The Templar Detective and the Unholy Exorcist Read online

  He had found another lost soul, another example of the Devil’s work.

  He held up a hand, and the demon’s coachman brought her carriage to a halt. She leaned farther out the window, hurling insults at him, sputtering and cursing in the language known only to the possessed, but Mercier ignored it, for he had heard it all before, and he would hear it again, probably before the day was through.

  He reached under his vestments and withdrew the wooden cross given to him by his mother years ago, before she had been lost to him. She too had been an uncommonly beautiful woman, though his memories of her were fading with time, as he was young when she had been taken. Like those behind him, like the creature in front of him, his mother had been possessed by evil, as so many young beautiful women were, the voices she claimed were in her head telling her to do unspeakable things.

  His father had been forced to take action, to take her to the local priest, yet despite his best efforts to rid her of the evil that possessed her, she had succumbed, her soul in the end saved through her passing, though condemned in Purgatory for the sins the flesh had committed.

  He had stood in the corner, sobbing unnoticed as the demon possessing his mother had fought the incantations, fought the holy water, fought the symbols of the Church, all the while writhing and snarling against those who would restrain her. It was something he now knew no child should have witnessed, yet he had, and there was no unseeing the evil present that day.

  And it had changed him.

  He had decided his future lay in the priesthood, so he could save the souls of these poor, cursed women, so no other child would suffer the loss he had. Through the good Lord, he would use His divine power to rid these women, condemned from the moment of birth with their beauty, beauty that could be used to tempt good men into unholy acts.

  For it was their beauty, sculpted by Satan himself, that the demons possessing them would use to their own ends to threaten God’s dominion over man, to further the foothold of evil that one day might overwhelm the forces of good.

  He had vowed that day, the day his mother had died, to save every woman he could. And here, today, he had found yet another.

  His constant companion confirmed what he already knew. “She’s one of them. We must save her.”

  “I know. But she has a guard. They won’t believe me.”

  “They often don’t, yet you always succeed.”

  Mercier sighed, smiling sadly at the coachman and his companion. He didn’t blame them. They weren’t at fault. It was rare that those living with the possessed could recognize the evil in their souls. While he saw the snarling beasts for what they were, those around them only saw the beauty.

  It led the innocent to do the bidding of the evil in their midst.

  The demon’s chaperone appeared in the window, a plain woman, clearly not afflicted as her charge was. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I am Father Mercier. I must ask your mistress to come with me.”

  The escort expressed surprise, but the demon merely stared at him, her glowing eyes and her curled mouth in constant motion as it assessed the situation.

  He returned the stare, the pity he felt written on his face for the lost soul beneath the hate, pity the demon was having nothing of, more of Satan’s vile tongue erupting from her. He sighed, reciting a brief prayer for strength. “I’m sorry, my child, but your suffering will soon be over.”

  He raised a hand then dropped it, signaling his escort to take her. And as the monks surged forward, their swords drawn, he closed his eyes and prayed for the souls of those who would be slain here today. For their deaths would not be in vain. This child would be saved, her soul cleansed, and she would be returned to her family the pure vessel God had always meant her to be.

  3

  De Rancourt Residence

  Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  One week later

  Isabelle Leblanc wasn’t sure why she felt so comfortable with Lady Joanne de Rohan. Perhaps it was that the woman treated her as an equal, though in an often paternalistic way, the age gap significant. But Isabelle didn’t mind. The woman was very wise, far better educated than anyone she had ever met, and had such interesting stories about life in Paris as part of the ruling class.

  Of course, that was all over for the poor woman now. She had lost everything in a scandal that had rocked the King’s Court, and now lived on the farm owned by Sir Marcus de Rancourt, a farm that was quickly becoming a safe haven for wayward souls. The Templar Knight had inherited the farm when his sister had died last year, and he had reluctantly agreed to remain and raise her orphaned son and daughter rather than return to the Holy Land. His loyal sergeant, Simon Chastain, and his squires, David and Jeremy, had also pledged to remain with their master and friend.

  And in less than a year, another orphaned boy now lived here, along with Lady Joanne and her chambermaid, Beatrice.

  It was a lively farm now, and a place she felt comfortable. When Marcus’ sister, Nicoline, had passed, preceded several years before by her husband, Sir Henri de Foix, a nearly destitute man with royal lineage, Isabelle and her mother had taken care of the farm and the children until Sir Marcus could return. She had been happy to do it, for she had grand expectations for his arrival.

  She intended to marry him.

  She had been in love with him for years, though she had never met him. All she knew were the stories Nicoline had shared with her about her gallant brother, the Templar Knight, a man his own sister hadn’t seen in two decades. And when he had arrived, he was everything she had imagined and more. Incredibly handsome, strong, brave.

  And celibate.

  He and his men had been granted special dispensation to remain members of the Order, the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, so long as they maintained their vows.

  He had never expressed any interest in her, and it had frustrated her to no end. It had meant that she’d have to find someone to marry other than the man that had merely been a young girl’s fantasy.

  Then Thomas Durant had arrived.

  And she had fallen madly in love.

  “Where are you, child?”

