Crusader Captive Page 15

  Frustrated, she sent pages in search of Sir Guy. Only after Sir Guy had confirmed that the men of Fortemur were being well cared for did she take time for herself. Thus she was robed in a borrowed gown with her hair freshly washed and rolled into a net when the queen sent a page with instructions that she desired the lady Jocelyn’s presence.

  The midafternoon sun blazed down mercilessly outside, but servants had draped oil-soaked cloths over the bower’s windows to block the smoke and stench of the battlefield. The queen was seated at a sewing table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She looked once again a queen in a bliaut of fern green trimmed with gold embroidery. The bright color did nothing to lighten her somber mood, however, as she gestured Jocelyn to the seat beside her.

  “I have spoken with my son. Since Blanche Garde was part of my dower, it is mine to dispose of as I will. I have decided, and Baldwin concurs, that I should assign it to the Templars since it was they who saved the keep.”

  Jocelyn certainly couldn’t disagree. Such a gift would only be a small measure of gratitude for saving both a king and a kingdom. Yet dread curled in her stomach. She sensed… Nay, she knew with unquestioned certainty where the queen was leading.

  “The king says the Grand Master has nothing but praise for de Rhys. According to de Tremelay, he was at the front, right in the thick of things. He also says your knight saved his life.”

  Her knight. The choice of words tore at Jocelyn’s heart as Melisande continued.

  “And I, of course, can personally attest to his courage. The man saved my life, as well.”

  The horror of the night just past invaded the room and held both women in its cruel maw. Never, as long as she lived, would Jocelyn forget the sight of that fireball ripping through the queen’s blue-and-silver tent. Or Simon, wreathed in flames, stumbling from what could well have been Melisande’s funeral pyre. So she wasn’t surprised to hear the queen had discussed suitable recompense.

  “My son and I have discussed how to best reward him. One option is to leave him here, in charge of Blanche Garde after I grant it to the Templars.”

  Jocelyn’s chest contracted with equal parts pride and dismay. For a newly inducted Templar to be given such a charge was unheard of. Most had to serve a probationary period of a year or more, living as a humble, barefoot monk in a cloister when not fighting in the field.

  That the queen and her son would so condition their gift of Blanche Garde was an incredible honor. And one that would steal Simon away from Jocelyn forever. Burying that base thought, she spoke from her heart.

  “Such a reward is no more than he deserves, Majesty.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then…” She had to fight to keep the hollowness from her voice. “Then it’s done.”

  “Mayhap,” the queen said slowly. With a tilt of her head, she turned the subject. “Let us talk of you for a moment. We must needs still find you a husband.”

  “At least it won’t be Ali ben Haydar!”

  The retort slipped out before Jocelyn could stop it. The fierce satisfaction that came with it filled some of the hole in her heart.

  “No,” Melisande acknowledged with a twist of her lips. “It won’t be Ali ben Haydar. My son informs me the emir’s head now decorates a pike.”

  This time Jocelyn didn’t even try to bite back her fierce exclamation. “I hope the crows peck out the traitorous bastard’s eyes!”

  “So do I, girl. So do I.”

  Thus were the twisted politics of this much fought-over land, Jocelyn thought. Christian or Muslim, knight or king. It mattered not. They were allies one moment, enemies the next. Would it ever change?

  In her heart of hearts, she feared it would not. A hundred, nay a thousand years from now blood would still stain these sands. Such was the nature of man that what one had, the other wanted. It was not faith that drove them, but power and wealth and riches.

  As if in echo of her cynical thoughts, the queen heaved a tired sigh. “Now,” she said heavily, “we must consider the emir’s successor.”

  Jocelyn’s head snapped back. Dear God and all the saints! Surely, surely, Baldwin and his mother did not still look to Damascus to help them hold their borders.

  “Please,” she begged. “Tell me you do not think to give me to one of the emir’s sons.”

  The hesitation before the queen replied was so brief she might have almost imagined it. Almost.

  “No, we don’t think to give you to one of ben Haydar’s sons. Those with any power have made it known their loyalties lie with Saladin.”

