. Even now he rallied, blocked the stranger’s sword thrust and moved adroitly out of range.

  Both men gasped for air, their breath gusting in and out behind the metal headpieces. She saw the cold glitter of de Rodez’s eyes behind the slitted opening in his helm, and a shadow slid over her heart.

  Abruptly the Black Knight whipped his blade upwards, knocking the Hospitaller’s helmet off his head. De Rodez fell backwards and the metal headpiece rolled to one side. In an instant, the Black Knight straddled him, his sword poised at his throat.

  ‘Yield,’ he demanded.

  ‘Never,’ de Rodez shouted. Lifting his sword arm, he slammed the flat side of his blade into the back of the Black Knight’s right knee, unbalancing him.

  Count Roger sucked in a sudden gasp. ‘De Rodez fights by no rules save his own,’ he muttered.

  The Hospitaller kicked upwards with one foot, landing a crunching blow to the Black Knight’s groin. He buckled, tried to straighten, but the Hospitaller scrambled to his feet.

  The crowd buzzed like a horde of angry wasps. ‘Fight fair,’ a voice shouted. Leonor recognized the burly labourer who had greeted them on their arrival at Carcassonne.

  Now the unknown knight began to stalk de Rodez. Around the entire tourney field they went, feinting, circling, landing an occasional blow. Both were bleeding, gulping air in hoarse, raspy mouthfuls.

  Suddenly de Rodez launched himself at the Black Knight, knocking him to his knees. In the next instant, he raised his sword in both hands and smashed it against the Black Knight’s helmet. The knight fell forwards, and the metal helm clattered on to the sand. De Rodez raised his sword, aimed it at the knight’s unprotected neck.

  Leonor cried out in disbelief. Was a fight to the death conducted without honour? Sickened, she turned her head to one side and fought back nausea.

  The Hospitaller drove his blade downwards, and the crowd screamed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A cheer burst from the spectators’ pavilion, and, in spite of her horror, Leonor turned back to the field, her throat tight. The Black Knight had rolled away at the last moment. Now, he grasped his sword and raised his uncovered head.

  Reynaud!

  Her vision blurred, then dimmed. Surely she was dreaming.

  Reynaud pulled himself painfully to his feet and stood, swaying, his sword clenched in his right hand.

  ‘So, Templar,’ de Rodez rasped. ‘We meet again.’

  To conserve his strength, Reynaud said nothing. He watched the Hospitaller circle him, studying the man’s movements for a weakness, a misstep, keeping his sword ready to strike. De Rodez was built like a boar, his body compact. His keen eye missed nothing. Every move Reynaud made was tracked and assessed and countermanded. More than that, he deduced from de Rodez’s arrogant stance, the man was used to winning.

  He saw an opening, and his blade flashed. De Rodez spun out of range and the blow glanced off his mailed shoulder. The burly knight lunged back towards Reynaud’s unprotected left side, and only at the last instant did he manage to leap clear.

  ‘No man has ever bested me, Templar,’ the knight grated, his voice hoarse with fury. ‘No one.’

  Reynaud smiled into the mottled face. ‘Count not your eggs until you have caught the hen.’ He feinted to the right to avoid a blow. ‘And the rooster, as well.’

  He flicked his sword tip against the butt of the Hospitaller’s elbow, an old Saracen trick. Instantly de Rodez’s fingers opened in reflexive action and his sword thudded on to the ground.

  Reynaud bent to retrieve it, and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Reynaud watched his opponent and waited.

  The Hospitaller’s eyes narrowed into molten slits. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth.

  Again he smiled. That was the key, then. De Rodez’s weakness was his unreasoning anger. Reynaud advanced a step and held out the knight’s sword, hilt first.

  ‘Take it. I cannot kill you unarmed.’

  De Rodez made a low growling sound in his throat, but did not move.

  ‘I do not ask you to beg,’ Reynaud said in a quiet voice. ‘Why do you hesitate?’

  But he knew why. It was one thing to be beaten on the field of honour, quite another to be humiliated before his peers. The cold glitter in the Hospitaller’s eyes told him he had succeeded not only in unhanding his enemy, but in unmanning him as well. Now, driven by blind rage, his opponent would fight like a cornered animal.

  And, Reynaud prayed, he would fight unwisely.

  Before he had completed the thought, de Rodez snatched up his sword and threw himself forwards, thrusting wildly with the steel blade. Reynaud sidestepped, dodged, twisted to left and right. Then the Hospitaller stopped for an instant to catch his breath, and Reynaud saw his chance.

  His blade caught de Rodez under his armpit.

  The man screamed in fury and lunged forwards, raining uncontrolled blows like thunderbolts. One sideways slice penetrated the mail near Reynaud’s shoulder, driving the metal links through the quilted gambeson and into his flesh. His skin burned. Blood soaked the neck of the protective undergarment. Tomorrow, he would be more than bruised and aching.

  If God let him live until tomorrow. He was cut at the neck and shoulder, though he knew not how deep the wounds were. How much longer could he last?

