My Beloved (9 page)

Courcy, France

G
regory of Langlinais had been elevated to the Chapters-General of the Templars for two reasons: his ability to create order even in the midst of chaos and his almost suicidal belief in his own abilities on the battlefield.

His new position was that of a traveling representative whose skill was in determining then solving the administrative weaknesses of each preceptory. It was not as strange a position for a former Commander of Knights as it appeared. The post required a man who was not easily intimidated, one who could issue orders and expect them to be obeyed without question.

For the last two years, he'd begun to note the strengths of the Order as well as its vulnerabilities. What he saw was an organization whose purpose was fast becoming obsolete. The reason for the emergence of the Templars a hundred years ago had been to provide for the common man on his way to worship at Christian shrines. Now the Order was being used as no more than a force united against the en
emies of the papacy or to ferret out heretics within Christendom.

In order to endure, their mission must change. They must chisel a future for themselves that was more in keeping with their power. A vision that most of the leaders of the Templars did not, unfortunately, share.

However, one of the men who did share this view was seated across from him now. It was quite possible that he might be Master of the Order one day because of that perception, and because he embodied all of the exemplary ideals of a Templar knight.

Fifty years earlier, the Book of Judges had been translated into the speech of the day, that the brothers might understand the chivalry of biblical times, especially Joshua's conquest of the Holy Land. Gregory had heard a few brothers refer to the man across from him as the new Joshua. Phillipe d'Aubry was the Marshal, a man near the top of the Order's hierarchy, close enough to the Master to be considered his successor.

D'Aubry was the one man who knew of all the correspondence that routinely flowed through the Outremer. He could enumerate each of the Templars' many loans, and routinely concealed the interest they earned. The Order did not, on the surface, betray their oath of poverty. Nor did they wish to be considered moneylenders. The Order's true wealth was hidden in the ownership of their numerous properties throughout Europe.

“Are you sure he knows?” Phillipe asked.

“I suspect as much,” Gregory said. “He told me himself that he was at the Cathar stronghold not long after the siege ended.”

A look of interest crossed Phillipe's features.
“There is talk about you, Gregory. That you strive to learn even the hidden truths.”

Gregory inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying.

“There may be nothing to this treasure, Gregory.”

He formed his answer carefully. “Where there is rumor of sufficient duration, Marshal, there is usually some truth.”

“You know, of course, that these Cathars surrendered nothing and confessed not one word. They marched into fire singing songs of joy.” Phillipe's look was one of gentle speculation.

“Yet there is still talk that they were in possession of relics of the faith.”

“Were you one of those who infiltrated their ranks?”

“No. But I've knowledge of what happened.” The Templars had sent a few of their brothers to join the Cathars, claiming a religious conversion, in order to determine if rumors of a great treasure were true. The men returned to confirm that the Cathars did, indeed, hold a treasure. Its existence was established, but not its substance.

“You believe your brother has the treasure, Gregory? That his journey to Montvichet was to retrieve it? That he found it when no one else did?”

“Yes, Marshal.”

Phillipe leaned back against the chair and ran his fingertip against the earthenware cup in front of him.

“What do you propose?”

“He has less than three months to pay the remainder of his ransom, plus interest on the loan. I have received word from him that he is not able to do it, even if Langlinais produces a bountiful harvest.”

“Then why would he not have offered it to us before now?”

“Perhaps he lacked sufficient motivation to do so, Marshal. Or believed he might be able to pay the loan.”

“So you would offer Sebastian of Langlinais a trade? Release of his obligation for the treasure of the Cathars?”

Gregory nodded.

Phillipe steepled his fingers, looked beyond his guest to the far wall, as if the treasure of the Cathars rested there. “If it is true,” he murmured, “then we might be the guardians of the true relics.”

“Power beyond our greatest thoughts.”

“To what use would you put this great power, Gregory?”

His smile was as pleasant as the tone of voice used to address him. Gregory was not deceived by such gentleness. A quick mind lay behind the soft voice.

“Act as guarantors of safe passage. Demand fiefs in reward, the maintenance of the fortresses in Latin Syria.”

“You would have us change our function?”

“The world is changing, Marshal, and to survive, we must change with it.”

“But you would make us kings, Gregory.”

