by S A Monk
The Spymaster’s Protection
A Templar Tale
by
s.a.monk
Copyright 2012 by s.a.monk
Cover art by Gordon Napier
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are a product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, and locales are entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except in brief review, without permission of the author.
This book is dedicated to my husband Michael, who insisted I write my first book and has supported me every book thereafter, and to God, through whom all gifts and blessings flow.
Preface
From 1095 to 1291, there were nine Crusades to the Holy Land, which was known then by a number of names, the most heavily used being: the Levant, Outremer, and the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It is and was essentially— Palestine; a part of the world still in conflict centuries later.
Perhaps no battle was greater in significance during the Crusades than the Battle of Hattin on July 4, 1187. Nearly three months later, the Christian Crusaders lost the city of Jerusalem to Saladin. The city had been under Christian control for over 80 years. Never again would it be held that long by Western medieval occupation. It’s loss triggered the Third Crusade, but that is another tale.
In 1187, the Kingdom of Jerusalem was divided into several Crusader states, principalities, counties, and lordships, based upon the feudal system used in the West. It was in the grip of political turmoil and inner strife that bordered on civil war. During this time of dangerous instability, the Arab people produced a powerful leader, the most determined and shrewd leader they had seen since the arrival of the Christian invaders.
The bloody and tragic Battle of Hattin was the culmination of the Kingdom’s political chaos, and the divided Christian forces were headed toward disaster and catastrophe. The Spymaster’s Protection begins and ends in the months before and directly after this battle, which culminated in Saladin’s successful siege of Jerusalem in 1187. It is a love story, but it is also an intimate examination of a crucial timeframe in the history of the Crusades.
There were many reasons for the Crusades— religious fervor, the opportunity for adventure and travel, and the greedy dreams of riches and personal gain. Maybe the most difficult thing to understand in our modern times is that many of those who went to fight there truly believed that in doing so, they would receive absolution for all their sins, past, present, and future, thus gaining for themselves a guaranteed place in paradise. In that, were they any different than their adversaries?
Among the thousands who died in the Holy Land, none fought with more fervor than the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. Zeal, valor and rigid discipline made the Templar military forces the most feared and respected in the world by 1187. Some were certainly fanatics, but many were good men of committed purpose.
Founded in 1119, officially endorsed in 1129, the Templar Order grew from a handful of men to thousands of members by their fall in 1307. Many continue to believe that they were one of the most elite military forces ever raised, and yet... they were still just men.
Their history fascinates many of us. It has certainly captured my imagination for ten years, and I hope that this story and the several yet to come will reflect the research that I have done and continue to do.
CHAPTER 1
The Kingdom of Jerusalem 1187
Terrified and stunned, Gabrielle de Châtillon soon realized that they had overturned in their driver’s desperate attempt to escape the desert raiders who were attacking. The four wooden wheels on their little wagon spun wildly overhead. Beneath it, she and her charges came slowly to their senses, dazed from the spill, breathing in the dust that swirled around them. In the distance, they heard the screams of their fellow travelers.
Fighting a wave of panic, Gabrielle found a splintered piece of wood and used it to prop up one corner of the cart so that air and light could enter their dark little box. Several of the children with her scooted to her side, whimpering and crying softly. She hugged as many as she could get her arm around and reached out to pat the heads of others, carefully surveying each one, checking for injuries. She did not want to encourage them to speak, so she asked no questions. Thankfully, no one looked badly hurt. She tucked the youngest of the six close to her breast and soothed her, praying that the toddler would not begin to cry.
Dear God, they could not be found!
Assured that all had survived serious injury, she crawled toward the opening she had made to see what was happening outside. Instantly, she located their driver, dead on the ground, undoubtedly thrown from the wagon as he had attempted his harrowing high-speed turn.
More than a dozen mounted Saracen bandits were charging through the caravan. Many of the men in the convoy had already fallen, sprawled on the ground with arrows protruding grotesquely from their bodies. Two male pilgrims were fighting off a mounted raider, hopelessly brandishing their stout wooden walking sticks against the lethal sharpness of the Saracen’s blade.
Toward the front of the caravan, a merchant was defending himself and his young son with a sword. Near a cluster of boulders, two turbaned riders were running down a woman with a child in her arms. Another woman was being thrown over the back of a horse. Gabrielle recognized the lead merchant's daughter. Her bright yellow hair flew free over the animal's dappled rump. The screams of both women joined that of another being raped nearby.
Their terror became Gabrielle's.
None of the infidel raiders had bothered riding back to the overturned wagon at the far end of the caravan. They had obviously deemed it of little value. Raiders usually watched a caravan before attacking it, and though this one was small, its camels and forward wagons were loaded with imports from Venice. The dusty rear had been left to the Christian pilgrims journeying to Jerusalem. And to Gabrielle and her orphans.
