The Princess and the Templar

by Hebby Roman

  No, Cahira was not meant for a nunnery. Not meant to be shut away from the earthy joys of life. Thinking thus, he held tightly to the trunk, stifling the overwhelming urge to leap to his feet and tell her how he felt. Dios help him, he wanted to offer her marriage and children and all that life could give a man and a woman. But his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

  He couldn’t offer her anything because he owned naught—not even himself. And he no longer knew if her marriage to the earl was the answer. For in truth, he had doubts about the Sinclair as a husband. He’d seen and heard too much of the man’s cruel nature. But he couldn’t allow her to waste away behind an abbey’s walls, either.

  If anyone deserved to shape her own destiny, Cahira did. And to that end, he needed to find her a good man, noble born, who wanted a wife; a decent man who would care for her and retake Kinsale. He knew his thoughts were dishonorable, knew that if he helped her to find such a man, he would fail his master and forfeit his duty. But that would be a paltry price to see her happy and content.

  How he would accomplish this before they reached Castletown, he knew not.

  ****

  Cahira stepped off the wooden gangplank, her gaze scanning the waterfront of Dornoch.

  So this was Scotland.

  Unfamiliar sights and sounds assailed her. The bustle of the waterfront made her dizzy, and when she put one foot in front of the other, she was surprised to feel the earth tilt beneath her feet. ’Twas as if she was still on the ship. What madness was this? She’d been looking forward to walking on dry land.

  Stumbling a bit, she almost tripped over Mildread, who had stopped to kneel on the dock. On hands and knees, her serving woman kissed the rotted wood as if it were a lusty lover. Astonished, Cahira gazed at her servant, recalling stories of travelers who were so relieved to have reached land they kissed the earth. After what Mildread had been through, Cahira understood.

  Raul glanced at them and smiled. He wasn’t the only one, burly porters and wiry sailors stopped and stared, too. ’Twas obvious they were fast becoming a spectacle. Cahira squeezed Mildread’s shoulder and urged her to rise.

  Mildread clambered to her feet and they embraced, holding each other and swaying a bit. “Scotland’s not a right land, is it?” Mildread asked. “Not like our Eire, ’at stands put. This one rocks like the sea.”

  Cahira covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Mildread had summed up the strange sensation, while faulting the new and unfamiliar place. “Aye, Mildread, ’tis strange this feeling of rocking when we’re standing still. But I don’t think Scotland is at fault.”

  Raul appeared at their side and took Cahira’s elbow. “Ladies, what you’re feeling is called ‘sea legs.’ Your body grew accustomed to the movement of the ship. It takes a few moments to feel the solid earth beneath your feet.”

  “Will it go ’way soon—this unholy feelin’?” Mildread asked.

  “Very soon. We’ll wait until you both feel ready.”

  His reassuring words and hand on her elbow steadied Cahira. The dock stopped swaying. For Mildread, though, ’twas another story, she grabbed a moss-covered piling and held on.

  Cahira couldn’t help but notice how her servant’s plain brown dress hung on her like sacking on a scarecrow. Thanks to Raul’s medicine her serving woman’s sickness had abated, but she’d remained queasy and able to eat little. Cahira worried for her health.

  How could she send Mildread home now? Her maidservant had vowed, repeatedly, to never board a ship again. Cahira sighed. ’Twas yet another obstacle to overcome.

  “Are you well, milady?” Raul bent close. “Can you walk?”

  “I’m well. I can walk.”

  Though her words proclaimed her independence, her heart fluttered with the sign of his regard. And God’s bones, she couldn’t help but savor his touch and the reassuring warmth of his powerful body. She pulled her elbow free. “Shouldn’t you find a cart?”

  She must control herself and fight off the Templar’s masculine allure, as she could ill afford her desire for his touch and comfort. She must stand on her own two feet, and for the next fortnight, she needed her wits to plan an escape.

  Bowing and excusing himself, Raul wove his way through the throng, seeking a cart to engage. Cahira went to Mildread and put her arm around her shoulder. “Can you walk?”

  The serving woman pressed her forehead with the back of her hand, wiping away the perspiration coating her ashen face. “Aye, milady.”

