Crusader Captive (13 page)

“The collapse of our alliance with Damascus makes it imperative that we find you another husband, girl, and fast. One strong enough to hold Fortemur against attack.”

Jocelyn accepted the dictum without flinching. She, too, shouldered heavy responsibilities.

“I agree, Majesty.”

“Thank the saints,” Melisande murmured with the beginnings of a rueful smile. “I feared another battle royal.”

“All I ask is that you make him a Frankish knight.”

“After all we’ve endured together, it’s little enough to ask of me. You have my word.”

Jocelyn could only pray that she would hold to it.

Chapter Twelve

U
nbeknownst to Jocelyn, Simon was having much the same conversation at almost the same moment.

The setting for their talks was different. Instead of a dim chamber shielded from the stench of death by oiled clothes and fragrant candles, Simon and Bertrand de Tremelay circled the base of Blanche Garde’s chalky cliffs in the blazing heat of late afternoon.

Sweat ran in rivulets down the Grand Master’s thin face. Despite his broad shoulders and muscular thighs, his years showed in the graying hair plastered to his skull and the deep grooves etched into his lean cheeks. The arm that had taken the vicious lance thrust was now bandaged tight across his chest. Another bandage circled his thigh.

De Tremelay didn’t give so much as a passing nod to his wounds, however. He was a warrior to his bones. As well Simon should know. Hadn’t he witnessed firsthand the Grand Master’s refusal to beg for quarter even when surrounded by a half-dozen or more Saracens?

Yet the past few minutes had revealed an all-too-human side to Bertrand de Tremelay. Not to mention the man’s unabashed ambition on behalf of his order. Even now glee and more than a hint of avarice colored his voice as he reiterated the astounding news he’d imparted some moments ago.

“I’ll tell you again, de Rhys, you performed an incomparable service for the Knights Templar when you rescued the queen from that blazing tent. The king could scarce hold himself in check when he spoke of it. That Baldwin and his mother would cede Blanche Garde to our order is a feather in my cap. That they would insist I leave you in charge is most assuredly one in yours.”

“I’m honored, sir, and humbled.”

“As well you should be. Our order boasts many knights far senior to you who would jump at the chance to govern such a magnificent holding. I will confess I told the king so, but he remained adamant. For all their differences, Baldwin and his mother think with one mind on many issues.”

When the Grand Master’s intense, penetrating gaze swept the fortress set atop its white cliffs, Simon’s followed. Despite his protestation of unworthiness, an undeniable stir of pride swirled deep in his chest. Never in his wildest imaginings had he envisioned commanding such a mighty keep.

Unbidden, an image of Fortemur’s turrets and towers leaped into his head. With it came one of its mistress, with her silver-blond hair tossed by the wind and her face aglow as she watched her peregrine falcon ride the air currents. Hard on the heels of those forbidden thoughts came others, even more insidious.

Could he trade one fortress for another?

One vow for another?

Now that the emir’s treachery and death had destroyed hopes of an alliance with Damascus, Melisande and her son would give Jocelyn to another husband. Why not to him? He’d saved the queen from sure death, had helped the Grand Master escape the Saracens who had brought him down. They both considered him worthy enough to take command of Blanche Garde, as did the king.

Perhaps they would give him Fortemur and its lady instead.

A muscle jumped in the side of Simon’s jaw as he broached the possibility slowly, carefully. “Father, may I speak with you of a personal matter?”

The Grand Master dragged his glance from the towering walls. “Of course.”

“When I left home, my sire lay dying of the wasting sickness. He had not the strength left to do penance for his sins and pressed me to do it for him. To that end, I acceded to his earnest entreaty that I join the Knights Templar.”

“Do you say you vowed to join our order to redeem your father’s soul?”

“What was left of it to be redeemed.”

De Tremelay considered that for several moments before he shook his head. “No man can purchase salvation for someone else, nor release another soul from purgatory.”

“That’s what the Bishop of Clairvaux told me.”

“The bishop is a wise and saintly man. He told you correctly.”

“But he also said that if the sinner is truly repentant, any good acts he did—or others did in his name—can earn him indulgences.”

“That’s so, if he does indeed repent. Tell me, did your sire confess his sins?”

“He said he did.”

