by Hebby Roman
The drawbridge faced north by east where the two walls met, forming a double row of protection. Two towers flanked the only entrance to the castle. One tower served as the gatehouse and guardroom. The other tower held the living quarters with the great hall on the ground level and the solar and several bedchambers on the second floor. Sheltered within the inner bailey were the kitchen, the stables, the smithy, and storerooms.
Raul had found the storerooms empty, great echoing chambers of dust and scurrying rats. The princess had known what she was doing when she’d ridden out to battle. Kinsale would not have withstood a siege.
His mind lingered over images of her. If the truth be known, he thought of little else. She fascinated him like no other female, and not just because she was a princess. Growing up in his uncle’s court, he’d met many a noble lady.
One in particular, the daughter of a marqués, had captured his fancy in the first flush of his youth. When he’d paid her court, she’d laughed in his face and told him she had no use for a penniless bastard. He’d reeled from her vicious rejection, cut to the quick and humiliated beyond measure.
But the incident had taught him a harsh truth. To make a noble marriage, he needed a noble’s heritage and lands to support a household. Devastated, he’d taken up the sword, practicing day and night. As a mercenary, he’d hoped to earn enough coin to purchase his heritage. But when he’d embarked on his first mission, he’d failed. Murder had turned his stomach.
No, he hadn’t succeeded as a sword for hire, though he would willingly fight for duty and honor.
He’d been surprised to learn the princess had been raised with a warrior’s sensibilities. Riding at the head of her knights, she’d demonstrated more courage than many a man. But upon learning of her knights’ defection, she’d revealed her vulnerable side, transforming from a warrior to a woman in the blink of an eye.
It was that contradiction that intrigued him—the image of a warrior-princess masking the tender heart of a woman.
He knotted his hands behind his back. If he was any judge of character, her injury and her men’s defection wouldn’t stop her from fighting. In truth he’d wager even now she was plotting a way to escape. He would have done the same, fought and plotted to protect what was his.
How many times had he wished for a place of his own—for a place to call home?
He kicked at a loose stone, sending it tumbling into the sea with a splash. A home was a great deal to ask. Forsooth, he’d settle for knowing what he really wanted to be. Mercenary, physician, monk, or warrior? Who was he, and where did his true vocation lie?
And he hadn’t been completely truthful with the princess, either, when she’d shown a keen curiosity about his life. After his father had ransomed him from his Turkish master in Constantinople, he’d wanted to return to Spain as a simple physician. A way of life he enjoyed and had learned to value. But for his father, a physician wasn’t a proper vocation for his bastard son. The archbishop had urged him to join the Church and follow in his footsteps. But the hypocrisy of Raul’s father’s chosen path turned his stomach.
Fool that he was, he had still hoped for his father’s respect, if not his affection, so he’d bowed to his will, and they’d compromised on Raul joining the Knights Templar at their Outremer headquarters on Cyprus.
In the beginning, the heady possibility of another Crusade to take back the Holy Land had excited him, even if it meant more fighting. But when that effort collapsed, and he’d returned home, he was as before, adrift and uncertain of his true calling.
He couldn’t help but admire the O'Donnell's heiress' commitment to her home and the surety of her life’s purpose. And though he might sympathize with her desires and esteem her courage, he was honor bound to take her to Scotland to wed. He could tarry until she recovered, but he couldn’t alter her fate. And he’d need to explain the delay.
He shook his head. Alas, since he was the one who had injured the Sinclair’s intended and caused the delay, penning such a message would be a ticklish task. But he couldn't afford to wait. He’d write the missive tonight and send it to his good friend and fellow Templar, Arnaud de Fortier, who served as the Sinclair’s bailiff.
With the sun setting at his back, Raul continued along the rough-hewn wall, noticing repairs that needed to be made. As he reached the northwest corner, he heard the unmistakable groan and clank of metal. Glancing down, he found the drawbridge lowering.
