The Princess and the Templar

by Hebby Roman

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cahira craned her head, gazing at the towering stone edifice of the first cathedral she’d ever seen. A bevy of workmen swarmed around the half-finished building, sawing wood, pouring mortar, and stacking limestone slabs.

  In Eire there were monasteries and chapels aplenty but naught like this. The cathedral’s spires appeared to stretch to the very sky whilst anchored to the ground by a welter of arches attached to the walls. The cobbled street led past one of the cathedral’s doors, a huge, pointed archway, its gray stones alive with intricate carvings. Cahira’s gaze lingered on a depiction of the Virgin Mary surrounded by beatific saints and fawning knights.

  Arnaud urged his mount next to hers and said, “That’s the Cathedral of Notre Dame.”

  “What are those?” Her gaze rested on one of the arches.

  “They’re called flying buttresses. They help support the weight of the building.”

  “Oh.” How strange, a building so immense its walls need extra support. “And those?” She lifted her hand and pointed at the nasty-looking, stone creatures leering from the rooftops and drainpipes.

  “Those are gargoyles.” He grinned. “They’re a kind of demon, warning the irreverent to turn from their sinful ways.”

  She averted her gaze from their accusing, stony stares, knowing she was one of those unrepentant souls, holding fast to her sinful ways. But she didn’t feel sinful, though she still yearned for Raul’s touch. She wondered how much Arnaud knew and guessed he understood all. The walls in her ship’s cabin had been very thin.

  Tossing her head, she told herself she didn’t care what Arnaud thought or how the world viewed her. She’d sworn to marry for love, and she loved Raul. That he possessed naught didn’t daunt her. She would gladly share her kingdom with him.

  “The cathedral will be magnificent when it’s finished,” Arnaud said.

  “Yes, ’tis one of the loveliest things I’ve ever seen. Except for those gargoyles.” She smiled. “And your Normandy is a marvel, Arnaud. I should wonder that you would despair to leave it.”

  “Oui, I’m glad to be home.”

  Home…a word that tugged at her heartstrings and filled her with a nameless yearning.

  Would she ever see her home again?

  Her eyes brimmed with tears, thinking of it. With an angry swipe, she brushed the moisture away. She’d had enough of tears—more than enough. Since that hideous day on the Scottish Highlands, she’d done little else but weep. Though she told herself she cried because she feared she’d never set eyes on Kinsale again, that wasn’t the truth. For as much as she missed her castle and people, she yearned ten times over for Raul.

  Lifting her head, she sought out his familiar form at the head of their party. She gazed at his broad muscular back and remembered the sheer male beauty of his naked body. At that thought she grew uncommonly hot. Her breasts tingled, and she squirmed in her saddle.

  They’d shared intimacies only wedded couples shared. But ’twas as if they’d never been together. He acted like a stranger—neither speaking nor looking at her. All because he wanted to protect her? Protect her from her own awakened desires? Alas, it wasn’t so simple. They’d opened Pandora’s box and naught could put things back the way they were.

  She’d thought ’twas his vows that separated them, but he’d admitted that was only an excuse. Nay, what kept them apart was his stubborn pride.

  “Your Highness, don’t look so downcast. I’m certain the Grand Master will hear your petition and help you regain Kinsale,” Arnaud said.

  Were her feelings that obvious? Did she wear them on her sleeve? Her pride was bruised, and she couldn’t help but long for Raul. ’Twas kind of Arnaud to notice. “I’m praying the Grand Master will aid me. I thank you for your encouragement.” She forced herself to smile.

  In truth Arnaud deserved more than a smile, for he had been most kind. Without his soothing influence, she would have been hard pressed to withstand this accursed journey. When they’d docked at Harfleur, it had been Arnaud’s idea to take a flat-bottomed boat from the port town and pole up the winding Seine River to the gates of Paris.

  Unlike the sea journeys, poling the river had proven restful and calm. No swaying and dipping and crashing waves, just the swift rush of water sliding by as the oarsmen drove the boat forward. From her perch in the boat, she’d watched the lush Normandy landscape glide by. The countryside was in the last throes of summer. Fruit trees bowed under the weight of their bounty. Crops stood high in the fields, ripe for the sickle. No breeze stirred the warm air, as if the very world waited, hushed and expectant for harvest time.

