The Princess and the Templar

by Hebby Roman

  He’d been wrong to promise her they could leave immediately for Kinsale, relying upon the stolen treasure. His need to feel worthy and powerful had silenced his conscience. And his desire to possess Cahira had dulled the edge of his common sense. In the light of the new day, he’d realized the mistake he’d made. The lie he couldn’t live with. With that realization, he’d regained his honor and knew what must be done.

  If only he hadn’t promised Cahira when he’d declared his love. His declaration tainted their intimacy and made him ashamed he’d used the stolen treasure to bolster himself in her eyes. No wonder she was hurt and didn’t believe him. But he would apologize and explain, and she’d understand once her temper cooled. Though she was hurt and impatient to return home, he trusted their love, forged upon the fire of suffering and danger, was too deep and wide to be denied.

  And if he had to wrest the means from his father or uncle, he’d do so gladly. They owed him that much. He’d raise a force with the blessing of his father, the Archbishop, and retake Kinsale. Side-by-side, Cahira and he would claim it for their future. With that hopeful thought, he entered camp. His gaze darted left and then right, searching for her. He couldn’t wait to explain, to declare his love again and renew his vows.

  Scanning the camp, his gaze fell upon Giselle, who was serving the men roasted venison. Cahira should be close by. But she wasn’t. And the Templar numbers had dwindled noticeably, only a handful remained, huddled around the cook fire. More than a dozen horses were gone from the tether rope.

  A sick feeling gripped his stomach, making the succulent smell of roasting venison turn suddenly sour. The beat of his heart quickened, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.

  He knew without asking.

  Arnaud approached and raised his hand in salute. “Good morrow.”

  He ignored his friend’s salutation. “Where is she?”

  “Gone to Harfleur to find a ship for Eire.”

  The sinking pit that was Raul’s stomach rose up, threatening to choke him. His head felt light and he thought he would retch. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “How?” Arnaud lifted his shoulders in a typically Gaelic shrug. “Hold her captive? She’s a princess, and she’s had enough of captivity. I wouldn’t try to hold her even if I could.”

  “A p-princess,” Raul sputtered, “what’s that got to do with it? She’ll be killed by Sinclair’s men.” He thrust his face into Arnaud’s. “Why did you save her in Scotland, only to send her to her death?”

  “Non! You are wrong, mon ami.” He retreated a few steps, putting distance between them. “Most of our fellow Templars were only too happy to accompany her. She saved their lives, you know. Your princess is a brave woman.”

  “Too brave for her own good,” Raul said, pounding his fist into the palm of his hand. “And a dozen Templars aren’t enough to besiege Kinsale.”

  “You could have gone with her,” Arnaud tossed back, wagging his head from side to side and grinning. “We wondered where you were when the princess returned to camp alone.”

  “This is no time for jesting, Arnaud. I never dreamed she would leave with a handful of men. Or that you would allow her to do such a foolhardy thing. I wanted her to wait whilst I found the means to raise a proper force.”

  That wasn’t all that had happened, but Arnaud didn’t need to know of his premature promise, and the hurt it had caused Cahira. And locked in her pain and frustration, she’d rushed off to certain death. How could he have been so foolish, so self-centered and concerned about his worthiness in her eyes? He’d made a tragic mistake, but all wasn’t lost if he could overtake her.

  He must stop her.

  That thought coupled with a desperate hope lent speed to his limbs. Without even a nod to Arnaud, he sprinted for his horse. Hoisting the saddle onto the back of his destrier, he tightened the girth with trembling hands.

  Arnaud followed Raul and stood beside his horse as if awaiting an explanation. In Raul’s mind, the Frenchman deserved naught, for he couldn’t absolve his friend for allowing Cahira to leave. Besides, there wasn’t time for long explanations.

  “What of the treasure?” Arnaud asked.

  Stunned by the Frenchman’s knowledge, Raul twisted around and faced him. “How did you know?”

  “Cahira told Giselle.”

  Raul sucked in his breath and let it out with a soft hiss. So much for not telling Arnaud everything. Raul had hoped to escape without having the particulars of his humiliation bandied about.

