My Beloved (28 page)

A great many of the Latin texts she'd transcribed had been written by men who had worshiped gods and goddesses. Yet their work had been diligently preserved through the ages. Why? Were they not heretic, too?

Sebastian was not the only one who was concerned for their safety. She would not live without him, could not bear the idea that he might be endangered. She was going to do her part to safeguard him and the people of Langlinais.

Again, the words she'd whispered to Sebastian in the Montvichet courtyard came to mind.
Hairetikos means to choose
. Once again she made a choice. Only the future would determine if it was the right one.

She laid the codex down, and gently flexed her fingers. The work would take more time than it would have in the past, but she would be careful and as diligent as the Cathar scribes. Not one word would be omitted, and in addition to their explanation of the scrolls, she would add a codicil of her own. She would tell the story of the true relics, of the Templar chalice, and of the ruse perpetrated in order to protect both the treasure of the Cathars and Langlinais castle.

T
he large green window of the chapel had been replaced with a stained-glass work of art. The artisan who had crafted the window had come from a family of such men, his grandfather and father having worked on a cathedral in France. It depicted a monk kneeling before a blazing sun. On the ground beside him lay a sword and a covered basket. It would be the only public record of the miracle of Langlinais, and the secret they would forever keep. The window's placement had been finished just the day before, and the odor of lead and clay was almost as strong as the wax of the candles. The winter day did little to illuminate the room, and their glowing light added an otherworldly air to the room.

An altarpiece, tripartite in form, lay open, its newly painted image that of the Garden of Eden. On one side was the image of Eve's temptation. On the other, the scene of Adam and Eve being expelled from the garden. But it was the middle panel that attracted her gaze. It showed both Adam and Eve upon their knees in devotion to God. Both were smiling, as if welcomed back into the garden. When it had been placed upon the altar, Juliana had been
surprised, then embarrassed to note the resemblance of Adam and Eve to Sebastian and herself. Sebastian tweaked the nose of the Church in subtle ways.

The chapel was crowded, the people had assembled there at Sebastian's request. It was to be a surprise for Jerard, a blessing of the sword Sebastian had ordered prepared for him. The entire populace of Langlinais was aware of this honor just as they had been Sebastian's gift of her scriptorium. As they had with her, they had taken great pains to deflect his attention from what was obvious. Yesterday, the smith had finished the sword, a result of steady hammering night and day for nearly two weeks in order to have the weapon ready.

A man attired in black monk's garb stood at one side of the altar. Brother Thomas was new to the village, new to Langlinais. He had wise blue eyes for one so young, and a smile that Juliana doubted would ever be thinned in censure. He came forward, his tonsured head bared in one sweep of hand upon cowl.

Juliana thought back to the first time she'd seen Sebastian, hidden in the darkness of such a garment, isolated in loneliness. She placed her hand in his and he seemed to understand because he pressed it tightly.

Jerard stepped forward, the look on his face one of caution. They had evidently been successful at keeping such an event a secret. Sebastian retrieved the sword hidden behind a pillar. An emerald the size of a thumbnail was embedded in its hilt, and below that the word
trewe
etched into the metal. Trustworthy. It was more than an apt description for Jerard.

Jerard knelt, the look on his face one of disbelief.

Sebastian held the sword up until the candlelight
bathed the blade, then laid it before Brother Thomas.

“Bless this sword,” he intoned, “so that it may be a defense for churches, widows and orphans, and for all servants of God against the fury of the heathen. I command you, Sir Jerard, to perform your duties faithfully and devoutly. Will you do so?”

Jerard nodded.

Sebastian smiled, then whispered to him to stand. He stepped forward, girded the sword belt around Jerard's waist.

“Wear it in honor, Jerard.”

“I will protect it, my lord. With my life.”

His vow signaled an end to awed silence.

 

Sebastian closed the door behind Jerard. Below them were the sounds of merriment, as the inhabitants of Langlinais celebrated. Juliana remained in the great hall, a reluctant but radiant hostess. The two men were now alone, as they had often been in other times, days that seemed gray now in retrospect.

“You have served me well over the years,” Sebastian said, his smile not as easy as he would have wished.

Jerard dropped to one knee before him. “My lord, I am overwhelmed. To bestow upon me knighthood when I was but a bastard serf is a great honor. But to give me this magnificent sword is too much.”

Sebastian smiled. The youth he'd first seen in France had grown to be a man of loyalty and humility. Too much humility at this moment, however.

