The Princess and the Templar

by Hebby Roman

She had to admit the darkened streets, lit only by sporadic torches, were far different than during the day. The shops were closed and shuttered, giving the streets a grim air. Fewer people were about, all men, and they walked swiftly, their heads down and covered, and their hands on the hilts of their swords, as if expecting brigands.

  Peering down pitch-black alleys, Cahira shivered a little, imagining the danger that must lurk in the shadows. Every few doors or so, she would catch a burst of raucous laughter laced with off-key singing and a splash of light from an open doorway. She knew these places to be taverns. When they passed a large corner tavern, she turned her head, intent upon the building and people. Two flickering torches lit the entryway, and a carved wooden sign swung overhead, proclaiming the place to be “Le Chantecler.”

  Lounging outside were several women of varying ages attired in tattered frills that had seen better days. What drew Cahira’s attention was the bodice of their gowns, cut so low they exposed the women’s white breasts. Gasping, she asked, “Are those…?”

  “Oui, they’re bawds.” Giselle sniffed, as if the women were beneath her notice.

  “Are they allowed to dress like that?”

  “Non, it is against the law, but the royal guard looks the other way for free trade of their favors.”

  Cahira turned this new information over in her mind. Bawds traded their favors with the royal guards. For that accommodation, the guards ignored the law.

  As if a candle had been lit in the bottom of a well, Cahira’s gloomy thoughts suddenly lightened. Bawds and guards—the possibilities were endless. For the first time in many days, she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her heart. Drunk on hope, she wanted to jump and shout at the top of her lungs.

  Instead, she clutched Giselle’s sleeve and whispered, “I think I’ve a plan to free Raul and your brother.”

  ****

  Raul heard the thud of the barred door opening, but he didn’t bother to look up. Raising his head took too much effort. For the past few days, his thoughts had centered on food and water. Alas, the guards had already dispensed tonight’s ration of water and gruel.

  The opening of his prison door at this hour could only mean two things; they had brought back some poor wretch from the rack, or the guards had come for one of the prisoners who had died. That had been the way they’d taken Henri, after supper, dragging the graybeard’s body from Raul’s arms.

  Henri had died for naught. The Order was corrupted from within, its mission flawed by one man who had sacrificed everything because he craved power. But Raul needn’t worry about powerful men and the destruction they wrought, for his life was over. He possessed only one regret—he’d never see Cahira again. For that privilege he’d suffer a thousand hours on the rack. When he thought of all he’d lost and all he’d thrown away, despair choked him and his eyes burned. He turned his face to the wall.

  A torch flared, throwing a jaundiced slice of light over the fetid straw. The sudden burst of light elicited groans from the other prisoners and awakened the crawling things in the straw, sending them scurrying. Perchance the guards would take him now. He was more dead than alive. In truth he would welcome any form of torture to this living hell. For the hundredth time, he wondered how Arnaud fared and if he’d already faced his inquisitors.

  “There he be,” a guard’s guttural French penetrated Raul’s tormented thoughts. “Ye’ve bought a few minutes with ’im.”

  “You must unshackle him. How can I embrace my brother if he’s chained to the wall like a dog?”

  It was a woman’s voice. He’d not heard a woman’s voice since being brought to this dark place. Had the French king lost his mind, imprisoning women? But this woman wasn’t a French subject. No, her speech carried a distinct accent. Pondering this, his mind snagged. He knew that voice, but his thoughts wouldn’t come together. They drifted, like bits of wood tossed upon the wide, green sea.

  Sea-foam eyes. Cahira’s face swam into view, her eyes filled with tears and her arms outstretched, beseeching him.

  “Non! The guard exclaimed. “I can’t unshackle ’im. Too dangerous.”

  He heard the distinctive rustle of petticoats. “Here’s some coins for you.”

  That voice again.

  Cahira! Could it be? Had she come for him? How had she found him? He thought to lift his head and see if his prayers had been answered, but then he realized he was trembling. From head to toe, he shook as if taken by an ague. Fear held him in its cruel maw. What if he was dreaming or off his head? But hope, that tiny kernel that separated man from beast, unfurled its bright blossom within his heart. Taking a deep breath, he fought down the rising fear and lifted his head. Heart pounding, he squinted against the stinging light.