“The divine right to rule, Marshal, has been made possible in almost every country by Templar loans.”

“I think you are a dangerous man, Gregory. Or an ambitious one.”

“If our role is expanded, Marshal, the Order will require men of ability.”

“And you see yourself occupying such a post?”

Gregory inclined his head, allowed himself to smile, but only faintly. “Only if I am proven worthy, Marshal.”

“A wise leader would keep you close at hand, the better to know your mind. Or banish you from his presence lest you contaminate his thoughts.”

“Shall I leave, Marshal?”

The look given him was one of speculation. “Let us proceed first on the matter of your brother, instead, Gregory. Let's see if we cannot flush out the treasure of the Cathars.”

S
ebastian brushed back the monk's hood from his head, raised his face to the gentle breeze, and breathed deeply, eyes closed as if to savor the sensation more fully. Langlinais. The air was perfumed with the smell of flowers and grasses.

He rubbed his gloved hands over his face. He preferred to be barefaced. A way to repudiate everything he'd been, everything he'd done. The man he had been had worn his hair short, his beard full. The man he was now was clean-shaven with hair grown longer.

For two weeks they had met on the tower, Juliana conquering her fear of heights while he ignored his instincts that urged more caution. Torchlit night had formed a buffer against the remainder of the world, one that allowed for confession. She had spoken of the girls she'd known at the convent, the various nuns who'd helped to rear her. He learned of the influences that had guided her and her secret love of poetry. He had spoken of the inhabitants of Langlinais and the history of the castle. Small, commonplace words that created a bridge between them.

But one moment in particular still remained in his
memory, because it dictated what their futures would be.

“One of our men-at-arms can be dispatched to the convent, Juliana, to deliver your encyclopedia,” he'd said when she had commented that her work was nearly finished. “Perhaps,” he had added, “the abbess might have something else she wishes you to transcribe.”

She had looked at him with wide eyes.

“Would you not object, then, if I continued my work?”

In her voice he'd heard fear of his answer.

“Would it give you pleasure, Juliana?”

“Yes, Sebastian.” She had smiled brilliantly, and he'd been reminded of his dreams of her. Not because of her happiness, but because of the spear of longing he'd felt upon viewing it.

It was to his benefit for her to be content at Langlinais, but he had not told her that. Nor had he explained that one day, perhaps soon, she would have only her work to keep her companion. He would have retreated behind a locked door.

A sound of footsteps jarred him from his reverie. She was coming. He smiled at his eagerness.

Despair was not a visible adversary. It seeped in like moisture in a dungeon. Slow drops, one at a time, until one day the place is damp and moldy. So it was with him. He had not realized how close he was to the end of his tether until it had been reached. He needed the sight of her, the sound of her, the scent of her too much. She kept him sane and made this half-life bearable.

If he had nothing more than verbal companionship, let it be whole and complete. Let her speak and know that nothing she said would be ridiculed. Let her betray all of her secrets. Let her feel secure in
this place, so that there was no need of fear, no reason to tremble in his presence. And when he was no longer with her, let her remember these moments with fondness and a smile. She might even come here again, sit in the same place and recall him and his words.

By such things was a man remembered.

 

The sky was tinted perse, that strange mix of grayish blue and purple. The air smelled sweet until she realized that the scent was not carried by the soft evening breeze, but by the flowers that adorned the cloth Sebastian had spread over the floor. A pillow lay against the stone, in the same position where she had rested the night before.

Sebastian sat on the opposite side of the cloth, his back against the curved wall. He watched her as she climbed free and shook out her skirts. She had not been able to decide which of her many surcoats to wear, and the trembling in her limbs gave the lie to the studied air of nonchalance she tried to assume as she sat on the cloth.

He discomfited her by his very presence. Was that why she had hurried through her meal? No, it was the reason she'd thought of nothing but him for weeks.

An oil lamp in the center of the cloth was lit against the encroaching darkness. She ran a finger at the edge of the deep reservoir of oil. The lamp was made of metal, fashioned in an ornate pattern she'd never seen before, with a curling handle in the shape of a dragon's mouth. The tail formed the light while the dragon's body was curved in a circle to form the bowl.

Night had fallen upon them, wisps of clouds parting to give them a view of the sky. It seemed to press
down upon them, so close she might reach out and clutch a glittering bit of it in her fists. She angled her head until all she could see was the night sky and the stars above her.

