The Princess and the Templar

Inc.

The Princess

and

the Templar

by

Hebby Roman

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Princess and the Templar

COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Hebby Roman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by R.J. Morris

Model: Anna Kate Chambers

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First English Tea Rose Edition, 2013

Print ISBN 978-1-62830-153-3

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-161-8

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For my granddaughter, Mackenzie Reese Saller,

the love and light of my life.

Praise for THE PRINCESS AND THE TEMPLAR

"A sweeping, medieval epic of

star-crossed lovers, don't miss it!"

~NYT bestselling author Lori Wilde

Chapter One

Kinsale, Ireland 1307

In the name of my lord, William the Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, I command thee, lower the drawbridge, Raul de Porcelos shouted.

Early morning mist swathed the castle, softening its harsh stone battlements. A wan spring sun, glimmering like a tarnished coin, struggled to break through the low-lying fog. The thick, brine-clotted air burned the back of his throat, and the acrid smell of fish assailed his nostrils.

Raul gathered the reins of his destrier and stood in the stirrups, his gaze sweeping the castle walls. A flurry of movement at the top of the postern snagged his attention, but he waited in vain for the sound of groaning metal against metal that would signal the drawbridge being lowered. The brooding pile of gray and weathered stones mocked him. Perched on a jagged promontory jutting into the rough seas of St. George’s Channel, the castle’s builder had possessed a shrewd eye for fortifications. Surrounded on three sides by pounding surf and with a deep moat cut from shore to shore guarding the land approach, the castle’s defenses loomed formidable. Raul frowned, impatient to fulfill his duty.

A long-eared hare leapt from the scrubby gorse and darted across the roadway. Raul’s horse shied, prancing to one side. He reined in his restless mount and struggled for patience. Lifting his head, he repeated his plea for entry. His men muttered under their breath, and their horses stamped the hard-packed earth.

Silence shrouded them. No one stirred on the castle’s walls. A sense of unease settled on Raul like a heavy blanket. Their arrival wasn’t unexpected, as his lord had sent a messenger to herald their coming over a month ago.

He spurred his mount in the flanks, tightened the reins, leaned forward, and trotted closer. Four feet from the moat, he halted his destrier, cupped his hands around his mouth and he shouted, Lower the drawbridge.

An arrow whizzed past his ear, followed by a deadly swarm of metal-tipped shafts.

¡Sangre de Cristo!

How dare they shoot at a peaceful emissary? Had the castle inhabitants lost their wits? These were dangerous times, but they’d been forewarned. Couldn’t they see the red cross of the Knights Templar on his tunic?

He hadn’t come to wage war.

Behind him, he heard a shout and then a groan. Wheeling his mount, Raul found his men milling in confusion, forming a protective circle around two of their fallen comrades.

A hailstorm of stones followed the volley of arrows, bouncing harmlessly off their armor, but providing powerful encouragement to take cover. Raul leaped from his horse and knelt beside one of the downed knights, a Scot by the name of Dall, who had taken an arrow in his neck.

With the help of Barclay McPherson, Raul’s sergeant, he stripped Dall of his heavy armor, and they lifted him onto Raul’s mount. Barclay assisted the other wounded knight, Morogh, who’d taken a shaft in his thigh, back onto his own horse. Raul mounted behind Dall, supporting the wounded man. Barclay grasped Morogh’s reins in his fist.

Raising his hand, Raul commanded his knights to fall back. With Barclay by his side, they spurred their destriers, and the others followed close upon their heels, gaining the protection of a copse of trees.

Raul dismounted and lowered Dall to the ground, summoning his squire with, Fetch my satchel, Clach.

The dark-haired lad tugged his forelock and scurried off to the pack animals. Barclay followed suit, easing Morogh to the ground and going to fetch wood to start a fire.

Clach returned with the satchel, and Raul spread its contents on a large tree stump. A resourceful lad, Clach had thought to bring blankets, too, and Raul covered the injured knights. With the assistance of his squire, Raul hastily stripped off his armor so he could tend the wounded men.

He knelt beside his men and examined their wounds. The arrows must be extracted, but their removal would be painful, and based on his experience, the injuries could prove fatal. Dall’s injury was the worst, bleeding copiously. Praying his knife would be swift and sure, Raul broke off the shaft and made the necessary incision. Mercifully, Dall lost consciousness after the second cut.