  With autumn approaching apace, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be home for Christmas. Though she looked forward to regaining her rightful place at Kinsale, the mid-winter festivities would seem cold and hollow without Raul.

  How could she breach his carefully raised defenses? How could she explain she didn’t care what he did or didn’t possess? That she loved him for himself.

  “We’re home,” Arnaud announced, startling Cahira from her reverie.

  She glanced up and spied a three-story, half-timbered house looming over the street. The front door flew open and out rushed a petite blonde with elfin features. She grabbed Arnaud’s leg and babbled in rapid French.

  With a wide smile, he leaned down and threw his arm around the woman, half-lifting her. “Giselle! Mon petit!” He laughed. “Oui, oui, I’m glad to see you, too.” Planting a kiss on the top of her head, he gently released her. Throwing one leg over his saddle, he jumped down.

  Brother and sister fell into each other’s arms, hugging and kissing. Cahira looked on for a moment and then turned her face away. As happy as she was for their joyful reunion, ’twas painful to watch. It reminded her of the loving relationship she’d known with her own brothers.

  She wondered what her brothers would have thought of Raul had they lived. But if they’d lived, everything would have been different. The Sinclair wouldn’t have sent an emissary to take her castle, and she wouldn’t have met the Templar. That realization gave her pause. How fragile was the twisting and turning of fate? Fate had brought them together, against all odds. It had to be for a purpose, didn’t it?

  Arnaud, jubilant and laughing, helped Cahira down and drew both she and Raul into his happy homecoming. There were hugs all around and bussed cheeks. Servants appeared and unloaded her trunks from the cart, taking them inside.

  In the confusion, she was jostled and thrust against Raul. He caught her elbow, and she leaned into him, wantonly pressing herself against the length of his body. His clean male smell filled her nostrils. The heat from his body enfolded her, invading her senses and stealing her reason.

  He stiffened and pulled away. She caught his sleeve and lifted her head, gazing into the unfathomable depths of his midnight eyes. He avoided meeting her gaze by looking down at her hand. She sensed him gathering his will, distancing himself.

  Clinging to his sleeve, she whispered, “I must speak with you after we sup.” She purposely brushed her breast against his arm again. “You owe me that much.”

  As if an invisible puppeteer pulled his strings, his head jerked back and he met her gaze. He nodded once.

  ****

  Cahira seated herself on the edge of a chair in the wood paneled study. Crossing her ankles and folding her hands in her lap, she tried to compose herself. Her attempt at serenity was but a poor pose whilst her heart slammed against her ribcage.

  She looked around the cozy room lined with scroll filled shelves and crowded with well-polished furniture, realizing the de Fortier family lived well from their holdings in southern Normandy. None of her rooms at Kinsale could boast such a wealth of appointments, from the richly embroidered chairs to the shining brass fire screen guarding the hearth.

  The small room reflected the political stability of France. ’Twas the Normans who’d first invaded England, conquering everything in their path. Then the Anglo-Normans, the English, had
turned to Eire and brought destruction and death. If the truth be known, she should despise the de Fortiers for the blood that ran in their veins. But she couldn’t hate Arnaud or his sister, for she knew them as individuals, realized how kind and generous they were. Perchance there would be fewer quarrels and wars, if people would take the time to know one another. ’Twas something to think upon.

  A knock sounded at the door, and she called out, “Enter.”

  Raul stepped into the room. He left the door ajar, as if to afford himself a quick escape. He had dressed in a new blue tunic shot with gold threads. If she didn’t know better, she would think him a lord from a noble family, not a wandering Templar.

  Had he dressed thus to impress her or in deference to the splendor of his host’s table? She didn’t know for certain because she’d not joined them. Pleading exhaustion, she’d had supper sent to her room. But weariness hadn’t been the true cause of her self-imposed seclusion, ’twas anxiety over confronting Raul.

