Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love

by Anna Markland

  Farah ordered the Cook to serve salmon at least three times a week, citing the recommendations of Islamic physicians. Men were dispatched to the river. She explained that salmon was an oily fish and therefore the best, since they were too far from the ocean to catch mackerel and herring.

  She gave him special white granules to dissolve in his bathwater, instructing him to soak until the water cooled. It was the first time in his life he had enjoyed taking a bath.

  She fashioned a special brace for his hands, inserting into his leather gloves thin strips of oak, shaped by the castle’s carpenter to her specifications.

  Overcoming his initial refusal, she convinced him to swim every day in the nearby lake, again citing the need for gentle exercise. He only wished she would join him in the bracing water. Since that was unlikely, he commanded the castle’s brigade of men-at-arms to take up the same practice.

  After incredulous objections, sulks and glares, they too came to look forward to the daily swim, and boisterous antics became the norm. It was the first time he had seen many of them do anything other than scowl since his arrival. He became aware that a smile came more readily to his own face.

  The improved state of his hands made it possible for him to practice with Farah’s sword, and he quickly became skillful in its use. He was rarely seen without the weapon bouncing on his hip in its leather scabbard. The men-at-arms of Giroux Castle, dispirited and decimated after their defeat at Tinchebray, developed a healthy respect for the weapon and its wielder. A new atmosphere of enthusiasm gradually pervaded the training fields. Several warriors cautiously intimated they would like to try out the unusual sword, but Izzy adamantly refused to allow it out of his possession.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sir Berthold de Quincy took his leave of the Abbot of Mont Saint Michel, thanking him again for his hospitality and the promise of aid in building Hospitaller forts in Normandie. It had been a most satisfying pilgrimage, the only uncomfortable moments coming when he mentioned Robert de Montbryce’s name. Curious!

  He wanted to remain longer than a sennight at the island monastery, but there was another mission to accomplish. Much as he dreaded having to board a boat again, he and his knights rode to Brest and embarked on a voyage to Oiasso. From tales he had heard of the rough waters in the Cantabrian Sea, he did not relish the trip, but it was imperative he go to Spain. Overland was fraught with political difficulties.

  After two days of pitching in weather that ranged from light rain to thunderous storms to tempestuous winds, he wished he had braved the land route. He made his peace with his Lord, and heard the confessions of his men in between bouts of retching, convinced their vessel was doomed.

