Crescendo

by Markland, Anna

  Amadour had arrived at the chapel before him and now stood proudly at Izzy’s side, also clad in Aragonese clothing. “It’s not every day a man’s friend marries a princess,” he quipped, elbowing Izzy in the ribs.

  Within the chapel, a cantor led monks in a chant, the like of which Izzy had never heard before. They chanted in Aragonese, not Latin. Their deep, sonorous voices imbued him with a peaceful certainty that fate had brought him to the right time and place, to the right woman, his soul mate. He had been stricken with the Montbryce curse after all.

  When Farah came into view on the arm of her brother, Izzy’s mouth fell open. Suitable clothing was definitely inadequate. She was a queen in a jewel-encrusted gown, its rubies and sapphires twinkling in the light cast by the torches held high by Alfonso’s attendants. Her long hair was piled atop her head in an elaborate arrangement. He itched to pull out the pins that held it in place and wrap his body in her thick tresses. He closed his mouth, suddenly aware he was drooling.

  A delicate circlet of gold nestled atop the glorious creation, and a black lace mantilla covered her face, its edges brushing the swell of her breasts, emphasizing their promise. It was fortunate the foreign tunic reached to his knees. His shaft was rock hard. He brushed away the sweat from his upper lip.

  Farah’s unfathomable expression when she had emerged from the Pantheon had caused him concern. She had kept her eyes downcast. Alfonso had probably tried to talk her out of the marriage. After she had gone off to her cell, Alfonso had invited him to enter the Pantheon, but had said nothing as they knelt briefly before the tomb. Izzy had the strangest feeling he had been there before, but dismissed it. Crypts tended to give him odd thoughts.

  It was amazing that the incredibly beautiful, talented, and generous woman smiling at him as the priest intoned the words of the marriage rite was agreeing to share her life with him. Aragonese was not his language, but it somehow seemed more fitting than the Latin rite a Norman priest would have used.

  When her hand was placed in his, she swirled her thumb in his palm and smiled. It struck him how right their hands looked together.

  * * *

  María Sancha Tarazona gazed at the hand of the courageous man she was marrying, feeling his warmth spread through her body. She longed to heal his pain, but he would not allow it. Should she tell him of her vision, if that’s what it had been, or would he believe she abhorred his infirmity when in truth she ached to feel his loving hands on her breasts, her thighs, her secret place?

  She heard the priest’s words spoken in a language learned from her mother, whispered in secret. Though her mother’s remains lay buried in far-off Jerusalem, Farah believed her spirit travelled with her, wherever she went. Was María Catalina at long last content to rest in the place where her lover’s body lay entombed?

  Alfonso had assured Farah that he would provide a token dowry for her. At the appropriate moment in the ceremony, the king stepped forward and placed a parchment scroll into the hands of the priest, who then presented it to Izzy.

  A knight appeared with a gold salver and Izzy placed the scroll on it, nodding in acknowledgement to Alfonso. Farah smiled at her brother, disappointed when he remained stony-faced.

  What was he up to?

  She had no time to worry further when Izzy put his hands on her waist and claimed his husband’s kiss. His body drew hers like a lodestone and she felt the ridge of his hard arousal pressed against the place that throbbed for him. His lips were warm, his kiss full of love and desire. His tongue flicked into her mouth for only an instant, a promise of things to come. His smile when they broke apart filled her heart with gratitude.

  Berthold led the knights in a round of cheers. Izzy and Farah looked up when another melodious chant sounded from the gallery.

  Farah stole a glance at her new husband. Many difficulties lay ahead, but they would face them together now.

  Wedding Feast

  When they left the chapel, servants dressed in Alfonso’s livery ushered them away from the refectory. Farah’s puzzled expression told Izzy she too did not know where they were going.

  They came to a corridor they had not visited before. Two Aragonese soldiers stood guard before elaborately carved double doors embossed with gold curlicues, which they threw open with great flourish.

