Beloved Crusader

By Vijaya Schartz

1096 AD - To redeem a Pagan curse, Palatina the Fae braves the Christian world to embark on an expedition to free the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem from the Turks. Pierre de Belfort, Christian Knight of Lorraine, swore never to let a woman rule his life, and doesn't believe in love. Thrown together into the turmoil of the First Crusade, on a sacred journey to a land of fables, they must learn to trust each other. For in this war, the true enemy is not human... and discovery could mean burning at the stake.

This novel is a standalone, the only book about Palatina the Fae, although she appears as a child in Book 2.

OTHER BOOKS IN THE CURSE OF THE LOST ISLE SERIES

Book 1 - Princess of Bretagne
Book 2 - Pagan Queen
Book 3 - Seducing Sigefroi
Book 4 - Lady of Luxembourg
Book 5 - Chatelaine of Forez
Book 6 - Beloved Crusader

Boxed set - Curse of the Lost Isle, includes the first four novels in the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Aug 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781771453936

Vijaya Schartz

Award-winning author Vijaya Schartz never conformed to anything and could never refuse a challenge. She likes action and exotic settings, in life and on the page. She traveled the world and claims she comes from the future. Her books collected many five-star reviews and literary awards. She makes you believe you lived these extraordinary adventures among her characters. So, go ahead, dare to experience the magic, and she will keep you entranced, turning the pages until the last line. Find more about Vijaya and her books at http://www.vijayaschartz.com

Book preview

Beloved Crusader

Curse of the Lost Isle, Book 6

By Vijaya Schartz

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-1-77362-944-5

Kindle 978-1-77145-393-6

WEB 978-1-77362-945-2

Amazon Print 978-1-77362-946-9

Print 978-1-77362-947-6

Copyright 2015 by Vijaya Schartz

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

Dedication

To my loyal readers. I hope you enjoy reading this story

as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter One

Spring of 1096 - Mount Canigou, Eastern Pyrenees

Her heart drumming like a runaway destrier, Palatina sat on the elevated flat rock inside her cave and crossed her legs in a meditative pose. Closing her eyes, she focused her inner vision on the young man steadily climbing the rock face outside, along the roaring waterfall.

His scabbard knocked against the slick stone. Despite the water rushing by, she could hear him breathe heavily from the effort. His blue eyes narrowed with concentration, and the late morning sun set his blond hair ablaze. She envied his freedom. It had been so long since she’d felt the warmth of the sun on her skin, the breeze in her hair, or smelled the flowers, or the grass after a spring shower.

She enveloped him with a protective glamour. He had strong, muscular arms and thighs, but one weak grip, the slightest imbalance, one slip... Palatina quickly erased the fatal possibility from her mind with a banishing spell. She wanted him to reach her and free her from this prison.

Long ago, her curse stated that after centuries, a noble knight of her family line would claim her father’s treasure for a noble cause, thus ending her solitary obligation to guard it.

O Great One, please, let him be my liberator, she whispered with all the fervor she could muster.

After nearly three centuries of waiting, she had almost lost hope. Almost. For Palatina, curious and erudite, avid to see new places and meet new people, isolation proved particularly harsh. She had studied and memorized all her books and scrolls. Although her gift of sight let her see faraway places, she yearned for more. Her prison had no bars, but leaving it would unleash the wrath of the Great One.

Of course, she’d deserved her punishment... she had done a terrible thing as a child with her two sisters, locking their mortal father in a crystal cave, where he’d spent the rest of his miserable existence. She understood why the Goddess had struck her with the same cruel fate. Unlike her mortal father, however, Palatina was Fae. She would survive her ordeal.

Tears escaped her closed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. Her throat clenched at the memory of her cruelty, but she’d been a child then. Now, she understood compassion and sorely regretted the horrible deed.

Outside, the handsome man still climbed the cliff, closing upon the hidden entrance of her cave. The waterfall thundered past his ears. Almost there. He finally emerged through the water curtain and stepped onto the flat stone marking the threshold of her cave. She breathed easier.

