The King Who Would Be Saint: Excerpt from St. Louis' Knight

The king was not alone, but Eleanor was far too tense to take note of anyone else. She was only vaguely aware that there were far too many priests and monks and far too few knights. She could sense the presence of the Inquisition, whispering insidious things about her into the king’s ears, while the shortage of fighting men underlined the king’s hopeless situation. His brothers had sailed for home the day before, and they had been some of the last of the crusaders to depart. Surrounding King Louis now were not French but local barons, men who could not sail away because their land ― what was left of it ― was here, and officers of the Knights Templar and Hospitaller.

Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on the king. He was tall and blond with a strong resemblance to the Count of Poitiers, except that the king was much thinner and frailer. Poitiers looked like the kind of man who earned his living with the sword; the king looked like a monk. He was dressed simply for a king too, with none of Poitiers bright-colored clothes and glittering jewels. He was not wearing a crown or any form of collar. His belt, while tastefully made of brass and enamel disks, would not have been inappropriate on a merchant's waist. He wore no armor, but a long blue robe dusted with the lilies of France, over a silk shirt of a lighter blue. He wasn’t even wearing boots and spurs, Eleanor registered, with a pang of remembrance and a futile wish to be back on Cyprus with Sir Geoffrey at her side.

Perhaps it was this moment of inattention, or just the fact that she was so tense, but her foot caught on the edge of a carpet and she pitched forward headlong. As she tried to recover, the carpet slid on the polished marble floor and she crashed down on her hip so hard the thump was audible throughout the room. She gasped in pain and then felt what seemed like a dozen hands reaching out, voices asking if she was alright. Had she hurt herself? She tried to get up, assuring everyone that she was fine, but no one paid her any attention. Strong hands had hold of her and were guiding her to a seat, ordering her to sit down. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered, “I’m so sorry.”

The hands were warm and dry and reassuring. “Just sit and catch your breath, my dear,” the voice said gently.

A chalice with wine was pressed into her trembling hands. “Sip this. It will calm your nerves.”

Eleanor accepted the wine out of embarrassment, and grateful for anything that deferred the ultimate confrontation with the king. It had been bad enough with the Count of Poitiers in an old-fashioned gown, but to have stumbled and fallen was even worse. She was certain the king was watching this ridiculous drama with impatience.

And then she realized that the hand offering the cup of wine had a signet ring with lilies of France on it. She froze. The sleeves of the gown beyond the wrist were blue. Her eyes crept up toward the elbows to the broader sleeves of the gown: dark blue powered with lilies. She looked up and straight into kindly blue eyes. “Your Grace!” Eleanor gasped and tried to get up again so she could courtesy.

“Just relax,” The king ordered her. “You may have injured yourself more than you know.”

“But ― “

“Hush.” He insisted, his eyes smiling at her. When she went still, he pressed the wine on her again, remarking, “As my ward, child, you are as a daughter to me, and I intend to do my best to make up for the hardships you have already endured. I hope you are not too disappointed not to be going home with my beloved brother of Poitiers?”

“Home, your Grace?” Eleanor was still too disoriented to fully grasp how she had come to sit next to her worst enemy. The mention of home, however, roused the dead, and she realized with horror she was drinking from the king’s blood soaked hand. It was as if she the blood of her brothers had colored the wine he held. She drew back, fighting the temptation to let herself get seduced by his superficial kindness. “How can I ever go home?” she asked, seeing her brother Roger’s face, “when everyone I loved is dead? Killed, not by the Saracen, but by ―” on the brink of saying “you” she stopped herself and substituted “France.”

King Louis caught his breath, and Eleanor winced, expecting him to slap her for so much impudence. When the blow did not come, she held her breath and waited for the inevitable anger that would bring the full weight of royal fury down upon her head. Now it was her brother Henri, who spoke in a tone of desperate sadness, “Oh, Nel! How could you do that! Why insult a king to his face?”

Still King Louis did not answer. He considered her intently, while Eleanor looked down at her hands, clutching her skirts in her lap. Then he took a sip of his own wine before remarking. “I was still a boy when my father died; I became very dependent upon the advice of my mother. My mother saved my kingdom for me ― from Flanders, from the Plantagenets, from the rebellious barons Hugh de Lusignan and Peter de Dreux. Who was I to doubt her, when she said I must crush the rebellion of the Count of Toulouse? I do not mean to place blame on someone else, but I would like you to consider the fact that a king too must learn his trade. Your brother Roger murdered unarmed men of God, but your brother Henri, had he not died in prison, would have been pardoned.”

“I loved my mother too, your grace,” Eleanor countered softly but intensely, “And you burned her at the stake.”

The silence in the chamber was so intense Eleanor could hear the voices of the gardeners in the courtyard. She could feel the stares of all the other men in the room, sense their outrage.

Louis nodded slowly, and his eyes searched her face. She did not dare meet those eyes. She looked down at her hands; she had unconsciously wrapped her left hand in her skirts to cover the ugly burn scar on the palm.

“Will you try to forgive me?” The king asked softly, and Eleanor snapped her head up in astonishment. Their eyes met, and she felt her heart start to quaver. He meant it. He was asking for her forgiveness.

