Madness had taken hold of Georges’ father after he had been blinded and mutilated by another nobleman whose daughter had married the eldest son of the Montbryce family. His madness had made life unbearable for his three sons. They had directed their resentment and hatred against Mabelle de Montbryce and her family.
Georges had preferred to endure the rigors of the Holy Land to returning home to Normandie. From what Farah had gathered from the tense meeting in the Great Hall, the Giroux girl had married a Montbryce, the man who had carried her away. Surely that should have brought an end to the enmity? She snickered, acknowledging that no Saracen would abandon a feud until the last drop of blood was spilled.
But who was the arrogant knight with the strange name who had proclaimed he was Master of the castle? Apart from Georges, every man in the room was handsome in the way warriors were handsome—even the dwarf. Yet she had been unable to take her eyes off the tall, dark-haired knight whose hands were gloved. Why did he wear heavy leather gauntlets in the middle of the day, indoors? A chill stole through her. Perhaps for the same reason she hid her face—to conceal and protect.
She was confident her garb had hidden the fire that flushed her cheeks and stole across her chest from the knight whose eyes bored into her. But she feared the silk abaya had emphasized the hard points of her nipples as they tightened under his gaze. A sudden thirst had raged in her dry throat as tendrils of heat spiralled to her core. The fever had robbed her of the firm control she usually had over her emotions. Perhaps the incessant rain had made her ill.
She pummeled the bolster with her fisted hand. The haughty Norman had assumed she was an infidel, but he was not to blame for that. It was the purpose of the disguise she and Berthold had decided upon when they set out on their journey. But he had acted as if she was not in the room when he spoke of her. She had endured enough masculine arrogance at the hands of her former Saracen masters.
Forced throughout her life to be subservient to men, she marveled she’d found the courage to answer the Master back. Had the words Enough of this actually spilled from her mouth?
Thoughts of her childhood brought back the horrors of the siege. She raised her hand to trace a finger delicately over the scar—her legacy from that terrifying ordeal—annoyed that a tear had trickled unbidden down the length of the disfigurement.
What would become of her now she had delivered her Patron to his kin? Would they allow her to remain with him until he died? It was evident they did not want him, why would they keep her?
Or should she listen to Berthold’s increasingly insistent entreaties that they journey on to Aragón to claim her birthright? But what recognition might the bastard child of a dead king hope for, though her half-brother reigned there now? It was more likely Alfonso would consign her to a nunnery. She would be a prisoner once more. The irony of it did nothing to stem the flow of tears.
* * *
Izzy lay awake in the dark, Enough of this echoing in his brain. He couldn’t believe the infidel woman’s brazen cheek. Most women would be awed into silence by the presence of a panoply of armed knights standing ready to defend a castle in a foreign land, yet she’d shown nothing but disdain for them all.
A Saracen’s plaything, brought along for who knew what reason, had challenged him. He ought to have been affronted, but her remarkable defiance had sparked an erection that refused to abate.
He gritted his teeth, resolved to regain control of emotions Farah seemed to have scattered to the four winds. He would prefer death to admitting that eastern garb, a veiled face and dark eyelashes had aroused him. That must remain his secret.
A Tale That Must Be Told
The unexpected advent of the only surviving Giroux brother delayed everyone’s departure from the castle. Denis suggested to Robert that matters be settled at a family conference. Izzy was relieved. He had to be sure of his ground before taking over.
Caedmon opened the discussion when the men of the family gathered in the gallery. “It is evident Georges cannot rule the castle. He is dying and doesn’t have the capacity.”
Izzy said nothing. Let his kinsmen come to the right conclusion without his pleading on his own behalf. They well understood the thirst for control of a piece of Normandie.
Robert drummed his fingers on the table. Everyone was aware his wife pined to be home with her children. “I believe we are in agreement concerning that. I propose he be allowed to live out his days here. It won’t be easy, but with Farah’s help—”
Izzy leapt to his feet. “The woman will remain here?” he exclaimed, his thoughts suddenly in turmoil, his heart racing.
Hugh de Montbryce eyed his son curiously.
