The Templar Knight, Book One

A Witch Spell

by jangeo Pinkerton

Chapter One

Zarelda

France, New Year's Eve

A century was about to turn. "At midnight, will be the year of our Lord, thirteen hundred," Bret said. Bret de Colville, Scotland’s bravest knight, celebrated the event in Paris with his fellow comrades. The knights, on a secret mission for Robert de Brus, roamed from one French Pothouse to another. “'Tis the last one tonight,” Bret said. “‘Tis too cold to keep wandering.” He stooped to get inside the doorway of the little brick tavern.

“By the eyes of me grandmother—who is that?” one of the knights asked. Bret turned to see a dark haired serving woman. She strutted about the inn as if she owned the place. Her thick hair, dark as night, touched her slender waist.

“Zarelda Sedah,” a nearby drunken seaman answered. “Aye, tis it really yer?” the intoxicated man asked. He squinted his eyes. “’Tis yer! Bret de Colville—the famous warrior knight!”

Bret was not interested in publicity this night, for he was busy keeping an eye on the mysterious woman. Many of the men at the tables reached to touch Bret, on his back. Some even planted a kiss of friendship on his cheek. Bret’s eyes searched the room for the lady.

Then he spotted her.

The lovely woman managed to take Bret’s breathe away. He removed his black cloak, and hung it on a wooden peg near the door. Certainly she is not the type of woman to be seen in an alehouse, for she is much too striking, he thought. She appeared to be goddess-like.

But why then, is this woman going about as a serving wench? Bret wondered.

Until this moment, he had been missing his animals back home, and even his magic sword, QuickSilver. He and the knights were in France on secret assignment, but still he felt empty without his animals, his special sword, and his wizard, Alpin. He missed them, but this woman before him managed to push them out of his mind completely.

Bret’s eyes locked on the perfectly formed woman. She carried a tray of cheese, bread, and ale to a nearby table. Her revealing blue wool gown was decorated in embroidery at the hem and sleeves. When she bent over the men’s table, they praised her, raising their goblets and cups in her honor. And why would they not?

“Praise be to the lady!” the men shouted.

“Praise be to the lady!” Bret raised his ale to the woman, and took a drink. His throat felt warm from the golden liquid. “This woman is a goddess,” he said. He swallowed the last drink, and motioned the serving wench for a refill. Was there such a thing as a goddess? He wondered. The Forest Folk believed it to be true.

His rapid thoughts attacked him again. His mind traveled back to the people living deep in the western forest of his Scottish village, Colville. The Forest Folk worshiped a goddess, and the gods. They were good people, never causing any harm. Bret did not agree with their religion, but he liked them, and visited them often with his friend, Alpin the Wizard. Mayhap their goddess looked like this woman who stood before him now. If so, then no wonder they worshipped a goddess.

Could it be that she is their goddess? He wondered.

“Mayhap walking in skin as a serving wench to hear people exchanging words, and read their minds,” he whispered. Lo, if only the Magick Man were here to tell him about this woman.

What would his life be like with such a beautiful woman? Would he ever have a family of his own with a wife and children? He thought not, for his destiny was to become a Templar Knight, and learn the secrets of the earth and universe. What was it about this woman that troubled him so?

“Bet a mug of ale, I can leave here tonight with the lass?” a young seaman said.

“A bet then,” one of the knights at Bret’s table replied.

Bret looked up from his cup of ale to see the fair maiden stealing glances at him while she served tables. Her wooden clogs made a soft thumb on the floor, as she worked her way closer to him. Now that she was closer, Bret could see she was even more beautiful than he thought. And the way she was tempting all the men made him want to grab her, and take her away from their filthy gawking eyes.

He was jealous!

By Odin, he thought. He knew not the woman, and yet he was jealous. Why was she teasing the men so? Had she no honor? Bret, a young lad of nineteen, guessed this woman to be several years older than himself, and quite experienced in the ways of the world.

“That is no lady—but by Odin, ‘tis not a lady I’m looking for this night,” Bret said. He was not quite drunk yet, even though he had been consuming ale for some time. I should still be able to walk properly, he thought. He pushed his stool back, and moved toward the remarkable maiden. He felt almost in a trance like state, for he found her beauty irresistible.

"What spell is this that a knight such as I cannot help but go to her?" he asked.

This woman was no ordinary woman, she was mystical, and she was dangerous. Bret could feel it. He ran his mighty fingers through his black curly hair. He stepped forward, or should he step backward? “My insight tells me to run, but lo, there is some force working here,” he said.

More powerful than Bret could resist right now, for he was full of ale, and good spirit, and he met to have one terrific night. “A century is about to turn, and by the Viking gods, I intend to celebrate.” He gulped his delicious ale. "By Odin, I love the enticing liquid." But then again, so did his horse, Ajax.

They took ale together many a night, and scores of times after indulging in too much, Ajax still had the good sense to lead the way home, his master barely able to hang on. Bret ordered wine at the serving bar. “Red liquid in your finest goblet.” He threw a coin on the counter, then strolled toward the young woman.

He whispered in her ear. “I’ll bet the Forest Folk would claim you the goddess.” She turned to face him, and smiled. She touched a curl of his hair with her soft hand. Her golden bracelets jingled, mixing in with the loud conversations of the men.

“I am the goddess,” she whispered. “And neither the Forest Folk, nor Alpin the Wizard, have power over me.” Bret raised his goblet in acknowledgement, and nodded his head. He had no doubt this woman spoke the truth. But how does she know Alpin and the Forest Folk? he wondered. People did speak of them in Scotland, but here in France?

The woman touched the scar on the right side of Bret’s face. Her bracelets dangled against his skin, as her finger followed the line of the scar. Then, she placed her ring-covered fingers in his golden loop earring. “You are no seaman,” she said softly. “No seaman could wear such jewelry as this.”

Her magnificent eyes lined in kohl took Bret’s breath away. She touched his scar again. “Is it the devil’s mark?” she asked. Until this moment Bret had forgotten about the battle scar that lined the length of his right cheek. One touch to his face, and the woman was already driving him mad. Never had he seen such a woman. “What of the scar?” he asked. “It matters not, as long as women like you are attracted to me.”

The woman’s brows knitted together. “You appear to be David the king,” she said. “Are you he, born again?”

Bret’s mouth opened slightly, and his eyebrows raised high. “But, how do you know?”

“Know what?” she asked.

“How do you know what King David looked like?” Bret asked. He gazed at the Cleopatra-like woman standing before him.

She was silent for a moment, as if searching for an answer. “From the scriptures of course,” she said tenderly.. .

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c:2004jpinkerton