Heart pounding, barely containing her excitement, she watched his tall figure stride with purpose into her lair. The warrior dwarfed the stone arch of the entrance with his imposing presence. The flames of the oil lamps wavered, casting shifting shadows on the rough stone shelves, strewn with worn, heavy volumes of ancient knowledge.

He walked slowly, deliberately, like a predator stalking prey. His wet tunic molded muscular shoulders. Golden hair dripped on his square face, tanned by the outdoors. A northerner.

A large silver cross glinted on his bare chest through the open fold of his linen tunic. A Celtic cross in a circle. A Pagan symbol also used by Christians.

Palatina sensed a hint of Fae blood roiling through his veins, she probed the mind of the handsome man, to determine whether or not she could trust him. To her surprise, she could not read his thoughts. Strange. Perhaps his spatter of Fae blood protected him from her probing.

Who dares disturb the peace of this sacred cave? Her voice strangled in her throat from lack of use. Her tone sounded strangely formal.

A small rodent scampered into the rocky recesses of the large cave.

The man took a deep breath, released it slowly, then faced her at three paces, feet slightly apart, hands behind his back. Still seated on her elevated flat rock, she gazed on an even keel into his deep blue eyes... eyes that could make any woman forget her duties.

He tilted his head. The square lines of his smooth face relaxed into an amused smile that dimpled his cheeks and bared perfect white teeth. I was expecting someone older.

Flustered, Palatina frowned. Was that meant to be a compliment or an insult? She wouldn’t let him manipulate her. She may not have lived at the imperial court, but she had seen enough of the world through her water basin to avoid such tactics. She steeled her voice. I asked for your name and title.

He bit back his smile and nodded. Pierre de Belfort, knight of Lower Lorraine, my lady.

She must make sure he was the one. As the guardian of her father’s treasure, she could only release it to the right man, for a worthy cause, or suffer the wrath of the Goddess. The Great One punished the slightest mistakes with ruthless curses. State your family line.

His brow arched. I am the bastard son of a lowly concubine, my lady.

She could tell this man had learned good manners and received a good education. His braies and tunic were fashioned of the best cloth, and his boots of the finest leather. Besides, he was a titled knight. But your father is a powerful lord, is he not?

He narrowed his gaze upon her. Aye, he was. Before he passed, he bestowed upon me the modest holding of Belfort.

Of Palatina’s two sisters, only Melusine had married and borne children, first in Luxembourg with Sigefroi, a son of Lorraine, then in Forez with Count Artaud. This knight had to be related to her somehow, and if he were, he might know of her dark family history. Any ancient legends or Fae ancestry in your noble family line?

The knight’s jaw tensed and his daunting blue eyes hardened to cold ice. His hand gripped the sword hilt. Who dares challenge my good name?

Palatina shuddered at his outburst. Why would he bristle at the mention of legends and Fae? She blinked away her surprise and cleared her throat but no words came.

I gave you my name, my lady. Now I demand to know yours. His rich baritone voice echoed throughout the cave, filling it with warmth.

My name is Palatina, Princess of Alba, daughter of Pressine of Bretagne and King Elinas of Dumfries. She didn’t mention immortal, or Fae, or cursed… not even Pagan.

Pardon my rudeness, my lady. He bowed with unexpected grace. Definitely a refined nobleman.

How did you know where to find me? Had her sister Melusine been kind enough to leave directions for her descendants?

Furrowing in the open fold of his wet tunic, the knight pulled out a tightly wound parchment and unrolled it. Then he held it open for her, angling it to the light, so she could see and read it.

On the illustration, Mount Canigou, the river and the waterfall were outlined with gold filigree, and an abundance of ochre, purple, red and blue ink. Many details and instructions in Latin calligraphy explained the location of her cave.

How did you get this?

The knight gazed into her eyes with unsettling calm. This family scroll belongs not to me, but to my liege, Godfrey of Bouillon, Duke of Lower Lorraine.

