Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride

‘Why?’ The question grated past stiff lips.

Hassam rose and moved to the latticed entrance and signalled for more coffee. Leonor shot a glance at his back.

‘Because,’ she said in an undertone, ‘if I cannot have a man to whom I can give my whole heart and soul, then I want no man at all.’

Reynaud rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and shifted uncomfortably on the pillow-strewn couch. Was she in truth untouched? That was hard to believe, considering where he had encountered her earlier this evening.

His attraction to her disturbed him more than he could admit. He gritted his teeth against the insistent swelling of his manhood.

‘And Hassam agrees to this…this dream of yours? Freedom to choose one’s own husband is rarer than swords of Byzantine silver.’

She studied the retreating figure of her father and lowered her voice. ‘He does not yet know of it. But I also make other choices,’ she said, pronouncing the last word with special care. ‘Not one word of this to my father,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘The man has worries enough with the fate of Granada balanced on his plate.’

Reynaud jerked his head up and caught her pleading gaze. ‘Not one word about what? Tell me the truth, Leonor.’

‘I…’ She leaned closer. ‘I visit the gypsies at night. That is why I was on the street earlier.’

Unconsciously he clenched his fists against his thighs. ‘What? Why?’

‘I wish to learn their songs. Gypsy songs.’

‘Why?’ he snapped again.

‘Because I love their strange, sad music. And I plan—’ She broke off.

Suspicion lowered his voice to a growl. ‘What do you plan?’

She studied the satin slippers peeking from under her tunic.

‘Tomorrow I begin a journey, as I’m sure Father told you. He will fuss and pace about his quarters until he receives word that I am safe in Moyanne with Great-Aunt Alais, but he agrees to let me go. Not for all the jewels in Persia would I add to his worries.’

‘And what,’ Reynaud said carefully, ‘might those worries be?’

Leonor ignored the question and tipped her head to one side, resting her cheek against her bent knees. ‘Father need not know of the adventure I dream of,’ she murmured. ‘That is for myself alone.’

Adventure? Reynaud’s spine tingled. She had not changed a jot since she was a child. She was far too clever for her own good. She was headstrong. And more stubborn than the worst of Hassam’s pack mules.

‘Tomorrow,’ she continued, her voice distant, ‘when the sun spreads apricot light—oh! Isn’t that a lovely word, “apricot”? When the sun spreads apricot light across the sky, I will spread my wings outside the walls of Granada.’

No wonder Hassam wanted protection for her. Her head was full of dreams. She must never seek the outside world. It was ugly, dirty, full of depravity. Leonor was yet untouched by the degradation he had seen, by the sins and selfish manoeuvring of men. He would save her from that world.

If he could.

The problem was she did not want to be saved.

He sighed in defeat. She was an exquisitely beautiful woman, her skin smooth as fine ivory, her every movement graceful. Sensual.

He did not like her talk of adventure. What was she planning to do, apart from visiting her great-aunt? He would have to watch her every moment. Clenching his teeth, he turned away just as Hassam returned to the room. Like it or not, he had pledged his word to his uncle.

Therefore, so be it.

Chapter Three

Reynaud removed his sword belt and mail shirt and leggings, stretched out on the soft sleeping couch and willed himself to tame his roiling thoughts. In the years he had been away, Leonor had grown from a playful sprite of a girl into a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman. He could not forget the scent of her hair, the sheen of her skin.

And he could not forget how foolishly eager she was to leave the safety of Granada. Her innocence was dangerous. She knew nothing of the harsh world outside this luxurious palace in this enlightened kingdom. In truth, he himself felt out of place surrounded by the opulence of his Uncle Hassam’s home.

In truth, he no longer knew where he belonged. He laid his head wherever his Templar orders took him, even to Hassam’s spacious home with its brightly tiled courtyards and the sound of splashing fountains in every room. He was to deliver the Templar proposal to Emir Yusef, then await orders for his next destination after Moyanne, to be delivered by someone in Yusef’s employ. But he did not yet know who. Neither did he know the final destination of the Templar gold he carried.

He tried to soothe his restless spirit with the trickle of fountains and the carefree chirping of night birds nesting among the branches of tamarisk trees, but memories of battle followed him wherever he went. The bloodshed, the unending senseless slaughter, the stench of burning fortresses and rotting corpses—it sickened him. With all his heart he wished he could be washed clean of his sins.

