cavernous receiving hall, brilliantly colored
silk draperies blew from open windows above her head, mingling with the riotous
shades of bougainvillea, snow-white jasmine, and a breathtaking array of
hanging flowers.
There were times when Gabrielle found the opulence of the royal
house romantically enchanting, and others when she found it an oppressive
over-indulgence. Today, she was ambivalent, for part of her was dreading the
evening and part of her was filled with unprecedented anticipation.
When she entered the great reception hall where the meal and
entertainment were to take place, her attention went straight to the large
assembly of white-robed warrior monks. Their current Grand Master, Gérard de
Ridefort, was a particular friend of King Guy. Along with her husband, he had
been primarily instrumental in putting the French nobleman on the throne. It
was even rumored that he had personally chosen the Frenchman for Sibylla and
arranged to have him brought over from his homeland.
Nearby, the contingent of Hospitaller monks, in their
distinctive black and white attire, was taking their seats at the tables set
aside for them. The tables for the two Orders took up one whole side of the
dining area, creating a sea of black and white and brown. But it was not their
habits which set them apart, Gabrielle knew. It was their politics, as well.
And yet one monk, the one she secretly searched for, seemed to walk easily
between the two.
Though she had yet to spot Lucien de Aubric, she knew he would
attend this affair. Or at least, she desperately hoped he would. And was that
not pathetic? Was she so desperate for kindness and consideration that she
would seek the attention of man vowed to a monastic way of life?
Reynald and her father had walked into the hall with her, but
were beginning to move away when an attendant came up to them and directed all
three to the long table in the front of the room that was reserved for the most
favored guests. To her relief, Reynald and Armand were seated to the left,
within two chairs of where King Guy would sit, while Gabrielle was seated to
the right, several down from where Queen Sibylla would sit.
The Templar Grand Master intercepted Reynald as soon as he
approached the royal table. Together they moved down the dais. Gabrielle almost
laughed aloud at their silent challenge to one another as to who was going to
take the seat at the right hand of the king. Her husband finally conceded it to
Master de Ridefort with a small nod of his graying head, but he looked none too
happy about it.
Poor Reynald, she thought as she watched him with silent
amusement. He so wanted to be a king or even a prince again. He had everything
else. More power was the only thing left to attain.
She reluctantly supposed he looked like a king, with his
leonine build and head of thick grey hair. He was two heads taller than her
father and a head taller than Master de Ridefort.
He was well-built in spite of his age, broad and heavily
muscled still,. His size had never boded well for Gabrielle. She shuddered,
remembering only too well how he loved
to intimidate her with it. Damn him, but he did not look close
to the three score years he was. He was as robust as ever, making her wonder,
as she often did, if evil men ever succumbed to ill health.
Disgusted with herself for even thinking about him, she moved
into her seat at the long table that overlooked the entire room. The contingent
of Templars began to take their seats, following their master’s example. As
they did so, Gabrielle finally spotted Lucien de Aubric.
Much to her surprise, he didn’t bother sitting with his
brethren, but walked across the room, straight toward her. After eyeing his
choice of seats, he chose one at a table that had been placed at a right angle
to the table of honor. It put him directly in front of her, only at a slightly
lower level. His friend, the knight she remembered as Brother Conrad, took a
seat next to him. The look on the
silk draperies blew from open windows above her head, mingling with the riotous
shades of bougainvillea, snow-white jasmine, and a breathtaking array of
hanging flowers.
There were times when Gabrielle found the opulence of the royal
house romantically enchanting, and others when she found it an oppressive
over-indulgence. Today, she was ambivalent, for part of her was dreading the
evening and part of her was filled with unprecedented anticipation.
When she entered the great reception hall where the meal and
entertainment were to take place, her attention went straight to the large
assembly of white-robed warrior monks. Their current Grand Master, Gérard de
Ridefort, was a particular friend of King Guy. Along with her husband, he had
been primarily instrumental in putting the French nobleman on the throne. It
was even rumored that he had personally chosen the Frenchman for Sibylla and
arranged to have him brought over from his homeland.
Nearby, the contingent of Hospitaller monks, in their
distinctive black and white attire, was taking their seats at the tables set
aside for them. The tables for the two Orders took up one whole side of the
dining area, creating a sea of black and white and brown. But it was not their
habits which set them apart, Gabrielle knew. It was their politics, as well.
And yet one monk, the one she secretly searched for, seemed to walk easily
between the two.
Though she had yet to spot Lucien de Aubric, she knew he would
attend this affair. Or at least, she desperately hoped he would. And was that
not pathetic? Was she so desperate for kindness and consideration that she
would seek the attention of man vowed to a monastic way of life?
Reynald and her father had walked into the hall with her, but
were beginning to move away when an attendant came up to them and directed all
three to the long table in the front of the room that was reserved for the most
favored guests. To her relief, Reynald and Armand were seated to the left,
within two chairs of where King Guy would sit, while Gabrielle was seated to
the right, several down from where Queen Sibylla would sit.
The Templar Grand Master intercepted Reynald as soon as he
approached the royal table. Together they moved down the dais. Gabrielle almost
laughed aloud at their silent challenge to one another as to who was going to
take the seat at the right hand of the king. Her husband finally conceded it to
Master de Ridefort with a small nod of his graying head, but he looked none too
happy about it.
Poor Reynald, she thought as she watched him with silent
amusement. He so wanted to be a king or even a prince again. He had everything
else. More power was the only thing left to attain.
She reluctantly supposed he looked like a king, with his
leonine build and head of thick grey hair. He was two heads taller than her
father and a head taller than Master de Ridefort.
He was well-built in spite of his age, broad and heavily
muscled still,. His size had never boded well for Gabrielle. She shuddered,
remembering only too well how he loved
to intimidate her with it. Damn him, but he did not look close
to the three score years he was. He was as robust as ever, making her wonder,
as she often did, if evil men ever succumbed to ill health.
Disgusted with herself for even thinking about him, she moved
into her seat at the long table that overlooked the entire room. The contingent
of Templars began to take their seats, following their master’s example. As
they did so, Gabrielle finally spotted Lucien de Aubric.
Much to her surprise, he didn’t bother sitting with his
brethren, but walked across the room, straight toward her. After eyeing his
choice of seats, he chose one at a table that had been placed at a right angle
to the table of honor. It put him directly in front of her, only at a slightly
lower level. His friend, the knight she remembered as Brother Conrad, took a
seat next to him. The look on the
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