Who had ordered such with night approaching? As he pondered the question, a large bearded knight rode from the castle, leading a packhorse. Who was he? And where was he going at eventide? Descending to the bailey, Raul went in search of an answer.
****
Cahira bit her lip to keep from wincing while Mildread toweled her dry. Though she didn’t want to acknowledge it, her body was sore and bruised from battle.
She’d claimed the solar as hers and sent the wounded knights away. Her bath and looking glass had been brought, but her trunks were still missing. Mildread excused herself to fetch her nightshift and robe.
Dropping the rough towel, Cahira stood in front of the glass and examined her body, noting the new bruises. Gazing at the darkening places on her skin, she thought of Raul and knew him for a worthy foe. Just thinking of the Templar quickened her blood and warmed her naked flesh.
Sir Raul, dark as sin and twice as handsome. A warrior-monk who could seduce the angels in heaven. She shook her head, realizing she shouldn’t stand naked before her looking glass, thinking of a man.
Where was Mildread with her nightshift?
Raising her arms, she stretched and yawned. Her nipples drew taut, pebbling. Despite her resolution, she glanced down. Was it her imagination or did her breasts appear fuller? Cupping them in her hands, she wondered how they would look filled with milk for a wee bairn.
When she was a child of ten, she’d come upon her big, fierce Da sitting alone in the great hall one night. With tears coursing down his face, he’d huddled beside the empty hearth. Distressed at seeing her father that way, she’d thrown her arms around his neck and tried to comfort him. He’d patted her shoulder and sobbed, telling her it was the anniversary of her mother’s birth and explaining how much he mourned the loss.
’Twas that night Da told her of his great love for her mother and how that love had transformed their marriage. Hearing her father pour out his tender feelings, Cahira had vowed to wed only for love.
But at two and twenty, she was far past the age most maidens married. The constant English raids had destroyed her life’s dream. Now she would be forced to wed. Mayhap the love of the children she would bear would replace her long-held romantic fantasies.
The door clicked open and Mildread entered, holding out her shift. Raising her arms, Cahira slipped on the soft garment. While pulling it over her head, she heard the distinctive creak and groan of the drawbridge. The sound startled her, making her wonder who would venture forth with night coming on?
She crossed to the window that overlooked the portcullis and glimpsed Dwyer MacMalley, riding across the bridge with a packhorse trailing behind. That he would depart without her permission was disturbing, even though she’d oft wished him gone. Had Malcolm given him leave? If so, why hadn’t he consulted her? And where was Dwyer going?
A shiver of foreboding trickled down her spine, as if she knew Dwyer’s sudden departure would bring ill fortune. But that was foolish. She was upset because she hadn’t been consulted.
“Mildread, go find Sir Malcolm and bring him to me.”
In anticipation of Malcolm’s arrival, she pulled on her woolen robe and belted it at the waist. Then she returned to the looking glass and stood there, deep in thought, twining a strand of hair around her finger while she waited.
Why hadn’t Malcolm come without being summoned? Did she no longer possess any authority? Had Malcolm usurped her position when he surrendered to her enemies?
The more she thought about it, the angrier she grew. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, s
he paced in front of the window, trying to quell the hot spurt of fury pounding in her blood. She took several deep breaths, wanting to calm herself and curb her emotions. She needed a clear head to go forward with her plan.
She’d lingered a long time in her bath, forming and reforming the message she would send to her great-uncle. The missive must strike just the right note. It must respectfully request his aid without throwing herself on his mercy.
Many years had passed since she’d visited her kin in Ulster. She remembered her great-uncle’s grandsons, but her memories weren’t particularly inspiring. The eldest one was over fond of the grape, the middle one lisped and postured, and the youngest enjoyed torturing the castle’s cats.
Considering her choices, she shuddered.
Perchance they’d improved with age, but she doubted it. They hadn’t wed, she knew, because she’d received no glad tidings of such an event. Mayhap if she swore allegiance to her great-uncle and placed her lands under his protection, he’d not exact a marriage alliance. She shook her head. Nay, he would never allow her to rule and choose her own husband.
