The Princess and the Templar (28 page)

Bowing low, he said, “It’s my honor to meet you, Grand Master. I’m but a poor Templar with a petition for Your Grace.”

De Molay inclined his head.

“Continue,” the page urged.

Raul took a deep breath and willed his words to be as beguiling as the song of nightingales. He started at the beginning, explaining his assignment to William the Sinclair.

De Molay listened and smiled.

The page prompted, “And?”

Then Raul told the tale of the Sinclair’s suit for the princess’ hand and how Raul had taken the castle at Kinsale in the earl’s name. At the retelling of the princess’ resistance, a low murmur broke out.

Raul glanced around the hall, realizing the curious onlookers’ obvious prejudice left a brassy taste in his mouth. Narrowing his eyes and frowning, he shot them a sharp look. The supplicant crowd fell quiet.

“What is the problem?” De Molay broke his self-imposed silence.

Believing he had the Grand Master’s interest, Raul rushed forward with the most damning evidence, relating the Sinclair’s duplicity and his attack upon the princess.

“You didn’t name the Templar who abandoned his duty to rescue you and the princess.”

“No, I didn’t.”

His omission had been purposeful. Raul didn’t want Arnaud blamed for deserting his duty and aiding him. “The Templar’s name shouldn’t matter,” he declared. “That the so-called bandits, sent by the Sinclair, tried to slay us should be proof enough.”

The Grand Master nodded. “All well and good. A high crime, if you can prove it.”

“Prove it, my Lord?” Indignation shot through him, and he clutched the hem of his tunic, ripping the garment over his head and baring the tender welt on his shoulder. “This wound is proof of—”

“That proves nothing, Sir Raul,” de Molay cut him off with a wave of his hand. “And please have the decency to cover yourself.”

Raul did as he was told, slipping the tunic on again. But inside, he seethed at the cavalier way de Molay had dismissed his claim. “My Lord, I believe the princess’ lands were seized illegally, based on the Sinclair’s subsequent actions. Our Order is responsible. And I submit that we should gather forces to regain her lands. To right the wrong that has been done to Her Highness.”

De Molay frowned. “You don’t know what you ask, Sir Raul. I know you not, but the Sinclair is a formidable ally. I wouldn’t want to lose him.”

“That shouldn’t alter the wrong he’s committed.”

“No, but I wish verification.” De Molay lifted his hand again and waved it in the general direction of two of his scribes. “My scribes will gather evidence and take testimony. It would help your case if you would name the other Knight Templar who aided you and knew the earl sent men to ambush and kill you and the princess.”

De Molay paused. “Lacking collaboration, I would know more of you, Sir Raul, and of your commitment and loyalty to the Order. And to that end, there will be an initiation ceremony tomorrow night for some twenty novices.” He nodded, as if confirming what he expected of Raul. “You will attend and renew your Oath.”

Chapter Sixteen

Raul escaped from the Grand Hall and stumbled into a muddy alley. The sickly-sweet smell of incense clung to his clothes, a grotesque reminder of what he’d just witnessed. Stretching out one arm, he propped himself against the dank stone wall. His stomach roiled, and acid bile rose in his throat. He fought the urge to vomit.

The gossip was true.

If he’d not seen the ceremony, he would have scarce believed it. As it was, the very earth had shifted beneath his feet. He drifted, cut loose from reality and strangely numbed. It was as if all he knew of the world had been obliterated, destroyed. What could he do? Where would he turn?

Footfalls echoed in the dark alley, and he straightened. Narrowing his eyes and straining to see in the darkness, he groped for his sword.

“
Mon ami, c’est moi
.” Arnaud stopped a pace away.

Relief sluiced over him, and he dropped his hand. “I couldn’t stay and watch—”

“I understand.” Arnaud grimaced. “I feel the same way. I had hoped the rumors to be false.”

Raul didn’t know how to respond. Both he and Arnaud had witnessed the initiation ceremony of novices with de Molay presiding. To Raul’s horror and shock, the novices, naked as the day they’d entered this world, had uttered ritual blasphemies, spat on the cross, and worshipped a cat-like statue they called Baphomet.

“I’ve never seen such,” Raul finally said. “It’s evil, pure evil. A travesty of what our Order stands for. My initiation was nothing like that.”

