Crescendo

by Markland, Anna

  When the dance ended, silence filled the room. Berthold finally led the applause. Izzy’s hands refused to work. Robert would expect him to thank their guest. He was about to come to his feet, deafened by the loud beating of his heart, when he became aware that it was a drumbeat he heard. Farah ran to the screen and emerged holding a curved scabbard.

  Everyone sucked in a breath.

  Holding the hilt in one hand and the end of the sheath in the other, she lifted the weapon high, her feet moving to the slow beat of the drum. Lowering her arms, she held the sword in front, then to the side, then back to the front, then to the other side. The tempo increased gradually. Farah’s feet kept pace.

  Without warning, she raised the weapon over her head and drew the sword from its scabbard. Steel flashed like a bolt of lightning. A collective gasp rose from the audience.

  Izzy had never seen such a blade, but Farah twirled it so quickly around her head, and at her sides, leaping over it again and again, that it became a whirling blur. Fear and fascination choked him.

  Abruptly, she dropped to her knees, breasts heaving, the sword held high. Slowly, she lowered it and balanced it on her head like a deadly halo. She reached into a hidden fold of her costume. Light reflected on the metallic objects she extracted and attached to her fingers. She clicked them together, like miniature cymbals.

  The drumming had stopped. Now it was his own heartbeat Izzy heard. The shawm player took up the slow refrain. By the time Farah had risen, walked around the hall with her arms outstretched, and resumed her kneeling position, all to the hypnotic rhythm of the music and with the sword perfectly balanced atop her head, cymbals clicking, Izzy was exhausted.

  The music ceased. Silence reigned, until Farah leapt to her feet with a bloodcurdling yell, a warrior gleam in her eyes. She started to spin, holding the weapon at arm’s length. The blur of red, black and silver and the tinkling of ankle bells made Izzy light-headed. He felt feverish and sick to his stomach. He feared he would be obliged to make his excuses.

  Farah fell to her knees, threw back her head, and pointed the blade to her throat. Dorianne squealed. Izzy squeezed his eyes shut.

  This time the loud applause was spontaneous, the audience on its feet. Izzy opened his eyes. Every member of his family was looking at him expectantly.

  Breathing hard, Farah sheathed the sword, and turned her gaze upon Izzy.

  He stood, his feet lead weights. How absurd to hope he might partner the daughter of a king, an exotic creature whose breasts rose and fell as she strove to recapture her breath. He sensed she had given her all.

  “M—merci, Farah,” he stammered. He wanted to tell her she had beguiled him, that the sight of her bare feet had sent shivers down his spine. Her perfume had been an intoxicant to his senses, the jingling bells music to his heart. Her performance had taken his breath away—but words would not come. “Merci,” he repeated, then sat down, afraid he might fall down if he didn’t.

  Denis uttered a gasp of embarrassment, glaring at Izzy in amazement. The dwarf strode over to Farah, taking her hand. “Milady Farah, it is safe to say none of us have ever seen such a wonderful performance. Your beauty, skill, and grace have brought us great pleasure. We thank you. May I have the honor of escorting you to your table?”

  Farah inclined her head graciously and allowed Denis to lead her to her seat.

  Izzy felt like a fool. Dorianne’s glare of disappointed disgust did nothing to improve matters.

  * * *

  Farah’s appetite had fled, but she hungered for something she could not name. Her heart still raced, though her breathing had steadied. She had never put so much into a performance and was relieved the Montbryces had appreciated her talents—except the one man for whom she had danced.

  Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce had been her invisible partner, her breasts brushing tantalizingly close to his broad chest, her hip briefly touching his, his gloved hand resting lightly on her waist as they twirled together, gazing into each other’s eyes. The Moorish dance for two was easier to perform with an imaginary partner, but she had never before put a face or a body to that partner.

  He had not liked the dance. His disdain was painfully obvious. He resented her presence. She resolved not to look at him again. When she caught him glancing furtively in her direction he seemed more interested in the sword lying on the table near her hand.