“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…” It was her mother’s voice in her head now. Her mother, who taught that forgiving the sins of others was the basis of all Grace. “Did Christ clothe himself in gold and jewels and ask his disciplines to bow down to him? Did he ask for praise and flattery?” she asked rhetorically. “No! All he asks is that we forgive the sins of others, if we expect Him to forgive our own.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Eleanor heard herself saying in a weak but clear voice that carried across the room. “Yes. I will try to forgive you.”

Suddenly, she and the King of France were smiling at each other.

Daughter of a Cathar Heretic: Excerpt 4 from "St Louis' Knight"

Eleanor leaned her head back against the padded rim of the tub and closed her eyes, her hands clasped together between her breasts. Returning, Rosalyn nodded her approval, then stepped beside the tub to pour just a thimbleful of the precious essence into the steaming water. A moment later the smell of lavender wafted up on the steam, and tears started streaming down Eleanor’s face.

No one noticed. Lady Rosalyn had turned away to return her vial to her own chamber, and the maids were collecting the buckets to go fetch more water, leaving Eleanor alone in the now cozy chamber.

Eleanor put her hands over her face and held them there, trying to calm herself. She felt as if she had been tortured all day, and then this sudden vivid memory of home – the lavender fields in the sunshine. It was too much!

“Hush, child!” The voice came from the timber roof above her head and wafted down to settle upon her like petals shaken from a dying rose. “Relax, little one. There’s nothing to be afraid of any more.”

Nothing? Eleanor asked, opening her eyes. Nothing?

“You’re with good people now,” her mother assured her. “Good people, who mean you no harm.”

Was that possible?

“And you, Mother?” Eleanor asked the voice, with all the pent-up fury of half a dozen years. “Did you mean me no harm when you abandoned me at fourteen? Preferring your sick religion to your own child!” Eleanor was so agitated that she sat upright, looking for her mother in the darkness of the rafters, sloshing water over the edge of the tub. She turned to look over her shoulder first in one direction, then the other.

“Child, child!” her mother protested in an anguished voice. “I never thought they’d harm a little girl, a child as innocent as you!”

“Never thought they’d harm a child?” Eleanor mocked back. “Never thought they’d harm a child?” she raged. “Hadn’t they slaughtered children at Beziers? At Minerve and Lavour? What else did you expect, Mother? They put it in their very edicts ― that the parents and children of heretics were to be persecuted and punished. You must have known what they would do to me!”

To Eleanor’s distress, her mother did not protest. Instead, her voice fell to an almost inaudible murmur and pleaded, “You’re right. I should have known. I ― I deceived myself. Please forgive me, Nel.”

Eleanor didn’t want to forgive. It was easier to rage than to forgive. She shook her head. For a moment it seemed as if this negative answer had banished her mother, but then her mother spoke from so near at hand that Eleanor thought she felt her breath on her cheek.

“At least try to understand. I was a known heretic. All I would have achieved by abjuring my faith would have been to be branded on the forehead and forced to live as beggar ― a beggar that Christians were forbidden to support. Worse, I would have endangered the good people who followed Christ’s commandments and showed me Christian charity. I would have died of hunger and cold eventually, but my soul would have been condemned to hell. And you ― you would still have fallen into their hands.”

Eleanor shook her head again and brought her hands out of the water to stare at the palms. On the left hand, beneath the broken blisters from today’s ride, was a hideous, puckered scar. A single flame had caused it, and she had screamed loud enough to wake the dead. She had been unable to endure the flame for more than a second, but her mother had let them burn her alive ….

“You were never there when I needed you,” Eleanor told her mother bitterly.

“How could I be?” her mother answered, already farther away. “They encircled you with their evil. I couldn’t break through, not until today ….” Eleanor had to strain to hear her mother’s voice. The sound of Lady Rosalyn’s footsteps returning were obliterating her mother’s voice. “You’re with …” thump, thump, “trust …” thump, thump, “Sir Geoffrey ….”

“Are you feeling better now, My Lady?” the cheerful voice of Lady Rosalyn asked as she re-entered the chamber.

Eleanor lifted her head and smiled at her. “Thank you. I am feeling much better. I never knew ― that riding could ― be so exhausting. But then I’m so out of practice ….”

“Of course you are. I’m sure you haven’t been on a horse since your accident.” Lady Rosalyn settled herself in the armed chair on the other side of the fireplace. “And you mustn’t think of continuing tomorrow. You need to rest and regain your strength. You can stay here as long as you please. I’d be glad of the company.”

“That’s very kind,” Eleanor answered, overwhelmed by a sense of safety. She hadn’t felt this safe in half a decade – except for that moment in Sir Geoffrey’s arms ….

“Do you mind telling me where you were headed in such a storm?” Lady Rosalyn continued, curious more than reproachful.

“A pilgrimage,” Eleanor answered defensively, knowing now how very foolish she had been and how easily her escapade could have ended in disaster. “My guardian, the Comte de Poitiers, was taken captive with his brother, King Louis of France. I wanted to pray for his safe return.”

“Yes,” Lady Rosalyn replied, crossing herself. “May God hear our prayers!” Rosalyn’s cheerful face was instantly clouded with worry, and Eleanor realized she was thinking of her son. Eleanor felt a surge of sympathy for the older woman and reached out a hand to her, promising, “I will pray for your son, too, Madame.” For him more than for the Comte de Poitiers, she added mentally.

