He wove his fingers into her hair. “...your hair, your eyes. And I will never forget what you have done for me, Farah. You have made me whole again.”
He leaned forward and kissed her with such passion she dropped the shamshir. He snaked his arms around her waist and drew her to his body. Her need for him spiralled from her toes, shivered up her thighs and roiled in a very private, inexplicably wet place. His hard maleness pressed against her belly. She put her arms around his neck and returned his kiss, sucking his tongue rhythmically, pressing her needy breasts to his chest.
Touch me, Izzy, please touch me.
A fever of wanting seized her. She leaned into him, groaning deep in her throat. With a growl, he gripped her hips and separated their bodies. Breathing heavily, he swallowed hard and stepped away, raking both hands through his hair. “I will bid you adieu now, Farah. Aubin and I must ride out long before dawn. Safe journey.”
He was gone before she opened her mouth to protest. She wanted to go after him, but breathing was difficult and the chamber had tilted. Why did he not see how much she loved him? Did he have no feelings for her? His kiss belied that. He had arranged to be absent when she left, unable to bear witness to her departure. Why was he letting her go? He foresaw no future for them.
In a confused haze, she picked up the sword and secreted it in its chest. She undressed and climbed into bed where she cried herself to sleep.
* * *
Izzy quietly closed the door of his chamber and leaned his forehead against the cold stone. His inability to tell Farah the things he wanted to say made his belly roil. He fisted his hands and pounded the wall over and over, oblivious to the pain.
The fears of rejection he had held on to for many years, the barrier he had erected to protect his heart, all his insecurities had come flooding back in those crucial moments. He was too cowardly to summon the courage to bid her a fitting farewell.
His actions confirmed his belief that he was in no way worthy of her. His dreams of partnering with her in the dance came back to haunt him. He would never feel her naked skin against him, never press his hips to hers, never slide into her wet heat. She was lost to him, a woman with a far greater destiny than the deformed Master of Giroux Castle.
At least he had felt her touch, seen her dance, heard her laughter. He would treasure those memories forever. They would sustain him in his mission to become the Seigneur of Giroux Castle. Farah had changed him, given back his strength, his hope in the future. If only they could have shared it together.
* * *
Izzy’s decision to be absent from their farewell was a knife in the belly, but now Farah was grateful for it. She heard him pause outside her chamber door in the darkness before dawn, and choked on her tears when the sound of his footsteps faded.
The servants removed her baggage and loaded it on the packhorses. The Knights awaited her in the bailey, and Berthold would be growing impatient. He had explained to her in detail his plan to head for Tours where they would join the well-travelled route used by many pilgrims making their way to Santiago de Compostela.
But she had two places to visit before she departed this castle forever. She was leaving most of her medicinals in the Still Room and had one more thing to deliver there.
Firstly, though, she stole down into the crypt and knelt before the tomb of Georges de Giroux, laying a hand on its cold surface. Violence had brought him into her life, but he had loved her and her mother. She said a silent prayer of thanks and sought his blessing.
Crossing the threshold of the Still Room proved difficult. A tear trickled down her cheek as she ran her fingertip along the shelf of aromatic oils. She took the stopper from the vial of the Garden of Love, inhaling deeply. She closed her eyes and conjured Izzy’s face, his lean, muscular body. She raised her hands high above her head, snapping her fingers like castanets. Her feet moved to the beat of a silent drum. She gyrated her hips, pressing them to Izzy’s—breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Slowly she lowered her arms, tracing her fingertips down her neck, over her breasts, lifting them to his thirsting lips. A deep yearning threatened to steal her wits. Her knees buckled and she gripped the bench for support.
When the room stopped spinning, she slowly unfastened the scabbard of the shamshir from around her hips and laid the weapon reverently on the bench in the place where she had first seen him use it. “With all my love, Izzy. Use it in good health. Recuérdame, mi amor,” she sobbed, patting the leather scabbard in the hope he would remember her with love.
