by Karen Ranney
Karen Ranney
My Beloved
To my son, John,
for a thousand reasons,
among them love and pride
Contents
Prologue
What were they going to demand for his freedom?
Chapter 1
Were all brides as terrified?
Chapter 2
“My lady?” A soft voice at her side. Juliana turned…
Chapter 3
A short woman in a deep blue surcoat over a…
Chapter 4
The soft knock upon the door made Juliana sigh and…
Chapter 5
By the second week at Langlinais, Juliana’s routine was established.
Chapter 6
Sebastian stood and walked to the arched window that overlooked…
Chapter 7
He dreamed of her that night.
Chapter 8
Sebastian turned as the door swung open, and reached for…
Chapter 9
“You do not let much disturb you, do you, my…
Chapter 10
Every moment of Juliana’s life at Sisters of Charity had…
Chapter 11
The door revealed an endless spiral of steps that led…
Chapter 12
Juliana laid her reed quill down. Today she was coloring…
Chapter 13
Gregory of Langlinais had been elevated to the Chapters-General of…
Chapter 14
Sebastian brushed back the monk’s hood from his head, raised…
Chapter 15
“Is my husband well?”
Chapter 16
Jerard stood leaning against a staff nearly as tall as…
Chapter 17
The river had its own voice, effectively muffling every other…
Chapter 18
The world reeled, insurgent and heated. Juliana stared at him.
Chapter 19
“I will send Sister Agnes with you,” the abbess said.
Chapter 20
“Please tell the abbess how much I appreciate your care,…
Chapter 21
“It isn’t as if we begrudged her help, my lady.”
Chapter 22
The middle bailey was crowded with men-at-arms atop their horses.
Chapter 23
“Why Montvichet?” Juliana asked.
Chapter 24
The Order was considered one of equality. However, there were…
Chapter 25
She should have been more afraid. But then, she’d nearly…
Chapter 26
A Templar was bound to strict obedience to his commander.
Chapter 27
“You should not be carrying things, Juliana.”
Chapter 28
Sebastian was solicitous from that day forward, but he rarely…
Chapter 29
Sebastian left her a few moments later, having assigned one…
Chapter 30
“I see you’ve found the scriptorium,” Sebastian said.
Chapter 31
Every night of their journey she had slept upon the…
Chapter 32
“How touching, brother.”
Chapter 33
I forbid you to live with any woman not your…
Chapter 34
Minutes passed, and still Sebastian did not return. It was…
Chapter 35
Sebastian avoided her the rest of the day and two…
Chapter 36
She knelt before him, her surcoat brushing his bare knees.
Chapter 37
“It is magnificent,” the Marshal whispered. The chalice stood before…
Chapter 38
Juliana followed the stream until it curved beneath some large…
Chapter 39
Jerard heard their laughter and kept his eyes stoically on…
Chapter 40
The convent of the Sisters of Charity was a dreary…
Chapter 41
Sebastian found her, not in her chamber where one might…
Chapter 42
“I suspected as much, my lady,” Grazide said. She bustled…
Chapter 43
She was cold, even though the room was warm. The…
Chapter 44
The large green window of the chapel had been replaced…
Chapter 45
“What is that noise?” She looked up at the ceiling…
Chapter 46
One of the benefits of his new position as aide…
Chapter 47
“Where will he go, Sebastian?” Juliana stood at his side…
Epilogue
Gertrude received the missive with mixed feelings of curiosity and…
Afterword
About the Author
Other Books by Karen Ranney
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Templar Headquarters
Cyprus, 1249
What were they going to demand for his freedom?
Sebastian of Langlinais sat on the low shelf chiseled from the rock wall. It had served as a bed for past occupants of this monastic cell, but he vowed not to spend one more night in this place. The monastery was a way station of sorts, a place the Templars brought injured pilgrims and rescued prisoners. A place for healing and contemplative silence.
He’d had enough of silence and nothing could heal him.
His hands were tucked into the wide sleeves of his monk’s robe. But his head was not bowed in piety; instead, his gaze was directed at the wooden door. A year of imprisonment had rendered his face gaunt, and that same confinement now made him impatient.
The man who entered the room an hour later was dressed in the distinctive white tunic and red-embroidered cross of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. Only the elite wore such a uniform; most of the warrior monks wore black or brown mantles.
The resemblance he bore to Sebastian was not surprising. Each had his mother’s eyes, his father’s strength.
“You are fortunate, brother. A great many prisoners die before they can be ransomed,” the Templar said in greeting.
“Is that why they’ve sent you here, Gregory? To remind me to be grateful for my survival?” Sebastian’s voice was a mere rasp of words. He’d had no cause to speak in prison, isolated as he had been from the other men.