“Was he given absolution?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, then. It sounds as though he was truly repentant, but I will tell you this, de Rhys. God alone is the judge of what penalty we all must pay for our sins.”

Deep in thought, de Tremelay lifted his gaze to the castle walls again.

“I would say, though, that what you’ve done here will have won your sire at least a Plenary Indulgence. By holding to your vow, you’ll spare him—and yourself—even more time in purgatory.”

“What if I don’t hold to it?”

The Grand Master’s head whipped around. “Why would you not?”

The muscle in Simon’s jaw twitched again. He could feel it jump as he met a hard, penetrating stare.

“I’m not suited to Holy Orders, Your Grace. There’s a woman. A lady. I crave her above all else.”

“Ahhh.”

De Tremelay raked a mailed fist through his sweat-flattened hair. His thin face creased in a knowing smile.

“Men have lusted for women since Adam first laid eyes on Eve. It’s the natural order of things. What God has ordained for us. Why do you think our order has such strict rules? Why we may not so much as speak to, much less have congress with, any female? Only by avoiding all such contact can we rise above the weakness of our mortal flesh and dedicate ourselves to a higher purpose.”

Simon had only to recall his stolen hours with Jocelyn to know he would never rise above the weakness she engendered in him.

“God’s will sent you to Outremer, de Rhys, and you’ve but begun to fulfill your destiny here. One as strong of heart and arm as you are will rise quickly within our order. I see great things ahead for you.” He flung out an arm in a gesture that encompassed a wide sweep of chalky hill and forested land. “You’ve brought Blanche Garde to the Knights Templar. You will bring us more. I’m sure of it.”

Simon was no fool. He knew politics and avarice played as much within the Church as without. The order of the Knights Templar might have sprung from the noble intention of protecting pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land, but its tentacles now reached far beyond these shores. Their holdings in Europe and Byzantium rivaled those of kings and emperors. So did their treasury. It was rumored the Templars’ chief of the exchequer had loaned so great a sum to Louis of France to finance his ill-fated Crusade that the king must needs beggar his entire kingdom to discharge the debt.

Now, because of the actions of the landless son of a minor knight, they had the chance to add another major keep to their holdings. Despite the debt of gratitude de Tremelay claimed he owed to Simon, he would not willingly release him from his vow. Not if it meant losing such a rich prize as Blanche Garde.

As if in echo of his grim thoughts, the older man straightened in the saddle and took up his reins.

“You will have time and more to purge yourself of all carnal thoughts during your fasting and abasement prior to induction, de Rhys. Because you’ve already proved yourself in battle and brought such honor to our order, I can shorten the time required for these rituals. You’ll face a trial of only days instead of weeks. And I am confident that five days hence you will don the white surcoat of a Templar, and all things will find their proper place in your heart.”

Simon didn’t share his conviction. What he felt for Jocelyn was so different from what he’d felt for any other woman. This aching need went beyond lust, beyond all thoughts of wealth or power. Beyond honor.

Yet he’d come so far. Endured so much to reach this point. He owed it to himself—and to Jocelyn—to take this final test. He would submit to purification rituals. Abase himself both physically and mentally. Open his heart, as the Grand Master urged. And five days hence, he would know without any hesitation which path to tread.

“I understand the wisdom in what you say,” he acknowledged, “and will obey.”

“Good. Now let us return to the keep so I may organize your induction.”

Sheer chance brought them to Blanche Garde’s outer gate just as a troop wearing the red and black of Fortemur clattered across the drawbridge. Jocelyn rode at its head, Sir Guy beside her. Those of her men who’d survived the vicious battle of the night before followed. In the midst of their ranks, two drays pulled a cart conveying tightly bound bundles. The size and shape of the bundles told Simon they could only be Fortemur’s dead.

Bound by his vows, the Grand Master could do no more than nod to the woman leading the troop. Simon was not yet subject to such restraint.

“Lady Jocelyn!”

She drew rein, her gaze locked with his. She’d washed the grime from her face and changed into clean garments, but her voice was still hoarse from the smoke.

“I looked for you,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The queen told me that she will grant Blanche Garde to the Templars in recognition of their heroic acts. And that you are to be given command of the keep. I wanted to let you know how happy I am for you, Simon. Such an honor is no more than you deserve.”