  Lit by the flickering torch, he saw her. Glimpsed her perfect heart-shaped face. Still he feared. He needed to reach out his hand and touch her, make certain she was real. He’d had wild imaginings in this place. Was this yet another? Was he losing his mind as so many others had?

  “I can’t take yer coins to unshackle ’im.” The guard lifted his hands with his palms raised and backed up a step. “The sergeant-at-arms would have me arse.”

  Cahira raised her hands, too. The coins fell to the floor with a clatter. The man’s gaze followed the rolling pieces of silver. From the corner of his eye, Raul saw Cahira reach for something in her skirts. He glimpsed the flash of metal. She had a dirk in one hand, poised and ready to strike. But she hesitated. The guard’s head jerked up. He saw the weapon. His eyes widened. Scowling, he reached for his sword.

  Raul kicked out, knocking the guard’s legs from under him. Flailing, he went down. His head hit the flagstones with a loud crack. His limbs twitched, and then he lay still.

  Cahira lowered her dirk. Their gazes met and held.

  With a small cry, she threw herself on him, sobbing. Restrained by his chains, Raul awkwardly patted her back. His throat worked, but no sound came. He still feared this was a dream, and he would wake to find himself alone, chained to the wall. Yet he could feel the sweet weight of her, recognized the lush curves of her body. And she smelled of roses. Roses in this fetid, stinking prison.

  This was no dream.

  Tears started in his eyes as if in answer to her loud sobs. He couldn’t help himself, so enormous was the budding joy within his heart. She’d come for him, had been willing to fight for him.

  His Cahira, his princess, his fierce lioness.

  “Can you get the keys?” he grated. His voice sounded rusty.

  She lifted her head and scrutinized him. Wincing under her steady regard, he realized how he must look. Covered with filth and lice and a matted beard blanketing his face. Yet in the glow of her green eyes, he detected no censure, only love and concern. For the first time, he knew with a certainty that stole his breath, she loved him, she really loved him.

  Por Dios, he loved her, too. It was as simple as that. Nothing else mattered, not titles nor lands nor surnames.

  “I’ll fetch the keys.” She rose and leaned over the unconscious guard, unhooking the ring from his belt. Then she unlocked Raul’s shackles. When she saw the raw, mangled flesh of his ankles and wrists, she gasped.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll heal quickly enough,” he said, trying to rub life into his numbed limbs.

  The force of his blood came roaring back, stinging and sharp. But his arms and legs, loosed after so many days, flopped awkwardly, as if they didn’t belong to his body, as if they were new and untried. Gritting his teeth, he placed his two hands, palms down against the stone wall and levered himself slowly to his feet.

  Cahira took his arm and tried to steady him. He smiled and clung to the wall, waiting for the strength to return to his legs. When he thought they would hold, he took one tottering step. Bending down, he helped himself to the guard’s sword. The heavy metal felt good in his hand, reassuring.

  “Is he dead?” One of the other prisoners asked.

  Raul shook his head, not certain how to answer.

/>   Then he felt Cahira’s arms around his neck, and her familiar softness pressed against him. “Raul, I despaired of finding you…of seeing you again.”

  His arms found her waist, and he moved closer, pulling her closer. He wanted to bury himself in her sweetness, disappear in her arms. Then he could banish the hate and cruelty forever, and he would stand tall again, basking in the warmth of her sea green eyes. He leaned down and burrowed his face into the tender flesh of her neck, drinking in the smell of her, reveling in the taste of her. His lips grazed the dewy skin beneath the lobe of her ear.

  Enfolded in Cahira’s arms, the earth spun to a halt and the dark prison faded away. They were on horseback, galloping through the green hills of Eire.

  She was balm to his spirit. Surrounded by her love, the strength returned to his limbs and hope flared in his heart. He marveled at her patience and forbearance, allowing him to embrace her, knowing how he must look and smell. She’d made no protest because in her eyes, he was worthy.

  Would always be worthy.

