Berthold shifted his weight. “You should be aware I have counselled Farah not to stay at Giroux.”
Now the pain in Izzy’s hands was real, but he clutched the arms of his chair, a strange panic rising in his throat.
“Explain your statement, sir,” Robert urged.
Berthold squared his shoulders and assumed the air of a man about to impart important knowledge. “Farah’s mother was taken prisoner by Yusuf ibn Tashfin at the battle of Sagrajas.”
He paused, his brows arched, as if defying anyone to acknowledge they knew what he referred to. “I see that means nothing to you gentlemen.”
Taking a deep breath, he smoothed his thumb and forefinger over his moustache. “On the twenty-third day of October, in the year of Our Lord One Thousand and Eighty-Six, a great battle took place in Sagrajas, near Badajoz. General ibn Tashfin led a mighty host of infidel warriors against King Alfonso of Castile. Alfonso called on his allies, Sancho Ramírez of Aragón and Álvar Fáñez, cousin of the great Cid.
“But the Christians were outnumbered three to one and the battle was a rout. The King of Castile escaped with a leg injury and has limped badly ever since. Many women in the Christian camp were taken, Farah’s mother among them. Her name was María Catalina Tarazona. She was with child at the time.”
Every mouth in the gallery had fallen open at the telling of the tale. Izzy felt like he had been kicked in the gut. Pity for Farah and her mother flooded him as gooseflesh stole over his skin. He raged inwardly at the men who had abandoned their women to the Saracens.
Caedmon’s voice intruded. “Badajoz is in southern Spain. How did they end up in Jerusalem?”
Berthold stroked his pointed beard. “Though originally a Berber from the Sahara, Ibn Tashfin settled in Morocco after founding the city of Marrakesh. He crossed the straits to fight for the Moorish kingdoms of Seville, Málaga, and Granada. He took his captives back to Marrakesh when he received word his heir had died. He was confident the victory at Sagrajas had left the Christian armies of the Reconquista in disarray.”
Caedmon’s voice took on an impatient tone. “Still a long way from Jerusalem.”
Berthold crossed his arms over his chest, irritation flashing momentarily in his eyes. “Patience, sir, I beg you. It is a tale that must be told properly. Ibn Tashfin travelled throughout North Africa and in time met Iftikhar ad-Daula, a Sudanese who became the Fatimid governor of Jerusalem.”
Robert scratched his chin. “I begin to understand. Tashfin gave Farah and her mother to ad-Daula?”
Berthold waved a decisive finger. “Indeed. You have the right of it. Farah and her mother were in ad-Daula’s seraglio in Jerusalem when the city fell to Raymond of Saint-Gilles.”
Izzy tried but failed to envisage the journey Farah had undertaken from Morocco to Jerusalem. He had little knowledge of the region in question. It was like talking of a journey to the moon. Despite his intentions to remain silent he murmured, “How did—”
It was Caedmon who solved the problem, slapping his thigh. “The Mediterranean, I’ll wager. I’ll never forget the colour of its waters. Am I right, Berthold?”
The Hospitaller beamed, thumping his palm with his fist. “Indeed, you are, Sir Caedmon. You were a Crusader?”
Caedmon smiled sheepishly and dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, but Baudoin took up his cause. “In fact, Berthold, my brother was a hero of the People’s Crusade. It was he who was responsible for saving thousands of lives at Civitote.”
Berthold’s eyes widened. “I have heard of this rescue. Two brave men stole away from the abandoned fortress under siege by the Turks and sailed across the Bosporus to get help from the Emperor Alexius. That was you?”
“It was,” Caedmon admitted. “Me and my comrade, Amadour de Vignoles. But I would never have made it back home to England without the aid of my father and Baudoin.”
Berthold strode across the gallery and pumped Caedmon’s hand. “I am honoured, sir.”
Izzy was immensely proud of his half-cousin’s heroism and had enormous respect for him, but he was more interested in continuing the discussion about Farah. “So, Sir Berthold, they sailed from Morocco to the Holy Land?”
