Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love

by Anna Markland

  “Mamá,” Farah screamed, trying in vain to make her legs work. She looked from her mother to her Master and knew she looked into the eyes of El Diablo. Gone was the gratitude she had seen on his face when she had healed him. Now murder glowed in his eyes.

  He strode towards Farah, taunting her with his curved blade, calling her a Spanish harlot, blaming her for his defeat. Her mother lunged at him, but not before the point of the shamshir had slashed Farah’s face. She put her hand to the wound, but blood gushed between her fingers. She fell to her knees, choking on fear. María Catalina screamed. Ad-Daula raised his sword, but suddenly fell forward, collapsing on top of her.

  Shaking uncontrollably, unable to comprehend what had happened, Farah looked up into the eyes of a tall Crusader. He held a huge broadsword in both hands. He had brought the hilt down on ad-Daula’s head. Terror washed over her. The warrior would cleave her in two with his sword.

  Her mother, pinned beneath ad-Daula’s weight, screamed pleas for mercy in Spanish, explaining frantically they were Christians. The Crusader lowered the sword, wrested the shamshir from the Arab’s grip and heaved him off her mother. He said something in a language Farah did not understand, but his voice was kind. The last thing she recalled before succumbing to oblivion was an enormous wave of relief.

  ~~~

  Georges de Giroux passed away peacefully in his sleep. Farah wept for him. She sent word to Izzy de Montbryce who came at once to the chamber where Georges lay. He paused on the threshold. “He is gone?”

  She turned to look at him. He was a fine looking man, this troubled Norman, all lean muscle. He felt her pain, she knew. Grief stole her voice. The only person left in the world who cared for her was gone. Lost to dementia for months, he was still a link to her mother. Now there was only Berthold, who had his own reasons for desiring her return to Aragón.

  She turned back to rest her forehead on the edge of Georges’ bed, then stiffened when she felt Izzy’s presence behind her. His masculine scent filled her nostrils. He touched her shoulder. Pain sliced through her and the room tilted. She grasped his hand, but he withdrew it abruptly as if she had burned him. The pain left her.

  “I am sorry,” he rasped, apparently unaware of what had passed between them. “I know you loved him.”

  Farah vaguely heard the sound of his voice, but euphoria filled her. She still had the gift of healing. She had tried and failed to heal others since ad-Daula. The pain that had racked her body when Izzy touched her was a reassurance that she could help him. An inexplicable bond existed between them, a healing bond. She had never understood why she had been given the power to heal ad-Daula, a man she hated and feared. Perhaps Fate had taken a hand to protect her from violation. But the link between her and Izzy had been strong from the moment she set eyes on him.

  She pressed her hands to the mattress and rose, turning to face him. “I can help you.”

  Izzy looked at her outstretched hands and frowned, backing away. “Help me?”

  She walked towards him, but he retreated until his back was against the door.

  “You need not fear me, Izzy. Give me your hands.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Izzy did not understand why, but he closed his eyes and held out his throbbing hands. Farah carefully peeled off his gloves. Her warmth seeped into him as she took hold of his hands. He heard her sharp intake of breath. His pain drained away. It was a miracle.

  He groaned and opened his eyes to exclaim his exultation, but the cry died in his throat. Farah’s eyes betrayed her agony. She shook with the pain she had taken into her body—his pain. How was that possible? He did not know, but he could not bear it.

  “Non!”

  He tore his hands from her grasp. She collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

  He fell to one knee, scooped her up, and carried her to her own chamber. A thousand exotic aromas assaulted him—cinnamon, ginger, and others he did not recognize. She must have brought spices and perfumes with her from the Holy Land. No wonder there had been so much sweet smelling baggage!

  He laid her carefully on the bed, took hold of her frozen hands, and touched them to his face. His pain did not return though he rubbed her hands vigorously. “Farah, wake up, wake up. Do not leave me.”

  He climbed on to the bed, kneeling beside her, cocked his head and put his ear close to the veil, dreading she had stopped breathing. The rise and fall of her chest reassured him. She slept peacefully, pain no longer her enemy. He turned his face to look at her, his nose close to the veil. Sweat broke out on his brow. He licked his lips. She would never know if—

  He sat back on his haunches, wiping his hands on his leggings. He filled his lungs with the spiced air then held his breath. Taking hold of the edge of the delicate veil with his clumsy fingers, he lifted it away from her face.

  A river of fire flowed through his veins as he gazed at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were already etched on his memory, but her sensuous full lips begged for his kisses. The proud nose spoke of her noble Spanish blood. He flicked his tongue, imagining he licked the tiny heart-shaped birthmark at the hollow of her throat. Her high cheekbones were flushed like two red apples. Her skin was flawless, except for a thin jagged scar from temple to chin. An urge to kill whoever had marred this stunning face welled up in his throat.

  He held his gnarled fingertip close to her temple and slowly traced the length of the scar, without touching, but feeling the pain it must have caused. A desire to taste her overwhelmed him. Bracing his hands on the bed he loomed over her and let his tongue wander along the wound, finally exhaling.

  His heart skipped a beat when he suddenly tasted a salty tear. Her eyes remained closed, but she had awakened. He scrambled off the bed and hurriedly left the chamber, ashamed once again of his utter cowardice.