“Didn’t the pope take your oath, as a favor to your father?”

“Yes, but…” He raised his head and stared at Arnaud. “Don’t tell me that you—”

“
Non
. I took my oath from the Bishop of Paris. It’s de Molay. Since the Order returned from the
Holy Land
and our original purpose was lost, he’s subverted the Templar precepts.”

“S-subverted,” Raul sputtered, “more like he’s taken leave of his senses and embraced the devil.”

Arnaud crossed his arms. “
Oui
, some say so.”

“Why? What could he gain?”

“Power and wealth and complete loyalty.” Arnaud shrugged. “It’s the way of ambitious men. He thinks secret, blasphemous ceremonies will bind us to him and make us co-conspirators. To uphold the honor of our Order, no Templar would dare admit what happened.”

“I’ve heard two Templars took tales of these pagan rituals to the pope,” Raul said.

“Possibly. If so, will the pope believe them? Even more, will the pope bother to take action?”

An excellent question. Pope Clement V was known for his vacillating nature and his dependence upon Philip, the French king, as he kept his holy court not in Rome but in France.

“De Molay never intended to grant my petition.” Raul shook his head. “He ordered me to attend the ceremony so I would understand the absolute power he held over my life. Understand and obey.”

His stomach lurched and sank. A sense of dread rolled over him. How could he tell the princess he’d failed her again?

Arnaud frowned and then as if he’d read Raul’s mind, he said, “But you still need our Order’s resources to retake the princess’ legacy. You should have let me corroborate your story. Soon enough, word will come from the Sinclair that I’ve deserted my post and then de Molay will know who aided you anyway.” Arnaud shrugged. “Otherwise, the Grand Master won’t grant your petition. Just as he said yesterday, he doesn’t want to alienate so powerful an ally as the Sinclair. Your attendance at the ceremony was to remind you of your duty and your place in the Order. But if I spoke up and—”

“I don’t think your speaking for me would change anything with the Grand Master, not after what I saw tonight. But they might imprison or fine you for desertion. You have a family and your lands to think of.” Raul paused. “If I were you, Arnaud, I’d leave the Order.”

At least, Arnaud had somewhere to go. He had a family, a home, and lands. But Raul was bastard born, without a place in the world. He’d turned to the Order to give him a purpose and a sense of family and to please his distant, exacting father.

Now he had nothing.

Not only had he lost everything, but he’d unwittingly sacrificed Cahira’s future, too. She’d lost all as a result of evil, grasping men.

Arnaud clasped his shoulder. “Don’t look so downcast.” He gave Raul’s shoulder a squeeze. “I know you’re worried about the princess and what you should do next.” His friend leaned closer. “I’ve been thinking of leaving the Order, just as you say, and there are a few brave Templars who have already taken matters into their own hands. They’ve left the Order because of de Molay and his excesses.”

Raul raised his head and gazed at Arnaud.

“Renegades, they’re called.” Arnaud lowered his voice. “Renegade Templars who will lend their sword to a just cause. They meet in a tavern called The Crow’s Feet on the left bank of the Seine.”

“I know that tavern,” Raul said.

In truth he’d found the place during his wanderings. He’d been drawn to it because so many Templars frequented the tavern. And it was where he’d heard most of the gossip. Now the snippets of whispered secrets were falling into place and making a strange kind of sense.

“At The Crow’s Feet,” Arnaud continued, “we’ll find men who will be willing to retake your princess’ castle.” Thumping him on the back, Arnaud asked, “What say you?”

“Where will we get the money for the sea passages and expenses to outfit such an expedition?”

“Let me worry about—”

A woman’s shrill laughter and the rumble of male voices interrupted them. Placing one finger over his lips, Arnaud urged Raul forward, away from listening ears.

Raul blindly followed his friend’s lead, his sense of loss forming a cold, hard lump in the pit of his stomach. His whole world had collapsed and everything he held sacred had just been profaned.

****

Frustrated and anxious, Cahira tossed down her embroidery hoop. The wooden circle struck the floor with a sharp rattle. Giselle, who was seated on a chair at the opposite side of the room, glanced up from her sewing. With a muttered curse and an apologetic shrug for her hostess, Cahira leapt to her feet and crossed the morning room. She paced to the window and looked out, hoping for some sign of Raul. Or even Arnaud.