 Lady Rosalyn was too distressed to speak, but she took Eleanor’s hand and clasped it, nodding in thanks, thinking that she would ask Geoffrey to pray for her son as well. Geoffrey was practically a monk, after all, and a crusader. God would surely hear his prayers ….

Read more ... buy now!

Meet My Main (Female) Character

Welcome to today's installment of the "Meet My Main Character" Blog-Hop! 

Last week I introduced the main character of my recently released novel, St. Louis' Knight, Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune. This week I want to introduce the the female lead, who is as much a "main" character as Geoffrey, even if she didn't make it into the title.

Now to the introductions!

1) What is the name of your character? Is he/she a fictional or historical person?
Eleanor de Najac is a fictional character, born from holidays in "Cathar Country" (the Languedoc) and particularly visits to the spectacular village and castle of Najac.

2) When and where is the story set?
The novel is set in the Seventh Crusade, 1250 AD, in the Holy Land. The Seventh Crusade was led by King Louis IX of France and ended in a terrible debacle, with the King of France and virtually all of his nobles, knights and troops captured.  While the common troops were slaughtered if they refused to convert to Islam, and enslaved if they did, King Louis and his knights and nobles were held for ransom. It is also just six years after the final erradication of the last Cathar stronghold at Montsegur.

3) What should I know about him/her?
Eleanor is the last child of the Sire de Najac, born late in his life.  After his death, her mother joins the Cathar faith and one of her brothers joins the struggle of the independence of Toulouse against the French crown. When the forces of the French King finally seize Montsegur, her mother chooses to be burned at the stake rather than abjure her Cathar faith, and one brother is executed while the other is arrested -- along with Eleanor. Although only 14 years old, as the daughter of a heretic, she is turned over to the Inquisition.  After her brother's death in prison, however, she becomes the hieress to Najac.  Her feudal overlord, the Count of Poitiers and Toulouse, does not want to see her convicted of heresy since then her property would fall to the Church.  He therefore sends for her to join his wife's household as she follows him on crusade.  Her ship wrecks on the coast of Cyprus and her leg shattered when fisherman take her off the wreck. She is left lame and alone on a strange island among strangers.

4) What is the main conflict? What messes her life up.
Eleanor's life has been shattered three-fold, first by the brutal repression of Toulousan independence that has cost her the lives of her mother and brothers, by the hounding of the Inquisition after her own arrest, and by the ship-wreck that has left her a semi-cripple. At the start of the novel she is physically alive, but only her hatred of the Inquisition and the King of France spark her spirit.

5) What is the personal goal of the character?
Eleanor has survived by her wits and an inner strength that defies reason. Her determination to outwit her tormentors, not hope for a better a future is what has enabled her to escape the Inquisition.  At the opening of the novel, it is joy at the defeat of her worst enemy, the King of France, that gives her new spirit and courage. She ventures out of her defensive, emotional cacoon and starts to tentatively spread her wings.

6) Is there a working title? Where can I find out more?
The title is final: St. Louis' Knight. It is the first of a three part series titled The Templar Tales. You can find out more on this blog, or on my website: http://talesofchivalry.com.

7) When will the book be published?
The book was released March 31, 2014 and can be purchased on amazon.com here.

The Grand Master's Squire: Excerpt from "St Louis' Knight" 3

Geoffrey was seeing it again in his head. The confusion in a darkness lit only by the unsteady light of smoking torches. Wounded men and horses seemed to be staggering about everywhere, and the moans and cries of man and beast punctuated the night. Other men wandered about asking after one friend or another. Abandoned Saracen equipment, clothing, and weapons still littered the ground, tripping the unwary, while those with the strength left in them were trying to erect tents. The stench of open latrines and foul water combined in Geoffrey’s mind with the constant beating of the enemy drums as they shouted “Allah is Great!” from the ramparts of Mansourah. They must have lit huge bonfires, because the city appeared aglow from the inside; the men on the walls shaking their swords and bows triumphantly were silhouetted against that orange light.

Geoffrey had been dazed, unable to grasp what had happened in such a short space of time. All his brothers from Limassol ― knights, squires, and sergeants ― were dead. They had been one hundred strong when they sailed for Egypt, a significant contingent of the Templar force, and they were no more. Geoffrey had lost the one man who gave him a chance when all others spoke against accepting him into the Temple. He’d lost the men who’d taught him fighting and the ethos of the Temple. He’d lost his best friends ― and there would not even be a Mass for their souls, because their bodies were all in the hands of the heathens shouting “Allah is Great!”

Suddenly someone was tugging at his sleeve and saying he must come to the surgeon’s tent. The Grand Master had regained consciousness. He had followed numbly, without a will of his own. Sonnac, a bandage covering the gaping hole in the right side of his face where his eye had been, was struggling to sit up. “Geoff!” he called out in a rasping, ruined voice at the sight of the young man. “Geoff, come kneel and put your hands in mine that I may take you into the Order at last.”