  ~~~

  The sound of Izzy’s retreating footsteps broke Farah’s heart. Her disfigurement had so disgusted him he could not remain in the same room. She opened her eyes, but tears blurred her vision. She turned over and buried her face in the linens. Had he understood what she had done for him? He had not thanked her for easing his pain. Now he knew the truth of her ugliness, she need no longer hide behind the veil.

  When there were no tears left, she wiped her eyes on the corners of the linens and slid from the bed. The Master had no doubt gone to make preparations for Georges’ funeral. He would likely want the old man buried quickly. The body must be cleansed and properly dressed.

  Her mind numb, she fumbled around in her stores for the fragrant oils she had brought with her on the long journey. Clutching the vials tightly, she stepped out into the hallway and spoke to a passing maidservant. “Milord Georges has died. Please see that hot water is brought to his chamber, so I may prepare his body for burial.”

  The girl did not seem to know her. She had left off the veil! The maidservant’s eyes were fixed on the scar. Farah squared her shoulders. “Quickly, now. Be off with you.”

  The girl closed her mouth and hastened away.

  Farah took a deep breath, but had to pause on the threshold of Georges’ chamber. His body looked lost in the huge bed. At least he had died at home, though this strange castle had not been his home for many a year. Perhaps the ghosts of hatreds past would haunt this place forever. A yearning for the beleaguered Master swept over her. She would never forget him. The feel of his tongue on her flesh would remain burned in her memory forever. Why had he licked her?