  De Rodez fought like a berserker, not for honour. Not even to prove his charge against Leonor, but for revenge. He kept pressing forwards, pressing closer with the instinctive cunning of a predator.

  Reynaud saw that he might have to kill him after all.

  He let the bulky knight slowly drive him backwards, towards the fence, all the while watching for an opening. The Hospitaller’s harsh breath pulled in and out in a ragged rhythm.

  Reynaud concentrated on moving very little, garnering what strength he had left for the single blow he would need to bring the man down.

  The Hospitaller lunged wildly and missed. With a single-minded surge of will, Reynaud lifted his sagging sword arm and struck a blow to his opponent’s chest that toppled him on to his back. Quickly he moved to stand over the man and pressed the tip of his sword into the exposed throat.

  ‘Yield.’

  De Rodez’s lips drew back in a snarl. ‘Never.’

  ‘Then
you will die to prove what you already know.’ He nicked the ruddy skin beneath his blade. ‘The Lady Leonor is innocent of murder. Say it.’

  De Rodez stared up at him, his eyes like two black stones.

  Reynaud let the weight of his sword force the wound deeper. A crimson bubble of blood bathed the steel. ‘Say she is innocent, and I will spare you.’

  De Rodez sucked in a lungful of the dusty air and closed his eyes. ‘I—I would live.’

  Reynaud chuckled. ‘Speak, then, so all can hear. Say that Leonor is innocent.’ He nudged the Hospitaller with his boot. ‘Say it!’

  The knight’s lips opened. ‘She is…not guilty,’ he muttered. ‘Not guilty.’

  Leonor’s knees turned to water. Trembling, she sank on to the bench. Without a word, Jannet lifted the cup of wine out of her husband’s grasp and held it to Leonor’s lips.

  ‘Drink. It is not watered and will restore you. You are white as a shroud.’

  She took the wine from Jannet’s hand and gulped the rich liquid. She swallowed another mouthful, then another, and handed the empty goblet back to Count Roger.

  When the count reached to accept it, his hand shook so violently he could not grasp the cup.

  ‘My lady, if you please.’ A young page in a green tunic tugged at her skirt. ‘The Black Knight wishes to speak to you. He lies in yon tent.’ The boy pointed a small hand at the dark blue pavilion flying a crimson banner. Bernard de Bezier’s tent.

  She overtook the page and brushed past the man-at-arms stationed outside. Inside the tent it was dim and cool, the air heavy with the smell of sweat and camphor.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Here,’ a gravelly voice called from behind a curtain. A frowning Baudoin de Beziers pulled the drape aside.

  Reynaud lay on a cot, his face white. Benjamin bent over him, a blood-soaked towel in his hand.

  ‘Do not talk!’ he snapped. He pressed a fresh towel to Reynaud’s neck.

  ‘I must,’ Reynaud said.

  It was an effort for him to speak. Quickly Leonor moved to his side and laid her fingers against his lips. Benjamin replaced yet another crimson-stained towel, and Reynaud’s mouth twisted in pain.

  ‘Do not speak, Rey. Lie still.’

  ‘I cannot stop the bleeding,’ Benjamin muttered.

  Reynaud’s eyelids fluttered closer. ‘I am dying, then?’

  ‘No!’ Leonor shouted the word. ‘Do you hear me? You are not to die!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Benjamin muttered. ‘Keep him quiet while I stitch up this gash. Missed an artery by a hair.’ The old man signalled her to press hard on the towel at Reynaud’s neck while he scrabbled in his medicine bag for needle and silk stitching thread.

  ‘I must speak, Lea. My vision grows darker.’

  ‘Shut the man up!’ Benjamin ordered. He jabbed a silver needle into the skin next to the gaping wound and tugged the silk tight. Reynaud hissed in air, but did not move.

  Another jab and the backs of her eyelids began to sting. With the third stitch, Reynaud opened his eyes.

  ‘Wine,’ he croaked.

  ‘And poppy juice,’ Benjamin ordered. ‘There, in that vial.’

  De Beziers spoke to a servant and at once a cup of dark liquid appeared. She poured in the contents of the vial.

  ‘He cannot raise his head to drink,’ Benjamin said. ‘Drip it into his mouth, if you can find a way.’

  She reached under her damask gown and tore a strip from her linen chemise just as de Beziers appeared with another cup of wine.

  ‘For you, my lady. You look more pasty than buttermilk.’

  He set the cup down on the table next to Benjamin’s black leather bag, took one look at the pile of blood-soaked towels accumulating on the tent floor, and shouted for the servant.

  Leonor dipped the linen strip into the doctored wine, and when it was sopping she squeezed it over Reynaud’s open mouth.

  ‘More,’ Benjamin ordered, still bent over his stitching.

  She gulped a mouthful of her own wine, sent de Beziers a nod of thanks, and dribbled more of the poppy-laced liquor past Reynaud’s lips.

  After a time his breathing grew less laboured. He swallowed another dose of drugged wine, then startled her with a question.

  ‘What think you of the world outside Granada now?’

  His inquiry sliced to ribbons what had been her childishly innocent view of life in the wider world. She understood now why Reynaud had opposed her undertaking.