Sonnac knew how much that meant to his squire. Sonnac knew that, unlike other squires, Geoffrey wanted to be a Templar. He understood that Geoffrey wanted to be knighted, not for itself, but because it was the prerequisite for joining the Order.

That night in the camp before Mansourah, Geoffrey knew that Master de Sonnac wanted to reward him with that which meant most to him, but he also knew that the vows involved saying the Lord’s Prayer. He knew that the Knights Templar said the Lord’s Prayer in place of Mass when circumstances made it impossible to hear Mass. The Lord’s Prayer was central to their devotion. But what had, until that day, seemed self-evident, had abruptly been transformed into a demon standing between Geoffrey and what he wanted most in the world.

As Geoffrey stood in the tent staring at the wounded Grand Master, he became conscious of the blood drying on the links of his chain mail, his surcoat shredded and soiled, but between him and the Master crowded the ghastly ghosts of his dead brothers: some headless, some limbless, some gushing blood from wounds to their heads, others clutching their gutted stomachs or clinging to their disemboweled intestines.

Suddenly Geoffrey thought: if this is God’s Will, then I cannot say “Thy Will be done!” I cannot say it!

Sonnac, seeing him hesitate, tried to smile encouragingly. “Come, Geoff. If this is the last thing I do, let me make you a Templar.”

“No!” Geoffrey screamed back at him. “No! I don’t want to be servant to a senseless God! If this is God’s Will, than he is a monster! And Christ ― Christ died on a cross in Jerusalem, but he was not God’s son, and was not our Savior!”

Still full of fury, Geoffrey had spun about and fled, leaving the astonished Grand Master struggling to rise. He heard the exclamation of horrified priests and surgeons, and he was shocked by his own words as much as anyone. But there was no place to go in the crusader camp. There was no escape except out into the desert to be killed by the Bedouins.

Geoffrey could not remember what he’d done next. He’d stumbled about in the dark until he’d found himself at the horse lines. There he sank down in misery beside the remnants of a once-great cavalry, and begged forgiveness from his stallion. The tall, dark gray had not only carried him and his armor all the way here, to the middle of nowhere; he had today taken the burden of two fully armored knights, and with the strength of an angel, he had jumped over a barricade to bring both Geoffrey and the wounded Grand Master to safety. But now he stood with hanging head and swollen fetlocks, covered in cuts and probably bruises, too. We can’t even give you a decent meal, Geoffrey thought. What right have we, he asked himself, to take these gentle, loyal creatures into so much misery and almost certain death?

Read more... buy now!

A Fateful Encounter

At an agonizing pace, they had at last emerged from the gorge to find themselves on the coastal road. To the left the shore reared up in steep white cliffs to form a headland several miles to the east, and straight ahead the rocks had broken off from the cliffs already and spilled out into the little cove at the foot of the gorge. The sight was spectacularly beautiful at one level, but the sound of the waves and the wind reminded Eleanor all too sharply of the wreck, and to make matters worse, clouds seemed to have come out of nowhere to scud across the sky, low and ominous. The sea was an iron gray, except for a tiny sliver of silver far out to sea and fast retreating. The sound of breakers hammering the beach was so reminiscent of the wreck that Eleanor had to stop herself from holding her hands over her ears.

Even without her hands on her ears, fear deafened her. The archer had to shout at her to move out of the way of riders approaching from behind at a fast pace. Only then did Eleanor look over her shoulder and register two men in armor with a packhorse on a lead, approaching at a purposeful canter. Their chain mail chinked in rhythm with the canter, and their kit banged against the flanks of their horses. The shod hooves pounded the hard-packed surface of the road.

She tried to guide her mare to the side of the road, but the lame horse balked, as if this were one demand too many. Eleanor kicked her heels into the mare’s sides to no avail, humiliated by being reduced to such undignified methods. A lady shouldn’t have to ride a horse as insensitive as this, she thought to herself, tears in her eyes.

A dark horse loomed beside her. The smell of horse sweat and leather was overpowering, and she glanced left, keeping her eyes down out of embarrassment and modesty. What she saw were black suede over-the-knee boots with golden spurs studded with blue enamel fleurs-de-lis.

The King of France!

But it couldn’t be! He was a prisoner in Egypt. As were his brothers. But who else would dare wear spurs like these? She raised her eyes sharply and found herself staring at a young man with a neatly clipped brown beard and short hair ― something long since out of fashion in France. Next she took in his plain, unbleached, shabby linen surcoat. The surcoat was more suited to a common archer or a man-at-arms and completely out of place over the gold and enamel spurs. No knight in her experience ever dressed like this, but no one but a knight was entitled to golden spurs ― much less ones with the lilies of France.

The knight seemed hardly less astonished by the sight of Eleanor than she was surprised by him. He drew up sharply, his massive and heavy-boned European stallion flattening his ears and flinging up his head in protest. “My Lady! What are you ― May I be of service in some way?”

The question couldn’t have been more chivalrous, but the man’s tone was harsh and his expression forbidding. He certainly knew nothing of courtesy, Eleanor concluded, lumping him instantly with all the other brutes from France who had plundered her homeland and spoke the langue d ’oil as he did.

“My horse stumbled and came up lame, but my man will ride for a remount as soon as we reach the next village,” Eleanor told him haughtily.

