Templar's Light: Templar Romance, #1

By K.L. Conger

Murder on the road to the Holy City kills a marriage, and sparks a profound love...

 

Cristiana seeks a marriage of convenience and to be safe and settled in life. She agrees to accompany her father to the Holy Land so he'll approve the marriage. A sudden attack by highwaymen outside Jerusalem turns her world upside down.

 

A gallant knight saves her, but inadvertently does her great harm. Labeling him her enemy, she forbids herself from civility toward him or even thanks for his service. Cristiana wants to feel safe, so why is she inexorably toward the man she's forbidden herself?

 

Terrowin accompanies his father and the Baron to Jerusalem to save all their souls. They find the Holy Lands more tumultuous than the world believes. After rescuing the lovely Cristiana and knowing she hates him, Terrowin can't stop thinking of her, despite having promised himself to a girl back home in Gascony. Terrowin yearns to put things right, but such things are eternally complicated in the Holy Land.

 

Cristiana and Terrowin must find a way to transcend the violence of a centuries-old religious war still raging in the Outremer, or become victims of its ravages. What draws them together may tear them apart. Then again, what tears them apart may draw them irrevocably together.

 

Full of knights, ladies, medieval sword fights, and romance, award-winning author K.L. Conger, author of the Kremlins trilogy, brings you the origins of the legendary Knights Templar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liesel Hill
• Release date: Sep 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201441494

Book preview

Free Book Offer

Sign up for my no-spam Story Squad and a free book, first dibs on awesome deals, and tons more exclusive content. Details can be found at the end of this book.

For Ben and Jordan and all they do. My siblings, friends and fellow parents. They’ve given me so much. Love you both!

Chapter 1

May 1119, Burgundy

Sitting on the rickety wooden stool beside the cracked clay stove in her tiny, dusty kitchen, Cristiana did her best not to fidget. The nervous flutters in her belly made her want to tap her fingers on the splintered wooden table. Or bounce her foot or turn circles with her ankle. She wanted to run her hands through her hair, simply to do something with them.

She fought the urge. She’d rolled her plain, brown, waist-length hair back at the sides of her head and then twisted it into its signature plait anyway. Running her fingers through it would only ruin the look.

Instead, she picked absently at her brown tunic-dress. It plunged toward her waist in a V in front, cinched there by a brown leather belt. Her thin white undershirt covered her arms and chest beneath it. Opening from the waist down as well, it revealed brown trousers below. Some men didn’t approve of a woman wearing anything except a skirt, but the man who sat in the room with her had never seemed to mind.

In the chair across from her, looking as cool and unruffled as stone in a windstorm, sat the gallant Guiscard.

He looked too clean and proper for the dust permeating Cristiana's humble home. His curly, perfumed hair and clean, dark tunic looked utterly out of place amidst the chipped, sparse furniture. Too much of a gentleman to reside below the thatched roof above a one-room dwelling that leaked when it rained.

Guiscard did not cause Cristiana's nervousness, though. Her father’s imminent arrival did. She feared he wouldn't agree to Guiscard’s proposal.

But how could he not? No man refused his daughter a marriage above herself. A poor stone worker who served Cistercian monks simply didn’t refuse a man like Guiscard. He came from a minor noble family who had fallen on hard times. He possessed no fortune to speak of, and lived much as a merchant did, working for his income.

Cristiana knew her father wouldn’t approve of her marrying wealth. Guiscard would prove a good compromise. Not wealthy, but still above her and her father's current status.

Giscard caught her eye and gave her an affectionate smile. She smiled back tightly, too nervous today to attempt sincerity.

Giscard’s eye had fallen upon Cristiana mostly for her beauty. Cristiana knew that much in her bones. Yet, the man worked hard. More importantly, she knew him to be a shy, reserved, utterly submissive man. Unlike some men in the world, Guiscard would never lift a hand against her to do harm. Village chatter proclaimed his utter decency.

She caught him looking at her many times during past weeks, but the man proved shy in the extreme.

She’d eventually approached him with a demure request to accompany her home. So began their secret courtship, which her father still knew nothing about. Now, they waited here in their kitchen for Fendrel to return.

Oh hurry home, Papa, she thought. The waiting felt interminable, and yet she feared her father’s arrival as well.

After nearly an hour of prickly, awkward silence, Guiscard casting vaguely nervous smiles at her every few minutes, a rustle outside the door reached Cristiana’s ears.

