The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One) Page 4

  ****

  “Do you really believe that there’ll not be another crusade?” Parsifal asked Galeren after an hour’s ride. Not many words had passed between them that morning as they journeyed to the convent. Galeren’s mood was even more pensive than usual and even when asked about his run the previous night his answer had been curt and distant. Parsifal hated long rides of silence and despite knowing his master was a man of few words, he still always pressed him for conversation on such journeys.

  “Not this again,” was the terse reply, “why are you so obsessed with talk of new crusades?”

  “I am a Templar,” Parsifal answered, “’tis our history.”

  “Aye, history. You should concentrate your thoughts on the future.”

  “You fear it?” Parsifal asked warily.

  Galeren looked at him solemnly. Fear was not in their vocabulary, they had built a reputation on that very fact. But there was no point in foolish bravado. He had always been an honest man, so he gave an honest answer.

  “I fear nothing but our future.”

  Parsifal looked down as if to ponder his master’s answer. They continued for awhile in silent contemplation and it was Parsifal who once again broke it.

  “May I ask, sir, why you never speak of Acre?”

  “There is no cause to.” He replied swiftly. Once again Parsifal was left wanting, usually he left it but after the conversation he had witnessed the night before he felt he wanted answers and so he persisted.

  “I am interested, sir, I want to know what happened, about the battle.”

  “There is not that much to know. Acre fell, we came home.” Galeren said, his face stony and fixed on the road ahead.

  “What about you, sir?” Parsifal decided to direct his questioning to what he really desired to know.

  “What about me?” Galeren asked, as if it had been a misdirected question. Parsifal could barely contain his frustration.

  “Much! You were my age were you not? Still a sergeant, and yet there is talk –”

  “Talk of what?” Galeren said irritably.

  “That you showed great valour at Acre,” Parsifal started.

  “Enough!” Galeren raised his hand. “Damnation, where do you hear your tales?”

  “They are not tales, sir, and well you know it. And if you worry about tales then you should tell me yourself to save rumour.”

  Galeren pulled up his horse, turned in his saddle and pointed firmly at his young sergeant, his eyes darkened. “Never be so comfortable in my good nature to question me like that again or I will knock you out of your saddle. There is nothing to tell therefore I wish not to speak of it. I do not want Acre mentioned again, it is in the past and there it will remain buried.”

  Parsifal bowed his head. “Forgive my tongue, sir. Neither my questions nor manner were meant to insult you. It is my curious nature; it will not be mentioned again.”

  “Good,” Galeren said and reined his horse onward.

  They made fast progress to the convent in an uncomfortable silence that neither had chosen to break. The only breach was a long sigh that came from Galeren as they came within sight of their destination. The convent was a grey stone building with a single spire, set in generous gardens surrounded by a high wall. The entrance within was an archway with a double gate and a bell hung to one side of it.

  Galeren pinched his nose. “Ring the bell if you will sergeant.”

  “Of course,” Parsifal said, quickly dismounting and peeling the bell. “I’m sorry for before sir, I…”

  “You have already apologised, I do not wish for you to grovel for the rest of the day. My sour mood is not because of you but rather the mission at hand.”

  Parsifal frowned. “’Tis simply a questioning, sir.”

  “Aye, but I cannot stomach these places or their inhabitants.”

  “Nuns?” Parsifal said perplexed. “On the surface we serve the same purpose, as brothers and sisters.”

  “But they are not our true sisters and well you know it. This is why, young sergeant, I despair at the Temple’s future. We have survived shrouded behind a holy façade for near two centuries but it is a falsity that needs addressing. I fear it will be addressed by others and to our detriment. We have been asleep since that diabolical battle you are so eager to talk about, and should instead have been preparing for a new phase instead of another pointless crusade but ahh . . .” he waved his hand absently.

  Parsifal bit his tongue but then relented. His master infuriated him; at times he was so opinionated and yet would not act. What was wrong with him? He refused to talk about the past and fretted about the future, a future he seemed unwilling to get involved with. Parsifal had always been a risk taker and so he ventured into dangerous territory.

  “Men need to be led though, sir.” He said innocently. Galeren snapped his head round to look at him.

  “What is that suppose to mean?”

  There was fire in his master’s voice but Parsifal accepted that a beating would be worth an answer from his reticent mentor.

