Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride
She would be his undoing…A hardened, battle-weary warrior, Reynaud has forgotten what it is to be in the company of a beautiful woman, to delight in her comfort and warmth.On his return to Granada he is drawn to Leonor, and senses that she can heal his hidden scars. She is set upon a dangerous path – a path that they travel together, becoming closer every day… every night. But such forbidden passion might be their undoing…
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‘I would keep you safe, Leonor. Protect you from all that is evil and dangerous.’
‘You know you cannot, Rey. You cannot be with me always. I must learn to protect myself. In your eyes I see two things—anguish and hunger. You are scarred, Rey. You must find some joy in this world to soften your distress.’
Reynaud hesitated. Aye, he had discovered joy. Being near her, hearing her voice, admiring her wit, her courage. Even her stubbornness. Watching her sing those exquisite melodies that caught at his heart and ensnared his soul.
Wanting her.
In the late twelfth century southern France, or Languedoc as it was known then—long a breeding ground for heretics such as the Cathars—was sought by the Templars as a foothold for establishing a Templar presence. They owed allegiance to the Pope, not to the King of France; the kingdom of France wished not only to gain control of lands in southern France but to promote a crusade against Moorish Spain and drive out the Muslims who had ruled there since the eighth century.
Twelfth-century society in Moorish Spain was a rich mixture of Muslims, Arabised Christians known as Mozarabs, and Jews. The Knights of Solomon’s Temple, or Knights Templar, founded in 1118 AD, was the most respected military order of the time, trusted and admired by both crusaders and Saracens. The rival Order of St John, or Hospitallers, never gained either the reputation or the enormous treasury garnered by the Templars, who served as bankers as well as diplomatic emissaries for both Muslims and Christians.
Southern France exhibited all the panache of the high Middle Ages: troubadours and the concept of courtly love; knights and ladies; tournaments and the code of chivalry; literary and cultural traditions that would be passed on into the Renaissance. Immortalised in songs and stories, it is an age we still relish.
LYNNA BANNING has combined a lifelong love of history and literature into a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she has lived in Northern California most of her life. After graduating from Scripps College she embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher.
An amateur pianist and harpsichordist, Lynna performs on psaltery and harp in a medieval music ensemble and coaches in her spare time. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, or visit Lynna’s website at www.lynnabanning.com
Novels by the same author:
HARK THE HARRIED ANGELS
(part of One Starry Christmas anthology) THE SCOUT HIGH COUNTRY HERO SMOKE RIVER BRIDE
Look for THE LONE SHERIFF
Coming September 2014
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
For my superb agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins.
With grateful thanks to Suzanne Barrett, Tricia Adams, Kathleen Dougherty, Shirley Marcus, Brenda Preston, Joan Powell, Norma Pulle, Dave Woolston and Alicia Rasley.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Afterword
Emirate of Granada, 1167
Reynaud brought his warhorse to a halt and leaned his weary body forwards, scanning the rocky hillside overlooking the River Darro. Below him spread the muddle of flat-roofed houses and open courtyards that made up the Moorish quarter of the city. After twenty years, everything looked smaller than he remembered. He gazed down at the orange groves and almond orchards surrounding the towering stone walls, the whitewashed adobe buildings gleaming in the harsh afternoon sunlight, and felt his gut tighten.
He was home.
He clenched his teeth and deliberately brought his ragged breathing under control. Would he have returned did he not carry a secret message for the Emir Yusef? Perhaps. Granada was the only home he had ever known. But he had long been absent, and God knew he was much changed. Would he be welcomed by the Arab family that had raised him? Would they even recognise him after all these years?
Far below, the muezzin’s thin voice rose in the call to evening prayer. The sun swelled into a bloody orange ball and dipped towards the hills in the west, spreading golden light over the rooftops, and Reynaud’s chest grew tight. How he had loved this city as a boy, loved the exotic, spicy smells wafting from kitchens, the Jews’ crowded bookstalls, the throb and hum of a busy Moorish kingdom. He had even grown to love the muezzin’s chant.