  As she carefully washed and anointed the withered body of her Protector, she pondered about the man who preoccupied her. Since he now knew of her scar, there was no reason to avoid him. The moon would wax and wane before Berthold’s return and it would probably be a sennight or two after that before they could resume their journey. There was time enough to use her gifts and the precious medicinals to help Izzy de Montbryce, whether he welcomed it or not.

  ~~~

  Seeing to the arrangements for Georges’ interment had kept Izzy occupied and his mind off F
arah. He had delayed his return to the old man’s chamber long enough. Farah had no doubt prepared the body, but he should be dressed in his knight’s garb and strong men would be needed to lift him onto the litter. He took Steward Aubin and three other men with him.

  He tapped on the closed door, but received no invitation to enter. He hesitated for a moment, aware of the curious eyes of the men behind him. He cleared his throat and opened the door slowly.

  The air was laden with the smell of beeswax. Farah knelt beside the bed. The flickering light from a dozen candles burnished her hair, unbound and adorned only by a large red jewel fastened over her ear. She wore the costume she had danced in.

  Izzy gaped at the sight. Was he having a vision? His flesh hardened and his finger joints prickled for the first time since Farah had taken his pain. Why had he not stayed to comfort her? He licked his lips, tasting again the salt of her tears, until he realized a tear had trickled unbidden down his cheek. He wiped it away nervously with the back of his hand.

  Aubin coughed. “Milord Georges is already dressed.”

  Izzy tore his gaze from Farah. Georges was indeed laid out like an anointed saint, in full chain mail and helm, his Crusader’s surcoat properly adjusted, his boots clean, his gloved hands clasped around the hilt of the sword that lay atop his body.

  Izzy searched for the right words, but they refused to come. Why did this woman continually strike him dumb!

  “He is ready,” she murmured, breaking the heavy silence.

  Izzy walked to the bed in a daze. “You did this yourself? Why did you not send for help?”

  She turned to look at him and again his breath froze in his chest at the sight of her beauty. Tears had smudged the kohl around her eyes. She made no attempt to cover the scar. He longed to trace his finger over the mark that only seemed to underline her loveliness.

  She lifted her skirts, trying to rise. “It was my right to prepare him. I did not want help.”

  Izzy held out his hand to aid her, wondering how long she had been on her knees. He had forgotten to pull on his gloves. Their eyes met. Was she daring him to withdraw his hand? Though his instinct was to do exactly that, he did not. She took hold of his hand and gripped it tightly as she came to her feet. “Merci, Master Montbryce.”

  There was no pain, nor did she seem to be afflicted. He could not take his hand from hers. They were joined. Her warmth flowed into his body. “It is I who should thank you, Farah. You have eased my pain.”

  She lowered her eyes and smiled. “You may take him now.”

  Izzy lifted Georges’ sword, sensing he held the weapon that had saved Farah’s life. The other men manoeuvred the knight onto the litter. The old warrior was borne from the chamber and his body placed in the crypt to lie in state until the bishop’s arrival on the morrow. Izzy and Farah followed, hand in hand.

  CHAPTER TEN

  For the second time in only sennights, Izzy stood in the dank crypt of Giroux Castle, witnessing the interment of one of its sons. This time he was the only Montbryce, one of two mourners present. The bishop had his usual retinue of chaplains and deacons in tow, but had informed Izzy they did not intend to stay for the funeral banquet. Izzy wondered cynically what self aggrandising event the bishop had to attend that would make him pass on a free meal.

  Izzy put his hand to Farah’s elbow when he noticed she was swaying. The bishop droned on interminably about the glory of the Crusades. It occurred to him that Montbryces might gather some day in this selfsame crypt to consign him to eternity. Or would he be buried at Domfort? It was the first time he had considered his own mortality.

  The other thing that struck him was that he had felt no hesitation in putting his hand to Farah’s elbow. He had trusted she would not recoil, and she had not, seemingly grateful, if her eyes were to be trusted, for his support.

  The obligatory funeral feast was a subdued affair. Izzy and Farah sat on the dais with Artus Aubin, while members of the household ate quietly at the trestle tables, some recalling tales they had been told by their parents of Georges in happier days, before his father’s madness.

  Izzy’s gaze wandered over the stone walls, the frayed tapestries, the faded banners wafting from the cobwebbed oaken beams, and he wondered if this Great Hall would one day witness happier times—visits from important dignitaries, mayhap even King Henry, joyous family gatherings, weddings, baptisms. Would he celebrate his own wedding here, the baptism of his children? Or would Giroux Castle be held forever in the grip of hatred and gloom?

  He looked at the strikingly beautiful woman sitting beside him. If he moved slightly, his thigh would brush against hers. They sat like the lord and lady of the castle, together, yet separated by continents and cultures. Pain and disfigurement seemed the only thing they had in common. He lusted for the Aragonese princess, but reluctantly admitted it was not enough. If he was to marry, he wanted a wife who loved him. Perhaps his father had the right of it. Even Izzy de Montbryce needed love. The truth did nothing to cheer his soul.

  He had not meant to slide along the bench, but suddenly his thigh touched hers. He curled his fingers around the edge of the table, hoping she had not heard the growl deep in this throat.

  She blushed and glanced up at him sharply. “What are you thinking of, my lord, to make you growl so fiercely?”

  He struggled to gather his wits. “I was hoping this Hall might one day see happier times.”

  She put her hand on his thigh. “You are a caring man, my lord, though you pretend not to be.”

  He felt his face flush as heat roared down his spine into his toes by way of his loins. He hesitated only a moment before covering her hand with his. His grotesque fingers contrasted sharply with the beauty of hers, but she immediately put her other hand atop his. “I brought many healing herbs and preparations from the Holy Land. I have the knowledge to help you, if you wish it.”

  Nervously he put his free hand on top. “I have felt no pain since you took it into yourself. I do not understand how that can be, but I cannot allow you to do it again. The pain is mine to bear.”

  She stared at their clasped hands. “I do not understand it either. But there are other ways to alleviate the agony you suffer when it returns. Let me help you.”

  He grimaced. “If you can bear to touch me—”

  She looked into his eyes. “Your touch does not offend me, my lord.”

  Her lips were agonizingly close, and she spoke words he had longed to hear, but she was the daughter of a king, destined to return to Aragón. There was no future for them.

  Someone coughed loudly. He tore his eyes from Farah’s gaze. Aubin cocked his head in the direction of the lower tables, his eyes full of concern. A hush had fallen over the Hall. The servants gaped.

  Abruptly Izzy withdrew his hands and slid away from her, adjusting his tunic and leggings. Damnation! He would earn the contempt of these people instead of the respect he needed to become a successful Master. They would look upon him as a deformed freak mooning over a foreign wench. He itched to rise from the table and take his leave, but such action would be highly inappropriate at a funeral feast. He could not leave Farah alone with her grief.

  He made a show of giving his full attention to Aubin. “On the morrow we will ride out to the tenant farms.”

  Aubin looked momentarily surprised. “As you wish, milord. I will see that Apollo is saddled and ready.”

  Izzy turned back to his bread trencher, his fingers fumbling to break off an edge. He felt Farah’s eyes on him, but avoided her gaze.

  Her determined voice caught him off guard. “Will I minister to you before you leave?”

  He clenched his fist, crumbling the bread. “Non, we leave at dawn. It will likely take most of the day to inspect the farms and meet the tenants.”

