Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride Page 19

  The bishop’s voice hardened. ‘You have been too long in the Holy Land, Templar. You see things from too many sides.’

  ‘Aye,’ Reynaud agreed, his voice flat. ‘That I do. So should we all, if we follow God’s word. Does He not say that all men are broth—?’

  ‘Enough!’

  The word cut into him like the tolling of a church bell. At once his life was clear, transparent as a gauze veil. His gorge rose at the thought of more killing.

  But he was a warrior, was he not? He killed where and when he was ordered.

  No more, he resolved. Never again could he stomach the ravages of battle, the sight of mangled bodies left to rot, unshriven, behind fortress walls.

  ‘Reynaud,’ Bishop Pierre thundered, ‘you will obey Holy Church in this, else you will never know God’s glory.’

  ‘I know already God’s glory,’ he said steadily. He pressed his hand over his chest. ‘It is here, in my heart. I do not need to kill a man to win God’s favour.’

  ‘That is blasphemy!’ the bishop shouted.

  ‘I do not think so. I think it is truth.’ He had already been given God’s grace. Leonor’s love was a precious gift; it had illuminated his path to himself.

  Across the hall, Count Henri’s gaze met his. Very slowly the older man raised his hand in an eloquent gesture. The chair scraped as the count rose to his feet.

  ‘Answer the call of God, Reynaud. Accept the challenge God offers you.’

  Reynaud’s spine froze.

  Quiet descended like a pall of grey fog. Then a clamour of surprised voices erupted. Reynaud bent over Leonor’s upturned face and spoke in her ear. ‘I am called once more.’

  Her grey eyes widened. ‘Rey?’ she whispered.

  He spoke rapidly, his voice low. ‘But it does not matter. I have given up everything to find myself, even my Templar vows. I now know the man I have become, and I must stand for what I believe.’

  An invisible net dropped over him. Was he but a pawn of conflicting forces?

  A month ago he was first a Templar, a servant of God, and a warrior. Now he was a man unto himself. Bishop Pierre would never understand this. He was only half-sure he himself understood the change in his heart.

  But it was enough. Something inside him had drawn a battle line, and beyond it he could not, would not, force himself to step.

  His gut clenched. God help him, never in his life had he felt so alone.

  He swallowed over a throat so tight it ached. God would not pity him for what his integrity had cost him. God would expect him to re-order his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Benjamin watched Leonor’s slender figure move away from Reynaud and the priest who harangued him and mount the stairs at the far end of the room, her back straight, her dark head held high. His lamb. His precious lamb. He brushed his sleeve across his damp eyelids. She would stiffen her spine and go on with her life in spite of Reynaud’s call to duty. In spite of her heartbreak.

  She would winter with her great-aunt in Navarre, and with those two scapegrace minstrels who had followed her from Carcassonne. Even an old fool could see she would make her mark in the world as a troubadour.

  From his sleeve he drew an embroidered linen handerchief, a gift from the baker’s widow in Carcassonne, and noisily blew his nose into it. How he would miss her!

  He snuffled into the scrap of linen. Aye, it hurt to love someone.

  Reynaud stared at the two unsmiling men seated before him in Count Henri’s solar and clenched his hands at his sides. Bishop Pierre of Chalons and Count Henri surveyed him with hard, expressionless eyes. What more could he say to the prelate and the count? He would not obey his Grand Master’s orders. No true Templar knight behaved in such a way.

  But no matter the cost, he would speak the truth.

  The count gestured to his left. ‘Sit you down, man. You look half-dead.’

  Reynaud studied Henri’s carefully masked expression. ‘I will stand.’

  Bishop Pierre snorted. ‘I’ll wager he will sit before this is over, Henri. Do not urge him further.’

  Reynaud’s belly lurched. Before what was over? Would he be exiled from Navarre? Driven away or…he flinched inwardly…forced into a monastery to atone for his sin in breaking his Templar vows?

  Ah, that was it, then. He would not be forced out of the order, merely retired in dishonour to life as a cleric. A celibate cleric. He would sooner die.

  ‘Reynaud.’ Bishop Pierre’s voice was so penetrating Count Henri visibly jerked. ‘I wonder if one such as yourself is suited to what we have in mind?’

  ‘“We”, my lord? Who is “we”?’

  The prelate sent him a long look. ‘Those you see before you, your bishop, and your host, Count Henri. And in addition your Grand Master, Bertrand de Blanquefort, and Pope Alexander, of course. Aragon’s king…and perhaps Louis of France, as well.’

  His heart constricted. He had served them to the best of his ability, both on the dusty field of battle and in spacious audience chambers that smelled of incense and spices instead of sweat and horse dung. It was a harsh justice that punished a man for one mistake after a lifetime of loyal service.

  He faced his accusers. ‘I am ready to hear sentence.’

  Bishop Pierre rose and stepped towards him. ‘Then, Reynaud, listen closely. It is to our advantage that negotiation and treaty replace the spilling of blood in the matter of lands held by the Arabs. You are experienced in diplomatic missions. You speak the language of the Saracen. You are skilled with both sword and word. By way of your past efforts, you are known and respected by both Arab and Christian. And,’ the bishop grated, ‘you owe the Templars a favour. A penance, shall we say?’

  Had he heard aright? They were not going to banish him to a monastery? Because…He drew in a careful breath. They needed him?

  He bit back the chuckle that rose in his throat. Penance be damned. They were desperate men. They needed a diplomatic envoy. Only the fear of finding one’s back to the wall brought such an offer. He almost laughed out loud.

  ‘What would you give that I do this?’ He held his breath, afraid to move even one eyelash.

  ‘What do you ask?’ Bishop Pierre asked quietly.

