The Princess and the Templar (22 page)

“Thank you, Sir Templar.” She swayed on her feet. Exerting her will, she lifted her head and thrust back her shoulders.

Bowing, the Templar released her. “I’m called Maslin. You must be Princess Cahira.”

How odd he should know who she was, when she had no idea who these strange Templars were, except they must be friends of Raul.

“And your leader’s name?” she asked.

“Sir Arnaud de Fortier, milady.”

“Arnaud” was the name Raul had called before he fell. So, he’d recognized his friend. Grateful, she straightened her spine and felt the slow seep of hope repair her ragged resolve.

But then she made the sad mistake of pausing to gaze at Seth and Evan, lying slaughtered in the dust. Looking upon their young faces, twisted in death, she shuddered and her heart was shredded in twain.

They’d helped to take her castle, ’twas true, but she couldn’t fault them. She’d come to know them as simple but honorable knights intent upon their duty. She remembered them sleeping, sweet as cherubs, beneath the crofter’s apple tree.

How unfair was death to take them this way?

Bending her head, tears pricked the backs of her eyelids, threatening to break free. She clasped her hands and fingering the heavy cross at her throat, she prayed Sean and Evan would find ultimate peace in their final rest.

With faltering steps, she moved to where Mildread lay, face down in the dirt. A low keen stirred the quiet air, and she realized the sound came from her own throat. Dropping to her knees, she gathered her maidservant in her arms and rocked her, back and forth, back and forth.

The simple movement gave her a brief respite from the terrible pain swelling in her heart. Kissing the top of Mildread’s head, she clutched her friend. More prayers formed on her lips, and unshed tears burned the back of her throat.

The world stilled and receded. A bird swooped overhead, and Cahira felt empty, so bleak and hollow. Lives so quickly spent—lives she held dear. Midread was dead, more death and grief. How could she face it?

A low groan recalled her from the dark and dreary place her heart resided, and she glanced up, needing to gather her wits and courage. They’d laid Raul on a blanket beside a smoldering fire. His satchel was open, its contents spilled upon the ground. She must go to him and see that he lived.

For he must live.

If he didn’t, she couldn’t bear it.

She shook her head, recalling how Raul, her brave Templar, hated to fight. Yet he’d defended her against the Bruce, and he’d taken on the brigands who outnumbered them and would have killed them all.

Sinking beside him, she lifted his head into her lap and stroked his black, wavy hair. ’Twas passing strange to touch him without fear of recrimination. And she clung to that simple comfort with a fierce hope in her heart.

His skin was warm to the touch, flushed even, and she knew he lived. Knowing thus, her spirits lifted, and the world fell away for nothing else mattered…not her castle or her lands or her legacy. ’Twas enough to know he lived, to know she would gaze into his black eyes again and match her wits against his.

Her Templar, how she loved him.

Love. ’Twas an odd word for the way she felt. A word that leapt into her mind without her understanding where her feelings were leading. For she’d dreamed of love and despaired of never knowing it.

Aye, she loved Raul more than life itself, she suddenly realized with a sense of awe. But at the same time, her heart sank, for her love was doomed. He was bound to his Order, and even if he forfeited his duty to the Sinclair, he would never break his sworn oath to the Templars.

“Princess Cahira, we must cleanse his wound and apply the cauterizing iron to staunch the blood,” one of the Templar's explained, interrupting her thoughts. “You might want to retire and let Roland see to your injuries.”

“Sir Arnaud, that’s your name?”

“
Oui
, Your Highness.”

“A Frenchman.” Swallowing, she searched her memory for the French words she’d so painfully acquired from her brothers’ tutor. Switching to her schoolgirl French, she managed, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, and I thank you for saving our lives.”

He bowed and took her hand, kissing it. “
Enchanté de faire votre connaissance
.” Shaking his head, he added, “I only wish I had found you sooner. Then maybe—”

“You’re Raul’s friend?” She purposely cut him off, for she couldn’t bear to think of the lives lost today.

“
Oui
, we were in Cyprus together.”

“But how did you—”

“Your Highness,” he interrupted, “I would answer your questions. But first, I must attend to Raul.”

“Aye, you’re right. Please, may I hold him whilst you see to his wound?”

