My Beloved (17 page)

A
Templar was bound to strict obedience to his commander. His word demanded absolute submission. Upon investiture into the Order, a man had to swear to obey the Master of the Temple and any officer his superior. A brother could be imprisoned, exiled, or expulsed from the Templars for using his own initiative. Strict discipline, obedience, absolute faith, all three of these were present in the brothers who surrounded Gregory.

Gregory did not address them, did not explain the purpose of their expedition. It was neither necessary nor required.

Fanatics made good soldiers, Gregory thought, as the column, two wide, proceeded from Courcy. These French brothers had all seen service in the Holy Land, had gained experience fighting the Saracens.

He had trained them hard these past weeks, even being excused from nones and vespers because of it. At compline last night, he'd given them their instructions, and this morning at dawn there had been not one brother missing from the array of mounted men. At midnight, he'd been awake and had at
tended matins, his own prayers taking shape over the familiar words.

His lookouts had informed him that there were only fourteen accompanying Sebastian, thirteen men-at-arms and a woman. The woman's presence had startled him. His brother, as heir, had been wed as a gawky youth. Was she his bride? On such a dangerous journey? He could not reconcile that knowledge with the Sebastian of his childhood. A careful boy who had looked for attack too often ever to be surprised. Of the two of them, he had been the more impulsive, using his lance in such a way that it overset him, or sometimes thrusting too hard with his blunted sword that he was unbalanced by the weight of it.

How odd that the once impulsive boy would join the Templars, easily take a vow to “preserve chastity, the good usages, and the good customs of the Order.” There were other vows he'd sworn to just as serenely, such as those to own no property, never to allow Christians to be murdered, to enlarge the kingdom of Jerusalem, and not to leave the Order without permission.

His reply to Sebastian's request for additional time to pay his ransom had borne fruit, it seemed. It was evident that Sebastian knew of the treasure, or he wouldn't now be returning to Montvichet. He'd evidently hidden it well enough that the initial search by De Rutger and a later one by Templar brothers had not uncovered its existence.

The fact that his brother was on the way to the Cathar fortress was, on the surface of it, acceptance of their bargain. But Sebastian had surprised him by having been at Montvichet soon after the siege had ended, and again by going on crusade. A hint of caution might be wise now. Perhaps he did not
know the man who had become the Lord of Langlinais. It was a good possibility that his memories of Sebastian might be just that, only memories. The man his brother had grown to be might prove to be dangerous.

A word in the ear of a French noble had dispensed with the problem of Sebastian's retinue. Sebastian himself could not be harmed until he'd reached Montvichet. Preferably alone.

Whatever transpired later was the will of God.

 

“I feel as well guarded as a princess,” she said to Jerard's back.

Her perch behind Jerard was not onerous. He had placed her hands at his waist with enough nonchalance that she was not embarrassed, and other than gripping her wrists from time to time when the terrain grew steeper did not touch her. It was, however precarious a perch, one from which she could see, and the air, although hot, was not stifling as it had been in the wagon.

“How so, my lady?”

“It is not bad enough that I have to discommode you with my presence, but to have all these men guarding me seems a bit overcautious.”

“These are not safe roads, my lady. My lord would guard you as well as he can.”

“I am guarded so well I can barely take a breath, Jerard.”

There was no answer to that, but then, she'd not expected one.

“Where are we, Jerard?”

Their small fleet had docked at a fishing village some days earlier, and ever since they'd been on horseback, traveling deeper into France.

“Brittany, my lady.”

Her education had consisted of learning how to be both chatelaine and scribe. She'd had little exposure to atlases, even though she'd once seen a sketch of England. Therefore, Juliana was as unaware as before of their location, and indeed the location of Montvichet.

Sebastian seemed to expect trouble, as measured by the sword he wore. It swung by his side with ease, seeming to disturb him not at all. Yet, it gleamed in the sun as if to call attention to itself, an instrument of death shining brightly and unapologetically.

