Izzy lazily opened one eye. “Is something wrong?” he rasped.
She swallowed hard. “No. It’s the salve. It’s cold. I didn’t want to startle you.”
He closed his eye and she exhaled, unaware she had been holding her breath. If he looked at her again while she was touching him, he would see her desire. “Please turn over. I’ll massage your back first. Tuck your hair out of the way.”
He shrugged and obeyed, without opening his eyes.
She took a deep breath and placed her hands at the base of his neck. He shivered. “You’re right. It is cold. But your hands are warm.”
Warm? She was on fire.
Slowly, she glided her hands down his length to the small of his back with long, flowing strokes, then from his waist to his neck, pressing her fingertips lightly into his flesh. Her nipples tightened when he groaned, deep in his throat.
With slow strokes, she kneaded the tense muscles of his neck, working out towards his shoulders. He was a beautifully formed man. Desire arrowed into her most intimate place and settled in her core. Gradually, she increased the pressure.
“Good,” he murmured. “Feels—good.”
If the fragrant oil and the ointment did their work, he would soon be asleep. Spikenard was prized for its ability to overcome sleeplessness, and, if he slept, she might rein in her emotions.
But it was the spikenard’s property to release deep-seated grief and old pain that had led her to choose it. The unusual aroma of the ointment filled her nostrils, relaxing her. Perhaps in helping him she might be freed of her own troubles.
She pressed her knuckles into the edge of his shoulder blade. He moved his head slowly and looked at her, his eyes glazed. A lazy, contented smile lit his face. Her heart turned over. Her knees trembled. She braced her thighs against the side of the bed, increasing the pressure as she switched to the other shoulder blade.
Farah knew what pain was. But placing her hands on Izzy’s hips was a different torment. She longed to edge her fingers into the waist of his leggings and slide her hands down to his cheeks. Instead, she stroked from hips to shoulders, shaking as tingles flitted along her skin.
His body gleamed. He had fallen asleep, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed. She sank to her knees, exhausted. She took his hand and pressed it to the scar on her face. Wiping away a tear trickling down her cheek, she kissed his hand, then placed it on her breast.
* * *
Izzy blinked open his eyes to bright sunlight, alarmed to discover he was drooling. Where was he? Why was he lying on his belly? Enticing aromas hung in the air. Slowly, the events of the previous evening drifted back into his wits. There was no pain in his hands, but the one dangling off the bed held something soft and heavy. It felt like—
He sidled over carefully to look down. Farah had fallen asleep, slumped against the side of the bed. His hand cupped her breast.
His manhood turned to granite. The urge to thrust his hips was overwhelming, but he must not move. She might waken and the moment would be lost. Her face in repose was stunningly beautiful, a Spanish madonna. How had his hand come to rest against her? What would she do if she woke and cast her eyes on his grotesque fingers at her breast?
The fabric of her garment puckered as a nipple swelled, intensifying his torment. She licked her lips, shifting her body slightly. He lost control of his hips as they thrust into the mattress. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he turned his face into the coverlet. Struggling unsuccessfully to steady his breathing, he feared he might soon spill in his leggings.
When he looked back, she was staring at him with intense longing. Her face was flushed and he felt the heat travel to her breast. He opened his mouth, “I—”
Farah struggled to her feet, then touched her forefinger to his lips. He wanted to suck it into his mouth, but she handed him his shirt, smiled wistfully and left the chamber.
Izzy groaned, scrambled off the bed, shoved down his leggings, and found physical release at his own hand.
The Sword
Farah waited nervously in the Still Room. It was hard to believe she, too, had succumbed to the power of the spikenard. Her body felt stiff from sleeping in an unnatural position, but the deep sleep had invigorated her.
She would never forget the warmth of Izzy’s hand on her breast. His hand belonged there. She had come close to surrendering to the desire in his intense blue eyes. The temptation to climb onto his bed and let him run his hands over her body had been fierce.
Clutching the mortar in one hand, she put the pestle down on the workbench and touched her aching mons. What if his fingers—
She thrust back her head, blinking away a tear, and pressed harder. Nothing could come of their relationship, but the need she felt for the tall Norman threatened to consume her. Berthold had convinced her she was destined to return to her rightful place in Aragón, though the prospect was less and less appealing. She would be a stranger there, an unwelcome bastard princess.
She glanced over to the shamshir on the bench. She still had time to change her mind. Perhaps the idea of letting him use it was foolish? If she pressed a little harder—
Her heart leapt into her throat and heat rose in her face when she heard movement at the door behind her. She knew without looking who it was. Had he seen what she was doing with her hand? This man wreaked havoc with her carefully controlled emotions. Men had always held power over her. Only one had proven trustworthy, and he was dead.
Shivers stole up her spine as she fumbled to retrieve the pestle, turning to face him. He held her satchel to his chest. The look of uncertainty on his face tore at her heart. She decided the less said about the previous night, the better. “Good morning,” she breezed. “How do you feel?”
“Er—good,” he replied. “You forgot your belongings when you left.”
She put down the mortar and pestle, wiped her hands on her tabard, and accepted the satchel from him. She clutched it to her breast, not sure what to say. “Gracias. My thoughts were elsewhere when I left.”
