Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride

Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride Lynna Banning She would be his undoing…A hardened, battle-weary warrior, Reynaud has forgotten what it is to be in the company of a beautiful woman, to delight in her comfort and warmth.On his return to Granada he is drawn to Leonor, and senses that she can heal his hidden scars. She is set upon a dangerous path – a path that they travel together, becoming closer every day… every night. But such forbidden passion might be their undoing… ‘I would keep you safe, Leonor. Protect you from all that is evil and dangerous.’ ‘You know you cannot, Rey. You cannot be with me always. I must learn to protect myself. In your eyes I see two things—anguish and hunger. You are scarred, Rey. You must find some joy in this world to soften your distress.’ Reynaud hesitated. Aye, he had discovered joy. Being near her, hearing her voice, admiring her wit, her courage. Even her stubbornness. Watching her sing those exquisite melodies that caught at his heart and ensnared his soul. Wanting her. AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_06fc11f5-3cdb-53a4-a275-22f48c1c4c25) In the late twelfth century southern France, or Languedoc as it was known then—long a breeding ground for heretics such as the Cathars—was sought by the Templars as a foothold for establishing a Templar presence. They owed allegiance to the Pope, not to the King of France; the kingdom of France wished not only to gain control of lands in southern France but to promote a crusade against Moorish Spain and drive out the Muslims who had ruled there since the eighth century. Twelfth-century society in Moorish Spain was a rich mixture of Muslims, Arabised Christians known as Mozarabs, and Jews. The Knights of Solomon’s Temple, or Knights Templar, founded in 1118 AD, was the most respected military order of the time, trusted and admired by both crusaders and Saracens. The rival Order of St John, or Hospitallers, never gained either the reputation or the enormous treasury garnered by the Templars, who served as bankers as well as diplomatic emissaries for both Muslims and Christians. Southern France exhibited all the panache of the high Middle Ages: troubadours and the concept of courtly love; knights and ladies; tournaments and the code of chivalry; literary and cultural traditions that would be passed on into the Renaissance. Immortalised in songs and stories, it is an age we still relish. Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride Lynna Banning www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) LYNNA BANNING has combined a lifelong love of history and literature into a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she has lived in Northern California most of her life. After graduating from Scripps College she embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher. An amateur pianist and harpsichordist, Lynna performs on psaltery and harp in a medieval music ensemble and coaches in her spare time. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, or visit Lynna’s website at www.lynnabanning.com (http://www.lynnabanning.com) Novels by the same author: HARK THE HARRIED ANGELS (part of One Starry Christmas anthology) THE SCOUT HIGH COUNTRY HERO SMOKE RIVER BRIDE Look for THE LONE SHERIFF Coming September 2014 Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Dedication (#ulink_8b463178-f67b-5ed3-a364-31a31de00e87) For my superb agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins. With grateful thanks to Suzanne Barrett, Tricia Adams, Kathleen Dougherty, Shirley Marcus, Brenda Preston, Joan Powell, Norma Pulle, Dave Woolston and Alicia Rasley. Contents Cover (#u5c11384b-5ef4-5a7f-9496-e3f58882a679) Back Cover Text (#uc5a3b1ac-b18b-5686-98d4-b9711a2f9971) AUTHOR NOTE (#u47991bf1-213a-58c7-b8c1-3a01f1833cab) Title Page (#ufb3e1dda-eac2-5fce-b385-7bd51528c9cf) About the Author (#u69a6fe0d-e6f4-5b4a-be2b-0a1fbdb42bc9) Dedication (#ucc29517f-e995-5955-a268-c7c04a7e15c8) Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Afterword Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#ulink_d41254c9-ecb7-51a4-b1f0-8bebd46cf280) Emirate of Granada, 1167 Reynaud brought his warhorse to a halt and leaned his weary body forwards, scanning the rocky hillside overlooking the River Darro. Below him spread the muddle of flat-roofed houses and open courtyards that made up the Moorish quarter of the city. After twenty years, everything looked smaller than he remembered. He gazed down at the orange groves and almond orchards surrounding the towering stone walls, the whitewashed adobe buildings gleaming in the harsh afternoon sunlight, and felt his gut tighten. He was home. He clenched his teeth and deliberately brought his ragged breathing under control. Would he have returned did he not carry a secret message for the Emir Yusef? Perhaps. Granada was the only home he had ever known. But he had long been absent, and God knew he was much changed. Would he be welcomed by the Arab family that had raised him? Would they even recognise him after all these years? Far below, the muezzin’s thin voice rose in the call to evening prayer. The sun swelled into a bloody orange ball and dipped towards the hills in the west, spreading golden light over the rooftops, and Reynaud’s chest grew tight. How he had loved this city as a boy, loved the exotic, spicy smells wafting from kitchens, the Jews’ crowded bookstalls, the throb and hum of a busy Moorish kingdom. He had even grown to love the muezzin’s chant. He turned the grey stallion on to the sloping path, leaning back in his saddle as the descent steepened. By the time he reached the lightly guarded north gate, darkness shrouded him. The lone guard waved him through the city walls. The moment he rode through the gate he reined the horse to a stop and sat motionless, listening to the sounds of the place where he had grown up. Lute music drifted from a nearby courtyard, punctuated by the sound of someone singing—a woman’s voice, low and rich, the words half-Catalan, half-Arabic. He cocked his head, listening, and slowly inhaled the thick sweet scent of orange blossoms. A pain keen as a lance pierced his heart. Despite his Templar vows, he still ached for the sound of a woman’s voice, the comfort of a woman’s soft body. He thought he had forgotten loneliness, but beneath his white surcoat he was still a man, was he not? He shifted uneasily in the high-backed saddle. He had lost something during the long years of fighting, something he could not name. After a time it had mattered not who was responsible for the pile of mangled corpses behind every city gate. Death smelled the same for Christian and Saracen. A shadow danced against the whitewashed wall. He laid one hand on his sword hilt, studying the silent street of the shoemakers. Someone was following him. No one could predict how the Arabs of Granada would greet a Christian Templar knight in their midst. A thief would want the gold weighting his saddlebags. Reynaud would kill the man, and that would be that. But if it was not the gold he was after…could someone know about the secret message he was carrying? He stepped the nervous horse into the nearest alley, and when it split in two directions, he took the wider path, then doubled back, threading his way through narrow, twisting streets he only half-remembered. Behind him, a gate latch clicked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the scrolled-iron barrier swing open on noiseless hinges, then glimpsed a splash of crimson before an unseen hand slowly pushed the gate closed. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He studied the cobbled street. Even the scraping of the cicadas had ceased, and the feeling that someone watched him sent a snake crawling down his spine. He spurred the horse forwards, every nerve alert. A shrouded figure glided from an alley and Reynaud automatically manoeuvred the stallion to block the man’s path. Resting his hand on his sword, he bent forwards. It was not a man, but a young woman! He stared down at her. From under the hood of her black cloak she looked back at him with defiance in her eyes. ‘What business brings you out this night?’ he bit out. ‘My own business,’ she said calmly from behind her dark face veil. ‘And none of yours.’ She turned to move away, and he caught a whiff of perfume, a mix of sweet-scented roses and something darker. Musk, perhaps. He drew his sword and blocked her way. ‘You should not be out alone. You should be safe in your house.’ This was what he had fought for these long years, not only to free Jerusalem from the infidel, but to protect the civilised world. Protect women from the suffering he had seen, the horror of battle and the cruelty of depraved men. ‘I do what I wish,’ she said with a toss of her head. ‘And it is not what you are thinking. You have no right to hold me here.’ He noted the cut and quality of her garments. Not a street woman, then. ‘I would see you safely home.’ ‘You will not,’ she replied. ‘Who are you to order me about?’ ‘I am a knight of the Temple of Solomon.’ She peered up at him, focused on the red cross stitched on his white Templar surcoat, then lifted her gaze to his. ‘Have you travelled far?’ ‘From Antioch, in the Holy Land.’ She studied him with widening eyes. ‘You must have seen wondrous places on your journey.’ Reynaud blinked at her words. ‘Aye,’ he said slowly, watching her eyes. ‘Great cities and blood-soaked battlefields, where I learned to trust no one.’ ‘And now you come to Granada to waylay women?’ ‘Do not insult me!’ he snapped. ‘Then do not detain me! You have no right.’ She pressed her balled-up fist against the flat of his sword and nudged it aside, then moved to step past him. ‘Wait!’ She spun and pinned him with large grey eyes. ‘Do you not mean wait, “if you please”?’ Reynaud swallowed hard. She was insolent. But he was being unchivalrous. ‘I beg forgiveness. I have been too long on the battlefield.’ ‘Ah,’ she breathed. ‘Still, you are free to travel wherever you wish. I envy you.’ ‘Then you are but a foolish woman.’ Her frame stiffened. ‘That,’ she said, ‘I am not.’ ‘Where is your father? Your husband?’ ‘I have no husband,’ she replied quietly. ‘And at this hour, my father is sleeping.’ ‘Does he know what his daughter is about?’ She sucked in a quick breath. ‘Ah, no, he does not.’ A sour taste flooded his mouth and he spat to one side. ‘He will whip you when he finds out.’ ‘That he will not. This is Granada. Women here have choices they do not enjoy elsewhere.’ His spine jolted upright. ‘Choices? What choices? Women were created to beget children.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You are wrong. Women must—’ Her hair escaped her head covering and tumbled past her shoulders in a satiny, midnight-dark mass. Still holding his gaze, she slowly drew aside her face veil. Full, soft-looking lips curved slightly downwards at the corners. Her teeth shone white as pearls against her sun-bronzed skin. An iron crossbolt slammed into his heart. He could not draw breath. He clenched his jaw. ‘Get you gone.’ She raised her chin. ‘No man orders me thus. Not even a Templar knight.’ She was small and delicate and her eyes were beautiful. He felt the gnawing of his body’s hunger in every muscle and sinew. As a Christian knight, pledged to celibacy, he avoided women. But as a man…God help him, as a man he looked upon her with desire licking at his body. ‘Go,’ he ordered. She shot him a long venomous look, whirled and melted into the dark. Gritting his teeth, Reynaud turned his mount towards the heart of the Moorish sector and the familiar house overlooking the city where he had grown up. In the rambling palace Reynaud paused behind the latticed entrance to his foster uncle’s quarters and tried to steady his heartbeat. Before he could speak, Hassam strode forwards, extending both his hands, and Reynaud was pulled into the older man’s embrace. ‘Welcome, Nephew! I feared never to see you again.’ The older man released him and stepped back. ‘You have changed much.’ Reynaud grasped the vizier’s arm and held it tight. For a moment he could not speak. ‘Uncle,’ he managed. ‘I have seen much that would age a man.’ Hassam smiled. ‘Of that I have no doubt. A man is always anxious to leave his youth behind. Then, when he has outgrown his milk teeth and been blooded in battle, he longs for a return to innocence.’ He smiled again, his teeth a flash of white in the lean, sharp-boned face. ‘It is the same with all men.’ Reynaud studied his uncle. The spare frame outlined under the emerald silk tunic was still erect and proud, the movements agile, even graceful. Only the touch of silver in the dark hair betrayed Hassam’s age. He must be nearly sixty winters. And even though it had been Hassam’s preoccupied younger brother who had raised Reynaud as his foster son, Reynaud loved his uncle more than any man he had ever known. ‘Come.’ Hassam gestured to a low sofa covered with embroidered cushions. ‘Sit with me. We have heard nothing of you for these twenty years. And besides,’ he confided, ‘I have my own reasons for speaking with you alone.’ Reynaud unbuckled his belt and carefully laid the sheathed sword on a carved wooden chest, then settled himself on the couch beside his uncle and waited while he signalled a young slave to bring coffee. ‘What reasons?’ Hassam chuckled. ‘You were ever direct, Nephew.’ ‘Your pardon, Uncle. I have not the time to be otherwise.’ ‘Nor have I.’ Reynaud accepted the tiny cup of fragrant dark liquid the servant proffered and waited until Hassam spoke quietly to the boy and gestured him away. ‘I carry a message for Emir Yusef,’ he said quietly. The vizier nodded, cradling his coffee between thumb and forefinger, but he said nothing. ‘For your ears only. As a Christian knight, I cannot deliver it in person.’ ‘Of course.’ Reynaud hesitated a split second. ‘From the Templar master, Bertrand de Blanquefort, in Acre.’ Hassam’s black eyebrows went up, but his face remained expressionless. The dark eyes that met Reynaud’s were calculating. ‘It is thought, Uncle, that you have Emir Yusef’s ear. That you could deliver this message to him.’ ‘Perhaps. What would such a message concern? I would not play the traitor to Yusef.’ Reynaud held his uncle’s gaze. ‘The Templars wish peace between Arab and Christian forces, Uncle. De Blanquefort would join forces with Granada to maintain a balance of power, and to establish a Templar presence in Spain.’ His uncle swallowed the last of his coffee and positioned the cup on the polished brass tray. ‘Yes, I could convey your Grand Master’s message to Emir Yusef.’ He cast a speculative look at Reynaud and a broad smile lit his face. ‘For a price.’ Reynaud ground his teeth. ‘What price?’ Hassam cleared his throat. ‘My daughter, Leonor, travels to Navarre to visit her great-aunt Alais of Moyanne. I will send an armed escort with her, but when she reaches the town, I fear for her. She will need protection.’ ‘Why?’ Reynaud asked, his tone sharp. ‘Think, man. She is an heiress, with lands in both Aragon and Navarre. She could be kidnapped. Forced to marry.’ Reynaud nodded. ‘Raped, you mean. And married after. It is a common enough means for a landless knight to gain riches.’ ‘She is my only daughter,’ Hassam said simply. ‘I do not wish that for her.’ Again Reynaud nodded. ‘You want me to protect her.’ ‘Aye.’ Hassam grinned. ‘That is the price.’ Reynaud groaned under his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be saddled with Hassam’s daughter. He had not laid eyes on her for a score of years, but even as a child she had been a handful for her nursemaids and tutors, even for her father. She was irrepressible. And more clever than any young girl should be. Besides, he had other, more important business in Moyanne. Business that would be hampered by keeping an eye on Hassam’s daughter. He opened his mouth to protest, but his uncle suddenly rose. ‘Ah, she is here. Leonor, we have a visitor.’ A slim young woman in an ankle-length scarlet tunic glided through the latticed entry, and Reynaud’s heart stopped. Dumbstruck, he gazed at her as if in a dream. It was the street woman! Chapter Two (#ulink_9d15a8d9-7f8c-58d3-b847-48b445a2d69d) Reynaud rose from the sofa as courtesy demanded, his body on fire. They had met not an hour before, on the dark streets of Granada. Why could he not draw breath? Did his uncle know that Leonor…? No, it was not possible. Hassam would not allow it. His uncle cleared his throat politely. ‘Daughter, do you not remember your cousin Reynaud?’ As her father’s words registered, her face changed. The feathery black lashes brushed her cheek, then lifted, and beneath the dark, arched brows her grey eyes widened. She stared at him, her mouth opening to speak, her lips trembling. ‘Reynaud?’ she whispered. ‘Is it truly you? After all these years?’ She reached to touch him, then faltered. ‘It is,’ he said, his voice clipped. His head spun. It mattered not who she was; his physical response to her made him light-headed. She stepped closer and peered up at him. Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘What has happened to you?’ ‘After I left Granada I was made a squire in Vezelay, and taken on crusade to the Holy Land. Etienne de Tournay knighted me in the field.’ With a cry she took his face in her hands and stretched up to kiss his cheek. ‘You sent no word, not one. Not a messenger, not even a letter in all these years. I thought you were dead!’ His throat closed. He wished he were dead. As custom dictated, he bent stiffly and brushed her forehead with his lips. Her skin tasted of roses. What could he say? With a wave of his hand Hassam motioned them both to be seated. Reynaud uneasily resumed his place on the sofa; after a covert glance at her father, Leonor perched on a square silk cushion at his feet. A heavy, awkward silence descended. Leonor refused to meet his eyes, and in the oppressive quiet the uneven beating of his own heart pounded in his ear like a Saracen war drum. After an interminable minute, she raised her head. ‘Now that you have returned—’ ‘I have not returned,’ he said shortly. ‘I travel the world on missions for the Templar Grand Master. This is but one chapter in an ever-changing book. I belong nowhere.’ ‘You are welcome always in Granada,’ Hassam interjected. A rush of warmth swept through him. Under his surcoat his heart swelled with a bittersweet pain. He must leave this place, and soon. He would not dishonour Hassam’s daughter by revealing what he knew of her, yet he could not lie to his uncle. Leonor wrapped her arms around her folded legs, resting her chin on her knees. ‘Perhaps you would tell me now of your adventures?’ Still, she would not look at him. He frowned at the edge in her voice. ‘I will not. The things I have seen are not fit for a woman’s ears.’ ‘My ears are not so delicate,’ she murmured. She lifted her head and pinned him with her gaze. ‘Not all women are weak.’ ‘And in truth,’ he muttered, ‘you are not like all women.’ Her grey eyes sparked with anger. ‘So, you are now a Templar knight. It was always your dream to become a knight, was it not? That is why you left Granada. Was it not?’ He ignored the bite in her question. ‘Have you other dreams beyond fighting battles? It must take great courage to impose your will on others,’ she said. The venom in her tone made him flinch. Hassam stared at his daughter with puzzled eyes. ‘Courage I still have,’ he said quietly. ‘But as for dreams, I…I no longer believe in dreams. I believe in nothing save my horse and the bite of my sword.’ She sat motionless, her grey eyes clouding. ‘Then you are adrift, like a boat with no sail, tossed on the sea.’ Reynaud groaned inwardly. He was more than adrift. He had lost more than hope in his journeys. He had lost the sense of belonging. Of knowing who, or what, he was. And now, of knowing who she was. Was Leonor his uncle Hassam’s treasured daughter? Or a woman of the streets? Her lips curved in an odd little half-smile. ‘I long to see the world and its wonders. To do this, I must leave my father’s house.’ Reynaud held her eyes. Did she comprehend none of what he had said earlier? Did she not care about her proper place as a woman? True, his own restless life made him feel as if he were drifting, a twig carried on a river that flowed he knew not where. She, at least, had a home. ‘The world is not a pretty place.’ She smiled again, and his heartbeat stuttered. How he wondered at her physical effect on him! ‘I understand that all too well,’ she said, her tone cool. ‘I am often at Emir Yusef’s court.’ She held his gaze, daring him to betray her to Hassam. ‘I speak three languages, and I am invited to the palace to play chess and join the musicians. Life is to be enjoyed. Do you not think so?’ ‘You live in a household of wealth and learning,’ he said tightly. ‘You have no idea of life outside of Granada.’ Her eyes flashed fire. ‘Do not lecture me as if I were a child.’ She glanced at her father, then looked down, crushing the silk of her tunic in her fist. ‘I do want to see the outside world. To learn. Is that wrong?’ ‘No. Not wrong. But foolish.’ He studied her flowing red tunic, the sheer face veil she had again drawn to one side. ‘Outside of Granada, you would stand out, like a blossoming orange tree in the desert.’ ‘That I know. It is because I am…different.’ She was certainly that. Like an exquisite jewel among rubble, enticing and unattainable. ‘You are only half-Arab,’ he reminded. ‘And you have grown up in the privileged household of Hassam. Benjamin the Scholar tutored you in history and philosophy, and I recall that your Christian mother taught you writing and languages before you could walk properly.’ ‘And music,’ she added, her eyes glowing. He tore his gaze away from her. ‘You are old enough to be married,’ he said bluntly. ‘How is it you are not?’ Her soft smile sent a wave of prickly sensation straight to his groin. ‘Were it not for the Emir’s protection…’ she shot a look at her father ‘…I would have been married off long ago, a plum in some prince’s garden of wives. As it is, I am fortunate to have attained seven and twenty winters yet untouched by a man.’ ‘Hassam must have an understanding heart,’ he said drily. She gave her nodding father a wry smile. ‘I think my father’s heart is not the reason. Benjamin says it is because my mind is one hundred years old and sharp as a wolf’s teeth. Suitors leave my father’s receiving room tongue-tied and shaking their heads.’ ‘You know little of men,’ he said. ‘They are not so easily deterred.’ She raised her chin in a gesture he remembered from long ago. ‘Doubt me not, Reynaud. I know a great deal about men. I have studied my father and the men who visit him. And guests and dignitaries, both Christian and Arab, who flock to the vizier’s palace. I watch and I listen, and I evaluate.’ ‘Why?’ The question grated past stiff lips. Hassam rose and moved to the latticed entrance and signalled for more coffee. Leonor shot a glance at his back. ‘Because,’ she said in an undertone, ‘if I cannot have a man to whom I can give my whole heart and soul, then I want no man at all.’ Reynaud rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and shifted uncomfortably on the pillow-strewn couch. Was she in truth untouched? That was hard to believe, considering where he had encountered her earlier this evening. His attraction to her disturbed him more than he could admit. He gritted his teeth against the insistent swelling of his manhood. ‘And Hassam agrees to this…this dream of yours? Freedom to choose one’s own husband is rarer than swords of Byzantine silver.’ She studied the retreating figure of her father and lowered her voice. ‘He does not yet know of it. But I also make other choices,’ she said, pronouncing the last word with special care. ‘Not one word of this to my father,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘The man has worries enough with the fate of Granada balanced on his plate.’ Reynaud jerked his head up and caught her pleading gaze. ‘Not one word about what? Tell me the truth, Leonor.’ ‘I…’ She leaned closer. ‘I visit the gypsies at night. That is why I was on the street earlier.’ Unconsciously he clenched his fists against his thighs. ‘What? Why?’ ‘I wish to learn their songs. Gypsy songs.’ ‘Why?’ he snapped again. ‘Because I love their strange, sad music. And I plan—’ She broke off. Suspicion lowered his voice to a growl. ‘What do you plan?’ She studied the satin slippers peeking from under her tunic. ‘Tomorrow I begin a journey, as I’m sure Father told you. He will fuss and pace about his quarters until he receives word that I am safe in Moyanne with Great-Aunt Alais, but he agrees to let me go. Not for all the jewels in Persia would I add to his worries.’ ‘And what,’ Reynaud said carefully, ‘might those worries be?’ Leonor ignored the question and tipped her head to one side, resting her cheek against her bent knees. ‘Father need not know of the adventure I dream of,’ she murmured. ‘That is for myself alone.’ Adventure? Reynaud’s spine tingled. She had not changed a jot since she was a child. She was far too clever for her own good. She was headstrong. And more stubborn than the worst of Hassam’s pack mules. ‘Tomorrow,’ she continued, her voice distant, ‘when the sun spreads apricot light—oh! Isn’t that a lovely word, “apricot”? When the sun spreads apricot light across the sky, I will spread my wings outside the walls of Granada.’ No wonder Hassam wanted protection for her. Her head was full of dreams. She must never seek the outside world. It was ugly, dirty, full of depravity. Leonor was yet untouched by the degradation he had seen, by the sins and selfish manoeuvring of men. He would save her from that world. If he could. The problem was she did not want to be saved. He sighed in defeat. She was an exquisitely beautiful woman, her skin smooth as fine ivory, her every movement graceful. Sensual. He did not like her talk of adventure. What was she planning to do, apart from visiting her great-aunt? He would have to watch her every moment. Clenching his teeth, he turned away just as Hassam returned to the room. Like it or not, he had pledged his word to his uncle. Therefore, so be it. Chapter Three (#ulink_5433c3e3-5037-5196-b164-0ee538cb3876) Reynaud removed his sword belt and mail shirt and leggings, stretched out on the soft sleeping couch and willed himself to tame his roiling thoughts. In the years he had been away, Leonor had grown from a playful sprite of a girl into a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman. He could not forget the scent of her hair, the sheen of her skin. And he could not forget how foolishly eager she was to leave the safety of Granada. Her innocence was dangerous. She knew nothing of the harsh world outside this luxurious palace in this enlightened kingdom. In truth, he himself felt out of place surrounded by the opulence of his Uncle Hassam’s home. In truth, he no longer knew where he belonged. He laid his head wherever his Templar orders took him, even to Hassam’s spacious home with its brightly tiled courtyards and the sound of splashing fountains in every room. He was to deliver the Templar proposal to Emir Yusef, then await orders for his next destination after Moyanne, to be delivered by someone in Yusef’s employ. But he did not yet know who. Neither did he know the final destination of the Templar gold he carried. He tried to soothe his restless spirit with the trickle of fountains and the carefree chirping of night birds nesting among the branches of tamarisk trees, but memories of battle followed him wherever he went. The bloodshed, the unending senseless slaughter, the stench of burning fortresses and rotting corpses—it sickened him. With all his heart he wished he could be washed clean of his sins. Abruptly he sat bolt upright. Was he still a pious follower of Almighty God? Or was he now a mercenary killer available to the highest bidder? At some point he needed to know what, and who, he really was. Otherwise, he could forge no other future for himself. The next morning Reynaud gazed across the flat brown plain into the hazy distance, then reined in his grey destrier and waited for the armed escort Hassam had sent to guard Leonor. The way was clear; he had already scouted ahead for bandits. For a long while all he could see were puffs of dust rolling towards him. No sound broke the quiet but the wind whispering through the pine scrub and the thud of hoofbeats against the hard-baked ground. Some minutes later, two horses and a mule plodded into view, laden with travel chests and surrounded by the Arab warriors. He raised one hand in silent greeting. A large dun horse carried a tall elderly man, his black robe flapping behind his bent frame like the wings of an ancient crow. Reynaud had to smile. Benjamin of Toledo, his old tutor! The other rider, well mounted on a cream-coloured Arab mare, wore leather riding boots, a short, drab tunic and a white turban and head veil. He studied the slight figure through narrowed eyes and his heart lurched. It was Leonor! Every nerve jolted to attention. Travelling in disguise made good sense, but by the look of Leonor’s jaunty smile she was truly revelling in her masquerade. She had always loved masquerades. He signalled to Sekir, Hassam’s personal bodyguard, and pressed among the Arab warriors until he came face to face with his cousin. She flicked a glance at him, studied his chainmail hauberk, then his helmet. After a long moment her shining eyes met his and his heart stuttered. ‘You are following us,’ she observed, her voice accusing. ‘True, and not true. I travel with you, but at a distance, to watch for bandits. I promised Hassam I would look to your welfare.’ She frowned. ‘I do not want you to look to my welfare. You, with your battle-scarred soul and your distrust of the world, would never let me do anything. Particularly not what I have in mind.’ With an eloquent lift of her dark eyebrows, she flapped her reins and rode on past him. Stung, Reynaud circled his horse to block her path. Thoughtfully she pursed her lips. The gesture sent red-hot needles dancing along the skin behind his neck. He remembered that look. Even as a boy that gaze could make his heart thud in his bony chest like a smithy’s hammer. With Leonor he’d never known what to expect. How she had loved playing tricks. Benjamin rode up, peering at her from under his bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Ay, Jehovah,’ he grumbled. ‘Why do you stop in the middle of the road?’ The old man paid no attention to Reynaud; apparently he did not recognise his old student. ‘I was…reviewing my plan,’ Leonor replied, a happy lilt in her voice. Reynaud’s belly knotted. What plan? What was she up to besides visiting her great-aunt? The old man’s black eyes rounded. ‘What, again? Can you not ride and plan at the same time?’ She laughed softly. ‘I can do many things at the same time, Benjamin. As you well know.’ ‘Do not remind me,’ Benjamin growled. He tried in vain to hide the fond look in his dark eyes. Reynaud groaned inwardly. When she was young, Leonor had tied her father into knots. Now she was grown, and so comely that the soft curves of her body made his skin burn. Keeping an eye on her would be a challenge. Considering his body’s response to her, it would be an ordeal by fire! He nodded to Benjamin, kicked the grey warhorse into a trot and turned his face towards the rocky grey hills to the west. What devil had prompted him to agree to protecting her? He circled around behind the party of riders to make sure they were not followed through the remote mountain pass leading to the walled town of Moyanne. He knew the town. As a youth, in Moyanne he had learned about wine from Burgundy and women from…everywhere. The old hunger bit into his loins and he straightened in the saddle and willed his thoughts elsewhere. He had fought too hard to become a Templar knight to sacrifice his honour for a mere itch of the flesh. With undisguised relish Leonor studied the moss-covered stone walls enclosing the small village of Moyanne, then peered upward at the dark stone castle on the hilltop beyond. After the bustling streets and brilliant-coloured tiled buildings of Granada, this pretty little town looked as if nothing had changed for a hundred years. Surely Great-Aunt Alais must lead a peaceful life in such a place. The flock of sparrows in her belly fluttered to life, and she nudged the cream-coloured mare forwards. Some minutes later the two horses and the mule clopped over the castle’s planked drawbridge and through the raised portcullis to enter a cobblestone bailey surrounded by a hodgepodge of wooden buildings. From the closest drifted the sound of clanging metal, followed by the hiss of steam. The smithy’s quarters. She studied the inhabitants of the bailey. Stable boys, washing women, even a sour-faced priest. Unconsciously she looked for an even more sour-faced Reynaud, but there was no sign of her moody cousin. Good. She was not a child who needed tending. Pages ran forwards to help them dismount and unload the baggage from the pack mule tied behind Benjamin’s mount. The instant she slid off the cream mare an icy shard of fear stabbed beneath her breastbone. She was here at last. She could turn her dream into a triumph…or she could make such a fool of herself that no one, not even Benjamin, would ever speak to her again. Worse, perhaps they would laugh at her. Her chest felt as if jagged rocks were piling up behind her ribs. She was not just frightened, she was petrified! She swallowed hard. ‘Benjamin, I am…I am somewhat afraid.’ The old man sent her a quick sideways look. ‘All things have their price, little one. Especially great adventures.’ His black eyes twinkled. She frowned at him. ‘Oh, Ben…In truth, I am very afraid.’ Benjamin um-hummed beside her. ‘Tell me,’ he urged in his soft rumbly voice. ‘I cannot explain, exactly. All my life I have dreamed of the time when I would leave my father’s house and seek my own destiny.’ ‘Ah, and here you are, are you not?’ She turned her gaze away from his narrow wrinkled face and focused instead on the portcullis behind them. Any moment Reynaud would clatter over the drawbridge. She did not want him to know she was afraid. She resented his dutiful overprotectiveness. And his disapproval of her. ‘One part of me can hardly wait!’ she blurted. ‘Another part of me wants to turn back and ride to the safety of my father’s house.’ ‘Which do you want most?’ her tutor queried in his gravelly voice. She drew in a shaky gulp of air. ‘I have ridden all the way from Granada to follow the joyous art. Gai saber it is called in the courts of Aquitaine. What I want most is…is to try.’ Benjamin merely nodded and his black eyes softened. ‘And, so?’ he murmured. Yes, she would try. She would do it this very night, exactly as she’d planned these many months. She caught a passing page by the sleeve and tugged him to attention. ‘I would speak with the Lady Alais. In private.’ The boy’s eyes widened for an instant, then he raced off and disappeared through a narrow doorway. Leonor lifted her harp, wrapped in a nest of carpets carried on the pack mule, squared her shoulders and marched towards the castle entrance. Chapter Four (#ulink_270057ea-adc3-5081-9cbc-256ba8cd88ed) From the rampart overlooking the bailey Reynaud watched for a moment longer, his pulse jumping in an irregular beat at the sight of the slim girlish figure in the white turban. With a curse he turned away from the battlement and descended the narrow circular staircase. He had important business here in Moyanne besides looking after Leonor. Whoever was to contact him while he was here, with instructions for disposing of the Templar gold hidden in his saddlebags, would use the coded password de Blanquefort had given him. Beyond that, his Grand Master had told him nothing. So he must wait. But each time he laid eyes on Leonor, a warm rush of blood beat in his chest, and the darkness inside him lifted. Though his spirit was weary, his body was becoming frighteningly alive. In the great hall the huge stone fireplace stood empty. Moyanne’s summer heat left the evening air balmy and still until long past Lauds. It reminded him of Syria, except that nights there were never quiet. The smoky flames of rushlights illuminated the noisy company assembled in Count Henri’s hall. The count and his lady-wife Alais welcomed him with unfeigned cordiality, yet again he felt out of place, neither Frankish nor Arab. To his surprise, Reynaud found himself sitting in the place of honour at Count Henri’s right hand. Henri himself, the count confided, had served as a Hospitaller. He had a fondness for knights of a military order, even the rival order of Knights Templar. A portly wine server made his leisurely rounds from the raised dais to the linen-covered trestle tables abutting each end. Reynaud drank deeply from his overflowing cup and tried to screen out the noise and bustle. Lords and ladies in silks and ribbons, knights, churchmen in sombre robes, even children were crowded together in the warm, sweat-scented room. He focused on the nimble juggler in the centre area. Dressed in tight red hose and a belled cap, the fellow tossed yellow apples into the air, bouncing them off his arms before catching them. Count Henri leaned towards him. ‘Later,’ he said in an undertone, ‘there will be dancing.’ Reynaud hid a grimace. Before he had made his vows, dancing with a woman had brought him pleasure. Now he contented himself with watching the assembled guests for a glimpse of Leonor. When he had assured himself that she was safe and protected, he would count the hours before Compline and then sleep. He gulped the rich, sweet liquid in his wine cup and tried to concentrate on his host’s conversation over the rattle of eating knives and bursts of laughter. But his gaze moved from face to face, for the thousandth time studying knight and noble lady alike. Where was Leonor? ‘Drink up, Reynaud,’ the count urged. ‘Our meal will be…’ he slanted an amused look at Lady Alais ‘…delayed somewhat. My lady-wife’s favourite hound whelped this afternoon. She promised a pup to the cook.’ Lady Alais covered her husband’s hand with her own. ‘Cook could not decide which of the six she preferred, my dear. Truth to tell, neither could I. They are all quite handsome.’ She glanced at Reynaud. ‘Perhaps you, Sir Reynaud, would like a companion?’ Reynaud shook his head at the tall, still elegant older woman in the simply cut, dark blue gown. ‘Not I, lady. I travel overmuch to care for a pup. Neither have I time in which to train it.’ In truth, he found it difficult to stay in one place for very long. He was footloose, and when he had time on his hands he tended to brood. He welcomed orders that sent him on another journey. Alais gave him a gentle smile. ‘A pity. I fear there are too many pups to keep, but I cannot bear to see them drowned.’ She turned to the heavy-set man on her left. ‘My Lord Robert, have you a hound?’ Henri chuckled and saluted his wife with his raised wine cup. He drank, then winked at Reynaud. ‘I’ll not drown them,’ he said in an undertone. ‘But if she thinks I will, it will spur her to find homes for the little brutes all the quicker. Women, bless them, are soft-hearted creatures when it comes to young things.’ The count’s face stilled for an instant. ‘Perhaps it would not be thus if she had had babes of her own.’ ‘You have no offspring, my lord?’ ‘I have a son,’ Henri said quietly. ‘His mother died in birthing him. He was a man full grown when Alais came to me as a bride.’ ‘Does he still live?’ ‘Perhaps. If God wills it. I have not seen him for thirty summers. He was fostered with my brother, Roger of St Bertrand, at Carcassonne and thence travelled across the sea to Jerusalem. A handsome lad he was, before he left.’ ‘I met many from Navarre while in the Holy Land. How was your son called?’ ‘Bernard,’ the count replied. ‘But he was not a knight of your order. He was also a Hospitaller.’ Before he could question the count further, a young boy appeared at the far end of the hall, a harp slung over one slim shoulder. A floppy velvet cap drooped over his features. Count Henri’s eyes went wide with surprise, but Reynaud’s heart lifted. A troubadour! He had not heard a troubadour ballad since he rode out of Vezelay as a squire twenty years past. And God knew his weary heart was hungry for solace. Leonor paused at the entrance to the main hall and waited for her aunt’s signal from the head table. Quickly she adjusted her grip on the harp and pushed a stubborn strand of hair up under her green velvet cap. Benjamin gently squeezed her arm. ‘Go with God, little one,’ he whispered. ‘Shalom.’ The moment had come. Her heart leaped like an untamed hawk straining at its jesses. The sting of poetry had always sent a thrill to her midsection, like being blown aloft by a holy breath. When she sang the words of her heart, the world stopped turning, and for a brief moment she felt at one with all humankind. But only in the land of Aquitaine, where Great Eleanor ruled, was there a woman troubadour. It was whispered that at Eleanor’s court there were even women poets! Yet this was Moyanne, not Aquitaine. Perhaps they would not welcome a woman troubadour. Her mouth went dry as a thistle. At her aunt’s beckoning gesture, she started forwards, her heart thudding in her ears. If she glanced down at the loose-fitting silk tunic, it would be visibly fluttering over her chest with each beat. Better not to look. She raised her chin and gazed across the hall. Next to her Uncle Henri sat Reynaud, tall and dark-haired in his white surcoat. She focused on the eight-pointed crimson cross emblazoned on his chest and willed her shaking limbs to carry her forwards, towards him. Reynaud’s body suddenly went cold. That was no young minstrel. That was Leonor gliding towards him! And, God save her, she was wearing trousers! What was she thinking, entering the hall in a man’s garb? And carrying a harp? Women did not perform in public. Certainly not a high-born woman like Leonor, educated in languages and versed in court etiquette. Surely she knew better. Henri’s guests would not listen to the music a woman would make. They would shout until she ceased singing. Unable to breathe, Reynaud followed her progress through the horde of servants and guests in the crowded hall. She looked so small. And defenceless. Her simple embroidered tunic reached almost to the floor, and on her head she wore a matching green cap with a jaunty feather. But under the boy’s apparel she was unmistakably female! The delicate bones in her face, her graceful, sinuous motions screamed Woman. His breath choked off. Did no one see what was so apparent to him? She was safe only if none realised she was female! He ground his teeth in an agony of frustration. It was too late to stop her. The room buzzed in anticipation. Leonor advanced to the centre and bowed courteously to the count and Lady Alais. Alais leaned towards her husband. ‘My dear, this is the harper I told you of earlier.’ At her significant look, Henri turned his full attention towards the youth. Leonor sank on to a round wooden stool and bent her head to check her tuning. The hall quieted. Under his surcoat Reynaud began to sweat. The crowd would not receive her well. How could he protect her in this foolhardy venture? He had stashed his sword belt, along with those of the other knights, with the burly guard at the hall entrance. Now, he had no weapon. Silence dropped over the hall like soft mist. When the hush thickened, Leonor straightened, pulled the harp back on to her right shoulder and plucked a single chord. Then she began to sing. In spite of his pounding heart, he could not shut out her voice. What beautiful music! Her voice was low and melodious, rich in timbre. A woman’s voice, not the voice of the girl he remembered. And such poetry! The words, in Arabic, described the soaring of a lark, the flight of a heart in ecstasy. The verses were so beautifully wrought that his chest tightened. The backs of his eyelids began to burn. Not since his youth had a song touched him so deeply. His throat ached. He wanted to weep. The throb of her harp through his soul was almost painful, the longing aroused in him gnawing at his vitals. Ah, he could stand no more. He clenched his hands until his knuckles cracked, and then, mercifully, the mesmerising voice and the murmur of the harp faded into silence. He waited, scarcely able to draw breath. Leonor dipped her head in a subtle obeisance to the count and Lady Alais but remained motionless on her stool. Reynaud could not take his eyes off her. No one made a sound. At his elbow, Count Henri gaped open-mouthed at the slim figure in the centre of the hall. ‘By the saints,’ he breathed into the lingering hush. She raised her head at last, and Reynaud saw that her grey eyes glittered with unshed tears. Pandemonium broke out. Nobles and commoners alike banged their wine cups on the table and cheered until they were hoarse. Reynaud drew in an unsteady breath. She had enchanted them. Thank God. Thank God! She rose, stepped to the high table, and knelt on one knee before Count Henri and Lady Alais. Then she reached a small, fine-boned hand up to her feathered cap and with a quick motion drew it off and placed it across her heart. Hair the colour of black silk tumbled down her slender back. The crowd gasped. ‘A woman!’ someone shouted. ‘The minstrel is a woman!’ Reynaud was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, intending to head towards the wooden rack of swords at the front of the hall. Never before had he felt such an overpowering need to protect someone. He halted as an underlying truth burned into his brain. Never before had he felt such a gut-deep yearning to touch another human spirit. But a woman? His vows forbade it. He had to escape whatever it was pulling his soul to hers. The shouting of the dinner guests echoed in the stone hall and then, abruptly, all noise ceased. His body began to tremble. She would play again. He didn’t think he could stand it. Chapter Five (#ulink_d33407c4-003c-5e4d-a813-6fb3e202c978) Reynaud rose to escape from the table, but the count turned to him. ‘Stay, man,’ he commanded in an undertone. With a hand heavy as a mace, he pressed Reynaud back into his seat at the linen-covered table. The clatter of eating knives and drinking cups ceased. Quiet descended over the crowded hall and Reynaud clamped his teeth together. Without discourtesy to his host, he could not escape. Leonor adjusted the tuning on one peg, idly strummed her slim fingers once, twice across the strings in a seemingly spontaneous melodic pattern. A tune gradually emerged, and then a countermelody bloomed underneath it. Her long fingers floated over the harp strings, her slender hands like winged birds in motion. Her hair, dark as midnight, fell forwards to obscure her features, and when she brushed it back in the quick, unconscious gesture he remembered, something tore at his gut. She was seven and twenty now, and she took his breath away! The last notes of the song resonated off the thick stone walls, and Leonor lifted her head and met his gaze. Beneath the dark, arched brows her smoke-grey eyes sent him a challenging look. His throat closed. ‘So, my friend.’ Count Henri chuckled. ‘I wager you did not recognise her at first. She is a feast for the eyes, is she not?’ Reynaud sat without moving, unable to speak. ‘My lord?’ Leonor’s low, clear voice at his side jerked him to attention. ‘Since you have lately returned from the land across the sea, is there some music you would hear? The count asks it in your honour.’ Reynaud flicked a glance at Count Henri, who was grinning at him over his wine cup. Damn the man. The count bobbed his head as if to say, Well? Does she not make an exquisite troubadour? Reynaud swallowed over a lump the size of the juggler’s apple. ‘I do have a request.’ He watched Henri settle his bent form back in his chair, his lips twitching in anticipation. Leonor’s grey eyes lifted to his. ‘And that is?’ He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘I wish to talk with you. In private.’ Count Henri choked out, ‘Talk?’ He eyed Reynaud in exasperation. Reynaud nodded. ‘Talk,’ he repeated. He shot the count a swift look. ‘I mean no discourtesy, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘For the moment, might I have your indulgence?’ A frown creased Count Henri’s ruddy forehead. ‘Indulgence?’ In the next instant his eyes brightened. ‘Oh! Yes, I see now. You young cousins would be private, of course! Forgive my slowness.’ He tapped his skull with one beringed finger. ‘My age, you know. Go now, and talk.’ Leonor’s eyes widened. ‘But, Uncle—’ ‘Whsst, child. Do as I say. You will be glad for it, I promise you.’ Henri waved her away. ‘Go! Go ! Shoo !’ Leonor reached across the table and patted the old man’s hand. ‘Never before have I been allowed to be private with a man, Uncle. Thank you!’ At Henri’s startled look, Leonor sent him a dazzling smile. ‘I am sure the experience will greatly further my education.’ Reynaud suppressed the laugh that rose in his throat. A man stood little chance against that one. Leonor beckoned. ‘Will you follow me, my lord?’ In the narrow passageway just off the great hall, Leonor turned to face him. ‘We are private now, my lord. What did you wish?’ His face betrayed no emotion save for an odd tightness about his mouth, but his eyes spoke volumes. They were green as the winter sea, and wary. He reminded her of a falcon her father had once trained—disciplined and powerful. He looked like one who could kill a man in a heartbeat, then fall to his knees and pray for forgiveness. He stood looking at her while she studied his strained, unsmiling face in silence. Never in her entire life had she wondered so about a man. His features were young, but his eyes looked old. Something about Reynaud drew her like a silver coin to a lodestone. ‘Why do you look so sour?’ she murmured. ‘I have my reasons,’ he said shortly. ‘I would wager you have dark places inside you that few, if any, have plumbed. Rey, I do not wish to be your enemy.’ He took a step forwards. For all the strength of his broad shoulders and length of limb, he was oddly graceful. Would he dance as beautifully as he moved? A slow, delicious heat crept into her belly. She wanted to touch him. What was she thinking? She forced herself to look into his face. ‘You wished to speak to me?’ Reynaud fought the impulse to reach out and drag her against his chest. His hands ached to twine his fingers through that silky hair. ‘Leonor, you need not address me as “my lord”.’ ‘“My lord” implies no allegiance, only the respect due to a knight of a holy order.’ ‘Knight I am. Lord, I am not. I am landless, as you well know. Adrift, as you said before.’ ‘Landless, perhaps,’ she said, her voice soft as leaves, ‘but not bereft of prospects, I would think. There is some reason for your presence in Moyanne, is there not? Other than my father’s concern for me, that is.’ Her candour startled him. She looked steadily into his eyes with no hint of artifice. Reynaud had forgotten how direct Leonor could be, even as a child. Then, too, she could hide her thoughts as well as he could. ‘You know I am bastard-born. Brought to Hassam’s house at birth in a basket of woven reeds. Prospects for such as myself are rare as roses in hell.’ She continued to regard him with eyes soft as grey velvet. ‘Still…’ She paused and unconsciously rimmed her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘If it does not displease you, I will yet call you “my lord”.’ Reynaud’s heart stuttered. Displease him! If she only knew. Desire heated his loins. A whiff of her fragrance, jasmine-sweet and faintly musky, reached his nostrils and he shut his eyes to savour the scent. He felt himself grow hard with wanting her. He twisted away and stared at the stone floor beneath his feet, commanding his body to obey him. He must break the spell she cast, must move away from her. He took a step backward. ‘Stay, Reynaud. I have offended you?’ ‘I—no. You offend no one.’ It is I who offends. For a moment he forgot he was a Templar. A warrior-monk, pledged to celibacy. No, there was more to it than that. Leonor was young and happy. A joyous being, eager for life. He was shackled not only by his vows, but by bitterness and distrust. Being near her cast a shadow on her gaiety, her joy in thinking all was well with the world. He would always drag her down. Leonor closed the short distance between them and laid her hand on his arm. ‘You wished to talk?’ she reminded a third time. Ah, yes, talk. ‘Leonor, what are you about, posing as a minstrel in your uncle’s house?’ He spoke roughly. ‘Posing! I am not “posing”, I am performing as a troubadour. There is naught wrong in it. It has been my dream all my life, to travel and play music and see some of the world.’ ‘It is dangerous.’ ‘Why? Because I am a woman?’ ‘Aye.’ ‘Why should a woman exist only to be locked away in a prison of some man’s making? A woman is not created only to pleasure a man. A woman is created to be herself.’ Reynaud clenched his fists at his sides. ‘That is laughable.’ ‘That is not laughable! I love music, as you well remember. I wish to share it.’ ‘You can share it in Granada. In the privacy of your father’s house.’ She propped her small hands on her hips. ‘I wish to travel beyond Granada. I am curious about the world.’ He scowled down at her. ‘You were always curious. I expected you would grow out of it.’ ‘Well, I did not,’ she snapped. ‘I am interested in things besides pleasing a man.’ By the saints and angels, did she not understand? ‘You are reaching for disaster. Being a troubadour is not for a woman. Especially not one such as you.’ ‘You are wrong, Rey. Your view is jaded because of your own inner wounds. I will not let your distrust of the world spoil my dream. Besides there is naught you can do.’ ‘Your father—’ ‘Will not know.’ ‘I fear for you. You do…the unexpected. You know nothing of the world.’ ‘I am learning,’ she snapped. ‘You should be pleased for me.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘I am not pleased.’ ‘Is that what you wished to say to me?’ ‘Aye,’ he said in a hard voice. She straightened her spine. ‘Well, then, my lord, is there a song you would hear?’ Reynaud groaned. ‘We had no minstrels in the Holy Land. God knows, we had little cause for singing.’ She nodded in understanding and sent him a half-smile. ‘Since you had no minstrels, your heart must be hungry.’ He flinched as if struck. His jaw muscles tightened. No one had ever come nearer the truth. ‘I will sing for you three tunes in the Catalan style, and you may judge which you like best.’ She tugged him to face her and gazed up at him, her usually downturned mouth curving so deliciously he wanted to put his hand over her lips to hide them from his sight. ‘Do not be angry with me, Rey. I seek only to be happy in this life, as do you.’ She moved towards the doorway. Reynaud moved to block her way. ‘How would one such as you know what I seek in this life? Do you think making oneself happy is all there is?’ Leonor brushed away both questions with a wave of her hand. ‘Come,’ she urged again. ‘Your songs await within.’ At her entrance, a cheer went up. Leonor inclined her head in acknowledgement, then took up her harp. Reynaud stood off to one side in the shadows, his mind in turmoil. He tried to concentrate on the sound of the harp, the words of the verse half-sung, half-spoken in the blend of Sephardic and Arabic tongues known as Ladino. Something about a knight and four maidens. He glanced around him at the avid dinner guests in the over-warm hall. The men were entranced. She began another song, a lai in triple time, the rhythm an intricate variation of the Arab zajal. Reynaud struggled to close his ears to the entrancing sound. He leaned against the hard stone wall at his back, shut his eyes and steeled his spirit to listen to the seductive rise and fall of Leonor’s voice. Her final song cut deep. The heartrending melody full of longing and passion wound its way into his gut. His throat closed suddenly into an aching knot. And then a line of verse leaped into his consciousness. ‘Know you the silver swan?’ Instantly, his entire body stiffened, his heart plunging into an irregular thumping. He stared across the room at Leonor. By all that was holy, she had sung the coded words de Blanquefort had entrusted to him. Thunderstruck, he could not make a sound. Chapter Six (#ulink_037e50c5-190b-56d7-9ac6-75b447fa8ff5) Benjamin looked up from his writing table as the sound of Leonor’s harp, and then cheers, drifted to him from the hall below. He cocked his head, listening with undisguised pleasure. Good. She had been accepted. Nay, revered, by the sound of shouts and the din of banging cups. Excellent! If she wished, his precious lamb could make her way from castle to court with her art. Now the whole world lay at Leonor’s fingertips. A shadow fell across the open doorway. Benjamin started, and a blot of ink fell on the page before him. ‘Who comes?’ His voice grated in the silence. The Templar stepped across the threshold. The knight’s wintry green eyes flicked to meet Benjamin’s gaze. ‘Shalom.’ Benjamin blinked. ‘And to you, peace also.’ Reynaud studied his old tutor, his lips widening into a broad smile. ‘Greetings, Benjamin. Alea jacta est.’ Benjamin’s black eyes snapped. ‘What’s that you say?’ ‘That was the first Latin sentence you ever taught me. Do you not remember?’ Benjamin half-rose from his seat. His gaze travelled from Reynaud’s face to the scarlet cross stitched on the front of his surcoat, then dropped to his sword belt. ‘So I see,’ Benjamin murmured. ‘Truly, the die is cast.’ He stood and clasped Reynaud in an embrace so tight the old man wheezed for breath. ‘Gently, my son, gently. Your mail shirt cuts the skin. It is like grasping a tree to one’s breast!’ Reynaud laughed. ‘A tree, am I?’ Benjamin beamed up at him. ‘Very like. Thou art a man, in esse. Now I wish to hear what you are doing here in Moyanne? I know about Hassam asking protection for Leonor…now I would know the rest of it. The truth.’ ‘I was sent. By the Templar master, Bertrand de Blanquefort, in Acre.’ ‘Acre,’ Benjamin breathed. He raked crabbed fingers through his thick grey beard. ‘And how goes it in Acre?’ ‘Well enough,’ Reynaud answered. ‘Christian fights Christian for power in Jerusalem. How goes it in Granada?’ The old man smiled. ‘Well enough. Brother fights brother, as you well remember. Arab fights Christian and Arab as well. Al-Andalus cannot long survive with such division.’ ‘Nor can Jerusalem.’ Reynaud eyed the older man. ‘The pomegranate will be devoured, seed by seed. Think you that men are greedy for power, or just fools?’ ‘Fools. Greedy for power, yes, but fools. And that is dangerous.’ ‘I fear you are right,’ Reynaud said on a sigh. ‘Hassam taught me to think first and draw my blade second. But in Outremer, one does not long hold to that philosophy and live. Now I strike first and ask afterwards.’ Benjamin said nothing. Gesturing for Reynaud to sit, he blotted up the spilled ink and quickly poured two cups of wine from the wooden pitcher at his elbow. He handed one across the writing table to Reynaud. ‘To your health.’ Reynaud lifted his cup. ‘And yours.’ The two men studied each other. At last Benjamin cleared his throat. Reynaud rose, set his wine cup on the table and bent close to the older man. ‘Know you the silver swan?’ he enunciated carefully. ‘Eh? What? What are you talking about, a swan? What has a swan to do with anything?’ Satisfied, Reynaud patted the man’s bony shoulder. Benjamin knew nothing about de Blanquefort’s coded phrase. For the first time in his life he felt he was the teacher and Benjamin the student. Deliberately he changed the subject. ‘Tell me of Leonor.’ Just speaking her name brought an unexpected rush of warmth to his chest. ‘Leonor? Ah, yes, Leonor. Well, no doubt you have heard her sing tonight?’ Reynaud nodded. Would that he had not. Her image, and the sound of her low, melodious voice, remained indelibly stamped on his heart. ‘So,’ Benjamin continued. ‘It is obvious, is it not? She is beautiful. Like her mother. Her music, her poems, her…’ His voice trailed off, then he gazed at him with watery black eyes. ‘How impressed she must be at what you have become! You were always a fine-looking boy, but as a man— ay de mi! The ladies must all fall in—’ Reynaud laughed. ‘She was not impressed,’ he said shortly. Benjamin smiled. ‘As Hassam will tell you, she is a handful. That one has a mind of her own, I fear. Also like her mother.’ ‘You must bear part of the blame for that, old friend,’ Reynaud said with a chuckle. ‘Her education was your doing.’ ‘And her mother’s,’ Benjamin amended. ‘But, yes, I admit it. Since the day of her birth I have loved Leonor as if she were my own daughter. Old men grow more foolish with the years.’ Reynaud sobered. A Templar, too, could be foolish. And to be foolish was dangerous. There was no room in the life of a spy for the distraction of a woman. He would need all his wits about him in the days to come. With a gesture, he refused the older man’s offer of more wine. ‘She may be in danger. Hassam fears she may be kidnapped.’ Benjamin’s thin shoulders twitched. ‘Kidnapped!’ ‘Calm yourself. I do not think that is what my uncle fears most. I think Hassam knows of some other threat in Navarre, a danger which he did not share with me.’ Benjamin quailed. ‘Danger? What kind of danger?’ ‘I know not, at the moment. I mean not to offend you, old friend, but I am suspicious of Leonor.’ At Benjamin’s thoughtful nod, Reynaud pressed the issue a step further. ‘“Know you the silver swan” is a coded message. She sang those very words in the hall just now.’ The old man’s head snapped up. ‘Coded message?’ ‘Ben, is it possible that Leonor could be a spy?’ ‘What? Leonor? ’ The old man’s black eyes blazed. ‘Have you left your wits in Acre? Think, man. She is a woman! At the moment, bent on being a minstrel. Is that not worrisome enough?’ Reynaud laid his forefinger against his old tutor’s lips. ‘We shall keep silence, then, you and I. I will protect her.’ Benjamin hugged him hard. ‘Guard her well, my son.’ Reynaud knew the links of chainmail under his surcoat pressed into the old man’s flesh, but the strength of Ben’s embrace did not falter. Again he had to smile. In addition to Leonor, Benjamin loved him as well. Reynaud re-entered the great hall just as the servants were clearing the tables and pushing them back against the walls to make space for dancing. Pages bustled between kitchen and scullery, folding the stained linen cloths and tossing scraps of meat to the hounds as they passed. The wine server made his rounds, collecting the cups and pitchers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the portly man glance about, then surreptitiously gulp the dregs from a pewter cup left on the table. His own mouth felt dry. Just as the red-faced wine server reached for Reynaud’s cup, he rescued it and downed the contents in two swallows. Then he turned to search for Leonor. He surveyed the hall, watched as a troupe of musicians tumbled in through a doorway, one carrying a gut-strung rebec and a vielle, three others with wooden flutes, a gittern and a battered tabor drum. They took up positions at one end of the hall, and the chattering crowd cleared the floor. The string players adjusted their tuning and knights and ladies linked hands for a circle dance. He scanned the faces of the onlookers, then searched for Leonor among the dancers, but the slim, black-haired woman in emerald silk was not among them. Surely she would not retire this early, not after such a triumphant reception? Unless… A thread of alarm travelled up his spine. Was she in danger? He grabbed a sloshing pitcher out of the wine server’s grasp and refilled his cup with a hand that trembled. Before he could lift the wine to his lips, a low voice spoke at his elbow. ‘Reynaud, do you dance this evening? Or…’ Leonor looked pointedly at the wine cup in his hand ‘…do you prefer to drink?’ He started so violently a bit of wine spilled over the edge of his cup and wet his fingers. She moved like a cat! Her green silk tunic was girdled with gold links, accentuating the curve of her waist and hips. He worked to keep his gaze elsewhere. ‘I did not see you approach.’ The grey eyes rested briefly on his, an expression of amusement in their depths. ‘I did not intend you to.’ Reynaud drew in a careful breath. He was supposed to watch her, not the other way around. His belly tightened. She could appear and disappear like a wraith. Hassam was right—he would need all his wits to keep track of her. At this moment, the idea did not displease him as much as it should. ‘Do you dance, Reynaud?’ Leonor repeated. The thought of touching her, even linking hands, brought the blood to his brain. His senses came alive, then careened out of control. He could not risk it. ‘I can dance, yes. I choose not to.’ ‘As you wish.’ She smiled up at him and his heart lurched. He did not wish. He wanted to hold her close, drink in her scent and let his mouth explore hers. This was madness! Was he not a holy knight? Never had he wanted a woman so. But now his mind reeled as if he were fevered. ‘You have not yet told me,’ she murmured, ‘which of my three songs you found most enjoyable.’ Reynaud could not answer. Here in this noisy hall was neither the place nor the time to question her about the coded words. Count Henri approached, and she stepped to one side to accept her uncle’s invitation to join the dancing. Without a backwards glance she glided away on the count’s arm, pivoted and made a deep reverence. Reynaud watched her move gracefully in the circle of dancers until his eyes burned. No wonder Benjamin was enamored. Leonor was like no other woman he had ever encountered. By the time this evening ended, every man in the hall would be in love with her. Watching over her, wanting her, was pure torture. And suddenly he knew he could not do it. Chapter Seven (#ulink_28b8f7a6-ba8a-56f4-9f3d-66aa0cee26f4) Leonor smiled at her uncle, hoping he would not notice she had again missed a step. Guided by the rhythm of the beaten tabor, she quickly shifted from her left to her right foot and caught up. Keep count! she reminded herself. If she could not think clearly, at least she could keep track of the beats. But she found herself ignoring both the pattern of the steps and her uncle’s rambling conversation as her gaze roamed about the hall. Servants scurried in and out of the kitchen; ladies on the sidelines, gowned in gay silks and sarsenet, nodded their heads together as they gossiped. Her uncle’s knights and the nobles of his court, dressed in richly embroidered tunics, argued about horses and tournaments. And then there was Reynaud. Tall and dark-haired, he stood near the wall, his raised foot resting on a bench, talking with Aunt Alais and another lady garbed in grey silk. A wine cup rested in his hand. As she watched, he raised it to his lips. Over the coiffed heads of the two women his eyes scanned the hall as if casually viewing his surroundings. In the next moment his glance locked with hers, and her heart stopped. He had been searching for her! ‘My dear niece, you are counting under your breath,’ her uncle whispered. ‘Your pardon, Uncle.’ She closed her eyes to shut out Reynaud’s penetrating gaze from across the hall, struggled to concentrate on the count’s continuing tale of a ship bound for Cyprus. When she opened her lids again, Reynaud had disappeared. Just as suddenly he appeared at her side, his sea-green eyes burning. Without a word, he disengaged her hand from her uncle’s and took his place beside her. ‘That’s the way, my boy.’ Count Henri clapped Reynaud on the back. ‘Claim her, and welcome.’ Chuckling, he headed back to the head table and his wife. Reynaud’s throat felt thick and hot. ‘My lady?’ ‘My lord, I thought you would not dance?’ ‘So I thought also.’ Her eyes shone with amusement. ‘And now?’ Now? In truth he could not bear to watch another man—even her uncle—lay his hand on her. Now, for a few stolen moments, he would dance with her. Touch her. Ask her about the message. He looked down into her eyes and she fell silent until the droning of the rebec ceased and the dance ended. Reynaud lowered their clasped fingers until they stood facing each other, jostled by retreating dancers. Slowly he drew her into the protective shadows of the far wall. He closed her hand in his and held it down, near his thigh. In silence he twined his fingers in hers and gently tucked her arm behind her back. Unable to help himself, he drew her towards him. What was he doing? He had but two choices. He could hold her in his arms, as he ached to do, or he could walk away. ‘Reynaud,’ she said quietly, ‘you are hurting my hand.’ Instantly he disengaged his fingers from hers and slid his hand up to encircle her wrist. ‘Your pardon. Being close to you is…difficult.’ ‘Then,’ she questioned gently, ‘why do you not release me?’ He could tell she was smiling, though he could not bring himself to look into her face. He could not answer over the hot ache in his throat. He swallowed hard and tightened his hand about her slim wrist. ‘I fear you are in danger, though you may not be aware of it.’ Her eyes flared. ‘I am aware. I sought it.’ ‘Then have a care, Leonor. Trust no one.’ She hesitated half a heartbeat, and a soft light kindled deep within her grey eyes. ‘Not even you, Reynaud?’ He pressed his arm across her back, lowered his head to hers and spoke near her ear. ‘Hear me, Leonor. I fear for you.’ And God help me, I fear for myself when you are near. ‘You need not fear,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You are a Templar. And my cousin. I would trust you with my life.’ ‘Then,’ he whispered, ‘you are indeed foolish.’ Her smile faded. ‘Ah, no. I think not,’ she said quietly. ‘You are the friend of my childhood, Rey. I know you disapprove of what I do, but you are still my friend, are you not?’ ‘I am that,’ he said, his voice rough with emotion. As a Templar, he could never be more than her friend. He opened his lips to ask about the words of her song, but Henri appeared and whisked her off again. He waited an hour, but she did not return. At supper the next evening Reynaud sat curling his finger around the base of his wine cup until his knuckles ached. Another of Count Henri’s snail-paced evening meals, and still Leonor had not made an appearance. He had glimpsed her earlier in the day, walking in the south garden with Benjamin, their heads bent together. He wondered what they had been discussing so intently. He had tried to find her that afternoon, to no avail. If she were indeed the messenger from his Grand Master, he would need to find out from her where he was to deliver his Templar gold. Why was she not present at the evening meal? Benjamin was also nowhere to be seen. That did not surprise him; except in Granada, few Jews, even respected scholars, mingled with the dinner guests in a Christian household. But neither was Benjamin’s bony black-robed form visible in the assortment of servants, pages and peasants crowding against the far wall, waiting for the leavings of gravy-sopped bread and meat scraps. The words of the conversation on either side of him buzzed in his head like swarming bees. Benjamin could take care of himself, could make himself inconspicuous as an ant if need be. But Leonor? Never. She was far too noticeable with that mass of black hair and those large grey eyes. The scent of her hair, sweet roses with a hint of sandalwood, tormented him. He inhaled slowly, struggling to still the hammering of his heart. ‘What say you, Templar?’ the count shouted over the clank of cups and the din of laughter. ‘Can the Christian Reconquista succeed against the infidel in Spain?’ Reynaud unclenched his fingers and took a deep swallow of his wine before answering. ‘Your son Bernard yet fights against the Saracen. Have you never wondered why?’ The count leaned towards him. ‘My son is a Hospitaller. Wherever he is, he will not rest until the infidel is vanquished, in both the Holy Land and in Spain.’ ‘God’s mercy on you, then, Henri, for he will be absent from you for a long time. It will not be a simple victory in Jerusalem or in Spain.’ The count’s bushy grey eyebrows arched upwards. ‘Oh?’ Reynaud directed his gaze straight into the older man’s hazel eyes. ‘It is an easy matter to take a castle, even an entire city. It is not so easy to reconquer a people. Spain has been home to both Christian and Saracen ever since the Arabs wrested the land from the Roman Goths four hundred years ago.’ ‘You do not hate them, the Saracen?’ ‘A few, aye. Most, I respect. Some—my uncle Hassam in Granada for one—I hold dear.’ Just then Leonor appeared in the doorway, clothed in a silk gown the colour of sapphires, the wide crimson-lined sleeves brushing the floor at her feet. A lanky squire at her side carried her harp. She looked like a queen. A suffocating warmth filled his chest and he struggled to control his ragged breathing. Even if he could steel himself to look upon her, he was not sure he could bear to hear her sing again. But if she was in fact the agent he was to meet, he must identify himself to her tonight. Across the hall their gazes met and held, and in her soft grey eyes he read a question. Under his surcoat his heart jumped erratically. What question? She glided to the centre of the hall, the squire trailing behind, then lifted the carved instrument from the boy’s hands and sent him a smile of gratitude. Conversation in the hall faded to a hush. Blushing crimson, the youth backed into a seated knight, nearly overbalancing them both. The knight righted the stammering squire and clapped him on the back. ‘In love now, are you, Galeran? Well, perhaps it’s time. Might as well learn about heartbreak when you’re young.’ Leonor waited until the squire had fled and the guffaws died down, then seated herself, detached her tuning key from the gold chain at her waist, and bent her head over the strings. She plucked softly, and when she was satisfied, she set the harp aside and rose to make a polite reverence to Lady Alais and Count Henri. Again her glance locked with Reynaud’s. Against his will, he held her eyes until his skittering pulse sounded in his ears. At last, she sent him a slow smile, and his senses exploded. His body burned with longing, and he closed his eyes to control the tightness in his loins. In all his thirty-two years he had never seen such a beautiful woman. Poor Galeran. He knew exactly how the youth suffered. She began her song and Reynaud gulped a mouthful of wine. If she was the agent sent to meet him, she would again sing of the silver swan. And if she did, he must find a way to answer with the second half of the coded message. He motioned to the wine server to refill his cup. Mesmerised, he watched Leonor’s slim form move subtly with the music, drinking in every nuance in her voice, the rich poetry of the verse. She began a second verse. Her voice floated over the melody echoed by the harp, and suddenly the words smacked into his brain. Know you the silver swan? He sucked in his breath. Over the edge of his wine cup he glimpsed a movement at the back of the hall. A black-cloaked figure stopped, then crept forwards again, advancing step by step like a cat. Closer, now. A few arm-lengths more and he would be able to make out the man’s features hidden under the loose hood. The stranger’s hard blue eyes studied the throng of listeners, then peered at Leonor. She drew the song to a close and raised her head expectantly, her hands poised over the harp strings. An odd silence descended over the hall. No one moved. No one so much as coughed or cleared his throat. The silence stretched until the humming in his brain set his teeth on edge. It must be now. Answer with the correct response. He should have spoken before, but he could not bring himself to believe Leonor was involved. Now, hearing the words for the second time in two nights, there was no mistaking it. Still, he hesitated. He must speak. As soon as she delivered the message to him, her task would be complete and she would be safe. Then he could leave Moyanne, leave Leonor in the protection of her uncle, and ride away from the sweet torture he endured every minute he was in her presence. Every league he put between them drew the danger away from her. He opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, a gruff voice spoke from the shadows. ‘The silver swan, lady? It sings but once, then dies.’ Reynaud froze, an icy hand clamping his spine. That was the correct response. But who…? Leonor sat without moving, her eyes on the stranger. A pulse throbbed at her throat. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lynna-banning/templar-knight-forbidden-bride/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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