Casting Samson (13 page)

“Madam, do not tempt me!”

“Is it so wrong?”

He gripped her fingers, looking steadily into her eyes. “Madam, I have taken a vow of chastity.”

“But I have not!” The green eyes were swimming with tears. “Does God not allow you to give me that solace no longer granted to me in the marriage bed?”

Hugo rose and walked away from her. “To do so would condemn us both, lady.”

She ran to him, throwing herself on to his chest. “I don’t care!”

“But you will, madam, in time. Believe me.” He felt the sobs racking her body and he put his arms around her, holding her until she grew quiet. Then, gently he put her away from him, using his sleeve to wipe the tears from her face. He said quietly, “Madam, you have offered me a gift beyond price. A temptation such as I have not known since I came to this land, but to succumb to it would be to break my vows. To my Order, to God, to…another.”

The silence between them stretched into an eternity. He met her questioning gaze with his own unwavering look until at last she sighed and nodded.

“Sir. Forgive my weakness. I—I had no right to behave thus.” She drew herself up and forced herself to look at him, saying with a gentle dignity, “I will bid you good night, my lord, and I will take our leave of you in the morning.”

“Of course, madam. Thank you. Lady Agnes?”

She stopped at the door and turned.

“When the time comes to make your journey to France, contact the Templar Commander here in Acre. He will ensure you have a reliable escort from the Holy Land.”

“Thank you. Good night, and God go with you.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I will buy a candle for you, and offer up a prayer. Mayhap God will be merciful and allow you to return to England to end your days.”

Deborah was handing out the last coffees of the evening when she heard the door open. Looking round she saw Josh entering, the collar of his leather coat turned up against the rain.

“…and could I have the bill, please.”

“Of course.” She turned away from the table, smiling at Josh as she passed him. He followed her to the little desk at the back of the restaurant.

“I just came to see if everything is okay. You weren’t at the rehearsal tonight.” His wet hair glistened darkly in the subdued glow of the restaurant lamps.

“No. Dad had a party booking and Susie rang in sick, so I thought I should stay and give him a hand. Anyway, all the costumes are done now, except for a little finishing off, which Anne and I can do anytime.” She went over her figures on the notepad before writing in the total. “Excuse me, I’d better give them their bill.” She cast a quick shy glance at Josh. “If you want to help yourself to a coffee, I’ll join you as soon as I’ve dealt with this.”

When she returned, he was sitting at a small table, two cups of coffee in front of him. He pushed one towards her as she sat down.

“Thanks, Josh. It’s been a busy night.”

“Is that usual for a Wednesday? The Towers is fairly quiet midweek, which was a blessing tonight. Michel the chef has been sick and I’ve been covering for him. Luckily we only had a couple of diners in tonight, and they finished early so I could get to the rehearsal. If we’d been busy I’d have had to miss it too.”

“We’re quite busy every night. But it’s a different clientele to the Towers. Most of the locals only go there for special occasions. Except perhaps Alan Thorpe. He can afford to eat there every night, but then he owns it.”

Josh was studying the menu printed on a folded, laminated card. She sipped her coffee, content to watch him, noting the long, lean fingers that held the menu, the dark lashes fringing those chocolate-coloured eyes, and the wide, mobile mouth that hovered continuously on the verge of a smile.

She gave herself a mental shake and forced herself to speak. “We offer pretty basic stuff, but everything’s fresh, and freshly cooked.”

“I remember you telling me.”

Her heart turned over as she remembered that first conversation and the kiss that followed it.

“But does it pay? I mean, can you live on it or is it just a secondary income? Sorry. I didn’t mean to fire questions at you.”

“No, that’s okay. We get by. There’s Susie and another student to pay—they work alternate evenings, but Dad and Mum used to do everything else. That’s why I came back, to help out when Mum couldn’t cope.”

No need to say it coincided with her need to get out of London, to find a refuge.

The diners were preparing to leave. They settled their bill and after they left Deborah bolted the door behind them and turned off the lights in the window. She glanced at the clock. “Ten-thirty. That’s not too bad.”

“Shall I pour you another coffee?”