  Isabelle flinched then looked at Lady Joanne. “Excuse me?”

  “Where are you? You’re definitely not here.”

  Isabelle flushed. “Sorry, I was thinking of something.”

  Beatrice snickered as her needle and thread rapidly worked its magic on a torn shirt belonging to one of the children. “Young Thomas, I bet!”

  Isabelle’s cheeks burned.

  Joanne smiled at her from behind her cup of hot tisane. “You two have been exchanging quite a few letters.”

  Now her ears were afire.

  “Your reading and writing have improved dramatically since I’ve been here.”

  Beatrice snorted. “Nothing like the love of a good man to make one try new things.”

  “Beatrice!” cried Joanne, smacking her chambermaid’s shoulder. “The children are in the next room.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “Nothing they won’t hear soon enough.”

  Joanne shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Which I believe is why you keep me around.”

  Joanne patted her companion, once her servant, now her equal. “You do keep me sane.” She turned to Isabelle. “I suppose your mother has been pressuring you to find a husband, now that this nonsense with Sir Marcus is finished with?”

  Isabelle flushed even more, if that were possible. How could the woman possibly have known about her irrational obsession with the man? “How—”

  “How did I know?” Joanne regarded her with a look of pity. “My poor girl, everyone knows.”

  She gulped. “And Sir Marcus? Does he know?”

  “With the amount of teasing he gets from his men, I’d say so.”

  Isabelle’s shoulders slumped. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  Joanne leaned over and gave her forearm a squeeze. “Think nothing of it, young one. Al
l young girls have crushes, it’s part of being a girl. Why, you wouldn’t believe some of the boys—and men—I had feelings for, certain I would be marrying them as soon as I was of age. Instead, I ended up marrying—”

  “A bastard.”

  Joanne chuckled at Beatrice. “Yes, in the end. But we did have some good days before he did what he did.” She returned her attention to Isabelle. “So, Thomas Durant. Does your mother approve?”

  Isabelle snorted. “Not at all! Mother wants me to have nothing to do with him.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “She’s heard about his vocation, and his father’s.”

  Joanne frowned. “That’s unfortunate, though a boy should never be blamed for the sins of his father.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell her, but once she found out who he’s now working for, she won’t listen.” Isabelle sighed. “And I understand. I hate what Thomas does.”

  Joanne put down her empty cup, Beatrice refilling it before her former mistress could, a servant’s old habits hard to break. “It is unfortunate that he’s working for such a horrid woman, but he had little choice. He was starving to death, from what I heard. If it weren’t for that job, he wouldn’t have survived the winter.”

  “He could have come here. Sir Marcus did offer him the choice.”

  “Abandoning one’s home is difficult.” Joanne frowned. “Trust me, if anyone knows, I do.” She forced a smile. “He’ll come around. In time, he’ll want to marry you, and make a life here with you.”

  “Not if my mother has anything to say about it. Can you believe she wants me to marry Garnier?”

  Beatrice roared with laughter. “Garnier? That awkward one who lives on the other side of the village?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Yes!”

  Beatrice placed her work in her lap rather than risk puncturing herself as she continued to laugh. “Oh, he’s a fine one, that one is.”

  Isabelle felt a little guilty. “He’s nice. I mean, he’s always been nice to me.”

  “Of course he is, lass, have you seen yourself? You’re the prettiest thing in this village.” Beatrice leaned forward. “There’s not a man or boy within a day’s ride who wouldn’t give his right hand to be with you.”

  Isabelle blushed again. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Beatrice elbowed Joanne. “I’m sure she does!”

  Joanne shook her head at her chambermaid with a frown. “You’re terrible. Things aren’t like the city, here.” She turned to Isabelle. “Ignore her. I’m sure Garnier is a fine young man.”

  “He is.”

  “But he’s no Thomas, am I right?”

  Isabelle shrugged.

  “Tell me why you like him so much.”

  Isabelle smiled as a warmth spread through her entire body, a tingling emerging that threatened to become embarrassingly personal. “He excites me like no one else ever has.”

  “Even our handsome Templar Knight?” asked Beatrice with a wink.

  “Yes, even him.” She sighed. “You’re right, that was a foolish girl’s fantasy, fed by his sister’s constant talking of how great a man he was, when she didn’t even really know him.”

  Joanne wagged a finger. “A sister knows her brother.”

  “Not when she hasn’t seen him in over twenty years, and rarely wrote her back.”

  “That may be, but was she so wrong in her impression of him?”

  Isabelle frowned. “No, I suppose not. He is brave and caring, and truly a good man.”

  Beatrice cleared her throat. “Not to mention the fact he fills out a pair of pants quite nicely.”

  “Beatrice!” cried Joanne before bursting into laughter. “You really are terrible!”

  Isabelle tried to stifle her own laughter. “He is handsome, there’s no doubt of that, and he would make a fine husband and provider for any children we might be blessed with, but he has made his feelings clear. He intends to maintain his vows.”

  Beatrice grunted. “Celibacy! What a boring way to live!”

  More laughter erupted from the older ladies.