  ~~~

  Farah held her breath, listening in the dark for Izzy’s door to open. She clutched the vial of al-Kindi’s drug for the spirits tightly. The proud Master would be embarrassed if she offered it to him in the Hal
l when he broke his fast before departing.

  He was a stubborn man, and may well refuse the concoction that would ease his pain. He need not know she had spent half the night compounding it.

  She could no longer deny the inexorable pull this man had on her heart and her senses. Even now her breasts tingled with the anticipation of seeing him and her feet danced.

  But she had given her word to Berthold that she would journey with him to Aragón. Her half-brother, the king, waited with apparent joy to welcome her home. She suspected he had promised the Hospitallers a sizable donation. Why else would Berthold make the long arduous journey from the hospice in Jerusalem? Georges de Giroux had provided him the perfect excuse and Farah had been only too anxious to leave the Holy City.

  She stepped out into the hallway wearing only her abaya when she heard Izzy’s door close softly. She hoped he would not hear the loud beating of her heart that drummed in her ears. He fumbled for his dagger when she emerged from the shadows. “Farah?”

  She held out the vial, willing her hand to stop trembling. Her heart went out to this warrior who struggled with an affliction that could render it impossible for him to raise a sword against an enemy. “Please accept this preparation. It is an ancient and trusted remedy for the pain of your affliction, from the recipes of al-Kindi.”

  He hesitated, then took the vial, peering at the dark contents. “Where did you get this?”

  “I prepared it.”

  “In your chamber?”

  She looked at her feet. “I have not yet located the Still Room in the castle, my lord. For the moment my ingredients are stored in my chamber.”

  Izzy held the vial carefully with both hands. “What’s in it?”

  She chuckled, counting them one by one on her fingers. “Henna leaf, bulb of the crocus, dried catkins of the long pepper, cumin—but we will be here all day if I recite the rest of the long list. Fear not, there is nothing to make the belly rebel.”