My Beloved (25 page)

“Juliana,” he said tenderly. She stirred and would have tipped her head up again, but his hand went to the back of her head as if to keep her pinned against him.

“Only Juliana,” he said. He extended his arms around her, held her so tightly a whisper could not have parted them. The sun bathed them in light, the warrior and his woman. She did not stir, nor did he, simply content to feel the magic of this moment.

J
erard heard their laughter and kept his eyes stoically on the ground. He'd made the mistake of looking up once and had seen his lord kissing his wife, and Lady Juliana enthusiastically responding.

He felt curiously embarrassed. There was such a radiant look on Lady Juliana's face, and such a deeply contented one on his lord's that it was not difficult to determine what had caused their delay. He had long since packed up their noon meal and sat against a tree, knowing that this spot would be their resting place for tonight.

It was odd to be returning to Langlinais this way. Not in mourning or grief for his lord's fate, but with Sebastian healed and his own future bright. While it was true his smile dimmed from time to time, on the whole, the Lord of Langlinais was a changed man. It was not simply the absence of his disease that made him so, Jerard suspected. It was Lady Juliana.

Jerard had lived around lust all his life. As a child, he'd slept in a room with twenty other people. His nights had often been interrupted by the passage of a man to his wife, a woman to her mate. The act had not been done in secret. His own father had made a whore of his mother for lust. It was only at Langli
nais that he'd achieved any privacy in order to enjoy his own sport.

He had enjoyed the carnal sports with various women throughout his life, some of them living at Langlinais. He was not as formidable-looking as his lord, matching him in height, but not as broad in chest or arms. His eyes, however, seemed to be a source of wonder to the females of his acquaintance, since they were of an odd shade likened to gold.

He enjoyed women, liked the way they moved and smelled and looked, and perhaps it was that appreciation that garnered him their attention. The gentle laughter of the Lord of Langlinais and his wife reminded him that he had been celibate on this journey, not a difficult feat if a man was concerned for his very survival. Still, the laughter and teasing words and secret kisses reminded him of what waited for him at home.

He'd witnessed the way Sebastian had watched Lady Juliana once when she was not looking, a fierce and protective look not quite masking his despair. It may be lust that flowed between them now, but it originated from a wellspring of love.

His own future was more certain than before. He would remain at Langlinais, not as a former serf in his lord's service, but as a knight. A member of an elite group of warriors. He'd never thought to be knighted; his birth provided a formidable obstacle to being so honored. Nor had his years fighting beside Sebastian on crusade proven him worthy of it. He had fought as well as any man, but without the prowess or the unearthly grace of his lord.

Yet, Sebastian of Langlinais had knighted him, establishing him as a man of consequence. Sir Jerard of Langlinais. He smiled broadly and studiously ignored the couple he served.

 

The journey back to Langlinais was made slower by reason of the care they took. There was no thundering contingent of armed men surrounding them. But they were not accosted during the return trip, a fact that only led to Sebastian's certainty as to the origin of the first attack. Although Gregory had not admitted it, he'd seen his brother's fine hand in arranging that ambush. He would never forgive him that for one very simple reason: Juliana could have been killed.

The appearance of Langlinais in the wooded valley below them reminded Sebastian of something he had previously forgotten. This homecoming could very well determine the quality of the rest of his life. Langlinais was not only a structure; the essence of his home was its people. The miller whose arrogance he tempered, Grazide who talked too much, but who had a kind and gentle heart, Old Simon who had greeted him every day of his life. The cook and the armorer and the tanner and the boys he trained for trades. All these people and more made up his home, their goodwill aided its cause, their health and well-being mattered to him. His people must be reassured that all was well, that he was free of disease and would bring no harm to them.

When they came to the gatehouse, he dismounted, held out his arms for Juliana. “Remain here with my wife,” he said, turning to Jerard.

“What are you going to do, Sebastian?”

“Wait here, Juliana,” he said in lieu of answering her.

He walked to the gatehouse. Old Simon was there, his rheumy eyes open and staring, as if he viewed a ghost. The old man had once been portly, but the years had taken his flesh from him and left his sag
ging skin as a reminder of his girth. Now his face wobbled when he moved, his dark eyes set into a frame of apparent sadness. But nothing could be further from the truth. Old Simon enjoyed the nightly merriment at Langlinais, and most especially Langlinais wine.

