She squinted up into the weak sun. Three Knights lay on the bridge, bloodied. Berthold and the Spaniard fought on. Sword clashed with sword, but Farah heard only the deafening torrent.
Suddenly, Berthold dropped to his knees at her side. Their eyes met. His were full of regret, disbelief, pain, and she knew with sickening certainty he had been dealt a mortal blow. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. He collapsed and his sword fell from his hand.
Farah scrambled to her feet. The weapon was not a shamshir, but it was all she had, and she would not die without a fight. The plumed nobleman smirked when she picked up the sword with both hands. It was heavy—too heavy. With her shamshir she might have inflicted serious damage.
The man’s mouth was moving. His eyes showed his contempt. He sheathed his sword and frowned when she did not lower the blade. He held out his hand for the sword. Filling her burning lungs, she swung, narrowly missing his hand, grunting as the breath whooshed from her lungs. He took a step back, the scowl on his face betraying his displeasure. She braced her legs, swaying, the sword held as high as she could manage, ready for the next advance. Despite the cold, she was sweating. It was the first time for weeks she had been warm.
A horse galloped past, but their eyes remained locked. He moved towards her, more wary now. She danced out of his way, but his hand snaked out to grasp her wrist. He twisted it cruelly and the sword fell from her grasp. She struggled to be free of his grip, but he turned her back to his chest, clamping his arm around her neck. He dragged her to the edge. She clawed at his arm, fighting for air, sickened by the heat of his breath against her ear, and a chuckling sound that infuriated her. He turned her to face the water. He would loosen his hold and she would tumble into the deadly current. She closed her eyes and prepared for death. “Dios, perdóname—”
Then above the roar of the torrent, she heard a voice calling her name. A voice she had despaired of ever hearing again.
* * *
“Faraaah,” Izzy screamed, riding pell-mell onto the bridge. The woman he loved dangled like a rag doll perilously close to the edge, held there by some Spaniard wearing a ridiculous hat who would soon be dead. Izzy had already drawn the shamshir when the terrified pilgrims had come running up the path towards them, waving their arms in warning, screaming murder, ambush, bandits in several different languages. He had known in his gut the danger was to Farah.
He whirled the blade over his head, the pain in his hands spurring him on. He slashed at anyone who stood in his way and heads rolled like soule balls.
Amadour followed closely behind, cleaving bone and muscle with his sword. Brigands scrambled to escape their fury, some shoving comrades into the river.
The Spaniard holding Farah shouted something. A man who looked like a giant crow emerged from bushes at one end of the bridge. Snarling, he swaggered towards Izzy, slicing the air menacingly with a large dagger. Izzy leapt from his horse and flicked the shamshir, lopping off the crow’s arm below the elbow, sending it and the dagger cascading into the river. The man looked in dazed disbelief at the blood gushing from the stump. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he dropped like a lead weight.
The miscreant holding Farah gaped at his fallen comrade for a brief moment, then turned around, using her body as a shield. He braced his legs against the low stone wall and yelled something Izzy could not hear. Farah looked ready to swoon. She clutched at the arm clamped tightly around her neck. Her eyes were full of pain, hopelessness, love, gratitude. Izzy saw all this in the blink of an eye. He was a man possessed. His hopes for a future with Farah were at risk.
“Alto! Alto!” the man screeched, his eyes fixed on the shamshir.
Izzy was close enough to hear him now. Without breaking stride, he turned his wrist, grasped Farah’s hand and skewered the Spaniard in the ribs. He swiftly withdrew the blade and pulled Farah towards him, but as the wide-eyed nobleman fell backwards over the wall he took her with him.
Izzy dropped the shamshir and lunged to save her, still holding one hand, reaching for the other. He braced his thighs against the low wall, the rough edge slamming into his chest as he peered over. The man was gone. Farah dangled over the side like a dancing marionette, feet kicking inches above the surging water, her life in his useless hands.
* * *
“I won’t let you go,” Izzy shouted above the roar.