“‘Blemishes are hid by night and every fault forgiven.'”

His glance followed hers. “Ovid?”

She nodded.

“‘Yet I'll be born, the finer part of me, above the stars immortal, and my name shall never die.'”

They exchanged a conspiratorial look. One such as scholars share, or those with similar interests.

“Your abbess was an unusual woman to allow you to study Ovid.” He moved back into the shadows again.

She smiled, still looking at the night sky, “I doubt the abbess knew. But one could never be sure. She seemed to know everything.” She sighed. “I suspect she would not have been pleased to know I read Catullus.” She looked over at him. “Have you read his works?”

He shook his head.

“The abbess had only recently received a scroll of his poetry. I'd never heard of him either, but he seemed to be able to express his feelings so deeply. ‘
Lingua sed torpet, sonitu suopte tintinant aures, gemina et teguntur lumina nocte
.'” Words written by the poet that seemed apropos for this moment.

“My tongue is paralyzed, the sound of my body rings in my ears, my eyes close in the darkness.” His voice translated the words softly.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Affirmation without a word spoken.

“You have not said if you like your gift.”

She opened her eyes and it was only then that she saw the object resting in the corner of the cloth. It
was a thin cylinder no larger than a bunch of quills, topped by a square box the width of two fingers. It was made of gold, carved and elaborately decorated. She picked it up and studied the writing. One word repeated over and over
—al-'alim
. The long square tube was empty, but she guessed its use immediately. It would hold a good-sized quill. The small chamber was fitted with a lid that flipped open on tiny hinges, and inside was a glass vial for ink. A dollop of some sticky material affixed to the opening would keep the ink from spilling.

“It is for a traveling scribe. You can wear it attached to your girdle.”

Her fingers traced the writing, her fingers stroking against the strange words as if to find reassurance within the curve of them.

“What does the inscription mean?”

When he spoke his voice was as warm as the metal she stroked. “The learned,” he said.

“Are they Saracen words?” She frowned as she traced them again.

“Yes. Does it matter to you, Juliana?”

“Do you not hate them?”

“I hated my jailers. But I appreciate their scholars and men of letters. They are not the same. And I've found that hatred is a habit I'd rather avoid, if given the choice.”

She held the gold set between her hands, fingers curled around it as if to keep it from being snatched away.

“I have been given only two gifts in my life,” she said, the words not easily spoken but necessary. “Both have come from you.”

“Are not husbands obligated in such ways? You are my wife. Do you subscribe to the belief that I can only grant you what is on a list?” There was a pause
before he began to speak again. “I think I can remember this inventory of acceptable items. A handkerchief, a fillet for your hair, a wreath of gold or silver, a breastpin, a mirror, a girdle, a purse, a tassel, a comb, sleeves, gloves, a ring, a compact, a picture, a washbasin, a flag but only as a souvenir.”

She was as bemused by the softness of his voice as by the list he'd intoned.

“A courtly knight would grant you all these things,” he said. “But I am no longer a courtly knight.”

He enthralled her, this man who spoke so eloquently. He fascinated her as nothing in her life ever had. It was not simply the garment he'd chosen to wear. Nor, truly, was it the soft melody of his voice. It was these things and more, her own yearning, and curiosity, too.

 

“You did not work today,” he said. Would such a statement betray to her that he had looked for her in the oriel? Or that he'd chastised himself for doing so? Other than that last visit, when he'd come too close to telling her one of the secrets he held, he'd not returned to her tiny scriptorium.

She shook her head.

“My hand was cramping. I fear I am guilty of enthusiasm over moderation. But I've never before had such freedom.” Her smile was rueful, her amusement directed at herself.

He wished, just once, that he could touch her. Kiss the inside of her wrist and discern if that was the spot where she placed her rose scent. Or touch her temple, or the hollow at the base of her neck. Her breasts lay beneath her surcoat, covered from his gaze, but not from his knowledge. He knew the
shape of them, had studied them in the shadows of the tower.

He had been so desirous of her company one day that he'd not been able to wait until nightfall, but had gone to her chamber like a lovesick pup. He'd removed the stopper from her rose scent and inhaled deeply, as if her essence had been captured within the bottle.