“Thanks, but I should go and see if Dad wants a hand clearing up—”

Even as she spoke, Stan Kemerton appeared from the kitchen. “No need, love. All done. Hello, son. Is there some coffee left? I could murder a cup!” With a sigh he took a seat beside his daughter at the small table. “So, Josh. How was the rehearsal? Not that I can see you’ve much to rehearse, really.”

“Well, perhaps not me personally, but with so many different sections, everyone needs to know where they are and what order we have to perform our little pieces when we get to the green. It’s going okay, I suppose. Kids are a bit rowdy.”

“Still, they’ll be fine on the day. They always are. And how’s the job at the Towers, settled in now?”

“It’s great, thanks. French chef, though. Bit temperamental and lots of foreign dishes on the menu. I was telling Deborah he’s been sick this week so I’ve had to cover for him.”

“Like good British cooking, do you?” Stan grinned and winked at Deborah. “Man after my own heart.”

“Yeah, well.” Josh gave a wry smile. “If it was my place I’d do more local dishes, experiment a bit. There’s such a lot of good, fresh stuff around here, what with the market gardens and the fishing, it could be a great marketing tool—” He broke off, flushing. “But you know all that anyway. Sorry, once I get on my hobbyhorse I get carried away. I’d better be going. Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome, lad. See him out, Debs, would you, love? Then you can lock up for the night.”

Josh paused at the door. “Look, I’m still having a bit of trouble with my lines. I don’t suppose you’d meet me, would you? Tomorrow? Just to run through it again.”

“I’d like to, but I won’t be finished here until two-thirty…”

“That would be fine. Can you come to the garret? It really would help me.”

With his liquid brown eyes fixed on her, Deborah found herself nodding.

“Well, okay. I’ll be there as soon after three as I can.”

The anxious look was dispelled by a grin. “Fantastic! Thanks. I’ll see you there.”

Pausing only to pull up his collar, Josh lounged out into the rainy night, jumping aside just in time to miss the spray sent up by Alan Thorpe’s big four-wheel drive as it sped past.

The Land Cruiser drew up at Anne’s front gate and she unfastened her seat belt.

“Thanks for the meal, Alan. That was very kind of you.”

“Least I could do, since you’re putting in all this research about the church for us.”

She laughed. “I hope I didn’t bore you too much, going on about the Middle Ages and Crusades and everything. But you did say that was the reason for going out to dinner.”

“Yes, it was, although I like to think I don’t need a reason to ask you out. We’ve been friends for a long time now, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have, Alan, so I know you won’t take offence if I don’t ask you in for coffee. It’s been a very long day.”

“No problem.” He patted her hand. “Good night, Anne.”

She smiled to herself as she watched him drive away. Poor Alan, his eyes had glazed over almost as soon as she started to tell him of her researches. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t share her interest in history—talk to him about property prices or estimates for the church’s new heating system and he became quite animated.

The telephone was ringing as Anne opened her front door. “Hello?”

“Anne? Toby Duggan. Sorry it’s so late to ring you—I tried earlier…”

She looked at her watch. Eleven-thirty. Was the man mad? “It is certainly late!”

“Well, I won’t keep you long.” His tone was cheerful and not at all apologetic. “I wondered, that is, I thought that perhaps you might like to come and look through the papers here at the university library.”

She sank down on a chair.

“You ring me at nearly midnight to ask me that?”

“I remembered you said you were working on Friday, that’s why I wanted to speak to you tonight. I can arrange it for you, if you would like to come tomorrow.”

“University library—me? But…why? Why should you want to do this?”

“Because we have here the most extensive records for the area, and who knows, you might turn up something germane to our investigations.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

His exasperation travelled through the telephone.

“My good wo—Anne, I am an historian. I want to know the truth, whatever it may be. If you were to prove your theories about St. John’s being at one time a Templar church I should be as delighted as you. Now, what do you say?”

“Well, thank you. Yes. Yes, I would like to come.”

“Good. The sooner the better of course, so
can
you come tomorrow?”

“Y-yes, I suppose so…”

“Tomorrow it is then. Come about nine-thirty. You’ll want the best part of the day here of course.”

“Of course.” Anne was too dazed to argue.

The university library was just as Toby Duggan had described it, a large redbrick Edwardian edifice with a very ugly stone portico over the main doors. He was standing at the entrance ready to meet her as she came up the steps.