This answer so astonished the knight that he was silenced for a moment. He turned and looked at the archer, who shrugged and whined, “I advised against it, sir. I told her we must turn back, but my lady wouldn’t hear of it.”

“And where are you bound?” the knight asked the archer rather than Eleanor.

“The Lady Eleanor de Najac is on pilgrimage to the Shrine of St. George to pray for the safe return of her guardian, the Comte de Poitiers.”

“I see.” The knight twisted in his saddle and ordered his squire to off-load the packhorse and transfer Eleanor’s saddle to it.

Only then did the knight turn back to Eleanor and announce, “We will bring you to Paphos, My Lady. We should be able to reach it before nightfall ― if not before the rain breaks.” He glanced grimly at the gathering clouds. “You are with the King’s court in Nicosia?”

“No, I am temporarily in the household of the Dowager Queen. And just who are you, sir?”

“Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune, Mademoiselle,” he answered absently, not even looking at her as he spoke because he was already turning to her archer, ordering: “Take the lame horse back to Her Grace the Queen. I will see your lady safe to Paphos, where I’m sure Lord Tancred will be able to provide her with a suitable remount and an escort to Agios Georgios.” (He gave the shrine it’s Greek name, Eleanor noted.)

This solution clearly suited the Queen’s archer, who nodded and agreed with alacrity, “Very good, sir.”

Eleanor, however, felt like a child or a prisoner again. No one was even asking what she wanted, and that angered her. Besides, even if his name meant nothing to her, his spurs suggested he was closely associated with her enemy, the King of France. Certainly he spoke the French of her homeland’s oppressors. She did not want his services! “I have not accepted your generous offer, Monsieur,” she pointed out sharply, adding pointedly, “I do not travel with strange men.”

The archer groaned out loud and rolled his eyes. The Cypriot woman crossed herself and started praying. The squire suppressed a laugh, and Sir Geoffrey stared at her, baffled. Then, after a moment, he reasoned with her. “My Lady, you cannot continue on that horse, and it looks like it could rain any moment. If you are new to Cyprus, perhaps you do not know how violent the storms here can be at this time of year. I beg you to reconsider and allow me to bring you under the shelter and protection of the Lord of Paphos as rapidly as possible.”

His gesture toward the clouds and a renewed gust of wind made her look again at the dark, churning clouds gathering overhead. As she watched, a flash of lightning pierced them and she shuddered involuntarily. She could not stay here. She glanced toward the packhorse and noted with surprise that, stripped of its packs, it was a lovely fine-boned mare with a delicate face and large eyes. Indeed, it was a beautiful horse with the narrow legs of a racer and the arching neck of a proud palfrey.

Again Eleanor looked at the knight in confusion. The “packhorse” matched his spurs more than his plain surcoat. Something wasn’t right about this knight, but the threat of the storm was tangible, too. Her whole body was in a state of alarm, and reason told her it made more sense to accept the offer of a good mount and a strong escort than to insist on remaining here on a lame horse with a sullen archer and a native woman she could barely talk to. If only he hadn’t been wearing King Louis’ lilies on his heels …

Eleanor pulled herself together. “Your name means nothing to me, sir. Are you in the service of the King of France?”

“No, My Lady. I am Cypriot. My father was in the service of King Richard of England, and accompanied him on crusade, but remained here at the orders his liege lord.”

“The Duc d’Aquitaine? Coeur de Leon?” The legendary Lionheart was so much a hero of her childhood that it was as if this strange knight had been transformed into a long-lost friend by his association with the late English King. As soon as Geoffrey answered her question with a somewhat baffled, “Yes, Mademoiselle,” Eleanor nodded her consent and dismounted.

Within moments her saddle and the leather saddlebags with her modest belongings had been transferred to the knight’s “packhorse,” while Sir Geoffrey’s luggage was distributed between his own and his squire’s stallions. When all was ready for her, Sir Geoffrey swung himself down from his horse and went to hold the off stirrup, asking as he did so, “Do you ride well, My Lady?”

“I did as a girl,” Eleanor answered unhelpfully, as she approached the little bay mare, trying not to limp. She took hold of the pommel with her left hand, and facing back, turned the stirrup toward her with her right hand. Twice she pointed her toe in the stirrup, but it was no use. With a horrible sense of humiliation, she realized she did not have the strength in her right leg, the leg shattered in the wreck, to push herself up off the ground.

She withdrew her toe from the stirrup. “Sir, I have an injured leg; could we find something to use as a mounting block?”

“Forgive me, My Lady. I didn’t know. Ian, give the lady a leg up!”

The young squire cheerfully jumped down from his horse again and came to help Eleanor. He locked his fingers together and held them for her to step into. She held onto the pommel with both hands, set her foot in the squire’s hands, and he lifted her up until she could swing her right leg over the cantle of the saddle.

No sooner did her bottom settle onto the saddle than the mare started moving. The knight held her firmly just behind the bit, so she swung her haunches in first one direction and then the other. This mare was not like any “packhorse” Eleanor had ever seen before. She could feel the nervous energy of the animal, and was instantly alarmed. It was too long since she had ridden a horse like this. Ashamed of her own fear, Eleanor reproached the knight. “This is a very nervous packhorse, sir!”

