My Beloved (16 page)

Courcy, France

T
he Order was considered one of equality. However, there were limits to how equal a man might be. A strange idea to have in the midst of so many holy brothers, Gregory thought.

The sergeants sat at one table, the squires at another, and the knights still another. A brother who had left the Commandary at night was being forced to eat off the floor in punishment. There were rules for every behavior, and a penalty for each offense.

The dinner meal, served at midday, was adequately attended. The food was plentiful, and included meat unlike the diets found in other monastic orders. The Templars had strict rules against fasting. Warriors did not fight well if they were made ill by austerity.

When he'd first taken the oath of a Templar, he'd been surprised to learn that there were relatively few knights in the Order. The majority of the warrior-monks were sergeants, but a great many brothers served in an ancillary capacity to support those who took up arms.

Dinner was normally eaten in silence, while writ
ings of the Church were read. On this occasion, however, Gregory was determined to speak. He would accept his punishment, but the information he possessed was too important to hold for another two hours.

He waited until the Marshal was seated opposite him, and served by a brother. He drank deeply of the ale and set his tankard down. He nodded only once, and the Marshal lifted one silvered eyebrow.

“He is on the move.”

A smile only accentuated the amiable expression on Phillipe's face. But he did not break the dinner silence.

“My sources tell me Sebastian is heading south.”

A rise of one eyebrow signaled a question. Gregory answered it with a smile.

“Toward France. It is my guess that he means to travel to Montvichet.”

 

The wagon she traveled in was no more than a wooden box with a door. The only opening was in the ceiling, which meant that she was the target for the hot summer sun. There was only one benefit, and that was that the skies were clear. No rain loomed. The wagon would become a cistern in a storm. By the end of the first day, Juliana had decided that the hard wooden seats were marginally preferable to being on horseback. At the end of the second, she'd realized she was incorrect. A horse was a blessing under certain conditions. Another lesson to learn.

Some excuse was always found to stop frequently. Either the horses were tested for lameness, or the wagon wheel looked wobbly, or Sebastian declared that he needed the time to rest from the heat. But each time her hand was treated and rewrapped, she noted that their journey resumed without delay.

She mentioned this to Jerard on the third day, but he only smiled, his silence in the face of her questions not so much a sign of his loyalty now as it was a source of irritation.

Normally, they would have found shelter in one of the monasteries, or sought accommodation from the lords at one of the strongholds. But because of Sebastian's condition, they dared not. Instead, at nightfall they headed into the wood, set guards to keep a rotating watch while the rest of them slept at the base of the trees. Juliana slept in her wagon, again thankful that it did not rain.

Sebastian seemed to be forever scanning the countryside, paying close attention to the tops of hills and the walled fortresses of two castles. What did he look for?

All of Sebastian's precautions made sense the longer she'd had time to think about them. There had been no chaplain to say Mass at Langlinais for the same reason the village had no priest. The Church often seized the property of those with the disease, cast them out, excommunicated them. Before that occurred, however, they intoned a special mass to render the afflicted one of the living dead.

Would it happen to him? The Mass of Separation was a terrible thing. She had only heard of it happening, had never witnessed it. The penitent was led to a cemetery, where he was forced to stand in an open grave. An altar, no more than a board supported by two trestles, was placed in front of him. While he stood there, his face covered by a black veil, all the strictures of his new life were read to him, all the things now forbidden.

Such a thing would happen to Sebastian if the Church learned his secret. No wonder he'd been so desperate for her to agree to his bargain. Langlinais
would be both his home and his jail. One day he would simply go into his chamber and never leave it.

Why, then, did she not fear him? Or truly worry about the disease that even now might be limiting her life? Perhaps because it was hard to believe that Sebastian would ever be laid low. Even now, as he stood before her, she could not reconcile this strong man with the poor beggar to whom she'd given a crust of bread. As to her own fate, perhaps she was filled with a naive optimism. There were worse things than sharing life with Sebastian.