Baudoin tilted his head and arched his brows. “You don’t want her to stay, cousin?”
How to explain? Since her arrival a scant two days before, the foreign creature had haunted his thoughts and danced in his dreams every night. He became tongue-tied when she fixed those enormous eyes on him. Her perfume, exotic yet somehow familiar, filled his senses, addled his brain. He lived to catch a glimpse of her veiled figure each day, but she must be sent away, or he might go mad. Perhaps she had bewitched him with eastern magic. “I—non. It’s not that I don’t want her here, but, after all, an infidel?”
Berthold, who had been invited to observe the discussions, coughed politely. “May I speak?” he asked Robert, who nodded his assent.
The Hospitaller Knight stood and cleared his throat again. “Farah was raised by infidels and dresses in the eastern style. However, her mother made sure she was taught the true religion of her forefathers, albeit in secret and at great risk to them both. Farah is a devout Catholic. Her blood is Spanish, not Saracen. The garb is for her—protection.”
This astonishing revelation prompted gasps of surprise, frowns and requests for more details. Relief flooded Izzy as the guilt of being enthralled by an infidel lifted from his shoulders. But a dull uncertainty still sat in the pit of his belly. Too many mysteries surrounded this woman. From whom or what did she need to be protected? She had played havoc with his careful self-control. No good could come of it. “Surely she does not need protection from us?”
All eyes turned to him and he immediately wished he had remained silent. Was he advocating that Farah abandon her style of dress? What did it matter to him? Yet the image before him was of Farah naked, dancing, teasing. He remembered the pouting nipples puckering the light fabric of her robe that first day. Once again, the throbbing ache at his groin had him taking deep breaths, glad of the long tunic he wore.
“Are you unwell?” Baudoin asked.
Heat rose in Izzy’s face. He held up his hands and slumped back down in his chair. “Er—oui, only l’arthrite paining me. It’s naught.”
Berthold shifted his weight. “You should be aware I have counseled Farah not to stay at Giroux.”
Now the pain in Izzy’s hands was real, but he clutched the arms of his chair, a strange panic rising in his throat.
“Explain your statement, sir,” Robert urged.
Berthold squared his shoulders and assumed the air of a man about to impart important knowledge. “Farah’s mother was taken prisoner by Yusuf ibn Tashfin at the battle of Sagrajas.”
He paused, brows arched, as if defying anyone to acknowledge they knew what he referred to. “I see that means nothing to you gentlemen.”
Taking a deep breath, he smoothed his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. “On the twenty-third day of October, in the year of Our Lord One Thousand and Eighty-Six, a great battle took place in Sagrajas, near Badajoz. General ibn Tashfin led a mighty host of infidel warriors against the king of Castile and his allies, Sancho Ramírez of Aragón and Álvar Fáñez, cousin of the great Cid.
“But the Christians were outnumbered three to one and the battle was a rout. The King of Castile escaped with a leg injury and has limped badly ever since. Many women in the Christian camp were taken, Farah’s mother among them. Her name was María Catalina Tarazona. She was with child at the
time.”
Every mouth in the gallery had fallen open as the telling of the tale progressed. Izzy felt like he had been kicked in the gut. Pity for Farah and her mother swamped him as gooseflesh stole over his skin. He raged inwardly at the men who had abandoned their women to the Saracens.
Caedmon’s voice intruded. “Badajoz is in southern Spain. How did they end up in Jerusalem?”
Berthold stroked his pointed beard. “Though originally a Berber from the Sahara, Ibn Tashfin settled in Morocco after founding the city of Marrakesh. He crossed the straits to fight for the Moorish kingdoms of Seville, Málaga, and Granada. He took his captives back to Marrakesh when he received word his heir had died. He was confident the victory at Sagrajas had left the Christian armies of the Reconquista in disarray.”
Caedmon’s voice took on an impatient tone. “Still a long way from Jerusalem.”
Berthold crossed his arms over his chest, irritation flashing momentarily in his eyes. “Patience, sir, I beg you. It is a tale that must be told properly. Ibn Tashfin traveled throughout North Africa and in time met Iftikhar ad-Daula, a Sudanese who became the Fatimid governor of Jerusalem.”