With no funds of her own for an armed escort, she had again chosen the protection of a caravan. Up until now, she had never had to fear for her life. She had never been attacked on her rescue missions. God had been with her in this, at least.
She had taken it as a sign from Him that he approved of what she had been trying to do for the past five years. What you do for one of these, my children, you do for me. The biblical quote from the New Testament reminded her yet again to be courageous and have faith.
Fighting the fear that threatened to paralyze her, she resolutely shut out the screams and shouts erupting beyond her. From the look of things, it would not be long before the raiders turned their attention to her overturned wagon. She had to act.
Still, she prayed for divine intervention. What she and the children needed was a guardian angel, the sooner the better.
Two boys, three girls, and a toddler huddled around her under the wagon. Their big dark eyes were full of fear, and it tore at her heart that they should be made to suffer yet another raid that left them so terribly vulnerable. The older children might be spared death and sold into slavery, but the toddler would be put to the sword. None of those men would show any mercy for a crying helpless infant. Nor would they demonstrate any toward her. Her gender alone would insure her the same fate as the other women in the caravan. And if they discovered who she was, she would suffer a worse fate than rape.
Gabriele had blessedly escaped being a victim of her husband's notoriety for twelve long years, but she knew what would happen if Reynald's legions of enemies ever decided to use her in their fight against him.
Death alone did not frighten her. There had been many times, she had even prayed for it, but the peace that death promised no longer ca
lled to her the way it used to. She had a purpose to her life now. These children and others like them needed her intervention and protection. Left orphaned and homeless in villages razed by men like her husband, they were not even after-thoughts in this war-torn land.
Her courage was fortified by the reminder of her purpose. After assessing their grim situation, she prayed one final time for intercession, then rose to her knees beneath the wagon bed and pushed upwards with all her might. Two of the older children hurried to help her.
They had passed a dying orchard of olive trees before they had ventured into this boulder-strewn valley. Maybe she and the children could flee there and hide while their attackers were busy at the forefront of the caravan.
Urging each child out from their dusty hiding place, she clutched the hand of the infant and joined them finally at the rear of the wagon. She looked toward the abandoned orchard, then peeked around the corner of the cart. The Arab raiders were still focused on subduing the travelers who continued to fight. It was a furlong or more to the olive grove, but between the wagon and the trees, there were outcroppings of boulders large enough to hide behind. She and the children had only a slim chance of making a run for it without being noticed, but they had no chance at all if they stayed.
Gabrielle took one last look at the raiding party, then gathered the toddler into her arms and beckoned the other children to run with her.
+++
Lucien de Aubric crested the rise of a rocky hill on his big black Arabian charger and scanned the scene in the valley below him. The curse that he ground out was none too reverent. They had received no intelligence of possible raiders in the area. This was a routine patrol. He should have been told if there was trouble along this stretch of the road that traveled inland from the coast. Though it was not the main highway to Jerusalem, it was used frequently enough, and to his knowledge, not normally plagued by bandits. He would have brought more men with him today had he expected trouble. Their Order had an excellent network of spies and informers throughout Palestine. He should know. He had established most of them and now managed and directed them.
Behind him, six more men rode up to flank him. One of the two white robed knights was a long time friend from the Rhineland. The other was a new recruit, fresh off the boat from France. Lucien turned to his friend.
"Brother Conrad, take Brother Gérard and Serjeants le Broc, de Chappes, and de Pesmes with you to the front of the caravan where the main force of the bandits are attacking. Colin," he commanded, glancing over his mail-covered shoulder to his young squire, "Come with me to the rear. There appears to be a bit of trouble there, as well."
Good men all, even if his squire and the new recruit had not seen any real combat. His patrol was outnumbered, but when had three to one ever bothered a Templar? With a nod to the standard bearer, Lucien shouted a Templar attack command and led his small unit down the hill to intercept the bandits.
Once on the flat plain of the valley floor, five of his men charged into the raiders at the front of the caravan. Lucien watched them intercept the Saracens, then refocused his attention to the scene unfolding at the rear of the caravan.
A woman in the garb of a Muslim was running with a group of children away from two Arab raiders on horseback. They reached the dubious protection of a rocky outcrop. The woman swung her dark head to look behind her at the riders closing on them, then dashed off with the children clustered close around her, her bright colored silk headscarf trailing behind her.
Lucien could see they were headed toward a grove of gnarled olive trees. On foot, they could not hope to outrace the mounted bandits. Lucien wondered if he and Colin could even catch up in time to save them.
He kicked his spurs into his charger's flanks and loaded an arrow into his small recurved bow. He'd learned to use the Saracen weapon from a turcopole, and he could rapidly shoot half a dozen arrows from it on horseback.
Guiding his well-trained horse with the pressure of his thighs, he aimed for the lead attacker. The first arrow went wide. The second caught the man in the shoulder. Unfortunately, neither arrow stopped his dogged pursuit of the woman. The second bandit turned sideways on his horse to load his own bow. In rapid succession, he shot several arrows their way, but Lucien and the boy behind him deftly dodged them.