She had thanked him in Spanish!
“Excusez-moi! It means merci—in Spanish,” she babbled, digging her clipped nails into the leather. “I haven’t spoken my mother’s language in a long—”
Izzy shifted his weight and raked a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her. After long moments of silence, he coughed and said, “Tell me about the salve you use. Spikenard you called it?”
Grateful for small talk, she replied, “The nard plant produces bulbous roots. The oil is distilled from them after they are ground up.”
He rubbed a knuckle along his chin. “Nard?”
“More commonly known as spikenard. Or some call it muskroot.”
“Interesting. I—”
Suddenly, his eyes lit upon the sword. He hastened towards it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. “Your sword. It intrigues me. I thirst to know its history. May I touch it?”
Relief flooded her. Here was the opportunity. “Of course.”
* * *
Excitement welled up in Izzy’s throat, his discomfort forgotten. Farah’s weapon had fascinated him from the moment he set eyes on it. He picked up the scabbard reverently and gripped the hilt. It was made for his hand. Slowly, he drew the blade from its sheath and turned it to examine the workmanship. It was lighter than he had imagined and beautifully patterned. It had only one sharpened edge that probably needed to be honed, but he sensed that one swift stroke could cleave a man’s belly in two. How had she balanced this lethal blade on her head?
Power surged through his warrior blood. He braced his legs and slashed a wide X with the weapon, back and forth, over and over. There was barely a sound as the thin blade sliced the air. He turned it slightly and swiped a backhanded stroke. It was easy to see how the point could skewer an opponent with a flick of the wrist. If only he had such a weapon.
“Where did you get this?” he asked breathlessly.
She put her hand to her face. “It belonged to ad-Daula. It’s called a s
hamshir.”
His gut roiled. The rasp in her voice told him that this was the weapon that had scarred her. Suddenly, it felt heavy in his hands. He made to put it down, but she reached forward and stopped him. “No, Izzy, please. Georges gave it to me as a trophy. I bear its signature on my face, but the dance has given it new life. I want you to use it.”
If ad-Daula were present in the Still Room, he would slice off certain parts of the monster’s body, then run him through. He hefted the sword again. “It’s incredible. How can I get such a blade?”
She shrugged. “You might ask Sir Berthold when he returns. They are common in the Holy Land. You can use mine if you wish, until I leave.”
Dread settled in his belly. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
She sighed. “I wish it too.”
They looked at each other for long moments. Why not ask her to stay? He was not a whole man, though a sword such as this would remedy some of his problems. But he had nothing to offer the daughter of a king. He was only the Master of a gloomy castle with a dark history. He had no land of his own, yet.
He sheathed the shamshir. “Merci, Farah. I will take good care of it.”
She was trembling and tears welled in her eyes as she showed him how to fasten the scabbard so the weapon hung properly. It must be difficult for her to relinquish the shamshir to him, if only for a brief time.
He stepped back for her inspection. She nodded her approval. “Perfect,” she whispered, fluttering her dark lashes.
“I’m off to the training fields.” He hurried away before his erection tore apart the seams of his leggings.
Kismet
Other than being in a constant state of arousal whenever Farah was near him, Izzy had to admit he felt much better in body and soul than he had for many a year.
His affliction flared less frequently, thanks he was sure to Farah’s therapy. He had more energy and suffered fewer bouts of the mild fever and fatigue that often accompanied a worsening of his affliction.
She insisted he take long walks, pointing out that while practice in the training fields was exercise, it was hard on his body.
He fell into the habit of walking to and from the village outside the curtain wall of the castle. The villagers, wary at first, greeted him when they became accustomed to seeing him pass by their cottages. He suspected many of them had never set eyes on the reclusive François de Giroux, and the maniacal Pierre could not have been an easy overlord.
Sometimes, Farah accompanied him. She, too, seemed happier, though her eyes clouded when mention was made of her departure. She took advantage of their walks together to question him closely about his affliction.
He told her of the high fever, shaking and chills he had suffered around the time of his twentieth birthday, and of the pink rash that had covered his body.
“That was likely the start of it,” she observed. “Did the attacks begin after that?”
“Oui,” he confirmed. He had never associated the onset of his problems with the fever, but now he understood the connection. No one, not even his dear mother, had probed as deeply into his illness. Hope lost long ago revived.
The time for the Knights to return came and went with no sign of them. Izzy hoped they never came back.
Farah requested salmon be served at least three times a week, citing the recommendations of Islamic physicians. Men were dispatched to the river. She explained that salmon was an oily fish and therefore the best, since they were too far from the ocean to catch mackerel and herring.
She gave him special white granules to dissolve in his bath, instructing him to soak until the water cooled. It was the first time in his life he had enjoyed taking a bath.
She fashioned a brace for his hands, inserting into his leather gloves thin strips of oak, shaped by the castle’s carpenter to her specifications.
Overcoming his initial refusal, she convinced him to swim every day in the nearby lake, again citing the need for gentle exercise. He only wished she would join him in the bracing water. Since that was unlikely, he commanded the castle’s brigade of men-at-arms to take up the same practice.
