Crescendo

by Markland, Anna

  Izzy gaped at the sight. Was he having a vision? His flesh hardened and his finger joints prickled for the first time since Farah had taken his pain. Why had he not stayed to comfort her? He licked his lips, tasting again the salt of her tears, until he realized a tear had trickled unbidden down his cheek. He wiped it away nervously with the back of his hand.

  Aubin coughed. “Milord Georges is already dressed.”

  Izzy tore his gaze from Farah. Georges was indeed laid out like an anointed saint, in full chain mail and helm, his crusader’s surcoat properly adjusted, his boots clean, his gloved hands clasped around the hilt of the sword that lay atop his body.

  Izzy searched for the right words, but they refused to come. This woman continually struck him dumb.

  “He is ready,” she murmured, breaking the heavy silence.

  Izzy walked to the bed in a daze. “You did this yourself? Why didn’t you send for help?”

  She turned and again his breath froze in his chest at the sight of her beauty. Tears had smudged the kohl around her eyes. She made no attempt to cover the scar. He longed to trace his finger over the mark that only seemed to underline her loveliness.

  She lifted her skirts, trying to rise. “It was my right to prepare him. I did not want help.”

  Izzy held out his hand to aid her, wondering how long she had been on her knees. He had forgotten to pull on his gloves. Their eyes met. Was she daring him to withdraw his hand? Though his instinct was to do exactly that, he did not. She took hold of his hand and gripped it tightly as she came to her feet. “Merci, Master Montbryce.”

  There was no pain, nor did she seem to be afflicted. He could not take his hand from hers. They were joined. Her warmth flowed into his body. “It is I who should thank you, Farah. You have eased my pain.”

  She lowered her eyes and smiled. “You may take him now.”

  Izzy lifted Georges’ sword, sensing he held the weapon that had saved Farah’s life. The other men maneuvered the knight onto the litter. The old warrior was borne from the chamber and his body placed in the crypt to lie in state until the bishop’s arrival on the morrow. Izzy and Farah followed, arm in arm.

  Drug For The Spirits

  For the second time in only sennights, Izzy stood in the dank crypt of Giroux Castle, witnessing the interment of one of its sons. On this occasion, he was the only Montbryce. The bishop had his usual retinue of chaplains and deacons in tow, but had informed Izzy they did not intend to stay for the funeral banquet. He wondered cynically what self-aggrandizing event the bishop had to attend that would lead him to him pass on a free meal.

  Izzy put his hand to Farah’s elbow when he noticed she was swaying. The bishop droned on interminably about the glory of the Crusades. It occurred to him that Montbryces might gather some day in this self-same crypt to consign him to eternity. Or would he be buried at Domfort? It was the first time he had considered his own mortality.

  The other thing that struck him was that he hadn’t hesitated to support Farah, trusting she would not recoil. She was grateful, if her eyes were to be trusted, for his thoughtfulness.

  The obligatory funeral feast was a subdued affair. Izzy and Farah sat on the dais with Artus Aubin, while members of the household ate quietly at the trestle tables, some recalling tales they had been told by their parents of Georges in happier days, before his father’s madness.

  Izzy’s gaze wandered over the stone walls, the frayed tapestries, the faded banners wafting from the cobwebbed oaken beams, and wondered if this Great Hall would one day witness happier times—visits from important dignitaries, mayhap even King Henry, joyous family gatherings, weddings, christenings. Would he celebrate his own marriage here, the baptism of his children? Or would Giroux Castle be held forever in the grip of hatred and gloom?

  He looked at the strikingly beautiful woman sitting beside him. If he moved slightly, his thigh would brush against hers. They sat like the lord and lady of the castle, together, yet separated by continents and cultures. Pain and disfigurement seemed the only thing they had in common. He lusted for the Aragonese princess, but reluctantly admitted lust was not enough. If he was to marry, he wanted a wife who loved him. Perhaps his father had the right of it. Even Izzy de Montbryce needed love. The truth did nothing to cheer his soul.

