He nodded but was more concerned with the weariness in both her voice and her face at this moment than the disposition of the keep. “You’re so tired you can scarce sit your saddle. Why do you depart before you have rested at least through the night?”
“I’ll not leave Sir Hugh and the others of Fortemur to be burned or tossed into a mass grave.” Her throat working, she cast a glance over her shoulder at the shrouded bodies. “I must take them home for burial.”
“Tomorrow,” he urged. “Take them tomorrow.”
Temptation rose so thick and hot in Jocelyn’s throat she near choked on it. He would never know how fiercely she’d debated leaving Blanche Garde, or how strenuously Sir Guy had argued against it. Nor could he know how much she ached to stay just one more night. If she did, she could slip away with him to some dark, secret corner. Rest her head on his shoulder. Ease some of the horror of the night just past in his arms.
And then? Would she whisper to him of the queen’s extraordinary offer? Would she weep and cling and beg him yet again to break the vow he’d sworn before man and God?
She would. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would. And when she did, she would only add to the misery engulfing them both. Better to cut all ties now, while Simon still retained his honor and she a shred of dignity.
Yet the parting was so much harder than she’d ever imagined it could be. Especially when he nudged his mount closer to hers and reached over to take her hand.
“Mayhap it’s for the best. As you say, Sir Hugh and the other men of Fortemur deserve burial in hallowed ground. And all of you will sleep better away from this stench. I have business to attend to here yet, but—”
He broke off, his jaw working. He could not say more, she knew. What was there to say?
“God keep you safe, Simon. I pray you find joy in the life you’re about to enter.”
Holding her eyes with his, he raised her hand and brushed his lips across the back. Once. Twice.
“I pray so, too, lady.”
The Templars’ secret induction rituals had already given rise to many a rumor among other churchmen and laity alike. Kings and barons speculated openly about the ceremony. Commoners whispered of it behind closed doors. Even the Pope himself had supposedly written to a previous Grand Master to inquire about it.
If so, the reply must needs have been vague at best. As Simon was informed when two brother knights stripped him, every inductee must swear on pain of death and the loss of his immortal soul never to reveal what transpired in the hours and days to come.
“Do you so swear?” the Grand Master demanded, his eyes burning above the snowy white of his surcoat.
“I do.”
“Then kneel, de Rhys, and empty your head of all thoughts but the glory of God.”
Simon dropped to his knees on hard stone covered with a woven straw mat. It was late. Well past midnight. The main doors to the chapel were locked from the inside. The entrances to the choir loft and the private balcony where the lord and lady of the keep would hear Mass were similarly sealed. The flicker of candles set at intervals along the nave did little to dispel the gloom.
Blanche Garde’s chapel had sustained considerable damage during the keep’s occupation by the Saracens. The cross that had previously hung above the marble altar had been ripped from its mounting and burnt to a pile of gray ash. The gem-studded chalice and precious cloth of gold altar scarf that had reportedly been gifts of Queen Melisande herself were missing and had not yet been recovered. Even the marble sarcophagi lining the alcoves on either side of the nave bore the scars of assault by mace or battle-ax.
Despite the obvious signs of desecration, an air of sanctity pervaded the still, shadow-filled chapel. Perhaps it was the intensity of the knight-priests who stood to either side of Simon. Or the expression on the face of the Grand Master when he addressed the potential inductee.
“You will neither eat nor drink anything save water nor speak to any living soul until you have completed the tasks we require of you. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Here, then, is your first task.”
De Tremelay held out a long-handled flail. When the hooked barbs at the ends of its dozen or more tails clinked against one another, the small sounds echoed in Simon’s ears like lost souls crying to each other.
“You will scourge yourself thrice hourly from now until dawn,” de Tremelay instructed grimly. “Betimes, you will beg Christ to make you worthy of His grace.”
Everything in Simon cringed at the prospect of flailing his still-raw back with the vicious barbs, but he accepted the whip without comment. He’d chosen this path. Pledged his oath before God and man. He would not shy from it now.
“We will return for you at dawn,” de Tremelay said. “At that time, I will assign the next of your tasks.”
He signaled to the two knights. Their footsteps echoed in the dim emptiness as they made for the chapel door. A heavy key clanked in the lock. The wooden door creaked open on iron hinges, swung shut. The grate of the key in the lock again sounded as loud as a clap of thunder to Simon’s ears.
When the echo died, he drew a long, shuddering breath and tightened his fist on the handle of the flail.
Chapter Thirteen
Fortemur lay only a little more than twelve leagues to the west of Blanche Garde, but the path climbed steep hills and wound through vineyards and orchards before beginning a slow descent to the sea.
Because they’d departed so late, Jocelyn and her troop were forced to spend the night on the road. Sir Guy requisitioned a bed for her in the home of an olive merchant. She slept but fitfully and roused early to continue the journey. By noon of the next day, she could see the Mediterranean shimmering in the far distance.
She near wept when she rode through Fortemur’s massive gates the next afternoon. This was home. This place was safe. Now, at least, she wouldn’t have to exchange it for the marble fountains and perfumed gardens of the emir’s harem.