When it was Morogh’s turn, he ground his teeth into the wood block Raul had placed in his mouth and managed to remain awake during the extraction, though beads of sweat dripped like rain from his forehead.

Raul scrutinized his handiwork and knew the wounds must be cauterized to heal. Without the purging fire, he had learned most injuries didn’t heal properly, and then fever followed, which usually proved fatal. But many a good and brave man had died from cauterization, too.

The bleak reality of war and death.

Raul had seen enough spilled blood and dying to last him more than a lifetime. Not a proper warrior’s sentiment. But then he wasn’t a proper warrior. He was a warrior-monk. Mayhap more monk than warrior.

****

Cahira O’Donnell, Princess of Eire, paced the curtain wall, stopping to peer between the saw-toothed battlements. The morning fog had burned off, leaving a robin egg’s blue dome of sky arching above. Seabirds swooped overhead, and the earthy scent of new grass tickled her nose. Spring sang its siren’s song, but she had no time for its tempting diversions.

A party of knights threatened her castle. Unlike earlier raiders who’d come to besiege and make war, these knights cloaked themselves in diplomacy. Extending their so-called protection, when all they wanted was to seize her castle and lands under the cover of law.

She’d assessed the danger and met it. Her archers had felled two of the knights, and her yeomen had rained stones upon them. When the intruders retreated across the road, she gave the signal to cease. She must preserve their precious arrows and stones.

Watch sharp, she instructed her men. If they come within range again, fire a volley and send for me. Glancing down, she saw several of her knights in the bailey below. Why hadn’t they joined her on the wall?

Descending the uneven steps to the outer bailey, she rounded a corner and ran into her master-at-arms, Dwyer MacMalley. He caught her elbow, steadying her. She twisted free and backed up a pace, her nose wrinkling at his ripe stench.

In truth it wasn’t just the smell that offended her. She didn’t like the man, not since she’d caught him beating one of her servants in a drunken rage. His name, Dwyer, meant black in Gaelic, and his heart was as black as his name.

Dwyer had been hand-picked by her father, by her Da, promoting him above men of more noble rank. She took several deep breaths and strove for forbearance. Despite her father's opinion of him, she questioned Dwyer's ability to lead and even doubted his loyalty.

Where were you? she demanded.

Breaking me fast, milady. His brows lowered. I dinna know—

You dinna know, she scoffed, because you abandoned your duty. She crossed her arms and frowned.

He scowled, too, his fleshy lips parting to reveal brown-scummed teeth. We were expecting these knights. The messenger from Sinclair said—

The messenger I refused to see. Even though she’d sent the man away without an audience, she’d read the missive he’d brought, and her blood had boiled at the audacious proposal. She had no intention of entertaining Sinclair’s offer, not now or ever.

I sent the messenger away without an answer.

Aye, I remember. Dwyer shook his head. And foolish that was, milady. We have need of protection.

Are you calling me foolish and saying we can’t protect our own?

Their gazes clashed and locked.

Dwyer lowered his gaze first. Nay, milady, I would never call ye foolish. But we don’t have provisions for a siege. The other raids have depleted our foodstuffs and weapons.

Don’t you think I know that? There won’t be a siege. We’ll ride out and fight. ’Tis only a small party of knights.

Dwyer dug his fingers into his matted beard. But they’re Sinclair’s knights, and he’s a powerful adversary. If we drive these off, more will surely follow.

She’d thought of that, but Scotland was far away. By the time Sinclair learned of the defeat and sent more knights, her castle would be provisioned. She knew little of the Lord Sinclair except his ruthless reputation for seizing power. And that he'd had the audacity to offer for her hand, expecting to take a Princess of Eire to wife and his bed. The thought made her flesh crawl.

Princess or no, the Lord Sinclair had never laid eyes on her. For all he knew, she could be a toothless hag. But the man wanted her lands and castle, not her. He’d seen an opportunity and latched onto it. All this prattle about marriage and protection was a ploy to take her holdings.

And marriage wasn’t what she wanted, not unless it brought love. Love for love’s sake ’twas was a dream she cherished close to her heart, something to warm and cosset her through the endless dark nights. After the pain and loss of her family, it was the only dream that sustained her.

I wouldna fight William the Sinclair if I were ye, Dwyer said. Better to accept his protection.

She squared her shoulders and thrust out her chin. I don’t want his protection. My family died for this castle and lands. I will not dishonor their memory by surrendering.

Begging yer pardon, milady, but ye’re only a woman. Women don’t fight.