  She was suspicious of Berthold’s motives, but decided it would be best to journey on to Aragón after Georges’ death. There would be no reason to remain at Giroux castle.

  She rose from the table, bringing Denis rushing to her side. She proffered her hand. “I am rather tired.”

  Denis offered to escort her to her chamber. She hoped to catch Robert’s eye, but her gaze fell upon the Master of the castle. Slouched back in his chair, he had removed his gloves and was using one hand to massage the deformed fingers of the other. His tightly closed eyes betrayed his pain.

  She gripped Denis’ hand, afraid she might swoon, overwhelmed by an urge to rush over and rain kisses on the gnarled fingers. She put her other hand on the side of her face. She too knew what it was to hide a disfigurement and must look away before he caught her watching him.

  It was too late. He opened his eyes and looked right at her.

  * * *

  Izzy froze, his painful hands locked together. He wanted to reach for his dagger and cut off his fingers. But it was too late. She had seen them in all their ugliness. If only she was not wearing the veil. Her wide eyes brimmed with tears of compassion, but it was a person’s mouth that gave away true feelings. Could it be she was not repulsed?

  His hopes were dashed when she averted her gaze quickly and left with Denis. Izzy pulled his gloves over his stiff fingers and turned to his cousins as he rose. “Since you are all departing early on the morrow, I must be up with the dawn. I bid you goodnight, Dorianne, Madame de Giroux, Robert, Papa, mon frère, cousins.”

  His father also came slowly to his feet. “I will accompany you. These old bones are weary. The morrow will come soon enough.”

  They made their way to their chambers. His father said nothing, but Izzy sensed his sire had something on his mind. “Maman will be happy to welcome you home.”

  Hugh stopped abruptly. “Oui, mon fils, but I am worried. Your mother will ask me about you, and I am not sure what I will say.”

  He shrugged, but his father persisted, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m aware your hands give you great pain, Gerwint Isembart, but I sense there is something more.”

  He bristled. “Papa, you know—”

  Hugh held up his hand. “I know, you prefer to be called Izzy, but to me you’ll always be Gerwint Isembart.”

  He scratched his head. “I mean no disrespect to my great-grandfather, but Gerwint is a Saxon name. Not that I am ashamed of my Saxon blood, but living in Normandie—”

  “Don’t worry, your mother understands. And Isembart is a mouthful, I agree. However, were it not for your namesake, Isembart Joubert, the rat catcher from Montbryce, God rest his soul, neither you nor I would be here today. It’s a worthy name—but let’s speak of other matters. What is it that ails you? You don’t seem yourself. Robert has given you a chance to attain something you have longed for, yet you seem unhappy. The speech of thanks you gave our guest? You’re a more eloquent man than that. Denis put you to shame.”

  Izzy took a deep breath, aware his perceptive father would detect any attempt to deny his discomfort. He fixed his eyes on his boots. “It’s the woman. I haven’t even seen her face, but she has me bewitched.”

  To his surprise, his father chuckled. “Ah, I remember the feeling well.”

  Izzy groaned. He had heard time and again the story of how his father and mother met and fell in love. If that were not enough, his oncle Antoine took the opportunity whenever he visited to regale them with the tale of his meeting Denis’ mother, and knowing instantly she was his soul mate. The Montbryces, even Robert and Baudoin, were fond of boasting of their
family “curse”. They were noblemen deeply in love with their wives.

  But love was not for him. He would never risk his heart. Rejection was too painful.

  His father’s voice intruded. “Come to my chamber. I need to sit, and I want to continue the conversation.”

  Izzy took his father’s arm and escorted him to his chamber. Hugh sat heavily, indicating the chair next to him.

  “I’ll stand, papa, if you don’t mind.”

  Hugh frowned and pointed again to the chair. “Sit.”

  He obeyed, but his back remained rigid.

  Hugh put his hands on his knees. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I intend to tell you anyway. And you needn’t worry, I won’t bore you with tales of falling in love.”