Before parting from Melisande, she’d wrung a reluctant promise from the queen. Both women acknowledged Jocelyn must wed, and soon. Given the emir’s treachery and the certainty of further battles to come, it was more imperative than ever that Fortemur be vested in a knight strong enough to defend it against attack. A Frankish knight, Melisande had agreed. One who would hold Fortemur for the crown. As Simon would have held it, Jocelyn thought with a stab of pain so sharp it near tumbled her from her saddle.
No! She couldn’t allow herself to dwell on what might have been. There were graves to be dug. Widows to grieve with. Children to comfort. Still, she almost fell into Lady Constance’s welcoming arms and had to fight to hold back her tears when she related the astounding events at Blanche Garde to Thomas of Beaumont and his pinch-faced wife.
“I would have come to your relief myself,” the king’s cousin asserted officiously. “But with Hugh and Guy both most anxious to answer your call, I felt it my duty to hold Fortemur against possible attack.”
She was too sick at heart to do more than nod. “There’s much to do. Let’s get to it.”
The days passed swiftly. The nights seemed endless.
Exhausted though she was from the ordeal at Blanche Garde and the grim tasks she had to complete on her return, Jocelyn tossed restlessly in bed and woke more weary than when she’d retired. When she did drift into sleep, her dreams were all too often of blood and fire and the pain Simon must even now be enduring.
She knew no more than anyone else of the trials an aspirant to the Order of the Knights Templar must go through. She’d heard rumors, however. Whispers. Gruesome tales. How could he endure them after all he’d suffered at the hands of his captors?
Tortured by horrific imaginings, she thrust aside the bed coverings and padded on bare feet to the intricately carved prie-dieu. Her hands went white at the knuckles as she bowed her head and pleaded with God to spare Simon what agony He could.
Night bled into day.
Day darkened to nig
ht.
When two brother knights dragged Simon from the chapel, he’d long since lost all sense of time or self. It was true, he thought hazily as they scrubbed the blood and sweat from his naked body. Deliberate, torturous self-abasement could indeed erase all carnal thoughts. Pain could take a person beyond the realm of the physical.
He could scarce recall his own name, much less the one he’d thought would remain emblazoned forever on his heart. It was only with the sheerest effort of will that he was able to raise his arms so the brother knights might clothe him with clean, rough-spun garments.
They let him eat then. Two dry crusts of bread. One slice from a cheese wheel. He crammed them into his mouth like a pig at the trough and washed them down with watered wine.
“Slowly,” one of them murmured sympathetically. “Drink slowly, else your shrunken belly will heave and churn and spew everything up.”
Simon acknowledged the wisdom of this advice some moments later, when his roiling belly threatened to do just that. Drawing on his last, tattered shreds of will, he managed to choke back the acrid taste of bile. The knight beside him nodded in approval.
“If you’re ready, the Grand Master awaits.”
“I’m ready,” he croaked.
It was dark, he noted as they led him once again to the chapel. Nigh onto midnight, he guessed, although the fog swirling inside his head made a mockery of his thoughts. This time he was halted just outside the door.
“Knock thrice,” the knight holding him up with a firm grip instructed.
Thrice. That pierced the whirling haze. Once for the Father, once for the Son, once for the Holy Ghost. Breathing hard, he did as instructed.
“Who’s without?” a voice boomed from inside.
“An aspirant to our order,” his escort replied.
“Bring him to me.”
His heart hammering, Simon entered. Was it just an hour ago he’d exited the chapel? Mere moments since he’d yielded all to pain and darkness?
The mat he’d knelt and slept and wept on was gone. All trace of blood and vomit and excrement had disappeared. A hundred, nay, a thousand, wax candles dispelled the darkness that had surrounded him. Their fragrance joined that of the incense that sent spirals of scented smoke curling from silver dishes.
Those of the Templars who’d survived the battle stood in two rows. They flanked the Grand Master, who gestured Simon’s escort to take his place beside his brothers in arms.
Without the man’s supporting hand, Simon near toppled to the stone floor. He caught himself in time. His breath hissing through locked jaws, he straightened. In the distant corner of his mind not hazed by pain, he noted the attendant standing just beyond de Tremelay.
Was that a skull in the man’s hands, cut off and inverted to form a bowl? Sweet Lord, was the dark liquid in the bowl blood? The tales Simon had heard of aspirants required to seal their oaths by drinking the blood of enemies spun through his dazed mind as the Grand Master made a short, chopping gesture with his sword.
“State your name, that all may hear who aspires to join our ranks.”
“I am—” He had to stop and lick his lips. His throat raw, he began again. “I am Simon de Rhys.”
“Hear me, de Rhys.” De Tremelay’s eyes burned with intensity as he leaned in. “You’ve now had a taste of the rigors every Templar must endure. Our life is one of hardship, not ease. Danger, not indulgence. If you join our ranks, you will sigh for sleep. Pray for a wormy crust of bread or flask of water. You will own nothing. Not the sword you wield in battle, nor your horses, nor your armor. All you bring with you, all you win by the strength of your arm, will belong to the order.”
De Tremelay leaned closer. His voice reverberated with the passion of one who’d endured all the hardships he’d just enumerated.