Farah smiled weakly, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. Pain was etched on his face. Her arms were being pulled from her bruised body, her hands slick with the sweat of fear. The icy caress of the spray from the angry river crept up her legs and into her soul. She was cold, very cold.
She looked into the desperate eyes of the man she adored, determined to tell him of her heart’s desire with her last breath. “I love you, Izzy,” she mouthed, her voice stolen by fear.
His grip on her hands tightened. He squared his jaw, gritted his teeth, and filled his lungs, looking to the sky. Some unseen force seemed to take possession of his body and incredibly she was being pulled away from the angry torrent. He let out a thunderous cry of agonized triumph as he dragged her atop the wall. It echoed off the gorge, silencing the river. The stone bit into her breasts, scoured her arms.
Many strong hands helped Izzy pull her over the wall to the safety of the bridge. He scooped her up and pressed her to his trembling body, his heart hammering in her ear.
She blinked, trying to clear the blurry haze. Berthold knelt at Izzy’s feet, his tunic soaked in blood. But he was dead, wasn’t he? Perhaps she had drowned and was now with the souls on their way to heaven?
A tall, bearded mountain of a man stood at their side, a coronet atop his head, relief evident on his face. She reached out a hand towards the man she knew was her brother. “Majestad,” she acknowledged as she slipped into oblivion.
* * *
Alfonso, King of Aragón, had never wept, but tears of relief welled in his eyes. For the sake of his father’s memory, the regret if his half-sister had died would have been intolerable. He and his soldiers had arrived almost too late. From the hill overlooking the bridge they saw the brigands had already set upon the Knights. Vermudo held María Sancha in a devil’s grip.
As Alfonso and his men galloped desperately towards the melee, a stranger quickly dispatched Vermudo. He was a Christian knight who wielded an infidel’s weapon as though he had been born with it in his hand. María Sancha was plucked from the jaws of death by the incredible strength of the same knight who now cradled her to his chest.
A figure he did recognize, Berthold de Quincy, lay on the bridge, evidently seriously wounded, the bodies of other Hospitaller Knights strewn around him. He had led his men directly into Vermudo’s trap. An unknown Christian knight stood with his foot on the Wolf’s chest. The sobbing and bleeding Velasco seemed to be missing an arm. A wounded Hospitaller tended him. Alfonso itched to cast Lope Velasco into the river, but at least the crow’s wings had been clipped.
He strode over to the knight holding María Sancha. She opened her eyes, the eyes of his father. “Majestad,” she whispered when he touched his fingertip to the small heart-shaped birthmark on her neck. Elation flooded his veins. This was his father’s daughter. The knight growled at him, but María Sancha fainted and her savior turned his attention to her.
Time was of the essence. The young man could not carry María Sancha all the way back to the Priorato de Santa Cristina. They would need a litter. Alfonso cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted to Dominguez. “Camilla, ahora!”
He turned back to the breathless knight, addressing him in Aragonese. “I am Alfonso, King of Aragón. The woman you hold is my sister. Thank you for saving her life.”
He held out his arms to take María Sancha, but the young man resisted, seemingly not comprehending Alfonso’s words. Alfonso tried again in French and saw the light of understanding in the foreigner’s eyes. Still he would not relinquish his burden. “How do I know you are to be trusted?” he rasped. “Perhaps this attack was
at your command.”
Alfonso had to admire this young nobleman who dared challenge a king in order to protect the woman in his arms. Separating them would be like snatching a bear cub from its mother, and Alfonso had a feeling the watchful knight with his foot atop the Wolf would spring to his lord’s defense. “You are wise to be doubtful. In fact it was my mother who instigated this plot. I wish only good things for my sister, for my father’s sake. Who are you and what is she to you?”
The young knight looked longingly at the woman he held. “I am Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce of Normandie. Farah is my life.”
Normandie! Montbryce had travelled far in pursuit. “If you love María Sancha—Farah—we must get her back to the hospital at Santa Cristina. The monks will care for her. She is obviously ill.”
Dominguez and his soldiers appeared with a litter hastily fashioned from trees hewn from the hillside. Montbryce knelt and placed his burden carefully on it. He put a hand on her forehead. “She is too cold,” he rasped.