“As I said, you have served me well, Jerard.” He clapped his hand on his vassal's shoulder. “Because of you, Langlinais remained prosperous and its people happy during my imprisonment. You've held the secret of my disease and been my friend when the
world would have shunned me. I care not for your birth. You are a man of Langlinais, and as such you will be forever known.”

Jerard looked down at the wooden floor.

“But I need you to evince your loyalty once more.”

He looked up. “Anything, my lord.”

Sebastian sobered. “Do not promise so easily. The boon I ask of you will not be an easy one.”

He moved to the other side of the room where a small table and two chairs were placed, sat, and waved Jerard into the adjoining chair. “I want you to leave Langlinais,” he said, and at the stricken look of his vassal, his own smile slipped.

“Have I done anything to offend, my lord?”

“On the contrary, Jerard, you are the only man to whom I could entrust this task.” His fingers drummed on the edge of the table.

“You know of the Cathar scrolls,” he said, “but you do not know what they contain.” For the next hour, he explained their contents, answering Jerard's questions with as much knowledge as he had. It was only right, the man who would possess them must also know their danger.

“You are only the third person alive to know the secret,” Sebastian said. “Such knowledge might prove dangerous for you. I do not make light of this, Jerard.”

The other man looked stunned.

“I've land north of here.” The only property other than Langlinais that he had left after paying the ransom to the Templars, but he did not tell Jerard that. “Build your own castle upon it, create your own demesne. Take the scrolls there and guard them. It is a sacred task you assume now, Jerard. One of more
import than being my vassal or my friend. Do you accept it?”

Jerard cleared his throat twice before the words emerged. “Yes, my lord, I will. And my sons and my daughters. It will be their inheritance to guard the scrolls.”

“Is there anyone at Langlinais you wish to go with you? A woman you might take to wife?”

Jerard shook his head. “No, my lord.”

“Think carefully, Jerard. If you do, she may go with you with my blessings. And a dower, to assist you both.”

“No, my lord.”

Silence, while Sebastian weighed Jerard's response. “We have always jested about your prowess with women. There are none among your conquests you would wed?”

“No, my lord. The woman I would take to wife must be learned and loyal. She will be intelligent and courageous, and have the kindest heart.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “You have just described my wife,” he said, forcing his tone to be calm.

Jerard's face blanched, then just as rapidly his face bronzed. “No, lord,” he said. “I revere her as my lady.”

“See that you always do so.”

He stood, clasped Jerard on his shoulder. “I will miss you, my friend. Remember that, too. And now, it is time to join the others. I'm sure Old Simon has already begun his own celebration.”

“W
hat is that noise?” She looked up at the ceiling of the great hall. Sebastian extended his goblet to her instead of answering. She shook her head.

Langlinais wine was famous for its potency. It was not a product of the castle, merely decanted and seasoned until the bitterness was made mellow and sweetness was the lingering aftertaste. The recipe was a closely guarded secret of the brewers, who were also responsible for an equally acceptable ale.

The evening had been set aside for celebration. The fruit in the orchards had been harvested, and firewood, acorns, and beechnuts gathered from Langlinais's forests. For days the air had been thick with dust from the wheat threshing. Normal preparations for winter.

But it was not only the harvest that was being celebrated, but the elevation of one of their own. Jerard had come almost full-grown to Langlinais, but he had served it well, been a fair steward. It was not every day that a man born serf could rise to the rank of knight, and be gifted with three horses and a magnificent sword.

A loud thud shook the ceiling again, but not one
person in the Hall seemed to notice but her.

“Did you not hear that, Sebastian?” She stood and would have left the dais to investigate had he not pushed her gently back in her chair.

He motioned with one hand and a jongleur came forward and bowed to the table at large, then sat upon a stool facing the other diners. He idly plucked the five strings of an ud, a short-necked lute, as he told his version of a chanson de geste of Charlemagne and his twelve great peers.

Every single person in the hall looked intrigued with his story. Except for Juliana, who was still curious about the noises she'd heard, and for Sebastian, who was performing deeds not normally ascribed to knights.

“What are you hiding from me this time, Sebastian?”

His right hand held his goblet, his left was wadding up the material of her embroidered surcoat and cotte. His fingers were suddenly on her bare skin.