Sebastian had always had a fondness for the old man, despite the fact that he often failed at his post as gatekeeper. There were always guards set on the hills that led to the Langlinais valley. For that reason, Sebastian allowed him to keep his post, despite the fact he often spent the daylight hours sleeping.

“Has anyone passed these gates, Simon?”

“Only those who had business at Langlinais, my lord.”

“No strangers?”

He shook his head, and his jowls swayed.

Then no Templars had come. It was the first of his worries. The other might be more difficult to alleviate.

He walked back to where Juliana and Jerard stood. He removed his sword first, handed it to Jerard who took it without question. Next he removed his tunic, then the hauberk, the long thigh-length chain-mail shirt. He wore a thin gambeson beneath it, and this, too, he removed.

“Sebastian?”

Juliana was looking at him with the same expression on her face as Old Simon had worn.

Jerard, however, nodded at him, understanding perfectly. “The Langlinais men-at-arms, my lady,” he said to Juliana. “They have no doubt returned with news of my lord's condition.”

“And you are stripping yourself of your shirt, Sebastian, to prove you have no affliction?”

“Can you think of a better way?”

“Would not your word suffice?” There was the most peculiar expression on her face. He smiled at the blush that suffused her cheek, then brushed his lips against them, as if to test their heat.

“I want no rumors to accompany us in the future, Juliana.”

“But must you show yourself to all the women in the castle?”

He laughed, charmed. Of all the times to express jealousy, this was perhaps the oddest. “They think me a leper, Juliana. I doubt their minds will be filled with other ideas.”

“Then should I not do the same? After all, I declared myself a leper before all of them.”

He raised one eyebrow. “But you would have become one because of me, lady wife. It is I who must banish any talk.”

He motioned for Old Simon to open the gate.

It was no doubt a strange procession they made inside the gates of Langlinais. Him with his chest bared to prove to his people that he did not bring danger or disease to his home, Jerard newly knighted and proud. And Juliana her cheeks a brilliant poppy, her gaze fixed on the women they passed as if she would burn them with her look.

The basket from Montvichet bobbed against Jerard's saddle, a reminder of their danger. What would Juliana say when she learned the true Cathar secret? Not the relics after all.

He had not yet decided if he should destroy it, bury it so that it would not see the light of day for eternity, or make its presence known. All he knew was that it might be a myth, but if it were not, it was perhaps the most dangerous document in the history of the world.

T
he convent of the Sisters of Charity was a dreary place, Jerard thought. But its gray stone was enlivened by the green of the grass that surrounded it, even this late in the year. The first time he'd come here, he'd viewed lush gardens inside the tall iron gates. He'd been sent to the convent for something to soothe Juliana's hands and had been gifted with Sister Agnes. She had been an unusual traveling companion. Despite the haste of their journey, the nun had commented upon every plant and bush and tree, and its medicinal properties, between the convent and Langlinais.

He stood now at the gate, waiting for the abbess. He noted the gardens, not as profuse in blooms as before but neatly tended as if it awaited winter with patience.

A bell sounded, the whisper tread of sandals brushing across the floor a summons to worship. An hour passed, but still he waited.

Finally, the abbess was there at the gate, her angular form attesting either to the paucity of rations at the convent or her own form of discipline.

She greeted him with reserve until she remem
bered him. Then, the lines of her face deepened into worry. “Juliana? She is well?”

“Yes, Abbess. She is well.”

“Her hands?”

“They are healing. She is practicing writing each day. It is an effort for her, I think, but she will not desist.”

“She was often a stubborn girl,” she said, smiling. “Tell me, is she happy at Langlinais?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

Lady Juliana hummed and smiled all the time. Sometimes, in walking through the bailey, she would do a little dance, picking up her skirts and skipping not unlike a child. And his lord. Jerard smiled, bending to pick up the chest he'd placed reverently on the ground. Sebastian was like a boy, up to his ears in lust and love.

There was a square opening in the grille of the gate. Through this he passed the chest to the abbess. “There is a missive inside that will explain it all, Abbess. If you don't mind, I will go and sit over there and wait.” He pointed to a tree that offered shade.

She nodded, frowning, her attention not on him but on the chest.

He walked over to the tree and sat beneath it, drawing up one leg. The land was carved into rolling hills and shallow valleys, but he could almost see Langlinais.

 

Gertrude set the chest upon a table in the small chamber that served as hers. She was a curious person, that emotion being experienced every day in her life. There was too much about the world not to feel some interest in it, even if it only be why the bees were attracted to a certain type of flower more than
to another. She felt the same at the present moment as she lifted the lid of the plain wooden chest and extracted the letter. She left the top of the chest ajar, concerned now more with the correspondence from the Lord of Langlinais than the contents of the chest.