Abruptly he sat bolt upright. Was he still a pious follower of Almighty God? Or was he now a mercenary killer available to the highest bidder? At some point he needed to know what, and who, he really was. Otherwise, he could forge no other future for himself.

The next morning Reynaud gazed across the flat brown plain into the hazy distance, then reined in his grey destrier and waited for the armed escort Hassam had sent to guard Leonor. The way was clear; he had already scouted ahead for bandits.

For a long while all he could see were puffs of dust rolling towards him. No sound broke the quiet but the wind whispering through the pine scrub and the thud of hoofbeats against the hard-baked ground. Some minutes later, two horses and a mule plodded into view, laden with travel chests and surrounded by the Arab warriors. He raised one hand in silent greeting.

A large dun horse carried a tall elderly man, his black robe flapping behind his bent frame like the wings of an ancient crow. Reynaud had to smile. Benjamin of Toledo, his old tutor!

The other rider, well mounted on a cream-coloured Arab mare, wore leather riding boots, a short, drab tunic and a white turban and head veil. He studied the slight figure through narrowed eyes and his heart lurched. It was Leonor!

Every nerve jolted to attention. Travelling in disguise made good sense, but by the look of Leonor’s jaunty smile she was truly revelling in her masquerade.

She had always loved masquerades.

He signalled to Sekir, Hassam’s personal bodyguard, and pressed among the Arab warriors until he came face to face with his cousin. She flicked a glance at him, studied his chainmail hauberk, then his helmet. After a long moment her shining eyes met his and his heart stuttered.

‘You are following us,’ she observed, her voice accusing.

‘True, and not true. I travel with you, but at a distance, to watch for bandits. I promised Hassam I would look to your welfare.’

She frowned. ‘I do not want you to look to my welfare. You, with your battle-scarred soul and your distrust of the world, would never let me do anything. Particularly not what I have in mind.’ With an eloquent lift of her dark eyebrows, she flapped her reins and rode on past him.

Stung, Reynaud circled his horse to block her path.

Thoughtfully she pursed her lips. The gesture sent red-hot needles dancing along the skin behind his neck.

He remembered that look. Even as a boy that gaze could make his heart thud in his bony chest like a smithy’s hammer. With Leonor he’d never known what to expect. How she had loved playing tricks.

Benjamin rode up, peering at her from under his bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Ay, Jehovah,’ he grumbled. ‘Why do you stop in the middle of the road?’ The old man paid no attention to Reynaud; apparently he did not recognise his old student.

‘I was…reviewing my plan,’ Leonor replied, a happy lilt in her voice.

Reynaud’s belly knotted. What plan? What was she up to besides visiting her great-aunt?

The old man’s black eyes rounded. ‘What, again? Can you not ride and plan at the same time?’

She laughed softly. ‘I can do many things at the same time, Benjamin. As you well know.’

‘Do not remind me,’ Benjamin growled. He tried in vain to hide the fond look in his dark eyes.

Reynaud groaned inwardly. When she was young, Leonor had tied her father into knots. Now she was grown, and so comely that the soft curves of her body made his skin burn. Keeping an eye on her would be a challenge.

Considering his body’s response to her, it would be an ordeal by fire! He nodded to Benjamin, kicked the grey warhorse into a trot and turned his face towards the rocky grey hills to the west. What devil had prompted him to agree to protecting her?

He circled around behind the party of riders to make sure they were not followed through the remote mountain pass leading to the walled town of Moyanne.

He knew the town. As a youth, in Moyanne he had learned about wine from Burgundy and women from…everywhere.

The old hunger bit into his loins and he straightened in the saddle and willed his thoughts elsewhere. He had fought too hard to become a Templar knight to sacrifice his honour for a mere itch of the flesh.

With undisguised relish Leonor studied the moss-covered stone walls enclosing the small village of Moyanne, then peered upward at the dark stone castle on the hilltop beyond. After the bustling streets and brilliant-coloured tiled buildings of Granada, this pretty little town looked as if nothing had changed for a hundred years. Surely Great-Aunt Alais must lead a peaceful life in such a place.

