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Southern France – 1308
“By the blood, Brother Wolfgang. I bid you welcome.” The French Templar stood watch at the castle gate. He had been expecting The Enclave to arrive for the past month, but the Teutonic soldier was the first to arrive. “How was your journey?”
“Through His Blood we are saved, Brother François. I have been too long on the road,” he said, answering in French as he reined back his warhorse and slid out of the saddle. His sword caught on the saddle bag, but he freed it with minimal effort. The soldier landed on the damp pathway with a heavy thud. His tangled hair caught the pale moonlight; even his rusty beard had a glow to it.
“Bienvenu au Château de la Fleur.” François caught his forearm, clasping his hand as the guest returned the gesture.
The warrior appeared as if he had come from the field of battle. The back of his leather coat was damp from the mist. The garment was torn along the shoulder. The fur lining around the neck, matted with blood — blood that was not his. His tabard beneath was equally stained and torn; his chain mail was visible beneath.
“Are you injured, Brother?”
“Not so much as the enemy I left behind on the road from the Holy Lands.” Wolfgang chuckled. “Have I arrived too late?” He panted, his breath hanging in the cold night air.
“The Enclave is not yet assembled,” François said. “Several of The Order have yet to arrive; Brother William and the Lady Elisabeth from Scotland among them. We received word when they reached the coast; there has been no message since they made it to Mount St. Michel.”
“How long ago since his last missive arrived?”
“Three days’ time.” François said. The visitor moved to unloose his saddlebag. “We are growing concerned. He traveled under a Flag of Truce signed by the King himself.”
Wolfgang hesitated. “Am I to assume the English will send no envoy?”
“They will not,” François said soberly. “I can only hope his promise of truce was not a ruse to deceive us.”
“And what of ... the holy relic?” Wolfgang asked, glancing over his shoulder as he lowered his tone.
“Brother William and the Lady Elisabeth protect it at all costs,” he said. “At this point, we can only pray for their safety.”
“May God offer his protection,” Wolfgang said, crossing himself. François did the same, putting a hand on his comrade’s arm. “Come, Brother. You must be tired and hungry. There is food and bed prepared for you. Until all are assembled, best we tend to the needs of the body.”
“God bless you, Brother,” Wolfgang said, handing the horses’ reigns to the stable boy. He shouldered his saddlebags, reaching inside. “I have brought the gifts of my house; if you will take ale.”
François smiled brightly, accepting it and inspecting the dark glass bottle. “Ale would be most welcome.”
“A gift for your House,” Wolfgang said, brightly.
“I shall have a bottle of our finest wine brought from the cellar for you, in return.”
“And we shall drink it together,” François replied.
The autumn night had gone bitterly cold, and the long journey had been made all the more difficult by the early change of seasons. It had rained; snow was still a few months off. Wolfgang’s wool cloak had provided some protection and served to hide the silken tabard of his order. Not everyone on the road was a friend. He was grateful to have made it to the safety of the Château and ready to accept his Brother’s hospitality.
Shouts from the road outside the castle walls met them just before they made it inside. François stopped, as others raced from their posts to see what was amiss. Horses approached on the road in the darkness; a sorrel stallion and a white mare. The rider on the stallion slumped over the pommel of his saddle; limp. The white horse was riderless. Sweat from the animal’s flanks turned to mist around the anxious horses as the stablemen caught the reigns. Wolfgang and François both raced to meet them as the horses were lead into the courtyard where the brasiers illuminated the horrific scene. The white horses’ coat was matted in something dark; something that could only be blood. The white horse pranced in agitation and blew snot from her nose. The other seemed to limp but calmed at the gentle hand of one of the grooms.
“Brother William?” François raced around to the other horse, lifting the man’s head. His face was bruised, his eyes swollen, his upper lip cut. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his leg. Blood caked around the wound and stained both saddle and horse. “William?”
“Nous avons ... terminé,” William gasped. “La rose ... est tombée.”
“Where is your traveling companion?” François gasped, tears filling his eyes. “Where is your sacred missive?”
“My wife...” he gasped, sliding out of his saddle. He was a dead weight in his comrade’s arms. “We were ... beset ... she carried the treasure ...”
“François!” Wolfgang shouted; the injured man’s boot caught in the stirrup. “Help me get him down.”
It took more than the two of them to free the limp form of Brother William from his horse. “Call for the physician!”
