The Princess and the Templar
Read The Princess and the Templar Online
Authors: Hebby Roman
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Medieval, #templar, #Irish
Praise for THE PRINCESS AND THE TEMPLAR
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Princess
and
the Templar
by
Hebby Roman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Princess and the Templar
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Hebby Roman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
R.J. Morris
Model:
Anna Kate Chambers
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
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Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-153-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-161-8
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For my granddaughter, Mackenzie Reese Saller,
the love and light of my life.
Praise for
THE PRINCESS AND THE TEMPLAR
“A sweeping, medieval epic of
star-crossed lovers, don't miss it!”
~NYT bestselling author Lori Wilde
Chapter One
Kinsale, Ireland 1307
“In the name of my lord, William the Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, I command thee, lower the drawbridge,” Raul de Porcelos shouted.
Early morning mist swathed the castle, softening its harsh stone battlements. A wan spring sun, glimmering like a tarnished coin, struggled to break through the low-lying fog. The thick, brine-clotted air burned the back of his throat, and the acrid smell of fish assailed his nostrils.
Raul gathered the reins of his destrier and stood in the stirrups, his gaze sweeping the castle walls. A flurry of movement at the top of the postern snagged his attention, but he waited in vain for the sound of groaning metal against metal that would signal the drawbridge being lowered. The brooding pile of gray and weathered stones mocked him. Perched on a jagged promontory jutting into the rough seas of St. George’s Channel, the castle’s builder had possessed a shrewd eye for fortifications. Surrounded on three sides by pounding surf and with a deep moat cut from shore to shore guarding the land approach, the castle’s defenses loomed formidable. Raul frowned, impatient to fulfill his duty.
A long-eared hare leapt from the scrubby gorse and darted across the roadway. Raul’s horse shied, prancing to one side. He reined in his restless mount and struggled for patience. Lifting his head, he repeated his plea for entry. His men muttered under their breath, and their horses stamped the hard-packed earth.
Silence shrouded them. No one stirred on the castle’s walls. A sense of unease settled on Raul like a heavy blanket. Their arrival wasn’t unexpected, as his lord had sent a messenger to herald their coming over a month ago.
He spurred his mount in the flanks, tightened the reins, leaned forward, and trotted closer. Four feet from the moat, he halted his destrier, cupped his hands around his mouth and he shouted, “Lower the drawbridge.”
An arrow whizzed past his ear, followed by a deadly swarm of metal-tipped shafts.
¡Sangre de Cristo!
How dare they shoot at a peaceful emissary? Had the castle inhabitants lost their wits? These were dangerous times, but they’d been forewarned. Couldn’t they see the red cross of the Knights Templar on his tunic?
He hadn’t come to wage war.
Behind him, he heard a shout and then a groan. Wheeling his mount, Raul found his men milling in confusion, forming a protective circle around two of their fallen comrades.
A hailstorm of stones followed the volley of arrows, bouncing harmlessly off their armor, but providing powerful encouragement to take cover. Raul leaped from his horse and knelt beside one of the downed knights, a Scot by the name of Dall, who had taken an arrow in his neck.
With the help of Barclay McPherson, Raul’s sergeant, he stripped Dall of his heavy armor, and they lifted him onto Raul’s mount. Barclay assisted the other wounded knight, Morogh, who’d taken a shaft in his thigh, back onto his own horse. Raul mounted behind Dall, supporting the wounded man. Barclay grasped Morogh’s reins in his fist.
Raising his hand, Raul commanded his knights to fall back. With Barclay by his side, they spurred their destriers, and the others followed close upon their heels, gaining the protection of a copse of trees.
Raul dismounted and lowered Dall to the ground, summoning his squire with, “Fetch my satchel, Clach.”
The dark-haired lad tugged his forelock and scurried off to the pack animals. Barclay followed suit, easing Morogh to the ground and going to fetch wood to start a fire.
Clach returned with the satchel, and Raul spread its contents on a large tree stump. A resourceful lad, Clach had thought to bring blankets, too, and Raul covered the injured knights. With the assistance of his squire, Raul hastily stripped off his armor so he could tend the wounded men.
He knelt beside his men and examined their wounds. The arrows must be extracted, but their removal would be painful, and based on his experience, the injuries could prove fatal. Dall’s injury was the worst, bleeding copiously. Praying his knife would be swift and sure, Raul broke off the shaft and made the necessary incision. Mercifully, Dall lost consciousness after the second cut.
When it was Morogh’s turn, he ground his teeth into the wood block Raul had placed in his mouth and managed to remain awake during the extraction, though beads of sweat dripped like rain from his forehead.
Raul scrutinized his handiwork and knew the wounds must be cauterized to heal. Without the purging fire, he had learned most injuries didn’t heal properly, and then fever followed, which usually proved fatal. But many a good and brave man had died from cauterization, too.
The bleak reality of war and death.
Raul had seen enough spilled blood and dying to last him more than a lifetime. Not a proper warrior’s sentiment. But then he wasn’t a proper warrior. He was a warrior-monk. Mayhap more monk than warrior.