The flock of sparrows in her belly fluttered to life, and she nudged the cream-coloured mare forwards. Some minutes later the two horses and the mule clopped over the castle’s planked drawbridge and through the raised portcullis to enter a cobblestone bailey surrounded by a hodgepodge of wooden buildings. From the closest drifted the sound of clanging metal, followed by the hiss of steam. The smithy’s quarters.

She studied the inhabitants of the bailey. Stable boys, washing women, even a sour-faced priest. Unconsciously she looked for an even more sour-faced Reynaud, but there was no sign of her moody cousin.

Good. She was not a child who needed tending.

Pages ran forwards to help them dismount and unload the baggage from the pack mule tied behind Benjamin’s mount. The instant she slid off the cream mare an icy shard of fear stabbed beneath her breastbone.

She was here at last. She could turn her dream into a triumph…or she could make such a fool of herself that no one, not even Benjamin, would ever speak to her again. Worse, perhaps they would laugh at her.

Her chest felt as if jagged rocks were piling up behind her ribs. She was not just frightened, she was petrified!

She swallowed hard. ‘Benjamin, I am…I am somewhat afraid.’

The old man sent her a quick sideways look. ‘All things have their price, little one. Especially great adventures.’ His black eyes twinkled.

She frowned at him. ‘Oh, Ben…In truth, I am very afraid.’

Benjamin um-hummed beside her. ‘Tell me,’ he urged in his soft rumbly voice.

‘I cannot explain, exactly. All my life I have dreamed of the time when I would leave my father’s house and seek my own destiny.’

‘Ah, and here you are, are you not?’

She turned her gaze away from his narrow wrinkled face and focused instead on the portcullis behind them. Any moment Reynaud would clatter over the drawbridge. She did not want him to know she was afraid. She resented his dutiful overprotectiveness. And his disapproval of her.

‘One part of me can hardly wait!’ she blurted. ‘Another part of me wants to turn back and ride to the safety of my father’s house.’

‘Which do you want most?’ her tutor queried in his gravelly voice.

She drew in a shaky gulp of air. ‘I have ridden all the way from Granada to follow the joyous art. Gai saber it is called in the courts of Aquitaine. What I want most is…is to try.’

Benjamin merely nodded and his black eyes softened. ‘And, so?’ he murmured.

Yes, she would try. She would do it this very night, exactly as she’d planned these many months. She caught a passing page by the sleeve and tugged him to attention. ‘I would speak with the Lady Alais. In private.’

The boy’s eyes widened for an instant, then he raced off and disappeared through a narrow doorway. Leonor lifted her harp, wrapped in a nest of carpets carried on the pack mule, squared her shoulders and marched towards the castle entrance.

Chapter Four

From the rampart overlooking the bailey Reynaud watched for a moment longer, his pulse jumping in an irregular beat at the sight of the slim girlish figure in the white turban.

With a curse he turned away from the battlement and descended the narrow circular staircase. He had important business here in Moyanne besides looking after Leonor. Whoever was to contact him while he was here, with instructions for disposing of the Templar gold hidden in his saddlebags, would use the coded password de Blanquefort had given him. Beyond that, his Grand Master had told him nothing.

So he must wait. But each time he laid eyes on Leonor, a warm rush of blood beat in his chest, and the darkness inside him lifted. Though his spirit was weary, his body was becoming frighteningly alive.

In the great hall the huge stone fireplace stood empty. Moyanne’s summer heat left the evening air balmy and still until long past Lauds. It reminded him of Syria, except that nights there were never quiet.

The smoky flames of rushlights illuminated the noisy company assembled in Count Henri’s hall. The count and his lady-wife Alais welcomed him with unfeigned cordiality, yet again he felt out of place, neither Frankish nor Arab.

To his surprise, Reynaud found himself sitting in the place of honour at Count Henri’s right hand. Henri himself, the count confided, had served as a Hospitaller. He had a fondness for knights of a military order, even the rival order of Knights Templar.

A portly wine server made his leisurely rounds from the raised dais to the linen-covered trestle tables abutting each end. Reynaud drank deeply from his overflowing cup and tried to screen out the noise and bustle. Lords and ladies in silks and ribbons, knights, churchmen in sombre robes, even children were crowded together in the warm, sweat-scented room.