Only a woman?

Dwyer didn’t know her, couldn’t understand her. Her mother had died giving her life. There had been no one to sing sweet lullabies or to plait daisies in her hair. No lessons on spinning or needlepoint.

But she’d had her father and four brothers, and they were masters of war. They’d raised her to fight. Trained her with the broadsword and lance, as well as the dagger and mace. They’d taught her what they knew so she’d be prepared for what might come.

Her family had died defending Kinsale, spilled their blood for their legacy. Trained in matters of war, she could do no less. She must honor their memory… even if she was only a woman.

Thinking about the family she’d lost, tears clogged her throat, threatening to seep from her eyes. Grief was a formidable foe, stealthy and tenacious, waiting to strike when she least expected it. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of grieving. She couldn’t show any weakness, especially now. Gulping, she willed back the tears.

If you won’t fight them, Dwyer, then I will, she said.

He grabbed her arm Ye’re going to fight? Have ye gone daft?

How dare he put his dirty paw on her!

She opened her mouth to call for Malcolm, her bailiff, but thought better of it. If Dwyer wanted proof she could fight, she’d show him.

She straightened her spine and lifted her head. Her eyes narrowed. Take your hand off me.

He stared back, his gray eyes hard as flint. For the space of a heartbeat, she thought he wouldn’t obey. Then he released her, stepping back.

A thrill shot through her. She’d faced him down.

I’ll take command. She would outfit herself in her youngest brother’s armor and lead the knights. No one would guess her sex.

But milady—

I will fight, and you won’t stop me. Understood?

He nodded.

You’ll stay in the castle, and Malcolm will act as my master-at-arms.

He bowed his head, but not before she glimpsed the dark undercurrent of resentment in his eyes.

****

Raul dipped his hands into a basin of water and scrubbed them with lye soap. Rinsing, he watched as the water turned pink. Drying his hands on a scrap of cloth, he rose and gazed at the wounded men.

Their wounds were dressed, and the bleeding had stopped. A fine sheen of perspiration coated the fallen knights’ faces, but their eyes were closed and they slept. Satisfied with his work, he believed they would live with proper care.

He glanced around the improvised camp. His knights had dismounted and removed their armor. Alfred had captured Dall’s loose mount. Clach had started a stew bubbling over the fire. The scent of meat drifted over the camp, strong upon the soft spring air. The knights took their leisure, some cleaning their broadswords and shields, and others gathering fodder for the horses.

Barclay broke away from the ring of camp and approached him. What are your orders, sir?

Let me think. Raul paced and tapped his chin with his index finger. Shaking his head, he said, If we attack, we’ll probably all be killed.

Aye, but if we retreat, the Sinclair will make us wish we were dead anyway.

Por Dios, neither choice was welcome. Start a war and sacrifice his knights or retreat and suffer the hot-tempered wrath of the earl.

This was his first mission for the Sinclair, his new lord. With the dwindling of the Templar resources in Cyprus, many of his brethren had removed to the continent to swear allegiance to men of rank and nobility. Most had gone to France to serve.

Raul had wanted to return to his native Spain. But his father had persuaded him to align himself with the powerful Sinclair family of Scotland. The Pope wished to cultivate the Scottish earl as a check on the unbridled ambition of the French King, Philip the Fair—that was his father’s argument for persuading Raul to offer his services.

As an obedient son, he’d bowed to his father’s request, but his acquiescence had left a bitter taste in Raul’s mouth. He oft wondered if his father’s real reason had been to distance himself from his bastard son.

The brassy blare of a trumpet sounded. He lifted his head at the sound and crossed to the edge of the trees, gazing at the castle. Slowly, the portcullis inched upward, baring the wooden slats of the drawbridge. And then, to his surprise, the familiar grind of metal and gears heralded the lowering of the bridge.

Had his mission been miraculously saved? Were the arrows and stones in error?

His answer wasn’t long in coming.

Two score knights, clad in chain mail and carrying lances, rode across the drawbridge. Leading them was a knight wearing a tunic with the heraldic insignia of the House of O’Donnell.

Seeing the insignia, Raul realized the Sinclair’s information had been false. Only an O’Donnell heir possessed the right to wear the rearing golden lions of Eire; thus, one of the O’Donnells must still live, which would explain the resistance Raul and his men had met.

