“No, Izzy,” Farah cried, struggling to rise. “Berthold came to ask my forgiveness.”
Alfonso took his arm. “I will speak with the Knight.”
Berthold stepped away from Farah and Izzy pushed between them, taking Farah’s hand, scowling at the Hospitaller. He helped her rise, enfolded her in his cloak and assisted her to a chair. He stood behind her, a protective hand on her shoulder.
With difficulty, Berthold got to his knees in front of Alfonso and lowered his head to the king’s feet. “Majestad, I beg your forgiveness.”
The king took his arm, assisting the wounded knight to rise. “How could you have known of the plot against my sister? I myself did not learn of it until after you had left. It was I who put temptation in your way, offering you gold for the Order. In retrospect, we might all have acted differently, and your comrades would not have died.”
Berthold trembled, breathing heavily, pulling the meagre cloak more tightly around his shoulders. “I will devote my life to making amends for my sin.” He turned to Izzy. “I would ask your pardon, Montbryce. I have wronged you grievously. Farah belongs with you. I knew it, yet I forced her to leave. When you depart for Normandie, I would go with you to see you safely home.”
Safely home? Did he still have a home? Izzy wanted to laugh at the absurd notion of this knight who could barely stand upright protecting them. But the man was struggling to hang on to the last shreds of his pride. Izzy held out his hand. “I would appreciate your protection, when you are mended and fit enough.”
Berthold swallowed hard, bowed to the king and limped away.
Alfonso took hold of Farah’s hand. “This brings us to the next question. You have to make a choice, María Sancha. Your birthmark proves to me you are my sister.”
He lowered the collar of his tunic to reveal the identical mark on his neck and bent low before her. Farah reached up to touch her fingertip to it. “Mi hermano,” she murmured.
Izzy fought to control the panic rising in his gut. She’d recognised Alfonso as her brother. He clenched the fist at his side, but his fingers were locked in agony. The gnarled hand on her shoulder trembled, despite his efforts to control it. Would she choose to stay with her brother?
Alfonso now stood tall. “If you decide to remain in Aragón, you will be honored as a princess. My mother has become too dangerous. She will be sent to a nunnery once I return to Huesca. The people of Aragón loved my father, and they will love you.”
Izzy watched Farah’s face. She glanced at him. He had failed before to let her know his feelings. His gut clenched, a thousand snakes writhing in his belly. He must not lose her now, simply because he feared rejection. He went down on one knee. “It is your decision to make, Farah, but know that I love you more than life itself.”
She let out a long, slow breath.
Once begun, he could not stop. “Giroux Castle cannot compare with the splendors of a royal palace, but if you marry me and become Mistress of Giroux, with your help I will make it the most renowned castle in all of Normandie.”
* * *
Farah gazed at Izzy as he poured out his heart, knowing how difficult it was for him to risk rejection. Then she looked at her half-brother. Memories of the years of imprisonment with her mother flooded back. She had longed to know the man who had fathered her—a great king who loved her mother passionately. That had been denied her, but here stood his son, another mighty monarch, a man of her blood, the lost family she had yearned for.
But Alfonso was a king engaged in a fight to the death with the Moors. He knew the value of strategic alliances. Farah was not naive enough to doubt he would arrange a marriage for her that would be beneficial for his kingdom.
She did not question her brother’s sincerity. He looked at her expectantly. But her heart belonged to Izzy. “Majestad, I love Izzy de Montbryce. I will never marry another.”
Alfonso’s eyes widened. He shifted his weight and scratched his beard. The smile left his face and she feared he was struggling to control his anger.
The corners of Izzy’s mouth edged up, his eyes bright with hope. “Farah—”
Alfonso interrupted. “If you are determined to wed Montbryce, sister, I offer him a place of honor in my court.”
It was possible to have everything she wanted; the man she loved, a close relationship with her brother in the land of her ancestors. But what of Izzy’s ancestry? How would he feel about leaving Normandie? Her heart knew the answer before she saw the desolation in his eyes.
