PROLOGUE

Templar Headquarters

Cyprus

1249

            What were they going to demand for his freedom?

            Sebastian of Langlinais sat on the low shelf chiseled from the rock wall.  It had served as a bed for past occupants of this monastic cell, but he vowed not to spend one night in this place.   This monastery was a way station of sorts, a place the Templars brought injured pilgrims, and rescued prisoners.  A place for healing and contemplative silence. 

            He’d had enough of silence, and nothing could heal him. 

            His hands were tucked into the wide sleeves of his monk’s robe. But his head was not bowed in piety; instead, his gaze was directed at the wooden door.  A year of imprisonment had rendered his face gaunt, and that same confinement now made him impatient. 

            The man who entered the room an hour later was dressed in the distinctive white tunic and red embroidered cross of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon.  Only the elite wore such a uniform, most of the warrior monks wore black or brown mantles.

            The resemblance he bore to Sebastian was not surprising.  Each had their mother’s eyes, their father’s strength. 

            “You are fortunate, brother.  A great many prisoners die before they can be ransomed,” the Templar said in greeting.   

            “Is that why they’ve sent you here, Gregory?  To remind me to be grateful for my survival?” Sebastian’s voice was a mere rasp of words.  He’d no cause to speak in prison, isolated as he had been from the other men.  

            “Are you?”  Gregory of Langlinais smiled, but the expression appeared flavored with irony. “The expression on your face is not one I would liken to gratitude, brother. Nor do you seem surprised to see me.  Even after all this time.”

            A small table and one chair filled a corner of the small chamber.  Upon the table sat a pitcher of wine, a loaf of bread, some goat’s cheese.  Gregory kicked out the small chair with his foot, rearranged his sword with an absent gesture as he sat.   He reached for the pitcher, tipped it to inspect the contents.  “Come, won’t you join me?  The monastery’s wine is better than most.  Let’s celebrate our reunion.  How long has it been?  Six years?”  

            “Forgive me if I decline.  I prefer to sup alone.” 

            Gregory nodded, set the pitcher back down.  “My Templar brothers tell me you are reclusive, Sebastian.  I’ve never known you to be so.” 

            “Imprisonment will change a great deal about a man, Gregory.” 

            “Even your choice of clothing?”  His gaze surveyed the garment Sebastian wore.  “I remember your dressing in a more secular fashion.” 

            “And I recall that you joined the Templars as a pro fraternitate.  Why take orders when you could have remained a lay member?”

            Gregory’s smile illuminated a face tanned brown by the sun.  His hair, once as dark as his brother’s, was now tinted with golden highlights.       “Inducements, Sebastian. The Templars needed leaders. Knights are always welcome in their ranks.”

            “And power is a heady lure.”       

            “My position is less one of influence than it is of endless details.” 

            “When may I leave?”  Sebastian’s question sliced through the conversational patter. 

            Gregory’s smile vanished.  “When you have agreed to certain terms.”

            “What do the Templars want from me, Gregory?  My oath?  I was never asked to abjure my beliefs.   I will swear to that.” 

            “Your freedom was not easily obtained, Sebastian.”  Gregory traced a finger along the rim of one earthenware mug. 

            “So, it’s money.  How much was my ransom?”

            He named a sum that caused Sebastian to draw in his breath sharply. 

            “I’ve pledged Langlinais in your name.  It was the only way to obtain your release.”

            “Khwarazmi valued me higher than I thought.   Pity my worth was never demonstrated during my imprisonment.”

            The finger paused in its journey. “I never knew, Sebastian.  Not until the arrangements were being made to free you.”               

            Sebastian could only offer him silence in response.   Once there had been only laughter or good spirited rivalry between them.  Too many years separated them, too many memories not shared to become confidantes again.   

            “How do you propose I repay that sum, Gregory?”

            “That is your concern.  Consider yourself fortunate that you are heir to a demesne rich enough to finance your release.  You have a year to repay the Order, Sebastian, the term of your imprisonment.”