  “Well, you always speak to counter the Temple’s aim for a new crusade and talk of a necessary change. However, though many have called for your guidance and leadership you have turned from it and instead channel your energy into the practice of medicine, a noble occupation. But, and forgive my insolence, you cannot condemn that which you are not willing to change yourself.”

  “Insolence?” Galeren snarled ready to explode, but to his chagrin he was not prepared to oppose his sergeant’s observation, no matter how unfounded it was. Unsure how to berate his accuser he was relieved to hear a timid voice say,

  “How can St Catherine’s be of service to you, Master Templar?”

  Galeren directed his attention to the pale young woman now present at the gate. How long had she been there he wondered? She stood in her black habit looking frailly up at him. Her face was pock marked and her eyes were watery. She looked withered and empty but probably had barely seen sixteen winters. His anger heightened. He knew not why he was so agitated. It wasn’t Parsifal’s doing or this young fool of a girl before him, but he could not shake it. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be here. He cleared his throat.

  “We wish to meet with the Abbess regarding the tanner’s death and the sister who bore witness to it.”

  “Oh,” the girl trembled, unsure of what to do, “if you wait I –”

  “No,” Galeren cut her off coldly, “we cannot wait. You must take us to see the Abbess now.” His tone was harsh and his face serious. Parsifal looked at his master knowing he had crossed the line and that this nun’s presence was the only thing between him and a hard crack in the face. He knew he probably deserved such. Galeren had never beaten him but Parsifal had never before given him reason to and he did not doubt he was capable of it. The girl’s eyes darted nervously between the two knights and then were caught by Galeren’s icy gaze. He raised his left eyebrow at her and waited. She nodded rapidly and beckoned them to follow her.

  “Templars, here?” the Abbess looked up from the parchment she wrote upon and narrowed her already small eyes. She had been distracted when Sister Clemence had first entered and spoken, but now her attention was redirected. She tilted her head and waited for the young nun to continue.

  “They wait without, Mother. It is with Catherine they wish to speak,” she paused and then added, “about the murder of the tanner.”

  “Mmmm,” the Abbess mused, “a tenant of theirs, I suppose. She brings trouble to our door at every instance.” She drummed her fingers upon the table. “Still, we have no quarrel with the Temple. They are our brothers are they not?”

  Sister Clemence nodded quickly not sure whether it was a question to which the Abbess required an answer.

  “Show the knights in and then go and fetch our Catherine. But wait without my door until I summon you. I will speak with these knights first.”

  Sister Clemence bowed humbly and leaving the room she ushered Galeren and Parsifal wit
hin. Galeren strode purposely across the room toward the Abbess, who rose from her desk and smiled sweetly. Parsifal followed dutifully.

  “Brother Templars, it is an honour to receive you.”

  “Galeren de Massard, Parsifal Bondeville.” Galeren said curtly, introducing himself and motioning to Parsifal as way of dispelling pointless false pleasantries. “’Tis a serious errand we are on.” He finished sternly. He was in an ill mood and now regretted not taking refuge in one of the several inviting inns they had passed the previous night. At least he could have drunken ale to his fill and then ridden through the thick head he would have suffered with the next day, in silence, as they journeyed on to Faxfleet. Instead, his sergeant had just misjudged and disrespected him and he was stood in a cold convent faced with an aging crone.

  “Aye ’tis true,” the Abbess agreed soberly, linking her hands and resting them against her stomach, “a foul murder and one of confusion.” She nodded assuredly. “I presume you have heard the tall tales perpetrated by, I regret, one of our own.”

  “The witness you mean? The nun from this convent?” Galeren asked.

  “She is still only a novice.” The Abbess corrected. “She has failed to convince me that she is worthy of the vocation as yet.” And then she sighed deeply. “By God’s good grace, I know we are told to love the sinner but I despair at this girl, so errant is she.”

  “Really?” Galeren said, his interest beginning to stir. He remembered that Bertrand had said that the girl had been wandering alone when the incident occurred, perhaps on her way back from some forbidden liaison. “How so?” he queried.

  “She carries the sin of Eve heavily. She seduced her own sister’s betrothed.” The Abbess said with scathing sentiment.

  “Grave indeed,” Galeren agreed, as was appropriate.

  “She is wanton and wicked.” The Abbess continued with conviction.

  “Wicked?” Galeren cocked his head to one side.