She scanned his letter quickly. After a few sentences expressing his hope that she was well and that the convent thrived, he continued. His next sentence made her smile, and she vowed to aid him in what way she could. However, her amusement was no preparation for the body of the letter.

Gertrude set the letter aside and reached into the chest with trembling hands. She stood there staring at the cloth beneath her fingers for long moments. Time in which she could not think, thought being buried beneath both reverence and fear.

Indeed, the Lord of Langlinais was correct. Beneath her hands lay the greatest sort of power, that wished by kings and coveted by bishops. Yet there
was also the potential for good in this chest, the bolstering of belief, the uplifting of faith. The Sisters of Charity convent seemed a small and humble place for such things. These relics belonged to the world. But who would guard them and hold them sacred in the name of all mankind?

She closed the chest reverently, then bore it to the chapel. It would rest there until she had time to think on these matters. Perhaps she would receive some divine guidance as to where the relics should be sent. Or perhaps they should remain here, in a small convent of women dedicated to good works and joyful duty. Only time would tell.

 

An hour later, a girl dressed in the garb of a novitiate brought Jerard a large coffer. She also held out a small wrapped parcel. “Food for your journey, sir. And wine, for your thirst.”

He took both, smiling his thanks.

“I'm to tell you that the abbess thanks you and those at Langlinais. She sends her prayers with you, and says that she will accede to your requests. She also wished me to tell you that she will pray that you might be forever blessed.”

“We have been,” he said, smiling still, then turned his horse in the direction of Langlinais.

 

Gregory kept his face expressionless. Years of being subservient came in good stead now. His smile was pleasant, his eyes downcast. There was nothing about the placement of his hands to show that they trembled, nothing about his look to betray his sudden horrified amusement.

The Marshal was waxing eloquent on some point with a few of the brothers. They, as usual, were listening in rapt attention, nodding where appropriate.
It was not every day the great Marshal visited their monastery, let alone bearing a sacred relic. Moments had been spent admiring the Grail, and it now rested on the table in the chamber given over to the Marshal's use. The sun struck the reliquary and made it gleam gold and red. But the sun also illuminated the small wooden cup so tenderly placed within the gold bowl. He had wondered if a few of his fellow monks were about to drop to their knees in worship at the sight of it.

He, himself, could not remove his eyes from the cup. Not, as a casual observer might think, because he was humbled to be in its presence, but because he was suddenly absolutely certain it was a magnificent example of duplicity.

At Langlinais there was a man who carved all manner of things. He and Sebastian had played with Old Simon's whittled knights in numerous mock battles on the floor of the great hall. The old man had a habit, though, of gouging out a spot to rest the blade of his knife so that he would know where it was after a night of drink. Too many of their wooden knights had borne such wounds.

There was a similar gouge in the wooden cup nestled in the reliquary. It was almost too faint to note, or could easily be explained by its advanced age. Even an object as venerated as the Grail could have been marked accidentally. Or, perhaps, it had been that way from the beginning, a simple carpenter's cup quickly carved to be serviceable, no thought given to ornamentation or lack of it.

Still, he knew it was a fake. When he'd first seen it in the light, he'd known what Sebastian had done. The reliquary was perhaps valuable, but now he doubted even its age or its authenticity.

His brother had fooled the Knights Templar. He'd
made a laughingstock of men who made kings tremble. The temerity of such an action stunned and amazed him.

Why had Sebastian done it? The answer was as simple as the audacious act. To protect Langlinais. He'd given his brother the perfect opportunity, had played into his hands. By suggesting that Sebastian might wish to trade what he'd found at Montvichet for the safety of his home, he'd almost encouraged Sebastian to do such a thing. Just then, a cloud obscured the sun, and the reddish glow became diffused as if heaven itself had heard his thought.

In a few days he and the Marshal were to sail for Cyprus, where the Holy Grail would be taken for safekeeping. The Templar power could only grow with the knowledge that they were the keepers of the Grail.

It was an irony of the purest sort. His advancement would come, not because of his own merits or bravery, but because of Sebastian's deceit. He'd spent the majority of his adult life attempting to climb the Templar ranks. And now he would be mingling with those at the highest seats of power because of something that was not real.

Suddenly, he knew what he had to do.