Roman (27 page)

Victor had left it. Constantine supposed there was no need to keep it anywhere else but here since they all now knew. Save Roman. Roman, who was at this moment likely somewhere deep inside the Holy Land, risking his life on a mission that no longer mattered.

Finally, Constantine sat down in his chair. He stared at the tabletop directly beneath his gaze for a very long time before reaching out with one hand and sightlessly placing his fingertips on the edge of the parchment. He drew it to him, sliding it beneath his gaze. He placed his hand beneath the tabletop on his lap, clenched into a fist like the first.

He let his gaze skitter up the page until it reached the top and, at last, he read the words himself.

Constantine reached up and pushed the paper away slightly, unable to bear reading any further. The parchment seemed to itch under his fingertips, and so he slid the message back and forth quickly.

Now it burned. It vibrated. It shook the very table . . .

Constantine rose up with a roar, flipping the huge oaken slab into the air. He kept screaming, his fists clenched and shaking, his vision blurring, his temples pounding.

His last shred of caution, of sanity itself perhaps, slipping from his grasp as the damned missive floated and twisted through the air to land on the rug.

His arms fell back to his sides at last and he stood there, his chest heaving, for several moments. When he was once more calm, he untied his cincture and lay it along the chair near the window. He removed his monk's robe, not minding the bite of cold winter air in the stone room. He stood in his shirt and chausses, his boots. Then he turned to the long, thin cabinet wedged between the final shelf and the gatehouse wall.

Opening it, he withdrew his long sword and sheath, his battered cloak, his ragged purse containing only a handful of the damned Chastellet coins.

All of these he put on.

Then Constantine quit the secret library, walking through the corridors dressed in a manner that no man there save Victor and his brothers had ever seen. He strode through the gatehouse, Michael's stony eyes watching him, but the archangel made no argument as Stan pushed open the squeaking gate and left it wide.

He disappeared into the quiet stable for the better part of an hour before emerging once more with a sleepy black mount. Together they crossed the frosty bailey to the main gate. Constantine struggled with the brace for a moment and then opened it just enough to lead the horse through.

And then General Constantine Gerard was gone into the night, the whole of sleeping Melk unaware that they had lost him.

R
oman walked up the muddy path leading around the village of Melk, a rough satchel slung over his back. The air was crisp, still cold, but it contained a whiff of the freshness that sets men's minds to the coming spring. The ground was soft, thawing now, and the sun blazed down with enough cheer to make up for its lack of warmth.

He paused to look toward the center of the town and saw the bustling market, villagers meandering among the stalls he had once known so well. Everything seemed rather foreign to him now. Then a flash of red caught his eye, a lock of curling hair escaped from beneath a hood, and he knew of only one woman with tresses of such a bright hue.

His heart ached as he drew near them, Adrian—oddly enough in the dress of a layman—escorting Maisie down the street, unaware that they were being followed. Roman was nearly upon them when someone threw themselves upon his person, causing him to stagger in the street.

“Roman!” Mary Beckham cried, her slender arms not even reaching halfway around his body as she embraced him.

Roman laughed and lifted Valentine's wife in a swinging circle, kissing her cheek before setting her back on her feet. He looked up quickly and saw the handsome Spaniard only ten paces from him, the quirk of his mouth so painfully welcome as he bounced a much grown Valentina on his arm.

“We were beginning to think you preferred the warmer climates, my friend,” he said. “What took you so long?”

“I had to travel half the way here with my arm dislocated because there was no sneaking Spaniard to reset it for me.”

Then Valentine handed his daughter to Mary, and he and Roman came together in the center of the street, embracing with laughter.

“What?” Valentine insisted, drawing away but still clapping Roman's back. “Your shoulder again? Who did you enlist?”

“Another Spaniard, I'm afraid,” Roman began but was interrupted as Adrian and Maisie joined them, and the greeting was just as warm, just as heartbreakingly sweet.

He touched Maisie's cheek allowing himself to think only for a moment of the woman's blade, which had saved Isra's life. He turned back to Valentine.

“I ran into a spot of trouble while trying to enlist a ship on Crete,” he said. And when Valentine raised his eyebrows, Roman expounded. “Pirates.”

His eyes widened. “Francisco?”

Roman winked. “He and Teresa left me in Venice. I am to give you both their love.” He looked at the cherished faces before him and knew a twitch of unease that one was missing from the group. “Come, let us hie to the abbey and call for Stan. I have news for you all.”

No one moved, although their smiles faltered.

“Where is Isra?” Adrian asked instead.

Roman cleared his throat. “I don't know, Aid.”

Maisie frowned. “You doona know? She didna return with you?”