  “Good.”

  But in truth, Mildread looked as if she needed several days of rest. Slowly, Cahira led her serving woman across the dock to where Raul waited. Sean joined them with the baggage, and Evan led the knights’ horses down the gangplank. After the chests were loaded, and the destriers tied to the back of the cart, Raul turned and offered his hand.

  She took it gingerly, steeling herself against the heat of her response at his slightest touch. Releasing his hand quickly, she climbed onto the wagon seat beside the hired driver who greeted her by tugging on his forelock.

  “I think Mildread should ride,” Cahira said. “She’s weak as a newborn lamb.”

  Raul agreed and helped Mildread into the back of the cart. She wedged herself between the trunks, leaning against one of them and closing her eyes.

  The wagon lurched off with Raul and the two knights walking beside. Cahira slid her fingers into the sleeve of her gown and touched the scrap of rough parchment secreted there, seeking reassurance it was well hidden.

  She’d given the ship’s navigator a ring of gold for a land map of Scotland. For two days, she’d poured over it, locating monasteries and abbeys where she could shelter and memorizing the roads and port towns that would lead her home.

  Satisfied her map was secure, she glanced up, curious about her first visit to another country. The people looked much the same, though the coppery-colored hair of her homeland wasn’t as prevalent. The Scots’ features appeared sharper, and their faces more angular. Their clothing bespoke a richer living than their counterparts in Eire. And they walked faster, as if they were in a perpetual state of hurry.

  The streets were different, too. Most were cobbled, whereas in Eire, hard-packed earth sufficed. At first, ’twould seem the Scots’ were a trifle more civilized. But when she saw and smelled the town’s runoff in the gutters, she changed her mind. At home the good brown earth swallowed most of the filth.

  The Scottish town appeared crowded, with every square inch of space allotted to a shop or dwelling. Some buildings even overhung the streets, completely blocking the sunlight.

  Rather than intriguing her, the unfamiliar sights made her yearn for home, for whitewashed walls and thatched roofs and flowers at the stoops. The Scottish town struck her as ugly and unwelcoming. Its people appeared brusque and unintelligible, speaking a form of Gaelic weighed heavily by their unfamiliar brogue.

  A trumpet blared, interrupting her musings. The carter pulled his horse up, and they faced the central thoroughfare. Mobs of people stopped midstride and waited on the side of the street. Raul came forward and stood beside her.

  “What is it?” Cahira asked.

  “Must be the royal entourage,” Raul replied.

  “Aye, ’tis that,” the carter interjected. “It’s Himself, it is.”

  She found the driver’s words garbled and his statement as clear as mud, so she turned to Raul again.

  “I think he means Robert the Bruce,” he explained, but his face wore a perplexed frown. “I’m surprised His Highness feels confident enough to parade in public after his defeat at Methuen.”

  “Methuen?”

  “A battle with the English this June past. Longshanks all but destroyed the Bruce’s army. Rumors have it he’s been hiding all winter.”

  “I see.” She turned her attention to the passing cortege.

  Cahira watched the impromptu parade of Scottish monarchy with interest. The Bruce’s retinue was sorely lacking with only a handful of knights on horseback. Even mor
e telling, the knights’ armor was dented and rusted, and their mounts nothing more than walking bags of bones. In truth gazing upon the motley procession, she wasn’t surprised this monarch had spent the winter in hiding.

  The Bruce’s men-at-arms followed on foot, carrying a few pikestaffs and the odd scythe or two, as if they’d just come from the fields. They wore mostly rags, and some even marched barefoot, in sharp contrast to the well-shod townspeople.

  But the Bruce himself was another matter. Seated on the only horse that looked as if it had eaten in a fortnight, he wore a suit of the finest meshed armor, ornamented with regalia of gold. He waved and smiled to the cheering crowd, displaying even white teeth. He was young for a monarch, with sandy-colored hair and a clear, sunburned complexion. His countenance was handsome, and if she ignored his followers and concentrated on the man himself, he would seem to be a noble lord, indeed.

  “The Sinclair supports him,” Raul said.

