Читать книгу Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 11

From the rampart overlooking the bailey Reynaud watched for a moment longer, his pulse jumping in an irregular beat at the sight of the slim girlish figure in the white turban.

With a curse he turned away from the battlement and descended the narrow circular staircase. He had important business here in Moyanne besides looking after Leonor. Whoever was to contact him while he was here, with instructions for disposing of the Templar gold hidden in his saddlebags, would use the coded password de Blanquefort had given him. Beyond that, his Grand Master had told him nothing.

So he must wait. But each time he laid eyes on Leonor, a warm rush of blood beat in his chest, and the darkness inside him lifted. Though his spirit was weary, his body was becoming frighteningly alive.

In the great hall the huge stone fireplace stood empty. Moyanne’s summer heat left the evening air balmy and still until long past Lauds. It reminded him of Syria, except that nights there were never quiet.

The smoky flames of rushlights illuminated the noisy company assembled in Count Henri’s hall. The count and his lady-wife Alais welcomed him with unfeigned cordiality, yet again he felt out of place, neither Frankish nor Arab.

To his surprise, Reynaud found himself sitting in the place of honour at Count Henri’s right hand. Henri himself, the count confided, had served as a Hospitaller. He had a fondness for knights of a military order, even the rival order of Knights Templar.

A portly wine server made his leisurely rounds from the raised dais to the linen-covered trestle tables abutting each end. Reynaud drank deeply from his overflowing cup and tried to screen out the noise and bustle. Lords and ladies in silks and ribbons, knights, churchmen in sombre robes, even children were crowded together in the warm, sweat-scented room.

He focused on the nimble juggler in the centre area. Dressed in tight red hose and a belled cap, the fellow tossed yellow apples into the air, bouncing them off his arms before catching them.

Count Henri leaned towards him. ‘Later,’ he said in an undertone, ‘there will be dancing.’

Reynaud hid a grimace. Before he had made his vows, dancing with a woman had brought him pleasure. Now he contented himself with watching the assembled guests for a glimpse of Leonor. When he had assured himself that she was safe and protected, he would count the hours before Compline and then sleep.

He gulped the rich, sweet liquid in his wine cup and tried to concentrate on his host’s conversation over the rattle of eating knives and bursts of laughter. But his gaze moved from face to face, for the thousandth time studying knight and noble lady alike.

Where was Leonor?

‘Drink up, Reynaud,’ the count urged. ‘Our meal will be…’ he slanted an amused look at Lady Alais ‘…delayed somewhat. My lady-wife’s favourite hound whelped this afternoon. She promised a pup to the cook.’

Lady Alais covered her husband’s hand with her own. ‘Cook could not decide which of the six she preferred, my dear. Truth to tell, neither could I. They are all quite handsome.’

She glanced at Reynaud. ‘Perhaps you, Sir Reynaud, would like a companion?’

Reynaud shook his head at the tall, still elegant older woman in the simply cut, dark blue gown. ‘Not I, lady. I travel overmuch to care for a pup. Neither have I time in which to train it.’

In truth, he found it difficult to stay in one place for very long. He was footloose, and when he had time on his hands he tended to brood. He welcomed orders that sent him on another journey.

Alais gave him a gentle smile. ‘A pity. I fear there are too many pups to keep, but I cannot bear to see them drowned.’ She turned to the heavy-set man on her left. ‘My Lord Robert, have you a hound?’

Henri chuckled and saluted his wife with his raised wine cup. He drank, then winked at Reynaud. ‘I’ll not drown them,’ he said in an undertone. ‘But if she thinks I will, it will spur her to find homes for the little brutes all the quicker. Women, bless them, are soft-hearted creatures when it comes to young things.’

The count’s face stilled for an instant. ‘Perhaps it would not be thus if she had had babes of her own.’

‘You have no offspring, my lord?’

‘I have a son,’ Henri said quietly. ‘His mother died in birthing him. He was a man full grown when Alais came to me as a bride.’

‘Does he still live?’

‘Perhaps. If God wills it. I have not seen him for thirty summers. He was fostered with my brother, Roger of St Bertrand, at Carcassonne and thence travelled across the sea to Jerusalem. A handsome lad he was, before he left.’

‘I met many from Navarre while in the Holy Land. How was your son called?’

‘Bernard,’ the count replied. ‘But he was not a knight of your order. He was also a Hospitaller.’

Before he could question the count further, a young boy appeared at the far end of the hall, a harp slung over one slim shoulder. A floppy velvet cap drooped over his features.

Count Henri’s eyes went wide with surprise, but Reynaud’s heart lifted. A troubadour! He had not heard a troubadour ballad since he rode out of Vezelay as a squire twenty years past.

And God knew his weary heart was hungry for solace.

Leonor paused at the entrance to the main hall and waited for her aunt’s signal from the head table. Quickly she adjusted her grip on the harp and pushed a stubborn strand of hair up under her green velvet cap. Benjamin gently squeezed her arm. ‘Go with God, little one,’ he whispered. ‘Shalom.’