  They had difficulty making their legs work once they disembarked, falling to their knees in thanksgiving for their deliverance. They rested a day, bought horses and followed the Bidasoa River out of Oiasso. They then turned south east and rode hard for four days across rolling hills and flat plains until they reached Huesca, capital of the kingdom of Aragón.

  ~~~

  Berthold bowed low before King Alfonso of Aragón. “Su Majestad,” he murmured humbly, acutely aware of the Dowager Queen standing stiffly beside her son’s massive throne. It had been a cold and perilous journey across the Cantabrian Sea, but Felicia de Roucy’s icy glare froze his bones.

  “My mother and I are anxious after receiving your letter. You have news of my sister?” Alfonso asked in only slightly accented Norman French.

  His mother’s spine stiffened further.

  Despite the cold chill edging up his spine, Berthold announced, “I bring good tidings. La Princesa María Sancha is well, and anxious to return to the bosom of her family.”

  Alfonso risked a glance at his mother. “When can we expect her arrival?”

  Berthold resisted the urge to tweak his whiskers, much longer now after the trek from Normandie, and infernally itchy. “After we conclude our business, Majestad, we will return to Normandie to retrieve her.”

  Alfonso came to his feet and beckoned Berthold to walk with him. He leaned close to the Hospitaller’s ear. Berthold wrinkled his nose. He loved garlic, but the king reeked of it. “How can we be assured that this woman is who you say she is?”

  As a Knight who had dedicated his life to the service of Saint John, Berthold was affronted at the implication he might lie, but it would be wise not to show his irritation. “She bears the mark.”

  Alfonso’s hand went to the hollow of his throat. “The mark of my father?”

  Berthold nodded. “The same.”

  Unexpectedly, Alfonso put a hand on Berthold’s shoulder. Was that a genuine tear welling in his eye? “A sister,” the king murmured.

  Perhaps this Aragonese monarch was a man of honour who would welcome and nurture his half-sister. But Berthold worried about the Dowager Queen. They had walked beyond her hearing, yet he felt the need to whisper. “I would stake my life on her true identity.”

  The king scratched his heavy beard. “The Hospitallers will be rewarded handsomely for this, Sir Berthold. I was but a boy when María Catalina Tarazona was captured in Sagrajas, but I well remember my father’s torment and regret.”

  He glanced back at his mother and put a forefinger to his lip. “We only whisper of these things, you understand?”

  Berthold held great respect for this monarch who had spent his life battling the infidel Moors. His nickname of El Batallador was well deserved. Berthold was tall, but Alfonso towered over him. What an intimidating sight this mountain of a man must present to his Moorish foes.

  Fate was an unpredictable mistress. Had his older brother Pedro not died before him, Alfonso would never have been king. He had regained much territory for his twin kingdoms of Aragón and Navarra. It was his life’s purpose to rid Spain of the infidels.

  They strolled in silence for a good while, but then the king spoke again. “My father longed for the child he never knew. He loved María Catalina deeply and carried his guilt at her loss to his tomb. Fears that she and the child had become the playthings of an Arab potentate haunted him. He prayed for them daily.”

  Berthold wondered how Queen Felicia had felt about that! It was important, however, to convince Alfonso of Farah’s purity. “It seems his prayers were answered. María Catalina was not spared the duties of the harem while she was with ibn Tashfin, though by all accounts he did not mistreat her. But their second master declared both women untouchable.”

  The King straightened his coronet. “A miracle indeed! Tell me once more of the sea voyage.”

  Berthold reiterated as much of the story as he knew, aware that Alfonso was assuring himself the story was the same as that contained in the missive Berthold had sent from Jerusalem.

  They had regained the throne room. The Dowager Queen had disappeared, but no doubt had spies in every quarter. Alfonso glanced around carefully before he spoke again. “To learn of this miracle gladdens my heart. That my half-sister has been touched by the hand of God and spared degradation and humiliation is balm to the soul. I look forward to meeting her.”

  Berthold coughed into his fisted hand. “And the gold, Majestad?”

  Alfonso smiled. “It will be ready. But the Hospitallers will receive much more than gold for this service. Go now. You and your knights must enjoy our hospitality for a few days before you undertake the arduous journey back to Normandie. When you return with María Sancha, there will be time for great feasting.”

  Berthold bowed and exited, elated at the prospect of a bath and shave.

  ~~~

  Felicia de Roucy made the Sign of the Crucifixion across her body three times as she watched the French knight leave the throne room. Despite the intensity of her love for her son, she had never revealed to him the secret chamber behind the throne of Aragón. She wanted to spit, but the sound might alert Alfonso, who remained seated on his throne.

  She had never considered that the bastard child her husband had constantly fretted over might be found and returned to Aragón. Di
d Alfonso not see the danger of bringing her to his court?

  Factions within Aragón and Navarra would seize the opportunity to create division. Without a united front, the campaign against the Moors would not succeed. If Alfonso were deposed or defeated, what would become of her? She shuddered. Her son’s ecclesiastic foes would not hesitate to shut her up in a nunnery.

  Alfonso might believe the fanciful tale of divine intervention, but she did not. María Sancha, princesa indeed! The infidels’ whore must never be allowed to reach Aragón. If she did indeed bear the heart shaped birthmark, a dagger across the throat would quickly erase it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Farah’s heart swelled at the improvements in Izzy’s health. It was plain to see that his disposition had also changed for the better. The level of respect he had earned from the people who lived and worked in Giroux Castle was admirable. She was in awe of his prowess with her shamshir.