  He had not meant to slide so far along the bench, but his thigh touched hers. He curled his fingers around the edge of the table, hoping she had not heard the growl deep in his throat.

  She blushed and glanced up at him sharply. “What are you thinking of, my lord, to make you growl so fiercely?”

  He struggled to gather his wits. “I was hoping this hall might one day see happier times.”

  She put her hand on his thigh. “You are a caring man, though you pretend not to be.”

  Heat rose in his face, then raced down his spine into his toes by way of his loins. He hesitated only a moment before covering her hand with his. His grotesque fingers contrasted sharply with the beauty of hers, but she immediately put her other hand atop his. “I brought many healing herbs and preparations from the Holy Land. I have the knowledge to help you, if you wish it.”

  Nervously, he put his free hand on hers. “I have felt no pain since you took it into yourself. I do not understand how that is possible, but I cannot allow you to do it again. The pain is mine to bear.”

  She stared at their clasped hands. “I do not understand it either. But there are other ways to alleviate the agony you suffer when it returns. Let me help you.”

  He grimaced. “If you can bear to touch me—”

  She looked into his eyes. “Your touch does not offend me.”

  Her lips were agonizingly close, and she spoke words he had longed to hear, but she was the daughter of a king, destined to return to Aragón. There was no future for them.

  Someone coughed loudly. He tore his eyes from Farah’s gaze. Aubin cocked his head in the direction of the lower tables, his eyes full of concern. A hush had fallen over the hall. Servants gaped.

  Izzy withdrew his hands and slid away from her, adjusting his tunic and leggings. Damnation! He would earn the contempt of these people instead of the respect he needed to become a successful Master. They would look upon him as a deformed freak mooning over a foreign wench. He itched to rise from the table and take his leave, but such action would be highly inappropriate at a funeral feast. He could not leave Farah alone with her grief.

  He made a show of giving his full attention to Aubin. “On the morrow we will ride out to the tenant farms.”

  Aubin looked momentarily surprised. “As you wish, milord. I will see that Apollo is saddled and ready.”

  Izzy stared at the bread trencher, his fingers fumbling to break off an edge. He felt Farah’s eyes on him, but avoided her gaze.

  Her determined voice caught him off guard. “Will I minister to you before you leave?”

  He clenched his fist, crumbling the bread. “Non, we leave at dawn. It will likely take most of the day to inspect the farms and meet the tenants.”

  * * *

  As dawn drew nigh, Farah held her breath, listening in the dark for Izzy’s door to open. She clutched the vial of al-Kindi’s drug for the spirits tightly. The proud Master would be embarrassed if she offered it to him in the hall when he broke his fast before departing.

  He was stubborn, and may well refuse the concoction that would ease his pain. He need not know she had spent half the night compounding it.

  She could no longer deny the inexorable pull this man had on her heart. Her breasts tingled with the anticipation of seeing him and her feet itched to dance.

  However, she had given her word to Berthold that she would journey with him to Aragón. Her half-brother, the king, waited with apparent joy to welcome her home. She suspected he had promised the Hospitallers a sizable donation. Why else would Berthold make the long arduous journey from the hospice in Jerusalem? Georges de Giroux had provided the perfect excuse and Farah had been desperate to leave the Holy City.

&n
bsp; She stepped out into the hallway wearing only her abaya when she heard Izzy’s door close softly. Hopefully, he would not hear the heartbeat drumming in her ears.

  He fumbled for his dagger when she emerged from the shadows. “Farah?”

  She held out the vial, willing her hand to stop trembling. Her heart went out to this warrior who struggled with an affliction that could render it impossible for him to raise a sword against an enemy. “Please accept this preparation. It is an ancient and trusted remedy for the pain of your affliction, from the recipes of al-Kindi.”

  He hesitated, then took the vial, peering at the dark contents. “Where did you get this?”

  “I prepared it.”

  “In your chamber?”

  She looked at her feet. “I have not yet located the Still Room, my lord. For the moment, my ingredients are stored in my chamber.”