The moment had come. Her heart leaped like an untamed hawk straining at its jesses.

The sting of poetry had always sent a thrill to her midsection, like being blown aloft by a holy breath. When she sang the words of her heart, the world stopped turning, and for a brief moment she felt at one with all humankind.

But only in the land of Aquitaine, where Great Eleanor ruled, was there a woman troubadour. It was whispered that at Eleanor’s court there were even women poets!

Yet this was Moyanne, not Aquitaine. Perhaps they would not welcome a woman troubadour. Her mouth went dry as a thistle.

At her aunt’s beckoning gesture, she started forwards, her heart thudding in her ears. If she glanced down at the loose-fitting silk tunic, it would be visibly fluttering over her chest with each beat. Better not to look.

She raised her chin and gazed across the hall. Next to her Uncle Henri sat Reynaud, tall and dark-haired in his white surcoat. She focused on the eight-pointed crimson cross emblazoned on his chest and willed her shaking limbs to carry her forwards, towards him.

Reynaud’s body suddenly went cold. That was no young minstrel. That was Leonor gliding towards him! And, God save her, she was wearing trousers! What was she thinking, entering the hall in a man’s garb? And carrying a harp?

Women did not perform in public. Certainly not a high-born woman like Leonor, educated in languages and versed in court etiquette. Surely she knew better. Henri’s guests would not listen to the music a woman would make. They would shout until she ceased singing.

Unable to breathe, Reynaud followed her progress through the horde of servants and guests in the crowded hall. She looked so small. And defenceless. Her simple embroidered tunic reached almost to the floor, and on her head she wore a matching green cap with a jaunty feather. But under the boy’s apparel she was unmistakably female! The delicate bones in her face, her graceful, sinuous motions screamed Woman.

His breath choked off. Did no one see what was so apparent to him? She was safe only if none realised she was female! He ground his teeth in an agony of frustration. It was too late to stop her.

The room buzzed in anticipation. Leonor advanced to the centre and bowed courteously to the count and Lady Alais.

Alais leaned towards her husband. ‘My dear, this is the harper I told you of earlier.’ At her significant look, Henri turned his full attention towards the youth.

Leonor sank on to a round wooden stool and bent her head to check her tuning. The hall quieted.

Under his surcoat Reynaud began to sweat. The crowd would not receive her well. How could he protect her in this foolhardy venture? He had stashed his sword belt, along with those of the other knights, with the burly guard at the hall entrance. Now, he had no weapon.

Silence dropped over the hall like soft mist. When the hush thickened, Leonor straightened, pulled the harp back on to her right shoulder and plucked a single chord.

Then she began to sing.

In spite of his pounding heart, he could not shut out her voice. What beautiful music! Her voice was low and melodious, rich in timbre. A woman’s voice, not the voice of the girl he remembered.

And such poetry! The words, in Arabic, described the soaring of a lark, the flight of a heart in ecstasy. The verses were so beautifully wrought that his chest tightened.

The backs of his eyelids began to burn. Not since his youth had a song touched him so deeply. His throat ached. He wanted to weep. The throb of her harp through his soul was almost painful, the longing aroused in him gnawing at his vitals.

Ah, he could stand no more. He clenched his hands until his knuckles cracked, and then, mercifully, the mesmerising voice and the murmur of the harp faded into silence.

He waited, scarcely able to draw breath.

Leonor dipped her head in a subtle obeisance to the count and Lady Alais but remained motionless on her stool. Reynaud could not take his eyes off her.

No one made a sound. At his elbow, Count Henri gaped open-mouthed at the slim figure in the centre of the hall. ‘By the saints,’ he breathed into the lingering hush.

She raised her head at last, and Reynaud saw that her grey eyes glittered with unshed tears.

Pandemonium broke out. Nobles and commoners alike banged their wine cups on the table and cheered until they were hoarse.

Reynaud drew in an unsteady breath. She had enchanted them. Thank God. Thank God!

She rose, stepped to the high table, and knelt on one knee before Count Henri and Lady Alais. Then she reached a small, fine-boned hand up to her feathered cap and with a quick motion drew it off and placed it across her heart.

Hair the colour of black silk tumbled down her slender back.

The crowd gasped. ‘A woman!’ someone shouted. ‘The minstrel is a woman!’

Reynaud was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, intending to head towards the wooden rack of swords at the front of the hall. Never before had he felt such an overpowering need to protect someone.

He halted as an underlying truth burned into his brain. Never before had he felt such a gut-deep yearning to touch another human spirit.

But a woman? His vows forbade it. He had to escape whatever it was pulling his soul to hers.

The shouting of the dinner guests echoed in the stone hall and then, abruptly, all noise ceased. His body began to tremble.

She would play again.

He didn’t think he could stand it.