He focused on the nimble juggler in the centre area. Dressed in tight red hose and a belled cap, the fellow tossed yellow apples into the air, bouncing them off his arms before catching them.

Count Henri leaned towards him. ‘Later,’ he said in an undertone, ‘there will be dancing.’

Reynaud hid a grimace. Before he had made his vows, dancing with a woman had brought him pleasure. Now he contented himself with watching the assembled guests for a glimpse of Leonor. When he had assured himself that she was safe and protected, he would count the hours before Compline and then sleep.

He gulped the rich, sweet liquid in his wine cup and tried to concentrate on his host’s conversation over the rattle of eating knives and bursts of laughter. But his gaze moved from face to face, for the thousandth time studying knight and noble lady alike.

Where was Leonor?

‘Drink up, Reynaud,’ the count urged. ‘Our meal will be…’ he slanted an amused look at Lady Alais ‘…delayed somewhat. My lady-wife’s favourite hound whelped this afternoon. She promised a pup to the cook.’

Lady Alais covered her husband’s hand with her own. ‘Cook could not decide which of the six she preferred, my dear. Truth to tell, neither could I. They are all quite handsome.’

She glanced at Reynaud. ‘Perhaps you, Sir Reynaud, would like a companion?’

Reynaud shook his head at the tall, still elegant older woman in the simply cut, dark blue gown. ‘Not I, lady. I travel overmuch to care for a pup. Neither have I time in which to train it.’

In truth, he found it difficult to stay in one place for very long. He was footloose, and when he had time on his hands he tended to brood. He welcomed orders that sent him on another journey.

Alais gave him a gentle smile. ‘A pity. I fear there are too many pups to keep, but I cannot bear to see them drowned.’ She turned to the heavy-set man on her left. ‘My Lord Robert, have you a hound?’

Henri chuckled and saluted his wife with his raised wine cup. He drank, then winked at Reynaud. ‘I’ll not drown them,’ he said in an undertone. ‘But if she thinks I will, it will spur her to find homes for the little brutes all the quicker. Women, bless them, are soft-hearted creatures when it comes to young things.’

The count’s face stilled for an instant. ‘Perhaps it would not be thus if she had had babes of her own.’

‘You have no offspring, my lord?’

‘I have a son,’ Henri said quietly. ‘His mother died in birthing him. He was a man full grown when Alais came to me as a bride.’

‘Does he still live?’

‘Perhaps. If God wills it. I have not seen him for thirty summers. He was fostered with my brother, Roger of St Bertrand, at Carcassonne and thence travelled across the sea to Jerusalem. A handsome lad he was, before he left.’

‘I met many from Navarre while in the Holy Land. How was your son called?’

‘Bernard,’ the count replied. ‘But he was not a knight of your order. He was also a Hospitaller.’

Before he could question the count further, a young boy appeared at the far end of the hall, a harp slung over one slim shoulder. A floppy velvet cap drooped over his features.

Count Henri’s eyes went wide with surprise, but Reynaud’s heart lifted. A troubadour! He had not heard a troubadour ballad since he rode out of Vezelay as a squire twenty years past.

And God knew his weary heart was hungry for solace.

Leonor paused at the entrance to the main hall and waited for her aunt’s signal from the head table. Quickly she adjusted her grip on the harp and pushed a stubborn strand of hair up under her green velvet cap. Benjamin gently squeezed her arm. ‘Go with God, little one,’ he whispered. ‘Shalom.’

The moment had come. Her heart leaped like an untamed hawk straining at its jesses.

The sting of poetry had always sent a thrill to her midsection, like being blown aloft by a holy breath. When she sang the words of her heart, the world stopped turning, and for a brief moment she felt at one with all humankind.

But only in the land of Aquitaine, where Great Eleanor ruled, was there a woman troubadour. It was whispered that at Eleanor’s court there were even women poets!

Yet this was Moyanne, not Aquitaine. Perhaps they would not welcome a woman troubadour. Her mouth went dry as a thistle.

At her aunt’s beckoning gesture, she started forwards, her heart thudding in her ears. If she glanced down at the loose-fitting silk tunic, it would be visibly fluttering over her chest with each beat. Better not to look.