After incredulous objections, sulks and glares, they began to look forward to the daily swim, and boisterous antics became the norm. It was the first time he had seen many of them do anything other than scowl since his arrival. A smile came more readily to his own face.
The improved state of his hands made it possible for him to practice with Farah’s sword, and he quickly became skillful in its use. He was rarely seen without the weapon bouncing on his hip in its leather scabbard. The men-at-arms of Giroux Castle, dispirited and decimated after their defeat at Tinchebray, developed a healthy respect for the weapon and its wielder. A new atmosphere of enthusiasm gradually pervaded the training fields. Several warriors cautiously intimated they would like to try out the unusual sword, but Izzy adamantly refused to allow it out of his possession.
* * *
A childhood spent studying ancient texts for long hours had not always been easy. As she witnessed marked improvements in Izzy’s health and demeanor, Farah understood the reason she’d been gifted with the knowledge and capacity to heal.
It was all for this man. Izzy de Montbryce was her destiny.
However, she had to accept Fate had brought them together so she might heal him. She could not fall in love, nor share intimacies with him, no matter how much she longed to do so.
It would even be considered wanton if she joined him when he went swimming. She dreamt of playful splashing, shrieks of laughter, combing wet hair off his handsome face, responding to his kiss.
Izzy’s manner towards her was confusing. She felt he wanted her to stay, but he’d said nothing. If he uttered one word of…
Did she have the courage to defy Berthold and refuse to travel on with the Knights? His return had to be imminent. He’d already been gone longer than anyone anticipated, and Izzy scowled every time the man’s name was mentioned. She begged God’s forgiveness for wicked thoughts concerning Berthold’s demise that crept unbidden into her heart. If he didn’t return…
There were too many ifs. Her Saracen masters believed in Kismet. She repeated over and over the mantra she’d been taught in the harem. “Whatever will be, will be.”
But her mother’s voice often intruded. “Have faith, my child.”
Secret Mission
Sir Berthold de Quincy took his leave of the Abbot of Mont Saint Michel, thanking him again for his hospitality and the promise of aid in building Hospitaller forts in Normandie. It had been a most satisfying pilgrimage, the only uncomfortable moments coming when he mentioned Robert de Montbryce’s name.
Curious!
He had told the people at Giroux his retreat at the island monastery would last two months. He wished he could stay for that length of time, but there was another mission to accomplish. He dreaded having to board a boat again. However, he and his knights rode to Brest and embarked on a voyage to Oiasso. From tales he had heard of the rough waters in the Cantabrian Sea, he did not relish the trip, but it was imperative he go to Spain. Overland was fraught with political difficulties.
Two days of pitching in weather that ranged from light rain to thunderous storms to tempestuous winds, made him wish he had braved the land route. He made his peace with his Lord, and heard the confessions of his men between bouts of retching, convinced their vessel was doomed.
They had difficulty walking once they disembarked, falling to their knees in thanksgiving for their deliverance. They rested a day, bought horses and followed the Bidasoa River out of Oiasso. They then turned southeast and rode hard for four days across rolling hills and flat plains until they reached Huesca, capital of the kingdom of Aragón.
After a day of rest, Berthold was granted an audience with the king. He bowed low before Alfonso of Aragón. “Su Majestad,” he murmured humbly, acutely aware of the Dowager Queen standing stiffly beside her son’s massive throne. It had been a cold and perilous journey across the Cantabrian S
ea, but Felicia de Roucy’s icy glare froze his bones.
“My mother and I are anxious after receiving your letter. You have news of my sister,” Alfonso declared in only slightly accented Norman French.
His mother’s scowl deepened.
Despite the cold chill edging up his spine, Berthold announced, “I bring good tidings. La Princesa María Sancha is well, and anxious to return to the bosom of her family.”
“When can we expect her arrival?”
Berthold resisted the urge to tweak his whiskers, much longer now after the trek from Normandie, and infernally itchy. “After we conclude our business, Majestad, we will return to Normandie to retrieve her.”
Alfonso came to his feet and beckoned Berthold to walk with him, leaning close to his ear. Berthold wrinkled his nose. He loved garlic, but the king reeked of it. “How can we be assured that this woman is who you say she is?”
As a Hospitaller Knight who had dedicated his life to the service of Saint John, Berthold was affronted at the implication he might lie, but it would be wise not to show his irritation. “She bears the mark.”
Alfonso’s hand went to the hollow of his throat. “The mark of my father?”
Berthold nodded. “The same.”
Unexpectedly, Alfonso put a hand on Berthold’s shoulder. Was that a genuine tear welling in his eye? “A sister,” the king murmured.
Perhaps this Aragonese monarch was a man of honor who would welcome and nurture his half-sister, but Berthold worried about the Dowager Queen. They had walked beyond her hearing, yet he felt the need to whisper. “I would stake my life on her true identity.”
The king scratched his heavy beard. “The Hospitallers will be rewarded handsomely for this, Sir Berthold. I was but a boy when María Catalina Tarazona was captured in Sagrajas, but I well remember my father’s torment and regret.”
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