The Spymaster's Protection

by S A Monk

  Lucien was taken aback by her revelation. "Are you related to Reynald de Châtillon, Baron of Oultrejourdan?"

  She gave him a short solemn nod. "He is my husband."

  Lucien sucked in a breath and swore softly. "God's bones, Lady de Châtillon, where is your armed guard?"

  "There is no armed guard." Her sapphire blue eyes met his defiantly.

  "Why?" he demanded angrily, completely bewildered by why a powerful man like Lord de Châtillon let his wife roam the countryside unescorted.

  "It is complicated, and none of your business, frère."

  Lucien scowled and shook his head. "Foolishness!"

  "Not at all, frère," she disputed, now bristling with anger. "God watches over us, though I am beginning to doubt that you are the guardian angel I asked him to send us."

  Gabrielle heard him blow out a derisive snort before he turned and waved his squire to the task of righting their wagon. Her back stiffened with affront.

  In the glaring afternoon sun, she watched her rescuers heave and push the little four-wheeled cart into its upright position. She was still disturbed by the close assessment the Templar knight had given her. Beneath his helm, she’d seen that he was dark complected and dark eyed, with long thick lashes that should have belonged to a female. Though he hadn't smiled, his well-shaped mouth framed straight dazzling white teeth that stood out noticeably against his deeply bronzed face.

  Once he pulled off his metal helmet and the mail coif underneath, she could see that his hair was as black as a raven's feathers. His closely cropped beard and neatly trimmed moustache were black, as well, giving his entire face a dangerously dark and menacing appearance.

  He was taller than most fighting men, but every bit as muscular and broad through the shoulders and chest. His long legs were encased in chain mail and covered to below his knees in his white surcoat. Around his trim waist he wore a plain, undecorated leather belt from which his Templar sword hung. Across his back, he wore another. His hands were encased in leather gloves and gauntlets.

  Once revealed, she saw that he had a handsome face; a face that was all hard angles and planes, carved with an arrogant Roman nose, set below deep brown eyes and a pair of slashing dark brows that seemed to be drawn low in a perpetual scowl. He appeared to assess everything around him with meticulous scrutiny.

  As she waited for the two men to right their wagon, she scolded herself for her unusual interest in the knight. It was definitely inappropriate to be ogling a man who was a monk and a Templar. Still, it was hard not to stare at someone as physically arresting as her rescuer.

  While he and his squire were hitching the donkey to the cart, two of the merchants walked up to them. "Brothers, where are the rest of your party? We have wounded and dead."

  "I have a daughter that those scoundrels carted off. You should be after her," the lead merchant exclaimed.

  The Templar turned to the two men. "Why did you have no armed guard acting as escort for all these people?"

  "We heard this was a safe road."

  "And now, you know better," the knight announced in disgust. "Let's see to your dead and wounded." With a wave of a hand he beckoned his squire, then turned to Gabrielle. "Can you drive the wagon?" When she nodded affirmatively, he and the young man with him began scooping up children and loading them into the cart.

  The toddler in Gabrielle's arms finally managed to wiggle free, and with a cry of delight, began to run toward a small doll lying in the dirt, in the distance. Gabrielle immediately gave chase, dismayed by the baby's sudden escape.

  Behind her, she heard the Templar call out to her with a command that sounded like drop. Too late she realized why. From the orchard, a lone Arab on a horse stepped out of the trees and raised his bow. Within the blink of an eye, the bolt slammed into her right shoulder, so hard it knocked her instantly off her feet.

  A loud virulent curse was followed almost instantly by a pair of strong arms scooping her up off the rocky ground. She looked into the thickly lashed brown eyes above her, then felt her head fall backwards as a wave of darkness sucked her into unconsciousness.

  +++

  Lucien guided the cart over the rocky ground, avoiding as many bumps as he could. In the bed of the wagon, Colin sat with Lady de Châtillon's head and shoulders supported in his lap, a thick cloth from a ripped grain bag pressed tightly to her shoulder wound. Most of the bleeding had stopped, but Lucien knew if he hit a deep rut, it would begin again.