“Sebastian!” Her whisper did not seem to disturb him one whit, and as an admonishment, it was useless. His expression was that of a man contented with his lot; a small smile played around his mouth as if he were well pleased with the tale he was hearing. A lock of hair was dislodged upon his brow, giving him a youthful, almost mischievous appearance. But it was the look in his eyes that warned her she would have no success in deterring him from his actions. They held a lazy, almost sleepy expression, one he wore often. Not the look of a predator, but that of a man wishing to bed his wife.

She could feel her skin warm. If she was a wanton to wish his touch so much, then so be it.

“You have the strangest look on your face, lady
wife,” he said, his whisper no louder than a breath against her ear. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head from side to side. Even his voice had power, made it appear as if the air was hotter and thicker around them. As if she could barely breathe.

“Are you sure? You look almost ravenous. Come,” he said, standing and extending a hand for her. “Smile your apologies for quitting our banquet too soon, my lady wife.”

She did so, not questioning the need that flowed around both of them.
Touch me. Touch me
. It seemed a song she sang in her mind, one he seemed to hear as easily.

 

He led her past the floor that held their chamber. It had been easier than she'd thought to share a bed. He was so large, however, that several times during the night she awoke with him crowding her to the edge. One fingertip was all it took to dislodge him, and he would roll over to his side of the bed. Sometimes, however, his eyes would open at her touch as he came instantly awake. Then, he would reach for her and the thought of sleep vanished from both their minds.

At the top of the east tower, he pulled her into his embrace, his mouth covering hers before she could speak. He had a way of kissing her that stole her breath. All she was conscious of in those moments was Sebastian and his talented mouth. He rained kisses over her face, his breath harsh, his grip in her hair not at all gentle.

He pulled back, traced the shape of her face with his fingers. Even now she marveled at the touch of his skin against hers, no barriers between them.

“I used to sit and watch you here, Juliana, and
wonder what it would be like to touch you.”

A rush of warmth flowed through her at his words.

He placed both his hands at her waist, then turned her in his arms so that her back was to him. Pulling her close to him, he wound one arm around her waist. His other hand went to unbraid her hair.

When he was finished, and her hair lay like a cloud around her shoulders, his hand cupped her breast. “I used to wonder if your breasts were as pale as the rest of your skin, if they looked like snowy mounds tipped with delicate rose.” His thumb slid over her breast, and when it peaked and rose in concert with his touch, he laughed softly. “Then I discovered one night that they were. Soft and snowy white.”

She reached up her hand and arched it behind her until she touched his face. He kissed her fingers, then bent to place a small kiss at her temple. Her fingers threaded through his hair.

“I thought I would die, I wanted you to touch me so much.” A soft confession. It was the first time they had spoken of that night when he'd interrupted her bathing.

“I came too close to it.”

He turned her in his arms and bent to touch his lips to her neck. “You taste of roses, Juliana.”

He raised his head, his breath as fast as hers. She ground her forehead against his chest. He moved one of her hands to place over him. She felt him hard and heavy against her palm. Had it not already transpired, she would have been sure the act was impossible. It was no wonder, then, that she'd felt stretched and filled with him when he entered her.

Her fingers began a slow exploration of his flesh. She had already discovered that she could make him
tremble, or draw in a low, shuddering breath.

He laid her down on the wooden floor of the tower, an unlikely bower for their tryst. But the rains had come earlier in the day, and the air smelled fresh and clean. There was no dust, and in the way it happens sometimes, the night seemed clearer after the storm. She looked up to see a thousand winking lights, like torches seen from a distance. But no fire in the sky could capture her attention once Sebastian lay beside her.

He propped himself up on one elbow, and one by one, divested her of her garments, ripping out the seams of the fitted sleeves when they could not be easily removed. She did not bother to protest; one did not gainsay a crusader. The moonlight created shadows on his face, rendering it beautiful in a stark fashion. She brought her hand up to rest against his cheek. He halted in his determined campaign.

“What is it, Juliana?” He turned his head, bestowed a soft kiss in the center of her palm.

“Only that I would hold this moment safe forever, Sebastian. Until the end of time.” The words came from some place deep inside her, a secret spot kept hidden and vulnerable.

His smile was blazing white in the moonlight, his kiss was invitation to lose herself again within his embrace, be lured to passion once again.

 

He had only hoped to divert her attention from the noise the masons were making. It had been easy enough when her scriptorium had been built; he'd simply kept her occupied in the bailey or in their chamber. But the oriel was being converted into a bathing room, complete with a stone bath similar to the one at Montvichet.