            They each knew to do so would be nearly impossible, even for the Lord of Langlinais.

            Gregory stood, walked to the door. With his hand upon the rope handle, he turned.   “Why did you go on crusade, Sebastian?  It’s a question that I’ve wished answered ever since I learned you were made prisoner of the Egyptian pasha.” 

            “Why does any man go on a quest?”  The words sounded tired, as if they had been often repeated.  In truth, it was the first time they had been spoken. 

            “Not you, Sebastian. You were just as content to sit upon a knoll in Paris and listen to a lecture as you were to take up arms.  Had you not won so many tourneys I would have thought you fearful of battle.”   

            “Any man of sense avoids war.”

            “Even when right is on our side?”

            “A view no doubt espoused equally as passionately by infidels,” Sebastian said dryly.

            “Your words border on heresy.”   Gregory stared into the shadows as if engraving Sebastian’s face upon his memory. ”Were you at Montvichet, Sebastian?” 

            Sebastian narrowed his eyes.  “Is that why you are really here, Gregory?  Not to demonstrate filial affection, but to have this question answered?  How did you know?”

            Gregory shrugged again.  “One of the villagers no doubt contributed the information.”

            “Was he prodded to recall with torture, Gregory?”

            “Why were you there, Sebastian?”

            “Another question that has bothered you all this time, Gregory?  Magdalene sent for me.” 

            Sebastian watched as the look in Gregory’s eyes changed from surprise to something quickly masked.  Grief?  But it was not satisfaction Sebastian felt.  He could not forget that, for all their differences, they were still brothers. 

            “She had become a Cathar, didn’t you know?”

            Gregory shook his head. 

            “She died well, I’m told.   But then, they all did.”  

            “They were heretics,” Gregory said, his voice curt. 

            “She was the only mother you and I knew.  Does your role as a Templar not allow you to remember that, Gregory?” 

            Gregory opened the door. “Pay your ransom, brother.  Or Langlinais will be beset with Templars.”  He frowned at Sebastian as if to give his words more import. “And Magdalene was only a whore.” 

            The door closed soundlessly behind him. 

            Sebastian sat staring into the shadows.  Gregory had not asked the one question for which he'd been prepared.  Not with the truth, but with a carefully fashioned lie.

            Where was the Cathar treasure?

            The omission disturbed him.

CHAPTER 1

Langlinais Castle

England

1250

            Were all brides as terrified?

            Her hands felt icy, despite the fact that it was summer.  How odd that her palms should feel cold and wet at the same time.  Juliana wiped them surreptitiously on her surcoat.   The embroidered cotte she wore was too heavy for the heat.  A veil was attached to the toque on her unbound hair; the chin band felt as if it were strangling her. 

            She had dreaded this day ever since she was five and had been led by her mother’s hand to her father’s side in the solar.  “Do you understand, Juliana?” she’d been asked. The room had been hot and stuffy and crowded with people.  They had spoken words she’d barely understood, about vassals and oaths and territories and land.  She had nodded and said the words as she’d been instructed.  Then, she’d thrust herself behind her mother’s skirts again and had been led from the room.

            Only later did she learn it had been her wedding day.

            She was known as the Langlinais bride, for all that she’d never seen the castle before, and her husband only once.  For most of her life, she’d lived at the convent of the Sisters of Charity, preparing for the role of chatelaine for this sprawling demesne.  Years had been spent inside gray walls, waiting for this very day. 

            She had another name bestowed upon her by the girls fostered at the convent.   Juliana, the timid.  Juliana, the mouse.  They are jealous, the abbess had told her.  Ignore their words.  Pay them no heed.  She had never told the abbess that their teasing rang with undeniable truth. She was frightened of the dark, disliked the height reached even when standing upon a stool, avoided the pond on the convent property.  On the journey here, she’d discovered that horses could be added to that list of things she’d choose to avoid if she could. 

