The Princess and the Templar (29 page)

Renegade—outside the law.

Cahira opened her mouth to speak, but before she could form the words, the door to the morning room burst open. Raul and Arnaud stood on the threshold.

Their hair was slick with rain, and their tunics were wrinkled and smudged with dirt. The rims of their eyes were red, as if they hadn’t slept for days. And they both wore identical frowns, their brows drawn together. Despite their forbidding appearance, relief and joy commingled in Cahira’s heart. They were alive and unharmed.

Half rising, she wanted nothing more than to fling herself into Raul’s arms, so glad was she to see him. But Arnaud’s scowl deepened, as if in warning. “Giselle, help Her Highness to pack,” he barked at his sister.

Cahira had never heard Arnaud speak like that. From their first meeting, he’d been calm and polite. Hearing him thus set off warning bells. The gnawing fear in her stomach redoubled. Leveling her gaze at Raul, she asked, “What is it? What has happened?”

Raul locked his gaze with hers and then he looked away, as if he would avoid the truth. “Your Highness,” he began, “we’ve broken from the recognized Templar Order. De Molay and his excesses left us no choice.” Raul glanced at Arnaud. “We’re called renegades, and we must leave Paris.”

So now, they were renegades, too.

“It was only a matter of time, Your Highness,” Arnaud added, the tone of his voice flat, “before we were declared renegades. That’s why I lost no time coming to Paris and urged Raul to place your petition before the Grand Master as quickly as possible.” He spread his hands. “As soon as word came from the Sinclair, I feared de Molay wouldn’t help us. I had hoped to garner his support before he understood the repercussions.”

“But de Molay was too wary and evil to help us,” Raul said. “We had to look for help in other places, and we’ve found a force to retake your castle. But we must move with all haste, else the Grand Master will stop us, for he doesn’t want to alienate the Sinclair.”

“The Sinclair!” Cahira exclaimed. “How can he support the man who tried to slay us?”

Arnaud shrugged. “He’s an ambitious man who would stop at nothing to further his aims.”

A pounding sounded at the front door. Arnaud and Raul exchanged alarmed glances. Arnaud looked to his sister. “Quickly, escape through the cellar.”

Giselle lifted her skirts and tugged at Cahira’s sleeve. “Follow me.”

Giselle crossed to the hearth and struck one of the stones beneath the mantel. With a shuddering groan a part of the wall slid back, opening to reveal a yawning black hole. Motioning for Cahira to follow, Giselle hurried into the passageway, taking the first steps down.

Cahira hesitated, half-turning and glancing over her shoulder at Raul. The pounding increased, followed by the sound of wood splintering. In a thrice, four uniformed French soldiers appeared, swords drawn. Both Raul and Arnaud reached for their swords, but before they could draw, two of the soldiers placed the tips of their blades against the Templars’ chests.

“In the name of Philip the Fair, the King of France, we take you prisoner. All Templars are to be arrested this day to answer to the King’s magistrates for high treason and abominations before Our Lord.”

****

Raul leaned his head against the dank wall of the dungeon. Shifting in the filthy straw, he tried to find a bit of comfort. But the chains pinning him to the wall brought him up short. He could neither lie down nor stand, all his bonds allowed him was an awkward sitting position.

So he sat in the dark, half-awake but never fully asleep, waiting to be summoned before the magistrates. Twice daily, the guards brought gruel and water, sometimes a crust of moldy bread. If it had not been for his careful tracking of these times, he would not know how many days had passed in this black hole of a prison.

By his best reckoning, ten days had come and gone with him chained to the wall like an animal. His beard had grown, and lice covered his body. His skin itched all over, but he could only scratch where the chains reached. And he could smell himself. He, who had prided himself on personal cleanliness, smelled like a boar hog in rut. But in truth, he smelled no worse than the rancid stench of sweat and fear permeating the dungeon.

The other prisoners were strangers, though they were all Templars, taken by Philip IV, on that one black day, Friday, October thirteenth, in the year of our Lord, 1307.

When they’d reached the prison, the guards had separated him from Arnaud, whether by design or caprice, he knew not. And little did it matter. It would be a miracle if either one of them ever saw the light of day again.