Rain streaked the wavy green glass. She squinted, trying to see through the thick windowpane, an unheard of luxury in Eire. She could see naught beyond the wet linden tree drooping outside the window. Rain and more rain. For the past week there’d been nothing but this downpour. Giselle claimed it always rained in Paris in the autumn. The constant drizzle had kept them inside, away from the crowded shops that had delighted Cahira when she’d first arrived.

What was the day of the week? She searched her memory and realized it was a Friday in the middle of the month of October. They’d not been out of the house these five days past. Not since last Sunday when she and Giselle had attended Mass with only a servant to wait upon them.

Raul and Arnaud had disappeared over a week ago and not returned. Not knowing whence they’d gone or why, Cahira was ready to scream and tear her hair out by the roots. Had Raul deserted her? Left her to the kind offices of Giselle? But what of Arnaud? Surely, he wouldn’t abandon his sister without a word.

She remembered the night they’d arrived in Paris when she’d told Raul her patience had worn thin. More fool was she, thinking she could hasten events. It had taken more than a fortnight for Raul to gain an audience with the Grand Master.

After that, she’d seen little enough of Raul. He and Arnaud had come and gone at odd hours. And he hadn’t mentioned the outcome of his audience with de Molay. She’d wanted to confront him and ask what had happened, but something held her back. As much as she longed to return home, she feared facing Raul even more. Since the night he’d spurned her love, she’d found being near him was pure torment.

Turning from the window, she twisted her hands together, feeling as if she was losing her wits, slowly, with each dollop of sand that slipped through the hourglass. Casting about the room for something to take her mind off Raul, she spied her harp, leaning against the hearth. With a sigh, she gathered the familiar instrument into her arms, cradling it as she would a babe. She plucked a few chords, hoping the music might soothe her troubled thoughts and ease the frustration of this constant waiting.

Giselle raised her head again and smiled with an expectant look on her face. Her hostess loved to hear her play, urging Cahira to do so at every opportunity. Cahira settled in a chair and strummed the harp, picking out random chords and tightening a string or two. When she was satisfied with the instrument’s pitch, she began to sing a romantic ballad of love lost.

Part way through, she couldn’t go on. Her eyes filled, and the back of her throat burned. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her words erupted as hiccoughs. Why had she chosen a sentimental ballad? All she could think of was Raul and how he’d scorned her. The harp slid from her grasp, and she covered her face with her hands. The pain inside her was like a living thing, tearing at her.

She heard the rustle of skirts and felt a hand on her shoulder. “
Mon ami
, don’t cry,
s’il vous plait
,” Giselle soothed. “They will come home; you will see.”

How had Giselle known what had made her cry? Though her hostess had guessed her torment, Giselle couldn’t know the depth of her pain, of living with the reality Raul didn’t want her. His unexplained absence and apparent abandonment was but a small part of her misery.

“B-but why have they stayed away so long?”

Giselle sighed and shook her head. “I shouldn’t tell you this for my brother begged me not to.”

Cahira looked up, searching Giselle’s face. Fear and suspicion warred within her breast. What had Arnaud confided in his sister—that Raul’s audience had failed with the Grand Master and he’d deserted her?

“Tell me,” she whispered, “please. I beseech you.”

Giselle knelt before her, taking her hands. “I think I must. For this torment of not knowing is far worse than understanding the obstacles your Raul faces.”

Raul wasn’t hers nor would he ever be. But Giselle, an incurable romantic, had divined the way she felt about him. Closing her eyes, Cahria wished today was but a bad dream. Taking a deep breath, she asked, “What obstacles?”

“Raul’s audience with the Grand Master did not go as planned.”

Cahira’s heart plummeted. She’d expected this, yet at the same time, she’d not given up hope.

“There are other problems with the Order.” Giselle frowned. “My brother did not explain the particulars. All I know is they seek Templar knights to retake your Kinsale.”

“How can that be if the Grand Master doesn’t agree?”

Giselle released her hands and rose. “That’s why my brother didn’t want me to tell you. There is some danger. They’re seeking renegade Templars.”

“Renegade?” Cahira knew what the word meant in Gaelic and of a certainty, it must mean the same in French.