“You will be loyal to no country,” he continued. “No liege. Only to the Pope, the master of this order, and the brothers senior to you in rank. Do you understand what is asked of you?”
“Yes.”
“Then answer now, before these witnesses. Are you in good health?”
For a stunned moment, Simon thought the man toyed with him. He stared at him stupidly and tried desperately to scrape the cobwebs from his mind. Only belatedly did he realize that de Tremelay was not referring to the wounds inflicted at his specific order.
“I’m in good health.”
He had to force his reply past jaws near locked with pain.
“Are you in debt?”
“No.”
“Are you betrothed, or married?”
For a moment, a mere heartbeat, the image of a pale-haired maiden pushed through the haze still fogging Simon’s mind.
“No.”
He couldn’t be sure in his weakened state, but it seemed the Grand Master let out a low hiss of satisfaction.
“Do you belong to any other order?”
“No.”
“Then we come to the final question. Tell me this, de Rhys, and tell me true. Do you take the oath of Knight Templar with a pure heart?”
Chapter Fourteen
Still Jocelyn could not sleep. She arose each morning before the dawn and applied herself so relentlessly to her duties as chatelaine that Fortemur’s residents took to sliding away at her approach for fear of being set to yet another backbreaking task.
They couldn’t escape her vigilant eye. She ordered the dovecotes cleaned and fresh rushes cut for every floor of the keep. Tapestries were taken down, beat with branches to remove their dust, and laboriously rehung. The beekeeper, the stable master and the ale master were all taken to account for vital tasks left too long undone.
Her ladies Jocelyn set to sewing several new gowns for the wedding she advised them would take place as soon as the queen or her son named a replacement groom. Sir Thomas’s ferret-faced wife plied her needle along with them.
“Who will it be, do you think?” she asked when Jocelyn came to inspect their progress.
“I don’t know.”
Nor did she care. The passion that had driven her to take such outrageous risks to avoid marriage to Ali ben Haydar seemed to have drained away. She had the queen’s promise that she would be given to a Frankish lord. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore.
“From all reports, Lord Eustace will soon have need of a bride.” Thomas’s wife knotted her thread and snipped it with the scissors attached to her belt. “His lady is rumored to lie on her deathbed. Maybe the queen will give you to him and join your holdings with his.”
“Surely not!” Lady Constance protested sharply. “Eustace’s bones creak even more than mine. He has to have celebrated seventy name days, if he’s celebrated one.”
“I doubt it not.” A small, spiteful smile crossed the other woman’s face. “But what matters age when kingdoms are at stake?”
What matter, indeed? Blowing out a ragged breath, Jocelyn spun on her heel and left the women to their stitching.
To distract herself from fruitless speculation, she threw herself with ever more energy into inspecting and shoring up Fortemur’s defenses. Her ceaseless efforts took so much from her that she grew more haggard and short-tempered with each hour. Finally Sir Guy pleaded with his wife to intercede. Lady Constance did so in her blunt manner.
“By all that is holy, Jocelyn! You’re driving us all to dip deep into the wine barrel. Take your falconer, your bird and your foul temper, and for God’s sake quit the keep for a while.”
It was, Jocelyn realized an hour later, just the antidote she needed for her ill humors. Sunshine and a bracing breeze off the sea cleared the last, lingering horror of Blanche Garde from her mind. The grace of her peregrine as it rode the updrafts with effortless ease gave her a measure of peace she never thought she would find again.
She couldn’t help but think of the first time she had watched it fly. Simon had ridden with her to these same cliffs. Then, as now, the peregrine had demonstrated its sharp-taloned skills. And when it was done, she had taken Simon to the crystal cave.
It would stay with her always. Whosoever she wed, wheresoever she went, she would hold the memory of their brief time together in a corner of her heart as special and private as her cave. She rested her leather-sheathed wrists on the pommel and watched the bird soar. The sight didn’t completely erase the ache inside her, but the faint tinkle of the bells tethered to its leg did seem to soothe some of the sharp edges.
Would that she could fly with such unutterable grace, she thought with a sigh. Where would she go? Jerusalem, she thought. It would be wondrous indeed to view the holy sites from such a lofty perspective. Or Venice, perhaps. She’d heard tales of the palatial villas crowding its fog-shrouded waterways. Or—
“Mistress!”
Her falconer’s shout jerked her from thoughts of canals and palaces. She would go nowhere, Jocelyn acknowledged, even as her mind leaped to the possibility of a threat. She was Fortemur. Her destiny lay now and always between its crenellated walls.
“What do you see?” she asked sharply.
“Look!”
She twisted in the saddle and saw that he pointed to a lone rider descending the road toward Fortemur. He was slumped in the saddle and too far away for her to see his face, but there was no mistaking those broad shoulders or Avenger’s distinctive barding.
Everything in her went still. For long moments she couldn’t squeeze so much as a breath from her lungs. A thousand chaotic thoughts tumbled through her mind. Why had Simon returned? Had he failed his initiation? Taken some grievous hurt?
What did it matter? He was here! Like one prodded from a trance by the sharp tip of a spear, she shouted a command at her escort.
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