  Joanne stopped first. “The life of a Templar Knight is a simple one. Nothing to excess, and so much denied. All in exchange to serve your Lord, and gain entry into the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  Beatrice picked up her needle once again. “A worthy goal. But to deny oneself all the wonders that the good Lord above has provided for his flock?”

  Joanne shrugged. “Some would say that these wonders are the work of the Devil, and that the Templars will be rewarded for recognizing that.”

  Isabelle stared at the older woman, a woman she respected tremendously. “Do you really think that things like love, and the joys of marriage, are things that the Lord would deny us?”

  “If that were true, why’d he make them feel so good?” cackled Beatrice, Joanne smiling.

  “Child, you’re still young. Find yourself the right man, marry him, bear him a bunch of children and raise them right, and you’ll be just as welcome in Heaven as any Templar, I assure you.”

  Isabelle nodded slowly, then shrugged. “I’ve never really concerned myself with such things. I go to church, try to obey the Commandments as best I can, and live a good life. What more could the Lord ask?”

  Joanne smiled. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Beatrice agreed, then added her usual slant. “But why shouldn’t that good life be with a looker, hey? If not Sir Marcus, then your young Thomas I think will fit the bill. He’s got a tasty little narrow ass on him!” She roared with laughter, Joanne turning red before joining in, as Isabelle blushed then giggled.

  Joanne regained control first. “Whomever you choose, just don’t settle for someone you don’t love. I made that mistake, and look what it cost me. My husband has been executed, I’ve lost my family, my title, and now here I live as humbly as my once servant”—she patted Beatrice on the knee—“because I chose poorly.”

  Isabelle’s heart ached for the woman. “Is it really that bad? I mean, life here, living like we do?”

  Joanne sighed. “To be honest, at first, yes. But now, after so many months have passed, I find I’m quite content in this new life.”

  “Would you prefer the old?”

  Joanne frowned. “Some days I think yes, but most, no. My responsibilities here are much simpler. Keep the men fed and in clean clothes and bedding, keep them washed every once in a while”—Isabelle snickered—“and tend to those beautiful children. I no longer have to worry about impressing the high society of Paris, deal with their snobbery, or bother with the Court and the miscreants it attracts. Here, everyone is equal, with the same problems, and the same responsibilities.” She glanced about the humble home. “And I dare say we have it better than most. With four healthy, strong men to do much of the work, and a small legacy left by my cousin to provide a slightly finer home”—Isabelle glanced at the actual glass in the windows with some envy—“life here is fairly comfortable.” Joanne smiled at the others. “And I have such good friends here that I can talk to frankly and honestly. That is something I never truly had back in Paris.” She smiled at Isabelle. “You must marry the man you love, the man who will be your partner and confidante in this hard life. Only then will you truly be happy.”

  Isabelle frowned. Everything said was true, and in a perfect world, she’d follow the advice without hesitation. But there was one roadblock. “But what of Mother? She still insists I marry Garnier!”

  “Have Thomas prove to her that he loves you, and that he can provide for you, and in time, she’ll come to realize that, and give him her blessing.”

  “I fear she won’t, at least not until he changes his line of work.”

  Beatrice grunted. “You shouldn’t have told her that.”

  Isabelle’s eyes shot wide. “I had to! She’s my mother!”

  “Mothers shouldn’t know all the secrets their daughters possess.”

  Joanne apparently agreed. “You must make it clear to your mother that this Garnier
boy is not in your future, so that she can stop pestering you with it, and stop leading the poor boy on.”

  Isabelle sighed. “If only he weren’t so awkward, I would probably have been happy marrying him. But he’s just so embarrassing to be around.”

  A sound at the window had them all leaping to their feet, Tanya, their large mastiff, curled up by the fire, rushing for the door. Isabelle grabbed her by the scruff of the neck as she opened it. Her heart sank as she gasped at the sight of poor Garnier running away, the boy glancing back over his shoulder, his eyes red, his cheeks stained with tears.

  He had heard everything they had said about him.

  “Garnier! Please come back!”

  But he didn’t, instead leaning into his escape from their horrid barbs at his expense. She traced his footsteps in the snow back to the window to the left side of the house, and her shoulders slumped. A bundle of dried flowers lay on the ground, flowers she found on her doorstep at home every week, fresh when in season, and lovingly preserved when not.

  “What have I done?” she sobbed as she stared after the poor boy.

  “You’ve done nothing, my dear,” said Joanne, now at her side. “But I’m afraid I have. I never should have said such things about him, or let such things be said.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “You couldn’t have known he was listening.”

  Joanne put an arm over her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. Things like that should never be said, even when believed to be out of earshot.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “I fear there’s nothing much you can do. His heart is broken, and only time or a new love can heal it. Let us hope, however, that this puts an end to his interest in you, so everyone can move on.”

  “I should talk to him.”

  “Absolutely not! It will only hurt him more, because he now knows how you feel. Let him heal in his own way, then when the time is right, you’ll encounter him again, you’ll tell him you miss his friendship, and that you hope things can go back to the way they were when you were young. Perhaps that will allow you both to move on and save him from the embarrassment he now feels.”