“I saw you across the car park.” He held out his hand. “It’s good to see you again. Come along in. I’ve already pulled out several books that might be of interest. Don’t worry if your Latin’s a bit rusty, we have translations…”

The morning sped by in a pleasant daze for Anne. Ancient manuscripts and documents passed before her eyes while the professor willingly elaborated on the more obscure texts. There was a copy of the passage from the Domesday Book, showing that the land then belonged to a Simon de Moreton, but although there were details of several farms and houses, there was no mention of a church.

“That would seem to corroborate what we thought, that the church came later,” Anne murmured.

“Yes, but there is evidence that the recorders of the Domesday Book didn’t always include churches in their records. There’s a fascinating little snippet here.” Professor Duggan pulled forward an old book and opened it to a page he’d previously marked. “There is an early record of the Knights Templar in England. Very rare, because as you know, most of the records were destroyed when the Templars were disbanded. But this document gives a list of knights who left England in 1173 to go to the Holy Land. It does actually mention a Hugh de Moreton.”

He held up his hand as Anne was about to speak. “Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t help your case—the earliest evidence for St. John’s church is early fourteenth century, is it not? This Hugh was an adult more than a century before that. If we read on in this document, it is in fact a memorial to these knights, because they all perished in the Holy Land in 1187, at a place called the Horns of Hattin. The King of Jerusalem was marching to relieve one of the Christian cities when his army was annihilated by Saladin, caught in a desert trap. Saladin took the king a prisoner, but the text is quite specific. All the Knights Templar were executed on the spot. This is corroborated by the reports of the Archbishop of Tyre, Joscius—in this section, here, you see.”

“Oh, how dreadful.”

The Professor shrugged. “They were formidable warriors. The Muslims feared them more than any other Crusaders.”

“But it
is
possible that this Hugh de Moreton is the connection with our village, possibly an ancestor of the Hugh whose statue is in the church…”

“Now, before you get carried away, I think you should remember the survey of Templar property in England that was carried out in 1185. Moreton-by-Fleetwater is
not
included. So even if this Hugh is from your village, he did not build a Templar church there.” He smiled at her downcast face. “Sorry to disappoint you. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Um—I hope I’m not too early?” Deborah arrived at the garret at a few minutes past three. She looked at Josh standing in the doorway wearing tight denims and a loose white cotton shirt that emphasised his tanned skin.

“No, great. Come in.” He’d answered her knock almost immediately, and he led her into a large, airy attic room with a steeply pitched roof that was painted white between the bleached wooden beams. The huge arched windows set in each gable flooded the room with light, which fell on the brightly coloured rugs scattered over the floor and bounced off the big scarlet sofa that filled the centre of the room. A large black cat was stretched out on one of the rugs, basking in a pool of sunlight.

“Well, now you’ve actually dared to come inside, what do you think of it?”

He was watching her, a faint smile in his eyes.

“It’s great. Much bigger than I imagined. I thought it would be more like a bedsit.”

He laughed.

“So did I.” He pointed to the door. “The bedroom’s through there, and the bathroom and kitchen. Go and have a look.”

She flushed, suddenly shy. “No, that’s okay. Besides, Demelza might not like it.”

“Oh, she won’t mind. D’you want a coffee?”

“Do you have any tea?”

“Uh-huh. It won’t be long, the kettle’s just boiled. Take a seat.” He disappeared into the kitchen and Deborah sank down into the sofa. It was old and worn but surprisingly comfortable. She could imagine curling up on it on long winter evenings. Something rubbed against her legs and she looked down to find the black cat purring round her ankles.

“Hello, cat.” As she spoke, the animal jumped up on her lap and settled down, purring loudly.

“You’re favoured, she doesn’t take to everyone.” Josh returned, carrying two mugs which he put down on top of the newspapers that were scattered over the low table. “Hope you like cats, because she won’t leave you alone now.”

“Yes, I do. I wanted one in London, but it wouldn’t have been right, keeping a kitten in a flat.” Bernard had refused to let her keep the stray that had adopted them. Too unhygienic, he’d argued. Looking back, she thought that if it had been a silky Persian, or an aristocratic Siamese, he might have kept it, but a common moggy didn’t suit his image. She smiled to herself as she smoothed the furry body on her lap, feeling its purr of pleasure under her hand.

