by Karen Ranney
“I do not know.”
“Yet, you would have me go with him.”
“No. I only selected the lesser of the evils given me.” He stared straight ahead.
“Oh, Sebastian, how can you think that?”
“I have seen the proof of it on my flesh, Juliana.”
“Did you never think it might not have been a wise decision you made, Sebastian?”
“No,” he said, turning to her. “How many hours do you imagine I’ve thought of it? Weeks, Juliana. That’s how long.”
“There is nothing I can say, is there?”
“No.” He turned away.
“You’ve found a way out of here, haven’t you? That pit.”
He glanced over at her. “It leads to a series of tunnels, one of which ends at the base of the mountain. The Cathars called it the Gate of Heaven.”
“Why didn’t they use it to escape?”
“Montvichet was their sanctuary. Where would they go? The Gate of Heaven was for those who chose to join them. But they never thought of leaving. However, the tunnel is blocked and must be cleared.”
“You are going back down there, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “I will descend into hell itself if it means freeing you from this place.”
“Is there any way I can aid you?”
He glanced at her. “I do not trust you not to pile the stones back in place the moment my back is turned.” A quirk of his lips surprised her, coaxed her own smile free.
“I’ve been reading their scrolls.”
He glanced at her sharply.
“I’m amazed at their collection of texts.”
“Some are very old.”
“I have not read those yet,” she said, and her words seemed to ease him in some way.
The afternoon sun seemed lower in the sky. Since they’d left Langlinais, the seasons had changed. Autumn was here. At Langlinais, the harvesting would be done by now. What would Grazide find to occupy her days? How would the castle appear as nature readied itself for winter?
Questions that might be futile. They could be trapped here for the rest of their lives. No, even stone would crumble before Sebastian’s will.
She asked another question that had been in her mind for days. “What will the Templars do with the chalice?”
He shrugged. “Allow a rumor to be spread that they hold the Grail, I’ve no doubt. There might even be a war of wills between the Church and the Order. Whoever emerges the victor will attain more power.”
“Will no one ever know that it’s a false icon?”
He smiled. “The past abounds with lies, Juliana. The bards would have you believe that God held the sun still in the sky so that Charlemagne could exact revenge against those who killed his nephew in battle. The test is to wean the truth from the falsehood.”
“Is that your revenge against the Templars, Sebastian?”
His smile vanished. “I have no reason to avenge myself, Juliana. In truth, they did me a favor by obtaining my release from prison, even if there were other motives behind it. If I avenge anyone, it is Magdalene.”
His hands braced against the wall, fingers brushed against a crumbled stone.
It had taken determination and perseverance to withstand the siege that had destroyed this wall. She could not help but wonder what it had been like. She looked down at the valley, captivated by an odd wish to know of those moments. Where would the catapults have been placed? How had the women calmed their children? Had they heard the sounds of the boulders just before they crashed into the stones?
She glanced down absently, her thoughts on those women and their last days. What must it have been like for them?
Her gaze was drawn back to Sebastian’s hands. Something was wrong.
At first she thought it was the fact that Sebastian bared his hands. He did not do so easily, even now. He had probably discarded the gauntlets after emerging from the tunnel. The heat and the resultant moisture must render the gloves uncomfortable for him. But it was not the fact that his hands were bared, or even that the afternoon sun illuminated his disease so cruelly.
It was because there were no lesions on Sebastian’s hands. They had not merely faded or changed in character. The fingers that rested against the crumbling stone were tanned and free of illness. The sores had not merely been altered, they were gone. Disbelief flared in her chest, followed immediately by a tiny refrain of hope. It seemed to grow, until it sang from her very bones. Please, let it be true.
A need to guard this moment, keep it safe and inviolate, prompted her to whisper. “Sebastian, look at your hand.”
He glanced down, then remained motionless as if his flesh had become rock. An eternity of moments later, he placed his left hand beside his right, extended both hands in front of him. They trembled.
He lowered them, his gaze now on the far horizon. He wore no expression, but there was a dawning of something she’d never before seen in his eyes.
Finally he turned, walked with slow and measured steps, as if he were blind and feeling his way, to the center of the courtyard. He viewed his hands by every matter of shadow and light, holding them outstretched, aloft. Both palms were traced with fingers of the opposite hand. Then, he held them closer to his face as if uncertain of what he saw. Finally, he lowered them to his sides and stood there for a long moment, head bowed.
When he moved, it was to fist his hands at the neck of the leper’s robe, pulling it apart inch by inch, rending the garment with deliberate force. The material parted, held to his body only at the shoulders. He rolled them and it fell to the ground.
He ran his hands over his flesh as if to test it. He was furred like one of the improbable animals in the bestiary, but there was no blemish on his chest. His fingers flexed and ran from stomach to thighs. He bent and touched his feet, each separate toe, then stood again as quickly.
He closed his eyes, took a long, shivering breath, then opened them again and performed his survey once again. He rubbed his palms hard against thighs and knees and chest, as if to slough off the skin that hid the disease from his sight. But there was no flaw to him, no mark other than that made by war.