  But Giroux Castle remained a dark, dismal, and increasingly unpleasant place to live. She would be leaving soon. What did it matter to her if they lived with dirty rushes upon the stone floors, cobwebs, mouldy food, and animal droppings everywhere? Yet it did. The odours were worsening. A harem might not offer freedom, but it was a place where cleanliness was prized and filth punished.

  Steward Aubin was efficient in organising provisions, meals, horses, rents and the like, but had never married and seemed to have no inkling of the domestic improvements that needed to be made.

  Farah hesitated to mention her concerns to Izzy. He might be offended, or he might dismiss Aubin. She had no wish for such an outcome.

  However, she could hold her tongue no longer when Izzy inadvertently stepped in a pile of dog excrement on his way to the evening meal in the Great Hall. His disgusted embarrassment was evident. She had to smile at his boyish grimace as he scraped off his boots on the rushes.

  “Good thing it wasn’t King Henry who stepped in it,” she teased. Izzy had shared with her his hopes and dreams for the castle’s future.

  “Huh!” he replied, his face reddening. “You’re right. This place needs cleaning up.”

  He glanced around and she suddenly knew he had no idea how to accomplish such a thing. “May I gather some of the women of the castle to improve matters?”

  Izzy protested. “You are a king’s daughter. I won’t have you working as a servant.”

  Farah laughed. “Izzy, being the bastard daughter of a king means nothing to me, but living in filth does. Let me help you make this castle a place where people will want to live.”

  He sniffed the air, apparently noticing the odours for the first time. “Filth, eh?”

  She feared she had offended him, but then he smiled, sending the usual shivers of desire scurrying around her body. “My mother called it porquería. There was lots of it to be found in Jerusalem after the siege.”

  “Bien!” he roared, throwing his arms wide. “We will have no porkereea in this castle!”

  Farah burst out laughing. He laughed too, taking hold of her hands and pressing them to his chest. “Do your worst, milady María Sancha!”

  She held her breath. No-one except her mother had ever called her by her Spanish name. Izzy’s deep voice made it sound right. She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his, not caring if people in the Hall gawked. The smile left his face and his eyes blackened with desire. He put his hands on her waist and drew her to his body. He kissed her deeply, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She twirled her tongue around the tip of his and threaded her fingers through the hair at his nape. For the first time in her life, she felt a man’s hard arousal pressed against her. It filled her with a longing she had never known before.

  When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, she became aware people watched, but smiles rather than censure marked their expressions. Izzy leaned his forehead against hers. “Forgive me. I forget myself in your presence.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Izzy de Montbryce,” she whispered.

  He took her hand and led her to the dais. “Careful where you step,” he quipped.

  ~~~

  A whirlwind of activity swirled around Giroux Castle for the next sennight. The women of the household and those who came from the village deemed it high time the castle was cleansed. Taking their instructions from Farah, they scrubbed, swept, laundered, dusted, polished, mended, and scoured everything in sight.

  Farah fastened up her hair in a sort of eastern turban and donned an outfit of baggy pantaloons with an overtunic, claiming it allowed for ease of movement. In Jerusalem she would not have been out of place. Here she looked like a Saracen pirate. Izzy made excuses to seek her out in order to catch a glimpse of her in the outrageous clothing. She grinned at him mischievously whenever his mouth fell open at the sight of her.

  Laughter and the sound of busy women’s chatter echoed through the hallways. Fresh rushes were laid. Rugs were beaten. Cook declared that her kitchen had never been cleaner. The food improved.

  Izzy watched with pride as Farah organized the women, never shirking from the worst of tasks. He noticed that many of the women copied her turban-style head covering. She enlisted Aubin’s aid with heavier jobs, and he gave it gladly. He too seemed relieved at the improved state of the place, even sending boys into the oak beams of the Hall to sweep out the cobwebs.

  Farah had taken ownership of the castle, as if it was hers. It saddened him. She had a destiny much greater than chatelaine of Giroux Castle, no matter how hard he might wish otherwise. There was one thing for certain. Giroux would be a bleaker place when she left. Nowhere did he feel that bleakness more keenly than in his own heart.