  ‘It is more…more everything. More surprising. More exciting. More brutal and frightening than I had ever dreamed.’

  A chuckle erupted from Reynaud’s throat. Benjamin lifted his needle and swore under his breath.

  She gazed into Reynaud’s sea-green eyes, noting the pain and hunger, and the weariness.

  ‘And at the same time,’ she murmured, ‘the world is more beautiful than I had thought.’ She laid her hand lightly on his bare chest. Beneath her fingers she felt the unsteady thump of his heart.

  Gently he covered her hand with his own. ‘Such education costs dearly,’ he murmured. ‘It can scar your soul with such blackness you can never find your way back.

  ‘That I now know,’ she whispered. ‘I will never forget.’

  Benjamin cleared his throat and poked the needle in for another stitch. Reynaud winced, then lifted his hand from hers and brought it up to touch her face. ‘I would keep you safe, Lea. Protect you from all that is evil and dangerous.’

  ‘You know you cannot, Rey. You cannot be with me always. I must learn to protect myself.’

  He groaned and shook his head. ‘I knew you would say that.’

  ‘And what of you? In your eyes I see two things—anguish and hunger. You are scarred, Rey. You must find some joy in this world to soften your distress.’

  Reynaud hesitated. Aye, he had discovered joy. Being near her, hearing her voice, admiring her wit, her courage. Even her stubbornness. Watching her sing those exquisite melodies that caught at his heart and ensnared his soul.

  Wanting her.

  What saved him from despair was his unspoken bond with her.

  ‘There is joy in serving God,’ he said. ‘In fighting for what is good and true. In fulfilling my duty to the Templar brotherhood.’

  She bent forwards, her warm breath washing against his chin. ‘Is there room for nothing more?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he said in an undertone.

  ‘Do you wish for more?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Benjamin tugged the last stitch tight and Reynaud ground his teeth. ‘I vowed to dedicate my life to the Templars, but that was before I returned to Granada. Before I saw you again. Before I realised what I have longed for all my life.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.

  ‘I want…to be with another human being. I want to be with you, Lea. You are the only music my heart has ever known.’

  Benjamin grunted over his final silk knot, reached for Leonor’s wine cup and drained it in three swallows.

  ‘You can talk now,’ he grumbled to Reynaud. ‘But if you move even one finger, you will spoil my stitches. Do you understand me?’

  Reynaud did not answer.

  Leonor lifted her head, her eyes brimming. ‘He understands you, Ben. He understands…everything.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  At supper that evening Leonor nodded at Baudoin de Beziers’s solemn-faced gesture of invitation and sat down next to him at the long trestle table, pulling her pale green damask gown out of the path of the knight’s huge feet. A meal with the taciturn de Beziers for a supper partner appealed to her. Reynaud was still recovering in Baudoin’s tent, and she had no stomach for pleasant chatter.

  Her knees were still quivery, but an odd feeling of euphoria made her lightheaded. You are the only music my heart has ever known.

  She drew in a shuddery breath; without a word, Baudoin filled her wine cup and offered her a choice piece of roast capon. Perhaps he understood her need for quiet after such a tumult
uous day. The silver-haired knight bent his head towards her.

  ‘Look to your left, lady,’ he murmured. ‘And beware. The Hospitaller still smarts from his wounds.’

  Leonor scanned the room full of noisy diners until she recognised de Rodez’s green surcoat. Cold blue eyes hard as agate stared back at her. A chill wound up her spine, prickling her scalp under the gold band that secured her veil. She laid her eating knife beside the trencher.

  ‘I fear him, even now,’ she whispered.

  Baudoin grunted and speared a morsel of capon with his blade. ‘I trust he is unarmed. Count Roger does not allow swords at table.’

  ‘Still,’ she added quietly, picking up her knife, ‘that one is dangerous, sword or no sword.’

  ‘Aye. Reynaud must take care.’

  She jerked and her eating knife clattered on to the trencher.

  ‘The Templar,’ Baudoin said as if reading her thought, ‘is well guarded in my tent. The physician, Benjamin, tends him as well.’

  Baudoin scraped the pungent sauce off the capon and cut it into two portions. ‘Eat, lady. It may be a long night.’ He laid a portion on to her plate.

  She studied the impassive face of the lean knight at her side. Baudoin knew more than he was saying. In her bones she knew he was warning her of danger.

  ‘I will take note of that,’ she murmured.

  The older knight shot her a quick, appraising look and grunted, pointing with his knife at her untouched supper.

  ‘And I will eat…’ she flashed him a wavering smile ‘…as you order.’

  De Beziers stared down at his sauce-smeared plate. ‘You are obedient, lady. A trait rare in one so—’ He broke off. Colour flooded the skin above his silver-tinged beard.

  ‘In truth, I am not obedient, good Baudoin,’ she whispered. ‘It is my worst fault. I eat because it is sensible to do so.’

  The knight trained amused grey eyes on her.

  ‘Tonight,’ she explained, ‘we—the harper Andreas and Brian of Orkney and myself—will each offer one final song for the judges. I cannot sing on a empty stomach.’