They had come to each other as strangers. Wed by words. She had learned of him the way she might a difficult manuscript to read, the letters obscured, or faded by an imperfect ink. There was the sight of him, once frightening, now understandable. Then, the essence of him. A man who prayed with words that echoed with torment.
Intellige clamoren meum
. Know the cries I utter.

He'd spoken with emotion about Magdalene. In his voice had been no censure for her beliefs, no condemnation of her faith. Only sadness and grief. How did one bear to witness such a thing? And to lose someone you loved this way, it was no wonder Sebastian found it difficult to speak of Magdalene.

The Sisters of Charity convent was comprised of a diverse group of women. They were drawn together by their faith and by their wish to ease the suffering of the world around them. Juliana had never known them to turn aside anyone who needed help, be it in the person of a newborn baby or a woman driven from her home for adultery. She knew nothing of intolerance. Even the priest, who argued with the abbess so vociferously, had been more a figure of fun than one of censure.

Is that why Sebastian had never challenged her work? Because he had learned the horrors of intolerance? Why he was able to delineate his hatred for the Saracens? He condemned his jailers, but not the men of learning. One question merely opened another, like a box within a box. But it had been that way from the beginning. Every time she believed herself to have the knowledge she needed, the world shifted and changed, becoming shadowy again.

She sat, her knees drawn up, her right hand resting upon them. She had eaten a few pieces of bread and cheese and now waited for Jerard to finish his own meal so that her left hand might be wrapped again.

Soon they would begin their journey across the Channel to France. The waves were turbulent, colored the gray of deep shadows. The ocean seemed to stretch on forever, only darkening at the horizon.

Sebastian stood beside a weather beaten oak. A storm had nearly uprooted it and it sat perched on the side of the hill, a spindly, leafless landmark. Idly, he broke off a portion of one small branch, snapping it into smaller segments as he stood watching the ocean before them. He had a habit of doing such things, occupying his hands while he remained silent. A few hardy leaves clung tenaciously to one branch, and there were signs of new growth on upper branches. She had the oddest thought that Sebastian was not unlike that tree, almost destroyed by circumstance, but still fighting for survival.

Jerard walked up to the knoll on which she sat. In his hands he held an earthenware jar that held the unguent Sister Agnes had prepared, and a set of clean linen. She held out her hand and he applied the salve and began to bind it up again with an expert touch.

“You are growing adept at this,” she said, smiling.

“I've been a squire, my lady. That alone has taught me how to care for wounds.”

“Was Sebastian injured often?”

For a moment she thought he would not speak, that he would remain as carefully silent as he had always been. “In truth, my lady, not very often. But he sent me to assist others. Once we were in the Holy Land any man with skill at healing was needed.”

“Neither of you ever speak of those days, Jerard. Why?”

He shrugged. “It is a time that weighs heavily on me.” He stepped back, the binding finished. He looked down at the ground. “You do not know how he came to be as he is, do you?”

She shook her head.

His face flushed. He extended his hands, placed them under her elbows, and helped her to rise. She found herself walking beside him, down the road so that they were away from the others. “We were captured and taken prisoner by the Saracens, my lady,” he said, his voice low, his words coming fast. “I was not noble, nor a knight. I had no worth, but the Saracens had their own plans for me. Sebastian ransomed me. He saved me from becoming a castrate by using the tourney money he'd won over the years to buy my freedom.”

She placed her bandaged hand on his arm. Even as isolated as the Sisters of Charity, they had heard tales of such horrible practices as castration. “But you cannot blame yourself, Jerard, for his being afflicted.”

“If he had not been left in prison for all that time, my lady, it is possible he might never have become diseased.”

“How was he finally freed?”

“There was no money left to pay his own ransom, my lady. The Templars arranged his release, but not until a full year later. They demanded Langlinais in case he could not pay the loan. Now they want even more.” His look was grim, his eyes narrowed.

“What do they want, Jerard?”