  ~~~

  Farah burned with a desire to make Giroux Castle the envy of all. It was unfathomable. Years of hatred and neglect had rendered it a castle without a heart, yet it called to her. She had come home.

  But it could never be her home. She loved Izzy de Montbryce with a passion that consumed her, but he belonged to a noble family. While he might lust for her, noblemen did not fall in love. One cousin was a respected Norman Comte, a trusted ally of King Henry; another was a powerful Earl in England. His family controlled lands that covered half of Normandie, and large parts of Sussex and the Welsh Marches. He would never take to wife a woman who dressed in baggy pants, and had a scarred face and a questionable past.

  She felt no obligation to her unknown half-brother. But for the sake of the deep love for Sancho Ramírez that her mother had never abandoned, Farah would journey to Aragón.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Berthold talked himself out of returning by ship to Normandie. The dangers of the Cantabrian Sea were unpredictable and out of his control, whereas threats on land were foreseeable and hence manageable.

  He and his knights therefore opted to retrace their steps to Oiasso in order to avoid crossing the Pyrenees. Then they struck out for the north, taking nine days to travel through Bayonne en route to Bordeaux. For the remainder of the trek they depended heavily on the Crusader Cross on their tunics to see them safely to Le Mans. Robert had assured them of a welcome anytime they passed through Alensonne and they enjoyed the hospitality offered by Robert’s sister, Rhoni, and her husband.

  The last leg of their journey brought them to Giroux.

  Weary and caked with dirt from the road, they rode into the bailey. Berthold immediately sensed a change in the castle. Boys came quickly to take the reins of their horses. The Steward appeared as if by magic to welcome them. They were ushered to clean chambers with sweet smelling rushes on the floors, and fresh linens, where hot bath water was provided quickly. They were informed a meal was ready for them in the Great Hall.

  Something was afoot. Berthold was not sure he liked it, though he admired the efficiency. What had precipitated such radical change?

  The question was answered the moment he set eyes on Farah. She was a different woman. She wore no veil and seemed unconcerned about the scar on her face. Gone was the tense, tight-lipped Farah. In her place was a woma
n who behaved like the chatelaine of the castle, communicating with servants and knights alike with an easy manner. She looked and acted like a princess. Berthold should have been pleased, but it set him on edge. What had brought this about?

  The Master appeared in the Great Hall and the mystery was solved. Berthold saw at once the alchemy between them. The brooding Norman had also been transformed. He greeted Berthold and his knights affably, even shaking their hands. He looked fitter, more confident. Bile rose in Berthold’s throat at the sight of Farah’s shamshir on Montbryce’s hip.

  This was a complication he had not foreseen and it galled him. Were they sharing a bedchamber? Had Montbryce taken Farah’s maidenhead? Had she become his leman? Berthold had assured Alfonso that his half-sister was a marriageable virgin useful for cementing important alliances. After the care he had taken to protect her since she had arrived at the Hospice and he had painstakingly learned her story from Georges de Giroux’s rare moments of clarity—

  He gritted his teeth, determined not to allow Montbryce to interfere with his plans. There was too much at stake for the Order.

  ~~~

  Farah’s dismay at Berthold’s return was intense. He failed to hide his surprise that she had discarded her veil. Guilt for prayers she had uttered that some mishap might befall the Hospitaller Knights riddled her. She greeted him warmly, proud of the way the household had efficiently taken care of his needs. Had he noticed the changes in the castle she had worked diligently to achieve? He wanted her to behave like a princess, and she had. But in the process Giroux Castle had become her home, her kingdom.

  But was there any reason to stay at Giroux? Izzy had offered no words of love or commitment. She would be mortified if she remained at the castle to discover he only lusted for her. She would not be any man’s mistress. While she desired his body, she craved his love.

  Berthold’s face bore the signs of a long and difficult journey. Surely travelling from Mont Saint Michel would not have worn him out so completely? Where had he been all this time? He had returned mounted on a different horse from his own.