  Alfonso awaited them, seated at the head of a well-laden table in the center of a chamber that was unlike any other they had seen. While not opulent, the hearty fire in the hearth, the rich tapestries and wolf skin rugs clearly distinguished it from the monastic austerity that characterized the rest of the edifice.

  Alfonso opened both arms wide, grinning. “Welcome to my royal apartments,” he declared.

  He indicated two chairs at his side and bade the newlyweds be seated. Izzy escorted Farah to her place, then sat beside her. Their hands remained joined.

  Alfonso chuckled. “You will have difficulty enjoying the food if you stay clasped together.”

  Izzy held Farah’s hand to his lips, then placed it in her lap with a gentle pat. Her eyes betrayed regret at the separation, sending shivers down his spine. The banquet room was magnificent, but he wanted to be in a big, warm bed with his wife, though he worried he still did not know where that bed was.

  Alfonso waved a regal hand, his eyes fixed on Izzy. “My apartments are at your disposal for your wedding night.”

  He winked! “Once we are done feasting, you will be escorted to the royal bedchamber.”

  Farah’s face reddened. Izzy’s shaft swelled as relief surged through him. His princess would lose her maidenhead in a chamber befitting her rank, in a king’s bed.

  He suddenly felt like a king himself.

  * * *

  The venison was superb, the suckling lamb the best Farah had ever tasted, but she was too nervous to eat much. She laughed at Izzy’s bemused expression when the king explained the ingredients of the fardeles he was munching.

  “Pig’s livers,” Alfonso explained, biting into one. “Spiced, then wrapped in kidney skins.”

  Izzy stopped chewing and looked at his wife. Then he shrugged and resumed his enjoyment of them. “Delicious!”

  Many of the dishes served by Alfonso’s servants brought back memories of things whispered in secret in the harem.

  “My mother missed the foods of her homeland and told me of these mouth watering tortas de alma,” Farah told Izzy as they relished the fried pastries stuffed with pumpkin preserves. “She did not exaggerate how wonderful they are.”

  Berthold came to his feet, with Alfonso’s permission, and proposed a toast to Izzy and Farah. “It gladdens my unworthy heart to see these two young people join in matrimony. I regret any part I played in keeping them apart. It is evident they belong together. Long life and happiness.”

  Izzy raised his goblet in thanks once the toast was complete.

  Next came Amadour, who cleared his throat nervously. “I am not a Montbryce. However, I have served that noble family for many years, and I hope Izzy will not be offended if I say that I represent the Montbryce family here.

  “Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce is a credit to his family, one with a long and glorious history in Normandie and England. He is a courageous man, worthy of a princess.”

  Farah’s heart was bursting with pride. Izzy was clearly uncomfortable with Amadour’s words of praise, but she knew he appreciated them.

  Amadour coughed again. “And Farah. Though I have known her only a short time, her beauty, of face and figure—”

  He paused to wink at Izzy and a cheer resounded from the Hospitaller Knights. Izzy grinned, but his face reddened.

  “—her grace, her bearing, all have rendered me dumbfounded at the luck of my friend in capturing her heart.”

  Laughter rang out.

  “Raise your goblets and drink to the health of Milord and Milady de Montbryce.”

  The toast was repeated, goblets drained, then banged heartily on the tables.

  A hush fell over the gathering when Alfonso rose. Everyo
ne came to their feet, but he indicated they should regain their seats. He looked at Farah. “I did not know until a short time ago that I had a sister.”

  Farah wiped away a tear that trickled down her cheek. Izzy handed her a kerchief and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “The news elated me. As you may know, my older half-brother, Pedro, who was king before me, died tragically. He was a great and mighty warrior. Alas, his beautiful children, Isabela and Pedro, died in infancy. My brother, Ferdinand, is also dead and gone, and my younger brother, Ramiro, is a monk whom I rarely see. The notion of a sister pleased me greatly.”

  Farah was struck then by the sacrifice Alfonso had made in allowing her to be free to marry Izzy. She was his only family, apart from his scheming mother.

  “No matter where life takes you, sister, never forget that you are Aragonese. I wish good health and happiness to Gerwint Isembart and to María Sancha.”