Their fate at the hands of the torturers was what his fellow prisoners discussed, of how the French king meant to crush all Templars and steal the Order’s fortune for his royal coffers. It mattered not whether a Templar confessed to treason and practicing abominations. If one confessed, the guards brought his broken body back to the dungeon to await burning at the stake. If he confessed not, then the king’s men tortured him until he died. That was the only choice the Templars had, a slow, agonizing death or a swift, fiery one.

Raul turned his face to the wall, gritting his teeth, trying to stem the rising tide of fury that threatened to suffocate him. The injustice pounded at him, and he stifled a roar of outrage, wanting to tear free and right the hideous wrong done to him and his fellow Templars.

For it was ambition and the endless pursuit of power that had brought his Order to this pass. De Molay’s hideous rites had left the Order open to criticism. The French king, greedy for gold to continue his wars of conquest, had used the profane rites as an excuse to seize the Order’s members and treasure. Raul’s only consolation was de Molay had not escaped. He would be questioned and tortured just like the rest. But even if de Molay lost his life, it would change naught. The world would spin on, turned by greed and ambition.

Men devouring men for a crust of bread, gold, or a castle.

But there was one person who wasn’t like that. Who wanted to safeguard what was hers, it was true, but who wouldn’t want that which belonged to another. Cahira—his Irish Princess. She possessed the heart of a lioness, brave but kind. And she cared about people, whether they be rich or poor, young or old, commoner or noble.

Even a bastard Templar.

She’d offered him everything that night, her castle and lands, her own sweet self, and even her love. He’d taken pains not to think upon it, wiping the memory from his mind and concentrating on restoring her legacy. For if he allowed himself to think of what he’d thrown away, he would surely slide into madness.

Here in the darkness, surrounded by suffering souls, yet alone in his torment, the truth was clear. He was an arrogant fool for spurning her love. For he would have been Cahira’s rightful husband, would have finally known what it meant to have a family.

Would have spent the remainder of his life in her arms.

He’d not believed himself worthy of a princess, even though she’d declared her love for him. Instead, he’d pushed her away, making light of her declaration, attributing her feelings to mere lust.

Madre de Dios
, how he’d managed to twist things in his mind. What a braying ass he’d been, hiding from weakness and fear, though he loved her. And he did love her, more than life itself. He’d tried to tell himself that what he’d done was to spare her feelings.

Now he wasn’t certain—of anything.

Clenching his fists, he half-rose on his haunches and lunged against his chains, reveling in the sharp bite of the manacles and the searing pain in his wrists and ankles. A dozen eyes, their whites gleaming in the dank dungeon, stared at him. He bared his teeth and gave them a feral grin. If they wanted to believe him gone mad, let them.

The wounds at his wrists throbbed, and he could feel the wetness of his blood. Flies soon found the open sores, busily buzzing around his head and arms. Their sonorous drone was almost melodic if he listened closely enough. The sound swelled and receded. His head felt bloated with so much sound. At least the droning blocked out the tortured groans of his fellow prisoners. Slowly, he lowered his head to his chest, courting sleep and a welcome oblivion.

Something jerked him awake. His brain was fuzzy with sleep and his tongue brassy with thirst. The clanking noise jolted him again. Chains dragging on the floor. Someone was coming.

Two guards with a prisoner sandwiched between them, loomed out of the darkness. The guards half-carried, half-dragged the man. Finding a vacant spot next to Raul, one of the guards dumped the man in a groaning, writhing pile, and the other proceeded to shackle him to the wall. To Raul’s practiced eye, it was easy to see the man's joints had been pulled asunder on the rack.

“You needn’t shackle him,” Raul said. “He won’t be going far.”

At his uninvited utterance, the guards exchanged glances. One of them leaned down and drew back his fist. Crack! The sound of the blow echoed through the close confines of the dungeon. Pain exploded in Raul’s head, and he lunged for the guard. But his shackles brought him up short, cutting into his already lacerated flesh. A scream of pure, sweet agony formed in his throat, but he fought it down.

The guard guffawed and straightened, joining his fellow. Without a backward glance, they quit the dungeon.

Raul moved his jaw back and forth, testing the injury. His chin was sore, but no teeth seemed to be loose.