Intrigue
Huesca, Aragón
The manner in which Vermudo Díaz always swaggered into her presence when she summoned him slightly amused la Reina Madre Felicia. As Dowager Queen she held the power of life and death, but the arrogant nobleman knew she depended on him for certain clandestine activities. He had proven to be an efficient and trustworthy spy and assassin, for which he had reaped rich rewards.
It was rumored his father was Moorish, and his swarthy features hinted at the possibility, but she was sure no one ever mentioned it to his face.
He bowed low with a cheeky flourish of his plumed hat, showing off a well-formed leg. Vermudo was a philandering rake, and most of the noble families of Aragón kept their daughters far away from him. If she was thirty years younger—
“Majestad,” he purred, “you summoned me, and I came running.”
Felicia was tempted to slap him, but Vermudo was not a man to have as an enemy. “I am giving you a task.”
“I live to serve, Reina Madre. I assume it is of the utmost secrecy?”
Felicia inclined her head slightly, gripping the carved arms of her son’s throne. “A woman is on her way here to Huesca. She must never arrive.”
Vermudo fingered his pointed beard. “Is one permitted to guess that this woman is our dear king’s sister of whom he speaks so fondly?”
Felicia leapt to her feet. “She is not his sister. She is a bastard.”
Vermudo jutted out his chin, stroked his thumb and forefinger over his throat, and looked up at the ornate ceiling, an amused grin on his face.
Felicia paced. “I have learned that she and her escort travel by way of Chaca. Alfonso wishes her to see the monastery of San Juan de la Peña, where their father is entombed. It’s a travesty.
“I leave it to your knowledge of the area to decide where an ambush should be laid. However, it must appear to be the work of infidels.”
“When is the fair lady expected?” Vermudo asked in a bored voice, heightening her annoyance.
Felicia smoothed her palms over the folds of her satin skirts, seeking to calm her nervousness. “They have departed Normandie. She travels with an escort of Hospitaller Knights.”
Vermudo narrowed his grey eyes. “Hospitallers?”
Felicia smiled inwardly. At last, she had said something to shake his imperturbable demeanor. “This troubles you? You are intimidated by the prospect?”
Vermudo shrugged. “I do not relish killing men sworn to God’s service, but for you, dear Queen—”
Relief surged through her. She regained her seat and waved a dismissive hand. He bowed and left, twirling his absurd hat on one finger.
* * *
The king’s mother naively believed he was unaware of the secret compartment behind the throne of Aragón. Alfonso loved her, despite her constant plots to control the politics of his kingdom. Why did she not trust him to do what was best?
He was incensed when he learned his mother plotted to murder his half-sister. However, he had long searched for a way to ensnare Vermudo Díaz. This scheme of his mother’s might be the key to ridding Aragón of the powerful nobleman. Alfonso suspected Díaz thirsted to sit on the throne.
He arranged a meeting with his most trusted lieutenants away from the palace, apprising them of the plot. He addressed their commander. “Dominguez, you are in charge.”
The burly warrior thumped his fist to his heart.
“I want to know everything Díaz does, where h
e goes, whom he sees. His web is large if he plans to attack well-armed and battle-seasoned Hospitallers. I must know who the traitors are.”
Dominguez chuckled. “We will trap him in a web of our own making, Majestad.”
Alfonso shifted his weight. He must be careful that his own mother did not become entangled in this web. She had to be controlled, but he did not want her blood on his hands. “La Reina Madre cannot learn of our knowledge of this plot. She has eyes and ears everywhere, as does Díaz. It is a delicate and dangerous task.”
Dominguez bowed. “It will be done with the utmost secrecy and stealth.”
Alfonso paced. “I suggested to Sir Berthold they take the pilgrim route through Chaca. I want my sister to visit our father’s tomb in the Monastery of San Juan de la Peña. Where will Díaz lay his ambush? That is the question.”
Too Late
There was one bright spot in the endless days of gloom that followed Farah’s departure from Giroux Castle. Amadour de Vignoles arrived from Montbryce. Izzy and Steward Aubin greeted him in the bailey.