Robert scratched his chin. “I begin to understand. Tashfin gave the women to ad-Daula?”
Berthold waved a decisive finger. “Indeed. You have the right of it. Farah and her mother were in ad-Daula’s seraglio in Jerusalem when the city fell to Raymond of Saint-Gilles.”
Izzy tried without success to envisage the journey Farah had undertaken from Morocco to Jerusalem. He had little knowledge of the region in question. It was like talking of a journey to the moon. Despite his intention to remain silent he murmured, “How did—”
It was Caedmon who solved the problem, slapping his thigh. “The Mediterranean, I’ll wager. I’ll never forget the color of its waters. Am I right, Berthold?”
The Hospitaller beamed, thumping his palm with his fist. “You are, Sir Caedmon. You were a crusader?”
Caedmon smiled sheepishly and dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, but Baudoin took up his cause. “In fact, Berthold, my brother was a hero of the People’s Crusade. It was he who was responsible for saving thousands of lives at Civitote.”
Berthold’s eyes widened. “I have heard of this rescue. Two brave men stole away from the abandoned fortress under siege by the Turks and sailed across the Bosporus to get help from the Emperor Alexius. That was you?”
“It was,” Caedmon admitted. “Me and my comrade, Amadour de Vignoles. But I would never have made it back home to England without the aid of my father and Baudoin.”
Berthold strode across the gallery and pumped Caedmon’s hand. “I am honored, sir.”
Izzy was immensely proud of his half-cousin’s heroism and had enormous respect for him, but he was more interested in continuing the discussion about Farah. “So, Sir Berthold, they sailed from Morocco to the Holy Land?”
Berthold eyed him curiously. “Farah was still a child, but something happened on that voyage that she will not speak of. Whatever it was, it protected her and her mother from the duties expected of a harem woman.”
Izzy’s mouth fell open. “You are saying—”
Berthold held up his hand. “I am telling you, sir knight, things about a young woman that need not concern you. Farah was twelve when Georges rescued her, an age when most young girls in a harem have been forced to lie with a man. But Farah was untouched.”
Izzy was surprised his seed didn’t erupt from his shaft like the red-hot lava from Mount Vesuvius that Caedmon often spoke of. He dug his nails into his palms, intensifying the pain in his hands. He should keep silent, but could not. He hoped intelligible words would issue from his mouth if he spoke. “You mean she is—she is—”
“A virgin. A very beautiful virgin. That is the main reason I insisted she wear the covering veils at the outset of this journey.”
Izzy felt like a babbling idiot. “You have seen her face?” he murmured.
Berthold gave him a withering glance, then ignored him, turning his attention to Robert. “I propose milord Comte, that Georges be allowed to remain here until his death and that Farah stay with him until then. I do not foresee him living long. Then I will escort Farah to her father’s kingdom.”
“Kingdom?” several voices exclaimed at once.
Berthold puffed out his chest. “Farah is the illegitimate daughter of the late King Sancho Ramírez of Aragón.”
* * *
On the whole, Berthold was well pleased with the outcome of the Montbryce family meeting. They were obviously impressed with his oratory, and he’d unexpectedly encountered a celebrated hero of the First Crusade. It was a noteworthy anecdote for some future occasion, even if the man evidently belonged to the illegitimate branch of the Montbryce family.
He’d have preferred not to mention Farah’s ancestry, but it was imperative he provide a plausible reason for leaving Giroux and traveling on to Aragón. They needn’t know of his ulterior motives for delivering her to King Alfonso.
The Montbryces clearly wanted her gone, although he didn’t know what to make of the so-called Master of the castle. The man mentioned suffering from l’arthrite, which probably explained his short temper. He seemed the most anxious of the clan members to send them on their way, yet there was something unsettling about the way he eyed Farah. Mayhap, he shouldn’t have mentioned her virginity. He’d personally seen good men turn into mindless predators at the prospect of deflowering a virgin.