The door opened and Fendrel’s stooped figure appeared. He wore a gray, billowy tunic. Perpetually covered with stone dust, it draped his shoulders, falling heavily across his still-muscular arms and all the way to the floor. His feet were bare, though he'd have worn sandals. He always removed them outside the door. The same gray, stone dust covering his tunic also powdered his skin and hair. It lounged in the crevices of his elbows and the wrinkles around his eyes. Such was the life of a stone worker.

He turned, and his welcoming smile faded when his eyes focused on Guiscard.

Here we go, Cristiana thought.

She leapt to her feet. Welcome home, Papa. Crossing to him, she went up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The chalky feel of the stone dust remained on her lips.

Her father smiled but raised his eyebrows in a questioning look, cutting his eyes toward Guiscard, who’d gotten to his feet when Cristiana did, though more slowly.

Clearing her throat, Cristiana turned her body toward Guiscard, but kept her eyes on her father's face. Father, I'd like to present Irwin Guiscard. He has a question to ask you.

Still looking vaguely confused, Fendrel took a step toward Guiscard. Cristiana's father bowed from the waist respectfully. I am honored by your visit, Monsieur Guiscard. Forgive my shabby appearance. How may I serve you?

Guiscard smiled. You've no apologies to make, Fendrel. He dropped his eyes to the floor and took a deep breath.

Cristiana detected nervousness in his face. She prayed he didn't lose his nerve. The next moment, Giscard raised his eyes to Fendrel’s. Cristiana felt surprise at the confidence in them.

Fendrel, you are an honorable man and have raised your daughter to be a good woman. I'm here to ask for her hand in marriage.

Cristiana watched her father's face carefully. Anyone else would only have seen the polite, inquiring smile he’d pasted there. Cristiana saw more. A slight drop in the wrinkles about his eyes, a subtle shift in the set of his mouth. The question perturbed him, but he wouldn't show his discontent to Guiscard.

Fendrel bowed his head. I speak for my daughter and myself when I say we are honored by your proposal, Sir. He raised his eyes once again. Before I give you my answer, may I have a private moment with my daughter?

Giscard looked relieved, probably because Fendrel didn’t say no outright. He inclined his head. Of course, Fendrel. Take all the time you need.

Fendrel took Cristiana's arm gently and guided her to the far side of the room, so they stood in front of the window. Too poor to afford glass, they only ever covered the windows with animal skins. Yet, spring had arrived in Burgundy, so the windows sat uncovered, letting in the fresh air.

Fendrel would need to whisper. Even then, Giscard might make out what he said, but they could do no better while remaining indoors.

Fendrel pulled Cristiana close, the smile sliding completely off his face. What's this, Cristiana? Why have I never spoken with this man before?

Cristiana kept her eyes in the floor, unable to meet her father's gaze. We've been secretly courting.

Fendrel's eyebrows jumped toward his hairline.

Nothing untoward happened Papa. He expressed interest and I've taken walks with him.

Fendrel's frown deepened. Why did you not tell me?

She shrugged. I feared your disapproval.

Fendrel gave her an exasperated look.

Cristiana understood why. She knew her father well enough to know he would try to talk her out of such a match. Not because he thought Guiscard a poor choice, but specifically because Giscard had more money than they did. The man would never live as humbly as Cristiana and her father always had.

Guiscard would never be particularly wealthy either. That wasn’t the point. Fendrel always urged Cristiana to take on a life of service and poverty. This man's wealth, no matter how good his character, would always exceed Fendrel's humble standards.

Her father heaved a deep sigh. By all accounts, Guiscard is a decent man. Yet we know nothing about him. He's older than you, and yet has no wife yet.

I know about him, Cristiana said quickly. He married years ago, as a young man. The plague took his wife before she bore him any children. It’s been five years, but now he’s made me an offer. One doesn’t simply get over something like that, Papa. You never married after mama died.

Even as she said it, her face heated with shame. She hadn’t meant to bring up her mother. The last thing she wanted was to hurt her father.

To her relief, he didn’t look hurt. A look of understanding that, for some reason, made Cristiana afraid, came into his face. I know you want to avoid your mother's fate, Cristiana but marrying a man for the wrong reasons isn’t the correct way to go about it.

Cristiana gritted her teeth, refusing to let her tears of shame show. She’d expected him to accuse her of wanting to marry Guiscard for his money. How had he hit so squarely on her true motivations?

Because she’d slipped and mentioned her mother. That’s how. In truth, she didn't care a whit for Guiscard's money. She did, however, crave the protection and comfort marrying a man like him would afford her, so she could avoid her mother's fate.