  Izzy folded his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes. The twitch was back in his leg. “Go on.”

  “You know most of the story, but what you don’t know is why I avoided women for six long years after the Battle of Hastings.”

  Izzy frowned and looked askance at his sire. “What?”

  “I avoided women because I believed it was violence that aroused me. I was afraid if I bedded a woman I might kill or maim her.”

  How could this be true? Hugh de Montbryce was the kindest, gentlest man Izzy had ever known. “I don’t understand, Papa.”

  “It was a foolish fear. No one can imagine living with the memories of the horrors of Hastings. You may know I suffered for years from an uncontrollable hand tremor. The point is, I allowed fear to rule my life—as you are doing now.”

  Izzy leapt to his feet. “I am no coward. What are you saying?”

  Hugh shook his head. “Sit down. I know you are a brave warrior, a courageous man, but when it comes to matters of the heart men tend to shy away from facing their fears. You are afraid she will reject you because of your affliction.”

  Izzy tore off his gloves and thrust his hands in his father’s face. “Look, Papa. No woman will want to be caressed by these hands. I don’t need love.”

  Hugh put his hands on his son’s. “Everyone needs love. I would give anything to remove the cross you bear, but you are worthy of love. Your affliction does not make you any less of a man. Look at Denis and Adam. Hopeless cases, and yet—

  “Isembart Joubert lost one hand in the service of our great Duke William, but he never let his handicap stand in his way. Farah is not an ordinary woman. She has suffered much, lost much. She may surprise you. Is it not worth the risk? It’s obvious to everyone you burn for her.”

  Izzy sighed, his heart and body weary. He had evidently made a complete fool of himself in front of his family. He picked up his gloves and stood. “I’m going to bed, Papa. Dors bien.”

  His father rose slowly and embraced him. “I hope you sleep well, too, though I suspect you won’t. Think on what I have said.”

  Izzy nodded woodenly and left the chamber.

  Isolation

  Dorianne’s relief and excitement at leaving Giroux showed on her face. The baggage had been loaded into the rear of the cart, and Elenor de Giroux ensconced in her seat. It was the first time for many a year that Dorianne’s mother had left the castle. She was a woman reborn, the pallor gone, her eyes alight with expectation.

  Izzy marveled at the trust that passed between Robert and his wife when they exchanged glances. What would it be like to have a woman to love and depend on that way?

  Dorianne had nursed Robert back to health after his terrible incarceration, but he still had demons to contend with. Izzy had heard the nightmarish shouts in the dark, but no one looking at his cousin now would imagine the horror he had endured through the treachery of Pierre de Giroux.

  Baudoin had sailed back to England two days previously, impatient to get started on a road-building expedition in Wales he had been planning for months with his wife’s brother. Caedmon went with him.

  Robert took Izzy’s arm and drew him aside. “It’s up to you now. I have complete confidence in your ability to turn this place around, breathe new life into it.”

  A lump constricted Izzy’s throat. What had Robert seen in him to justify such faith? He clasped his cousin’s hand. “I will not let you down.”

  “Be wary. The king’s brother languishes in prison, but there are many in Normandie who would take up Curthose’s cause against Henry. I know you have already started taking the measure of the men here, but your brigades need to be built up. I will select suitable men from Montbryce to strengthen your garrison.”

  Izzy’s nervousness eased. It was good news and would help resolve the problem of military vulnerability that had plagued him. “My father has also promised men from Domfort. Denis and Adam assured me before they left with Mathieu that Uncle Antoine will allow reinforcements to come from Belisle.”

  Robert slapped him on the back, and the two men embraced. “Good! The loyalty of the few Giroux men who survived Tinchebray has not been proven; hence it will be beneficial to have men from Montbryce holdings whom we can trust. I have in mind to send you Caedmon’s friend, Amadour de Vignoles, as a commander.”

  This too was welcome news to Izzy. He strode over to Dorianne and bowed, unsure of what to say. “Adieu, cousine. Don’t worry about Giroux Castle. I will take good care of it.”