For a moment he looked startled, as if he just now realized he'd said too much. But loyalty was evidently balanced against his obvious worry, and the truth won out. “They want the treasure of the Cathars, my lady. And I do not think they would hesitate to kill him in order to obtain it.”

S
he should have been more afraid. But then, she'd nearly fallen to her death in the Terne. The rushing waters of the river had prepared her well for the majesty of the ocean. Or perhaps the words she'd said to Sebastian had been more truth than bravado. She truly was tired of being afraid.

She had been escorted to a small bench that occupied most of the rear of the barque. Their ship was small, equipped with two masts strung with heavy canvas. The sails flapped furiously in the wind like an old frightened hen.

Their crossing was to be in a fleet, the horses being transported in the first boat, half of the men-at-arms accompanying them. The third boat would carry their supplies and the rest of the men. Sebastian, Jerard, and she were aboard the second ship. The wagon, because it was too heavy, was left on the shore, to be returned by its driver to Langlinais.

As soon as they left the small dock, Juliana closed her eyes, determined not to look at the pigeon-colored sky and white-flecked waves. It was not fear that made her do so, but a hearty wish that she had not eaten her midday meal of bread and cheese.

The heavy thud of footsteps alerted her. She
opened her eyes to find Sebastian sitting beside her.

“You are looking a little gray, Juliana. Is this your first time on the ocean?”

She nodded, just as the boat rocked with the waves, seeming to gain more momentum sideways than they did going forward. Her eyes widened at the sensation.

“It is all right, Juliana,” he said with a smile. “The Channel has a temper, but the crossing won't take that long. You will find that the time passes quickly.”

“Have you traveled much on the ocean, Sebastian?”

“Most of my tourneys were in France, so I've a passing knowledge of the Channel. And, of course, my journey to the Holy Land was made over water. The Mediterranean is far more beautiful, being possessed of great ranges of color.”

Juliana was quiet for a moment. “Is your disease the reason why you've never spoken of your time on crusade, Sebastian?”

“The journey was not steeped in glory, Juliana, but rather disaster. There was a great deal of profound discussion, but little leadership. In the end, we were outnumbered and overcome. Perhaps the reason I do not speak about it is due more to my anger at being captured. I was shamed because my pride as a knight was bruised.” He glanced over at her. “Why are you smiling?”

“You saved my life, and Jerard's. I think you judge yourself too harshly.”

“I was taught to fight and win, Juliana. Surrender is anathema to me.”

Even now he fought. Another foe this time, but one even more deadly.

She looked up at the sky, turned darker with
storm or night, she didn't know which. A sideways glance showed that he was watching her, his face somber, not a trace of a smile on his lips.

“Is there someone you love?” he asked.

The question so surprised her that she turned her head and stared at him.

“Sebastian, I have lived at the convent for most of my life.”

“Were there no gardeners, no visitors you fancied?”

She smiled. “Sister Helena would have assaulted anyone if they'd ventured into the garden without her permission, and the only visitor I recall was the priest. He was old and had only two of his teeth, and was possessed of a most quarrelsome nature. He and the abbess spent most of their time together arguing about the merits of a woman's mind. He did not believe that a woman should be an armarius. The abbess would show him proof of the income our work generated, but otherwise ignore him.”

“Did none of the girls have brothers?”

She shrugged. “A few. But they did not introduce me. I was already wed.”

“And therefore untouchable? So, you became an outcast like me.”

“Perhaps that's why we were brought together, Sebastian. Like matching like.”

“Divine mediation? I doubt it, Juliana. You once asked me if I was Death, Juliana. I am, to you.”

“It was a silly question from a silly girl.”

“But one wiser than this one, who sits beside me and speaks of things best left unsaid.”

“About being well matched?” She turned away, faced the open sea. Perhaps it would have been better never to have known him, but she could not imagine such a thing now. He was so much a part
of her life, her thoughts, that it was as if he'd always been there.