Mildread entered the room, breathing hard, as if she’d run up and down the stairs. “Milady, Sir Malcolm ’as gone to ’is bed. Do you want me to wake ’im?”
Cahira was surprised Malcolm had retired so early. But in truth it had been a long day. She should find her rest, too, if there was any rest to be found.
“Nay, I will speak to him on the morn.”
The maidservant curtsied. “Do you need aught else, milady?”
“You may go...” She hesitated and then held up one hand. “Wait, Mildread, please stay. I have need of your counsel.”
Mildread's eyes widened. “Me counsel, milady?”
“You know the servants well. I need a strong lad, a good runner. He must be able to creep from the castle in secrecy and race to Ulster.” She glanced at her woman servant. “Which one of the lads can I trust with my life? Which one can keep a secret?”
“A secret? Trust with your life?” Mildread sucked in her breath and clasped her hands together. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she asked, “’Tis a secret love—like the ballads tell?”
“Nay, I...” Cahira faltered and stopped. Why not let Mildread think she did this for love? She changed her mind and nodded. “You have the right of it. ’Tis a secret love I’m harboring for my cousin in Ulster. I don’t want to be married to the Scot.”
Mildread’s plump face lit with a conspiratorial grin. “Oh, milady, ’ow exciting! You want to get a missive to your cousin?”
“To my great-uncle, he must give his permission.” She plucked at the folds of her robe. “Which one of the lads would you send?”
Cocking her head, Mildread considered and then a light came into her eyes. She smiled. “Aye, ’e be the one. ’E’s a good lad and a fast runner. An’ ’e knows ’ow to keep a secret—that one.”
Cahira gritted her teeth, struggling for patience. “Who?”
“Why, Loghan, milady, one o’ the stable lads. ’E be the one.”
She considered Mildread’s choice, remembering Loghan as a serious boy, ever mindful of his duties. “He’ll need sturdy boots. If he doesn’t have such, see if my brother’s boots will fit him. And he’ll want food and some coins.”
“I’ll be sure ’e gets wat ’e needs.”
Grateful for her servant’s simple loyalty, Cahira threw her arms around Mildread and hugged her. “Thank you, Mildread.” It was good to know some of her people were still loyal and willing to help her.
Mildread returned her embrace, and Cahira said, “Bring me Loghan on the morrow. But for now go and find your bed. ’Tis late.”
After her serving woman had departed, Cahira picked up her abalone-backed brush and pulled it through her hair, careful lest she dislodge the bandage. Mildread would have brushed her hair, but she preferred to do it herself. The rhythmic motion was oddly soothing, helping her to think.
With her messenger selected, she’d draft the missive tonight. She had no way of knowing how much longer Raul would tarry before he took her to Scotland.
There was no time to waste.
****
Cahira pushed aside a slice of cheese and crust of bread from her morning meal and folded her hands over her queasy stomach. She wondered where Loghan was. Waiting wasn’t one of her strengths and anxiety gnawed at her. Mildread had promised to send the lad, but time was slipping by.
She cast about for something to do but was too restless to settle on any task. A beam of sunlight glinted off one of the medicine bottles the Templar had left behind. Curious, she stood and crossed to the table, running her fingertips over the pots and jars, marveling at the Templar’s knowledge of their medicinal properties.
Remembering that she’d disparaged his skills as a physician made her blush with shame for surely healing the sick and injured must be a noble profession.
She picked up one of the pots and sniffed the grainy substance, wrinkling her nose. Why did nostrums smell so bad? She should ask the Templar. She replaced the pot on the table and glanced at the door.
Where was the lad?
She’d decided against sending for Malcolm with Loghan coming, as she didn’t want Malcolm present when she entrusted Loghan with her message. But Malcolm’s defection still troubled her. They’d known each other all of their lives, and she’d thought he understood her need to keep her family’s legacy intact. He’d disappointed her, siding with the Templar and championing a marriage she didn’t want.