For the first time, Alfonso noticed the gnarled hands. How had Montbryce managed to pull María Sancha back from the brink of death with such hands? “Milagro,” he murmured, crossing himself. “A miracle.”
He ordered cloaks and coverings. Montbryce tucked them around María Sancha. “I will walk at her side.”
Alfonso acquiesced. “As you wish. We must make haste. Adelante.”
She Cannot Die
Izzy had no memory of the hurried trek to Santa Cristina. His legs must have moved; he must have taken air into his lungs. His attention had been on the shallow rise and fall of Farah’s chest, and the eerie wheezing sounds she made. She had lain deathly still on the litter carried on the broad shoulders of four burly Aragonese warriors.
Other wounded men, including Berthold, were borne aloft, but Izzy paid them no heed.
In the infirmary, he prayed as he had never prayed before, keeping vigil by her pallet. He lay the shamshir by her feet, hoping the talisman would bring her back to him. He gave the monks the alabaster jar of spikenard he had packed in his saddlebags, wishing he could use it to soothe her ravaged body as she had done for him. The monks’ amazement confirmed its worth, but they would not allow him to touch her. They anointed her feet and hands. Izzy inhaled the aroma deeply, choking on the bittersweet memory.
He only relinquished his post at her side when Amadour dragged him away from the insistent censure of the monks.
“She cannot die,” he whimpered to his friend.
Amadour clamped his hand on Izzy’s arm. “It is you who will die if you do not rest and eat. You have consumed nothing for three days.”
Izzy tried to break free. “I am not hungry. She may awaken at any moment.”
Amadour forced him to the refectory and procured bread and cheese from the Cellarer. “Eat! The king visits her often. They will seek you out if she opens her eyes.”
Izzy scowled. “You mean when she opens her eyes.”
Reluctantly, he ate the bread and cheese, accepting also the tankard of watered ale Amadour brought him. He did not recall falling asleep, splayed across the crude trestle table, his head resting on the crook of his arm. Nor did he know how long he had slept when Amadour wakened him. “Farah is asking for you.”
He hastened to the infirmary. Alfonso loomed over Farah, her hand in his. Jealousy tore through Izzy. He grasped her other hand, holding it to his lips. “Farah,” he whispered, barely able to speak, elated she had lost some of her pallor. He breathed again when she turned to look at him and Alfonso released her hand.
“Izzy,” she murmured, her eyes full of love and longing. “You came for me.”
“Izzy?” Alfonso queried loudly.
Izzy ignored him. “I love you, Farah. I was a stupid fool to let you leave. I believed you could never care for a man like me, but when I found the shamshir—”
Farah pressed a fingertip to his lips and smiled. Her eyelashes fluttered closed and she slept again.
Izzy kissed her forehead, hope pounding in his chest for the first time.
Alfonso cleared his throat. “We need to talk, young Norman. Come with me.”
* * *
Farah drifted in and out of sleep. A fire burned in her chest, but at least the chill was gone. She was warm, and for that she was grateful. The aroma of spikenard soothed her, evoking sweet memories of Izzy’s strong body. The events at the bridge were hazy, except for the moment she had looked into Izzy’s eyes and seen the anguished love that filled them.
She became aware of someone standing close to her pallet, watching her. Perhaps a monk? Or Izzy? Alarm surged through her when she turned her head. It was Berthold, haggard and stooped, a torn cloak around his shoulders, his torso swathed in bandages. Was he a ghost? She opened her mouth to cry out, clutching the linens to her breast, but the Knight held up his hand and bowed his head. His voice was hoarse. “You need no longer fear me, Farah. I have come to beg your forgiveness.”
Conflicting emotions tore at her heart. Berthold was sworn to the service of his God, devoted to his Order. He had done much for Georges de Giroux and for her. She would not have survived Jerusalem without his help after her mother’s death and the onset of Georges’ dementia.