  “Don’t concern yourself.” Arnaud laid one hand on his shoulder. “Women talk. It’s the way of things.”

  Raul shook off the Frenchman’s hand and rolled his eyes. “I suppose Cahira told Giselle I refused to use the treasure to retake Kinsale.”

  “Oui. That’s why I let her go. She couldn’t sit still and be patient and hope that—”

  “Even if waiting might save her life?”

  “Don’t you see, Raul, she doesn’t need the money.” He shook his head. “Her royal name should be enough once she returns to Eire.”

  “They’ve no armor and few weapons.” Raul pointed out. “And they’ll need horses.”

  “All will be supplied by her loyal countrymen, I would wager.”

  Raul tried to digest what his friend was saying. Was it that simple? Had he been blind all this time to the power Cahira wielded in Eire, if she was free to use her influence? Por Dios, he hoped Arnaud was right. But he had to see this miracle for himself. Had to know Cahira wasn’t rushing blindly to her death. He must overtake and help her. Keep her safe from battle whilst he and others fought for Kinsale. Only then would he have righted the wrong he’d done her. Grabbing the reins, he vaulted into the saddle.

  Arnaud patted his leg and nodded his head. “Go to her,” he said softly. “For though she won’t admit it, she has need of your skills in this battle to come. And she loves you more than life itself.” Arnaud looked up at him. “Show her that you’ll stand by her. That you understand what Kinsale means to her and that you’ll keep your promise. For that’s what makes a good marriage, mon ami, promises kept.”

  Raul nodded, the thick lump in his throat making it impossible to speak. Was it so obvious, how much Cahira loved him that even Arnaud knew? Or had Cahira told Giselle? It mattered not. What was important was the future they would make together.

  “I love her, too,” he said. “And as God is my witness, I’ll make her my wife as soon as we retake Kinsale.”

  “Bon.” Arnaud smiled. “I’ll take care of the treasure for you.”

  The treasure. He’d forgotten about the treasure. It was a weighty responsibility, but Cahira’s welfare had pushed it from his mind. “You will need to take it to Toledo to my father, the Archbishop. It’s a long and dangerous journey, Arnaud. I don’t like to ask such a favor when you’ve already done so much—”

  “Non.” Arnaud waved his hand. “No more than any friend would do. Besides, Giselle and I should leave France and give Philip time to forget.” He stroked his chin and grinned. “My sister has always wanted to visit sunny Spain.”

  Raul gazed into the Frenchman’s blue eyes, thanking God for such a wise and true friend. He swallowed hard. “If the glory of Spain pales, you’ll always have a home in Eire.”

  “I would expect no less, mon ami. And I will make your apologies to Giselle for your sudden departure, but I know she understands.” He lifted his hand. “Au revoir.”

  Raul returned the salute. “Hasta luego, mi amigo.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Raul heard the din of battle before he glimpsed Kinsale. The angry sound of metal clashing with metal, the shouts and groans of men, and the wild neighing of horses, all of it carried on the chill morning air.

  But it wasn’t the chilly air that made his blood run cold.

  What if Cahira had assaulted the castle without reinforcements? That was the nightmare that had driven him forward, robbing him of sleep. And he’d scarce eaten these past weeks, thinking only
of overtaking her. But at every turn, he’d been thwarted. Upon reaching Harfleur, he learned a ship headed for Eire had departed only a few hours before, sailing with the evening tide. His departure hadn’t been so fortunate or timely. He'd waited five days for another ship, pacing the wharf day and night. When he finally landed in Eire, he couldn’t beg, borrow, or steal a decent mount. Taking the best to be had, he’d started for Kinsale, only to find the castle intact and the Sinclair’s banner flying from the ramparts.

  Heeding Arnaud’s counsel, he surmised Cahira had approached her kin to raise a force. Searching his memory, he dredged up the name of Ulster and rode there as fast as his nag could travel, only to find she’d already come and gone.