Berthold eyed him curiously. “Farah was still a child, but something happened on that voyage that she will not speak of. Whatever it was, it protected her and her mother from the duties usually expected of a harem woman.”
Izzy’s mouth fell open. “You are saying—”
Berthold held up his hand. “I am telling you, sir knight, things about a young woman that need not concern you. Farah was twelve when Georges rescued her, an age when most young girls in a harem have been forced to lie with a man. But Farah was untouched.”
Izzy was surprised his seed did not gush from his shaft, like the red hot lava from Mount Vesuvius that Caedmon often spoke of. He dug his nails into his palms, intensifying the pain in his hands. He should keep silent, but could not. He hoped intelligible words would issue from his mouth if he spoke. “You mean she is—she is—”
“A virgin. A very beautiful virgin. That is why I insisted she wear the covering veils if we were to make this journey.”
Izzy felt like a babbling idiot. “You have seen her face?” he murmured.
Berthold gave him a withering glance, then ignored him, turning his attention to Robert. “I propose milord Comte, that Georges be allowed to remain here until his death and that Farah stay with him until then. I do not foresee him living long. Then I will escort Farah to her father’s kingdom.”
“Kingdom?” several voices exclaimed at once.
Berthold puffed out his chest. “Farah is the illegitimate daughter of the late King Sancho Ramírez of Aragón.”
CHAPTER SIX
The manner in which she was treated had changed in subtle ways, confirming Farah’s suspicions that Berthold had revealed her history. She was glad Georges had told the Hospitaller only of her lineage and not of the events aboard the ship that sailed from Morocco to the Holy Land. No-one would ever learn of it. Her mother had taken the knowledge to her grave.
However, she was grateful that the Montbryces had agreed to let her stay with Georges until his death. She owed her life to the Norman. To express her gratitude in the only way she knew how, she offered to dance at the farewell banquet for the visitors.
Dancing had saved her from madness. Her mother had used her skill as a dancer to survive and prosper in Yusuf ibn Tashfin’s household and had delighted in her daughter’s natural gift for the rhythms of her homeland.
When Farah danced she was truly herself, truly Farah. It was something that had never made her nervous—until now. She had danced before many men without pause, but a knot formed in her chest at the prospect of performing before the gloved Master of Giroux Castle. Why did he have this inexplicable effect on her? She sensed great pain in him. Was that why he hid his hands, as she hid her face?
Fear burgeoned in her belly. The power to control pain had been granted her before, at sea, during a terrifying storm—but she had sworn never to use it again. The toll it took was too great.
She bathed and perfumed her body with the attar of roses brought from Jerusalem, then dressed in the costume her mother had sewn. Flowers adorned her unbound hair, but she donned a red facial veil. Her disfigurement would detract from their enjoyment of the dance. She fastened tiny bells around her ankles, checking one last time to make sure her bare feet were perfectly clean.
Kneeling before the special trunk, she lifted the lid and freed the shamshir from its hiding place. She had decided to delay the performance of the sword dance until her nerves had settled, and did not fasten on the scabbard. She carefully unwrapped the precious chestnut castanets and the brass zills. Leaving the chamber, she walked quickly to wait behind the screen that had been erected in the Great Hall.
A hush fell over the assembly. She was afraid her expectant audience would hear the beating of her heart. Having given previous instructions to the castle’s musicians,
she waved now to the shawm player. As the haunting sounds of the reed instrument filled the air she looped her thumbs through the ornamental cords of the castanets, took a deep breath, raised her arms above her head, arched her back, and stepped out from behind the screen.
~~~
Izzy inhaled sharply. The vision that swayed and dipped and moved sensuously before him rendered him boneless. Farah wore a red costume that revealed no more of her body than her usual garb, but its form and fit showed every curve and swell of her figure. His eyes raked over her full breasts, fertile hips, taut belly, and long arms.
A veil still hid her face, but her hair flowed freely, adorned with a bright red flower at her temple. He laced his fingers together in his lap, itching to weave them through the thick black glory that reached to Farah’s waist. Was the hair at her mons the same texture and colour?
The arch of her back as her arms swayed in undulating movements emphasized the swell of her breasts. He thirsted to lave his tongue over the nipples that strained at the fabric, and suckle.