Clearing her throat, she forced herself to look her father in the eye, determined to steer the conversation to safer subjects. The ones she’d rehearsed beforehand. Papa, with Guiscard's money, I can bless the poor and take care of you in your old age. Nothing will make me happier or prouder than taking care of you for a change.

Fendrel frowned. But how do you feel about this man?

I don’t.

Do you even like the look of him?

Not especially.

Cristiana took a deep, steadying breath. She looked her father dead in the eye and spoke the simple truth. I honestly don't know him well, Papa. I’ve spent time with him in past weeks and as you say, his reputation is one of honor. He's always treated me well and I think he can make me happy. I believe I can serve him as a wife does and come to love him. I can come to be happy with him. I choose him for my husband. You know I will be loyal.

Fendrel weighed her with his eyes. Something told her he could see into her soul. He stayed silent so long, she shifted her weight from one foot to another.

And this is truly what you want, my daughter? Shouldn't you think on it more?

Cristiana shook her head. "I've already told you, Papa. We’ve conducted a secret courtship for some time. I've thought about it a great deal. It is what I want."

Fendrel turned to the window, peering out.

Guiscard cleared his throat and Cristiana turned to find him staring at Fendrel’s back.

If I may interject, Fendrel, your daughter will live in comfort. As will you yourself.

So, Guiscard heard everything.

Fendrel turned from the window, looking unhappy. Guiscard, I appreciate comfort as much as the next man, but that is not what life is chiefly about. It's about what a man stands for. What he does with his life. All men die.

He shifted his gaze to Cristiana. She wilted under it.

All women die, he continued. But what did they do to serve God in this life?

Guiscard dropped his gaze and Cristiana found she had no answer either. Father, she groped for words. Sir Guiscard is a god-fearing man. He serves our Lord in his own way. Must one be poor to serve Almighty God?

Fendrel’s frown deepened and he took another breath. After what felt like an eternity of silence, he nodded slowly. I will agree to this match on one condition.

Cristiana's heart leapt in her chest and she raised her eyes to her father, feeling a surge of affection for him.

As if reading the emotion, he held up a hand to forestall her. The condition is that the three of us make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land before you wed.

Cristiana's mouth dropped open. Where on earth did this request come from?

A...a pilgrimage? she sputtered, noting that in her peripheral vision, Guiscard’s mouth had dropped open in dismay as well. Why father? You’ve never expressed a desire for such a thing before.

A holy pilgrimage will bless your union, he spread his gaze between them. It settled on her and his face softened. The Cistercian monks want to build a cathedral there. They've already asked me to accompany them to help with the stonework. I planned to tell you about it tonight.

Understanding filled Cristiana’s chest. She’d have gone with Fendrel anyway, even if she’d never met Guiscard.

If you want my blessing, Fendrel continued. Come with me to the Holy Lands. Marry there. After that, you may return to your lives here. I may remain there for several years to complete the cathedral.

Cristiana didn't try to cover her sigh. She understood her father’s true intentions all too well. The trip to the Holy Lands was a convenient way for him to delay her marriage. He probably hoped Guiscard would refuse to go on such a long pilgrimage. Or, if they did go, perhaps he hoped the journey would change Cristiana's mind. Perhaps he’d use the travel to try and dissuade her from marrying Guiscard.

She squared her shoulders. Well, it won’t work. If this is what her father required, Cristiana would make the journey with a firm resolve to marry Guiscard at the end of it. If only Guiscard agreed....

Her shoulders dropped as she cast a sidelong glance at her betrothed.

As if on cue, Giscard stepped forward. An excellent idea, Fendrel. And I have a counter condition.

Fendrel raised an eyebrow at him.

If we are to make this trip to the Holy Lands, I insist on paying for it. We will go there with speed and comfort and accede to every wish you may have. Your daughter and I will be married there, in the shadow of the lands the Lord our Savior once walked.

Cristiana felt such delight at Guiscard’s words, she could have kissed him. Though admittedly, the prospect didn’t delight her overly much in general.

Still, Giscard impressed her with both his generosity and his words this day. Perhaps he would prove a stronger husband than she'd thought. She didn’t know if the thought delighted or frightened her more. A worry for another time.

She shifted her gaze back to her father.

After a moment, Fendrel nodded slowly.

Relief rushed into Cristiana's chest. She wanted her life to be settled. She wanted to be married to a good man who provided her protection and her father comfort. She’d finally achieved it today.

The three of them sat down to a dinner of fish and lentils together and her father and Guiscard made small talk about recent events in the village and her father's work for the Cistercians.