But his zeal had put lives in danger. Hospitaller Knights had died on that bridge. She suspected the promise of a hefty reward to the Order for her safe delivery to Aragón had been his overriding concern. She remained silent, not knowing what to say.
He swallowed hard. “I had no right to put your life in jeopardy. I ignored factions in Aragón who would plot to kill you. I thought only of the benefits to my Order. Now, six of my men have lost their lives and will lie buried here forever. I have forfeited my honor.”
“I remember seeing you fall. I believed you were dead,” she murmured. “It frightened me.”
For the first time, Berthold raised his eyes to look at her, a grim expression on his face. “It terrified me to think I would die before confessing my sins, to you and to my God.”
She reached out a hand to touch his gaunt face. He had aged a hundred years. “I forgive you, Berthold de Quincy.”
He covered her hand with his own and sagged with obvious relief. “Thank you, Farah.”
* * *
Izzy stood atop the outer wall of Santa Cristina beside the King of Aragón, looking out over the thickly treed gorge. Izzy was tall, but Alfonso towered over him. He gripped the rough stones, aware he was in the presence of a powerful man he may have offended with his lack of deference.
Alfonso chuckled. “Most people fear me, Montbryce, but you do not.”
Izzy bowed politely. “I ask your forgiveness, your majesty, for my rude behavior. My concern for Farah—”
Alfonso raised his hand. “Your love for my sister is evident, young man. I understand why you acted as you did. What is the meaning of this expression Izzy?”
He smiled. “It is my nickname, the name I prefer to Isembart.”
Alfonso stroked his beard. “I see. And María Sancha calls you by this name?”
Izzy felt his face redden, remembering the first time Farah had asked about his name. “She does.”
Alfonso strode away a few paces, hands clasped behind his back, then turned. He put a heavy hand on Izzy’s shoulder. “Here is my concern, Izzy—may I call you that?”
Izzy quickly closed his gaping mouth.
“Royal blood flows in María Sancha’s veins. It was my hope to form an important alliance by arranging a good marriage with another royal house.”
Izzy pressed his lips together, grinding his teeth, his belly a snake pit of dread. “I know I am not worthy of her, Your Majesty, that is why I let her go.”
“Now, you pursue her.”
He folded his arms across his chest and braced his legs. “I love her, and I believe she loves me.”
“What convinced you of that?”
He recounted the story of the shamshir. Alfonso listened intently, but showed no expression, even when Izzy told of ad-Da
ula attacking Farah with the weapon.
There was a long silence before the king spoke. “Have you lain with her?”
Izzy itched to hit Alfonso squarely on the nose, king or not. He stiffened his spine, thinking of how he had longed to thrust his manhood into Farah, of his hand cupping her breast. “I am an honorable man.”
Alfonso paced again. “If she marries a prince, she will be wealthy and live in luxury. What can you offer her?”
Should he try to explain that his powerful cousin had entrusted him with a castle he had abandoned? “Only love, and lifelong fidelity.”
Alfonso eyed him curiously. Izzy had the feeling the king was already aware of his circumstances, perhaps from Amadour, or Berthold.
He took a deep breath. “Your Majesty, Normandie is not the safest place in the world, but no one there seeks to murder your sister.”
Alfonso chuckled. “You are indeed a brave man. Some may say foolhardy. I wonder what my mother would make of you, if you considered living in Aragón. Since I was told of my sister’s existence, I have longed for her to know the land of her ancestors, to learn of our father.”
Izzy’s heart fell. Could he leave his beloved Normandie to become a vassal of the King of Aragón? He was a Montbryce, a member of a distinguished noble family. It would be a betrayal of Robert’s trust, of his family heritage. His father would be devastated. But if it was the only way to have Farah—
He braced his legs. “If Farah wishes it—”
Alfonso’s cloak swirled around him as he turned away abruptly. “We shall ask her.”
New Roots
Izzy followed Alfonso into the infirmary. Berthold de Quincy loomed over Farah’s pallet. Murderous anger rose up in Izzy’s throat as he stalked towards the Knight. He reached for the shamshir, gaining satisfaction from the fear that flickered in Berthold’s eyes.
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