It occurred to him the dance was designed for two. Farah danced with an invisible partner, whom only she saw. He had never danced in his life, but it was all Izzy could do to remain in his seat. He wanted to leap to his feet, mould his body to hers, chest to breast, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, to gaze into her eyes as they moved to the inexorable rhythm.
The click of the castanets drew his eyes to her elegant fingers as they turned and twisted gracefully. Her long nails were painted the same red as her costume. It was an abrupt reminder of his own ugliness, the gnarled and twisted stumps at the end of his arms. Farah would be repulsed if he put his hands on her flesh.
He averted his eyes, bitterness welling up in his throat. He had difficulty breathing. He pressed a palm to his knee to stop the insistent twitching. Again he had allowed this woman to bewitch him.
Gritting his teeth, he glanced at the other members of his family. Dorianne leaned against Robert, her chin perched atop her folded hands, smiling. Elenor de Giroux looked like she might swoon. Denis, Baudoin, Caedmon and even Izzy’s elderly father were openly appreciative of the performance they watched. Antoine’s sons, Adam and Mathieu, and his own brother, Melton, gaped. Georges had awakened from his usual stupor, a bemused grin on his face. Izzy was the only one sweating. Every part of his body ached and throbbed—his hands, his head, his groin, and his heart.
When the dance ended, silence filled the room. Berthold finally led the applause. Izzy’s hands refused to work. Robert would expect him to thank their guest. He was about to come to his feet, deafened by the loud beating of his heart, when he became aware that it was a drumbeat he heard. Farah ran to the screen and emerged holding a curved scabbard.
Everyone sucked in a breath.
Holding the hilt in one hand and the end of the sheath in the other, she raised the weapon above her head, her feet moving to the slow beat of the drum. Lowering her arms she held the sword in front, then to the side, then back to the front, then to the other side. The tempo increased gradually. Farah’s feet kept pace.
Suddenly she raised the weapon over her head and drew the sword from its scabbard like a bolt of lightning. A collective gasp rose from the audience.
Izzy had never seen such a blade before, but Farah twirled it so quickly around her head, and at her sides, leaping over it again and again, that it became a whirling blur of steel. Fear and fascination choked him.
Suddenly she dropped to her knees, breasts heaving, the sword held high. Slowly she lowered it and balanced it on her head like a deadly halo. She reached into a hidden fold of her costume. Light reflected on the metallic objects she extracted and attached to her fingers. She clicked them together, like miniature cymbals.
The drumming had stopped. Now it was his own heartbeat Izzy heard. The shawm player took up the slow refrain. By the time Farah had risen, walked around the hall with her arms outstretched, and resumed her kneeling position, all to the hypnotic rhythm of the music and with the sword perfectly balanced atop her head, cymbals clicking, Izzy was exhausted.
The music ceased. Silence reigned. Suddenly, Farah leapt to her feet with a bloodcurdling yell, a warrior gleam in her eyes. She started to spin, holding the weapon at arm’s length. The blur of red, black and silver and the tinkling of ankle bells made Izzy lightheaded. He felt feverish and sick to his stomach. He feared he would be obliged to make his excuses.
Farah fell to her knees, threw back her head, and pointed the blade to her throat. Dorianne squealed. Izzy squeezed his eyes shut.
This time the loud applause was spontaneous, the audience on its feet. Izzy opened his eyes. Every member of his family was looking at him expectantly.
Breathing hard, Farah sheathed the sword, and turned her gaze upon Izzy.
He stood, his feet like lead weights. How absurd to hope he might partner the daughter of a king, an exotic creature whose breasts rose and fell as she strove to recapture her breath. He sensed she had given her all.
“M—merci, Farah,” he stammered. He wanted to tell her she had beguiled him, that the sight of her bare feet had sent shivers down his spine. Her perfume had been an intoxicant to his senses, the jingling bells music to his heart. Her performance had taken his breath away—but words would not come. “Merci,” he repeated, then sat down, afraid he might fall down if he didn’t.