  Izzy held the vial with both hands. “What’s in it?”

  She chuckled, counting the ingredients one by one on her fingers. “Henna leaf, bulb of the crocus, dried catkins of the long pepper, cumin—but we will be here all day if I recite the rest of the long list. Fear not, there is nothing to make the belly rebel.”

  He smirked. “Not like the rue I usually ingest, then?”

  She smiled. “No, my lord.”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other several times. “It’s time you started calling me by my name, Farah. You are the daughter of a king. I am not your lord.”

  But I want you to be.

  “Very well—Izzy. You are to take five drops of this medicine, but you must ingest it with food. I have mixed in honey to soften the unpleasant taste.”

  He secreted the vial in his tunic. “I will instruct Aubin to have someone guide you to the Still Room. You can take stock of it and instruct him as to its disposition. I doubt it has been used for many a year. This castle has no healer.”

  Her spirits rose. A Still Room of her own to stock, as if she was the lady of the castle—but she would be gone in a few sennights. Still, she thanked him. “Merci, Izzy. Safe journey.”

  He came closer. Desire glowed in his eyes in the grey light of dawn. He brushed a kiss on her forehead. “Merci, Farah, for the medicine. I hope to be back before dusk.”

  She could only nod, barely able to walk the few steps back to her chamber as he strode away. She would need to consult al-Kindi’s writings for the source of the wet heat in an unmentionable place.

  * * *

  Izzy removed the vial from his tunic and carefully sprinkled five drops of Farah’s concoction onto the chunk of bread a maidservant brought with a pile of smoked ham. There was a slight bitterness to the taste, but the honey masked it.

  Seated next to him, Artus raised an eyebrow.

  “Farah made a preparation for my arthrite,” he explained. “I don’t suppose it will work.”

  He didn’t understand why he’d made such a statement. Probably because every other treatment he’d tried hadn’t helped. Yet, deep in his heart, he trusted Farah’s medicine would be effective.

  “You never can tell,” Artus replied. “Saracens know a thing or two about healing.”

  Izzy chuckled. “I think Farah knows more than a thing or two.”

  About more than just healing.

  She’d clearly spent a good portion of the night compounding a remedy to ease his pain, and made sure to give it to him in a private place where he’d be less likely to refuse.

  He was too proud for his own good, and she recognized it.

  Tucking the vial back in his tunic, he rose from the table. “Let’s get started,” he declared, flexing his fingers. “But before we depart, assign someone to show Farah the Still Room. I’ve given leave for her to store medicinals there.”

  Artus swallowed the last of his watered ale and left.

  It was tempting to cancel the proposed inspection. The steward likely had better things to do with his time, and Izzy could always assist Farah with the organization of the Still Room.

  However, he’d have to inspect his new demesne sooner or later and the stiffness in his joints was easing. There was no point spending time with a woman he couldn’t have.

  Joy

  Izzy returned in time for the evening meal. He looked tired, but some of the strain had left his face. Farah’s heart lifted. He had taken her medicine.

  It was not her place to take a seat on the dais in his absence, but as he strode into the Great Hall he beckoned her to sit beside him. He seemed in good spirits.

  She followed him. “You look well, Izzy.”

  His smile took her breath away. Her heart pulsed in her womb. “I am well. The pain flared again after we had ridden for a while. Whatever was in that concoction you gave me certainly helped. Tell me, who is this Alkindi fellow?”

  She laughed. “Al-Kindi. He was born in Basra three hundred years ago. His father was the emir of Kufa. His family were direct descendants of the King of Kinda, companion of the Prophet. He is highly revered as a great physician by Muslim peoples.”

  He frowned. “And how is it you know of his writings?”

  She squirmed in her seat. “My master in Jerusalem allowed me to study them.”

  Izzy scowled. “Adowla?”

  She touched her fingertips to the scar. “Oui, ad-Daula. Governor of Jerusalem.”

  He reached for her hand. “He did this to your face?”