  And if they had not? Rebellion bubbled hot and furious in Jocelyn’s veins. After all they’d been through, all they’d endured! She could not believe the queen would still use her as a pawn. Her mouth had set tight when Melisande put a finger under her chin and tipped her face to the light.

  “Do not look daggers at me, child. I’ve not forgot what you and your knight did for me this past night.” She waited for the words to sink in before continuing. “This de Rhys. He’s more than proven himself worthy of you. And of Fortemur. We could give you to him.”

  Like a mace swung with all the force of a warrior’s arm, surprise knocked every rebellious thought from Jocelyn’s head.

  “Majesty!”

  The explosion of joy behind the breathless reply told the older woman all she needed to know. Sighing, Melisande released her chin.

  “So it’s as I thought. It was de Rhys who took your maidenhead, not Geoffrey de Lusignan.”

  There was no point in lying now.

  “It’s true. I did lay with him. Not by his choice, I must add.”

  When the queen lifted a startled brow, Jocelyn shrugged. She was beyond shame now.

  “Simon was taken by pirates on his way to Outremer, Majesty. I purchased him in the slave market at El-Arish and offered him a choice. His freedom in exchange for one night in my bed.”

  “You did not!”

  “I did.”

  “And he agreed to this infamous bargain?”

  “Reluctantly.”

  The queen regarded her with no little surprise and shock for a moment longer, then burst into laughter. “Ah, lady. I’ll wager he shed his reluctance with his trews.”

  An answering grin tugged at Jocelyn’s lips. “Indeed he did.”

  For a brief moment, they were just two women sharing the kind of jest only another female could appreciate. All too soon their merriment faded, and Melisande’s expression grew serious.

  “I would have this matter settled before I return to Jerusalem. Do you want de Rhys, or no?”

  “I do.” The admission came without thought or hesitation from deep within Jocelyn’s innermost being. “I long for him more with every breath I take.”

  Like a shimmering desert oasis, the idea that she might wed Simon hovered in her mind. She clung to it for precious seconds, letting it fill every corner of her soul. She could see them walking Fortemur’s ramparts together. Discussing what percentage of the taxes should go to defense and what to Yule or Easter entertainments for her people. Celebrating the birth of strong sons, loving daughters. Then, like the illusions that led many a desert traveler to despair, the tantalizing visions turned to dust.

  “I want him,” she said with a raw ache in her chest, “but I can’t ask him to forswear himself.”

  Melisande blinked in surprise. Clearly she hadn’t expected this response.

  “Are you speaking of his pledge to join the Templars?” she asked. “That’s easily enough remedied. I will talk to my son and have him inform the Grand Master that—”

  “Please, do not.”

  Throwing herself out of her chair, Jocelyn knelt at the queen’s feet. She’d disappointed Sir Hugh. She’d used Simon ruthlessly to her own deceitful ends. She would not, could not, allow the queen and her son to do the same.

  “De Rhys holds his honor above all else. It’s what makes him the man he is. I would not take that from him.”

  The queen’s face softened. Sighing, she loo
ked long into her ward’s eyes. “Are you sure, girl? This is your life we speak of, and his.”

  Jocelyn didn’t look away. “I’m sure.”

  Melisande didn’t speak for several moments. She had to have guessed how much those two simple words had cost. Sympathy swam in her eyes as she stroked Jocelyn’s cheek. Then, as they must, the heavy burdens she’d lived with all her life came to the fore.

  “The collapse of our alliance with Damascus makes it imperative that we find you another husband, girl, and fast. One strong enough to hold Fortemur against attack.”

  Jocelyn accepted the dictum without flinching. She, too, shouldered heavy responsibilities.

  “I agree, Majesty.”

  “Thank the saints,” Melisande murmured with the beginnings of a rueful smile. “I feared another battle royal.”

  “All I ask is that you make him a Frankish knight.”

  “After all we’ve endured together, it’s little enough to ask of me. You have my word.”