A groan brought his attention back to the tortured Templar the guards had dumped at his feet. Scooting closer to the man, Raul soon found the length of his chains only allowed him to reach the man’s head and shoulders. His gaze swept the injured Templar, taking in the man’s gray-streaked beard and deep wrinkles bracketing his nose and mouth.

Searching for the older man’s pulse, Raul located the faintest fluttering at the base of the graybeard’s neck. The man was still alive, but his heartbeat was faint. He might not live out the night…or was it the day? In this hell hole it was difficult to know the hour.

Gently, Raul lifted his fellow Templar’s head onto his lap and tried to rearrange his twisted limbs, hoping to bring him some small comfort. But as he did so, the prisoner opened his eyes and gazed at him, a low moan bubbling from his throat.

“
Quel, quelle
? Where…am I?” the man asked.

“They brought you here from being interrogated,” Raul replied in French.

The man closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “I remember the rack.” His words were labored and tears spilled from the corners of his eyes. “I’ll…never walk again.”

“You shouldn’t speak of—”

“
Non
, I’m…dying. Better to…better to…”

The man gasped and fell silent. His limbs spasmed, and his skin felt warm to the touch. Raul wished for a cool bucket of water and a soft cloth. But there was naught to ease the man’s suffering. All he could do was wait and offer prayers. And he could hold the man’s head so he wouldn’t die alone.

The prisoner groaned and opened his eyes. “I must tell you…know…Someone must know. I’m Henri St. Remi, a Templar Captain.”

“My name is Raul de Porcelos. And I’m honored to make your acquaintance, sir.”

The ghost of a smile flitted across Henri’s face. “So courteous.” A thin thread of red leaked from the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes again.

As the minutes and hours dragged by, Henri’s face grew increasingly ashen. Raul feared the worst. But without provisions or water, there was little he could do. Still, the stubborn old Frenchman clung to the last shreds of his life.

“Sir de Porcelos.” Henri’s voice was but a rusty rasp.

Raul opened his eyes and found Henri leaning up, his hand clutching Raul’s tunic. “De Porcelos, I don’t have long.” The effort of speaking obviously exhausted him, and he fell back. His mouth still worked, but no sound came out.

Checking Henri’s pulse, Raul realized the older man was on fire with fever. But there was no water. Surely, the guards would bring water if he explained the need.

Henri forestalled him, raising his head an inch. With one beckoning finger, he drew Raul down. “I’m dying…and naught can save me.” He choked and coughed. “A Templar Captain, I’ve…secrets I must tell.” Wheezing, he forced the words out, “I was the keeper of Templar secrets and even on the rack, I didn’t…” Then a spasm of coughing wracked his body, and the blood spewed from his lips in a thick clot.

Raul offered a fervent prayer to end the man’s suffering. He gathered Henri in his arms, holding him closer, cradling him as a mother would a child.

“You…someone must…know.” Henri’s eyes bulged with the effort of speaking. “Templar treasure…I buried it…so the French King…wouldn’t…wouldn’t get his filthy hands…on it.”

Once again, he closed his eyes, and Raul could hear the death rattle in his chest. “Normandy? Do you know Normandy, Spaniard?”

In truth it was one of the few places Raul knew as they’d passed that way coming up the Seine. “Yes, I know something of Normandy.”

“Fécamp…a ruined Benedictine abbey…near the coast…north of Harfleur.” The cough seized him again, and Henri’s frail body shook with the force of it.

Then he went limp. Though his eyes remained open, they began to glaze over. Raul knew he was probably gone. He probed Henri’s throat, searching for a pulse. At the base of the older Templar’s throat, Raul felt a soft flutter. He bowed his head, offering prayers.

“Buried beneath the…sacristy...a sultan’s ransom...from the Crusades,” Henri whispered. “Promise...must promise...retrieve treasure...take to someone you...you trust in Holy Church. But not the pope.” He spat. “Philip’s lapdog. Blood money...only the true Church can…”

Henri’s breath came in short, quick pants. Raul doubted he would escape to retrieve the treasure. Like Henri, he would die on the rack. But he didn’t argue. This was a dying man’s wish, no matter how foolish it might be.

“I promise,” Raul vowed. “You have my word.”

“
Bon
,” Henri sighed and with that one word, his body shuddered and went slack. His chest stilled, and his faint pulse stuttered to a stop.