  When he tried to question the inhabitants of Ulster about the princess, they turned away, keeping their mouths shut. Though he phrased his queries in their native tongue, the tradesmen and serfs avoided his questions and refused to answer. He couldn’t blame them, for they must have believed their silence would protect her. He also couldn’t help but feel infuriated and frustrated, and he’d almost approached her royal kin. But at the last moment, his better judgment held sway. For like as not her great uncle would have seized him and held him prisoner.

  Leaving Ulster, he doubled back to the coast of Eire and Kinsale. On this final leg of his journey, all he could do was hope and pray. And in a few moments, he would know.

  What if he was too late?

  He crossed himself and urged the nag forward, emerging from the forest to find the gray turrets of Kinsale standing sentinel against the crashing sea at its back.

  His gaze swept the field. Relief suffused him when he saw the Templars wore armor and rode destriers. Unlike the pitiful plow horse he’d purchased. His fleeting sense of relief melted when he realized the handful of Templars confronted a band of twenty knights under the Sinclair’s banner.

  New alarm lanced through him. He’d expected to find Cahira’s Templars, augmented by an Irish force, laying siege to the castle walls. The sight that greeted him was far different. The Templars faced the Sinclair’s men on an open field, in hand-to-hand combat. The castle appeared almost deserted, squatting like a sodden lump with its drawbridge shut. With his heart in his throat, he swallowed hard and willed his pounding heart to slow. If he panicked, he’d be of no use to anyone. And he must help Cahira.

  His gaze darted from knight to knight, seeking her. Glimpsing the bright flash of her hair from beneath a knight’s helm, a darker dread uncoiled in his bowels, threatening to swallow him in its voracious maw. She fought for her life, slashing and parrying an enemy’s blows. Her enemy’s tunic, emblazoned with the rearing lion of the Sinclair clan flashed before his eyes.

  It was then that Raul understood.

  Cahira fought no ordinary knight, but the Sinclair himself. The Scottish Lord had come to solidify his claim and had met Cahira’s Templar force. Fresh fear gripped Raul’s heart, turning his already chilled blood to ice. The Sinclair’s ferocity in battle was legendary. Cahira needed help and every second counted. Raul calculated the distance he must cover to reach her.

  He dug his heels into the nag and raised his sword, letting loose a savage battle cry. The plow horse squealed and lurched forward, breaking into a ragged gallop. His loud shout bought a few pitiful seconds. Knights, their weapons lifted, paused and glanced his way. But he’d underestimated the Sinclair’s devious mind and utter ruthlessness. With a sudden terrifying realization, Raul saw that he’d miscalculated.

  Unlike the others, the Sinclair didn’t hesitate or look his way. His sword, a bright swinging arc, hung suspended in mid-air above the princess’ head. The nightmare scene swam before Raul’s eyes. Cahira, like the others, was distracted by his shout and glanced his way.

  “No!” He raised his voice again.

  Cahira’s horse neighed and reared.

  Raul drove straight through the battling knights, cutting a swathe with his sword. Even as he fought the Scottish knights, all his attention centered on Cahira.

  The Sinclair’s sword crashed down, finding flesh. Bright red blood spurted, a river of blood. Raul’s gaze locked on the crimson frothing. His old demons danced in front of his eyes, their long claws reaching for him, pulling him down, dragging him to a dark place. But he couldn’t allow that. Couldn’t abandon Cahira. With a shake of his head and another cry, he thrust the demons aside.

  Screaming like a woman, Cahira’s horse, skewered by the Sinclair’s blade, buckled at the knees. Cahira, her arms flailing, tumbled to the ground. A silent prayer of thanks leapt to Raul’s lips. It was the horse’s blood—not hers.

  Pivoting his mount, he put himself between Cahira and the Sinclair. He raised his sword and took careful aim, thrusting under the Sinclair’s left arm. As he knew it would, his weapon found unprotected flesh. With all his might, he slashed upward.

  The Sinclair roared with pain. He dropped his shield. His left arm dangled by a thread. But he found the strength to lift his sword arm. Unprepared and as if in a dream, Raul watched its swift descent, the dark red blade outlined against the bright disk of the sun.