  “Well,” the Abbess’s eyes narrowed and she looked around before she spoke, as if wary of spies hidden in the cracks and eaves of the room, “I suspect that if not a witch, then she has, at the very least, heretical ideas.”

  “What makes you suspect such?” Galeren frowned.

  “She consorts with those in the village who are known to experiment with dark magic.”

  “Dark magic?” Galeren said, feigning ignorance. They were healers, no doubt, condemned as sorcerers and witches. Another reason he hated the cross that was emblazoned on his mantle and surcoat.

  “Witchcraft, the devil’s work! Spells and evil incantations, oh . . .” she said putting her hands upon her chest, as if it pained her to speak of it.

  Galeren watched her with a mixture of fascination and disgust. She had a cruel face that had been sculpted from years of heartless malice. Her mouth was thin and embittered and she had small eyes that were full of malevolence. He could smell the acrid tang of her skin and knew that year upon year, with her youth wasting away before her, her bitterness had only grown. She had, therefore, wielded her insignificant power over younger, weaker, naïve women, until they were as withered as she. The novice though, about whom they spoke, sounded like the exception; unbreakable, and hence detested for it.

  It was why he reviled the devout. They were all too eager to condemn any who appeared a threat. They chose their punishment with wicked precision, all the while claiming to be saving souls and welcoming the misguided into the bosom of God. It was control at its most base and made Galeren sick with anger. He now found himself strangely eager to meet the wicked novice. He looked at the Abbess, his expression neutral and waited for her to continue.

  “I tell you brother, if her father did not temper the agony of her presence here with his generosity, I would have thrown her to the wolves long ago.”

  Galeren, seeing Parsifal look at him out of the corner of his eye, raised one eyebrow at the Abbess with curiosity.

  “A fitting turn of phrase,” Galeren said amused, despite sensing Parsifal fidgeting beside him, “and it brings us to our point. Was not the tanner’s throat ripped out by a large wolf?”

  “It would seem,” the Abbess said, “but Catherine’s account is most harrowing, not least for its unbelievable aspects. But I would expect nothing less from her. She was up to no good, wandering home at that hour, consorting with her wicked brethren no doubt and –”

  “Please,” Galeren raised his hand, “time presses us. I must ask you to avoid speculation. What did she tell you happened that night, Abbess?”

  The Abbess sighed and shook her head. “That she was attacked by a large man who, when challenged by the tanner who had come to her aid, became a wolf!” she laughed into her hand in disbelief at this but composed herself and continued.

  “He then ripped the tanner’s throat out.” She shook her head some more. Galeren stood still as a statue and did not comment but instead looked at her with an expression that told her he wasn’t satisfied that she was finished.

  “The commotion alerted others and the wolf-man fled and Catherine was spared, saints preserve us!” she concluded with sarcasm and crossed herself. Galeren nodded thoughtfully signifying that he had heard enough.

  “You see why I despair at the child. Such a tale told when a man was murdered can only come from a wicked imagination. And if there is any truth in such a wild tale, then her hand is in that as well. It could only be the work of Satan and his disciples.”

  “Methinks your first supposition is the correct one.” Galeren said curtly and then, “I will speak with Catherine now if I may. I find fanciful tales can be shorn to the truth with a few well chosen questions.”

  “Wisely spoken,” the Abbess said then called out, “enter sisters.”

  Galeren turned to the door and felt his chest tighten suddenly, as if in the grip of a vice. Two women entered, one before the other. The first he had already met at the gate; it was the one who followed her that drew his gaze. The Abbess’s account of her had been scathing but now upon seeing her, he understood why. Despite being shrouded from head to foot in a white habit, her beauty remained unmasked.

  Galeren heard Parsifal draw breath beside him and knew that he too had noted it, but as always his sergeant’s youth meant his emotions remained unchecked. Galeren was drawn to her eyes first, as he was to most people’s; for much could be gathered from a single look. They were light grey but seemed to darken with a shade of defiance as she looked, first at the Abbess and then settled them upon him.

  Galeren remained immovable, unreadable and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand instead of studying her features, however, he remained distracted. Her skin was pale, but not sickly like the other girl. There was a warmth to it, not yet extinguished by this place. Her hair was dark, probably black he gathered, like her eyebrows. As if sensing his silent deductions, she aptly arched both of them at him and brought him back to his purpose.