“Ah, no.” Roman looked away for a moment and then back to his friends with a smile and a shrug. “Any matter, Valentina has grown!” He reached out and rubbed the hem of the baby's long gown, but she buried her face in her mother's neck so Roman dropped his hand. “Is Stan in the rotation this week?”

“Let us go back to the abbey, yes?” Valentine said suddenly and with great enthusiasm. “We will have a drink, hear about your great adventure. Come!”

They began to turn away, but Roman stopped them, placing a hand on Valentine's arm. “Wait.” None wanted to meet his eyes. “Where is Constantine?”

Adrian at last looked up. “He's gone, Roman.”

“Gone?” Roman repeated. “Gone where?”

“We doona know,” Maisie offered. “He left nae word.”

“I would guess England,” Valentine said.

“But why now?” Roman demanded. “I risked my life to return to Syria. I found Baldwin. Isra and I saved his life and the king believes—”

“It does no matter now, my friend,” Valentine interrupted gently.

“Felsteppe is a peer,” Mary Beckham said in a tight voice. “A powerful peer—an earl. He married in the fall. At the same time you left Melk.”

“Even if Baldwin pardons us,” Adrian said with a trace of his old bitterness, “we can't touch Felsteppe now. He's above the law.”

“He is the law.” Mary grimaced.

“Why didn't you follow Stan?” Roman demanded. “Has he gone after Felsteppe? What if he needs help? What if he—”

“We were waiting for you,” Valentine interrupted. And then with a smile, “We were waiting for you, Roman.”

Roman's head was spinning. “I need to see Victor, hear his thoughts.”

“Of course, my friend, of course. But there is something else you must know,” Valentine said. “Lou is gone, too. I was giving him his exercise the day you departed and he simply did no return to the mews. I thought perhaps he followed you, but . . .” The Spaniard looked pointedly at Roman's empty shoulder.

“He did follow me,” Roman said. “He chose not to return with me, though.” He felt the stoop in his posture as he turned from his friends and began climbing the path toward the huge abbey over the Danube. When he'd left Melk all those months ago, he'd envisioned his homecoming as a triumph, a victory. Even at Kerak, he'd held in his heart the idea of returning to his friends against the pain of his departure from the woman he loved.

Now, Isra had refused him, Lou had abandoned him. Even Constantine, the one to whom Roman had hoped above all the others to carry the news of Baldwin's favor, had gone.

And Glayer Felsteppe was now an earl.

Roman's world had fallen apart both slowly and all at once.

He walked toward the abbey ahead of the others and they followed him, bearing witness as he carried his grief and his anger home.

I
sra left the village behind her, her long, silky train draped over the arm holding the lead, the bracelets on her other arm tinkling as the circled whip swung in her hand. The troupe was setting up in the round in the very center of town of course; what village could refuse such entertainment as offered by van Groen's famous menagerie?

She drew many looks and several frightened shrieks from the folk she passed. Isra didn't mind, though. She knew it wasn't often they saw such a dark-skinned woman walking through their village dressed in shimmering green silk and adorned with gold jewelry, a glittering crown atop her head.

Especially such a woman walking with a tiger at her side and a falcon on her shoulder.

Kahn stopped to sniff at a butcher's stall, causing the fat man to fall backward into his pile of sausages with a scream.

“Hie, Kahn.” Isra chuckled. “Come. My apologies, sir,” she called to the butcher. “He is not hungry, only curious.”

The tiger reluctantly dropped back to the road and continued up the hill next to Isra toward the great abbey, shimmering in the warm air much as the jewels on Kahn's great collar sparkled.

She walked through the gates, marveling as much at the relaxed posture of her shoulders, the proud tilt of her chin as at the statuary that decorated the manicured gardens. Lou danced on her shoulder, his talons pressing the thick leather patch sewn onto her costume—her costume, which she'd commissioned from her own design and paid for with her own coin. The falcon did not fly from her, although his head swiveled and he seemed to be looking, searching.

Several brethren were hard at work in the bailey, but when they saw Isra and Kahn, they dropped their rakes and crossed themselves. Isra stopped and looked about the bailey, the scores of darkened archways that led to different parts of the compound.

Which way was she to go?

As if in answer to her unspoken prayer, a skinny, bald monk walked toward her with a smile. Victor, who had blessed her before she felt worthy of such a thing. He gestured toward a corridor, where their conversation wouldn't disturb the holy silence.

“God's blessing upon your return, my child. Welcome,” he said with a nervous smile, glancing at the tiger. “Seek you Brother Wynn or Roman first?”

“For the sake of your charges, I should probably see Wynn,” Isra returned.