Izzy embraced him. “Good to see you again, mon ami. Aubin here is our steward. He will see to your needs.”
Artus bowed. “It is an honor to meet you. I have heard of your heroism at Civitote during the First Crusade.”
Amadour shrugged. “The credit goes to my friend, Caedmon FitzRam. I followed his lead. It was my great good fortune that meeting him brought me to Montbryce Castle, and into the service of Ram de Montbryce, God rest his soul.”
Izzy remembered his uncle fondly. “Oui, oncle Ram was a good man, and Robert is following in his footsteps. He is a strong comte.”
Aubin passed the reins of Amadour’s steed to a stable lad, and indicated the door of the keep. Amadour took off his leather riding gloves and batted the dust off his legs as they walked. “Milord Robert is a bastion of opposition to the Curthose camp, especially after his illegal imprisonment. He will fight to the death to protect his home from Curthose’s son, Clito.”
Izzy chewed his lip. “That is our task here, Amadour, and the reason I am thankful for your presence. I am confident most of the Giroux men have accepted me, but there may still be some among them who support William Clito’s claim to the Duchy of Normandie. Hatred of the Montbryce name ran deep here for three generations.”
Amadour shook his head, accepting a tankard of ale from a manservant. “How old is Clito now, six? Trust Louis of France to completely reverse his country’s position and back Curthose’s son to suit his own ends.”
Izzy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a swig of his ale. Had Amadour noticed he no longer wore his gloves? “Louis isn’t even King of France yet.”
“Non, but he might as well be. His father has more or less handed over power. They say the old king is weak and feeble. Philippe was king of France before we Normans conquered England.”
Izzy flexed his fingers, missing Farah’s massages. “And, of course, our old enemy Fulk of Anjou also supports Clito’s claim. He will do anything to disrupt the peace of Normandie. We must be vigilant and root out the dissenters here. I cannot afford to have traitors in our midst.”
Amadour drained his tankard, banged it down on the table, and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get started.”
Izzy laughed. “The morrow will be soon enough, my friend. You’ve ridden for many hours. A bath is ready and then we’ll dine and discuss our plans.”
Amadour smiled, looking around. “A bath does sound good. I suspect you have already made many improvements here. I heard how gloomy and unwelcoming this castle was.”
Farah’s loss swept over Izzy again. “I had a lot of help. There was a woman here—”
“The Spanish princess? I heard about her. She’s gone?”
Izzy took a deep breath. “She left with the Hospitaller Knights. Her half-brother is insistent she journey to Aragón. That is her destiny.”
Amadour looked directly at Izzy. “But I detect deep regret in your voice. You wanted her to stay?”
No one would never fathom the depths of Izzy’s regret. Indeed, regret was not a strong enough word. It was all he could do to get through a day without her. He missed her laughter, her touch. Sleep eluded him. He lay on his belly, one arm hanging over the side of the bed, remembering the feel of her breast in his hand. Why had he not brushed his thumb over her nipple, pulled her into his bed, kissed, fondled, suckled?
He wandered often into her chamber and curled up on her bed, taking deep breaths of the exotic scents that still hung in the air. He had not crossed the threshold of the Still Room, fearing he would cry like a baby if he inhaled the aromas of the oils and ointments she had used to calm him, to heal his soul.
Amadour was right that the castle looked and smelled better, but Izzy was not the only one who missed Farah. She had made her mark on the people of his household and he overheard many lament her departure. She had been a ray of sunshine in a castle that had lived in dark shadows too long.
Izzy bit his lip. “Oui, I wanted her to stay.”
“Then why did she go?”
Izzy was torn between a desire to punch Amadour’s nose and a need to confide his torment. “I am not the man for her. She is a princess, worthy of a whole man. How could a woman like her care for a creature like me with these hands?”
Amadour stared at him. “You love her, don’t you?”
Izzy drained his tankard. “It’s of no importance. She’s gone.”
