by Hebby Roman
His knights didn’t like the scheme. They were spoiling for a fight, despite being outnumbered. But he’d made up his mind, and he ordered them to stay in the forest. Even so, the men began preparations, replacing their armor and buckling on their swords.
Raul gathered his reins and mounted. “Barclay, see that the men stay here.”
“They’ll stay as you asked, so long as you’re in no danger. But if the O’Donnell doesn’t honor the truce…” He shrugged and spat on the ground.
“If that happens, leave at once and take the wounded to the nearest monastery,” Raul directed. “The holy men will know how to care for them.”
Barclay grunted and lowered his gaze. Raul understood his evasive gesture. The knight’s code of chivalry wouldn’t allow him to ride off and leave Raul to face the enemy alone.
So be it.
He’d done all that he could. What happened next was, in large part, in God’s hands. He hoisted the white flag and spurred his mount forward, clearing the trees and trotting toward the knot of O’Donnell knights.
At the sight of the white banner, the O’Donnell rose in his stirrups and drew his sword, pointing at the truce flag. Raul didn’t know what to make of the gesture, and the closed visor hid the O’Donnell’s expression. Reining back, Raul waited for the O’Donnell to make the next move.
He didn’t have long to wait. With a stab of his broadsword, the O’Donnell urged his men forward. Raul stood his ground until surrounded, keeping an eye on their leader and trying to guess what he would do next.
O’Donnell nodded to one of his men, who said, “Leave, Templar, and we’ll spare your life.”
So they had recognized the cross on his tunic, but the insignia obviously meant nothing to the O’Donnell. To Raul, it meant he wouldn’t leave without trying to fulfill his mission.
“I come in peace,” he declared, lifting the white banner. “My lord, William the Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, sends his greetings. And he offers his protection to the Princess of Erie and to—”
A strangled cry, like the death keen of a hawk, gurgled from O’Donnell, cutting off Raul’s declaration. The O’Donnell urged his mount closer and raised his sword, thrusting at Raul’s chest.
Raul’s well-oiled reflexes, honed by years of war and training, took over. He ducked and dropped the flag. In one fluid motion, he unsheathed his broadsword, bringing it up to block the next blow.
The two swords clashed with a cacophony of ringing metal upon metal. Shouts and curses and more clanging of swords told Raul his knights had joined the fight. A foolish gesture, because most likely, they would all perish.
Locked in mortal combat with the O’Donnell, he didn’t have time to order his men back. Matching thrust for thrust, Raul marveled at his foe’s creative handling of the broadsword. If he wanted to prevail, he must go on the attack. Thought flowed swiftly into action, and he leaned forward, executing a flurry of sword thrusts and feints.
But the O’Donnell stubbornly refused to yield. Instead, he feinted to the left, forcing Raul to lunge to stop his parry. His foe then anticipated him, reversing his leftward thrust and bringing his sword up the middle, aiming for Raul’s chin and almost unseating him.
In a moment of clarity, Raul realized his mistake. He threw up his armored arm, taking the bruising blow of his adversary’s sword. Although he blunted the O’Donnell’s clever attack, his opponent’s blade sliced through the leather straps at his elbow and found flesh.
Ignoring the searing pain, Raul pushed his mount closer, trying to force his enemy’s destrier to give way. The O’Donnell’s horse backed a few steps, throwing the rider off balance. Raul took advantage and thrust hard, aiming for the unprotected line of his opponent’s neck. But O’Donnell tucked his chin, and Raul missed, his sword tangling in the slots of his adversary’s visor.
He jerked hard, desperate to free his weapon before his enemy capitalized on the error and gutted him. Grunting with the effort, he forced his broadsword up, releasing a fountain of blood that streamed between the visor bars.
His sword popped free, dragging the blood-drenched helm with it. The metal hood landed on the ground with a loud thud, and Raul’s gaze flew to the face of his opponent.
What he saw turned his blood to ice; a scarlet-streaked face gone white with pain, and masses of red-gold hair, shining like spun silk.
