The Princess and the Templar (11 page)

“Your flogging? What say you?”

Sean didn’t answer; just stared straight ahead. Raul swung his attention to Evan. “What’s this about a flogging?”

“He failed in his duty, milord.” Evan finally met his gaze. “The earl would order twenty lashes as punishment.”

Sangre de Cristo
, the Sinclair beat his knights? He’d known the earl was a hard man, but he’d never heard of a lord who punished his knights as if they were common thieves. Raul shook his head, wondering what manner of a man he served. When he returned to Scotland, he would make inquiries. Perhaps he would ask to be moved to Spain, in spite of his father’s wishes.

But what of Cahira?

With that thought, he returned to the problem at hand. “I’m not the Sinclair, and I don’t hold with flogging.” He paused, wanting his words to carry weight. “But see that you don’t neglect your duty again. And one more thing, Sean, you’ll not rest tonight. You’ll help with the search.”

Sean bowed. “Aye, milord.”

“What would you have me do?” Evan asked. “I want to help as well.”

Raul regarded him for a moment, pondering how best to use his men. “No, Evan, I want you to rest. I might have need of you on the morrow.”

Evan bowed and quit the room. Sean stood at the ready. Raul turned and gazed at the snoring men who littered the great hall. They’d taken the oath last night. Would they remain loyal? Or would they see this as an opportunity to aid their lady?

****

Raul sat astride his horse in the courtyard, ready to ride out. Once again, Cahira had slipped from their grasp. But what he couldn’t understand was how she’d escaped the castle keep.

His men were at the gate, and the drawbridge hadn’t been lowered that night. He’d thought of the sea and speculated she might have fled by boat. Malcolm had dismissed that theory, explaining no one launched a craft from Kinsale castle as the undertow flung all boats against the rocks.

Raul had looked for her in the stables, thinking she might have fallen asleep there. But the building was empty, except for a drowsy Loghan, lying on a pallet in the tack room.
Raul had questioned the boy but gotten nowhere. Not that he’d expected to, the stable lad was one of Cahira's staunchest supporters.

Thinking of Loghan’s fierce loyalty, Raul smiled and then wished he hadn’t. Even that simple act increased the throbbing in his head.

Would he find her beyond the walls? He didn’t know. He knew the direction she would take, toward Ulster.
But the success of his pursuit would depend on when she’d escaped and the fleetness of her mount.

There was the rub—her mount. No horses were missing from the stables.

Raul’s destrier tossed his head and pawed the ground, grain-fed these past weeks and impatient to run. Raul glanced around, looking for Sean and the others.

It seemed a fitting punishment to deprive Sean of his sleep and make him search. Though, it was difficult to believe the Sinclair would have flogged the knight. And if they didn’t find Cahira before she reached
Ulster; Raul would be the one in line for a flogging. Not that he cared; he had her welfare uppermost in his mind. But the more he learned of the earl, the more he wondered if he was doing the right thing, taking her to a man known for his cruelty.

He shook off that thought. She was a Princess of Eire. The Sinclair would treat her with the respect due her noble blood. Wouldn’t he?

The sun peeked above the keep’s walls, blinding Raul and piercing the thick clotted mush that was his brain this morn. His stomach clenched, empty and complaining. He dared not eat for fear of getting sick. Now he remembered why he didn’t like to drink. He tugged on the hem of his hauberk and cursed the garment under his breath. The mesh chain mail had an annoying habit of riding up beneath his arms and chafing him. On this cursed morn, everything irritated him.

His mount pawed the earth again, obviously impatient to be away. Raul patted his neck and soothed him with low words. Half-rising in his stirrups, he glanced at the stable and saw Malcolm, Barclay, and Sean emerge. Mounting their waiting destriers, they joined him in the yard, flanking his horse.

At his command, the portcullis groaned upward, followed by the grind of gears and the creaking descent of the drawbridge. He’d given Evan the order to raise the bridge as soon as they were outside and not lower it again until they returned.

Once clear of the drawbridge, Raul said, “Malcolm, you must lead the way.”

Malcolm inclined his head and pointed his mount to the northwest. They urged their horses forward, sweeping past the forest that had sheltered his wounded knights. Climbing the first hill, they settled into an easy canter. Raul scanned the horizon, keeping a sharp lookout for movement.

