The young man nodded. “I am Sir Reginald Sinclair, my lord, and I wish to know if it is true, as we have heard, that you were a Templar Knight of the inner circle—and that you were arrested by the Inquisition in France, under the charge of heresy.”
Damien had known this would likely come up, but it nevertheless unleashed a fierce aching, as the vivid and painful memories suddenly reared up from the abyss inside him. Reginald seemed sincere in his asking, however, so Damien resolved to do his best to address the lad’s question.
He nodded. “What you have heard about my service with the Templars is true.” His jaw clenched tight. “And in answer to your second question—yes, I was brought into captivity and interrogated by the Inquisition in France late last year, during the mass arrests.”
“We are not fools,my lord,” Gareth broke in again in a scoffing tone, clearly still not mollified in any way. “Word has reached us that thousands of Templar Brethren arrested in France have already confessed to heretical practices under the very questioning you mentioned. If you were indeed a Templar in that place at that time, how is it that your outcome was so different?”
A charged hush spread over the yard in the wake of Gareth’s thinly veiled accusation of deceit on the part of their new lord, the area ringing with the silence of all that had not been said. Damien felt his fists clench and found himself needing to call on his inner resolve to keep from striding over to the wretch here and now and rewarding his insolence in a way he would have no difficulty understanding.
“I did not confess under interrogation, Sir Gareth,” Damien finally ground out, “because I was not guilty of heresy.”
“So you say,” the knight muttered. His eyes flashed with righteous fire, and Damien was reminded of himself, those many years ago, when the world had been cast in shades of black and white, with little, if any, gray.
“The fact that Sir Damien is standing here before you should provide some assurance to his innocence in the matter,” Ben offered smoothly, attempting to diffuse the rising tensions, and again, Damien found himself glancing to his friend in surprise. Ben’s own morals would not allow him to lie outright, Damien knew, but he wasn’t exactly being truthful about the way things had transpired with Damien’s rescue from the Inquisition, either.
“That proves only that he takes breath upon the earth like the rest of us,” Gareth countered, shifting that fiery gaze to Ben. “We have naught but your saying so to convince us of anything. It is common knowledge that every Templar in France was taken into custody in October of last year, to be questioned by a branch of the Inquisition notorious for the severity of its interrogations—yet here Sir Damien stands before us, hale and hearty.”
Gareth’s face tightened as if he knew how closely he was treading on the edge of disaster, but apparently he found himself unable to cease, by reason of his own pride. Lifting his chin in defiance, he swallowed hard and added in a quiet, but damning, blow, “I say I am not alone among the men of this garrison in thinking we have been fed a great lie. We do not believe that Sir Damien wasevera knight of the Brotherhood’s inner circle—or that he was interrogated in France. Nay, more like he is a common soldier as any of us are, only one who somehow managed to coerce our lady into a union, with the sole purpose of gaining control of her vast wealth and estates.”
There it was. The accusation that was behind all of the sidelong looks, grumbling, and antagonism he had felt in various forms since his arrival here.
All the muscles in Damien’s body tightened. He had hoped to avoid the kind of visceral, violent confrontation this was going to require, but it was clear now that it had to be done if he had any hope of leading these men and commanding their respect and loyalty for the six months he would need to count on them, while he served out the agreement he had made with Alissende.
Gesturing for the men to widen their positions into a half circle, Damien began to loosen his shirt, taking a few steps back away from the group, though never altering the steeliness of his gaze on Gareth as he said, “If you think that I will sully Lady Alissende by discussing any aspect of my union with her, then you are sadly mistaken. However, I possess no similar qualm in addressing your complaint about the truth of myexperiencewith the Inquisition”—he felt his mouth twist in bitterness with the utterance—“or my service as a Templar Knight of the inner circle.”
By this time he had freed his shirt from his breeches and unlaced it at the neck as well. Now he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside, standing before them all with his entire upper body revealed to their gazes. They could not help but see the scars—of burns, lash marks, and other wounds—that spread across his torso, ribs, and back.
It was not easy to look upon. He knew that and had come to terms with the difficult reality, accepting the fact that the fair-haired warrior, the physically imposing, flawless youth he had been once, was gone forever. He was still undeniably tall and strong, as skilled and powerful of muscle and bone as ever before. Clothed, none would know the difference between the man he had been then and what he had become after living through that hell.
But he knew—and now these men did as well.
“This,” he said, still without breaking his gaze on Gareth, “should allay any doubt that I was in the hands of the French Inquisition. As you can see, I wasquestionedby them most thoroughly.”
“And this”—he unsheathed his sword with a hissing, metallic sound—“should help to resolve any remaining doubt about the position I held as a Templar Knight, or my ability to lead this garrison.” He gave Gareth a tight half smile, cocking his brow as he inclined his head and added, “That is, if you’re willing to test the fact in a one-to-one sparring match with me. Here and now.”
Gareth paused for a long moment, the cracking in his voice when he spoke belying the outward composure he was plainly trying so hard to sustain. “What then—do you intend to fight without any armor or even mail for protection?”
“I need none. My sword and shield will suffice.”
Damien saw Gareth’s sudden paleness, took in his astonished expression, and added in a mocking lilt, “Come man, and let us begin. I vow before your captain and the rest of these men that I absolve you of any injury you may be fortunate enough to inflict upon me, if that is the worry holding you up from engaging your blade with mine.”
“Have a care, Damien,” Ben murmured from behind, as they waited for Gareth’s answer. “I would not take pleasure in stitching you again, when an injury could so easily be avoided with a bit less flair and a bit more caution.”
“Never fear, friend. I know my limits,” Damien muttered in return, low enough that none other could hear the exchange between himself and Ben.
More loudly he called again toward the group of men, “Well, Sir Gareth, what say you? I give my word to make this an exhibition only, for though your impudence has earned far worse, I am not of that ilk of castle lords who demand vengeance through the blood of their minions.”
He nodded, giving Gareth a sarcastic smile again, doing his best to prick at the man’s pride in the hopes of eliciting some action from him. “Nay, indeed, it is to your good fortune this day that Iamborn of common stock, else I might decide to make a greater mockery of you than you have made of yourself already, with your cowardly hesitation.”
That was enough, finally, to shake Gareth from his indecision. With a growl he strode up the impromptu path of men, toward Damien, unsheathing his weapon as he came.
Damien was ready for him.
He met the first, overhead blow easily enough, countering with a hard, swinging strike from the side. Gareth fended him off for a moment, but he wasn’t practiced enough to see the next strike coming—a quick feint to the opposite side that shifted at the last moment to a jabbing thrust. The move slid Damien’s blade along Gareth’s until they clanked to a stop, hilts interlocked. Damien stood chest-to-chest with his opponent, the old, familiar battle heat filling him to make the effort to hold firm against him seem almost insignificant. Only another two moves and he would be able to hook Gareth’s blade and hurl it from his grip.
He stepped forward, putting his foot between Gareth’s own and shifting his weight in preparation. Just one more move, now…
Suddenly, a flash of deep, blood red against black drew Damien’s attention to the edge of the yard. A shock went through him. It was Alissende. She had come outside, accompanied by Father Michael, and it was the priest’s long, dark robes that had accentuated her ruby-hued gown so dramatically. Standing in silence, she watched their sparring match with an expression of combined surprise and worry shadowing her beautiful eyes.