The monks her father worked for were good and honest men. After Cristiana's mother’s death nearly five years ago, they took her and Fendrel in, making sure she and her father wanted for nothing. In exchange, Fendrel labored to help them build their beautiful, utilitarian cathedrals.

Cristiana watched her father and her future husband talk and begin to get acquainted. These two men were now the most important in her life. They loved and revered God. Cristiana could think of no better way to begin a marriage than a pilgrimage to the holiest place on earth.

Chapter 2

May 1119, Gascony

Terrowin lifted one hand from his wooden practice sword to wipe the sweat from his brow. Even one-handed, he easily held the practice sword fast against the wooden sword of his younger opponent.

Barely worthy to be called a man, Bosley should still properly be called a boy, but fast growing into what he would become. They stood with their swords locked together, Bosley pushing with all his might against Terrowin’s, trying to gain the upper hand.

A sheen of sweat covered Terrowin’s bare arms and chest. Gripping his practice sword with both hands again, Terrowin grinned at the younger man. Keep your eyes on me, Bosley. And move your feet. With the last, he lunged forward, sliding his wooden stave off the boy’s and whirling in a circle, swinging the sword in an arc. It landed a hard blow on Bosley’s sword, but the boy blocked him with more strength than most people would probably think possible for the wiry youth. Terrowin knew better, of course, as he’d been training with Bosley for months.

The two of them danced back and forth in front of the Baron's barn. Terrowin’s long, dark hair, falling below his shoulders but secured at the nape of his neck with a tie, swung back and forth.

A steady stream of hoots and hollers, intermingled with periodic gasps, from their audience accompanied them. A small group of young men, all Bosley’s age or younger, who sat or stood in a line against the back of the barn, watching with interest. The hoots came from the older ones. The gasps from the younger ones when either Terrowin or Bosley narrowly escaped certain death by wooden stave.

As they fought, Terrowin vaguely registered a calm, almost monotonous voice reciting scripture near the barn. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Terrowin ignored it, keeping his attention on Bosley. He’d been conducting lessons for the young men all day. The sun sat high in the sky and he decided this would be the last match before they quit for lunch.

Terrowin could've taken the boy down two minutes into their match—he didn’t even bother to carry his wooden shield, as none of them came close to hitting it—but he aimed not only to best these boys, but to teach them. He allowed them to fight him, feeling as though they did at least well enough to keep him at bay, teaching them about footing and form as they went.

After a while, he always made sure to show them how much they still needed to learn. This young lad in particular had grown a great deal in his sword skill in past months, but all of these boys still had far to go. They slowly mastered the forms, but they still needed to master true awareness.

A man must know the sword well enough for it to be second nature to him. He must learn to fight effectively while letting his mind wander in order to consider his surroundings and see threats coming from places other than his opponent. These boys didn’t approach that yet.

With a sudden burst of speed, Terrowin sprang toward Bosley, commencing an all-out frontal attack. Their wooden staves clacked again and again and again while Terrowin pushed the boy backward in a tight circle. Bosley’s heel caught on some unseen object in the grass. He tripped, falling onto his back.

The watching boys all burst out laughing, jeering and pointing at him.

Bosley sat up on his elbows, giving Terrowin a resentful look. Was that truly necessary? he muttered, an edge of bitterness in his voice.

Terrowin grinned and stepped forward, reaching out a hand. Bosley took it after a short, sullen hesitation. Terrowin pulled him to his feet.

You resent that I’ve shown you my true strength and what you may face one day. He clapped the boy good-naturedly on the back. The true enemy will not have sympathy for you, as I do. He’d have run you through.

Terrowin peered downward, trying to discern what had caused Bosley’s sudden fall. It didn't take long to find the culprit. A smooth, round stone, small enough that Terrowin could have palmed it, but large enough that unfortunate foot placement could easily have broken Bosley’s ankle. The boy was lucky it hadn’t been worse. Terrowin picked up the stone and showed it to the crowd of boys.

He turned to address the entire group. You must learn to be mindful of your surroundings. No matter how excellent your sword skill, you’ll still encounter things you never planned on. You're all doing well and learning quickly. Keep practicing. One day, one of you will vanquish me.

Most of the boys gave him skeptical looks, which he pretended not to see. Others laughed as though he’d told a humorous story.

Damn stone, Bosley said bitterly. Who put that there?

The lord gives us stumbling blocks, Father Brickenden spoke up, and all eyes turned to him. His was the voice reading from the Bible as they practiced. Not to sabotage us, but to teach and strengthen us.

