My Beloved (23 page)

S
he knelt before him, her surcoat brushing his bare knees.

It was as if a thousand candles appeared behind his eyes they seemed so bright. Joy—pure and radiant.

She reached out with fingers that trembled and touched his cheek, the twin of her tears upon his face. He neither flinched nor drew away. Her fingers traced from cheek to nose to temple to jaw, a tender benediction of wonder. He bowed his head, gently held both of her palms against his face as if to encourage her to learn him, the texture of his skin, the warmth of his flesh. As if she gave him life with her caress.

How long they remained kneeling there looking at each other she didn't know. The stone should have abraded their knees, the sun should have burned their skin. Instead, the moment was timeless, a perfect bubble suspended above a silent world. Birth and death are often accompanied with the same awe, as if these moments are a mute tribute to the spirit of life itself. As if some emotions possessed such power that they defied the ability of man to convey it.

Miracle was too small a word.

She whispered it softly, shattering the silence. He did not speak, only traced his fingers upon her lips as she spoke it again.

She closed her eyes, felt his fingers upon her eyelids as delicate as a butterfly. He brushed against her lashes, wiped the tears from her cheek. She opened her eyes to watch him, her heart too full for such a moment. It felt as if it would crack open and tumble to the arid stone of Montvichet.

He had been shunted to dark rooms and black robes, yet now knelt naked and unashamed in front of her in the bright white day. A warrior, whose fingers trembled as they touched her lips.

His hands cupped her face, her fingers touched his chest, trembling as his did. “Juliana.”

She closed her eyes at the sound of his voice, felt the soft touch of his lips on her forehead. Another tear cascaded down her face.

Her hands reached up to touch his wrists, to brush against the back of his hands. She had ached to touch him for so long that she felt tentative with the freedom so unexpectedly given her. She wanted to trace her hands where his had been, over the perfect planes and hollows of his body. Not in harsh disbelief but in stunned wonder.

She had never witnessed a miracle before. What the nuns at Sisters of Charity had taught her were less acts of faith than those of practical necessity. Patience was a great teacher, diligence was its own reward, generosity was made null if the gift was given with thought of return. She'd honed her skills at writing and making ink. She'd studied Latin and became adept at deciphering the cramped writing of scribes of another era. She'd transcribed and illuminated, scraped and prepared parchment, rendered
ink in different colors. She'd learned how to keep records, and to make candles and soap and oversee servants.

But she had never learned about miracles.

“Should we not pray, Sebastian?” she whispered.

“I am.”

His words were so soft that they drifted into the confusion of her mind like feathers. She looked into his face. So beloved, so beautiful. Now matched by the perfection of his warrior's body.

“I heard your prayers once,” she confessed. His fingers speared into the hair at her temples, made havoc of her braid. “I did not mean to listen. I've never forgotten the words you spoke, or how sad your voice sounded.”

“I will have a lifetime to think of happier prayers.”

“Will we have that, do you think?”

“Yes,” he said tenderly. “If you are granted the world, how much less to wish for a grain of sand.”

“My lord?” The faint echo of Jerard's voice came suddenly and unexpectedly.

Sebastian smiled, stood, and walked to the well of stairs. She heard him shout, but not his words. Instead, she was transfixed with the beauty of him. There was no self-consciousness about his pose, no embarrassment about his nakedness. Once again she was reminded of the statue the villagers had unearthed.

He returned to her side, extended a hand for her. It was the first time he'd done so. She laid her fingers against his palm. She had been united with this man with she was five, had spent countless years as his bride. But until this moment, when he helped her to her feet, she had never felt truly joined. Never wed.

“It seems we've two blessings this day,” he said, looking down at her.

She nodded, bemused by mystery and miracles and the wonder of him.

 

In her left hand she held the straw basket that contained the Cathar treasure. In her right, the drawstring bag that held her clothing, the small store of their food. She had also taken a few pouches of the Cathar ink that she might study it at greater leisure. Sebastian stood just a few feet below her, his hand extended to help her down the first few steps. She handed the basket and the bag to him, stepped back from the opening.

She gave him no explanation, only moved to the center of the courtyard, to the place where Sebastian had knelt only an hour earlier. She turned in a slow circle, her face unsmiling. She could almost hear their voices, sounds of life, now silenced forever. In her mind she could see them, just as she could see Magdalene, a woman with a great heart who was loved even now.

She had thought so much about going into exile with Sebastian that it had startled her to realize they would be returning to Langlinais. There, they would make their futures, not hiding in terror, but living openly.

She doubted this place would be remembered. Or if happened upon, the siege of Montvichet would not be recalled. There would be no one to know what they had gone through, what had happened to these women in the six horrible months they had faced De Rutger in stubborn opposition.

“I will never forget,” she said softly, her voice echoing in the haunting silence of the courtyard. It seemed as if the silence smiled.

She turned, and Sebastian stood there, watching her. His chain mail glinted in the afternoon sunlight as he approached her. He reached out his hands and encompassed both of hers in his. He brought them to his lips and gently kissed the tips of her fingers.

She was speechless at his look. There was love in Sebastian's eyes.

