Dragon Tree
Authors: Marsha Canham
Tags: #romance, #adventure, #medieval england, #crusades, #templar knights, #king richard, #medieval romance
THE DRAGON
TREE
by Marsha
Canham
Copyright 2012
by Marsha Canham
Smashwords
edition
ISBN
978-0-9877023-9-5
The Dragon Tree
was originally published as My Forever Love. This is the author's
revised and edited cut of the previously released print book.
All right
reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this
publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from
Marsha Canham.
This Ebook
version is dedicated to my son Jeffrey
who makes me
proud to be a mom every day.
PROLOGUE
September,
1191
The sound was
like that of tearing silk. Tamberlane did not see the arrow coming,
but he heard it and ducked to the side, avoiding the barbed tip by
such a small allowance that he felt the hot lick of air singe his
cheek. He swung around, his sword raised before him, long threads
of blood spinning off the tip like strings of red pearls. His
mantle, once white, was as crimson as the
cross pattee
that
marked him as a Crusader. His armor was rent in a dozen places. The
links were split and broken by blows that brought his blood forth
to mingle with that of the countless Saracens who had harried and
attacked the Christian army every inch of the way along the
sun-scorched road to Jerusalem. They were less than twelve miles
from the city gates and despite the Saracen army being scattered
across the desert, their leader, Saladin, refused to relent. Word
had reached the English camp the previous day bringing news that
fresh Turkish reinforcements had arrived to bolster the infidel’s
numbers as well as fortify the Holy City’s defenses.
There was
fighting every day. Bloody, violent, pitched battles started when
the boiling yellow eye of the sun rose over the sand dunes, and
ended when it sank red and vaporous into the desert night. King
Richard, called Lionheart by his men, had been determined to
reclaim Jerusalem and had marched his army through the August heat
in miserable conditions, but even his seemingly boundless strength
was beginning to flag. He woke with fevers and putrid bowels nearly
every morning, yet was always the first to appear in armor, his
leonine mane burnished gold by the hot sun.
Tamberlane had
been in Outremer four years longer than his king. He knew the
merciless heat of the desert. He knew the unrelenting hatred of the
Saracens who lauded those among them who were killed in battle as
martyrs for the faith. Fanatics all, they fought hard and they
fought shockingly well. They crept through the desert like an army
of black ants, able to vanish down hidey-holes in the sand without
a trace, and to move like the wind on magnificent horses bred for
speed and endurance.
On this
particular day, the attack had been launched with a hail of arrows
that had rained down upon the tiny coastal village where Richard
had set up camp. The terrible steel-tipped deluge had killed
soldiers and townspeople alike, leaving the ground soaked red with
blood.
Tamberlane had
found himself standing in the midst of chaos. The sun had turned
the fine desert sand into shimmering clouds of dust. There was
panic in the village as the people flew in all directions. Some ran
with their hands over their heads as if that would shield them from
the arrows that continued to fall all around them. Some merely
stood and screamed and waited for death to find them.
Out of the
corner of his eye, Tamberlane saw a woman dart from behind a mud
hut, a babe swathed in blue blankets clutched in her arms, the only
thread of bright color in the otherwise dun and gray chaos. An
arrow jutted from her cheek, pinning the cloth of her veil to her
face.
The next
instant, he was swinging his blade again, his attention diverted by
an enormous Saracen wielding a starburst—a spiked iron ball
tethered to a length of chain. The ball streaked across his chest,
narrowly missing the bulk of wool and armor. The look of a zealot’s
hatred was in the Saracen’s eyes as he lunged forward a pace and
wielded the chain in another lethal circle.
Tamberlane’s
own faith had once been equally fierce and uncompromising, his
obedience blind, his convictions unshakeable. He had been knighted
on the eve of his twenty-first birthday and by nightfall the
following day, had knelt before a tribunal of warrior monks and
pledged his sword, his life to the Order of Knights Templar. He had
foresworn all material possessions, forfeited all earthly desires
and ambitions, and pledged his service to God, vowing—earnestly and
eagerly so—to become a lifelong servant and slave to the Holy
Order.
“
Do you
swear to God and to our dear Lady Mary to be, all your life long,
obedient to the Master of the Temple and to the Prior who shall be
set over you?”
“
Yea, with
the help of Almighty God, I do swear it.”
“
Do you
swear to God and to our dear Lady Mary to observe all your life
long, the manners and customs of our Order without question, doubt,
or reservation?”
“
Yea, with
the help of Almighty God, I do swear it.”
“
Do you
swear to God and to our dear Lady Mary that you will, with the
utmost strength and powers which God hath bestowed upon you, help
as long as you shall live to conquer the Holy Land of Jerusalem;
and that you will, with all your strength, and honor, keep guard
over all that which the Kingdom of Christ possesses?”
“
Yea, with
the help of Almighty God, I do swear it.”