And the resistance they were about to meet because this was no peaceful party, seeking a truce. The O’Donnell knights were armed and ready to fight. They had ridden from a secure castle to put Raul’s men to rout. It was an unusual move, given their position. But then again, why waste time on a siege when the interlopers were outnumbered?

Their offensive action narrowed Raul’s choices; he could meet them or retreat.

He didn’t want to lose any more men, but he refused to retreat, either. Instead, he’d ride out alone, flying a white flag of truce, and try to reason with the O’Donnell. That way, at least, he’d buy his men some time.

Kneeling, he made the sign of the cross and offered a short prayer for God to guide him. Then he called for his destrier, and Clach brought his discarded chausses and coat of plates. While replacing his armor, he explained the plan to his men.

His knights didn’t like the scheme. They were spoiling for a fight, despite being outnumbered. But he’d made up his mind, and he ordered them to stay in the forest. Even so, the men began preparations, replacing their armor and buckling on their swords.

Raul gathered his reins and mounted. Barclay, see that the men stay here.

They’ll stay as you asked, so long as you’re in no danger. But if the O’Donnell doesn’t honor the truce… He shrugged and spat on the ground.

If that happens, leave at once and take the wounded to the nearest monastery, Raul directed. The holy men will know how to care for them.

Barclay grunted and lowered his gaze. Raul understood his evasive gesture. The knight’s code of chivalry wouldn’t allow him to ride off and leave Raul to face the enemy alone.

So be it.

He’d done all that he could. What happened next was, in large part, in God’s hands. He hoisted the white flag and spurred his mount forward, clearing the trees and trotting toward the knot of O’Donnell knights.

At the sight of the white banner, the O’Donnell rose in his stirrups and drew his sword, pointing at the truce flag. Raul didn’t know what to make of the gesture, and the closed visor hid the O’Donnell’s expression. Reining back, Raul waited for the O’Donnell to make the next move.

He didn’t have long to wait. With a stab of his broadsword, the O’Donnell urged his men forward. Raul stood his ground until surrounded, keeping an eye on their leader and trying to guess what he would do next.

O’Donnell nodded to one of his men, who said, Leave, Templar, and we’ll spare your life.

So they had recognized the cross on his tunic, but the insignia obviously meant nothing to the O’Donnell. To Raul, it meant he wouldn’t leave without trying to fulfill his mission.

I come in peace, he declared, lifting the white banner. My lord, William the Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, sends his greetings. And he offers his protection to the Princess of Erie and to—

A strangled cry, like the death keen of a hawk, gurgled from O’Donnell, cutting off Raul’s declaration. The O’Donnell urged his mount closer and raised his sword, thrusting at Raul’s chest.

Raul’s well-oiled reflexes, honed by years of war and training, took over. He ducked and dropped the flag. In one fluid motion, he unsheathed his broadsword, bringing it up to block the next blow.

The two swords clashed with a cacophony of ringing metal upon metal. Shouts and curses and more clanging of swords told Raul his knights had joined the fight. A foolish gesture, because most likely, they would all perish.

Locked in mortal combat with the O’Donnell, he didn’t have time to order his men back. Matching thrust for thrust, Raul marveled at his foe’s creative handling of the broadsword. If he wanted to prevail, he must go on the attack. Thought flowed swiftly into action, and he leaned forward, executing a flurry of sword thrusts and feints.

But the O’Donnell stubbornly refused to yield. Instead, he feinted to the left, forcing Raul to lunge to stop his parry. His foe then anticipated him, reversing his leftward thrust and bringing his sword up the middle, aiming for Raul’s chin and almost unseating him.

In a moment of clarity, Raul realized his mistake. He threw up his armored arm, taking the bruising blow of his adversary’s sword. Although he blunted the O’Donnell’s clever attack, his opponent’s blade sliced through the leather straps at his elbow and found flesh.

Ignoring the searing pain, Raul pushed his mount closer, trying to force his enemy’s destrier to give way. The O’Donnell’s horse backed a few steps, throwing the rider off balance. Raul took advantage and thrust hard, aiming for the unprotected line of his opponent’s neck. But O’Donnell tucked his chin, and Raul missed, his sword tangling in the slots of his adversary’s visor.

He jerked hard, desperate to free his weapon before his enemy capitalized on the error and gutted him. Grunting with the effort, he forced his broadsword up, releasing a fountain of blood that streamed between the visor bars.

His sword popped free, dragging the blood-drenched helm with it. The metal hood landed on the ground with a loud thud, and Raul’s gaze flew to the face of his opponent.