“She’s not a packhorse, My Lady,” he answered candidly. “She’s an Arab warhorse. We killed her last master, but she refused to flee like the other horses. Should I take her on the lead?”

“No, of course not!” Eleanor answered without thinking. Only children ― and prisoners ― were led. “I can manage, sir.” Eleanor thought the knight looked skeptical, but he did not insist. Instead, he let go of the mare’s reins to return to his own stallion. At once the mare broke into a trot. Eleanor reined her in sharply, so she danced in place uneasily.

“We best hurry, My Lady, and try to get as far as possible before the rain breaks,” the knight told her.

“Of course,” Eleanor answered despite her inner alarm.

At once the knight took up a trot, and Eleanor’s mare followed without any urging, with the squire on her flank. Anna, crossing herself and lamenting in Greek, brought up the rear, while the archer set off in the opposite direction with the lame horse in tow, whistling happily.

Read More.... buy now.

Excerpt from "St. Louis' Knight: The King and All His Knights are Captured!

The Kingdom of Cyprus                    

April, Anno Domini 1250

  

“The French King and all his knights have been captured by the Saracens,” the herald intoned. His deep voice, more commonly used to proclaim the ancestry and deeds of knights at tournaments, was muted with both respect and shock. His bright livery was shrouded in a dark cloak as if he were in mourning for a lost cause, and his boots and hose were splattered with mud, betraying his haste to bring the news to the Dowager Queen of Cyprus.

His words provoked an eruption of shocked and frightened exclamations from the little audience. The Dowager Queen was on her deathbed, and had been for months. She lived in almost complete seclusion, served only by a household of Cypriot servants and four ladies, three of whom were almost as old as she was herself.

One of these ladies began crossing herself repeatedly and reciting the Rosary in a tone of almost hysterical desperation. Another clapped her hands over her mouth and stared at the herald as if she expected Saracens to come storming through the door behind him. A third protested, “But that can’t be! King Louis had the greatest army anyone had ever seen! He had scores of barons and nearly three thousand knights. They can’t all have been captured! Not all those brave knights! And the King’s brothers! And what of the French Queen and the ladies of the court?”

“When the messenger left Egypt, the French Queen and her ladies were still in Damietta with the handful of knights and men-at-arms left there for their protection, but I doubt that is still the case. With the King captive and his army destroyed, the Sultan of Egypt will undoubtedly try to recapture Damietta. The knights with Queen Marguerite are urging her to remove herself to safety immediately. If she chooses Cyprus over Acre, she could be here any moment.” The herald glanced toward the large double-light window that looked south, towards Egypt, as if expecting to see the sails of a Genoese round ship straining to bring the French Queen to safety. But the window offered only a view of the walled garden of this isolated manor.

The Dowager Queen clicked her tongue and drew the herald’s attention back to the interior of the room. “What did you expect?” the old woman asked rhetorically. “All these foreign kings and princes think crusading is a lark! They think we hang onto only the fragments of the Holy Land because we, the nobility of Outremer, have become weak, cowardly, and luxury-loving. They all come out here thinking that they, so splendid and so brave, will chase the Saracens back into the desert. Ha!”

The herald did not contradict her. There was some truth to what the old Queen said. Although King Louis himself had seemed a sober and far from lighthearted crusader, his younger brothers and many of his knights had been as arrogant and ignorant as the Queen suggested. Besides, the Queen was a woman who knew more about politics in the Holy Land than almost anyone else alive. Alice of Champagne had been widowed when her son, King Henry I, was only eight months old and had acted as his regent until he came of age ― by which time she had weathered a civil war on Cyprus and a crusade led by the Holy Roman Emperor. As if that hadn’t been enough, as the granddaughter of the Queen of Jerusalem, she had been Regent of Jerusalem for the under-aged King Conrad IV as well. While it was fair to say that Alice of Champagne’s politics had not been crowned by particular success, no one could deny that she understood the complexity of surviving in Christian Palestine.

“So,” the old woman scoffed, “the Sultan of Egypt has humiliated the most powerful monarch in Christendom. The Holy Roman Emperor must be dancing for joy to see the Pope’s favorite humiliated like this.”

“Madame! How can you think in such terms when a Christian monarch and all his knights and nobles are at the mercy of the godless Saracens?” one of Alice’s ladies admonished her ― inducing her praying colleague to raise her voice even more shrilly to the Mother of God.

The old Queen silenced both ladies. “Enough of your howling, Catherine! You have the brain of a hen, Eschiva! Godless or not, the Sultan loves gold. He’ll let them all go when enough ransom has been paid, and if France is beggared, then the Holy Roman Empire will be stronger.” The Dowager Queen had always sided with the Holy Roman Empire against the barons of the Holy Land, and now she smiled to herself. Then she cleared her throat and announced, “Thank you, Sir Herald. Blanche, give the herald ten livres for his trouble! Eleanor, see him to the kitchens and tell the cook to give him a hearty meal. I weary.”

The interview was over. The Queen signaled for assistance to rise, and two of her ladies sprang to help her from her armed chair, while the third retrieved her mistress’ purse and doled out the promised reward. The herald found himself following the fourth of the Queen’s ladies, Eleanor de Najac, down the spiral stairs from the Queen’s tower chamber toward the kitchen on the ground floor.