She felt a tear cascade over her lashes, fall soundless to the stone of the courtyard.
As she watched, he collapsed to his knees in the bright white afternoon sun. His hands were tightly clenched, resting on his thighs. His head was not bowed, but arched back, as if he sought the face of God in the clear, cloudless day. Only then did she realize that great shudders shook him.
Sebastian of Langlinais was crying.
Chapter 36
She knelt before him, her surcoat brushing his bare knees.
It was as if a thousand candles appeared behind his eyes they seemed so bright. Joy—pure and radiant.
She reached out with fingers that trembled and touched his cheek, the twin of her tears upon his face. He neither flinched nor drew away. Her fingers traced from cheek to nose to temple to jaw, a tender benediction of wonder. He bowed his head, gently held both of her palms against his face as if to encourage her to learn him, the texture of his skin, the warmth of his flesh. As if she gave him life with her caress.
How long they remained kneeling there looking at each other she didn’t know. The stone should have abraded their knees, the sun should have burned their skin. Instead, the moment was timeless, a perfect bubble suspended above a silent world. Birth and death are often accompanied with the same awe, as if these moments are a mute tribute to the spirit of life itself. As if some emotions possessed such power that they defied the ability of man to convey it.
Miracle was too small a word.
She whispered it softly, shattering the silence. He did not speak, only traced his fingers upon her lips as she spoke it again.
She closed her eyes, felt his fingers upon her eyelids as delicate as a butterfly. He brushed against her lashes, wiped the tears from her cheek. She opened her eyes to watch him, her heart too full for such a moment. It felt as if it would
crack open and tumble to the arid stone of Montvichet.
He had been shunted to dark rooms and black robes, yet now knelt naked and unashamed in front of her in the bright white day. A warrior, whose fingers trembled as they touched her lips.
His hands cupped her face, her fingers touched his chest, trembling as his did. “Juliana.”
She closed her eyes at the sound of his voice, felt the soft touch of his lips on her forehead. Another tear cascaded down her face.
Her hands reached up to touch his wrists, to brush against the back of his hands. She had ached to touch him for so long that she felt tentative with the freedom so unexpectedly given her. She wanted to trace her hands where his had been, over the perfect planes and hollows of his body. Not in harsh disbelief but in stunned wonder.
She had never witnessed a miracle before. What the nuns at Sisters of Charity had taught her were less acts of faith than those of practical necessity. Patience was a great teacher, diligence was its own reward, generosity was made null if the gift was given with thought of return. She’d honed her skills at writing and making ink. She’d studied Latin and became adept at deciphering the cramped writing of scribes of another era. She’d transcribed and illuminated, scraped and prepared parchment, rendered ink in different colors. She’d learned how to keep records, and to make candles and soap and oversee servants.
But she had never learned about miracles.
“Should we not pray, Sebastian?” she whispered.
“I am.”
His words were so soft that they drifted into the confusion of her mind like feathers. She looked into his face. So beloved, so beautiful. Now matched by the perfection of his warrior’s body.
“I heard your prayers once,” she confessed. His fingers speared into the hair at her temples, made havoc of her braid. “I did not mean to listen. I’ve never forgotten the words you spoke, or how sad your voice sounded.”
“I will have a lifetime to think of happier prayers.”
“Will we have that, do you think?”
“Yes,” he said tenderly. “If you are granted the world, how much less to wish for a grain of sand.”
“My lord?” The faint echo of Jerard’s voice came suddenly and unexpectedly.
Sebastian smiled, stood, and walked to the well of stairs. She heard him shout, but not his words. Instead, she was transfixed with the beauty of him. There was no self-consciousness about his pose, no embarrassment about his nakedness. Once again she was reminded of the statue the villagers had unearthed.
He returned to her side, extended a hand for her. It was the first time he’d done so. She laid her fingers against his palm. She had been united with this man with she was five, had spent countless years as his bride. But until this moment, when he helped her to her feet, she had never felt truly joined. Never wed.
“It seems we’ve two blessings this day,” he said, looking down at her.
She nodded, bemused by mystery and miracles and the wonder of him.
In her left hand she held the straw basket that contained the Cathar treasure. In her right, the drawstring bag that held her clothing, the small store of their food. She had also taken a few pouches of the Cathar ink that she might study it at greater leisure. Sebastian stood just a few feet below her, his hand extended to help her down the first few steps. She handed the basket and the bag to him, stepped back from the opening.
She gave him no explanation, only moved to the center of the courtyard, to the place where Sebastian had knelt only an hour earlier. She turned in a slow circle, her face unsmiling. She could almost hear their voices, sounds of life, now silenced forever. In her mind she could see them, just as she could see Magdalene, a woman with a great heart who was loved even now.
She had thought so much about going into exile with Sebastian that it had startled her to realize they would be returning to Langlinais. There, they would make their futures, not hiding in terror, but living openly.
She doubted this place would be remembered. Or if happened upon, the siege of Montvichet would not be recalled. There would be no one to know what they had gone through, what had happened to these women in the six horrible months they had faced De Rutger in stubborn opposition.