Your liege? Her sister Melusine had strong connections with Lorraine. This Godfrey sent you on his behalf, then?

Aye. The knight nodded gravely.

A weight flew off Palatina’s shoulders. She and this handsome knight weren’t related at all.

She took the scroll from his hands and the contact of his warm fingers sent shivers along her arms. The document looked authentic, with the dangling seals of Luxembourg, Lorraine, and Flanders. Palatina remembered Melusine’s oldest daughter had been queen of Flanders, but she had also been a devout Christian, some said a saint. The scroll was so accurate and detailed, the Latin words so exquisite, unlike the rough Latin of most monks, only an erudite like her sister Melusine could have drawn it.

Still, the knight could have stolen the scroll.

Unfazed, he stared straight into her eyes. My liege sent me to claim his family gold, so he can finance an army to free Jerusalem and reclaim the Holy Sepulcher from the Turks.

The blood drained from Palatina’s face, leaving her cheeks cold and stiff. She’d seen the early pilgrims bound for Jerusalem through her water basin. They’d looted their way across the Empire, raping and ravaging the populations and pillaging the land on their way to redeem their sins in the east… but that was the least of her concerns. You mean to say that you and your liege are Christian knights?

His brow furrowed. Of course, my lady. Knights before God. The only worthy kind.

And your liege sent you to claim his family treasure for a Christian quest? The very words grated in her throat.

The greatest endeavor of all times, my lady. The knight glanced around the cave with its fluttering oil lamps and its many volumes. I do not see any gold here. He gestured toward the manuscripts and scrolls filling the niches and strewn on every flat surface or piled up along the sheer walls. This library is worth a small fortune, but not enough to raise an army.

Was this a cruel jest? Her father’s treasure was Pagan. Palatina served the Goddess. Had the world spun out of control?

She swallowed the lump in her throat and wove a calming spell. She couldn’t let her emotions cloud her judgment. Perhaps her relative, Godfrey of Bouillon, was Pagan in his heart. And what kind of a man is the Duke of Lower Lorraine?

Pierre de Belfort smiled, and genuine kindness softened the even planes of his face. My liege Godfrey is the kindest, the most honest, the most pious, the most fair and righteous of knights. His men would die for him and his enemies dread his sword. He would give his mantle to a cold vagrant without a thought, and already renounced all his lands for the just cause of liberating the holy city where Christ died to redeem our sins.

Such dedication, such emotion, such righteousness. Palatina knew not what to do. The claim sounds legitimate, she said flatly, regaining control of her voice. However, I need time to verify it. Return in the morning, and I shall give you my final decision.

May I? The knight extended his hand, palm up, to claim back the scroll.

Palatina rolled the parchment but set it on the stone at her side. I shall keep this for now.

Pierre the Belfort pulled back his hand and inclined his head to the side, narrowing his deep blue eyes. Is there truly a hoard of genuine gold?

Tomorrow morning, sir knight. Palatina’s voice took on a sharp edge, and she immediately regretted losing control.

Until the morrow, then. Pierre de Belfort bowed curtly then turned around. She watched him walk away, wishing it were the next morning. She already missed him and longed to see him again.

See him again? Dear Goddess! She must be crazed. He was a Christian.

Palatina had little time to figure out what she must do. This had to be a mistake. The Goddess would not be pleased, and displeasing the Great One always came at a great risk. One could lose much more than life by incurring Her wrath.

* * *

Back in his heavy chainmail, Pierre de Belfort still reeled from the encounter. He rode ahead of his twenty knights on the arduous climb to the Abbey of St. Martin of Canigou, where they would spend the night. He should rejoice at having found the maiden and the cave but didn’t believe in silly legends. He doubted there was a treasure at all.

Furthermore, if that maiden in white robes had guarded the treasure for a very long time, she should be an old crone by now. His heart fluttered at the memory of her intelligent gray gaze, too serious for one so young. Long black hair framed her lovely face. He chided himself. Her cave reeked of witchcraft and Pagan symbolism… and he of all men, would know.