 

Sebastian called once more, and this time, the reply was loud and strong.

A moment later the last stone was pushed aside. Sebastian left the tunnel, followed by Juliana, their eyes blinking in the fading light of day.

He clasped his hand on Jerard's arm. The look on the younger man's face was difficult to decipher. It was comprised of surprise, then amazement as his gaze lowered to Sebastian's hand.

“My lord, you are cured,” he said in awe.

“It is true,” Sebastian said, nodding.

Jerard held his hand against his heart, fell to his knees. “A miracle, my lord.”

“Save your obeisance for saints, Jerard. I am, as you well know, no saint.” He looked about him. “Where are the rest of my men?”

Jerard looked crestfallen, as if he'd failed at a simple task. “They would not stay, my lord. They were frightened. I did bring two of the horses, though.”

“Tell me one of them is Faeren and I will think you are the one blessed.”

At his vassal's nod, Sebastian smiled. “Well done, Jerard. But then, you have always been a faithful man.” He studied him for a moment. “My lady wife has reminded me that this is a duty long overlooked. Forgive me for that, Jerard, and for denying you the ceremony you deserve.”

Jerard looked stunned as he remained kneeling in front of him.

Instead of a new sword, which he would have prepared once they reached home, Sebastian held out his own. “Bless this sword, so that it may be a defense for churches, widows and orphans, and for all servants of God.”

He looked down at Jerard. It was an odd time to feel amusement, but he did so, leavened as it was with fondness. “Now you say, ‘Blessed be the Lord God who formeth my hands for battle and my fingers for war.'”

Jerard repeated the words in a clear strong voice.

“Do you serve as my vassal, Jerard, giving me your loyalty and your life?”

“I do, my lord.” The words were said cleanly, with no hesitation.

“I swear the selfsame oath. As you swear your loyalty to me, so is mine to you.”

Sebastian bent and placed the hilt of his sword in Jerard's right hand, took it back. Then instead of cuffing him across the cheek, he struck the blunt edge of the sword against Jerard's neck.

“Then arise, Sir Jerard of Langlinais, and take up your duties as a knight.”

He replaced his sword, then turned as Jerard stood, and held out his hand to Juliana, who smiled mistily at him.

“Now, let us go home.”

Words he'd never thought he'd say.

“I
t is magnificent,” the Marshal whispered. The chalice stood before them on a small table. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the skill of the goldsmith who had created the reliquary. Inside rested the wooden cup. The Marshal touched it, his fingers trembling as they rested upon the rim.

“Your brother? He relinquished such a thing so easily?” His glance seemed to spear Gregory.

“In return for Langlinais, Marshal.”

“He is a fool, then. We would have surrendered all our English fiefs for this treasure.” He stroked the rim of the cup.

Gregory did not tell him that Sebastian had been willing to surrender his home for the safety of a woman. And she, in turn, had given up her life for him. A sacrifice he did not understand.

Even as he had pledged his life to the Templars, answered the questions put to him, he had not believed as much in their cause as he had in himself. Do you espouse the faith, are you legitimate and of knightly family, are you unmarried or in holy orders? Are you free of debt, sound of body, and have you used no coercion in order to gain admission to the Order? He had responded with the correct an
swers, had been led to an oath to obey the Masters of the Temple and his superiors.

An easy oath to swear, one a knight would to his liege lord. They had not asked of him if he believed in the sanctity of the Order more than his own abilities, or if he had believed himself of sharper wit and more talent than most of the men who'd attempted to lead him in battle.

“Your brother, will he speak of this to anyone?” Phillipe's hand rested on the cup as if he drew solace simply by touching it. Gregory had felt the same on the journey back to Courcy.

“What does it matter, Marshal, if he does? We have the Grail. Do we not wish such a thing to be known?”

“But not the manner in which we obtained it. We do not want the Order associated with the Cathars, Gregory. Should we not send our brothers to this home of his in secret? In order to ensure he does not tell the tale?”

It was the perfect opportunity to tell the Marshal that his brother would not speak to anyone. That he was trapped upon a mountain just as the Cathars had been, but that his death would not be as swift, although it might well be as agonizing.

“No, Marshal. Sebastian has kept the secret for five years, he will not speak of it now. Besides, Langlinais is heavily fortified, and the attention we would draw to ourselves by such an action would be to our detriment.”
There, Sebastian, by such words have I protected your widow. My conscience is appeased
.

Phillipe stood, replaced the chalice into its casket. “Very well. Prepare yourself for a journey, Gregory.”

Gregory bowed. He did not question his destination. To do so would be to show curiosity, and such
things were considered faults that interfered with true obedience. Not that his was a character of compliance. Yet, it was better to appear so, for the sake of his future goals.

“We will take the Grail to Cyprus, Gregory. To the Master of the Order.”

D'Aubry smiled and clasped his hand upon Gregory's back. A sure and certain sign of praise. Gregory could not help but wonder why it irritated him. Perhaps because he knew that he was the one who had procured the Grail, and yet praise for such deeds would be shared with the Marshal. D'Aubry had sponsored such actions as he'd undertaken but had remained in the shadows, ready to disavow any knowledge of Gregory's activities should something go wrong.