  “Not very well, I’m afraid.” She directed her gaze at the men’s bare feet.

  “Nothing is simple in this country. The Bruce and his men have been acting the part of outlaws these months past, living off the land.”

  “Why doesn’t he shelter his men with the Sinclair?”

  He turned to her, a look of surprise in his eyes. “To do that would give his cause over to the earl.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you said your lord supported the Bruce.” Her mind whirled. She’d always known politics to be a murky business, but what Raul seemed to be implying bordered on treachery.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he surveyed the procession. “A monarch must never be completely dependent on an earl’s generosity.” Then he lowered his voice. “Better to starve in the field with your loyal subjects, than be warm and well-fed in the wolf’s den.”

  She gasped. “Do you know what you suggest?”

  He nodded and glanced at the old man who was driving the cart. But the carter didn’t appear to be listening. He was too busy cheering the tail end of the Bruce’s army.

  “And you would force me into the wolf’s jaws?” she asked.

  His gaze collided with hers. Something moved in his eyes, a peculiar gleam and for one brief moment, she thought he would gainsay her.

  Fastening on what he might be thinking, her hopes took wing. But in the next instant, they tumbled to the ground when he directed, “Carter, let’s make way. The parade is over, and I’ve paid you good silver to take us to the abbey.”

  The driver muttered under his breath, but he did as he was told, flapping the reins over his horse’s back. The wagon rumbled forward.

  Raul glanced at Mildread. “We should get her to bed.”

  Cahira smoothed her skirts with a trembling hand. She’d been so close; she’d even caught the scent—the too-ripe smell of indecision. Had she shaken the Templar’s conviction? Had he changed his mind?

  Her gaze lingered on the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes were hooded, and he’d turned his face from hers. Her heart sank. Nay, there would be no respite from the Templar’s sworn duty. ’Twas her own fanciful dreams that had quickened her hope, not any change in him.

  ****

  The priest held out his hand, palm up, a rosary draped between his fingers. “God’s blessing on you. Go in peace, my son, you have your penance.”

  Raul got to his feet and bowed his head, making the sign of the cross. The penance was heavy indeed, but his sins were heavier still.

  He’d vowed to confess as soon as he found a proper priest. But the task had been harder than he’d imagined, for it had taken all his courage to admit he’d lusted after his lord’s betrothed, an Irish princess far above his station. He’d not even attempted to confess the disobedience he contemplated; his wish to find Cahira a noble husband other than the Sinclair. For to admit that, even to a priest, might mean a death warrant—for both himself and Cahira.

  He quit the sanctity of the church and strode into the bright sunlight. Stopping beside one of the masonry columns supporting the front portico, he watched as a covey of doves took wing. Gazing at the abbey’s quiet courtyard, he willed his guilty heart to slow while he absorbed the peaceful surroundings. The cobblestone yard, unlike the streets of Dornoch, was well kept. With walks swept clean and bright-faced flowers nodding from neat garden beds, the central square made for an enticing oasis.

  A plain-faced monk wearing a much-patched brown habit ambled toward him. When the monk reached him, he asked, “Brother Templar, have you need of aught?”

  Raul shook his head.

  The monk placed his hand on Raul's shoulder. “I can see your heart is heavy.” The look on the monk’s face was gentle and kind. “Mayhap I can help, if you will but tell me your troubles.”

  “Thank you, but I’ve already taken confession.”

  The monk inclined his head. “I’m Brother Simon, and you must be Raul de Porcelos.” He clasped his hands, as if in prayer. “They say confession is good for the soul, but oft’ times, the heart doesn’t follow. I think that is your trouble.”

  Raul stared at the holy man, amazed this stranger could see into his heart so easily. Forcing a smile, he replied, “Yes, I’m Raul de Porcelos.” He offered his hand. “It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Brother Simon.”

  He returned Raul’s smile. “Nay, ’tis my pleasure, Sir Raul, to meet a brave knight of the Templar Order. I welcome you to St. Andrew’s. I’m the chamberlain of sorts, the brother who takes care of weary travelers. I’ve seen to your ladies and knights. They are resting.”