“The stallion’s hoof is split,” the groom said as the knights inspected the horses, looking for clues to what might have taken place. An arrow pierced the saddle of the white horse, and remained lodged at the base of the pommel in the fine-tooled Scottish leather.
A rider on the path bolted through the gate and drew back his reigns as he saw something was amiss. “What has happened?” Brother Alwar asked, doffing his cloak as he landed; his boots clapping on the damp ground as he strode over. The Spaniard’s white tabard was emblazoned with a cross, embroidered in gold. A red rose at the conjunction of the lateral and horizontal arms.
“Brother William was attacked on the road,” François said, without the formal greetings of their order.
“And ... the Sacred Heart of the Rose?”
The two men had no words, but their faces spoke volumes. Alwar took the shaft of the arrow in one hand, bracing himself with the other; straining with the effort to free the arrow. He carried it to the firelight to inspect it. The other’s followed. “I recognize this.” He pointed to a mark on the shaft, just beneath the fletching. “I saw such marks during my time in Aleppo. It’s the mark of The Asāsiyyūn’s Guild.”
“Asāsiyyūns? Here? We are thousands of miles from the Holy Land. The Infidels could not have infiltrated so far into France.”
“They are like maggots that infiltrate our flesh while we sleep. Their numbers swell as they burrow into the darkest recesses of our realms. We must launch a counter attack,” Alwar insisted. “Why do you cower in this fortress like nuns? Are we not Soldiers in the Army of God?”
“Brother William lies on his deathbed ...” François gestured toward the castle as he started to explain.
Alwar was incensed by his lack of urgency. “If you will not go after her, I will.”
“Wait,” François caught his sleeve, realizing he, too wore his mail beneath. He’d come dressed for battle as well. “We must wait for the others of our Order.”
“Wait?” Alwar gasped. “Wait? While the Asāsiyyūns ride with the Sacred Heart of the Rose, what of Sister Elisabeth? It may already be too late, but I made an oath upon my life to defend and protect my brothers, and by virtue, his lady. I will not let the act of these Asāsiyyūns go unanswered. I will fight them all ... with or without the support of a full Army.”
Wolfgang looked to François. “I will go with him,” he said. “Vauquelin, fetch my horse!”
Alwar nodded, clearly pleased to have the Bohemian’s aid. “If we find The Asāsiyyūn’s Guild, we will send word. When the rest of The Order arrives, we may need aid.”
“How will your message find us here?”
“My falcon,” Alwar said, pointing to the shadow at the peak of the roof above the entryway. “She is well-trained and carries letters for me in times of urgent need. She will return to her roost. I will mount it here in the courtyard.” He went to his saddle a took a long post from a sheath. It might have appeared as a longsword, but the Spanish knight took the post and buried it in the compacted soil with one mighty blow. The falcon flew down and landed on it, before moving to her master’s arm.
François nodded. He made the sign of the cross over each of them. “I pray, by the Blood, may you go with God.”
Alwar bowed. “Through His Blood we are saved.”
The warriors returned just before sunrise, though the day had gone gray, as was so common this time of year. François never made it to his chambers. Instead, he felt compelled to pray and kept a vigil over the fallen soldier. When he heard the beat of hooves on the bridge just outside the fortress that protected the chapel, he crossed himself then made the same sign over the patient. He rose and went to greet his brothers. He didn’t get far.
The body of Lady Elisabeth had been found on the road, a dozen miles away. An arrow had pierced her heart. She wore a bloodstained overdress that looked like a fine silken a tapestry bearing a pattern of similar gold crosses and embroidered red roses.
They had shrouded her in their own tabards and brought her body to be properly entombed with her husband if he did not survive. She hadn’t yet been cold when they found her, but the last warmth of life was fleeting; her flesh still pliable as they collected her from the back of the horse.
François peeled back the shroud to study her face. Despite the cold pallor of death, he could see she had been a beautiful woman. She was young, fair-haired, and bore no marks or bruises on her ghostly face.
“Take her to her husband’s chambers,” François instructed, moving her body to Vauquelin’s arms. The man was not young, but he was robust; a form built by decades of labor.
“Why? What are you doing?” Alwar asked.
“The ancient wisdom says true love cannot be separated, even by death. If such things are true, and if the magic of my order holds, there may be salvation for them after all.”
“But the Sacred Heart of the Rose?”
“Another reason to take her to her husband,” François said.
William stirred as they carried his lady into the chamber, his eyelids fluttered. The monks moved a second bed into the room, sliding it close to the one upon which he lay. The body of his beloved wife was lain beside him and draped in a gossamer shroud. Brother Vauquelin brought holy water and sacred oils, placing them on the table beside the Lady’s bed.