“I will never forget,” she said softly, her voice echoing in the haunting silence of the courtyard. It seemed as if the silence smiled.
She turned, and Sebastian stood there, watching her. His chain mail glinted in the afternoon sunlight as he approached her. He reached out his hands and encompassed both of hers in his. He brought them to his lips and gently kissed the tips of her fingers.
She was speechless at his look. There was love in Sebastian’s eyes.
Sebastian called once more, and this time, the reply was loud and strong.
A moment later the last stone was pushed aside. Sebastian left the tunnel, followed by Juliana, their eyes blinking in the fading light of day.
He clasped his hand on Jerard’s arm. The look on the younger man’s face was difficult to decipher. It was comprised of surprise, then amazement as his gaze lowered to Sebastian’s hand.
“My lord, you are cured,” he said in awe.
“It is true,” Sebastian said, nodding.
Jerard held his hand against his heart, fell to his knees. “A miracle, my lord.”
“Save your obeisance for saints, Jerard. I am, as you well know, no saint.” He looked about him. “Where are the rest of my men?”
Jerard looked crestfallen, as if he’d failed at a simple task. “They would not stay, my lord. They were frightened. I did bring two of the horses, though.”
“Tell me one of them is Faeren and I will think you are the one blessed.”
At his vassal’s nod, Sebastian smiled. “Well done, Jerard. But then, you have always been a faithful man.” He studied him for a moment. “My lady wife has reminded me that this is a duty long overlooked. Forgive me for that, Jerard, and for denying you the ceremony you deserve.”
Jerard looked stunned as he remained kneeling in front of him.
Instead of a new sword, which he would have prepared once they reached home, Sebastian held out his own. “Bless this sword, so that it may be a defense for churches, widows and orphans, and for all servants of God.”
He looked down at Jerard. It was an odd time to feel amusement, but he did so, leavened as it was with fondness. “Now you say, ‘Blessed be the Lord God who formeth my hands for battle and my fingers for war.’”
Jerard repeated the words in a clear strong voice.
“Do you serve as my vassal, Jerard, giving me your loyalty and your life?”
“I do, my lord.” The words were said cleanly, with no hesitation.
“I swear the selfsame oath. As you swear your loyalty to me, so is mine to you.”
Sebastian bent and placed the hilt of his sword in Jerard’s right hand, took it back. Then instead of cuffing him across the cheek, he struck the blunt edge of the sword against Jerard’s neck.
“Then arise, Sir Jerard of Langlinais, and take up your duties as a knight.”
He replaced his sword, then turned as Jerard stood, and held out his hand to Juliana, who smiled mistily at him.
“Now, let us go home.”
Words he’d never thought he’d say.
Chapter 37
“It is magnificent,” the Marshal whispered. The chalice stood before them on a small table. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the skill of the goldsmith who had created the reliquary. Inside rested the wooden cup. The Marshal touched it, his fingers trembling as they rested upon the rim.
“Your brother? He relinquished such a thing so easily?” His glance seemed to spear Gregory.
“In return for Langlinais, Marshal.”
“He is a fool, then. We would have surrendered all our English fiefs for this treasure.” He stroked the rim of the cup.
Gregory did not tell him that Sebastian had been willing to surrender his home for the safety of a woman. And she, in turn, had given up her life for h
im. A sacrifice he did not understand.
Even as he had pledged his life to the Templars, answered the questions put to him, he had not believed as much in their cause as he had in himself. Do you espouse the faith, are you legitimate and of knightly family, are you unmarried or in holy orders? Are you free of debt, sound of body, and have you used no coercion in order to gain admission to the Order? He had responded with the correct answers, had been led to an oath to obey the Masters of the Temple and his superiors.
An easy oath to swear, one a knight would to his liege lord. They had not asked of him if he believed in the sanctity of the Order more than his own abilities, or if he had believed himself of sharper wit and more talent than most of the men who’d attempted to lead him in battle.
“Your brother, will he speak of this to anyone?” Phillipe’s hand rested on the cup as if he drew solace simply by touching it. Gregory had felt the same on the journey back to Courcy.
“What does it matter, Marshal, if he does? We have the Grail. Do we not wish such a thing to be known?”
“But not the manner in which we obtained it. We do not want the Order associated with the Cathars, Gregory. Should we not send our brothers to this home of his in secret? In order to ensure he does not tell the tale?”
It was the perfect opportunity to tell the Marshal that his brother would not speak to anyone. That he was trapped upon a mountain just as the Cathars had been, but that his death would not be as swift, although it might well be as agonizing.
“No, Marshal. Sebastian has kept the secret for five years, he will not speak of it now. Besides, Langlinais is heavily fortified, and the attention we would draw to ourselves by such an action would be to our detriment.” There, Sebastian, by such words have I protected your widow. My conscience is appeased.
Phillipe stood, replaced the chalice into its casket. “Very well. Prepare yourself for a journey, Gregory.”
Gregory bowed. He did not question his destination. To do so would be to show curiosity, and such things were considered faults that interfered with true obedience. Not that his was a character of compliance. Yet, it was better to appear so, for the sake of his future goals.