Josh handed her his lines and they got down to business. It didn’t take long, and after they’d gone through them a couple of times, Deborah declared Josh word-perfect. She didn’t hesitate when he offered her more tea.

Josh refilled the mugs and sat back down at the other end of the sofa, watching her. “Any more thoughts on what you’re going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long are you going to continue helping your Dad with the restaurant?”

She shrugged. “For a bit, while he needs me.”

“What can you do, besides waiting at tables?”

“I can do the whole lot, if I have to, but my cooking’s not as good as Dad’s. And I can run an office.” She grinned at him. “I was a facilities administrator in London. That’s a fancy name for an office manager.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I was good at it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. You’re right.”

“So?”

She spread her hands. “I don’t know. I’m enjoying working with Dad, although it would be nice to be a little more—adventurous sometimes. Plaice and chips with toffee pudding or apple pie begins to pall after a while.”

“I bet. But I might come over and try it sometime. It’s probably better than eating alone.”

“I thought you said Demelza was here. Is she shy or something?” She put down her cup, her earlier suspicions resurfacing. “Are you sure she exists?”

Josh’s dark eyes were gleaming with laughter.

“Sure, she exists. She’s been sitting on your lap for most of the afternoon.”

Deborah stared at him, then down at the cat. “You mean—”

“Yes.”

She drew a long breath. “You—you
toad!
”

Josh, completely unaffected by her anger, leaned back at the other end of the sofa and grinned. Deborah’s lips twitched and she burst out laughing. Disliking this excessive movement, Demelza jumped down and strolled back to her sunny patch on the rug.

“Then why did you tell me she was your girlfriend?”

“I didn’t.”

“You implied it!”

“Not the same thing at all.”

She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Not a party animal! Oh God, how you must have laughed at me!” She snatched up a cushion and began to beat him.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” He grabbed at the cushion, catching her hands at the same time. “But you must admit it was funny.”

“I’m not admitting anything.” She threw herself back into the corner of the sofa, laughing, and Josh moved up beside her.

“Am I forgiven?”

“Never! I’ll have my revenge on you for this, you, you…”

He was leaning over her and suddenly her desire to laugh faded. There was a constriction in her throat and she couldn’t speak. The next moment Josh was kissing her. It was a swift, tender touch at first, then as he gently nibbled at her lip, she found herself responding, hungrily pressing her mouth against his. Slowly he eased her down on the sofa, shifting to his knees on the floor beside her so that he could cover her face and neck with kisses.

Her arms twined around his neck, fingers driving through the thick black curls as his mouth slid across her lips. When at last he lifted his head, they were both gasping, as if they had just run a mile uphill. Her eyes roamed his face, taking in the smooth skin, the fine cheekbones and sensitive mouth, the dark eyes glowing with a golden fire in their depths.

She felt herself trembling and tried to smile to hide it. “I—um—”

He kissed her again, and the fire he stirred within her robbed her of all coherent thought. Lifting her easily into his arms, he carried her to the bedroom. Bereft of all ability to speak, Deborah kept her eyes on his face as he laid her gently on the bed. They undressed each other, their efforts interspersed with long, lingering kisses.

They made love as Deborah had never known it before. Josh caressed her, watching her responses and repeating the moves that made her shiver with pleasure. She ran her hands over his back, revelling in the feel of hard muscle beneath the silk-smooth skin, breathing in the masculine smell of him. Then, to prolong the moment, Deborah took the initiative, roving his body with her hands and mouth until she’d reduced him to a state of quivering ecstasy. The sun’s shadows had moved right across the floor before their lovemaking reached its zenith, and they collapsed back onto the bed, locked in each other’s arms.

“So, are we all here?” Clara Babbacombe looked around the table at the committee. “Where’s Anne?”

Alan Thorpe shook his head. “She said she was free today…ah, here she is!”

“Sorry I’m late!” Anne hurried in through the doors and slid into her seat.

Alan looked at her closely, noting the heightened colour in her cheeks, the added sparkle in her grey eyes. “Been somewhere nice?”

Her broad smile encompassed them all.

“Well,
I
enjoyed it. I’ve been searching through the records and resources of Flixton University.”