Izzy cradled her face in his hands, brushing his thumbs along her cheekbones. His warmth brought tears to her eyes. “Farah, I am a proud Norman, bound to my homeland by centuries of glorious history. My roots are there. But yours are here. I will never let you go. If you wish to live in Aragón, I will put down new roots.”
The depth of his love, his willingness to leave his homeland for her sake, awed her. What had she done to deserve such love? But it was not only Izzy she loved. It was Giroux Castle, its people and its history, dark as it was. Her destiny was to help him establish Giroux as a place known for its splendor, its prosperity, to plant and nurture apple orchards, to bring new hope to its people. She belonged in Normandie, with Izzy.
She covered his hands with hers and smiled. “No, Izzy, I wish to return to Normandie, with you.”
He let out a long, ragged breath, leapt to his feet and gathered her up in his arms. He kissed her, his arms wrapped around her waist, her breasts pressed to his broad chest. It was a hard kiss, full of love and longing. She did not hesitate to accept him when his tongue swirled inside. He kissed and kissed and soon she did not know if her tongue was in his mouth or his in hers.
Alfonso coughed loudly, bringing them back to reality. Farah felt her face redden. Izzy too blushed. He leaned his forehead against hers, panting.
“So be it,” Alfonso declared. “But if you will not stay in Aragón, sister, please do me the honor of being married here. We will journey to the monastery near Chaca. Our father is buried there. It is a fitting place for your nuptials.”
Farah’s eyes sought Izzy’s. He smiled his assent.
Saint John Of The Rock
It was a fortnight before Izzy declared Farah fit enough to travel. His heart and his loins urged him to carry her off right away to be married. The monks kept a stern eye on them wherever they meandered in the hospital once Farah was able to leave the infirmary. It was torture to keep his hands off her, and he sensed she felt the same. He had to be content with whispered promises of what he would do with his tongue once they were married.
His own boldness surprised him. Since he and Farah had confessed their love, no topic seemed too intimate. The flush on her face, the sticky sweat of her palms, the promise in her eyes, all hinted at a passion lurking beneath Farah’s outward control that excited him beyond belief.
His only niggling doubt was how she would react when his deformed fingers slid into her most intimate place.
Alfonso rode away with his entourage to the Monastery of San Juan de la Peña to make arrangements for the marriage ceremony, then he intended to ride on to Huesca. Word was brought that his mother had gone off to a nunnery, pleading infirmity. He confided his relief to his sister. The Wolf was taken in chains to Huesca, but Alfonso hoped public embarrassment might be avoided with his mother gone.
The cavalcade set off from the Priorato de Santa Cristina to travel through the pass to Chaca. Alfonso had provided a large armed escort, assuring them the remaining bandits at Canfranc had been rounded up, but crossing the bridge again was an eerie experience.
Berthold, who insisted he was recovered enough to accompany them, never took his eyes from the swift flowing waters of the Aragón River, until they were half way across. He and his remaining knights dismounted, went down on their knees, and prayed for their lost comrades. His face wet with tears, he needed help to get back on his feet.
Izzy never left Farah’s side and when they reached the point in the bridge where he had saved her, the
y paused. She shuddered, staring at the rushing water. He reached out his hand. She kissed it and held it to her face. “I have never thanked you for saving me,” she whispered.
He looked up into the clear, blue sky, remembering the unexpected strength that had surged through him in that dire moment. “I had help.”
* * *
They stayed overnight in Chaca, a bustling center of trade, and visited the cathedral of San Pedro, built during the reign of Farah’s father, before embarking on the five-hour trek to San Juan de la Peña. Berthold seemed to have regained his fondness for sharing his extensive knowledge of the world, explaining the history of the town that was once the capital of Aragón before Huesca was recovered from the Moors.