“Did you ask her to stay?”
It was a simple question. Why had he not asked her to stay? Would she have said yes? “Non, I didn’t, and it’s too late now.”
* * *
Amadour quickly took charge of training for the men-at-arms. Most of them showed respect for him as a hero of the Crusades. He and Izzy discussed each man, sharing their opinions about his loyalty and commitment. To Izzy’s relief, there seemed to be only one or two disgruntled individuals who would have to be watched.
He had thought that two days of intensive training, followed by their discussions deep into the night would help him sleep. It was a forlorn hope. Farah danced in his head. He was in a state of constant aching arousal thinking of her.
Exhausted, it occurred to him that Farah’s oils had helped him sleep. It was absurd to be afraid to use them. He quickly donned a shirt and breeches and made his way through the torchlit hallways to the Still Room. Aided by the light from the hallway, he soon found the right vial. He removed the stopper and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as longing swept over him. “Farah,” he whispered.
He shivered and clasped his arms around his chest, swaying from side to side, holding Farah, dancing with her. His exhausted body failed him and he lurched into the bench. A spark jolted his hand when it brushed against an object lying there.
He had been struck by lightning. It couldn’t be—
He grasped the weapon with both hands, choking back a sob. An urge to scream that he could not contain burst from his throat. “Faraaaaah!”
Her name echoed off the stone walls. He fell to his knees, clutching the shamshir to his chest. What a fool he had been. He had failed to recognise a love so great that she would leave behind the most precious thing she owned. For him.
His destiny suddenly became clear. He would pursue her, though it meant abandoning his responsibilities as Master. Owning a piece of Normandie would mean nothing without Farah to enjoy it with him.
The hour was late when he hastened to Amadour’s chamber.
Desperate Journey
Despite the beauty of the flat, forested terrain over which they rode for many days, Farah’s heart and body were in agony. The old saddle that Elenor de Giroux had evidently not used for many a year proved a torment. Learning to ride had not been a necessity in a harem. Georges de Giroux had never owned a horse in Jerusalem. She had ridden in the cart with the baggage from the Holy City to Normandie.
Her thighs and bottom burned with raw welts by the time they arrived in Tours after five
days. Berthold planned to join the path followed by pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela. They were given shelter in the church built over the tomb of Saint Martin of Tours. The monks provided hospitality for pilgrims, but there was no privacy, no chance for relief. She lay on her belly on the cold stone floor, sinking her teeth into her wrist to muffle the sobs.
The pilgrims on their way to visit the tomb of Saint James in far off Spain were impressed that Hospitaller Knights of Saint John had joined their pilgrimage. Berthold soaked up the attention, and paid little mind to Farah.
For the next two days, she drifted in and out of a mindless fog as they wound their way to Poitiers. They slept in the Baptistère de Saint-Jean, amid the tombs of Merovingian monarchs. Someone was painting a fresco of Christ’s ascension and the air was heavy with the smell of lime and wet plaster. She shivered, her teeth chattering, unable to get warm, sick at heart.
When they rode away from the ancient building, she looked up at the carved corbels of comical faces on the exterior wall. They mocked her. Why had she not confessed her love and stood up to Berthold? What was she doing in the middle of nowhere, bound for a place she did not want to go? She conjured an image of Izzy finding the shamshir. It was of some consolation she had left the weapon made for him.
After ten more grueling days crossing endless plains and fording countless rivers, the terrain changed to rolling hills as they entered the village of Oloron. The Pyrenees Mountains loomed in the distance. She shuddered. On the other side of that awesome divide lay an uncertain future. She had not spoken Aragonese since her mother’s death. Berthold swore that Alfonso awaited her arrival with great anticipation, but his animated descriptions of her half-brother’s warrior-like nature intimidated her. Aragón and Navarra were in a constant state of war with the Moors. Normandie had its dangerous intrigues, but the holy war Alfonso waged against the infidels would be a bloody fight to the death. She feared many in his kingdom would not welcome her.
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