  She turned away, eyes downcast, but he put his fingers lightly on her chin and made her look at him. “It does nothing to mar your beauty, Farah. It is the mark of a warrior, something to be proud of. Only a cruel man would do such a thing, yet he allowed you to study and remain untouched.”

  She stared at the roasted chicken on the trencher before her, but had no appetite. “Ad-Daula was a pig of a man. He was merciful only because he believed I was capable of miraculous healing.”

  Izzy cut into his chicken with his eating dagger and held out a piece. “I can believe it. When you took away my pain it was a miracle, and now your brew has left me feeling like a new man. But when you heal, you do it by taking the pain into yourself. Did ad-Daula not know that?”

  She accepted the chicken, licking the grease off her fingers as she chewed. “He did not care. I saved his life. During the voyage to the Holy Land, he was seriously hurt in a storm. I touched him and he was healed.”

  Izzy had stopped eating. “But how did you know you had the power to heal him?”

  She chewed her bottom lip. “It is hard to explain. I simply knew. The terror of the storm left me as I knelt beside him.”

  “But you were a child.”

  “I was ten.”

  Izzy looked around the hall, his eyes following several village children scurrying here and there. Was he trying to imagine any one of them in such a situation?

  “You can heal by laying your hands on a person?”

  The conversation was heading in a direction she did not want to go. “Not everyone. Only some people. I tried and failed to heal many in Jerusalem. That is why ad-Daula turned against us, especially when it was apparent the city would fall. He would have slit my throat and my mother’s if Milord Georges and his men had not overpowered the harem guards and broken through.”

  Izzy frowned. “But you were able to take my pain? Did you know you would have the power to heal me?”

  “Non, not until you touched me. Then I knew. It filled me with euphoria.”

  “And pain.”

  “I was happy to take your pain, if only for a short time.”

  * * *

  Izzy shook his head, but did not withdraw his hand. She had touched him willingly, as if it gave her pleasure, something he had longed for. He thirsted to know more about this intriguing Spaniard. “I cannot imagine what your life has been, Farah. Did your mother ever speak of a time before she was captured?”

  Farah’s eyes took on a wistful look. “Many times. She and my father were deeply in love and she willingly followed him to Badajoz, though she was with child. He did not l
ove his wife. It was an arranged marriage with Felicia de Roucy, the daughter of a count. My mother was a noblewoman, but far below him in rank. They could never have married. She did not blame my father for her capture. His ally, the King of Castile had underestimated the threat.”

  “Tell me your mother’s name again.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “María,” she whispered. “María Catalina Tarazona. But ibn Tashfin called her Johara, his jewel. She secretly named me María Sancha Tarazona, after my father, but in the harem I was Farah. It means joy, so my mother was not too upset.”

  Izzy longed for joy in his life, but had steeled himself to never attaining it. He swallowed hard to clear the lump in his throat. “What manner of man was ibn Tashfin?”

  “He was a ruthless warrior, but a good man. He doted on my mother. I remember his soft voice and black eyes. Rumor reached Jerusalem just before our departure that he died only recently, at the age of one hundred. He was aware my mother taught me her religion and the dances of her homeland, but turned a blind eye.”

  “Why did he give you to ad-Daula?”

  She smirked. “Oh, we were not a gift. Ad-Daula was willing to pay handsomely, and ibn Tashfin needed the coin. The governor of Jerusalem did not want my mother. It was me he lusted for, but ibn Tashfin insisted I not go alone.”

  Izzy’s gut roiled. A grown man lusting for a ten year old. He glanced at the few remaining children in the hall, girls helping their mothers. They seemed happy, carefree, and innocent. For all his faults, François de Giroux was not a molester of young girls. Too bad ad-Daula had not died from his injuries aboard that ship, but then Farah would not have been blessed with the miracle of being declared Untouchable.

  Izzy’s shaft ached unbearably as he envisaged her lying beneath him, offering up her maidenhead. Was she still a virgin? He doubted that a woman could survive for years in the Holy Land without surrendering her innocence, though Georges and her mother had been there to protect her for most of the time.