At twilight they came at last to the monastery of San Juan de la Peña. Nothing could have prepared them for the sight. Nestled in an enormous natural cavern, it seemed to have burst forth from the rock face itself. Berthold explained that the monastery was named for Saint John of the Rock because of its location, but even he remained silent when they passed beneath its awesome portal.
Farah had never entered a place imbued with so much peaceful spirituality. The silence wrapped its welcoming arms around them. The soaring walls enfolded them in their intimate grandeur. It seemed a fitting place for the tomb of the royal father she had never known, and an auspicious setting for a marriage.
To their surprise, Alfonso greeted them, accompanied by the abbot. He kissed Farah’s cheek and clasped Izzy’s hand. “Bienvenidos! You are tired after your journey. Though El Prior is anxious to show you his monastery, we will postpone our wanderings until the morrow. Then, the nuptial ceremony is set for early evening. Padre Benito will show you to your cells.”
The reed-thin monk bowed, silently indicating the way. They came first to a dormitorio where Padre Benito invited Berthold and his knights to sleep. The novice monks made their guests welcome. Izzy hung back when the abbot moved on, but Padre Benito indicated this was not where he would stay.
He led Izzy and Farah to two cells, side by side. “For your last night apart, my children,” he whispered, winking. They were the first words he had spoken to them. Farah wanted to giggle at the confusion on Izzy’s face. She explained what the abbot had said and was rewarded by Izzy’s broad smile. Oh, the flutters in the belly that smile caused.
The abbot coughed and ushered them into their separate cells, with an invitation to dine in the refectory within the hour.
* * *
After a plain but tasty meal, Izzy and Farah retired to their cells. There was opportunity for only the briefest of kisses given the presence of the tonsured escort who lit their way.
The monk transferred the flame to a small candle in Izzy’s cell, then left him alone. The heavy door scraped the stone floor as the monk closed it. Izzy raked his hands through his hair, and let out a long, slow breath, doubtful he would get any sleep knowing Farah was on the other side of the wall.
On the morrow, she would become his wife. It was hard to believe such a beautiful, exotic creature loved him. He reached to unfasten the scabbard of the shamshir, then remembered weapons were forbidden within the monastery. He peeled off his doublet, flopped down on the hard pallet, and took off his boots.
It was chilly in the cave-like cell, and the meager blanket did not promise warmth, so he kept his shirt and breeches on. The damp had seeped into his hands. Remembering there was a small amount of spikenard left that he had retrieved from the monks, he found the jar in his saddlebags and smoothed a dab of the remaining ointment on his knuckles.
Stretched out on the thin straw mattress, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, he watched the dancing shadows cast by the flickering flame of the candle. He closed his eyes, reliving Farah’s dance. She had enthralled him with her performance. Aroused by the memory, he placed his hands on his erection, inhaling the aroma of the spikenard. His muscles tightened.
He could bring about his own release, if he wished, but it seemed inappropriate in this holy place, though he suspected many a monk perhaps brought himself off within these sacred walls.
He turned on his side and drew up the blanket, strangely content to wait until the morrow when his body would join with Farah’s. His last thought before sleep claimed him was a hope that their marriage bed would be bigger and more comfortable than his hard pallet.
* * *
Farah tossed and turned on the hard pallet. Alfonso had seen to it she was provided with a warm chemise, but she shivered in the damp cell, longing for Izzy’s warmth. On the morrow, she would become his wife. He would do things to her body she had yearned for him to do, touch her in intimate places that craved his touch. She stretched, her muscles tightening as an image of Izzy’s fingers parting her folds danced behind her eyes.
She sat bolt upright, panting, shocked that her own hand had wandered into the hot wetness of that most intimate place. But something else lingered from the hazy dream. Izzy’s fingers—they were whole, straight, strong, as if a miracle had taken place.
Her heart filled with hope—for him, for a life free of the affliction that dogged him. When they visited her father’s tomb, she would pray for that miracle harder than she had ever prayed for anything before. Her experience aboard the fateful voyage to Jerusalem had taught her that miracles could happen.