  The rest of the patrol had returned, having recovered the merchant's fair-haired daughter, but not the bandits, who had abandoned her in their escape. The wagon behind them had been emptied of its grain and loaded with the dead. There were too many.

  Once they reached the Hospitaller hospice at Jericho, they would bury the dead in consecrated graves. Lucien offered up a heartfelt prayer that Madame de Châtillon would not be among those they had to bury.

  Such senseless stupidity; traipsing across these trade routes with no armed guard! The pilgrims, Lucien could understand. Rarely did any of them come to the Holy Land with anything in their pockets. But merchants and a noblewoman? Both should have sufficient resources to hire an armed guard. God's blood! Did none of them realize they were traveling through a war torn land?

  CHAPTER 2

  Having assisted his brethren in burying the dead from the caravan, Lucien de Aubric stood at the foot of Gabrielle de Châtillon's bed at the hospice in Jericho while she slept. The two nuns who staffed the small women's ward left for the kitchen to fetch the midday meal for their patients.

  Lucien took advantage of their absence to study the woman he had found in the desert. He and his brothers had managed to deliver her and the others to this Hospitaller hospice yestereve. The brother who had examined her had told him the wound was not too deep, and that the lady would be able to travel within a few days. The physicians of the Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem were nearly as skilled as their Arab counterparts. Lady de Châtillon would heal well under their care.

  Lucien knew he should be on his way, but he had not been able to bring himself to do so yet.

  Had she not gone after the infant, she would not be lying here now, senseless and injured. And still Lucien had not been able to account for why her assailant had lingered behind after his fellow bandits had fled into the hills. Only assassins worked alone like that. Lucien's gut told him the fellow in the olive grove had not been a member of the bandit gang.

  If he had been one of the Hashshashin, had the lady been his target? Lucien's duties with the Order had long ago made him a target for assassination, and he had enemies on both sides of the struggle for control of the Holy Land. These were difficult times for the Kingdom of Jerusalem. But in her own right Lady de Châtillon was every bit as much a potential target. Other than King Guy, there might have been no other man as envied and despised as Reynald de Châtillon.

  And out of Egypt, the Syrians had brought forth a new and vigorous leader. Year after year, Saladin's power and strength grew. At a time when the Christian settlers needed one strong leader, they had none. Queen Sibylla and her husband, Guy of Lusignan, sat on the throne of Jerusalem, but they were not sitting there securely.

  Setting Lucien on the task of road patrol had been his Grand Master’s way of warning him that he was letting his allegiance slip. But on this day, Lucien found much to be pleased about with his disciplinary reassignment. Had he not been on patrol, he would not have been able to rescue the lovely wife of King Guy's kingmaker.

  One of the nuns returned with a tray of food for her patient. The old crone's wrinkled face told him he was not welcome in the women's ward. Lucien knew how disturbing one of his own dark-eyed scowls could be, and he reveled in sending her a particularly fierce one in return.

  "I would like to ask after the lady's welfare before I leave," he growled in none too pleasant a voice.

  "She is recovering nicely," the nun replied tartly. "You are not allowed in here, frère."

  "Frère?
"

  Gabrielle de Châtillon's soft raspy whisper interrupted the scowling pair at the foot of her bed. Lucien stepped closer to hear the lady. The slumberous look in her big blue eyes and the way her lips tried to form a smile for him sent a jolt of fire straight to his groin.

  "Lady de Châtillon." His tone betrayed the tear in his normal iron control. The husky edge to his voice was surely what made the old nun stare even more disapprovingly at him. "How are you faring today?"

  "Much better, thank you, frère."

  She looked tired and pale and weak, but every bit as lovely as yesterday. Lucien realized he had not yet given her his name. He corrected his error.

  “Brother Lucien de Aubric,” she repeated once he delivered it, testing the sound of it as she gave him another weak smile.

  Lucien felt his gut wrench. The shape of her mouth as she pronounced his first name played havoc with his senses. It made her rose-colored lips pucker as they might before a kiss. The sudden image that prompted left him shaken.

  "You must leave now, frère!" the wrinkled woman in the outrageous whimple imperiously demanded once again.