  Jocelyn could only pray that she would hold to it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Unbeknownst to Jocelyn, Simon was having much the same conversation at almost the same moment.

  The setting for their talks was different. Instead of a dim chamber shielded from the stench of death by oiled clothes and fragrant candles, Simon and Bertrand de Tremelay circled the base of Blanche Garde’s chalky cliffs in the blazing heat of late afternoon.

  Sweat ran in rivulets down the Grand Master’s thin face. Despite his broad shoulders and muscular thighs, his years showed in the graying hair plastered to his skull and the deep grooves etched into his lean cheeks. The arm that had taken the vicious lance thrust was now bandaged tight across his chest. Another bandage circled his thigh.

  De Tremelay didn’t give so much as a passing nod to his wounds, however. He was a warrior to his bones. As well Simon should know. Hadn’t he witnessed firsthand the Grand Master’s refusal to beg for quarter even when surrounded by a half-dozen or more Saracens?

  Yet the past few minutes had revealed an all-too-human side to Bertrand de Tremelay. Not to mention the man’s unabashed ambition on behalf of his order. Even now glee and more than a hint of avarice colored his voice as he reiterated the astounding news he’d imparted some moments ago.

  “I’ll tell you again, de Rhys, you performed an incomparable service for the Knights Templar when you rescued the queen from that blazing tent. The king could scarce hold himself in check when he spoke of it. That Baldwin and his mother would cede Blanche Garde to our order is a feather in my cap. That they would insist I leave you in charge is most assuredly one in yours.”

  “I’m honored, sir, and humbled.”

  “As well you should be. Our order boasts many knights far senior to you who would jump at the chance to govern such a magnificent holding. I will confess I told the king so, but he remained adamant. For all their differences, Baldwin and his mother think with one mind on many issues.”

  When the Grand Master’s intense, penetrating gaze swept the fortress set atop its white cliffs, Simon’s followed. Despite his protestation of unworthiness, an undeniable stir of pride swirled deep in his chest. Never in his wildest imaginings had he envisioned commanding such a mighty keep.

  Unbidden, an image of Fortemur’s turrets and towers leaped into his head. With it came one of its mistress, with her silver-blond hair tossed by the wind and her face aglow as she watched her peregrine falcon ride the air currents. Hard on the heels of those forbidden thoughts came others, even more insidious.

  Could he trade one fortress for another?

  One vow for another?

  Now that the emir’s treachery and death had destroyed hopes of an alliance with Damascus, Melisande and her son would give Jocelyn to another husband. Why not to him? He’d saved the queen from sure death, had helped the Grand Master escape the Saracens who had brought him down. They both considered him worthy enough to take command of Blanche Garde, as did the king.

  Perhaps they would give him Fortemur and its lady instead.

  A muscle jumped in the side of Simon’s jaw as he broached the possibility slowly, carefully. “Father, may I speak with you of a personal matter?”

  The Grand Master dragged his glance from the towering walls. “Of course.”

  “When I left home, my sire lay dying of the wasting sickness. He had not the strength left to do penance for his sins and pressed me to do it for him. To that end, I acceded to his earnest entreaty that I join the Knights Templar.”

  “Do you say you vowed to join our order to redeem your father’s soul?”

  “What was left of it to be redeemed.”

  De Tremelay considered that for several moments before he shook his head. “No man can purchase salvation for someone else, nor release another soul from purgatory.”

  “That’s what the Bishop of Clairvaux told me.”

  “The bishop is a wise and saintly man. He told you correctly.”

  “But he also said that if the sinner is truly repentant, any good acts he did—or others did in his name—can earn him indulgences.”

  “That’s so, if he does indeed repent. Tell me, did your sire confess his sins?”

  “He said he did.”

  “Was he given absolution?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Well, then. It sounds as though he was truly repentant, but I will tell you this, de Rhys. God alone is the judge of what penalty we all must pay for our sins.”

  Deep in thought, de Tremelay lifted his gaze to the castle walls again.