She raised her chin and gazed across the hall. Next to her Uncle Henri sat Reynaud, tall and dark-haired in his white surcoat. She focused on the eight-pointed crimson cross emblazoned on his chest and willed her shaking limbs to carry her forwards, towards him.

Reynaud’s body suddenly went cold. That was no young minstrel. That was Leonor gliding towards him! And, God save her, she was wearing trousers! What was she thinking, entering the hall in a man’s garb? And carrying a harp?

Women did not perform in public. Certainly not a high-born woman like Leonor, educated in languages and versed in court etiquette. Surely she knew better. Henri’s guests would not listen to the music a woman would make. They would shout until she ceased singing.

Unable to breathe, Reynaud followed her progress through the horde of servants and guests in the crowded hall. She looked so small. And defenceless. Her simple embroidered tunic reached almost to the floor, and on her head she wore a matching green cap with a jaunty feather. But under the boy’s apparel she was unmistakably female! The delicate bones in her face, her graceful, sinuous motions screamed Woman.

His breath choked off. Did no one see what was so apparent to him? She was safe only if none realised she was female! He ground his teeth in an agony of frustration. It was too late to stop her.

The room buzzed in anticipation. Leonor advanced to the centre and bowed courteously to the count and Lady Alais.

Alais leaned towards her husband. ‘My dear, this is the harper I told you of earlier.’ At her significant look, Henri turned his full attention towards the youth.

Leonor sank on to a round wooden stool and bent her head to check her tuning. The hall quieted.

Under his surcoat Reynaud began to sweat. The crowd would not receive her well. How could he protect her in this foolhardy venture? He had stashed his sword belt, along with those of the other knights, with the burly guard at the hall entrance. Now, he had no weapon.

Silence dropped over the hall like soft mist. When the hush thickened, Leonor straightened, pulled the harp back on to her right shoulder and plucked a single chord.

Then she began to sing.

In spite of his pounding heart, he could not shut out her voice. What beautiful music! Her voice was low and melodious, rich in timbre. A woman’s voice, not the voice of the girl he remembered.

And such poetry! The words, in Arabic, described the soaring of a lark, the flight of a heart in ecstasy. The verses were so beautifully wrought that his chest tightened.

The backs of his eyelids began to burn. Not since his youth had a song touched him so deeply. His throat ached. He wanted to weep. The throb of her harp through his soul was almost painful, the longing aroused in him gnawing at his vitals.

Ah, he could stand no more. He clenched his hands until his knuckles cracked, and then, mercifully, the mesmerising voice and the murmur of the harp faded into silence.

He waited, scarcely able to draw breath.

Leonor dipped her head in a subtle obeisance to the count and Lady Alais but remained motionless on her stool. Reynaud could not take his eyes off her.

No one made a sound. At his elbow, Count Henri gaped open-mouthed at the slim figure in the centre of the hall. ‘By the saints,’ he breathed into the lingering hush.

She raised her head at last, and Reynaud saw that her grey eyes glittered with unshed tears.

Pandemonium broke out. Nobles and commoners alike banged their wine cups on the table and cheered until they were hoarse.

Reynaud drew in an unsteady breath. She had enchanted them. Thank God. Thank God!

She rose, stepped to the high table, and knelt on one knee before Count Henri and Lady Alais. Then she reached a small, fine-boned hand up to her feathered cap and with a quick motion drew it off and placed it across her heart.

Hair the colour of black silk tumbled down her slender back.

The crowd gasped. ‘A woman!’ someone shouted. ‘The minstrel is a woman!’

Reynaud was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, intending to head towards the wooden rack of swords at the front of the hall. Never before had he felt such an overpowering need to protect someone.

He halted as an underlying truth burned into his brain. Never before had he felt such a gut-deep yearning to touch another human spirit.

But a woman? His vows forbade it. He had to escape whatever it was pulling his soul to hers.

The shouting of the dinner guests echoed in the stone hall and then, abruptly, all noise ceased. His body began to tremble.

She would play again.

He didn’t think he could stand it.

Chapter Five

Reynaud rose to escape from the table, but the count turned to him. ‘Stay, man,’ he commanded in an undertone. With a hand heavy as a mace, he pressed Reynaud back into his seat at the linen-covered table.