“It won’t be easy or pleasant.”

She met his eyes.

He bowed his head. “As you wish, Your Highness.” Then he turned to Maslin. “Prepare graves for the dead. We’ll say Christian prayers later.” Maslin inclined his head and called for the others to assist him.

Cahira sighed. So much death—would she ever be free of its devastating grasp? The bone-deep weariness and daily sadness, remembering everyone lost to her? But Sweet Jesú, the Lord be praised, Raul still lived. Stroking his forehead, she murmured soft words while she watched Arnaud cleanse his wound.

Arnaud found the cauterizing iron in Raul’s satchel and heated it in the fire. Placing two fingers on Raul’s throat, he said, “His heartbeat is strong. That’s good. And it’s well that he sleeps.”

With those words, he lifted the iron from the fire. The metal glowed with a reddish cast. Cahira bit her lip. Arnaud brought the iron down against Raul’s shoulder.

The sizzling hiss of metal against skin reverberated in her ears, and the stench of burning flesh assaulted her. Closing her eyes, she averted her head, while holding Raul’s shoulders as tightly as she could. He jerked awake and tried to rise up, babbling incoherently.

She forced him back down, feeling his pain as if it was her own, a writhing torment, sinking its long claws into her. Raul thrashed against her, but she clutched him to her breast as she would a babe. What only took seconds, seemed to hang in abeyance for a lifetime.

The pressure lifted, and Arnaud said, “’Tis done.”

Releasing her breath, she collapsed on Raul’s chest. The world swirled around her. Red crosses on white tunics danced before her eyes.

“Milady, milady,” a voice called.

But she couldn’t form an answer as the blackness crept over her.

****

Raul was drowning, a huge weight pressed on his chest, pushing him under and dragging him down. His lungs filled with water and his heart strained, fair to burst. Gulping for air, he raised up. But the lancing pain in his shoulder brought him to the ground again. With a groan, he touched his shoulder, but his hand encountered a thick bandage.

And then slowly, as if his memory played hide-and-seek, he remembered. He had fought the brigands, and one of them had sliced open his shoulder. And then he remembered more—so much more. Sean and Evan lying in pools of their own blood. Shuddering, the memory chilled him to the bone, and he felt so cold, so very, very cold, despite the campfire beside him, flickering a feeble light against the dark night.

They'd been attacked in the morning. He must have slept the day through.

He would have given anything to bring Sean and Evan back, to give their young lives a second chance. Why did he, despite all his best intentions, lead men to their deaths?

So much blood and dying; how he hated it and wished for a peaceful life.

But that was not meant to be. Men like him were left little choice; do your duty or beg for a crust of bread to stay alive.

’
Twas no real choice.

Jerking from his self-pitying reverie, he tried to rise from his pallet, suddenly worrying about how Cahira fared? He lurched up, calling out, “Arnaud?”

“Raul, I’m here.” A figure loomed over him, blocking the light from the fire.

“The princess?” he asked.

“She’s well, and we’ve tended her wounds. She sleeps.”

Relief washed over Raul. “That’s good.” Hopelessness choked him again, but he had to know. “And the others, Sean and Evan and the maidservant?”

Arnaud shook his head. “All dead.”

He lay back on the makeshift pallet, allowing the awful anguish to seep into his bones. He hated fighting, despised the waste. But this time, he’d had no choice. And Cahira had fought beside him at the bitter end. Like a lioness she’d been, so brave and true.

“Raul?” Hearing her voice, he raised himself from the pallet, sitting up.

“Cahira?” Then he realized he’d used her given name. He’d never done that before. Could she forgive him?

The answer was swift. “Aye, Raul, I’m here.”

She stepped between him and the fire’s glow. They gazed at each other for one brief moment, and then she knelt beside him. Without a word, her arms went around his neck.

At her unexpected touch, his heart swelled and his pulse quickened. He’d gladly face a thousand brigands and suffer a hundred wounds to win her sweet reward. Lifting his good arm, he encircled her waist, pulling her closer.

With a trembling hope in his heart, he brushed her forehead with his lips. She didn’t pull away; instead, she buried her face in the hollow of his neck and sighed. The feel of her warm body next to his was a kind of heaven. Despite the pain in his shoulder, he’d never felt so whole before.