  Too soon reality intruded. Whispers and rustling drew his attention. He lifted his head. Cahira must have heard them, too, for she backed up a step and placed one hand on his chest.

  “We must make haste,” she said. “There’s no time.”

  His gaze raked her. She wore a tattered gown made of shiny cloth. Her red-gold hair straggled about her shoulders. There was a smudge of dirt on one of her cheeks. And the grimy lace of her bodice barely covered her nipples.

  “What have you done?” The words exploded from him, half accusation, half shock.

  “’Tis part of the plan. I can’t explain now.”

  A burst of raucous laughter and the sound of male and female voices raised in song wafted through the open cell door. He remembered the guard’s words and his casual familiarity with Cahira. And then he understood. She’d dressed herself as a bawd and brought other “women” to distract the guards. It was a bold and clever plan. Yet still a thousand questions crowded his mind.

  Whilst he stood with his mouth hanging open, she moved to the fallen guard, the ring of keys in her hand. “Help me shackle him in your place.” She glanced at Raul. “Have you something to cover his mouth with?”

  He nodded and grabbed the unconscious guard’s shoulders, pulling him into a sitting position and locking the shackles around his wrists and ankles. Then he tore off the bottom of his tunic and stuffed the wad of cloth into the man’s mouth. Straightening slowly, he gazed at the manacled guard and saw himself. Then he lifted his head and looked at his fellow prisoners.

  The whites of twelve pairs of eyes stared back at him, fixed upon him with an unspoken but palpable plea. Chains rattled, stretched taut. The very air hummed with expectancy. “I can’t leave them.” He took the keys from her hand and held them up. “Not if I can free them.”

  “B-but,” she faltered and her gaze swept the room. Her shoulders slumped, and she nodded. “I don’t know how we’ll get them through the outer gate.” She turned her back and lifted her skirts. He glimpsed her long, shapely legs, and his pulse quickened.

  She held out a bundle of ragged clothing. “Giselle and I thought to dress you and Arnaud as women and sneak you past the guards. We’ve a cart waiting outside. But it’s not large enough for—”

  “Arnaud is to be freed?”

  Shouts and then the sound of clashing metal smote his ears. Women screamed and men cursed. Loud banging and running feet alarmed him. He lifted the stolen sword and grabbed the torch, sprinting for the open door. Before he could reach it, a rail-thin Arnaud appeared on the threshold. Giselle stood behind him.

  “Quick!” Arnaud gestured. “We must go. My cellmates are fighting the guards.”

  “You freed them?” Raul asked.

  “Oui, I could not leave them,” Arnaud replied.

  “Do you have weapons?”

  “Only those we’ve taken.” Arnaud shook his head. “We may be weak, but we outnumber the guards three to one.”

  With a triumphant grin, he turned to Cahira. “Did you hear? We’ll fight our way free.”

  As if the voice of one man, Raul’s cellmates roared their approval, their shouts reverberating from the slimy prison walls.

  Raul knelt beside the closest prisoner and fumbled with the keys until he found the one that unlocked his fellow prisoner's shackles. After that, it was simple. The same key fit all the manacles. In a thrice, he had the twelve Templars on their feet, unsteady and weak though they might be; they were more than ready to fight for their freedom. Sword raised, he joined Cahira with the Templars massed at his back.

  She thrust the bundle at him. “You must disguise yourself.”

  He pushed aside the clothes. “No, I won’t sneak out like a dog.” His gaze swept his fellow Templars. Their Order might be corrupt at the highest levels, but most of his fellows were good men and accomplished warriors.

  He lifted his arm and made a wide sweep, encompassing the other prisoners. “They’ve no disguises.” Then he glanced at Arnaud who still wore his tattered Templar tunic. Arnaud smiled at him.

  Raul grinned back. “I’ll take my chance with my fellow Templars.”

  ****

  Trees whipped past. Rising from the darkness like avenging ghosts, their branches reached out with greedy arms, and their stark white trunks formed a forbidding wall in the faded moonlight. The countryside thundered by, churned miles covered by the horses’ galloping hooves. Over hillock and dale, field and fallow, they flew, with the wide Seine on their right.