  Bowing low, he murmured, “You wish to speak with me, Your Highness.”

  Despite all her good intentions, her heart expanded, bursting with hope, yearning for what she did not have. She rose and flew across the room, burying her face in his chest. She encircled his waist with her arms and held on, waiting.

  The moment stretched, thin as a spider’s web and just as fragile. Beneath her cheek, she felt his chest rise and fall and heard the steady thrum of his heart. He was warm and alive, but his body was stiff and unyielding.

  Sweet Jesú, let him want me. Make him see that we should be together.

  His arms came up, moving slowly and awkwardly like wooden sticks. Would he push her away? The breath stopped in her lungs. The room stilled and slid away. She heard the hiss of a candle, guttering.

  With infinite tenderness and soft as an angel’s wings, he cupped her chin in both hands. Sighing deeply, a sound almost like a groan, he lowered his lips and drank her in. His mouth moved over hers, hard and demanding but soft and giving at the same time. ’Twas as if his mouth made love to hers, caressing her with his warm breath, fitting his full and supple lips to the contours of her mouth. Remembering and memorizing, promising and cherishing.

  They clung together, their lips worshipping each other for what seemed like an enchanted hour of time. But all too soon, he broke their kiss and gazed into her eyes, His black eyes were half-shuttered, a sadness pulling at their corners.

  Releasing her, he stepped back a pace. His beautiful, full mouth twisted into a frown. “Cahira, mi corazón, we cannot do this.”

  He’d called her “my heart.” Upon hearing the endearment, her own heart fluttered and she felt uncommonly giddy, like a butterfly winging from flower to flower. But seeing the distress in his face, her heart stopped and she shivered, as if a cold north wind blew.

  “Why can’t we kiss?”

  He shook his head. “We’ve spoken of this before—”

  “Raul, I love you.”

  There, the words were said, and she felt a surge of relief, a buoyant hope. At almost the same instant, an overwhelming sense of dread seized her, as if she’d stepped from a high ledge into thin air.

  Lifting her head, she studied his reaction. A welter of emotions marred his handsome features, surprise, the faintest trace of elation, a whisper of hope, and then the look of cold reproach, as if she played him for a fool.

  She clutched the sleeve of his tunic. “I speak the truth, Raul. I don’t care about your birth or lack of funds. I want you, not a worthless title.”

  His features hardened, but at the same time, more sadness grew in the corners of his eyes. “You don’t know what you say,” he argued. “We have no right to speak of love.” Covering her hand with his, he bent his head. “I’ve brought you to this sorry pass, forcing intimacies and awakening your desires. You think you love me because you’ve known no other. No man has…has…” He dropped her hand and finally met her eyes. “I’m to blame for this madness. My lust has brought us to this.”

  “Nay.” Cahira shook her head. “Nay, ’tisn’t that. I admire you, Raul, for your gentle ways and your wisdom. For your skills as a physician. And for your courage—”

  “No! I’m not courageous.” He backed up a pace and averted his face. “Don’t say that. I’ve turned away from many a battle. That first time on board ship. Remember? You said I was a coward, hiding behind my Order.”

  “But I was distraught, striking out, I didn’t really mean that you—”

  “Stop.” He faced her and held up one hand. “You had the right of it. I am a coward. I hired as a mercenary and couldn’t fulfill my duty.”

  “Why do you say such? For I know you’re not a coward. I was angry when I said that. Forsooth, when I needed you most, you fought until your blood ran like a river.”

  “Yes, I fought, for I had no choice. But when I was ordered to murder a sultan’s women and children, I couldn’t do it. I failed in my duty, though they were Infidels.” His gaze sought hers, his eyes vulnerable and filled with pain. “I was captured and sold as a slave to an Arab physician, and he taught me the healing arts.”

  Her heart squeezed, realizing how much he’d suffered and how he felt accountable.

  “Don’t you see,” she moved in front of him, imploring him with her eyes. “You did the right thing, the honorable thing. They might have been Infidels, but they were defenseless women and children. If you’d—”

  “I lost my chance that day to claim a birthright.” His voice stopped her, the sound harsh. “Only by the sword could I hope to earn enough coin to buy a heritage. In that I failed.” His gaze locked with hers. “So you see, you were right. I chose the Order so I could hide and bury my failure.”