* * *
The following morning, Padre Benito proudly guided his guests through the monastery, explaining in great detail every facet of the kitchen, the infirmary, the medicine room—in which Farah was particularly interested—the refectory, the wine cellar, the provisions cupboard. It seemed unlikely that this was the same man of few words they had met the previous day. Though he spoke in hushed tones, his voice echoed off the high vaulted ceilings.
They came at last to the Pantheon of Kings. Alfonso awaited them. “It is my wish that my sister and I enter alone to pay homage to our father.”
Farah was torn. She understood Alfonso’s wishes, but had convinced herself something miraculous might happen if Izzy entered the Pantheon with her. How would he feel about being left out of this important occasion?
Someone touched her elbow. She knew without looking it was Izzy. “I will wait here, beloved,” he whispered. “Go with your brother.”
Taking a deep breath, she allowed Alfonso to escort her into the Pantheon.
* * *
Farah and Alfonso may have knelt shoulder to shoulder before the sarcophagus of Sancho Ramírez for one hour, or ten. Neither spoke. Time meant nothing. Farah felt the presence of the powerful father she had never met. She imagined he resembled the giant at her side.
As the sanctifying incense that burned perpetually in the chamber filled her nostrils, her thoughts wandered. She thanked her father’s spirit for the gift of Isembart de Montbryce, for the love Sancho had borne her mother, for the kindness of the warrior king, her half-brother, for Georges de Giroux, and even for Berthold de Quincy.
She wondered if her father’s intercession had brought about the miracle aboard ad-Daula’s vessel that had enabled her to remain untouched.
Her life had changed in unforeseen ways. There had been many blessings, trials, losses, and triumphs. She remembered the difficult journeys that had brought her to this holy place. She had followed routes trodden by many pilgrims, hopeful men and women seeking miracles. There was much to be thankful for, but she had one more miracle to beg—for Izzy.
Gooseflesh marched up her spine when a barely perceptible breeze wafted through the Pantheon. Candle flames flickered. Clouds of incense drifted. Alfonso raised his head in apparent surprise. They were well within the monastery in a windowless chamber.
Farah squeezed her eyes tight shut and gripped the iron railing, afraid she might swoon. “Please,” she mouthed silently. “Please, father.”
Confused images and sounds assailed her thoughts. “I am not a saint,” an inner voice whispered. “You must seek the help of a saint.”
She opened her eyes slowly. Alfonso was staring at her, frowning
. He took her hand. “You heard him? He spoke to you? Sí?”
She blinked as tears trickled down her face. “Sí,” she rasped.
He squeezed her hand and let out a long breath. “I often come here when I am troubled. My father never fails to help me. I am elated you feel his presence.”
“I asked for a miracle,” she whispered shyly.
Alfonso touched his hand to her scar. “For this?”
She no longer gave much thought to her disfigurement, thanks to the man who loved her and made her feel she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She shook her head. “No. For Izzy.”
Alfonso arched his brows. “And what was my father’s message?”
Farah felt foolish, fearing she had imagined the whole thing. “He told me to seek the help of a saint. I did not understand.”
Alfonso leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You have already travelled far on the Pilgrims’ Path to a saint. Perhaps you and Izzy are meant to go all the way to Santiago de Compostela.”
Marriage
Resplendent in a tunic emblazoned with the devise of the King of Aragón, Izzy awaited his bride at the door of the chapel. He had discovered one of Alfonso’s servants outside his cell on his return from the Pantheon. “Su Majestad sent these clothes with his compliments. He does you great honor.”
Izzy would have preferred to be wed with the Montbryce devise on his chest, but his own travel-worn clothes were not fit for a man about to wed a princess. He accepted and allowed the servant to help him dress.
Passing the door to Farah’s cell, he heard soft female voices. Alfonso had doubtless provided suitable clothing and servants for her also. It was not a common occurrence for a king to marry off his sister.
Crescendo Page 13