            At a time most brides would have joined their husbands, she’d been sent word that Sebastian, Earl of Langlinais, had gone on crusade.  She had lived in an agreeable limbo, married but not forced to be a wife.  Ten years had passed, then twelve, and finally fourteen.  A week ago word had come, explaining that her husband had been imprisoned by the infidels, ransomed and released. His subsequent return to his home meant there was no further reason to delay joining him.  

            Her journey from the convent of the Sisters of Charity had taken less than a day, the procession of twenty men at arms escorting her a show of force expected for a knight’s bride, a lord’s wife.  At dusk they had ridden through the gates of Langlinais.  An hour ago she had been escorted to the Great Hall and left here beside the fireplace.  She could hear a faint summer breeze sigh through it now, as if calling her name.  Juliana.  It was more a warning than a welcome.  

            The Great Hall at Langlinais was easily three times larger than her childhood home and decorated more lavishly. She traced the painted outline of one stone block on the wall beside her.  Her fingertip came away shaded red and she hurriedly wiped her hand on her skirt once more.  Her head was still bowed, but she glanced from beneath her lashes to see if her actions had been observed.  Three men were setting up tables, and a servant girl had placed a large platter upon the head table, but they paid no attention to her. 

            It seemed no one knew she was here.  Should she stand and announce her presence?  The idea of calling attention to herself was daunting.  It would be more fitting to simply wait until she was greeted.  She returned to her covert perusal of the Hall. 

            She could not recognize all of the different flowers painted on the wall.   She had had little experience in the convent gardens.  Sister Helena had merely pointed to the weeds and Juliana had obediently pulled them from the soil.   

            Her skill lie in the scriptorium.  Her joy there, too.  With her husband’s blessing, she might be able to continue her work here, in this new and imposing home. 

            The fireplace beside her was one of two structures in the Great Hall.  They were built into the walls, the stones curving over the hearth in an wide arc.  Comfort was evidently a priority to her husband.  The iron brackets upon the wall were filled with a profusion of oil lamps and candles.  The night was being pushed back by such brightness.   The rushes beneath her feet were clean, strewn with daisy and rose petals.  And perhaps lavender, she thought, identifying the scent.            A dwelling not in dire need of a chatelaine. 

            All of the tables, the bustle of activity, and the smell of roasting meat made her wonder if there was to be a celebration to mark the occasion of her arrival at Langlinais.  If so, she would sit at the dais with her husband.   She would share a trencher with him, and be expected to smile and act pleased to be married to a man she’d met only once in her life when she was barely out of infancy.   He had been twelve, she remembered, a large boy with a kind smile and an impatience to be done with it. 

            Would he feel the same tonight?

            Sebastian stood in the gallery and watched her. His vantage point allowed him to see her, but kept him hidden from her view. 

            She sat straight upon the bench, her hands folded together in front of her.  He could almost feel the brittleness that surrounded her, as if she were a thinly blown glass vessel that might shatter if treated roughly.  Her hair was black, hung to her waist.  He wished he could see her face, then smiled at the idiocy of his thoughts.  What was important was not her appearance but whether she proved a threat or salvation to Langlinais. 

            The Church endorsed two ways of marriage, the first that of declaring “words of the future” uttered by young children. Such a marriage was valid only as long as it was later consummated.  Vows considered “words of the present” could be exchanged when the bridegroom was at least fourteen, the bride twelve. 

            They had been put through a marriage ceremony when they were children, in order to effect a peaceful transfer of her dower lands in Merton. But their wedding would never be considered valid.

            Yet, his maiden wife must be convinced to remain at Langlinais, despite that fact.  If she agreed to this ruse, he and his home would be protected.  If she did not, he may as well surrender his birthright to the Templars and prepare himself for exile.

            What kind of woman would agree to his terms?  A thought he’d wondered  ever since the idea had come to him.  A desperate one, or one filled with greed, perhaps. The next few moments would tell.   He slipped from the gallery soundlessly.

            It was time to discover his fate.

© 1998 Karen Ranney