“It really doesn't matter,” Victor said, skittering back a pair of steps as Kahn reached out his neck to sniff the air in front of the monk. “Where one is, we're certain to find the other. Good day, Lou. I know someone who shall be quite pleased to see you. Follow me, please.”

Through a pair of corridors and then down the wide stairs Isra trailed Victor, Lou clutching and releasing his talons on her shoulder, the tiger staying close to her side while his ears pricked, his coat bunched, his whiskers twitched.

If Isra had possessed whiskers or wings, hers would have twitched, too. She could sense Roman nearby. Her stomach clenched.

Brother Wynn was the first to see them coming, standing just beyond the bottom of the wide apron of stairs, moving large piles of straw. The albino monk dropped his pitchfork with a great clang, his white hands going to his head.

“Thanks be to God,” he cried out and then raised his hands and dropped to his knees, his eyes on the stone ceiling. “Thank you, Lord. I knew you would answer my prayers, merciful provider!” He got to his feet quickly, his eyes only for Kahn, but his words for Isra. “His name?”

“Kahn,” she said with a smile and then amended, “
Prince
Kahn. He has performed, but now it is time for him to be at peace.”
For both of us to be at peace.
She slid her wrist from the braided lead and let it drop.

The tiger sauntered across the stone floor as if he already ruled the subterranean domain, his wide head swinging. He went immediately to the first cell on the right, sniffed loudly, and then rose up to his full height to look through the small barred window.

“He is magnificent,” Wynn breathed.

As if to prove the monk's statement, Kahn let out a roar that shook the stones and was immediately answered by a shriller scream. Then Princess's door did in fact shake as the tigress launched herself at the window.

“Wynn?” a familiar voice called out. “Is everything—”

Isra turned and her breath froze in her chest as she caught sight of the large blond man coming from the shadowed end of the gallery. Isra was not surprised to see a mallet in his hand, his bare arms hanging down by his sides. He tossed the tool to the floor with a clang.

She thought she heard him whisper Lou's name; then, an instant later, his sharp whistle pierced the air.

Lou crouched and took flight from her shoulder, his light underbelly flashing in the gloom of the gallery as he glided silently over the fountain to land on Roman's shoulder.

With Lou and Kahn gone from her side, Isra suddenly felt very alone. And as she stood, watching him, the old doubts tried to creep up from her past, gasping their last breaths in hope of resurrection, hope of once more having Isra's tender consciousness to feed from.

No;
she reminded herself of the realization she'd had during these months on the road with the troupe without Roman.
I am not a whore and I never was. Roman Berg does not give his heart lightly, and he gave it to me. It is mine, and I have come to claim it.

Isra flung the doubts from her mind once and for all as she tossed the whip to the floor behind her and ran toward Roman, holding up her skirts as she crossed the stones. Her crown slipped off and clattered across the floor, her silken head scarf fluttering away to land in the water of the fountain. Lou swooped from Roman's shoulder to disappear into an open cell as Roman began to stride toward Isra. She did not slow but held out her arms and leaped.

He caught her, pulled her so tightly against him that she couldn't breathe, but Isra didn't care. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as she'd wanted to for so long, with the passion she was no longer afraid to feel or show, with the love in her heart that she knew was nothing but pure.

She pulled away. “I love you, Roman. Do you still want me?”

“Forever and ever,” he said and kissed her again. And then he turned with her in his arms back toward the doorway of the cell that had once been her prison, her sanctuary, at Fallen Angels Abbey. And he kicked the door closed behind them.

* * *

“See here, now,” Wynn shouted down the gallery. “You'll have to stay in there. I don't know how Princess will accept—”

“Wynn,” Victor interrupted, “I don't think you need to worry about them interrupting anything, hmm?”

“Ah!” the albino said with a light in his eyes. “I see now. Yes, well, all right.” He took the short whip from his cincture and let it crack in the air.

The tiger dropped from the door and spun around.

“Hie, Kahn,” the monk said firmly but kindly. “Come now, boy, let us have a marriage today, shall we? Victor, will you preside?”

“Lord have mercy.”

* * *

He lay her on his cot, which he had moved to Wynn's domain along with his other meager possessions once it was clear it was no longer necessary for the Brotherhood to remain in hiding as monks. Even Lou's old perch stood in a corner, and his beloved falcon sat contentedly upon it once more. Roman had filled his days since his return to Melk as a lay helper of Wynn, and he had been as happy as he could have been with it. It had been a companion, and a tiger.

Isra stroked his face as he kissed her jaw, her neck. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, but not yet. Not until he had loved her and made her his and she could not take it back.

He raised up and looked into her eyes. “It's all right now, isn't it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered with a smile.