  Cahira clung to Raul’s waist, turning her face into his back, lest the wind whip tears from her eyes. They were free…free. ’Twas a night she would always remember. A night to commemorate in song, sitting by her hearth and spinning tales for her grandchildren.

  Against all odds and all reason, the Templars had fought free of the castle dungeon, outwitting the drunken guards and taking their weapons. Leaving the borrowed bawds behind with the cart, the Templars had crept to the royal stables and stolen horses.

  When they reached the outer portcullis, the real battle had been engaged. Though they’d fought valiantly, not all of the Templars had escaped. Of the twenty and three men only fourteen had survived. But many of the guards had paid with their lives as well.

  In the fiery crucible of battle, Cahira had feared Raul would lose his life, but he’d fought like a madman, overwhelming two guards at once. And he’d marshaled his forces as a general would, barking orders and jumping into the fray to protect his men’s backs.

  He’d won through when he could have abandoned his fellow Templars and snuck out in women’s clothing. Thinking of his bravery and selflessness, she clasped him tighter, burrowing into his warm, muscular back.

  The warmth of his body and the steady beat of the horse’s hooves lulled her. With no sign of the royal guards pursuing, she relaxed. Her body, so tense before, loosened. Her eyelids drooped, and she leaned into Raul, secure in his strength. They traveled thus, with Giselle at Arnaud’s back and the other Templars trailing behind, for two days and nights, pressing westward.

  They fled as if Satan himself pursued them, stopping only for a few hours of rest. When they'd halted, she’d lain on the cold ground with Raul, wrapped in his arms and covered by the horse’s blanket. But those few hours had been the sweetest she’d ever spent. He’d fitted her to his long frame, spoon-fashion, and they’d shared the warmth of their bodies.

  Now it was the third day and Cahira remembered the countryside, realizing they were retracing their journey to Paris. ’Twould seem Raul was leading them to the coast, and she wanted to believe he was taking her home. The unspoken hope grew within her, and she started to ask but something stopped her. If she was wrong about his purpose, she didn’t want to know. ’Twas enough to be close to him, to have snatched him from certain torture and death.

  As the third day wore on and the sun began its descent in the west, she caught a whiff of the familiar briny tang of the sea. Inhaling, the blood rushed throu
gh her veins and her head whirled. She could no longer stay her tongue.

  She must know.

  “Where are we going? ’Twould seem we’re returning to the coast.”

  “Yes,” he patted her hand wrapped around his waist. “To the coast and then to Kinsale.” He glanced over his shoulder and their gazes met. “I mean to keep my promise.”

  Her heart leapt for joy, and she hugged him tighter. After so many weeks and months, they would retake her castle, restore her legacy. Thinking of it, she vibrated with excitement. Questions and thoughts crowded her head, buzzing like a hive of angry bees.

  “What about knights? How many will we need? The Templars, will they help us? How will we raise money for their sea passage?”

  Clasping her hand, he raised it to his mouth and brushed it with his lips. “You’re not the only one who has bold plans. I will explain later, if you but trust me.”

  Her hand tingled where his lips had touched her flesh, and she marveled at the ease that was between them. Gone was the unseen barrier she’d felt before. No longer did he seem an unapproachable Templar, now he treated her as a man would his lover…or his wife.

  Could it be he finally recognized the love they shared? Her heart soared, tripping wildly in her chest. If the awful ordeal he’d endured had brought him to this place, then it had been a small sacrifice to pay.

  He glanced over his shoulder again. Their gazes snagged and held. “Can you trust me, Cahira?”

  She rested her head against his broad back. “Aye, Raul, I do trust you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Raul urged his tired mount to a gallop, skirting Harfleur and turning north, taking the faint track that followed the Normandy coastline. Night was falling, and they needed to make camp. In the west, a harvest moon rose, promising to light their way.

  He needed to find Fécamp, the ruined Benedictine abbey Henri had described. What if the tortured Templar Captain had lost his senses, and the abbey didn’t exist? Having tended the sick and dying, Raul was aware of the illusions that passed through suffering minds.