Godfrey Mullett stared at her and slowly picked a humbug from the bag in his pocket. “Really! How on earth did you manage that?”

“Professor Duggan invited me over, on the principle that we are both searching for the truth.”

“And did you discover anything?” Godfrey asked, polishing his glasses.

“We found a reference to a Hugh of Moreton who did go off to the Crusades,
and
he was a Templar!”

“Excellent! And he came back and built the church?” Miss Babbacombe enquired eagerly.

“Ah, well, no, actually…”

“Well, it would help if we had some evidence that he had,” Alan put in, a slight edge of irritation creeping into his voice. “Have you seen today’s paper?” He held up a copy, folded open to a small article on an inside page. “Just look at that heading, Moreton’s Knightmare! And listen to how it goes on.
An unholy row has broken out over Moreton-by-Fleetwater’s claims to have a hitherto undiscovered Templar church in their village.
”

Anne shrugged. “Well, perhaps I went a little far in my second article to the
Advertiser,
when I hinted there might be the graves of crusading knights buried under the church. But it’s good publicity, isn’t it, to make it into the national press?”

“I’m not sure we want to make claims we cannot substantiate.” The vicar sounded doubtful.

“Quite,” agreed Miss Babbacombe. “I’m not criticising your efforts, Anne my dear, but we don’t want to give the impression that this is some kind of publicity stunt.”

Anne was busy scanning the article. “I never thought it would attract so much attention! Well, what do you want to do, remove all mention of the Templars from the programme?”

“As far as I remember, it’s
not
mentioned.” Miss Babbacombe sifted through her notes. “Ah, here’s the proof from the printers…No, we only say there’s a legend that the church was built by Hugh of Moreton, when he returned from the Crusades. And no mention of Templars at all.”

Anne sat back in her chair. “Good. So there’s no problem.”

“Oh, yes, there is!” Alan said. “I’ve already had two calls from journalists asking me if they can conduct an interview—”

“Just tell them we’re investigating a legend,” Anne said. “This is all a storm in a teacup. What do you think, Deborah?”

Deborah was thinking about the way Josh had kissed her that afternoon. Nothing else seemed of much importance.

“Me? I—ah—well, I don’t think it matters too much. It’s not a very sensational story, after all…”

“Maybe not.” Godfrey reached for another sweet. “But there’s precious little news at the moment, no government scandals or natural disasters to fill the newspapers, so they’re looking for odd little stories.”

“Exactly.” Alan slowly turned his gold-plated fountain pen between his fingers. He continued heavily, “The pageant is something for all the village to enjoy, and it doesn’t look good for the committee to be in dispute with the local university over the history of St. John’s. It looks…arrogant.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“So what would you have me do?” Anne looked around the table, her cheeks still flushed, but this time by anger. “Do you want me to write to the paper, telling them it was all a mistake? Won’t that make us look even more foolish?”

“Perhaps we should just keep quiet,” Godfrey offered hopefully. “These news stories never last very long.”

“Unfortunately one of the journalists who rang me said he would be interviewing this professor whatever his name is—”

“Duggan.”

“Thank you, Anne. He said Professor Duggan is going to accuse the Moreton Pageant Committee of twisting the truth to attract the crowds.”

Aubrey Bodicote shook his head, his countenance even more anxious than ever. “I really cannot think that this reflects well on St. John’s.”

Clara Babbacombe leaned forward and addressed Anne across the table. “Look, my dear. You seem to know this professor quite well, now. Perhaps if you could have a word with him, explain our situation, tell him we won’t be publishing any more inflammatory reports—maybe he could be persuaded not to say any more to the papers?”

Anne bit her lip. This was not the time to tell the committee she’d agreed to have dinner with Toby Duggan the very next day.

“Okay. I’ll speak to him.”

“Thank you.” Alan gave her a warm smile, then turned his attention to the notes before him. “Back to matters arising from the last meeting. Clara, can you pass a message on to the Mothers’ Union? I’ve cleared it with the chef that they can use the kitchens at the Towers to bake the Ten Commandments. Godfrey, the weapons for the David and Goliath battle are not to be handed out until the procession is about to begin and must be collected back again before the Scouts go home. PC Carrick is not so worried about the spears and swords, but thinks the slingshots could prove a danger to the public…”