Read The Princess and the Templar Online
Authors: Hebby Roman
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Medieval, #templar, #Irish
The Sinclair roared with pain. He dropped his shield. His left arm dangled by a thread. But he found the strength to lift his sword arm. Unprepared and as if in a dream, Raul watched its swift descent, the dark red blade outlined against the bright disk of the sun.
A blinding pain ripped through him. Red and black. Black and red spots danced before his eyes. His body folded, drawing in upon itself. He leaned over too far and realized he was falling. Toppling to the ground like a felled tree. The cold, brown earth rushed up to meet him. Then a singular noise reverberated in his feverish brain. The metallic grind of gears and chains, the loud thump of wood striking earth.
He knew that sound, the drawbridge being lowered. He tried to concentrate, cling to the importance of that singular sound. For somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew it held a special meaning. Like a whirling dervish, though, his thoughts spun around and around in his head, making no sense. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to focus, strove to ignore the loud ringing in his ears and think. He wanted to understand, needed to understand. But his thoughts were slippery things, shadows that twisted and pranced, vanishing and reappearing, eluding him.
And where had the so-bright day gone? For the shadows grew and grew, blotting out the light. His vision narrowed, the blackness crowding in. Thunderclouds must be rolling across the sun; the morning had turned black as the Sinclair’s heart.
A pinpoint of light—Cahira’s face. Then the blackness engulfed him.
****
Cahira knelt beside the couch, her head bowed. Tears filled her eyes and streaked down her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy and raw from crying. Grasping the silver cross at her breast, she folded her hands around the familiar metal and silently beseeched her God to let Raul live. Scores and scores of prayers had she said until her voice was hoarse and her reason ragged. But Raul didn’t waken. He’d lain thus for almost a fortnight, blood seeping from the savage wound in his neck.
The blow that had saved her life.
For certain she’d been faltering when Raul’s cry had distracted her. She was warrior bred, but these past few days had taught her humility. If her Templar hadn’t come, she would have fallen to the Sinclair’s sword. As it was, she’d stared death in the face and once again, he’d saved her. He’d ridden into the heat of battle, unprotected by armor and on a pitiful nag, to protect her, thinking naught of his own peril.
How she could have doubted his love, she knew not. Her hurt and frustration had overtaken her reason at Fécamp. Looking back, she realized that now. Knew it with a savage pain that made her bones ache and the teeth rattle in her head.
She felt small, so very small and insignificant compared with his brave sacrifice. Compared to all the times he’d risked his life for hers. Now he lay dying because she hadn’t trusted him, because she hadn’t believed he truly loved her. Despairing, she clutched his hand and sobbed.
’Twas a tragic irony she’d regained her castle and people, the legacy her family had fought and died for. Yet bitter was the triumph. For without Raul, it all meant naught. He’d begged her to go with him to Spain. To be wed and then find a way to retake Kinsale together. Feeling betrayed and hurting, she’d pushed him away and forsaken his love.
She’d been so wrong, so very wrong. Naught supplanted love. Not even the blood of her family crying to her from their graves should have come between them. Life was for the living and love was the essence of life, the nourishment of her soul. For without it, she would perish, as surely as her body would die without food and drink.
Raul had sacrificed all for her, not one time but many, showing her the way of love. Even her cousins had refused to aid her without recompense. They’d given her armor and weapons and horses, but not one drop of blood would they shed to help her.
If Raul died, could she live with the agony of having lost him, of knowing her rashness and impatience had destroyed the only human being who loved her without any reservations?
Could she ever forgive herself?
The door groaned open, and Clach stood on the threshold, a basin of water and bandages in his hands. She didn’t know what she would have done without Clach’s guidance. He’d learned much, watching Raul care for others. And he’d applied all his skill to heal his Master.
If only his efforts would prove fruitful.
Making the sign of the cross, she finished her prayers. She rose and took up what had been her brother’s harp. In her haste to return home, she’d left her belongings in France, including her beloved harp. It mattered naught, though, for she would forfeit all her possessions and Kinsale as well if only Raul would recover.
Clach entered and bowed. Loghan, the squire’s constant shadow now, trailed after him. The boys had become fast friends. Cahira was glad for Loghan, knowing the squire could teach the stable lad much. She forced a wan smile and nodded to the two youths. Raul’s apprentice bent to the task. Loghan watched in silence, his head bowed. He, like all the castle folk, prayed for Raul’s recovery. Gone was Loghan’s former animosity toward the Templar. Now he was revered as her savior.
If only all their prayers would be answered and Raul would live.
Strumming the harp, she thrust aside her gnawing fear, trying to free her mind from its tormented twisting and concentrate on the flowing notes of the music. In truth, the soft tones of the harp comforted her, as they always had, returning her to a happier time when her father and brothers still lived. And yet another time when she’d first laid eyes upon Raul and noticed how handsome he was.