  Galeren frowned and tore his attention away from her to instead face the scornful glare of the Abbess. Her eyes narrowed to slits and he at once knew that she saw him as another weak man, seduced by the sight of loveliness. It angered him that he would seem so easily felled because he was not. This was different, but how, he could not explain to himself let alone to the narrow minded Abbess. He turned back to the novice and arching his own eyebrows said rather pointlessly, “Catherine?”

  “Yes,” was all she said, her face was unreadable and Galeren hoped that his composure, which was usually steadfast, was still intact, though he knew that the Abbess had seen it slip.

  “I hope you will speak the truth now that the Temple is here to investigate. I am sure that they will not tolerate your wild tales.” The Abbess snapped. Galeren could almost taste the jealous venom dripping from her tongue. He could stand neither her distraction nor scrutiny so turned to her and said:

  “I would prefer to speak with Catherine alone.”

  The Abbess’s lip curled with displeasure. He knew that she would not expect a Templar to be ea
sily tempted by the lure of beautiful flesh. But he was still a man and he knew that the Abbess despised him for that fact first and Templar or not, she would be suspicious of his motives.

  “I find the truth emerges more readily when an audience is not present.”

  “I have already heard all that Catherine has to tell.” The Abbess protested frostily.

  “Precisely,” Galeren said unreceptive, “she may have held back to avoid your . . .” he paused, wishing to choose his next words well, scathing judgement would have been the most accurate depiction of the Abbess’s response, but instead he said, “disappointment.”

  The Abbess folded her arms but Galeren knew he would get his way. While his face carried a light expression his eyes were cold and the Abbess, much to her vexation, did not want to press him. She knew well enough not to challenge the Temple.

  “As you wish,” she said, clearly not happy. “I shall wait without.” She walked towards the door.

  “You too sergeant.” Galeren said to Parsifal when he did not follow. Parsifal made a face of protest but saw the look in his master’s eyes and thought better of it. Once the Abbess, Parsifal and Sister Clemence had left, closing the door behind them, Galeren turned to face the young woman whose destiny he felt irrecoverably linked to. He smiled in attempt to put her at ease.

  Catherine looked at the knight who stood before her. His mail coif remained covering his head so that she could only see the shape of his face and his cool blue eyes. He had a deep scar that ran diagonally across his right cheek but this did not distract from the fact that he was a handsome man, whose age was difficult to fathom. He was impressive in his Templar attire; his leg armour shone reflecting the wearer’s pride. He stood tall, filling the room with a strong masculinity that, she could not only see, but strangely thought she could smell.

  The knight motioned for her to sit and she perched herself upon one of the benches, on one side of the room. She sat awkwardly, disarmed by his presence and continuing scrutiny. Something was familiar about him, though she knew she had never seen him before. Oddly, it was his smell that led her to think such.

  Galeren turned and sat on the bench opposite her; silent he could only stare as he tried to choose his next words. A tension taut as a bow string was drawn between them and Catherine, still unsettled, looked down into her lap so as to avoid his gaze. Though she felt she had no reason to fear him, she knew that he was somehow linked to the man from the other night and again this was based on his scent.

  The long silence stretched beyond bearable and confused by her new found sensitivity to smell, she decided to break the tense atmosphere. She brought forth the courage to speak.

  “I was told you wanted to talk to me Sir Templar and yet you say nothing.” She tore her eyes away from her lap and met an expression of deep concern on his face. Catherine bit down on her bottom lip in response and Galeren quickly relaxed his features and said:

  “It’s Galeren.”

  Catherine shrugged as if it was an unimportant fact but it comforted her to know his name and his eyes told her that, though something of his true sentiment had been exposed, he was not here to do her harm. He lent back and folded his arms and a hint of a smile began to creep across his face.

  “You weren’t what I expected is all,” he offered in explanation of his reticence. It was his turn to shrug.

  “What was it you expected?” Catherine asked, unable to stop a faint smile forming upon her own lips.

  “A nun, like the other,” he replied. That was true, he thought. He tried to read her expression but her emotions were well guarded, her face indecipherable. Catherine was still staring at him, an eyebrow raised waiting for an explanation.

  He shook his head and said: “But on reflection, from the Abbess’s description of you,” he paused and looked her over, “you should have been exactly what I expected.”

  “And what was that?” Catherine asked a little defensively. “How did the Abbess describe me?” she folded her arms across her chest, but she knew the answer.

  “Wicked, wanton, seducer of your sister’s betrothed.” Galeren cocked his head waiting for her denial or confirmation.