All thoughts of diversion had slipped through his
mind at her look and he'd found himself falling into lust quickly enough. So deeply that he did not care if smiles followed their exit, or they were spoken about with ribald comments.

He was a man well versed in his power. A warrior must know his strengths, work to eliminate his weaknesses. Why, then, did he feel like an untried boy when she smiled at him, or lay in his arms? Perhaps what he felt at this moment was not so much lust, he thought, looking down at her. Love? Too small a word, too puny a thought. He knew he would feel this way about this woman for the rest of his life, and perhaps into eternity.

He could not wait to touch her, so the final seam on her cotte was ripped rather than unlaced. She lay, naked, her garments strewn around her like a foil for her beauty. The moonlight bathed her in a glow, gave a mysterious curve to her lips, a beckoning glint to her eye.

It seemed somehow right and fitting that they should come together here, in this place that was the scene of his greatest yearning. How many nights had he sat and watched her and felt physical pain that he could do no more?

For the shadow of that man, he bent and kissed her breast, tasting the stiffness of a nipple. Because that man had wished to know, had dreamed about such things, he drew it between his lips, heard her soft gasp as he grazed her delicate flesh with his teeth.

The man he had been knelt beside him, a ghost of longing and need. He heard the commands in his head, the urging, and stroked his hands over Juliana's body. He knew her flesh as well as he knew his own. The indentation where waist met hip was especially sensitive to her. Her toes curled when he
brushed the tops of them. Her breath halted as his fingers traced up one thigh and then, to their juncture. Instead of holding herself tight, her legs fell open, wordless invitation.

He divested himself of his tunic, his waistbelt, the patterned hose. Soon he was naked, his figure draped in shadow as night fell over them like dust.

His fingers seemed acutely talented at this moment, imbued with instinct or perhaps the coaxing of the man he had been, who had spent too many hours envisioning just such an occasion. He touched her gently, with restraint born of wishes. His lips covered her breasts, neck, arms. He loved her with his mouth, her skin anointed with kisses and sighs, as if his breath could not come deeply or quickly enough.

She gripped his arms, her hands reaching out, her head twisting from side to side. Eagerness and protest, all in one. He felt her, swollen and wet, and touched her softly, then with more insistent strokes.

“Sweet Juliana,” he said, against her lips.

The siege was forgotten, the need paramount. He slid into the depths of her, heard the shuddering breath she took. He leaned back, supported only by his knees, placed the heel of his hand upon her, just above where they joined. He pressed gently, as she arched beneath him. Then again, as a soft sob emerged from between her lips.

“I want to hear your screams,” he said, watching her. “I want you needy and hungry, Juliana.”

He rocked with her, the thrusts shallow and fast. Her body arched to take more of his. Her hands clawed at his arms. He reached beneath her with one arm, thrust her clothing beneath her, then raised himself again. The angle of her body now brought
him closer to the core of her. Again, he rocked, his need a battering ram, his fingers a key.

Small sounds emerged from her lips, moans or entreaties, he didn't know. He lowered himself, began to make longer strokes, withdrawing almost entirely, then thrusting forward to the depths of her.

Her eyes opened, the look in them helpless and wanting.

He abruptly recognized the significance of this moment. He could give her passion but it would be because he'd conquered her. He did not want submission from Juliana.

He was too close to shattering in her arms. His breaths came in gasps, the need ran through him in shuddering waves. He lowered himself, and rolled over until she was atop him, their bodies still joined.

“Take me with you, Juliana,” he whispered.

Her nails skittered over his chest, her head arched back as her entire body seemed to shiver.

“Sebastian.” His name was a sigh.

His hands gripped her hips, raised her, lowered her against him. A lesson she learned quickly. The next movement was hers, as she braced her knees against the floor, rose up and teased herself on him. The sensation was too much, pushing him closer to the edge.

“Take me, Juliana,” he bit out. He closed his eyes, his body demanding that he surge even deeper into her, finish this. His mind urged restraint. He didn't know which would win, flesh or intellect.

She widened her legs, wedged herself farther on him. How had he never before discovered that ecstasy could border on torment?

She arched up one last time, the demand in her grip as ruthless as his had been. Her nails almost
pierced his skin. He felt her shudder around him, as her body urged his on to completion.

Finally, her cry announced her release. It was so sharp as to be pained, but filled instead with joy. A moment more and she slumped over him, her kiss swallowing his groan as she accompanied him into bliss.

The man he had been, wraithlike and lonely, vanished forever, his flesh appeased and his soul complete.