The woman and children ran to an immense boulder that rose out of the rocky plain like a sentinel. Lucien saw her gather her charges close and flatten herself to the smooth granite. He pulled his sword and confronted the bandit who swung his mount to block him. He had no time to trade more than a few blows with the Saracen. The lead attacker was nearly upon the woman and her children.
Waving his squire past him toward the woman, he dispatched his turbaned assailant in a vicious horizontal swing that nearly cut the man in half. He didn’t stay to watch the infidel fall from his horse. Ahead of him, the woman had started off toward the orchard again. Lucien watched as the children fanned out around her screaming and crying. His squire had his lance couched. In an attempt to unseat the man chasing her, he rode toward the Saracen and aimed for his chest. At the last instant, the bandit swiveled on his light-weight saddle and caught the boy on the side of his helmeted head with his curved blade. The blow knocked Colin from his horse.
Lucien spared him a glance as he raced past, relieved that he was struggling to his feet.
The woman, however, had tripped and fallen. She clutched a squirming infant to her chest. As she looked over her shoulder and saw the deadly approach of her attacker, she curled the child in a protective tuck beneath her body.
The Saracen reined his horse to an abrupt halt and raised his blade for a lethal downward strike. Lucien leaped from his horse, knowing he could never position it in time to save the woman. With a fierce cry, he dove in front of her and blocked the enemy’s blow with his Templar broadsword. The vibration of the impact slithered down his sword arm, nearly numbing it. The woman beneath his feet screamed.
He called for her to move, but she remained frozen on the ground, dangerously underfoot until Colin came over to drag her safely out of the way. Noticing for the first time that his companion was dead on the ground and that his companions were fleeing the scene of the raid, the bandit abruptly spun his horse away from Lucien and kneed it toward the rest of his party. The Templars under Lucien’s command gave immediate chase, so Lucien let the man go and turned toward the woman and his squire. "Are you injured?" he asked first Colin, then her.
His squire shook his head, but the woman was on her knees, bent over the children clustering around her, checking them. When he repeated his inquiry, she lifted her face to him, and the moment she did, Lucien sucked in a sharp breath, feeling as if he’d suddenly had the wind knocked out of him.
"It seems God has sent me the guardian angel I prayed for."
As she stared up at him, he found himself speechlessly ensnared in her incredible blue eyes. He had no idea what to say to her, so he raised a skeptical eyebrow and managed an equally skeptical half-smile.
With all those children, he had expected her to be older. Her youth surprised him. The children ranged in age from one to ten. He supposed if she started having them at fourteen, they could have been hers. Then he looked more closely at the six children and realized that none were as light-skinned as she was. They were all definitely Arabic, and though her skin was glided by the sun to a rich golden hue, she appeared to be a Frank.
Despite the dirt that smudged her pert nose and honey-toned skin, she was uncommonly lovely. Hair the color of dark Arabian coffee hung in loosely curled disarray past her waist, and under the bright midday sun, he could see that it was shot with gold.
Her lustrous tresses framed a delicately featured face that was sculpted with high cheekbones, dimpled cheeks, a softly rounded chin, a small elegant nose, and lips as luscious and soft as ripe peaches. Tiny wisps of fine dark hair curled wildly at her hairline, above gently arched eyebrows and a high, unmarred forehead.
But despite the loveliness of her
facial features, it was her eyes that Lucien could not seem to drag his away from. They were a dark indigo blue that reminded him of the precious lapis lazuli stone mined in northern Persia. At his continued scrutiny, thick black lashes lowered over their mesmerizing depths.
It was obvious that he was making her uneasy with his silent inspection, but she was very beautiful, and he couldn't imagine what she was doing out here without male protection.
The toddler she had lifted into her arms began to wiggle in earnest, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
"Frère, could you help us right our wagon?"
Her cloud of hair lifted and swirled around her in the desert breeze, and her softly feminine voice drifted over Lucien like a tangible caress, reminding him that it had been a long time since he had been in the company of such an intriguing woman.
His reaction to her stunned him. Desires that had lain dormant due to his vows and his discipline suddenly ignited in a swift and fierce response that left him profoundly unsettled.
Attempting to regain his composure, he turned toward the overturned wagon behind them. “My squire and I can set it back on its wheels again. It looks light enough. Is that the donkey that was pulling it?"
She looked toward the animal grazing nearby on a sparse patch of green, and nodded. "Our driver was killed as he tried to race away from the bandits. I believe he was thrown from the wagon when it overturned. I think he broke his neck." She pointed toward the man lying prone in the dirt, his head at an odd angle against a rock.
"Was he a friend?"
She shook her head no. "I only hired him in Amman."
"Your destination, madam?"
"Jerusalem." She studied the Templar for a moment. "My name is Gabrielle de Châtillon."