“Brother William?” Wolfgang knelt at his side, as François knelt beside the Laird’s wife. “By His Blood, can you hear me, Brother?”
William rolled his head towards the man’s deep voice, he muttered something that they could only assume was the counter to their blessing. It was also a message The Order used to identify one another. Through His Blood we are saved.
François reached over and took the man’s hand and lay it upon the shrouded hand of his wife. “She’s been gone too long,” Wolfgang said, keeping his voice low.
“Be of faith, Brothers. Pray with me,” François said, bowing his head and lifting his hands like open cups to the heavens. Vauquelin stood back, crossing himself, then clasped his hands beneath his chin. “Father of the Ancients,” François began, dipping his finger in the dish of sacred oil, anointing the Lady’s head through the shroud. “God of Abraham and Isaac, Father of Christ, First-born from the Dead. Alpha and Omega. By all Thy Names, hear our prayers. In the Name of Love, we have come beseeching that these two souls be fully restored. Open their eyes wide that they may serve at Thy command. You, O Lord, who opens graves, who heals the sick, and raises the dead; O Lord, we beseech that Thou restore life and health to these mortal bodies. Through the Spirit that dwells in Thee, loose the pangs of Death, and awaken Thy warrior’s bride to everlasting life that we may bring glory to Thee and rescue the Sacred Heart of the Rose, and see it safely delivered from the hands of our enemies; as Thou has bidden. Mend these broken bodies to fully glory that their acts may magnify Thee. We ask this, our blessed Redeemer, as You raised Your Son from the grave, bring forth our Sister from the dead.”
François breathed in a deep breath and let it out slowly. An unseen surge of energy seemed to pass through his body, lifting his hair and sending goosebumps across his flesh. William too, drew in a deep breath. He gasped and cried out, “Elisabeth!” His voice was weak, but the word was unmistaken.
As if the windows had been thrown open, a gust of wind swirled into the small chamber; brasiers and candles flickering. A deep huffing echo came from the fireplace and ashes blew from the bed of coals; sparks erupted like fireflies on the summer air. They swirled and danced, coalescing as they hovered above the shrouded body.
The luminaries stopped short of contacting the linen that draped the lady’s delicate features. They seemed to throb with a heartbeat all their own. The lub-dub of it echoed loudly; repeatedly. François noticed William’s hand wrap around the smaller one of his wife. A gossamer voice found its way into the room.
“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder ...” The words, that came from nowhere and everywhere, were soft like the prayer of a small child. Just as soft was the sigh of the Lady St. Clair as her chest rose and fell, then rose again. The sparks twinkled into nothingness; the shroud pulled from her form, as if by unseen hands. It fell to the floor beneath the cot.
William rolled over, reaching for her cheek. “My beloved,” he buried his face in the tumble of golden curls that lay on her shoulder.
“You came back for me,” she said, weakly. An angelic smile curled in her cheeks as her hand went to husband’s head.
Alwar stood in the door, a gasp. “We could not leave you to our enemies, Lady Elisabeth.” He crossed the room and fell to his knees beside François, taking her other hand. He kissed her ring in reverence.
“They road with us in the guise of friends ... we were ... betrayed.” William said.
“Did you see who it was, Brother William?”
“I did not recognize him at first. But ... it was my beloved wife who discovered it was Lord Henry de Lacy.” He lay back, his hand still entwined in his Lady’s. “The ... Third Earl of Lincoln. The ... seneschal of King ... King Edward himself.”
Sharp glances passed between François, Wolfgang, and Anwar.
“But ... I did not detect the deception quick enough. I fear God is not pleased.” Lady Elisabeth said, faintly. “We have enemies of the Faith in the Kingdom.”
“Enemies that must be defeated,” William said. “We must find and retake The Sacred Heart of the Rose.”
The sound of hoofbeats could heard outside the chamber. “The rest of our Enclave has arrived.” François made for the door.
William struggled to rise. “Good,” he said. “Bring me ... my horse. I will ... lead ... the charge.”
Elisabeth caught his arm. “Husband,” she said. “You are not yet mended.”
“And I am ... not yet done taking ... scars to secure ... the Sacred Heart of the Rose,” he said, struggling to rise. “Scars I ... will gladly bear.”
Elisabeth reached for him as his hand clutched his wounded side. She moved to rise as well. “So be it, my love. Brothers, saddle our horses.”