Eleanor was the only one of the Queen’s women who was less than sixty years of age. The herald guessed she was no more than twenty or twenty-one. All the herald knew about her was that she was a ward of the Comte de Poitiers, the French King’s younger brother, and had had the misfortune to shipwreck on the coast of Cyprus or her way to join the Comtesse de Poitiers’ household.

The storm that struck in March of the previous year had been one of the worst in living memory, and it had scattered half the French King’s fleet then assembling for the voyage to Egypt. In the confusion following the gale, hardly anyone took note of a small French vessel that went ashore on the west coast with the loss of all hands ― especially since the only corpses found were those of common sailors and tonsured men, presumably clerics bound for the Holy Land.

Weeks later, however, a second ship from France brought letters making reference to the passage of the heiress of Najac aboard a previous vessel. The Comte de Poitiers, who was by then in Egypt with his brother, asked the King of Cyprus to find out what had happened to his ward.

A search for her corpse was instituted along the coast, and to the wonder and amazement of those sent to find her body, Eleanor was found alive ― albeit severely injured ― in a fishing village. Since Eleanor spoke no Greek and the fishermen spoke neither Latin nor French, Eleanor’s rescuers had not realized she was a high-born lady and heiress; they had not thought to notify the authorities.

The herald was familiar with the cramped, stinking cottages of the local fishermen. He was certain that for a French noblewoman the weeks in the Cypriot fishing village had been a hell ― especially since one of her legs had been crushed in the wreck and she was in pain and feverish.

Even now, more than a year after the wreck, she walked with a limp as she led him across the inner courtyard to the kitchen tract. The experience had also left its mark on her face and soul, the herald surmised, for her face was too guarded and sober for a gentle maiden still in the bloom of youth.

Furthermore, although the herald knew professionally that the sires of Najac were ancient and wealthy lords, Eleanor neither looked nor acted like a haughty heiress. The simplicity of her dress, a soft linen gown with a pale-blue surcoat, would not have been out of place on the wife of a country squire or town merchant. Her auburn hair was neatly braided down her back and her head covered with a flat, modestly embroidered hat, held in place by simple white veils. The effect was neat and attractive ― but not suited to an heiress. The Cypriot court was filled with young women who adorned themselves much more lavishly and brightly, although they claimed hardly more than a thimbleful of noble blood rather than a barony! They compared to Eleanor of Najac like butterflies to a moth.

Not that Eleanor was plain. The herald considered her with the eyes of a connoisseur of women as Eleanor gestured for him to sit at a table in the passageway before the kitchen. She was pretty in a soft, understated way, he decided. She had wide-set hazel eyes, dark straight eyebrows, and an elegant long nose in an oval face. Her skin was flawless and very pale. Her only bad features were her nearly colorless, narrow lips ― but even this defect would have been forgotten, if only she smiled.

 “Wait here, Sir Herald, while I inform the cook of your needs,” she told him simply, before lurching down the stone steps leading to the kitchen.

Waiting for her, the herald wished he had some means to make her smile. If only he had brought good news instead of word of this catastrophe! It was only too natural that Eleanor was deeply troubled under the circumstances. Her guardian was in grave danger, a prisoner of the Saracens, and even if the Sultan was unlikely to harm a prince of France, she must worry that the ransom he imposed would impoverish her, since the income from her inheritance flowed into the Count’s coffers as long as she was unwed.

 While the herald was still lost in these thoughts, Eleanor returned with a bronze aquarelle in the form of a lion and a linen towel.

“My Lady, it is unseemly that you wait on me. Send for a servant, and sit with me instead,” the herald urged, indicating the bench on the other side of the table from him.

She seemed flustered by his remark, hastily putting the aquarelle down and stepping back as if she had done something wrong.

He smiled to reassure her and gestured to the bench opposite him again, urging, “Sit with me a moment, My Lady. Perhaps I can be of service with some information? My travels take me all over the island.” The herald had long since learned to use his natural access to information to satisfy the interest of others in gossip.

Eleanor nodded, but not with eager curiosity as he had expected. Instead she sat very stiffly on the bench opposite, and there was so much tension in her that the herald felt compelled to reassure her. “You must not distress yourself too much. I’m sure the Comte de Poitiers is in no great danger.” In the herald’s experience, maidens of Eleanor’s age were rarely interested in the fate of their fathers or guardians. It was far more likely that Eleanor was worried about some young knight who had courted her or otherwise caught her fancy. But no modest maiden would confess such an interest to a strange man, so the herald knew he had to pretend to talk about her guardian.

Eleanor drew a deep breath, “Would you ― would you mind telling me more of what has happened in Egypt? I have been very isolated here,” she hastened to excuse herself.

Read more... buy now!

The Tenth Tale of Chivalry and "Everything is Light"

When I announced my "Tales of Chivalry" project just over three months ago, I was planning on releasing three series of three books each set in the Age of Chivalry.  All of the novels in the Tales of Chivalry project had been written over the previous decades but never sent to publishers because I thought the market too small. The ability to self-publish ebooks convinced me that  it was now possible to publish books for niche markets, and encouraged me to undertake the publication of the nine tales. But this week I decided to add a tenth tale.