  “She is too kind,” Catherine said sarcastically and looked down, “and this is how I appear to you, a wicked and wanton seductress?” Catherine felt wounded by how her past had been twisted to label her so unfairly.

  “No,” Galeren said seeing pain in her eyes, “it is not what I mean,” he added quickly, knowing he had unwittingly unearthed some hurt. He wished he hadn’t begun this.

  “But you just said that from her description of me I should have been exactly what you expected.”

  “I meant…” he paused trying to think of an eloquent answer to heal the wound. “To most red-blooded men, the idea of a nun conjures up a dour, cold and dry image, much like your Abbess.” He shrugged and then gave her a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with humour. Catherine smiled back.

  He continued, “A wicked and wanton seductress does not fit in with this ideal.” He shook his head. “What I am trying to say, is that she didn’t say you were so beautiful.” Galeren checked himself. What had he just said? It was out of character and he immediately frowned.

  Catherine blushed and noticed the stern mask return to his face once more. “You associate wickedness and wantonness with beauty?”

  Galeren tilted his head, and shrugging it off said, “Wicked and wanton are not necessarily bad things, the details of such are always important. It is also true of sin; one’s perspective is where the judgement lies. Your Abbess may describe some things as wicked and wonton where I would not.”

  “What strange things for a Templar to say? Are you not meant to be pious and chaste instead of red-blooded?”

  “Meant, yes. But you do not know anything about the Templars or me.” He moved his head from side to side loosening his stiff neck and then pushed the mail coif off of it to reveal gold curls that fell to just above his shoulders. Unexpected of a Templar again, Catherine thought, from what she knew their hair was supposed to be shorn short and he was without a beard as well.

  Something made her suspect that he wasn’t a Templar at all. Maybe he was an impostor using the guise of a Templar to gain access to her. She still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was linked to the tanner’s murderer yet despite that possibility she felt her trust in him grow as every moment passed. She stood up quickly and walked over to the Abbess’s table, running her fingers along its edge as she tried to compose herself.

  “I could scrub the walls and floors of this convent from dusk to dawn; live on water and never utter a word and it would not change the Abbess’s opinion of me. She set it on the day she laid eyes on me and it has not changed in the year I have been here. She, like you, received second hand information on me. It is difficult to change someone’s opinion of you when they expect the worst.”

  “It matters not. I do not put much faith in hearsay. I prefer my own judgement, not that of others.” Galeren said standing up. He crossed the room towards her. Catherine took a step back and looked up at the giant that loomed over her, feeling claustrophobic she looked away from him.

  “Jealousy is a vicious poison.” He said earnestly.

  “What is it you wanted to speak to me about Sir Galeren?” she asked, trying to redirect him to his purpose. “I am sure you have more important things to do than converse with a novice.”

  “I do not. What we have to speak of is of prime importance.”

  “It is?” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  Somehow she knew what he said was true. She knew everything had changed.

  “Tell me of what happened several nights ago.” He said coolly.

  She shrugged, “Are you willing to believe me?”

  “I have no reason not too. Only speak the truth and tell of every detail, no matter how unimportant it may seem.”

  She nodded and drew breath to begin her tale. “It was market day. Many of the sisters go to mark
et to trade and give alms to the poor and exercise charity. I go to the market to escape my prison for a few precious hours. There’s an old woman that I have come to know over the last year.” She paused at this point and looked at Galeren cautiously. He noted the look and said reassuringly.

  “Every detail Catherine, you have nothing to fear from me. I am not here to pass judgement or condemn you.”

  She closed her eyes slowly and then smiled. She believed him and hoped, although she already knew he would, that he believed her.

  “The woman is a healer, though the Abbess would scorn her for being a witch. She is my only friend. I enjoy spending time with her and hearing her tales when I have the chance.” Catherine shrugged at her admission but Galeren remained impassive, not wishing to distract her from her story.

  “Well,” Catherine continued, “while visiting her on market day I lost track of time, and so it was that I began my journey back to the convent at twilight.”

  And then, as Catherine sighed in preparation to recount the crux of her tale, she felt herself transported back to that night and felt the chill enter her bones as she remembered.