What he saw turned his blood to ice; a scarlet-streaked face gone white with pain, and masses of red-gold hair, shining like spun silk.

That hair, the flawless skin, and the full pout of her mouth. Her mouth.

Madre de Dios, the O’Donnell was a woman!

From her creamy forehead ran a river of dark blood. Her wide-spaced green eyes glazed over, and she slowly raised her hand, encased in chain mail, as if to wipe away the tell-tale stain. But when the metal touched her face, she flinched and dropped her hand.

Raul flinched, too, her bloodied face ripping at his guts. Forgive him, por Dios, for he'd harmed a woman. And not just any woman but a princess.

For there was no doubt in his mind this woman was the Princess O’Donnell. Her upright carriage and fine bone structure proclaimed her nobility as surely as the royal insignia she wore.

He watched, horror closing his throat, as she slumped forward on the neck of her mount. He sprang from his horse and caught her in his arms before she slid to the ground. Even fully outfitted in heavy armor, she felt as light as dandelion fluff. Cradling her slight weight, he was surprised her slender arms could swing a mighty broadsword with such authority and cunning.

Slowly, he bent his knees, lowering her to the ground. A part of his mind realized the din of battle had ceased. Knights on both sides stood with their weapons checked, waiting. In the taut silence, Raul could hear the wind whipping round the castle battlements and the raucous cry of a seagull.

He pulled off his gauntlets and fumbled for the fallen truce flag, using the scrap of cloth to wipe her forehead. The familiar coppery stench of blood filled his nostrils.

Always blood. Too much blood.

Sangre de Cristo—that terrible day. He’d wanted to protect the women, not kill them. And now he’d failed again. The bright sunshine dimmed, eclipsed by the mists of a half-forgotten time and memories he'd prayed to forget.

Memories of white marble floors streaked with crimson rivers and dainty golden lattice screens splattered with red droplets. Of slaughtered women lying in crooked heaps, the dark mystery of their sex visible through their gossamer harem trousers. Of olive-skinned infants and children, scattered like refuse among tinkling fountains that ran pink with their blood.

He covered his face with his hands and pushed back at the nightmare vision. He forced air into his lungs, breathing deep and willing the return of his self-control. Sinking to his knees beside the bleeding princess, he offered a fervent prayer.

"Por Dios, don’t let her die by my hand."

Chapter Two

Raul lifted the princess in his arms and strode toward the castle. As soon as his foot touched the rough planking of the drawbridge, one of her men stepped forward. Raul recognized him as the knight who’d told him to leave.

Muttering among themselves, the O’Donnell knights massed behind their new leader, ringing in Raul and blocking his path. His knights looked on, uncertain of what action to take.

What are you doing? the O’Donnell knight demanded.

Why must her knights resist? Couldn’t they hear her groans of pain? Didn’t they realize with each moment wasted, she lost more blood and strength?

Taking your lady inside. I’ve skills as a physician.

The man’s eyes narrowed. You’re the one who wounded her. Why should I trust you?

I wouldn’t have raised a sword against the princess had I known who she was. I was sent to protect, not harm her.

And you’ve a physician’s skills? Is that common for a Templar?

Raul sighed. Patience, he counseled himself. No, not common. I was taken prisoner in Constantinople and sold as a servant to an Arabic physician. He taught me much.

You trust the wisdom of the Infidels?

Their methods succeed more often than ours.

The knight cocked his head, considering. If I allow you to care for her, can you swear she will live?

Raul swallowed. He hadn’t examined her injury. If it was a flesh wound, her recovery was assured. But if he’d severed one of her arteries; it could prove fatal. Glancing at her pale face, he knew there was no time to weigh the consequences. He must be allowed to attend her.

I swear by the sacred Cross, she will live, he vowed.

The O’Donnell knight’s eyes widened. After a long moment, he bent his head in guarded acceptance. Moving to one side, he motioned for his men to fall back.

Once inside the castle, Raul anxiously bent over the princess, cleansing the gash on her temple. As if in answer to his prayers, the wound wasn’t deep. With the proper care, she should recover quickly.

Wringing out a cloth, he crossed to the table to fetch fresh water. His footsteps echoed in the high-vaulted chamber. The O’Donnell knight had shown him to the castle’s solar, not her lady’s bedchamber.

Raul glanced around the large tower room with its perfectly circular walls. In truth the