 

The exciting aspect of this tenth tale for me personally is that it is a completely new novel and so entails writing not just re-writing and editing. I haven't worked on a new book since the completion of the Leonidas Trilogy, and frankly it has taken me that long to recoup my energy and inspiration. Now, however, I am ready to start on this new book and completely energized and excited about it -- as I am at the start of any new novel.

 

The Tenth Tale will be based on the life of a historical figure, Balian d'Ibelin, who I'll introduce later with a full blog entry. For now, suffice it to say that Balian lived at the end of the 12th century (so very much in the Age of Chivalry) in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. (I'll probably use "A Tale of the Kingdom of Jerusalem" as the subtitle.) Watch this blog for more information about Balian, the crusader kingdoms in the Holy Land, the crusades and my novel, possibly surveys of title options etc.  For now, however, I'd like to conclude my entries on the Albigensian crusade with a recommendation and review:

Everything is Light by Robert Shea

This is a surprisingly well written story, with an excellent portrayal of King Louis IX of France. Although the book starts with the fall of the last Cathar fortress, Montsegur, in 1244, it provides a historically sound, comprehensible and non-romaticized introduction to the key issues involved in the Albigensian crusade (e.g. an independent Southern nobility with its own culture and language, a corrupt clergy that turned the common people against the Catholic church, a new interpretation of Christianity that was preached by devoted followers.) It avoids the use of magic and mystery, far too common when dealing with the Cathars, and instead presents complex, believable characters deserving of sympathy but flawed and inconsistent -- as we all are. This is without doubt the best book I have read on this fascinating episode in history.

The Templar Tales

The Templar Tales

My current project, Tales of Chivalry, is composed for three series: Tales from the Languedoc, Tales from the Kingdom of Cyprus (AKA: The Lion of Karpas) and The Templar Tales. The latter are three independent novels in which Knights Templar play an important role. The novels are interrelated and share some characters, notably Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune, but each novel stands on its own. Two of the books, The Templar of St. John the Baptist, and The English Templar, focus on key events in the history of the Knights Templar, namely the fall of Christian Palestine to the armies of Islam at the end of the 13th century and the destruction of the Knights Templar by King Philip IV of France in the early 14th century respectively. The first novel in the series, St. Louis’ Knight, in contrast, is more a scene setter, introducing Sir Geoffrey; it is set in the Seventh Crusade.

The Templar trilogy was inspired by a trip to Cyprus. Sitting in the window seat of the Hospitaller fortress at Kolossi, wandering through the ruins of a medieval sugar mill, and strolling through the cloisters of Bellapais, images of knights crowded my brain, clamoring for a voice. As I learned more about the Knights Templar and visited southern France, the source of Templar wealth, I could not sleep at night for the stories that demanded telling. There, in the mighty castle of Najac, where Templars were held prisoner, and in the Templar commanderies of Collioure and Cahors, the voices became so insistent that I felt compelled to write the stories down – even though they were still only shadowy and half-formed. I published three novels at my own expense.

It was a foolish thing to do. Novels need to ripen and mature. Even the most insistent voices can be misunderstood, misinterpreted, falsely translated. The Cypriot Knight and Sir Jean of Acre were embryonic stories, not novels. Seventeen years later, I cringed when I reread The Cypriot Knight and winced when I took Sir Jean of Acre in my hands again. I realized what a rough draft these early publications were. Fortunately, both books were also out of print. I saw this as an opportunity to rework good raw material into better books.

The Templar Tales now consist of the following books:

St. Louis’ Knight

King Louis IX and his crusading army are trapped in Egypt. To prevent his sword, with a sacred relic in the hilt, from falling into the hands of the Saracen, the dying Grand Master of the Knights Templar entrusts it to his newly-knighted former squire, Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune. Shaken by the loss of all his Templar brothers, Sir Geoffrey has denied the divinity of Christ, and the Grand Master makes him pledge that he will not rejoin the Knights Templar until he understands God’s will. Geoffrey’s search for understanding leads him to Cyprus and a fateful encounter with the daughter of a Cathar heretic.

The Templar of Saint John

Sir Jean de Preuthune believes his father committed a grave sin by failing to return Grand Master de Sonnac’s sword, containing a finger bone of John the Baptist in the hilt, to the Knights Templar. He is determined to right his father’s wrong by taking vows as a Knight Templar. He sets out to free the Holy Land, but even so powerful a relic in the hand of a devout crusader cannot alone defeat the powerful armies of Islam under the able leadership of the Sultan Kala’un. As one Christian stronghold after another falls to the Saracens, Sir Jean must re-evaluate his mission and faith.

·        The English Templar

Passing through France from England to Cyprus with dispatches, the Templar knight Sir Percy de Lacy is caught up in the surprise arrest of the Knights Templar on Friday, October 13, 1307. He is tortured until he confesses to sins he did not commit. When he manages to crawl off the prisoner transport taking him to Paris, Sir Percy wants only to die, . But Sir Percy’s rescuer, Felice de Preuthune, and her grandfather Sir Geoffrey have no intention of letting Sir Percy die. While Sir Geoffrey and Sir Percy fight back against the French King and the Pope, Felice fights her own battle for their souls.