That hair, the flawless skin, and the full pout of her mouth. Her mouth.
Madre de Dios, the O’Donnell was a woman!
From her creamy forehead ran a river of dark blood. Her wide-spaced green eyes glazed over, and she slowly raised her hand, encased in chain mail, as if to wipe away the tell-tale stain. But when the metal touched her face, she flinched and dropped her hand.
Raul flinched, too, her bloodied face ripping at his guts. Forgive him, por Dios, for he'd harmed a woman. And not just any woman but a princess.
For there was no doubt in his mind this woman was the Princess O’Donnell. Her upright carriage and fine bone structure proclaimed her nobility as surely as the royal insignia she wore.
He watched, horror closing his throat, as she slumped forward on the neck of her mount. He sprang from his horse and caught her in his arms before she slid to the ground. Even fully outfitted in heavy armor, she felt as light as dandelion fluff. Cradling her slight weight, he was surprised her slender arms could swing a mighty broadsword with such authority and cunning.
Slowly, he bent his knees, lowering her to the ground. A part of his mind realized the din of battle had ceased. Knights on both sides stood with their weapons checked, waiting. In the taut silence, Raul could hear the wind whipping round the castle battlements and the raucous cry of a seagull.
He pulled off his gauntlets and fumbled for the fallen truce flag, using the scrap of cloth to wipe her forehead. The familiar coppery stench of blood filled his nostrils.
Always blood. Too much blood.
Sangre de Cristo—that terrible day. He’d wanted to protect the women, not kill them. And now he’d failed again. The bright sunshine dimmed, eclipsed by the mists of a half-forgotten time and memories he'd prayed to forget.
Memories of white marble floors streaked with crimson rivers and dainty golden lattice screens splattered with red droplets. Of slaughtered women lying in crooked heaps, the dark mystery of their sex visible through their gossamer harem trousers. Of olive-skinned infants and children, scattered like refuse among tinkling fountains that ran pink with their blood.
He covered his face with his hands and pushed back at the nightmare vision. He forced air into his lungs, breathing deep and willing the return of his self-control. Sinking to his knees beside the bleeding princess, he offered a fervent prayer.
“Por Dios, don’t let her die by my hand.”
Chapter Two
Raul lifted the princess in his arms and strode toward the castle. As soon as his foot touched the rough planking of the drawbridge, one of her men stepped forward. Raul recognized him as the knight who’d told him to leave.
Muttering among themselves, the O’Donnell knights massed behind their new leader, ringing in Raul and blocking his path. His knights looked on, uncertain of what action to take.
“What are you doing?” the O’Donnell knight demanded.
Why must her knights resist? Couldn’t they hear her groans of pain? Didn’t they realize with each moment wasted, she lost more blood and strength?
“Taking your lady inside. I’ve skills as a physician.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who wounded her. Why should I trust you?”
“I wouldn’t have raised a sword against the princess had I known who she was. I was sent to protect, not harm her.”
“And you’ve a physician’s skills? Is that common for a Templar?”
Raul sighed. Patience, he counseled himself. “No, not common. I was taken prisoner in Constantinople and sold as a servant to an Arabic physician. He taught me much.”
“You trust the wisdom of the Infi
dels?”
“Their methods succeed more often than ours.”
The knight cocked his head, considering. “If I allow you to care for her, can you swear she will live?”
Raul swallowed. He hadn’t examined her injury. If it was a flesh wound, her recovery was assured. But if he’d severed one of her arteries; it could prove fatal. Glancing at her pale face, he knew there was no time to weigh the consequences. He must be allowed to attend her.
“I swear by the sacred Cross, she will live,” he vowed.
The O’Donnell knight’s eyes widened. After a long moment, he bent his head in guarded acceptance. Moving to one side, he motioned for his men to fall back.
Once inside the castle, Raul anxiously bent over the princess, cleansing the gash on her temple. As if in answer to his prayers, the wound wasn’t deep. With the proper care, she should recover quickly.