And so he took his time unwrapping her, like a precious gift sent from far away—which he thought was not an inaccurate description. Each inch of her tanned skin he revealed he covered with his mouth, replacing the sheer silk with his breath.

She had scars; old, pale lines and patches. Someday he might ask her about them, but right now he loved them all; they were a part of her, comprised her beautiful form that Roman hoped with all his heart now belonged to him.

In moments she was nude below him, save for her hammered gold bracelets and the chains around her neck, the jewels dangling from her ears and lying against her skin.

“Now remove your clothes,” she said quietly.

And he did, feeling his passion rise even higher as she watched him brazenly, that little smile never leaving her lips, her dark hair fanning over his pillow.

He didn't want to go too fast, nor did he want to hesitate with her, giving her cause to think he wasn't certain. But when he lay down beside her, thinking her too small, too fragile for his hulking, clumsy self, she reached for him eagerly, kissing him again and causing all thoughts, all second guesses, to fly from his mind, leaving only the immense depth of feeling in his heart, in his body.

Their joining was so sweet, so perfect, Roman felt emotion welling in his eyes, but he was not shamed, kissing her face tenderly as her breaths, too, became labored. He forced himself to slow, slow, and Isra gave him the gift of her surrender when she cried out beneath him. Roman lost his caution and joined her, feeling as though he had at last found his rightful place in the world.

They lay together in the bed as the candle burned low, talking of all that had happened to each of them since their parting at Kerak.

Her temple was against his chest, his forearm across her slender back when she said, “Fran is dead.”

Roman felt his mouth turn down, a vision of the blond, troubled woman blooming in his mind. “Before you returned for Asa?”

She nodded, her hair like brushes of silk against his skin. “Two days after we left them. Asa buried her himself and then waited alone for us.”

“She was very sad,” Roman allowed. “But Asa?”

“Asa is at peace. He told me once that he didn't think Fran would ever have recovered from Max's death, that she would have eventually come to the same end in one way or another. I do not know if I agree with him.” Isra was quiet for a moment. “She should not have left Asa.”

Roman tucked his chin to look down into her beautiful face as she tilted her head up to do the same.

“She should have fought for herself. Fought for him.”

Roman stroked her cheek, downy and smooth. “Not everyone is as strong as you are, Isra.”

She nuzzled into his chest once more. “The troupe is waiting for us in Melk. Asa is very much looking forward to meeting you again. We have a home with the caravan if we wish it.”

“Without Kahn?”

“Only without Kahn,” Isra answered, more than a touch of sadness in her voice.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, his heart skipping a beat.

“I have had the time I needed,” she answered. “I am grateful for the home Asa and the others have offered me. But now I shall go where it is best for both of us.”

Roman drew a deep breath. “I'm not certain where would be best for us to go, but I'm fairly certain where we're going. Isra, Constantine left Melk on his own some months ago, while we were still in Syria. Glayer Felsteppe has married into an earldom. There's little we can do against him now, regardless of Baldwin's clemency.”

Isra stilled and then lifted her head from Roman's chest to look into his eyes with a worried frown.

“He has gone back to his home,” she said. “To avenge the deaths of his family.”

Roman nodded. “Perhaps,” he said. “We were hoping for a message from him, or news. Hoping . . .”

“Hoping he would still be the general?” Isra guessed.

Roman felt his mouth thin. “I suppose so.”

She lay her head back down on his shoulder. “I do not think Constantine is capable of that anymore. He needs his brothers with him.”

“As do I.” Roman stroked the delicate hills of her shoulder blades, like silk beneath his hand. “We've already made plans to leave Melk. A fortnight from now, you would have been too late.”

“I would have found you,” Isra said, and there was no anxiety in her voice. “Lou and I, we always find you. Where are we to go?”

Roman kissed the crown of her head, relishing the smell of her hair he remembered so well. “Perhaps to Adrian's father's until we can make a better plan. Constantine was always the one who made the battle plans, and he hasn't been himself for some time. We cannot fathom his mind. None of us are sure exactly where to start.”

This time Isra sat up. “You do know where to start.”

“You are so beautiful. Will you marry me, Isra?”

“You
do
know where to start,” she repeated and placed her palm along his cheek. “It is the same as when you saved him from the prison.”

Roman frowned. “Damascus?”

She shook her head. “No. You did not know where to look, but you went any matter. You went and your heart led you to your friends.”

“You led me to my friends,” he corrected.

“And I will go with you now,” she said. “To England, to Norway, to Cairo—to the ends of the earth.” She lay her forearm along his chest and then rested her chin. “You are my family, Roman. My soul. These men are your brothers; now they are my brothers, too. Even though that particular brother has not cared for me in the past.”