Free The Templar Inheritance by Mario Reading Page A

felt as if I and the Saracen were in an enchanted place. Outside the war. Outside the madness of the faiths we both represented. I too slept, knowing that if he woke, he might kill me. But I knew that he would not. At that moment we were one. One soul. One unity. In the morning, when he awoke, he could move a little. I sat him up against the tree and gave him some of my biscuit and a little water. We broke bread together.
    ‘“You wish for my horse,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. You must take him. As a gift from me. For you have given me life.”
    ‘I raised the Saracen and placed him high into the saddle of his destrier. He bent forwards at the waist like an old man.
    ‘“I have your horse,” I said. “Inside mine. Last night he took my mare. I can wait eleven months.”
    ‘He laughed. I handed him his scimitar. He sat for a long moment looking down at me.
    ‘“Why?” he said. “Why did you not kill me?”
    ‘“I would have been killing myself. Such a thing is a sin, is it not?”
    ‘He laughed once more and sheathed his sword.
    ‘“My men are camped all around this valley. It is a miracle you were not discovered. I am their commander. You are young. I would be worth much to you in ransom.”
    ‘“You are worth more to me than any ransom.”
    ‘The Saracen nodded. “I shall call them off. Leave by the way you came. You will be safe. I promise you.”
    ‘He took my hand. We kissed, as brothers would.
    ‘“Your name?”
    ‘“Johannes von Hartelius. Of Sanct Quirin.”
    ‘“My name is Amir Maan Ibn Fakhr-al-Din. Of Baakleen. In the Chouf. Remember or forget. The choice is yours.”
    ‘He rode slowly away. My mare called after his stallion, and the stallion called back. I mounted the mare and rode back towards our camp. I knew his men would not pursue me. I knew that I was safe.’
    ‘And your mare? Did she have her foal?’
    ‘Oh yes. I am riding him now. He is seven years old and in his prime. He looks just like his father.’
    The princess took Hartelius’s hand in hers. ‘You smell of him. However hard you wash, you still smell of horses.’
    ‘I am sorry, Princess.’
    ‘Don’t be. I like it.’
    Hartelius no longer knew or cared what he was doing. Given his birth, he knew exactly the degree of mild flirtation the hohe Minne tradition allowed him. He was already way beyond it.
    He dropped to his knees beside the princess. She was looking up at him – meeting his gaze now, equal to equal. Her eyes were large and all-encompassing – they seemed to drink him into their centres as if he were diving into a deep well. He kissed her and she responded. He lay her on the floorof the pavilion and lost himself in her scent and the tender touch of her arms about him.
    ‘Why, Princess? Why?’
    ‘I asked you to tell me of love.’
    ‘But I told you of war.’
    ‘No, Hartelius. You told me of love.’

THIRTEEN
    Hartelius visited the princess every evening after that. The moment she heard his step she would send her handmaidens back to their lovers so as to be able to entertain her own. They would talk. Kiss. Hold each other. After dining together, he would return to the camp to do his round of the pickets. Then, later, when night came, he would return to the princess’s pavilion through the darkness of the camp to lie with her. His men would look the other way. There was no point trying to disguise what was happening. A moveable camp is a busy place. There are guards, blacksmiths, cooks and camp followers. Coopers, seamstresses and leatherworkers. Fires burn. Braziers glow.
    Hartelius and the princess were indulging in a sort of madness, one with the other. Only people in their position could think to be so blatant. Hartelius was the commander of the column and the Guardian of the Holy Lance. The princess was the sister of the king. As long as the column kept moving,their affair could continue with relative impunity. But they were storing up trouble for themselves and both of them