He nodded but was more concerned with the weariness in both her voice and her face at this moment than the disposition of the keep. “You’re so tired you can scarce sit your saddle. Why do you depart before you have rested at least through the night?”

“I’ll not leave Sir Hugh and the others of Fortemur to be burned or tossed into a mass grave.” Her throat working, she cast a glance over her shoulder at the shrouded bodies. “I must take them home for burial.”

“Tomorrow,” he urged. “Take them tomorrow.”

Temptation rose so thick and hot in Jocelyn’s throat she near choked on it. He would never know how fiercely she’d debated leaving Blanche Garde, or how strenuously Sir Guy had argued against it. Nor could he know how much she ached to stay just one more night. If she did, she could slip away with him to some dark, secret corner. Rest her head on his shoulder. Ease some of the horror of the night just past in his arms.

And then? Would she whisper to him of the queen’s extraordinary offer? Would she weep and cling and beg him yet again to break the vow he’d sworn before man and God?

She would. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would. And when she did, she would only add to the misery engulfing them both. Better to cut all ties now, while Simon still retained his honor and she a shred of dignity.

Yet the parting was so much harder than she’d ever imagined it could be. Especially when he nudged his mount closer to hers and reached over to take her hand.

“Mayhap it’s for the best. As you say, Sir Hugh and the other men of Fortemur deserve burial in hallowed ground. And all of you will sleep better away from this stench. I have business to attend to here yet, but—”

He broke off, his jaw working. He could not say more, she knew. What was there to say?

“God keep you safe, Simon. I pray you find joy in the life you’re about to enter.”

Holding her eyes with his, he raised her hand and brushed his lips across the back. Once. Twice.

“I pray so, too, lady.”

The Templars’ secret induction rituals had already given rise to many a rumor among other churchmen and laity alike. Kings and barons speculated openly about the ceremony. Commoners whispered of it behind closed doors. Even the Pope himself had supposedly written to a previous Grand Master to inquire about it.

If so, the reply must needs have been vague at best. As Simon was informed when two brother knights stripped him, every inductee must swear on pain of death and the loss of his immortal soul never to reveal what transpired in the hours and days to come.

“Do you so swear?” the Grand Master demanded, his eyes burning above the snowy white of his surcoat.

“I do.”

“Then kneel, de Rhys, and empty your head of all thoughts but the glory of God.”

Simon dropped to his knees on hard stone covered with a woven straw mat. It was late. Well past midnight. The main doors to the chapel were locked from the inside. The entrances to the choir loft and the private balcony where the lord and lady of the keep would hear Mass were similarly sealed. The flicker of candles set at intervals along the nave did little to dispel the gloom.

Blanche Garde’s chapel had sustained considerable damage during the keep’s occupation by the Saracens. The cross that had previously hung above the marble altar had been ripped from its mounting and burnt to a pile of gray ash. The gem-studded chalice and precious cloth of gold altar scarf that had reportedly been gifts of Queen Melisande herself were missing and had not yet been recovered. Even the marble sarcophagi lining the alcoves on either side of the nave bore the scars of assault by mace or battle-ax.

Despite the obvious signs of desecration, an air of sanctity pervaded the still, shadow-filled chapel. Perhaps it was the intensity of the knight-priests who stood to either side of Simon. Or the expression on the face of the Grand Master when he addressed the potential inductee.

“You will neither eat nor drink anything save water nor speak to any living soul until you have completed the tasks we require of you. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Here, then, is your first task.”

De Tremelay held out a long-handled flail. When the hooked barbs at the ends of its dozen or more tails clinked against one another, the small sounds echoed in Simon’s ears like lost souls crying to each other.

“You will scourge yourself thrice hourly from now until dawn,” de Tremelay instructed grimly. “Betimes, you will beg Christ to make you worthy of His grace.”

Everything in Simon cringed at the prospect of flailing his still-raw back with the vicious barbs, but he accepted the whip without comment. He’d chosen this path. Pledged his oath before God and man. He would not shy from it now.

“We will return for you at dawn,” de Tremelay said. “At that time, I will assign the next of your tasks.”

He signaled to the two knights. Their footsteps echoed in the dim emptiness as they made for the chapel door. A heavy key clanked in the lock. The wooden door creaked open on iron hinges, swung shut. The grate of the key in the lock again sounded as loud as a clap of thunder to Simon’s ears.