  Gabrielle de Châtillon lifted a hand in weak protest. "Please, Sister Ruth, let me speak to Brother Lucien for just a moment. He saved my life, you know."

  The old crone crinkled her face into an even deeper scowl as she stared angrily at the Templar, then finally relented with a loud huffing sound. "A few moments then, Madame de Châtillon. Here, I have brought your supper." Turning, she lifted a tray off a small table.

  Gabrielle sat up slowly, wincing as the bandaging under her arm and around her shoulder pulled. Both Sister Ruth and Lucien leaned in to assist her, knocking shoulders. The nun prevailed, elbowing the man beside her aside as she firmly shoved the meal tray into his hands. When she finished plumping the pillow at her patient's back, she pulled the woolen blanket up to Gabrielle's armpits, then abruptly took the tray from Lucien's hands and set it gently where she wanted it.

  Snapping the Templar a fierce warning look, she gave him a gruff order to not trouble the lady for long, then turned and walked away, her back ramrod straight, her wide whimple bobbing from side. Lucien wondered how she managed to keep the outrageous thing on her head, then looked down at the woman on the bed.

  Gabrielle saw his scowl and smiled at him. "Sister Ruth is not so bad."

  "Humph," he snorted, in complete disagreement with her kind assessment of the old crone.

  Gabrielle lifted her tray with the intent of setting it aside, but Lucien stopped her, placing it back on her lap, and in the process touching her hands. The brief contact made him drag in a soft breath. "Eat, lady. Regain your strength," he urged her.

  "I have a question to pose to you, frère," she began, lifting a piece of pork to her mouth.

  Lucien could not drag his eyes away from her mouth as he watched her lusciously shaped lips close over the small tidbit of meat. Not waiting to get caught staring, he turned away and looked around for a place to sit, finally settling on a small three-legged stool that he dragged to her bedside.

  With a sigh, she set her eating knife aside. Helplessly, Lucien found himself staring at her long-fingered, slender hands, frustrated to find they were no safer to look at than her mouth. Images of them lifted to his cheek made him shift uncomfortably on his small chair.

  Gabrielle lifted a hand in an imploring gesture, bringing his attention back to her face. "I would like to hire you and your men to escort the children and myself to Jerusalem."

  "Templars are not for hire, mi'lady." Lucien watched her dimpled smile disappear and immediately regretted his answer.

  "Then may I persuade you and your brothers to perform a Christian act of charity?" she tried again. "These children that I am taking to the orphanage of Saint John in Jerusalem are very frightened after all they have been through. I would spare them anymore terrifying incidents on the remainder of our journey."

  Lucien could not refuse her twice. He also had a powerful desire to see those tiny, barely perceptible dimples on either side of her lovely mouth emerge again. They were irresistible. Submitting to the temptation to tease her a bit, he ungallantly reminded her of her earlier assessment of him.

  "I believe you decreed that I was not the guardian angel you prayed for yesterday."

  Gabrielle was secretly overcome by his wicked grin. It lifted one corner of his mouth and eased the dark severity of his face to such an extent that it literally took her breath away. His deep brown eyes sparkled with humor for a moment, and Gabrielle knew it must be a rare thing to see him smile or laugh. The wrinkles that bracketed his thickly-lashed eyes were surely not put there by too much of either.

  "The children are uninjured, and I am alive," she stated with grateful conviction. "I was wrong in my initial judgment. The good Lord did send me a guardian angel."

  "I am uneasy with that presumption, mi'lady, but, aye, my brothers and I will escort you and the children to Jerusalem."

  "I may not be able to travel for a day or two."

  "I intended to stay in the area and see if I can discover who the brigands were who attacked the caravan, so a day or two is no problem. I am troubled by the lone archer who apparently stayed behind in the olive grove." Lucien did not want to worry her with his speculations, so he kept them to himself.

  "He may have been injured and unable to immediately follow his comrades," Gabrielle suggested, trying to hide a yawn.

  “Possibly.” Lucien chuckled. "Eat, then get some rest, mi'lady. I will have the brothers here at the hospice inform me when you are ready to travel."