She had meant to ask Sebastian about the treasure, but the thought had flown from her mind. Instead, her senses had been captivated and her heart had been touched. Then, she had forced herself not to wince when she'd seen his hand.

Weeping would not help.

She fixed her gaze on him riding in front of them. He did not wear a helm. Not because of the heat, she suspected, but because of the freedom. Other men might have chafed at the chain mail, but Sebastian wore it without complaint. It was, no doubt, less onerous to him than the monk's robe he'd worn for so long.

She was not faring quite as well. Her linen headdress was a simple toque, yet the chin strap chafed her skin. By the second day in France, she had discarded it. Her embroidered undersleeves were too hot for this weather, so she'd asked Jerard to trim them on the third day. All that was intact was her sleeveless surcoat, but it was grimy with the dust kicked up by the horses. She felt as though she were caked in dirt, could even taste the grittiness of it in her food and water.

Yet Sebastian smiled through their journey.

“We are making good distances each day, my lady,” Jerard said. “We will be at Montvichet within a week.”

Jerard had become her only source of information over the last few days. During the day the men-at-arms had no necessity to converse with her, although they spared a few words at evening. The longer they traveled the more distant Sebastian seemed to become, however. He rarely spoke to her and sent messages through Jerard. It was as if his armor had become an inadequate protective device, so he used distance to enhance his isolation as well. Their nights of conversation might never have happened. Or perhaps they had been moments of illusion, something she'd only dreamed.

 

Each day he watched her mount behind Jerard and each day he wanted to strike his vassal. She would smile her thanks, or say a few words, her lips moving soundlessly. He did not want to hear her words, hear the tenor of her speech, the softness of her voice. Did not want to hear her speak words of gratitude to any man but him.

Mine.

A surge of something feral and angry sped through him. It was ancient and hungry and crazed. It was akin to bloodlust, that need to kill or be killed, that had attacked him on the battlefield.

Mine
.

She belonged to no one but him. Her pink cheek was his to cradle in his palm, her hair to be swept aside by his fingers. Her foot to be braced, her arm to be held by him alone. The fact that he had touched her only once was a cruel joke, the fact he could still feel the imprint of her hand a gift. The surprising rage he felt was unleashed by the sight of
her pressed against another man. Once, she'd fallen asleep, her cheek resting against Jerard's back. He'd almost killed his squire.

During the last few days, he'd watched her become more comfortable with Jerard, with the other men. Her braid was always neat and tidy in the morning, but by evening it was hanging by a ribbon, tendrils of hair escaping to rest against her cheek. She'd trimmed her sleeves so that they were not so long, and had ceased wearing her toque. The worst of it was when she'd discontinued wearing her undersleeves. In this heat she would have been a fool not to discard them, but still, it meant that there was one less layer of cloth between her and Jerard.

He'd thought himself a strong man, one beset with passions, true, but had always kept them contained. His anger had been saved for the tourney or the battlefield. His lust spent with a willing woman.

He had demanded of himself restraint and strength and thus far had always been able to comply with such grand expectations. Yet, he was expected to restrain himself from a woman who was his wife. Never to hold her in his arms, never to kiss her, never to inhale her breath into his lungs. To watch as other men were the recipient of her smiles and her small but tender favors.

He would rather be outnumbered by Saracens.

It had, oddly enough, been easier to be around her when he had been attired in his monk's garb. Perhaps because it had so readily and constantly reminded him of his plight. There were times, in his armor, that he forgot for hours, when he believed himself whole and the other only a pretense.

A sparkle caught his attention on the far hillside. The sun glinting off a stone or off a Templar's armor? The thought was enough of a chastisement to
focus his energy on the task at hand—that of getting them safely to Montvichet. Envisioning his wife in various poses, naked upon his bed, would not ensure that. In fact, it would be better if he did not think of her at all.