A matter of timing, that was all. He would ensure that those in power would come to realize who had actually obtained the Grail.

“I will prepare for the journey,” he said, and bowed his head.

 

Juliana sat cradled against him on Faeren. His saddle with its raised pommel and cantle had been traded for Jerard's. He would much rather surrender the protection against being unhorsed for that of being able to hold Juliana next to him. Faeren's reins were looped in his right hand, while his left arm circled her waist.

He had wanted her forever, it seemed. Now, he only felt a need so great that he measured the miles to Langlinais in individual breaths.

He had resented Jerard's effortless ability to touch her during the journey to Montvichet, because he knew that he, himself, would never be able to do so. The moment he'd looked at his skin and realized
that he had been cured had not been one solely of prayer. It had also been comprised of exaltation, of the knowledge that he could be a man again.

But it had not seemed right to be spared in one moment and become a rutting boar the next. The haunted fortress had not been the place to make her his wife in truth. Nor was their journey, alone and unguarded. He did not wish a furtive coupling with Jerard standing watch.

It was enough, but only barely, to lie beside her at night. Sometimes he watched her as she slept. Once, he'd bent over her, his mouth only a breath from hers. The lure of her had been enough to keep him awake most of the night.

In the morning, he sometimes woke to find her in his arms, as if they had come together in their sleep, each seeking the other. In the dawn light he removed his clothing for his body to be inspected, watching her reaction from the corner of his eye. At first she would barely look at him. Now, she seemed to devour him with her eyes. She never knew that his own breath grew tight as her flush deepened. He always turned away, though, before she could see how her looks affected him.

She leaned against him now, and his head dipped, brushed a kiss against her temple. Her breath hitched. So, too, the beat of his heart.
Juliana
. A breath of a thought, an echo of his need.

She patted him, a gesture she'd begun in the last few days, a small soft pat on arm or knee as if to reassure herself that it was permissible to do so.

He concentrated on the distance to travel, instead of Juliana's soft curves resting against him. That way promised only a journey of acute discomfort.

Jerard called out, pointing ahead to a wooded valley. A stream curved among softly rolling hills, hid
beneath a copse of trees. He raised his hand in acknowledgment. They would rest there for their noon meal.

 

Each morning and each evening Sebastian stripped himself of his tunic and armor and asked that Jerard inspect him for evidence of disease. Once, Juliana had come upon them unawares, and although she'd turned and walked quickly away, she'd retained the shape of his body in her mind. That picture was added to the scene in Montvichet, when he'd stood naked in the sun.

When she allowed her thoughts to dwell on him, she remembered his strong thighs and chest and arms, all the other areas that fascinated her. She wanted to put her hands on him, to stroke his chest and thigh and that place that taunted her ignorance.

She wanted to kiss his skin.

Her breath came tight in her chest even as her heart seemed to slow and her blood to pound.

The man who'd once feared contaminating her now branded her with another disease. One of thoughts and wants and warmth that almost made her wish he would not touch her again. A palm upon her shoulder made her want to curve her face to him. A handclasp urged her to kiss his fingers. A finger trailing along the back of her neck created shivers throughout her body.

She would catch him watching her sometimes, the look in his eyes both fierce and warmly tender. But he never kissed her, and his gentle touches were no more intrusive than a breath of breeze. They enticed; they did not frighten.

There were few moments in which she was free of thoughts of him. In her sleep, she stood on her tiptoes and pulled his head down for a kiss, feeling
the warmth of his lips, remembering the taste of their one kiss. Somehow, in this dream state, she had been not untried and ignorant, but sated and sure, a woman, a wanton. Not a girl. She had placed his large hands upon her breasts, and sighed at the feeling of it, turned into his embrace when he'd traced the contours of her hips and belly. She'd been swept away by the thought of exposing her body to his touch, and recalled, too often, the night when she'd sat naked in front of him.

In the morning, she would awaken to find herself within his arms. A smile would brush his lips, and he would look into her eyes as if to see her soul. He was so tender of her that she wished sometimes that she could tell him she did not require such care. But if she would have found the courage to say those words, she might also have told him that she was tired of being a maiden. She wished to be a wife.

She knew the man who dwelled in shadows, who'd whispered despairing words in prayer. She'd understood the lord who had been adjudicator and overseer of his demesne, the student, the man possessed of subtle charm and wit. She respected the man of power, had been the recipient of his will. She'd felt pity and compassion and fear and love for the being clad in monk's black, awe and respect for the warrior.

But this man enticed and beckoned and tantalized.

He dismounted first, held out his arms for her. Without hesitation, she slipped into his embrace.

As she stood in front of him, her hand reached out of its own volition and touched his chest. She had not worn her bandages since Montvichet, and her fingers, ten separate places that measured sensation, trailed up from the center of his tunic to his shoulders.

It would take both of her hands to measure the breadth of his arm. His chain mail felt hot against her fingers. She wished she might again place her palm upon the mat of curly hair on his chest.

Instead, Sebastian stepped back, his breathing just as rapid as hers.

Before she could question him, he was gone, striding to where Jerard was laying out their meal.