  "Brother Lucien," she called out to him as he pushed to his feet. "Thank you."

  His fist struck his chest and his head dropped in a quick nod, but his eyes were fastened helplessly on her bow-shaped lips as they formed his name. God's blood! They looked as if they were waiting for a kiss! Lucien left the infirmary more agitated than he could ever remember being, aware only that a woman had never affected him as strongly as Gabrielle de Châtillon.

  +++

  Two days later, Gabrielle and the six children settled themselves into the bed of the heavy, canvas-topped wagon Brother Lucien had borrowed from the Hospitallers. Once the children were all seated, she edged between them to the front of the conveyance to sit behind the driver, who to her surprise turned out to be Brother Lucien himself. She had expected his squire to drive the wagon. No knight liked to travel on anything except a horse.

  He turned to her as his men assembled to the front and rear of the wagon. "You may ride up here with me," he offered with a smile. "I have procured a cushion for you."

  Gabrielle was touched by his consideration. Such concern was non-existent in her life. "I better stay with the children."

  Lucien handed her a thick brocade pillow that was large enough to support her entire back. "Then get comfortable, mi'lady. We have a day's ride to the city."

  Gabrielle was settling herself in as he flicked the reins and shouted the order to proceed.

  Compared to the little cart they had come from Amman in, this larger wagon was well-sprung, providing a noticeably smoother, gentler ride. With her injury, Gabrielle greatly appreciated the improvement. And she quickly realized her driver was taking great care to avoid the bumps and ruts in the old Roman road.

  She wasn't sure what to make of Brother Lucien de Aubric. As the youngest of the children crawled into her lap to cuddle in her arms, she angled her body and the pillow so she could stare at his profile and uncovered head. His hair was ink black, thick and completely straight, trimmed to fall to the base of his neck, long enough to be blown into disarray by the desert breeze. When it fell across his forehead, he swept it back with an impatient long-fingered hand, then ignored it after that.

  Sitting at a side angle, she studied his classic Roman profile. He wore the regulation Templar beard, but he kept it cut close to his face, not long and shaggy like most Templars. Because of its shorter length, she could discern the square angular shape of his jawbone.<
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  With his dark skin color, dark hair and eyes, and granite hewn facial features, he looked very intimidating, very tough— until he smiled. Then his stern countenance was altered dramatically. But as she had deduced before, she doubted that happened often. She'd seen him trading fierce scowls with Sister Ruth. It had been hard to tell who had been the more formidable.

  "Are you comfortable, mi'lady?" he questioned over his shoulder, breaking into her analysis of him.

  "Unexpectedly so," she returned, shifting the sleeping toddler in her arms to a more comfortable position.

  "We will stop for a break at midday, but you must tell me if your shoulder starts to pain you. Are you using the pillow to cushion it?"

  "Yes, I am, frère. Thank you for thinking of it."

  He nodded, then turned back to the horses. Gabrielle gazed at the children. They were all drifting off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic motion of the wagon and the warmth of the day. Contemplating Lucien de Aubric’s unexpected consideration for her, Gabrielle stroked the satiny black hair of the baby on her lap and drifted off to sleep herself. It seemed only minutes had passed before the wagon stopped under the shade of an acacia tree.

  Gabrielle opened her eyes as Brother Lucien leaped off the wagon, then strode to the back. After opening the rear gate, he assisted her and the children out.

  "If you will sit on the tuft of grass in the shade, the brothers and I will get out the water and food."

  Gabrielle walked around the wagon, grateful to stretch her legs before sitting down next to the children under the uneven shade of the desert tree. To her surprise, Brother Lucien joined her, but before he did, he passed out bread, cheese, and a flagon of blessedly cool water.

  "So, mi’lady, tell me what brought you into the desert with no armed guard and six orphaned children," he queried as he leaned back against the tree trunk and stretched out his long legs.

  "I rescue children left orphaned and homeless by this never-ending war. More often than not, they are victims of my husband's raiding.”

  Lucien stared at her, amazed and dismayed by her revelation. "It is not safe for any woman, Christian or Muslim, to travel without an armed guard. How long have you been doing this, Lady de Châtillon?"