A thought he'd had only a moment to ponder before he was attacked.

 

The first indication Juliana had that something was wrong was Jerard's curse. He swore fluently and with great emotion.

“What is it, Jerard?” He didn't answer her question, only spurred his horse without warning.

He slid from the saddle before she could question his actions. It was then that she looked up and saw Sebastian surrounded by men armored as well as he.

She clasped a bandaged hand over her mouth.

The men-at-arms stationed behind them raced forward, positioned themselves around Juliana. Not one word had been spoken, but they all moved quickly and with unerring certainty into place. Jerard drew his sword, moved to stand in front of his horse. Even Juliana, who had no experience with warfare, knew that such a stance was defensive. It seemed she was to be protected.

The men who attacked them were young and well mounted and possessed of weaponry at least equal to Sebastian's enormous sword. They were dressed for battle, but not united in it. There were no common pennants, no tunics to match. There were at least twenty of them and only Sebastian and six of his men, the others remaining behind to guard her.

Something odd was happening. The men who surrounded Sebastian did not raise their swords to strike him. Faeren turned on a kneed command, Sebastian lunged forward, the thrust of his blade met
and held by another sword. But that was all. There was no answering blow. They contained him, but they did not harm him.

There was no such mercy given to their men. They fought valiantly, although they were outnumbered.

“Jerard, will you not aid them?”

She had to shout in order to be heard. The quiet of the afternoon had been supplanted by the sounds of battle, the clang of steel against steel, an oath, a scream.

“I am to protect you, my lady.” He did not look in her direction as he spoke, his attention riveted upon the battle scene, just as hers was.

“Then release the rest of our men.” That demand was lost in the sounds of battle, or else Jerard ignored it.

Jerard's horse sidestepped, either eager to be in the fray or frightened by it. Jerard remained where he was, stationed at his horse's head, one hand gripping the reins tautly, the other with sword braced, ready to protect her.

Five men separated from the larger group surrounding Sebastian and rushed toward them. One man was cut down by the phalanx of guards; Jerard thrust his sword into the chest of another as he bent to slice at him. The other three managed to wound a few of their men, unhorse another.

It was not until a few moments later that Juliana realized the site of battle had shifted. She was in the middle of it. Swords were raised high, horses were screaming, the faces of the men were sweaty and flushed, their eyes holding a kind of crazed delight.

She could not shut her eyes, transfixed by the sight of blood dripping from a shiny blade. A mailed hand raised the sword high in the air. It came closer. Closer still until it slowly arced toward her. She
watched it with a sick horror and wondered why she should meet death in such a way, on a road in France. For what reason was she to be killed? No more important than she simply happened to be here.

That's when she saw him. Faeren must have been equipped with wings. How else could he have reached her side so quickly? One moment, she was looking at death, the next the contorted face of her husband, whose fury had transformed him into a murderous stranger. His face was bronzed, his eyes slitted, a hoarse sound emerged from his throat, a shout born of savage rage.

Had he fought his way free of the circle of men who'd surrounded him? Had she not watched the way he fought, she might have thought it impossible. But a few seconds later she did not doubt it. With one blow, he cut down the man closest to her. The attacker gurgled, spewing blood as he toppled from his horse. Then Sebastian's sword was embedded in the back of the attacker who threatened her. He had been so close that the tip of the man's sword sliced through her tunic as he fell.

Sebastian's glance captured hers easily since her eyes had never veered from him. It was as if the battle slowed, the moment oddly stilled in time. Once again, she had the strange feeling that they spoke without words. Worry for each was transmitted in a glance; reassurance from each was sent back.

Then it was over.

Sebastian's arm sliced down, over and over, his grin was feral and frightening. He used no shield, wore no helmet, was the least protected and yet the most daunting figure on the road made battlefield. He fought like a man to whom losing was an impossibility. But it was possible to perish on this
sunny afternoon on a dusty road in France. The men at her feet attested to that.