She crossed to her looking glass, a polished silver surface that gave back a wavy reflection of her countenance, and lifted the bandage to study the puckered gash running from her temple to her cheek. The wound would leave a scar, but that was of little importance, as she wouldn’t need her looks to win a man’s regard. She’d wed to retain her heritage.
With that thought her heart sank like a stone.
Not wanting to confront the desolate look in her own eyes, she turned from the glass and paced the length of the room. Should she send for Mildread again? Nay, she didn’t want to appear frantic.
Spying her harp lying in one of the open trunks, she thought music might soothe her. With the harp in her arms, she seated herself on the couch and smoothed her hand over the frame. Plucking several strings, she savored the swelling music that filled the quiet chamber.
Odran, her second youngest brother, had taught her how to play. She remembered Odran’s puckish features and carrot-orange hair as clearly as if he were sitting beside her. He’d been a prankster, her Odran, not suited to waging war. If he’d had his way, he would have been a wandering performer, making jests and juggling balls.
The remembering was sweet for a moment like the first bite of a plum pudding. But then the bitterness crowded in. She swallowed, fighting back sobs.
Clutching the harp as if it were her lost brother, she rested her cheek against the carved and gilt-edged wood. How often had she wished to return to a simpler time when her brothers and father still lived?
A knock sounded at the door, and she started. Dashing the tell-tale moisture from her eyes, she knotted her fingers together and composed her features. “Enter.”
But it wasn’t a stable boy who entered; instead, it was her captor and foe, the Templar. “Good morrow, milady,” he said, “I’ve come to change your dressing.”
“And good morrow to you, Sir Raul. Thank you for coming.” She lifted her hand and touched the cloth encircling her head. “’Tisn’t necessary, you know. You checked the wound last night, and I feel much better today.”
“I’m well pleased to hear that.” He smiled broadly, his teeth even and white. “With your permission, I’d like to put a fresh dressing on your injury.”
“As you wish.” She inclined her head.
“Come. Sit at the table.”
Leaving her harp on the couch, she did as he bade and watched while he moved around the room, fetching a basin of water, fresh bandages, soap, and ointment.
&nbs
p; He wore his familiar white tunic with its red cross. Beneath the short tunic, thick black hose encased his long, muscular legs.
For so large a man, his movements were limber and fluid, like the stalking of a great cat. She guessed his many years of training as a mercenary had given him an easy grace. Thinking that, she wondered how many winters he’d seen.
Studying his features, ’twas difficult to tell. A score and ten, mayhap? Or was he older than that? Faint lines seamed his forehead and fanned from the corners of his eyes. But no gray marred his black hair. Once again she wondered why he hadn’t shaved his head and grown a beard.
“Is it a pretense?” The question flew from her mouth before she thought better of it. She glimpsed his puzzled frown. “Being a monk. You’ve not a beard nor tonsure.”
He placed the basin of water on the table and arranged the other items with painstaking care. The silence stretched long and uncomfortable. Perchance he wouldn’t be as forthcoming as he had the day before, not caring to satisfy her curiosity. And why should he? Her question was presumptuous. She might as well have asked his age, too.
“No pretense, milady.” He raised his head and shot her a look from beneath heavy lids. “I hold my vows sacred. But William the Sinclair asked that his Templars adopt a less monkish appearance so we may blend with the populace.”
“I see.” Being privy to her father’s councils, she understood. The Sinclair might have need of his Templars to spy. “But you wear the tunic.”
“The tunic is easily removed.”
“Aye, so it is.” She hesitated, considering the odd circumstances that had brought him here. “Most Templars serve the French King, Philip. Scotland seems an unlikely choice.”
He smiled and began unwinding the bandage from her head. “The pope fears King Philip’s growing power and his animosity toward the Templars.”
“Animosity? I had not heard of this.”
“It’s not common knowledge, but Philip owes my Order a fortune. Alas, his appetite for war is unchecked, and thus, his need for more gold. Last year, he banished the Jews in France and stole their property.” Raul lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Perhaps we Templars will be next.”