  “I would say, though, that what you’ve done here will have won your sire at least a Plenary Indulgence. By holding to your vow, you’ll spare him—and yourself—even more time in purgatory.”

  “What if I don’t hold to it?”

  The Grand Master’s head whipped around. “Why would you not?”

  The muscle in Simon’s jaw twitched again. He could feel it jump as he met a hard, penetrating stare.

  “I’m not suited to Holy Orders, Your Grace. There’s a woman. A lady. I crave her above all else.”

  “Ahhh.”

  De Tremelay raked a mailed fist through his sweat-flattened hair. His thin face creased in a knowing smile.

  “Men have lusted for women since Adam first laid eyes on Eve. It’s the natural order of things. What God has ordained for us. Why do you think our order has such strict rules? Why we may not so much as speak to, much less have congress with, any female? Only by avoiding all such contact can we rise above the weakness of our mortal flesh and dedicate ourselves to a higher purpose.”

  Simon had only to recall his stolen hours with Jocelyn to know he would never rise above the weakness she engendered in him.

  “God’s will sent you to Outremer, de Rhys, and you’ve but begun to fulfill your destiny here. One as strong of heart and arm as you are will rise quickly within our order. I see great things ahead for you.” He flung out an arm in a gesture that encompassed a wide sweep of chalky hill and forested land. “You’ve brought Blanche Garde to the Knights Templar. You will bring us more. I’m sure of it.”

  Simon was no fool. He knew politics and avarice played as much within the Church as without. The order of the Knights Templar might have sprung from the noble intention of protecting pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land, but its tentacles now reached far beyond these shores. Their holdings in Europe and Byzantium rivaled those of kings and emperors. So did their treasury. It was rumored the Templars’ chief of the exchequer had loaned so great a sum to Louis of France to finance his ill-fated Crusade that the king must needs beggar his entire kingdom to discharge the debt.

  Now, because of the actions of the landless son of a minor knight, they had the chance to add another major keep to their holdings. Despite the debt of gratitude de Tremelay claimed he owed to Simon, he would not willingly release him from his vow. Not if it meant losing such a rich prize as Blanche Garde.

  As if in echo of his grim thoughts, the olde
r man straightened in the saddle and took up his reins.

  “You will have time and more to purge yourself of all carnal thoughts during your fasting and abasement prior to induction, de Rhys. Because you’ve already proved yourself in battle and brought such honor to our order, I can shorten the time required for these rituals. You’ll face a trial of only days instead of weeks. And I am confident that five days hence you will don the white surcoat of a Templar, and all things will find their proper place in your heart.”

  Simon didn’t share his conviction. What he felt for Jocelyn was so different from what he’d felt for any other woman. This aching need went beyond lust, beyond all thoughts of wealth or power. Beyond honor.

  Yet he’d come so far. Endured so much to reach this point. He owed it to himself—and to Jocelyn—to take this final test. He would submit to purification rituals. Abase himself both physically and mentally. Open his heart, as the Grand Master urged. And five days hence, he would know without any hesitation which path to tread.

  “I understand the wisdom in what you say,” he acknowledged, “and will obey.”

  “Good. Now let us return to the keep so I may organize your induction.”

  Sheer chance brought them to Blanche Garde’s outer gate just as a troop wearing the red and black of Fortemur clattered across the drawbridge. Jocelyn rode at its head, Sir Guy beside her. Those of her men who’d survived the vicious battle of the night before followed. In the midst of their ranks, two drays pulled a cart conveying tightly bound bundles. The size and shape of the bundles told Simon they could only be Fortemur’s dead.

  Bound by his vows, the Grand Master could do no more than nod to the woman leading the troop. Simon was not yet subject to such restraint.

  “Lady Jocelyn!”

  She drew rein, her gaze locked with his. She’d washed the grime from her face and changed into clean garments, but her voice was still hoarse from the smoke.

  “I looked for you,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The queen told me that she will grant Blanche Garde to the Templars in recognition of their heroic acts. And that you are to be given command of the keep. I wanted to let you know how happy I am for you, Simon. Such an honor is no more than you deserve.”