  Reynaud was silent so long Count Henri shifted in his chair and gave a surreptitious tug at the bishop’s habit. Reynaud waited another full minute before replying.

  ‘I would be honourably released from my Templar vows.’

  ‘Granted,’ the prelate said instantly. ‘And?’

  And? He hesitated, his heart beginning to hammer against his chest wall. Did he dare ask for what he wanted most?

  Bishop Pierre studied him at length, his dark eyes expressionless.

  He opened his lips and formed the words. ‘I wish to marry the Lady Leonor.’

  From her open window, Leonor waved farewell to Benjamin’s black-robed figure until her vision misted and she could no longer see. Her old tutor was returning to Granada.

  She laid her head on the casement sill and wept. What had she now, save the empty shell of a life? A tormented body she could not give to the man she loved, and a gift for music when she no longer cared to sing?

  She raised her head, brushed her hand across her eyes. How far away the place of her birth was now. How long ago it was when she had been young and untried, her heart untouched.

  She did not want to return to Granada; better to stay here in Moyanne and go forwards with what life she had left. She would learn the songs sung by Brian of Orkney and Andreas, and she would make her way as she had once dreamed, as a troubadour. Thus would she heal the wound in her heart.

  She would never again feel whole, as she did when she was with Reynaud. Her songs might express more depth now, more understanding than before the stretching and unfolding of her innermost being. But ah, God, the cost.

  Was this the price of loving a man? Truly, it was no easy task to be a woman. At the moment she had not even the stomach for the troubadour’s art.

  A sof
t tap on her chamber door brought her head up.

  ‘My lady, you are wanted in the count’s solar.’

  ‘Wanted?’ Leonor wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic. ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘I know not, lady,’ the young woman replied. ‘Save that you should wear a gown…’ She flicked her eyes over Leonor’s wrinkled tunic. ‘And that you should come quickly. The Templar, Reynaud, is there, as well.’

  God grant her strength. Surely whatever awaited could be no worse than what had gone before. Her heart ached, but she must move forwards with courage.

  With trembling hands she donned a gown of pale blue sendal, the sleeves lined in russet silk, and girdled it with a length of gold chain. Keeping her back straight as a lance, she descended the staircase to the door of her great-uncle’s private solar.

  Laughter sounded from behind the solid oak panel. Men’s laughter. Her heart all but stopped.

  The door swung open, and she paused to gather her wits, then advanced into the room with determined steps. Someone thrust a wine goblet into her hand, and without conscious thought she took a sip of the rich liquid.

  ‘You are to be married,’ Aunt Alais said softly.

  Married! Her heart plummeted. Count Henri had betrothed her to some knight or duke or—she did not care which. Whoever it was, she would never wed him. She belonged to Reynaud. She would never have another man. Never.

  Gradually she let her gaze travel to Reynaud, standing against the wall next to Henri. He moved towards her, raised her hand to his lips. Her heart stopped at the look on his face.

  His eyes were as she would remember them always; green as the sea, they bored into her own with such intensity her belly contracted.

  ‘Should we send a rider after Benjamin?’ he asked quietly. ‘He could carry the news to your father in Granada.’

  She hesitated, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘That we should not.’

  ‘Ah,’ Reynaud murmured. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘I—I sent one of Alais’s pups with Benjamin. Wrapped it in linen and made a soft bed for it behind the saddle. But…he does not yet know of it.’

  Reynaud sent her an odd look. ‘Benjamin is fond of younglings, and the hound will need a hearth. Why is that such a difficulty?’

  ‘Because I hid the other pup in his saddlepack.’

  Reynaud’s mouth twisted. ‘Life with you, my Lea, will always hold surprises.’

  Life with her? Her heart stumbled. The din in the room faded to a low hum in her ear.

  He took one step towards her, lifted the wine cup out of her hand and set it on a side table. In silence he drew her outside into the passageway, away from Count Henri and the others.

  He turned to her, clasped both her hands in his. ‘Marry me,’ he said simply.

  Her senses swam. Could it really be true? She raised her face to his, met his grave green eyes and felt her pulse quicken. She was afraid to breathe lest she wake up to find it was but a dream she had woven in her desperation.

  ‘How did this come to be?’ she whispered.

  ‘Because I love you.’ He kissed her, hard, and held her against his chest. ‘And you love me.’

  Her heart swelled as if it would burst into blossom.

  ‘That,’ she murmured, ‘I know well.’

  For a very long time, neither of them spoke.

  The hot amber sunlight washed over two figures outlined against a pale stone wall, a man and a woman, merging them into one.

  Afterword

  Following their formation in AD 1118, in the aftermath of the First Crusade, the Knights Templar gained the respect of both Christians and Muslims as bankers, negotiators and diplomatic envoys. Following dissolution of the order in 1314 by Philip IV of France, the Templar treasure disappeared. Some say the Order of St John, known as the Knights Hospitallers, held Templar funds in trust on the island of Malta. Others believe a secret treasury had been established at a place called Rennes-le-Château, near Carcassonne in southern France.

  No trace of any treasure has ever been found.

  Troubadours flourished in the twelfth-century lands of Langue d’Oc, as southern France was known, drawing on the tradition established by Guillaume, Duke of Aquitaine, grandfather of Eleanor of Aquitaine, and the music and poetry of Moorish Spain to the south.

  That musical tradition formed the basis of courtly love popularised by Eleanor and her daughter Marie de France.

  Bernat de Ventadourn was one of the most gifted troubadours of his time. Women troubadours, called trobaritz, were rare, but the author would like to think Leonor of Moyanne might have been one of them.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-2195-0

  TEMPLAR KNIGHT, FORBIDDEN BRIDE

  Copyright © 2008 by The Woolston Family Trust

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