“Are you?” Gregory of Langlinais smiled, but the expression appeared flavored with irony. “The expression on your face is not one I would liken to gratitude, brother. Nor do you seem surprised to see me. Even after all this time.”
A small table and one chair filled a corner of the small chamber. Upon the table sat a pitcher of wine, a loaf of bread, some goat’s cheese. Gregory kicked out the small chair with his foot, rearranging his sword with an absent gesture as he sat. He reached for the pitcher, tipped it to inspect the contents. “Come, won’t you join me? The monastery’s wine is better than most. Let’s celebrate our reunion. How long has it been? Six years?”
“Forgive me if I decline. I prefer to sup alone.”
Gregory nodded, set the pitcher back down. “My Templar brothers tell me you are reclusive, Sebastian. I’ve never known you to be so.”
“Imprisonment will change a great deal about a man, Gregory.”
“Even your choice of clothing?” His gaze surveyed the garment Sebastian wore. “I remember your dressing in a more secular fashion.”
“And I recall that you joined the Templars as a pro fraternitate. Why take orders when you could have remained a lay member?”
Gregory’s smile illuminated a face tanned brown by the sun. His hair, once as dark as his brother’s, was now tinted with golden highlights
. “Inducements, Sebastian. The Templars needed leaders. Knights are always welcome in their ranks.”
“And power is a heady lure.”
“My position is less one of influence than it is of endless details.”
“When may I leave?” Sebastian’s question sliced through the conversational patter.
Gregory’s smile vanished. “When you have agreed to certain terms.”
“What do the Templars want from me, Gregory? My oath? I was never asked to abjure my beliefs. I will swear to that.”
“Your freedom was not easily obtained, Sebastian.” Gregory traced a finger along the rim of one earthenware mug.
“So, it’s money. How much was my ransom?”
He named a sum that caused Sebastian to draw in his breath sharply.
“I’ve pledged Langlinais in your name. It was the only way to obtain your release.”
“I was valued more highly than I thought. Pity my worth was never demonstrated during my imprisonment.”
The finger paused in its journey. “I never knew, Sebastian. Not until the arrangements were being made to free you.”
Sebastian could only offer him silence in response. Once there had been only laughter or good-spirited rivalry between them. Too many years separated them, too many unshared memories lay between them. They could never become confidants again.
“How do you propose I repay that sum, Gregory?”
“That is your concern. Consider yourself fortunate that you are heir to a demesne rich enough to finance your release. You have a year to repay the Order, Sebastian, the term of your imprisonment.”
They each knew to do so would be nearly impossible, even for the Lord of Langlinais.
Gregory stood, walked to the door. With his hand upon the rope handle, he turned. “Why did you go on crusade, Sebastian? It’s a question that I’ve wished answered ever since I learned you were made prisoner of the Egyptian pasha.”
“Why does any man go on a quest?” The words sounded tired, as if they had been often repeated. In truth, it was the first time they had been spoken.
“Not you, Sebastian. Had you not won so many tourneys, I would have thought you fearful of battle.”
“Any man of sense avoids war.”
“Even when right is on our side?”
“A view no doubt espoused equally as passionately by infidels,” Sebastian said dryly.
“Your words border on heresy.” Gregory stared at Sebastian as if to engrave his face upon his memory. “Were you at Montvichet, Sebastian?”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “Is that why you are really here, Gregory? Not to demonstrate filial affection, but to have this question answered? How did you know?”
Gregory shrugged again. “One of the villagers no doubt contributed the information.”
“Was he prodded to recall with torture, Gregory?”
“Why were you there, Sebastian?”
“Another question that has bothered you all this time, Gregory? Magdalene sent for me.”
Sebastian watched as the look in Gregory’s eyes changed. Was there only surprise there? No hint of grief?
“She had become a Cathar. Didn’t you know?”
Gregory shook his head.
“She died well, I’m told. But then, they all did.”
“They were heretics,” Gregory said, his voice sharp.
“She was the only mother you and I knew. Does your role as a Templar not allow you to remember that, Gregory?”
Gregory opened the door. “Pay your ransom, brother. Or Langlinais will be beset with Templars.” He hesitated a moment as if to give his words more import. “And Magdalene was only a whore.”
The door closed soundlessly behind him.
Sebastian sat staring into the shadows. Gregory had not asked the one question for which he’d been prepared. Not with the truth, but with a carefully fashioned lie.
Where is the Cathar treasure?
The omission disturbed him.
Chapter 1
Langlinais Castle
England, 1251
Were all brides as terrified?