The Dance
The manner in which she was treated changed in subtle ways, confirming Farah’s suspicions that Berthold had revealed her history. However, Georges had told the Hospitaller only of her lineage and not of the events aboard ship during the journey from Morocco to the Holy Land. No one would ever learn of it. Her mother had taken the secret to her grave.
She was grateful the Montbryces had agreed to let her stay with Georges until his death. She owed her life to the Norman. To express her gratitude in the only way she knew how, she offered to dance at the farewell banquet for the visitors who’d come to attend a funeral.
Dancing had saved her from madness. Her mother had used her skill as a dancer to survive and prosper in Yusuf ibn Tashfin’s household and had delighted in her daughter’s natural gift for the rhythms of her homeland.
When Farah danced she was truly herself, truly Farah. It was something that had never made her nervous—until now. She had danced before many men without pause, but a knot formed in her chest at the prospect of performing before the gloved Master of Giroux Castle. Why did he have this inexplicable effect on her? She sensed great pain in him. Was that why he hid his hands, as she hid her face?
Fear burgeoned in her belly. The power to control pain had been granted her before, at sea, during a terrifying storm—but she had sworn never to use it again. The toll it took was too great.
She bathed and perfumed her body with the attar of roses brought from Jerusalem, then dressed in the costume sewn by her mother. Flowers adorned her unbound hair, but she donned a red facial veil. Her disfigurement would detract from their enjoyment of the dance. She fastened tiny bells around her ankles, checking one last time to make sure her bare feet were perfectly clean.
Kneeling before the special trunk, she lifted the lid and freed the shamshir from its hiding place. She had decided to delay the performance of the sword dance until her nerves had settled. She carefully unwrapped the precious chestnut castanets and the brass zills. Leaving the chamber, she walked quickly to wait behind the screen that had been erected in the Great Hall.
A hush fell over the assembly. She was afraid her expectant audience would hear the beating of her heart. Having given previous instructions to the castle’s musicians, she waved to the shawm player. As the haunting wail of the reed instrument filled the air she looped her thumbs through the ornamental cords of the castanets, took a deep breath, raised her arms above her head, arched her back, and stepped out from behind the screen.
* * *
Izzy inhaled sharply, his body trembling as a vision swayed and dipped and moved sensuously before him. Farah wore a red costume that revealed no more of her body than her usual garb, but its form and fit showed every curve and swell of her figure. His eyes raked over her full breasts, fertile hips, taut belly, and long arms.
A veil still hid her face, but her hair flowed freely, adorned with a bright red flower at her temple. He laced his fingers together in his lap, itching to weave them through the thick black glory that reached to Farah’s waist. Was the hair at her mons the same texture and color?
The arch of her back as her arms swayed in undulating movements emphasized the swell of her breasts. He thirsted to lave his tongue over the nipples that strained at the fabric.
It occurred to him the dance was designed for two. Farah danced with an invisible partner, whom only she saw. He had never danced in his life, but it was all Izzy could do to remain in his seat. He wanted to leap to his feet, mold his body to hers, chest to breast, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, to gaze into her eyes as they moved to the inexorable rhythm.
The click of the castanets drew his eyes to her elegant fingers as they turned and twisted gracefully. Her long nails were painted the same red as her costume. It was an abrupt reminder of his own ugliness, the gnarled and twisted stumps at the end of his arms. Farah would be repulsed if he put his hands on her flesh.
He averted his eyes, bitterness welling up in his throat. He had difficulty breathing. He pressed a palm to his knee to stop the insistent twitching. Again he had allowed this woman to bewitch him.
Gritting his teeth, he glanced at the other members of his family. Dorianne leaned against Robert, her chin perched atop her folded hands, smiling. Elenor de Giroux looked like she might swoon. Denis, Baudoin, Caedmon and even Izzy’s elderly father were openly appreciative of the performance they watched. Antoine’s sons, Adam and Mathieu, and his own brother, Melton, gaped. Georges had awakened from his usual stupor, a bemused grin on his face. Izzy was the only one sweating. Every part of his body ached and throbbed—his hands, his head, his manhood, and his heart.
Crescendo Page 3