The stone arch of the abbey entrance, flanked by tall junipers, came into view. Pierre and his knights rode through the open portal, into the large, rectangular courtyard. Loud bells pealed, filling the air with pristine sounds, bouncing off the jagged mountains, and spilling over the deep valley below.

His pommeled gray reared. Pierre pulled on the reins with one firm hand, while patting the destrier’s neck with the other. Easy, Hailstorm. Easy.

He wondered what could have spooked his mount. The big war horse didn’t scare easily. At the end of a long journey, and after the steep climb on the mountain path to the abbey’s promontory, how could the beast still have the strength to rear?

Pierre led his score of mounted knights through the courtyard, toward a tall oak shading a long stone building… the stables, judging by the strong odor of manure. The shadow of a tall, square tower, like a silent sentinel, loomed over the courtyard, where a hot fire blazed. Perhaps, the smell of smoke had spooked his destrier.

He raised his arm to signal his men. Dismount!

The clicking of scabbards, the jingle of chainmail, and the creaking of harnesses competed with the men’s soft grunts, the snort of horses, and the fading echo of the bells.

Pierre slid down from his destrier. Young lads hurried out of the stables to see to the horses. He offered the reins to a dirty-face urchin and flipped a small coin in his direction. Take good care of my gray. His name is Hailstorm, and he’ll be gentle if you give him carrots.

The boy caught the bit of silver in mid air, grabbed the reins and grinned. I like him already, my lord.

Near the bonfire in the middle of the paved yard, a monk in black robe intoned a Latin prayer, extending his arms to the heavens, then genuflecting and kissing the wooden cross hanging from a rope around his neck. From a pail on the ground, the monk retrieved various objects and cast them into the fire one by one, all the while reciting an incantation. Some pieces looked like Pagan trinkets, bits of old cloth, healing amulets and even a wooden carving of the Pagan Goddess.

The resin-scented smoke hung in the air, reminding Pierre of another hot afternoon, long ago, in the searing heat of a witch fire. He pushed away the atrocious memory.

Answering the call of the bells, hooded Benedictine monks in black robes streamed out of the many buildings and strode purposefully toward the chapel for Vespers, their late afternoon prayers. Forearms tucked inside their wide sleeves, they kept their gaze to the flagstone… a futile attempt to ignore the disturbance of the knights’ arrival.

The oppressing heat made it difficult to breathe. When Pierre removed his helmet and pushed back the head mail. Perspiration stuck his hair to his forehead. By the Rood, 'twas only May. His chainmail weighed his shoulders with each step. He couldn’t wait to get out of it.

Leaving his men with the horses, he strode to the covered walk bordering one side of the rectangular yard. Beyond the Moorish colonnades he gazed over the low wall, down the precipice. Stone steps carved in the cliff face, would allow an agile man quick access to the river below. At the bottom of the abrupt cliff, a silvery ribbon snaked in the cool penumbra of thick trees, reminding him of the waterfall and the cave of the maiden, just this morning. He’d felt so light and free in her presence. Yet, a sense of doom followed him ever since.

He raised his gaze higher, to the top of the massive mountains. There, Mount Canigou jutted out of the rocky slopes, like a sharp tooth on the skyline, golden in the glaring sun. The view of the mountain in front of him exactly matched the rich illustration of Godfrey’s family scroll. He hoped 'twas not a mistake to leave it with the maiden.

By the Rood, why had Pierre accepted this errand? No one believed in legends anymore. An ancient treasure guarded by a maiden? Despite finding the cave and the girl, Pierre doubted the mountain held any gold, and if it did… his throat contracted at the thought. It might predate Christianity. Who knew what kind of evil such Pagan gold might carry.

Without that treasure, however, how would Godfrey finance an army of forty thousand to march to the Holy Land? He’d already sold most of his holdings to the bishops, and still needed an immense fortune in easy-to-carry gold.

Pierre sighed, pushing away his anxiety. He’d given his oath, and he would honor it, out of loyalty to his childhood friend and liege, Godfrey of Bouillon, now Duke of Lower Lorraine.