Denis uttered a gasp of embarrassment, glaring at Izzy in amazement. The dwarf strode over to Farah, taking her hand. “Milady Farah, it is safe to say none of us have ever seen such a wonderful performance. Your beauty, skill, and grace have brought us great pleasure. We thank you. May I have the honour of escorting you to your table?”
Farah inclined her head graciously and allowed Denis to lead her to her seat.
Izzy felt like a fool. Dorianne’s glare of disappointed disgust did nothing to improve matters.
~~~
Farah’s appetite had fled, but she hungered for something she could not name. Her heart still raced, though her breathing had steadied. She had never put so much into a performance and was relieved the Montbryces had appreciated her talents—except the one man for whom she had danced.
Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce had been her invisible partner, her breasts brushing tantalizingly close to his broad chest, her hip briefly touching his, his gloved hand resting lightly on her waist as they twirled together, gazing into each other’s eyes. The Moorish dance for two was easier to perform with an imaginary partner, but she had never before put a face or a body to that partner.
He had not liked the dance. His disdain was painfully obvious. He resented her presence. She resolved not to look at him again. When she caught him glancing furtively in her direction he seemed more interested in the sword lying on the table near her hand.
She was suspicious of Berthold’s motives, but decided it would be best to journey on to Aragón after Georges’ death. There would be no reason to remain at Giroux castle.
She rose from the table, bringing Denis rushing to her side. She proffered her hand. “I am rather tired.”
Denis offered to escort her to her chamber. She hoped to catch Robert’s eye, but her gaze fell upon the Master of the castle. Slouched back in his chair, he had removed his gloves and was using one hand to massage the deformed fingers of the other. His tightly closed eyes betrayed his pain.
She gripped Denis’ hand, afraid she might swoon, overwhelmed by an urge to rush over and rain kisses on the gnarled fingers. She put her other hand on the side of her face. She too knew what it was to hide a disfigurement. She must look away before he caught her watching him.
Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked right at her.
~~~
Izzy froze, his painful hands locked together. He wanted to reach for his dagger and cut off his fingers. But it was too late. She had seen them in all their ugliness. If only she was not wearing the veil. Her wide eyes brimmed with tears of compassion, but it was a person’s mouth that gave away true feelings. Could it be she was not r
epulsed?
His hopes were dashed when she averted her gaze quickly and left with Denis. Izzy pulled his gloves over his stiff fingers and turned to his cousins as he rose. “Since you are all departing early on the morrow, I must be up with the dawn. I bid you goodnight, Dorianne, Madame de Giroux, Robert, Papa, mon frère, cousins.”
His father also came slowly to his feet. “I will accompany you, Izzy. These old bones are weary. The morrow will come soon enough.”
They made their way to their chambers. His father said nothing, but Izzy sensed his sire had something on his mind. “Maman will be happy to welcome you home.”
Hugh stopped abruptly. “Oui, mon fils, but I am worried. Your mother will ask me about you, and I am not sure what I will say.”
Izzy shrugged, but his father persisted, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m aware your hands give you great pain, Gerwint Isembart, but I sense there is something more.”
Izzy bristled. “Papa, you know—”
Hugh held up his hand. “I know, you prefer to be called Izzy, but to me you’ll always be Gerwint Isembart.”
Izzy scratched his head. “I mean no disrespect to my great-grandfather, but Gerwint is a Saxon name. Not that I am ashamed of my Saxon blood, but living in Normandie—”
“Don’t worry, your mother understands. And Isembart is a mouthful, I agree. However, were it not for your namesake, Isembart Joubert, the rat catcher from Montbryce, God rest his soul, neither you nor I would be here today. It’s a worthy name—but let’s speak of other matters. What is it that ails you? You don’t seem yourself. Robert has given you a chance to attain something you have longed for, yet you seem unhappy. The speech of thanks you gave our guest? You’re a more eloquent man than that. Denis put you to shame.”
Izzy took a deep breath, aware his perceptive father would detect any attempt to deny his discomfort. He fixed his eyes on his boots. “It’s the woman. I haven’t seen her face, but she has me bewitched.”
Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love Page 3