  She was not afraid of the dark and that evening had not been dark, as the half moon had lit the land with a cool pallor. Neither was she afraid of being alone and had only stridden towards her destination hurriedly because she knew she would be missed and wished to avoid severe punishment. Otherwise, she would have relished her walk home with time to think and time to be free. She crossed the Temple farm and picked up the track, which led through a wooded area, that would take her from the estate and onward to the road to St Catherine’s.

  As she hastened deeper into the wood, the moon’s guiding light suddenly diminished and it was then that she heard rustling, the snap of twigs in the undergrowth and something moving ahead of her. She hesitated but kept her courage as she knew the woods were full of noise and movement, creatures of the night awakening to their shadowy world, curious, alert and hungry.

  She listened, nothing. Confident she resumed her pace, only to see to her horror the figure of a large man emerge from amongst the trees ahead of her. She gasped and froze in her tracks. She should have run but shock rooted her to the spot even though she was, as yet, unaware of the danger she was in.

  The man was shrouded from head to foot in a dark cloak, his hood was up and he stood with his arms folded in her path. She could see nothing of his face and wondered why his hood was up, obscuring his features. The evening was most pleasant and there was no need for head covering. She had removed her own, in order to enjoy the gentle breeze in her hair. But there should be no reason to fear him. He was probably a tenant on his way home. She would continue confidently, bid him good evening and pass unhindered.

  But as she began to walk towards him, he spoke and it was then she knew that she was in trouble.

  “A little late for a novice to be about alone, isn’t it?”

  She could hear the predator in his voice and recognised it all too well. It was too late for flight.

  “Aye, a little,” she said steadily, “I had a sick friend to attend to.”

  “Most charitable,” he said. She could see the white of his teeth as he grinned at her. “May I offer to escort you back to your abode? I need to exercise some charity myself.”

  “Do not trouble yourself, sir, ’tis late.” She said attempting to go around him. “I bid you a good night.” She finished but cried out, as he grabbed her arm as she tried to pass him. He swung her around and gripping both arms viciously, he pulled her close.

  “I beg you,” Catherine said, breathless with terror.

  “Beg,” he said, “’tis music to my ears.”

  She tried to discern his features but all she could see were his eyes, they gleamed with malevolence and were void of pity. His grip was fierce and although she knew that fight was now her only alternative, she also knew that she had no hope of escaping. Nevertheless she tried. She kicked out but he anticipated the move and grabbing the assaulting leg he pulled it, and the other, out from under her. She met the ground hard and felt both the cold of the earth pressed against her back and the vile warmth of his body against her front.

  “No!” she screamed, her arms flailing as she fought against him but he just laughed. She screamed again but he pinned her more forcefully to the ground and gripping her face, he turned her head and whispered into her ear.

  “Your spirit thrills me, but your struggling is futile. You know what I’m going to do to you, little flower.”

  It was pointless to keep crying into the emptiness of the night but she did over and over again. And then salvation; she heard another voice, that also of a man, and he cried out a warning. Her assailant stopped his assault and kneeling over her, turned to the direction from which the voice had come.

  “Move on if you value your life, serf. Your death is not worth this woman’s virtue.”

  “Yours is!” the man retorted. “Get off of her you bastard!”

  Catherine struggled to see who her saviour was, as she recognised his voice but couldn’t place it. She felt her attacker’s weight lift from her and raising her head she caught sight of Lovell, the tanner, who stood ready to face his foe. She could have taken the opportunity to run, but she would not leave Lovell to face the man alone. Instead she picked herself up, determined to assist him if she could.

  “I have no patience for heroics.” The stranger said angered, “I warned you not to thwart me you fucking peasant!”

  And then an unbelievable horror occurred. Even now as she recalled it, she could scarce believe it, but she did see it and did not doubt her sanity for it. The stranger cried out suddenly, as if in rage. It was an inhuman sound that chilled Catherine to the bone and then as he moved toward his challenger, his form distorted and shrank away into darkness, becoming that of another. The darkness shrouded his metamorphosis but not the fury of it. His cry became that of a wild animal and before her eyes she saw the animal that now stood where he had been. It was the form of a huge black wolf.

  The tanner’s eyes widened but transfixed in his horror he was powerless to act and instead stood rigid as the beast leapt forward and slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. It tore out his throat before he hit the ground. Catherine screamed as she saw his body fall. Knowing he was dead she turned to flee, certain that if she locked eyes with the monster she would not be able to move and would suffer the same fate.