Two months
later, he had been on a ship bound for Cyprus, his white mantle as
unspoiled as his confidence, for he had yearned since he was a
stripling boy of twelve to one day wield a mighty sword in God’s
name. His faith was like an intense light, as searing and hot as
the desert sun.
During the
intervening four years, however, the brilliance of that light had
begun to fade. Unshakeable faith had been eroded by doubts and
misgivings. Unquestioning obedience had been tested by the laughter
of the Brothers who watched while ragged, beggardly Muslims were
chased down for sport and their heads mounted on pikes like
trophies. It was tested each and every time he witnessed the murder
and slaughter committed in the name of Christianity. And it was
strained nearly to the edge of breaking after the Lionheart ordered
the execution of twenty-seven hundred prisoners—many of them women
and children—after the months-long siege of Acre had ended in a
negotiated surrender. The prisoners had submitted themselves as
hostages, trusting the English king’s promise to set them free, but
a week after Richard had taken control of the city, he had ordered
them all dragged outside the city gates and executed.
The Templars
had been in the forefront, carrying out the butchery without
reservations. It had taken a full day to complete the slaughter, a
day throughout which Ciaran Tamberlane kept his head down and his
back turned on the many attempts the Muslims made to rescue their
people. That night when he returned to the city, he could barely
bring himself to look at the bloody horror strewn outside the
gates. Nor could he, for the first time since taking his vows as a
knight and a Templar, bring himself to give thanks in prayer to a
God who commanded such a terrible price for His love.
Yet here, two
months later, he was still fighting under the black and white silk
Beauseant, still rallying to the Crusader’s battle-cry:
Remember
the Holy Sepulchre
!
Tamberlane
shouted it now as he bared his teeth and braced himself. The
Saracen warrior was windmilling the chain and starburst in a great
hissing circle overhead, preparing for a second lunge. Ciaran's
gaze flickered for a split second—it followed the woman with the
arrow in her cheek who was running a gauntlet of clashing soldiers
and rearing warhorses. The bundle in her arms was nearly knocked
free, but she stumbled to keep her balance and kept running away
from the burning village toward the open sand of the desert.
The ball
swished close enough to scrape the steel of his helm and brought
Tamberlane’s concentration sharply back into focus. The Saracen was
a big bastard and there was too much power in the trunk-like arm
for the English knight to hold off a direct blow with his sword;
the blade would likely snap like kindling.
Taking a
calculated risk, he waited for the next sweeping revolution and
stepped swiftly into the circle carved by the arcing ball. The
chain caught him high on the arm, driving the links of his mail
into his flesh, but the ball whipped around and lashed the Saracen
in his own back, the three-inch spikes driving deep into his body
and shattering his spine.
The Saracen
screamed, spraying Tamberlane’s face with bloody spittle as he fell
forward. The knight shoved the sagging body aside and once again,
his gaze was lured away by a flash of bright blue wool.
The woman and
babe had reached the far side of the road and were stumbling into
the soft sand along the bank. She looked weak and dazed, for her
footsteps staggered side to side and she went down twice, hard onto
her knees.
Tamberlane’s
sea green eyes flicked again, this time to the pair of mounted
Templars who had also seen the woman and were breaking away from
the melee to give chase. Both had their swords drawn and while they
were as filthy and crusted with dust and blood as Tamberlane, he
thought he recognized one of them by the configuration of dents in
his helm.
Hugh de
Bergerette had been first to offer his sword for the slaughter at
Acre and last to walk off the bloody killing field, covered head to
toe in gore and seeming to revel in it.
Tamberlane
stepped hastily over the body of the dead Saracen and ran toward
the open sand, intent on cutting across the path of the two
Templars. He had been fighting all morning in the oppressive heat
and wore fifty pounds of heavy mail and armor, but he reached the
woman’s side just as the knights reined their horses to a halt
beside her.
Without
thinking of the consequences, Tamberlane lifted her up from where
she had fallen and placed her behind him, using his body as a
shield.
De
Bergerette's eyes glittered through the visor of his helm. “Stand
aside, Brother. We do God’s work here.”
“God’s work is
over there,” Tamberlane said in a low voice, “where men fight back
with swords and pikes. This is but a woman, sorely wounded, with a
babe in arms.”
“Babes in arms
grow to become men at arms,” the second Templar snarled, pointing
with his sword. “Now stand aside, in the name of God.”
Tamberlane
heaved a breath from his lungs. He startled the knight by reaching
up and grabbing the out-thrust sword by the blade, yanking it out
of the hospitaller's hands. Taking it in both gloved fists, he
brought it down over his knee, hard enough to snap the steel at the
hilt.
“I have seen
enough senseless slaughter committed in the name of God to last me
a thousand lifetimes.” He threw the broken halves of the sword onto
the ground in disgust. “I’ll not bear witness to another.”