  A blinding pain ripped through him. Red and black. Black and red spots danced before his eyes. His body folded, drawing in upon itself. He leaned over too far and realized he was falling. Toppling to the ground like a felled tree. The cold, brown earth rushed up to meet him. Then a singular noise reverberated in his feverish brain. The metallic grind of gears and chains, the loud thump of wood striking earth.

  He knew that sound, the drawbridge being lowered. He tried to concentrate, cling to the importance of that singular sound. For somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew it held a special meaning. Like a whirling dervish, though, his thoughts spun around and around in his head, making no sense. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to focus, strove to ignore the loud ringing in his ears and think. He wanted to understand, needed to understand. But his thoughts were slippery things, shadows that twisted and pranced, vanishing and reappearing, eluding him.

  And where had the so-bright day gone? For the shadows grew and grew, blotting out the light. His vision narrowed, the blackness crowding in. Thunderclouds must be rolling across the sun; the morning had turned black as the Sinclair’s heart.

  A pinpoint of light—Cahira’s face. Then the blackness engulfed him.

  ****

  Cahira knelt beside the couch, her head bowed. Tears filled her eyes and streaked down her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy and raw from crying. Grasping the silver cross at her breast, she folded her hands around the familiar metal and silently beseeched her God to let Raul live. Scores and scores of prayers had she said until her voice was hoarse and her reason ragged. But Raul didn’t waken. He’d lain thus for almost a fortnight, blood seeping from the savage wound in his neck.

  The blow that had saved her life.

  For certain she’d been faltering when Raul’s cry had distracted her. She was warrior bred, but these past few days had taught her humility. If her Templar hadn’t come, she would have fallen to the Sinclair’s sword. As it was, she’d stared death in the face and once again, he’d saved her. He’d ridden into the heat of battle, unprotected by armor and on a pitiful nag, to protect her, thinking naught of his own peril.

  How she could have doubted his love, she knew not. Her hurt and frustration had overtaken her reason at Fécamp. Looking back, she realized that now. Knew it with a savage pain that made her bones ache and the teeth rattle in her head.

  She felt small, so very small and insignificant compared with his brave sacrifice. Compared to all the times he’d risked his life for hers. Now he lay dying because she hadn’t trusted him, because she hadn’t believed he truly loved her. Despairing, she clutched his hand and sobbed.

  ’Twas a tragic irony she’d regained her castle and people, the legacy her family had fought and died for. Yet bitter was the triumph. For without Raul, it all meant naught. He’d begged her to go with him to Spain. To be wed and then find a way to retake Kinsale together. Feelin
g betrayed and hurting, she’d pushed him away and forsaken his love.

  She’d been so wrong, so very wrong. Naught supplanted love. Not even the blood of her family crying to her from their graves should have come between them. Life was for the living and love was the essence of life, the nourishment of her soul. For without it, she would perish, as surely as her body would die without food and drink.

  Raul had sacrificed all for her, not one time but many, showing her the way of love. Even her cousins had refused to aid her without recompense. They’d given her armor and weapons and horses, but not one drop of blood would they shed to help her.

  If Raul died, could she live with the agony of having lost him, of knowing her rashness and impatience had destroyed the only human being who loved her without any reservations?

  Could she ever forgive herself?

  The door groaned open, and Clach stood on the threshold, a basin of water and bandages in his hands. She didn’t know what she would have done without Clach’s guidance. He’d learned much, watching Raul care for others. And he’d applied all his skill to heal his Master.

  If only his efforts would prove fruitful.

  Making the sign of the cross, she finished her prayers. She rose and took up what had been her brother’s harp. In her haste to return home, she’d left her belongings in France, including her beloved harp. It mattered naught, though, for she would forfeit all her possessions and Kinsale as well if only Raul would recover.

  Clach entered and bowed. Loghan, the squire’s constant shadow now, trailed after him. The boys had become fast friends. Cahira was glad for Loghan, knowing the squire could teach the stable lad much. She forced a wan smile and nodded to the two youths. Raul’s apprentice bent to the task. Loghan watched in silence, his head bowed. He, like all the castle folk, prayed for Raul’s recovery. Gone was Loghan’s former animosity toward the Templar. Now he was revered as her savior.