  She ran for her life but all she could hear was the panicked beating of her heart and the wolf closing in on her. She managed one more step before she met the ground once again and felt the creature’s teeth penetrate the flesh of her calf. She cried out in pain and terror but resigned herself to death, praying only that it may be as quick as the tanner’s.

  “There were more voices, several, it was others returning from the village and the wolf fled into darkness. I must have lost consciousness, as the next thing I knew I was back at the convent in the infirmary.” Catherine shrugged and looked up at Galeren, whose face was set in a frown but seemed distant, as if he was concentrating on another matter.

  As she had begun her tale, Galeren did what he should have done the moment he was alone with her. He breathed deep and filtered out the different smells of the room, until he was left with her scent alone. He then moved passed the hint of rose water that was upon her body and beyond the intoxicating aroma of her skin, to go further; to that of her essence and of what she felt. He smelt no fear, perhaps a little confusion, but then another scent hit him. It was cruel and malign and it possessed her. He recoiled.

  “What is it?” Catherine asked. Galeren’s eyes shot open to find her staring at him in bewilderment. He couldn’t focus, the foreign scent filled him with a terrible dread and with it he smelt danger. It was horrifyingly familiar and yet he could not immediately place it. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled; the scent enveloped her and at the same time came from within her.

  Fool! He chastised himself. His initial
reaction to her had dampened his senses, so he had missed the damning scent of her attacker. Now, however, it clawed viciously at them. With increasing horror he realised by whom she had been bitten. It could not be possible!

  “I know it sounds like madness, but it is the very madness of my tale that makes it true.” Catherine insisted mistaking the look on his face for disbelief. “Why would I make up something so unbelievable? Jesu my every breath lands me into trouble! I have no need for wild tales to get attention. You have to believe me.” She said earnestly.

  Galeren, realising the damning expression that was on his face, quickly softened his features and smiled at her, though his inner disquiet did not yield, nor would it.

  “I believe you Catherine. I wish I did not, for what it means.” He sighed, feeling defeated.

  “You do?” Catherine said, almost elated but a little mystified. “But you are a Templar? You of all people should be the one to disbelieve me.”

  “I told you before you do not know the Templars.” He clenched his fist and bounced it against his mouth in contemplation. “You said you felt the wolf’s teeth?”

  “Yes,” Catherine said without hesitation.

  “May I look at the wound?” he asked. Her story and the scent that now possessed her confirmed it, but he still felt the need to see the bite. Catherine looked startled.

  “’Tis not proper, I cannot.” She said, looking around the room nervously.

  “’Tis wholly proper, I am a physician.” He assured and Catherine was once again surprised by the knight’s admission.

  “What? Does it seem so absurd? Warriors need healers, I learned that at Acre.”

  She still seemed unconvinced.

  “If I am willing to believe you, then you could at least return the courtesy and be willing to trust me.” He was suddenly desperate to touch her, as if by doing so he could cleanse her violated blood. He was not yet ready to consider what all this meant, but felt that it did not bode well for any of them.

  She nodded and he motioned for her to sit upon the bench again. Kneeling before her, he raised her skirts and placed his hand upon her left calf which was still bandaged. Carefully, he removed the bandaging and inspected the wound. When he was satisfied he sighed and replaced the dressing, his hand lingered upon her flesh until inappropriateness forced him to remove it.

  “What? ’Tis bad?” she asked worried.

  “No,” he reassured her with the surface truth, “the wound has been well tended to and will heal without trouble, I doubt you will even scar.” But you are scarred. He could not tell her the deeper truth. He stood up and walked towards the window. He looked out at the neatness of the convent gardens and closed his eyes, trying to see the way forward.

  “And now?” Catherine asked.

  “And now nothing.” He turned to her and looked upon her solemnly. “You must not speak to anyone further on this matter. Our conversation has clarified that you were confused on the eve of the tanner’s murder.”

  “But you just said –”

  Galeren raised his hand to silence her. “I know well what I said and I stand by it but for the rest of the world the man who attacked you was accompanied by a vicious hound that he set upon the tanner when his intentions were disturbed. It is a pathetic tale, I’ll admit, but ’tis all we have. His throat was ripped out after all. The Temple will settle the matter, ’tis all you need to know.”

  He saw her face sadden. “I believe you, Catherine I truly do. Keep that close to your heart.” He said and quickly turned on his heel and within a moment he had left the room leaving Catherine feeling desolated.

  Chapter Three