He would never be able to test his dreams as to the shape and curves of her. Sometimes, the longing came so hard and so strong that he fisted his hands in order to keep them from reaching for her. Even at this moment, as she sat smiling at him, he ached to smooth his hand beneath her clothing, feel the sweep of her legs. He wanted to lay her down upon the cloth, extinguish the oil lamp, and love her in the light of complacent stars.

He recognized the depth of his lunacy even as he embraced it. He'd begun to envision all sorts of wondrous things, none of them real. He'd seen Juliana amidst a grove of trees, her smile so blinding that it did not matter if the sun had gone behind a cloud. Juliana, her hand in his, her head nestled against his shoulder, her belly swollen with his child. Juliana, standing in her chamber, her chemise puddled at her feet, her skin washed golden by the dawn sun, her long black hair a silken cloud behind which her breasts teased.

There was no reason for hope, but it popped free like a cork on the ocean. But each time it did, he forced himself to face the future as it would be and not as he wished it to be. Such tenacity of truth was acutely painful.

Did he frighten her still? Perhaps he did. Or if not, she surely had questions as to his appearance. A normal man did not appear garbed in monk's robe and
silence. If he had been shorn of his clothing, and the reason for it, he might still have terrified her. He was all those things a convent-bred girl was raised to fear. Licentious and virile, man and warrior, husband and lord. All that and more. Pray God she would never learn how much more.

Tonight he'd brought the chessboard to the tower. It sparkled in the light of a fading sun, its gold and silver pieces as priceless as any of the Langlinais treasures. It was among the last of them. Soon, it too would join all the other precious objects collected over a series of lifetimes, sold in order to pay the remainder of his ransom.

Her exclamation of delight was payment enough for his effort. She sat like a child would, in an excess of enthusiasm, tucked her legs and skirts beneath her, and, at his nod, began her first move.

They did not speak until long moments later, when he'd captured her first piece, an action that caused a frown to appear between her brows.

“Tell me about a typical day at the convent,” he said.

She looked up, her eyes sparkling. “It does not make for a lively tale, Sebastian. I woke at four every morning and spent two hours at prayers. Then the morning meal, followed by work in the garden. I had no talent at growing things, so I was set to weeding. After the noon meal and prayers, I was allowed into the scriptorium, where I worked for an hour. Then I helped to teach the younger students and performed the duties I was assigned. Then silence for an hour before bed.”

“The rule of Benedict, then.”

She nodded. “One part of sleep, one part prayer, and one part intellectual and manual labor.” At his look, she smiled. “Do you see? It was not at all ex
citing. The greatest thing that ever happened was the year I was allowed to copy the works of Vergil, Caesar, and Cicero.”

“And steal a moment with Ovid or Catullus.”

Her cheeks pinked again, and her gaze seemed to search out the sky.

An hour later, he'd won the chess game. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it was more difficult than he'd imagined. For a short time, he'd debated whether or not he should allow her to win, then decided that she was skilled enough to know if he suddenly changed strategy. But the level of her playing made the game interesting. When he mentioned that, she only tightened her lips and promised to win the next time. He did not doubt she would. Even by the light of the oil lamp, her eyes gleamed with the challenge. Timidity had been buried beneath competition. Nor was she diffident when speaking of her work.

She glanced up at him. “Grazide told me that you studied in Paris.”

“An accident of place,” he said. “I was celebrating a round of tourney victories, not expecting to be engaged in debate.”

She looked entranced, but then the extent of her travels had been to journey to the convent and then to Langlinais.

“I found myself watching the masons on the Île de la Cité. They are building a cathedral there, Notre Dame.” He smiled. “Did you know that a temple of Jupiter once stood in the very same place?”

She shook her head.

“They were working on what they called the Gallery of Kings. Twenty-eight statues of rulers from Israel and Judah, Juliana, all the size of a man.” Once, he'd had dreams of importing a few of such
talented men to Langlinais for the purpose of adding more ornamentation to the facade of the castle. Perhaps it would be something that would interest Juliana in the future. “I'd heard a group of people shouting, and turned the corner to discover a crowd of young men. They were yelling at their teacher, who stood there smiling at them as if he were a proud parent.” Even now, he could remember that moment, the confusion that had overtaken him and the bemusement that had followed.