Wringing out a cloth, he crossed to the table to fetch fresh water. His footsteps echoed in the high-vaulted chamber. The O’Donnell knight had shown him to the castle’s solar, not her lady’s bedchamber.
Raul glanced around the large tower room with its perfectly circular walls. In truth the solar was most welcoming and comfortably appointed. Bright sunlight streamed from the beveled glass overhead. Multi-hued tapestries graced the rough walls, their rich colors vibrant against the gray stones. Soft wool rugs and animals skins covered the cobbled floor, and a large hearth dominated the northern wall.
A trestle table, several chairs and stools, along with a commodious couch constituted the furnishings. The castle servants had prepared the couch for their lady and brought water and clean cloths. One of them had even bound Raul’s arm. Inexpertly, of course, but that could wait.
He returned to the princess and leaned down, pushing away the fine wisps of hair from her forehead. Touching her thus, he found himself lingering over the task, marveling at the soft and luminous quality of her skin. With the pad of his thumb, he traced one blue vein from her brow to her chin. With a thirst no wine could slake, he drank in the noble beauty of her face, thinking the Sinclair was a lucky man.
But then Raul’s glance fell upon the ragged wound he’d inflicted. The cut wasn’t deep, but like as not, it would leave a scar. He’d never meant to harm her. Would she forgive him? Did he have the right to expect her forgiveness?
And what would his lord say when he saw his intended bride? The thought of explaining the extraordinary events to the hotheaded earl gave Raul pause.
The princess moaned and tossed on the couch, breaking his guilty reverie. He leaned down again and sponged her face, soothing her with soft words and cool water. Though he tried to concentrate on comforting her, he couldn’t help but notice the perfect sculpting of her heart-shaped face. Or the feathery web of her red-gold eyelashes, lying long and thick against her alabaster cheeks. Or even more, the sweet curve of her full, pink lips.
His nether parts tightened painfully, and his cock stirred. Lust filled his veins, a hot coursing. A painful reminder of his very human nature, despite the Templar vow he’d taken. He forced himself to tear his gaze from her lush mouth and to step back a pace. He put the cloth aside and knotted his hands behind his back. He dug his nails into his palms, reminding himself he had no right to think of her that way. She was a princess, betrothed to his lord, and he was but a lowly knight, a lowly celibate Templar knight.
The solar door banged open. Clach hurried to his side, lugging the heavy satchel with his medicines. Behind his squire, the knight who had allowed him entrance to the castle stood in the doorway. Raul thanked his squire and ignored the knight.
But the knight didn’t leave. He crossed the room to stand beside the couch. “I’m called Malcolm O’Conner, and I’m her lady’s bailiff. What might be your name, Templar?”
Raul retrieved the healing salve from his satchel and carefully spread the poultice over her wound. Only when he was satisfied with its application did he straighten and wipe his hands on a clean cloth.
He bowed. “Raul de Porcelos. At your service.”
Malcolm returned the bow and pushed past Raul. Taking the princess’ limp hand, he kissed it. “Will you keep your vow? Will she live?”
“Yes, she will live. The wound isn’t serious.”
The hint of a smile lifted Malcolm’s mouth. “’Tis good, Sir Templar, for I wouldn’t want to have to kill you.” His gaze snagged Raul’s. “We voted that you and your men can stay.”
“What say you?”
“That we accept the Sinclair’s protection in the name of the princess.”
Malcolm’s unexpected capitulation surprised him. Might it be a trap? Or was the man telling the truth? “Why did she resist the earl’s protection?”
The young knight crossed to one of the long slits in the wall that served as a window. “Do you have a family, Sir Raul?”
“Of sorts. My father and uncle. I never knew my mother.”
Malcolm turned from the window and said, “The princess has buried—these two years past—her father and four brothers slaughtered by Anglo-Normans, sent by the English king.” He spat. “Like yourself, she never knew her mother. Milady’s alone in the world, and all she has is this.” He lifted his arm and made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the room and more. “She won’t give it up. Not after her family died fighting to hold this castle and lands.”