Her hands felt icy, despite the fact that the air was heavy with the summer heat. How odd that her palms should feel cold and wet at the same time. Juliana wiped them surreptitiously on her surcoat. The embroidered cotte she wore was too heavy for the warm weather. A veil was attached to the toque on her unbound hair; the chin band felt as if it were strangling her.
She had dreaded this day for years. She had only been five when she’d been led by her mother’s hand to her father’s side in the solar. The room had been hot and stuffy and crowded with people. They had spoken words she’d barely understood, about vassals and oaths and territories and land. “Do you understand, Juliana?” she’d been asked. She had nodded, and said the words as she’d been instructed. Then, she’d seen the boy there, the tall one with the brown hair and impatient tapping foot. He’d smiled at her, but she’d only scowled at him, then thrust herself behind her mother’s skirts again. She had not seen him again after she’d been led from the room. Only later did she learn it had been her wedding day, and the boy her husband.
At the convent she was known as the Langlinais Bride, for all that she’d never seen the castle before, and her husband only once. For most of her life, she’d lived at the Sisters of Charity, preparing for the role of chatelaine of this sprawling demesne. Years had been spent inside gray walls, waiting for this very day.
She had another name bestowed upon her by the girls fostered at the convent. Juliana the Timid. Juliana the Mouse. “They are jealous of your position,” the abbess had told her. Ignore their words. Pay them no heed. She had never told the abbess that their teasing rang with undeniable truth. She was frightened of the dark, disliked the height reached even when standing upon a stool, avoided the pond on the convent property. On the journey here, she’d discovered that horses could be added to that list of things she’d choose to avoid if she could.
But it hadn’t always been so. Once, she had been brave and daring. The day she’d made a face at the boy who’d stared at her. The same boy who was now a man, and the husband she awaited.
She had lived in an agreeable limbo, married but not forced to be a wife. Ten years had passed, then twelve. At a time most brides would have joined their husbands, she’d been sent word that Sebastian, Earl of Langlinais, had gone on crusade. Two years later, he’d returned. A week ago word had come, explaining that her husband had been imprisoned by the infidels, ransomed, then released. There was no further reason to delay joining him.
Her journey from the convent of the Sisters of Charity had taken no more than a few hours, the procession of twenty men-at-arms escorting her a show of honor and force expected for a knight’s bride, a lord’s wife. At dusk they had ridden through the gates of Langlinais. An hour ago she had been escorted to the great hall and left there beside the fireplace. She could hear a faint summer breeze sigh through it now, as if calling her name. Juliana. It was more a warning than a welcome.
The great hall at Langlinais was easily three times larger than her childhood home and decorated more lavishly. She traced the painted outline of one stone block on the wall beside her. Her fingertip came away shaded red, and she hurriedly wiped her hand on her skirt once more. Her head was still bowed, but she glanced from beneath her lashes to see if her actions had been observed. Three men were setting up tables, and a servant girl had placed a large platter upon the head table, but they paid no attention to her.
It seemed no one knew she was here. Should she stand and announce her presence? The idea of calling attention to herself was daunting. It would be more fitting to simply wait until she was greeted. She returned to her covert perusal of the hall.
She could not recognize all of the different flowers painted on the wall. She had had little experience in the convent gardens. Sister Helena had merely pointed to the weeds and Juliana had obediently pulled them from the soil.
Her skill lay in the scriptor
ium. Her joy there, too. With her husband’s blessing, she might be able to continue her work here, in this new and imposing home.
The fireplace beside her was one of two structures in the great hall. They were built into the walls, the stones curving over the hearth in a wide arc. Comfort was evidently a priority to her husband. The iron brackets upon the wall were filled with a profusion of oil lamps and candles. The night was being pushed back by such brightness. The rushes beneath her feet were clean, strewn with daisy and rose petals. And perhaps lavender, she thought, taking a deep breath.
A dwelling not in dire need of a chatelaine.
All of the tables, the bustle of activity, and the smell of roasting meat made her wonder if there was to be a celebration to mark the occasion of her arrival at Langlinais. If so, she would sit at the dais with her husband. She would share a trencher with him, and be expected to smile and act pleased to be married to a man she’d met only once in her life when she was barely out of infancy. He had been possessed of a kind smile and an impatience to be done with it.
Will he feel the same tonight—our wedding night?
A soft knock was prelude to the call. “My lord?” Sebastian ignored both.
He stood in the master’s chambers looking west, toward a sun that had already reached its zenith and was slowly descending into night. He knew what his steward was about to tell him. She had arrived. His bride.
“My lord?” Jerard was not going to go away, it seemed.
Sebastian went to the door, braced his hand against the thick oak studded with iron braces. This portal had stood for generations, bulwark against intrusion, but it could not protect him now.