  Robert interrupted whatever response Dorianne had in mind, his face stern. “See that you do, or you will not become the Seigneur.”

  * * *

  Farah spent her days tending Georges, preferring to avoid the preparations for departure. Her presence as his caregiver was aggravating a difficult situation. She regretted the sorrow she had inadvertently brought to Dorianne’s door. The woman obviously couldn’t wait to leave this castle and Farah wondered about the tribulations she had suffered growing up within its walls.

  It was evident every single member of the Montbryce family wanted to be gone from Giroux—except one. She looked forward to an easing of the tense atmosphere once they departed. Her feelings regarding the one Montbryce who clearly wanted to stay were mixed. She was strangely glad the Master wasn’t leaving with the others. Yet, he flustered her, knocked her off balance, and it seemed she had the same effect on him. There was an alchemy between them that sparked intense emotions whenever they were in the same place. The solution was to avoid him at every opportunity.

  * * *

  It was a good two hours later before Hugh and Melton de Montbryce were ready to leave. Age had slowed Izzy’s father down, but he was a man of three score and two years. No one lived forever.

  Antoine, two years older than Hugh, was dying. Their older brother, Ram had passed several years ago. They were great men, heroes of the Battle of Hastings forty years before. They had founded a dynasty, strengthening a noble Norman family and bringing it honor, glory, wealth, and power. Pride surged through Izzy’s veins at the sight of his father’s grey hair and stooped bearing. Though he had difficulty mounting his horse, in Izzy’s eyes, Hugh de Montbryce was still a giant of a man. He would miss him after he was gone.

  He put a gloved hand on his father’s thigh. “Give Maman un petit baiser from me. Tell her not to worry.”

  Hugh snorted. “I will give her the little kiss, but expecting her not to worry is like trying to hold back the sea. She loves you, as do I, and we know you will do a fine job with this castle. It’s what you have always wanted. Adieu, mon fils.”

  Izzy slapped his father’s horse on the rump. “Adieu, Papa.”

  Melton had watched the exchange. They would fight to the death for each other, but Izzy and his taciturn brother had drifted apart since the onset of his affliction.

  Now Melton strode over to embrace Izzy, then mounted his own steed. “Go with God, little brother. This is a fine castle that has fallen into your lap. Don’t mess it up. The same goes for Farah.”

  Before Izzy could protest, Melton had spurred on his horse and ridden out of the bailey.

  He watched the last of his family ride away and suddenly felt his isolation. Melton had the right of it. This was
what he had thirsted for, but it would not be easy.

  However, life had not been easy for ten years. His affliction had rendered many of the skills he had previously boasted of nigh on impossible. How was a warrior to defend his property and his family honor if he could not wield a sword?

  His brother and father seemed to consider it an easy matter to woo a woman like Farah. She was so far out of his deformed reach, it sickened him. But he would strive to resurrect this holding from its tortured past, though accomplishing it alone filled him with a trepidation he would rather not admit.

  He took a deep breath, but it caught in his throat when he turned to see Farah standing in the doorway of the keep.

  * * *

  Despite her resolve, Farah had been unable to resist the temptation to watch the last members of the family depart. She had not meant to linger long enough for the Master to catch sight of her, but watching him bid farewell to his family touched her heart. She had spent her childhood in a harem, with only her mother to share love. The new Master had obviously grown up in the bosom of a family that loved him. He would miss them as he strove to redeem the castle she’d learned a great deal about in the short time she’d lived there.

  She did not envy him the task, but felt a strange urge to make suggestions concerning things she had noticed were in need of improvement. Better to keep silent. The proud Norman would not welcome her ideas. He resented her presence.

  Her fear was confirmed when he espied her in the doorway. He scowled, turned on his heel, and strode away. Tears welled. She felt an inexplicable bond with this troubled man. Her heart raced whenever she was near him. Carnal thoughts and fantasies took hold and she had awakened several mornings with her hand pressed to an intimate place. The memory was shameful.