The wind had picked up; the waves seemed higher. She looked at the horizon, stared into the distance as if the words were written there, where the sea darkened and the sky began. Her hair blew away from her face, a few tendrils whipping free of its braid.

“I've never known love. Not the way you speak of it. I used to wonder about it. Whether it was as powerful as all the poets made it seem. Did men really sacrifice for love, did women wish to die for it? Until I grew to know you, I did not think it possible.”

He was so still that she wondered if he had heard her. Would he admonish her for speaking those words? Would he leave her?

For a long moment, he did not answer. When he did, his words came softly.

“You must not love me, Juliana.”

She nodded. “I knew you would say that, Sebastian. A wise person would. Perhaps I should even feel that way. But how do we stop the waves? It might be as easy.”

She turned to face him. Her cheeks were reddened by the warmth she felt rising through her body. It was as if a flame burned her, spread from someplace within her.

“Why did you ask me if I loved someone?”

He didn't turn away from her, but seemed to search out some truth in her eyes. “Because I wished to know if you might be happy. If there was someone who could bring you joy when I'm no longer there.”

She could not speak. Words were insignificant things against this sudden pain. She reached out one
hand to touch him, but he pulled away from her.

He turned on her. The sky darkened behind him, a backdrop for his sudden, surprising anger. “Do you think the danger less because you once touched me, Juliana? Do you think yourself exempt from it? I thought the same, once. But do not make light of my fears by refusing to accept them. You are no simpleton.”

“Perhaps I am a simpleton after all. I don't fear you, Sebastian. How can I be afraid of a man who saved my life? Who refuses to touch me lest he harm me? I know I should be afraid, but all I can feel is wonder, Sebastian, that you might be my husband, my great and noble knight.”

He was conscious of Jerard watching them. Otherwise, Sebastian thought he might keen at the sky like a rabid dog.

He bent his head and took a deep breath to wash away the remnants of his anger, to calm himself. He raised his hand in some movement before he remembered. He wore no gauntlet, he'd given himself a respite from the heat and discomfort of them. She stared at his hand, transfixed. His skin was mottled, the patches thick and scaly. It had darkened in hue over the months until it was deep brown.

She did not say anything, but neither did she recoil in horror. It might have been easier if she had. Instead he saw compassion in her eyes.

“Do you use the unguent Sister Agnes prepared?” Her voice sounded calm.

He admired her restraint. He did not doubt that most women would have run screaming from him. Most women would never have been in his company, let alone saying how much they wanted to touch him.

Please, let the sight of his disease accomplish what
his words had not, induce her to fully realize their fate and to accept it. Otherwise, it was a ripe torment she promised in her eagerness and innocence.

“When I remember,” he answered.

“Then I shall remind you, Sebastian.” He almost smiled at her then, her chin angled up at him, the stubbornness she'd hinted at once more revealed.

She held too much in her heart, felt too deeply. She would love as fiercely, with obstinacy and resolve. A woman of many facets, all of them bright and shining. At another time, perhaps, they would have been priceless. Now, they promised only to bring them both pain.

He'd suspected ever since she'd learned of his disease that she did not fully comprehend the horror of it. She was capable of remaining in a small room day after day focused upon words, upon the execution of a task. Such a person created worlds in her imagination. Someone who was capable of being such a visionary lived within their thoughts. Thoughts might be shaped and rearranged, but they could not replace the truth. She might not be aware of it, but he did not doubt that she held out hope for him, and while hope was a good and precious thing, it was a burden if it helped to avoid the facts of a matter. When it faded, when she began to believe it, it would not be easy for her. He knew that from experience.

He wished, however, that he might tell her, without causing her pain, how much he cherished these moments with her. He'd asked her if she loved another and had held his breath at her reply. She'd offered a piece of herself, an effortless granting of her own past. A lonely child, a girl in waiting for her life. No wonder she had agreed so easily to their bargain. The conditions were such that her life had
not changed. She was still waiting for life.

He stood and left her finally, never having found the words to say that would make her fear what should be feared.