Clach finished bandaging Raul’s wound, and the youths took their leave. Cahira continued to strum the harp, humming softly to herself whilst half of her mind said more prayers for Raul’s recovery.
The music washed over Raul, soothing his spirit and easing the pounding pain in his neck. His thoughts drifted in and out, floating on the sweet notes. It was the music of a harp, he thought, like the angels played in heaven.
Heaven…that gave him pause. Ragged tatters of blood and pain and a battle fluttered at the corners of his mind. Then he remembered with a sudden swift clarity, the fearful descent of the Sinclair’s sword and the pain after. He wondered if he’d died and gone to Heaven. But with all the sins that besmirched his soul, he marveled he’d gone to that good place.
Opening his eyes, he glanced up and saw the very visage of an angel. His angel, his princess. It was her face, Cahira’s face that greeted him. He saw her sweet countenance clearly, framed by her red-gold hair. Her emerald eyes shone with a new intensity, wetted by tears.
There were no tears in Heaven.
Why was she crying? He reached out his hand, as if to brush her tears away but his fingers only brushed air. He tried to rise, but fresh pain lanced through him. He fell back, groaning. He
felt
her presence, hovering over him. Her soft hands stroked his forehead. Even if he was dead, he would know her touch and recognize the gentleness of her hands.
His Cahira. His own Princess.
This was no dream nor Heaven, either. This was real. He wasn’t a dead man. She lived and so did he. He gazed at her from beneath half-open lids and found her beside his bed, kneeling and praying. She prayed for him, openly and without censure. He relaxed, taking in her words. Registering the beseeching timbre of her voice.
She loved him. Wanted him. Prayed for his recovery.
His heart soared, taking flight.
“Cahira.” His voice sounded rusty, ill-used to his own ears.
She raised her head. Tears misted the green brilliance of her eyes. “Raul?” she breathed.
“I will live. Doubt it not.”
“Oh, Raul.” She threw herself on his chest, sobbing.
He stroked her bright hair. “The Sinclair is routed?”
“Aye.” She raised her head and gazed into his eyes. “You gave him a telling blow. He died, spilling his blood on the ground.”
“As I expected. But his knights—?”
“Malcolm rallied my men. They lowered the drawbridge and joined us to fight the Sinclair’s army.”
Raul took in this new information. He remembered the sound of the drawbridge and how he’d fought unconsciousness, knowing that the lowering signaled an important turning point. For Cahira’s sake he was happy her men had finally rallied to her side.
“That’s good. I knew Malcolm would protect you.”
She laughed, her merriment obviously forced. “But I didn’t know. At first, he turned us away. I thought I would have to fight him and my people. We laid siege to the castle, and the Sinclair arrived and attacked my Templars. You came and saved me—”
“And got myself wounded in the bargain. If Malcolm hadn’t been willing to help, proving his loyalty, the Sinclair’s men might have still won the battle.”
“Nay.” She shook her head and tilted her chin.
He rejoiced seeing her thus. His Cahira, his stubborn and brave lioness.
“Mayhap, you’re right.” She shook her head. “’Tisn’t important now. All that’s important is you’re alive.” She laid her head upon his chest again. “I don’t know if Malcolm would have intervened if you hadn’t come and—”
“Hush,” he soothed. “Of certain, Malcolm would have aided you.”
She lifted her head. “Raul, I know you might not believe me, especially after what I did and what I said to you in France. But I don’t care anymore. All I care about is you.”
His heart swelled at her words. “I love you, Cahira. We’ve both made mistakes but that hasn’t changed how I feel about you.” He trailed his fingers over her downy cheek. “And what I asked at Fécamp hasn’t changed. I want to marry you. Will you have me?”
“Oh.” She swallowed and cast her eyes down. “But I was so wrong at Fécamp. I was impatient and thought—”
“Don’t talk,” he urged. “Just hold me close and never let go.”
“Nay, never.”
“And you will marry me?”
“This very day.” Their gazes met and held. “Raul, you are my one true prince. A prince of the realm. I want no other.”
Hearing her heartfelt words, joy streaked through him. A bright shooting star, filling him to the brim, extinguishing his pain, rallying his hope and restoring his life. He sat up and took Cahira in his arms. His lips found hers. When he finally broke their kiss, he lifted his head and made his first royal proclamation.
“We will make a kingdom together. A kingdom dedicated to justice and to…our everlasting love.”
A word about the author...
Hebby Roman is the author of eight print published romances, four historical romances and four contemporary romances. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America and the past president of her local chapter, North Texas Romance Writers. She was selected for the Romantic Times “Texas Author” award.
She lives in Arlington, TX with her husband, Luis, and Maltipoo, Max.
Please visit her website
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