An old monk approached him and bowed, hands joined as if in prayer. My lord de Belfort, welcome to the abbey of St. Martin of Canigou. We reserved a private cell for you in the cloister. Your esteemed knights may lodge in the main hall with the servants.

Pierre smiled despite his worries. I always sleep with my men. A true knight of God doesn’t need a bed.

Very well. The old monk offered a strained smiled. The evening meal will be served in the refectory at sundown.

Pierre glanced around the courtyard, where the fire had been banked and no other monk lingered. I need to speak to the abbot.

Our lord abbot will grant you a private audience in his study after vespers, my lord. The monk bowed and turned away, hurrying with small steps toward the chapel, from which rose a chorus of heavenly voices, chanting in Latin the glory of the Lord.

Pierre would have time to freshen up and rest a while. He hoped to get rid of the sense of doom that plagued him since morning.

He recognized stirs of ancient magic in the air. Even the monks actively fought the insidious encroachment of evil upon their peaceful retreat. He must not let unholy memories and false premonitions influence his fate.

He wished Godfrey would hurry their departure for Jerusalem. Pierre’s soul desperately needed cleansing and salvation. Of course, in order to depart, they would need the family treasure. Pagan gold. Pierre shuddered at the very notion.

Chapter Two

Thank you for the generous donation to the abbey. Tall, thin, in sober black robes, Abbot Suniaire shuffled his sandaled feet. That silver will feed many hungry mouths come winter.

The setting sun, visible through the large windows of the tower, warmed the gray stone walls to amber. The high fireplace gaped, black and empty on this late spring day. The abbot indicated a wooden chair in the center of the austere, square room.

Pierre settled into the offered seat, easing the scabbard of his sword to the side. It scraped on the rough wooden floor.

A few volumes and scrolls sat on a trestle table against one wall. Open chests revealed more books and parchments. The smell of burnt tallow, from the two tall candles on the table, lingered in the air.

The abbot gingerly sat on the facing chair, then leaned against the back of his seat. He smoothed the plain wooden cross on his chest. I am certain the Lord will reward you in heaven for all your good deeds.

That is not why I donate. Pierre bit his lips. The abbot wasn’t his confessor. He didn’t need to know about his wretched childhood, or his Pagan mother, or the fact that there might be no heaven for him at all.

The abbot smiled thinly. What are you doing so far from home? Shouldn’t you be with your liege in Lower Lorraine, preparing to journey to Jerusalem, like every pious knight in Christendom?

Aye, but first, I must fulfill a special errand of the utmost importance. He couldn’t wait to return to the lovely Palatina. If the treasure was real, however, the less people knew about it, the safer it would be. Even his men knew not what they would be protecting.

The gilded light of the dipping sun softened the abbot’s lined face. The missive announcing your visit on such short notice surprised us.

Aye. ‘Tis only for one night, then we’ll be on our way. Pierre wanted to be gone and safely back to Bouillon with the gold… assuming there was any.

Can I be of assistance, my son? The abbot laced his fingers and narrowed his dark brown eyes.

Warnings coursed along Pierre’s spine. What if the maiden and the treasure were Pagan? I noticed the burning of amulets and such.

The abbot’s dark brows knitted together. Heresy is rampant here in the south. Many dissident sects have taken root. Their dangerous beliefs have tainted even some of the most respectable monastic orders. King Philippe of France ordered many burnings of late.

Of things? Or people? Pierre shuddered at the horrendous images in his mind.

Both. The old abbot sighed. Fortunately, the Canigou belongs to Aragon, not to France. We are content to burn only offensive objects.

Pierre nodded and took a calming breath. I’m curious about the local legends. Are there any about a treasure?

The abbot pursed his lips and shook his head. Many legends are rumored in these parts, mostly Pagan… but none concerning a treasure.

How about a maiden living in a cave? Pierre held his breath. If there happened to be such a legend, the lovely Palatina could be hundreds of years old, hence