  “My thanks, Brother Simon. I fear I was remiss in my duties.”

  He had been remiss, rushing off to confess his sins, hoping to find peace. Needing a sign the disobedience he contemplated was the right thing to do. But he’d received no sign because life was never that simple; he would need to rely upon his own conscience and judgment.

  Brother Simon folded his hands and bowed. “My pleasure is to be of service. Supper will be served after vespers in the refectory.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you need aught, there’s a bell in your bedchamber. Ring it thrice, and I’ll come.”

  “That’s most generous of you.”

  The monk’s mouth curved again into that enigmatic smile of his, and he turned to go. It was then Raul had a sudden thought. As the chamberlain, Brother Simon might be of help.

  “Wait,” Raul said, “I would like to ask you something.”

  The brother turned back. “Aye, Sir Raul?”

  “I saw Robert the Bruce’s cortege pass in the streets. I’d thought he and his men were in hiding.”

  Nodding, the brother agreed, “Aye, they’ve been hiding for many months past. The Earl of Ross, who supports Balliol, has taken the Bruce’s wife from her sanctuary at St. Duthac and demanded a ransom. The Bruce shows himself to raise monies to reclaim his wife.”

  “How will he do that?”

  “Go to the noblemen who support him. But he needs to stir the people to his side as well. Thus, he marches through the towns.”

  One of those nobles would be the Sinclair. Still, the earl’s stronghold was a long way off. If Raul could but reach the Bruce before he went to the Sinclair, the Scottish King might help him.

  “So the Bruce openly opposes Baillol who the English support, in spite of his defeat last summer?”

  Brother Simon glanced around the quiet courtyard and then leaned close. “How can he do less? They’ve taken his wife.” Raising one hand, he laid a bony finger aside his nose. “’Tis treason to speak aloud of this.”

  “But you’re a Scot?”

  “Aye, I’m Scottish born, but my bishop is English.” His hazel eyes twinkled. “Alas, what the bishop doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He winked.

  Raul took the hint, lowering his voice. “Are you saying the Bruce and his men sheltered here?”

  Brother Simon’s smile faded. “Your lord is William the Sinclair?”

  He knew where the monk was leading. The
earl supported the Bruce. If the Sinclair was his lord, then Raul must be a secret supporter of the disposed Scottish monarch as well.

  “Yes, I’m bound to William the Sinclair.” He swallowed and closed his eyes. Duty bound him to the earl, but his heart led him on another more treacherous path. How could he reconcile the two?

  “My bishop has been in London,” the brother explained, “hobnobbing with the Ecclesiastical Council these four months past. The Bruce and his men stayed but a fortnight with us, gathering their strength.” He tucked his hands in his sleeves. “Why do you want to know?”

  “My lord, the Sinclair, will desire news of the Bruce if I can give it.”

  “And your meaning?”

  “Where goes the Bruce and his men now? Do you know?”

  The kindly Brother Simon’s features hardened into a mask, and he looked him up and down. Raul held his breath, realizing the simple monk possessed an uncanny skill to glean a man’s true motives.

  “Your lord, the Sinclair, supports the Bruce now…” He shook his head. “But who can say what he will do anon. The earl changes sides as it pleases him.”

  Raul recoiled, surprised at the monk’s blunt yet accurate assessment of the Sinclair’s shifting loyalties. It was obvious Brother Simon didn’t want the Sinclair to know of the king’s movements.

  “What if I told you I wanted to know where the Bruce went for my own reasons, not my lord’s?” Raul asked.

  The monk’s features relaxed, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “You should have said so before.” Brother Simon’s brown-green eyes glowed with mischief. “The Bruce rides to Dunrobin Castle, where he’ll stay with the Sutherlands and ask for their support.”

  “Thank you, kind brother, for the news.”

  Simon nodded, making the sign of the cross. “God’s blessing on you.” He walked away, moving across the cobblestone courtyard in his slow, loose gait.

  Even with the information he needed, it would be a tricky business at best, approaching the Bruce in the Earl of Sutherland’s domain. Sutherland was a close friend of the Sinclair, and he would be solicitous and protective of the earl’s betrothed.