Bosley looked vaguely resentful, but he didn’t challenge the priest.

Terrowin gave the boy an encouraging pound on the shoulder. The corners of the boy’s mouth turned up slightly before he turned away.

As if sensing the lessons were done, the boys began rising to their feet, stretching, and talking to one another.

Father Brickenden, the priest who presided over the Baron's estate, sat on a large pile of hay beside the boys, reading from an open Bible that dwarfed his hands in size, loudly enough to be sure all the boys heard.

And they did. Terrowin noticed many of the boys casting questioning glances at the priest from time to time, though none approached or spoke to him.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Terrowin smirked. You already read that verse, father. He reached for his brown tunic and slid it over his head. It caught somewhat on his sweat-covered skin, but he pulled it down down easily enough, so the hem sat at his upper thighs. He began tightening the laces over his chest and at his wrists.

Brickenden scowled at Terrowin, straightening his spine. The motion emphasized the pot belly under his shabby priest’s robes. A warm breeze picked Brickenden’s wispy gray hair up off his shoulders and blew it across the man’s deeply lined face. Swatting angrily at the offending pieces, the priest nearly struck himself.

Father Brickenden had served as Baron Plonta’s priest for a handful of years now. Terrowin adapted to his tactics months ago. Those tactics often included reciting scripture subtly—or so he thought—in the background of life at the Baron’s estate. He said he did it to teach people something without them knowing they’d been taught. Terrowin didn’t know if such things worked, but he’d grown used to the ubiquitous sound of the old man’s voice.

What does it mean?

Terrowin turned to find Merrick, a boy of fifteen summers, standing at his elbow. Merrick’s curly hair hung shaggily over his ears. Dirt covered him from head to toe. Such was the state of most of these boys.

What does what mean? Terrowin asked.

The priest’s verse. He reads the same one again and again, but I don't know what it means.

Terrowin pressed the tip of his practice sword into the soft grass beneath him, resting both palms on top of the hilt. It means light always overcomes darkness. If you fight for our Lord's truth and goodness, the devil’s darkness cannot win.

Merrick frowned. When you say ‘lord,’ do you mean, our lord the Baron? Or Christ our Lord?

Father Brickenden stopped reading. The man still pretended to study his Bible, but Terrowin knew the priest most likely strained to hear Terrowin and Merrik’s conversation.

Both, Terrowin answered, realizing many of the boys had stopped to listen. As men of God, it is our duty to protect and fight for our Lord, the Baron. We protect his person, his family, his estate, and his property. All men must protect the interests of their lords. But if we owe our allegiance to our lord, Baron Plonta here on earth, how much more do we owe our allegiance to Christ our Lord in the heaven? Is he not the greatest Lord of them all?

Many of the boys nodded solemnly. Father Brickenden gave Terrowin an approving nod. Terrowin ignored that too. He did not say it because he sought the priest’s approval. He told the boys the simple truth.

But what about the highwayman who gave you your scar?

Terrowin smiled patiently. The boys never missed an opportunity to ask about his scar or the now-infamous story of how Terrowin came by it. He couldn't see the scar unless he peered into a glass. He could feel it with his fingers, of course. He’d done so often enough to memorize the feel of it. He didn’t need to repeat the action anymore.

The scar reached from the notch at the base of his throat, too high for Terrowin to see it, and around the left side of his neck, ending at the back of his shoulder. The result of a highwayman who attempted to cut his throat.

Terrowin had wrenched away and the blow landed on the left side of his neck, and superficially. Though he couldn’t see the scar—his long, brown hair often hid it from others as well—he felt it when sweat slid over it or his hair brushed it.

The highwayman scarred me, but I lived, didn't I?

Merrick and several other boys nodded thoughtfully.

Fighting for God doesn't mean we won’t collect scars. On the contrary, it means we will triumph in the end, though there will be difficult times along the way. This scar taught me an important lesson. It made me vow never to hesitate to fight evil again. Evil takes advantage of hesitation to put down roots and spread its poison. A man must always charge evil head on and eradicate it before it takes hold.

But how do we... Merrick trailed off, studying the grass under his feet and obviously deep in thought.

Terrowin waited patiently.

How do we know what God's will is? How do we know that we’re doing as he wants us to?

Terrowin heaved a sigh. A deep question, to be sure. "It’s as I often tell you all. Keep to Christ’s teachings in the Bible. Don’t bring war to those who don't bring war to you. Hurt no woman. If a man gives offense, either walk away, or draw your sword.