****
Cahira O’Donnell, Princess of Eire, paced the curtain wall, stopping to peer between the saw-toothed battlements. The morning fog had burned off, leaving a robin egg’s blue dome of sky arching above. Seabirds swooped overhead, and the earthy scent of new grass tickled her nose. Spring sang its siren’s song, but she had no time for its tempting diversions.
A party of knights threatened her castle. Unlike earlier raiders who’d come to besiege and make war, these knights cloaked themselves in diplomacy. Extending their so-called protection, when all they wanted was to seize her castle and lands under the cover of law.
She’d assessed the danger and met it. Her archers had felled two of the knights, and her yeomen had rained stones upon them. When the intruders retreated across the road, she gave the signal to cease. She must preserve their precious arrows and stones.
“Watch sharp,” she instructed her men. “If they come within range again, fire a volley and send for me.” Glancing down, she saw several of her knights in the bailey below. Why hadn’t they joined her on the wall?
Descending the uneven steps to the outer bailey, she rounded a corner and ran into her master-at-arms, Dwyer MacMalley. He caught her elbow, steadying her. She twisted free and backed up a pace, her nose wrinkling at his ripe stench.
In truth it wasn’t just the smell that offended her. She didn’t like the man, not since she’d caught him beating one of her servants in a drunken rage. His name, Dwyer, meant “black” in Gaelic, and his heart was as black as his name.
Dwyer had been hand-picked by her father, by her Da, promoting him above men of more noble rank. She took several deep breaths and strove for forbearance. Despite her father's opinion of him, she questioned Dwyer's ability to lead and even doubted his loyalty.
“Where were you?” she demanded.
“Breaking me fast, milady.” His brows lowered. “I dinna know—”
“You dinna know,” she scoffed, “because you abandoned your duty.” She crossed her arms and frowned.
He scowled, too, his fleshy lips parting to reveal brown-scummed teeth. “We were expecting these knights. The messenger from Sinclair said—”
“The messenger I refused to see.” Even though she’d sent the man away without an audience, she’d read the missive he’d brought, and her blood had boiled at the audacious proposal. She had no intention of entertaining Sinclair’s offer, not now or ever.
“I sent the messenger away without an answer.”
“Aye, I remember.” Dwyer shook his head. “And foolish that was, milady. We have need of protection.”
“Are you calling me foolish and saying we can’t protect our own?”
Their gazes clashed and locked.
Dwyer lowered his gaze first. “Nay, milady, I would never call ye foolish. But we don’t have provisions for a siege. The other raids have depleted our foodstuffs and weapons.”
“Don’t you think I know that? There won’t be a siege. We’ll ride out and fight. ’Tis only a small party of knights.”
Dwyer dug his fingers into his matted beard. “But they’re Sinclair’s knights, and he’s a powerful adversary. If we drive these off, more will surely follow.”
She’d thought of that, but Scotland was far away. By the time Sinclair learned of the defeat and sent more knights, her castle would be provisioned. She knew little of the Lord Sinclair except his ruthless reputation for seizing power. And that he'd had the audacity to offer for her hand, expecting to take a Princess of Eire to wife and his bed. The thought made her flesh crawl.
Princess or no, the Lord Sinclair had never laid eyes on her. For all he knew, she could be a toothless hag. But the man wanted her lands and castle, not her. He’d seen an opportunity and latched onto it. All this prattle about marriage and protection was a ploy to take her holdings.
And marriage wasn’t what she wanted, not unless it brought love. Love for love’s sake ’twas was a dream she cherished close to her heart, something to warm and cosset her through the endless dark nights. After the pain and loss of her family, it was the only dream that sustained her.
“I wouldna fight William the Sinclair if I were ye,” Dwyer said. “Better to accept his protection.”
She squared her shoulders and thrust out her chin. “I don’t want his protection. My family died for this castle and lands. I will not dishonor their memory by surrendering.”
“Begging yer pardon, milady, but ye’re only a woman. Women don’t fight.”
Only a woman?
Dwyer didn’t know her, couldn’t understand her. Her mother had died giving her life. There had been no one to sing sweet lullabies or to plait daisies in her hair. No lessons on spinning or needlepoint.
But she’d had her father and four brothers, and they were masters of war. They’d raised her to fight. Trained her with the broadsword and lance, as well as the dagger and mace. They’d taught her what they knew so she’d be prepared for what might come.
Her family had died defending Kinsale, spilled their blood for their legacy. Trained in matters of war, she could do no less. She must honor their memory… even if she was
only
a woman.
Thinking about the family she’d lost, tears clogged her throat, threatening to seep from her eyes. Grief was a formidable foe, stealthy and tenacious, waiting to strike when she least expected it. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of grieving. She couldn’t show any weakness, especially now. Gulping, she willed back the tears.
“If you won’t fight them, Dwyer, then I will,” she said.
He grabbed her arm “Ye’re going to fight? Have ye gone daft?”
How dare he put his dirty paw on her!
She opened her mouth to call for Malcolm, her bailiff, but thought better of it. If Dwyer wanted proof she could fight, she’d show him.
She straightened her spine and lifted her head. Her eyes narrowed. “Take your hand off me.”