But the green rolling hillsides, dotted with copses of trees and clumps of brightly waving wildflowers, stood empty and windswept. Gently undulating, the land slanted upward as they put the sea behind them. The pungent smell of heather filled the air. Spring was full upon the land, and Eire was green and lush. Not sun-seared and dry like his native Spain or cold and rocky like Scotland. Eire was a land worth fighting for. He could understand why Cahira clung to her beloved homeland.

Cahira again—her given name. He couldn't stop thinking of her that way, but he had no right to think of her as a mere woman. She was Her Royal Highness. This was the madness that came from overstepping his position—and stealing a kiss that didn’t belong to him.

“God’s teeth,” Barclay muttered, pulling up his mount.

Raul reined in his destrier. “What is it?”

Sean and Malcolm also stopped while Barclay swung down and lifted his horse’s right front leg. “He’s limping.” Barclay ran his fingers over his mount’s hoof and plucked out a jagged stone. Grunting, he said, “Here’s the trouble.”

“Can he carry you?” Raul asked. “Or should we return for another horse?” He was amazed at how calm he sounded when all he wanted was to spur his destrier into a gallop and search for Cahira.

Perhaps he really didn’t want to find her. If she got away, it would solve several dilemmas. He would never have to look upon her lovely face again, remembering the sweetness of her lips and knowing he couldn’t possess her.

And she would marry her kin and keep her land and subjects. He would return in disgrace to the Sinclair and accept his punishment. The Order would find him another master, and his life would go on as it had before.

A dry, desolate desert of a life.

Barclay carefully lowered his mount’s hoof to the ground. “Let’s see if he can walk.”

Raul nodded. His horse pranced sideways, sensing his rider’s impatience to be off. Raul watched as Barclay led his mount in a tight circle. The horse didn’t appear to limp.

“See if he can take your weight,” Raul said.

Barclay mounted and walked his horse for a few yards. Then he turned back and ran past them at full tilt. The destrier never missed a stride. Pivoting his mount, Barclay returned to their party in a cloud of dust and smiled.

“Good as new.” He patted the horse’s neck. “Lucky I found the stone before he went lame.”

“Yes, lucky for us,” Raul agreed, a curious mixture of relief and disappointment coalescing in his chest. They wouldn’t need to go back. Gathering his reins, he glanced at the castle in the distance and almost wished they could return.

Gazing at the castle, he was surprised to see movement as something bounced along the meandering road leading from the keep. Narrowing his eyes, he strained to make out the far-off object. It was a wagon filled with hay. That was curious. He’d told Evan not to let anyone pass after they departed.

“Malcolm, have we finished taking provisions to the crofters?” He’d ordered hay and foodstuffs for Kinsale’s tenants, but he’d thought the task complete.

The Kinsale knight frowned. “I think we have a few more to re-provision, milord.”

Raul pointed at the far off cart. “So Evan let this load go, in spite of my orders?”

Malcolm’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”

“No one is in danger of starving?”

“Nay.” Malcolm shook his head.

Raul considered the slow progress of the cart. It dipped behind a hill and vanished from sight for several moments. When the wagon climbed the next rise, Raul
glimpsed Loghan's familiar flaxen head.

A memory teased the corner of Raul’s mind, something he should remember, but like quicksilver, it slipped from him. One thing he did recall, the look in Loghan’s eyes when he’d asked the boy if he’d seen the princess. Loghan had claimed not, but Raul had doubted he told the truth.

Now he doubted it even more. And that cart. Where had he seen it? The memory came rushing back, and all the pieces fell in place. With a quick pull on his mount’s reins, he brought his horse around and spurred him forward. The destrier, eager to run, burst into a gallop. Raul heard the bleat of surprised voices behind him but didn’t stop to explain.

They’d understand soon enough.

****

Cahira tried to brace herself against the side of the swaying cart. Never in all her life had she been so jostled and bumped about. When she’d crawled into the wagon last night, thinking she’d found the perfect escape, she hadn’t reckoned with the true nature of hay.

What looked like a soft and warm haven was anything but. She’d soon learned hay wasn’t soft, prickly was more like it. And when the straw wasn’t sticking her in the most awkward places, it was unnaturally slick. As the cart jounced forward, she washed from side to side like a cork in a bottle.