  Everyone echoed the king’s toast and rose when he resumed his seat.

  The festivities, the fire and the wine had conspired to make the room uncomfortably hot. Farah felt the weight of the elaborate dress she wore. Soon, Izzy would free her of it. She felt breathless and light-headed. Tonight, she would sleep in a king’s bed, with the man who ruled her heart.

  Cataclysm

  Alfonso brought his goblet down hard on the table, shocking everyone into silence. Farah gripped Izzy’s arm and leaned into him. He ached to put her hand on the persistent arousal that bucked whenever he looked at her.

  “Basta,” Alfonso shouted. Izzy thought the king may have imbibed too much of the deep red pacharán served with the pastries. Its fruity taste was appealing, almost as good as Montbryce apple brandy, but Izzy had drunk it sparingly, suspecting it could quickly render a man witless. He wanted to have his wits about him this night.

  Alfonso labored to his feet. Again, everyone rose. He waved unsteadily towards another set of doors Izzy had not noticed before. “It is time for my little sister and her new husband to proceed to their bedchamber.”

  Loud cheers followed his pronouncement. Amadour and a Hospitaller came forward and hoisted Izzy to their shoulders, teasing him good-naturedly. Berthold and another knight beckoned Farah to a chair. They lifted her and led the procession through the now open doors to the bedchamber.

  Izzy was dropped unceremoniously onto the enormous bed. Berthold scooped up Farah and placed her next to Izzy. A surge of unreasonable jealousy jolted Izzy at the sight of his wife in another man’s arms, especially Berthold.

  The king swaggered into the chamber, followed by the priest who had married them. At a nod from Alfonso, the holy man intoned a prayer of blessing in Aragonese.

  Izzy and Farah made the sign of the crucifixion across their bodies, the king shouted, “Everyone, out!” and then they were alone in the suddenly silent chamber, holding hands, lying on the bed, fully clothed.

  Farah made an unsuccessful attempt to tamp down the voluminous skirts of her gown and started to giggle. Before long they were both laughing hard until it seemed they could laugh no more. Izzy raised up on one elbow to look at his bride. Her cheeks were flushed, the gold circlet sat askew and her hair was coming down from its elaborate arrangement. Her eyes betrayed her desire for him. She licked her lips nervously, inhaling deeply.

  Carefully, he took the circlet from her head and placed it on the table beside the bed. He noticed the salver with the scroll, but had more pressing things to take care of before he looked at Alfonso’s dowry gift.

  He splayed his legs and pulled her to sit with her back against his chest, so he could unpin her hair. He combed his fingers through the thick, black curls as they fell loose over her shoulders, inhaling the scent that was Farah—exotic, spicy, intoxicating.

  He nuzzled her neck, cupping her breasts, elated when she raised her arms to clasp his nape. “I have ached to hold you like this since the night you fell asleep in my chamber.”

  She giggled again. “I was too smart for my own good. I brought the spikenard to soothe you, but it put me to sleep.”

  He brushed his thumbs over her nipples and felt them harden, even through the heavy fabric of her gown. When she moaned, Izzy shifted his weight. The ache in his shaft was intense. He had to get her out of her clothes. “When I saw you sleeping there, your breast in my hand, I wanted to leap off the bed and press my body on top of yours. I burned to possess you.”

  Farah grinned. “I wanted the same thing, but now we will make love for the first time in this grand bed instead of on a cold stone floor.”

  His need was becoming unbearable. “I want to see you naked, Farah.”

  Her body tensed. “I have no lady’s maid to help me out of this dress. Perhaps Alfonso forgot to send—”

  “I will undress you, mi amor,” Izzy replied, nibbling her ear, hoping his clumsy hands would be equal to the task.

  She squeezed his hands gently, as if she understood his worry. She slid off the bed and stood, arms raised high above her head, ready for the dance, a gleam in her eyes. “I have never been undressed by a man before.”