Arnaud gazed at them, a knowing gleam in his eye. Raul started to release her, but then he stopped. Cahira was oblivious to Arnaud. If she didn’t care, why should he?

But she must have sensed his indecision, for she raised her head and gazed into his eyes, a long, lingering and silent caress. If Arnaud hadn’t been there, he would have kissed her, taken her lips and lost himself in the warmth of their embrace. Instead, he lifted his good arm and placed it around her shoulders. She leaned into him, one dainty hand splayed on his chest.

Her simple touch drove him wild with longing, turning his body turgid with need. Never before had he desired a woman as he did Cahira, not even in the first flush of his randy youth. Weak as a newborn calf, he wanted nothing more than to bury himself in the sweet promise of her body.

His vows be damned.

Arnaud cleared his throat, and Raul looked up, blinking, as if waking from a trance. Without preamble, his friend declared, “The brigands that set upon you were the Sinclair’s men.”

Shock ricocheted through Raul, and he tensed. Cahira raised her gaze to his. Her look was accusing, but on this point his conscience was clear. He’d anticipated the earl’s treachery and tried to save her.

“I knew they weren’t brigands,” he agreed. “They didn’t want our money.”

“At the Sinclair’s bidding, they dressed as such and staged a robbery, so no one would guess the earl’s involvement,” Arnaud explained.

“You sent me that missive to come at all haste because the earl was going to wed another,” Raul replied. “Now the deed is done, and the earl is already married.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his friend’s countenance. “How did you know?”

“We met with Robert the Bruce, and he told us the Sinclair had married a Norse chieftain’s daughter.”

“You have the truth of it.” Arnaud nodded. “The earl changed his mind when one of the princess’ men came to his stronghold.”

Cahira stirred beside Raul. Emboldened by their newfound intimacy, he stroked her hair, wanting to soothe her. But she shook him off, inquiring, “One of my men?”

“The man called himself Dwyer MacMalley,” Arnaud said.

“My master-at-arms,” she replied, “so he was the traitor.”

“He came to tell the Sinclair that Kinsale had been secured and to beg a position in the earl’s guards.”

“Did the Sinclair give him a position?” she asked.

“
Oui
, and this MacMalley also told the Sinclair you fought his knights as a man would and was wounded. The earl didn’t want a wife who would—”

“Take up a sword and fight,” she finished.

Arnaud nodded. “Knowing Raul had secured Kinsale, the Sinclair turned to more pressing matters—raiders from the north. The Norse chieftain offered peace and all of Orkney if the Sinclair would marry his daughter. The earl agreed.”

He turned his gaze to Raul and continued, “I sent the missive, hoping you would come before the Sinclair went through with the wedding.”

“I didn’t understand,” Raul said.

“I couldn’t tell you the whole of it for fear my letter would be intercepted,” Arnaud said.

“And so, the princess became a hindrance,” Raul said.

“I learned of the earl’s final treachery but two days past. I gathered the Templars most loyal to me.”

“I want to return to Eire and retake my castle,” Cahira interrupted.

“I know,” Raul said, “and you have every right. But we will still need money and knights.”

“What about Arnaud’s Knight Templars?” she asked.

“There are only six of us,” Arnaud interjected, “not enough to retake a castle, Your Highness.” Lowering his voice, he added, “They came to your aid, but they’re still pledged to the Sinclair.”

“And what of you, Sir Arnaud?” she asked.

“
Non
, I will not return to his service.” He took up a stick and savagely poked at the flickering fire. “For I will not serve a man who plots to murder a princess.” He shook his head.

She touched Arnaud’s shoulder. “Thank you for that.” Then she turned to Raul and lifted her chin. “What would you have me do?”

Raul clenched his one good fist and willed his breathing to slow. His heart pounded in his ears, and a pulsing throb echoed in his injured shoulder. If not for Arnaud, he’d be dead, and the brigands would have ravished her. He couldn’t begin to fathom the evilness that drove the earl.

He wanted nothing more than to encircle the Sinclair’s throat with his hands and slowly squeeze the life from him. But he was done with death and dying for now. More important—he must right the wrongs done to Cahira.