And then there were the insects, all intent upon biting her. Slapping her arm, she came away with a small brown speck. Another flea no doubt. She flicked it off and wondered what might be nesting in her hair. Clenching her teeth, she put away that thought.

The wagon hit a bump, tipping forward and flinging her against its wooden side.

“Ouch,” she muttered, rubbing her shoulder and trying not to sneeze. The hay tickled her nose, and dust clogged her throat. Loghan had given her a skin filled with water, but it had long since sunk to the bottom of the cart.

No matter how thirsty she might be, she didn’t dare let go of the sides. She wished she could gauge how far they’d come. Once they were out of sight of the castle, she could leave her straw prison and take the horse. Horse, she snorted. The nag pulling the cart was little better than a pile of bones. She’d begged Fallon to hitch her mare, but he’d refused, saying it would draw undue attention.

As it was, they’d barely escaped the castle. The Scottish knight called Evan had barred their way. But Fallon, bless his soul, had spun a yarn, claiming a crofter’s livestock was starving.

The Scottish knight had finally let them pass, but it had been a close thing. The knight would feel the Templar’s wrath once he knew, but Cahira feared even more for Fallon and Loghan. In truth they would bear the brunt when the Templar returned and found her gone.

Then a thought struck her. She’d not seen the Templar’s anger. Nay, not once. She’d grown up with men and knew they were quick to anger. Searching her memory, she couldn’t recall a single time when Raul had lost his temper. She’d glimpsed his frustration and even his despair but not his fury.

Thinking thus gave her pause.

She shook her head. She mustn’t think of him, wouldn’t allow herself. He was but another conqueror, intent upon stealing all that mattered to her.

Her stomach grumbled, and her skin itched. She was bruised and battered and almost suffocating. Her mouth felt as if she’d swallowed the whole of the courtyard. Mayhap she should look for that water skin after all. Tentatively, she let go of the side of the cart and stretched her arm out, running one hand through the layers of hay. Her fingers brushed something cool and smooth, and she strained for it, licking her cracked lips.

The cart lurched, throwing her against the opposite side. She raised one hand, hoping to stop her slide and came away with a handful of splinters.

“Sweet Jesú!” She sobbed out loud and thrashed about, trying to regain her balance.

“Sssh, milady,” Fallon’s whisper stopped her cold. “Rider coming. An’ I think ’tis the Templar.”

Oh, no, not that. Not Raul. He would send them back to the keep. All of her suffering would be in vain.

The wagon ground to a halt. She shut her eyes and offered a silent prayer, hoping Fallon could talk his way past Raul. But with her eyes closed, it was as if the wagon still moved. Her head spun, and her stomach sloshed from side to side. She covered her mouth with her hand and clenched her jaw. She couldn’t be sick, not now, not here.

“Master Templar,” Fallon greeted Raul, “good morn to ye, sire.”

“And to you, Fallon and Loghan, good morn. Where go you?”

“To the McDaniel’s farm. There’s been sickness there, and they have a great need for fodder for their livestock.”

“Is that what you told Sir Evan?”

Here it was. Raul would turn them back. She almost covered her ears so she wouldn’t hear the final blow.

“Aye, milord. I hope I dinna get him in trouble, sire. He dinna want to let us pass.”

“But you convinced him to go against my orders?” Raul didn’t raise his voice, though Cahira could hear the sharp steel beneath his quiet words.

A long silence stretched out, and she held her breath. Finally, Fallon replied, “Aye, milord, I convinced ’im. The McDaniels are in sore need, sire. An’ I know ye for a charitable man.”

Hearing this, Cahira wanted to grab Fallon and kiss him. For he had a tongue made of silver that could charm the birds from the trees.

Uncovering her mouth, she exhaled carefully and gulped air into her lungs. A piece of chaff attached itself to her mouth. She started to reach for the cursed straw but stayed her hand, knowing she couldn’t move without giving herself away.

Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, she didn’t know what to do. She tried holding her breath again, but the straw tickled her nose. She crinkled her nose, trying desperately to stop the sneeze. Her eyes teared with the effort. Her throat burned and her skin crawled and she needed to breathe...

“Aah, aah, aachoo!”