  Izzy scrambled off the bed, amazed he was not foaming at the mouth like a demented beast. A distant drumbeat pounded in his ears. It was his heart. He stood beside her in the classic gypsy pose, his hip brushing hers, arms raised above his head. He puffed out his chest, arched his back, and raised his chin, responding to her invitation to the dance of love.

  She stamped her foot lightly, then kicked off one shoe after the other. They sailed through the air to clatter against the wall. Her mischievous outburst of laughter made his heart and his loins swell. She had obviously not intended they fly so far.

  Izzy could never remove his boots with such practiced ease, but wanted to dance barefoot with her. He raised his forefinger. “A moment, señora de Montbryce, if you please.”

  He sat on the edge of the massive bed and struggled to take off his boots. Farah smiled, sinking to her knees to help him. When his boots had followed her shoes, they resumed their pose.

  “Where were we?” he quipped.

  She raised her chin, flared her nostrils and tossed her head, like a filly that senses the stallion is about to cover her. Tiny winged creatures fluttered in Izzy’s belly.

  She whirled to touch her back to his upper arm, clapping her hands together in a slow rhythm that set his feet moving. Then she twirled again to brush her breasts tantalizingly close to his chest.

  He swallowed hard, dipped his head and slowly turned his hip to touch hers again. He lowered one hand to her waist, she placed a hand on his shoulder, and they turned together in place, slowly, their eyes locked.

  She took a step away from him and spread her arms wide like the wings of an elegant bird.

  He took his lead from her and did the same.

  She snaked her arms teasingly in front of his face.

  Grinning, he imitated her.

  She raked her hair off her neck and held it atop her head, offering the back of her gown. He fumbled with the laces, then eased the fabric apart, revealing her bare back. He put his hands on her swaying hips and she gasped when he bent to plant kisses along her spine from waist to nape.

  She let her hair fall, raised her arms and turned to face him, touching her forehead to his for an instant, before twirling away. The front of her dress slipped lower and lower as she swayed her shoulders this way and that, until he caught a glimpse of the tops of dusky areolas. He held his breath when she eased the fabric down to release nipples as brown as nutmeg. They were hard and as precious and rare as the spice. He thirsted to put his mouth on them.

  He helped extricate her arms, which she raised again, swirling away from him, the gown bunched around her waist. She glanced enticingly over her shoulder, her long, elegant fingers doing a dance of their own.

  She faced him again, brushing her nipples against his chest, then turned away. He tore off his doublet and shirt so quickly that when she spun back her soft breasts touched his bare chest.

  He groaned an
d clasped his arms behind her back, holding her to his body as they danced on, caught up in a rhythm only they could hear. Izzy had never before felt music in his bones.

  She pulled away and lifted the hem of her skirts, fisting her hands on her hips. The sight of her bare legs braced in an arrogantly suggestive posture, tantalizing breasts thrust forward in invitation, sent Izzy spiraling out of control.

  The time for dancing was over. He scooped her up and lay her on the bed, grasped the fabric bunched at her waist and eased it down over her hips. He lifted her bottom and the gown whispered over her legs. He tossed it the way of the shoes.

  She blushed under his gaze, but did not cover herself, allowing him to feast his eyes on her nakedness. “Farah,” he rasped. “My joy.”

  She put one hand over her scar, but he brushed it away and leaned over to lick the length of ad-Daula’s mark. “You need not cover it for me. It only adds to your beauty. I am your master now.”

  Her wide eyes darkened. She took a deep breath and stared at his lips, her mouth open. He slowly touched his lips to hers, once, twice, thrice, nibbling a little harder each time. She moaned and raised her face to his, curling her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against him. He kissed her hungrily then, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, savoring the warmth, the taste of her. She moaned into his mouth and sucked him, tentatively at first, then with a steady rhythmic pull. Soon their tongues were dancing together and he did not know where he ended and she began.

  He had never felt the fire in his veins that consumed him now. Thirsting to put his mouth everywhere, he knelt on the bed and swirled his tongue around each rigid nipple in turn. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to the sides of her breasts.

  “Dieu, Farah,” he growled, “you are beautiful.”