  “But you’re not a failure. Not in my eyes. You’ve done what is right and true. And you don’t need to purchase a heritage. I want you beside me. I want us to share my kingdom.”

  He hunched his shoulders and moved away to stand by the empty hearth. “You can’t mean what you say, Cahira. I would be naught but a lapdog.” Disgust transformed his handsome features. “An object of derision. No one would respect me—”

  “Stop!” she cried, covering her ears with her hands. “You would rather have your miserable pride than…than…” She couldn’t finish; his rejection was too painful.

  What had she been about to do? Throw herself at his feet? In the heat of the moment, she’d thought to argue, wanting to convince him to… To do what?

  How could she be such a fool? She couldn’t force him to love her. She’d admitted that she loved him, but he hadn’t proclaimed his love in return. Nay, he’d hinted that what she felt ’twas only a passing fancy. That she didn’t know enough of what transpired between a man and woman to distinguish lust from love. Thinking upon it, her face burned with shame, especially when she realized his pride was so great, he’d sacrifice what they felt for each other.

  “Cahira,” he moved a step closer. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t be honored to—”

  “I understand perfectly.” She tilted her chin and backed away, putting the gaily embroidered chair between them.

  If he could cling to his stubborn pride, she would do no less. No more mooning over his broad shoulders and black-as-sin eyes. How foolish she’d been to speak of love. For she knew nothing of love, especially betwixt a man and a woman. All she really knew ’twas a fairy tale Da had spun to ease the loss of her sweet mother.

  When Raul had forced his way into her life, her heritage had meant everything. Slowly, ever so slowly, he’d taken that from her. Not just her castle and lands, but her beliefs as well. He’d beguiled and bewitched her.

  She boldly gazed into his face. The sadness had grown, encompassing his features, filling his eyes with deepening shadows. But that’s not what she wanted to see.

  How dare he pity her?

  She would feel shame no more. ’Twas he who should be shamed for toying with her, for making her love him and…

  Her throat burned, and tears gathered behind her
eyelids, but she mustn’t shed them. Her dreams lay shattered, her hopes wallowing in the gutter. She’d thought Raul cared for her, wanted her enough to set aside his pride and love her.

  More fool was she.

  Gulping back the sobs crowding her throat, she steeled herself, standing so straight and tall her back ached with the effort. “I want Kinsale back,” she declared.

  “I will do all that is possible.”

  “’Tis not good enough.”

  His brows drew together in a frown. “Your pardon?”

  “Let me say this clearly.” She clutched the wooden back of the chair for support. “I don’t want your best. I want Kinsale returned to me.”

  “But the Grand Master will need to—”

  “The Grand Master is of no concern to me. You took my legacy under false pretenses. With or without the Grand Master’s aid, you will retake my castle and lands.”

  Raul’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak. Then he shook his head and glanced down. But not soon enough. She’d seen the sparks of anger in his eyes and the tight clenching of his jaw.

  Let him be angry. She didn’t care. He had no right, not after the way he’d seduced her, only to put his pride above all else.

  “I’m prepared to petition French King Philip, if your Templar Master fails me,” she said.

  “Philip wouldn’t aid you.” He raised his head, dark doubt clouding his eyes. “The French king would take your lands for himself. His appetite for gold and land is limitless.”

  “Enough.” She waved one hand, hoping she appeared impervious and sure of herself.

  She knew Philip was rapacious in his greed and that she bluffed. But she was tired of Raul’s excuses, and she wanted him to realize, that as a princess, she had every right to petition the French king.

  “I pray you see the Grand Master soon, for I’ve lost my patience.” She released her hold on the chair and crossed to the door. “I bid you a good night.”

  ****

  Raul stood at the back of the Grand Hall. The huge round chamber sat square in a massive stone building, dedicated to the Knights Templar. Despite Cahira’s impatience and his own, a fortnight had passed before he gained an audience with Jacques de Molay, the Grand Master.