Raul understood loss and loneliness. But hearing the harsh tale from Malcolm, a man who cared for his lady, lent the story an added poignancy.
Malcolm fisted one hand in a gesture of defiance. Then his eyes darkened with confusion, and he let his hand fall. “I know why she does what she does, but we can’t fight on. She doesn’t want to accept it, but she will wed a powerful man who can protect her. She cannot stop the way of the world.”
“You believe this?”
“Aye, and so does her master-at-arms, Dwyer MacMalley. He wanted to welcome your party, but she forbade it. She had me take his place at her side.”
“There will be no further resistance?” Raul asked.
Malcolm strode to the couch and gazed at the fallen princess. A variety of emotions, like scudding clouds, crossed his features. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Nay, no more resistance. She must understand. Even so, she’ll think we’ve betrayed her.”
Raul put his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. “Perhaps not. Let me speak with her when she awakens.”
Malcolm snorted. “I’ve heard of Templar exploits. But I doubt you can persuade her.”
“Let me try.”
The knight tugged on his short beard. “Mayhap you can persuade her for you speak right good Gaelic, though your name proclaims you a Spaniard.”
“Yes, I’m Spanish born, but I’ve an ear for languages. I know nigh unto a score.”
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “A score? ’Tis a gift, that. And the healing arts, too.”
“Yes,” Raul agreed and then he hesitated, wanting to choose his words with care. “Sir Malcolm, I must ask a boon. I’ve two wounded men. Can you bring them to me?”
The young knight nodded slowly. “’Twill be done. Your wounded will be brought here, and I’ll send the servants with pallets.”
“And the other knights and squires. Where will they lodge?”
“In the castle with my men. We’ve room enough.”
Raul bowed again. “I appreciate your hospitality.”
Malcolm inclined his head and darted a glance at the princess. “I only hope my lady can find it in her heart to forgive me.”
****
The cool touch of water revived Cahira, lifting her from the depths of a dreamless sleep. She lay drifting with her eyes closed. When she tried to gather her wits, her thoughts were fuzzy, misshapen things, and her head pounded as if the castle’s smithy had misused it for an anvil.
What had happened? And where was she?
She thought to open her eyes but reconsidered. She’d met the enemy and done battle with a Knight Templar. His broadsword had tangled in her vis
or, and she’d experienced the sharp bite of its edge. After that, she remembered nothing.
What if she’d fallen into enemy hands? Better to feign sleep until she knew. Keeping her eyes closed, she called upon her other senses.
She recognized the splash of something being dipped into water and then the refreshing coolness of a wet cloth on her forehead. She concentrated on the sensation, noting her caretaker’s hand was rough and callused.
Her nose twitched when she sensed the unknown caretaker leaning closer. Not the smell of a woman, either, but of a man. Salty perspiration mixed with the metallic odor of chain mail and musk.
It was then that the truth struck her with the force of a winter squall, and she clenched her teeth to stop from crying out.
Her men would have taken her to the castle to be cared for by her servants. If a man tended her, it was obvious she’d fallen prisoner. But where were her knights? They’d outnumbered the Templar’s men three to one.
Her unknown caretaker crossed the room with a heavy tread. From a short distance, she heard the distinctive groans of a man and a whispered conversation. Who was that speaking? Where was she?
She had to know.
Her eyes flew open, and she glimpsed the familiar sight of beveled glass at the top of her solar. Surprise and fear commingled in her belly, spurring her heart to a fast gallop. Blinking at the bright sunlight, she turned her head to one side, her thoughts jangling like a jester’s bells. If she was in her own castle, then who was caring for her?
She glanced across the room and saw three pallets on the floor, two of which were occupied by men she’d never seen before. Kneeling beside one of the pallets was another stranger, wearing a red cross on his tunic.
Sweet Jesú! Her enemy!
The knight who had brought her down. Was he the one doing the tending? Where were her men? And why had they deserted her? Had that black-hearted Dwyer taken control of the castle while she lay senseless?