Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love

by Anna Markland

  “Then why did she go?”

  Izzy was torn between a desire to punch Amadour’s nose and a need to confide his torment. “I am not the man for her. She is a princess, worthy of a whole man. How could a woman like her care for a creature like me with these hands?”

  Amadour stared at him. “You love her, don’t you?”

  Izzy drained his tankard. “It’s of no importance. She’s gone.”

  “Did you ask her to stay?”

  It was a simple question. Why had he not asked her to stay? Would she have said yes? “Non, I didn’t, and it’s too late now.”

  ~~~

  Amadour quickly took charge of training for the men-at-arms. Most of them showed respect for him as a hero of the Crusades. He and Izzy discussed each man, sharing their opinions about his loyalty and commitment. To Izzy’s relief, there seemed to be only one or two disgruntled individuals who would have to be watched.

  He had thought that two days of intensive training, followed by their discussions deep into the night would help him sleep. It was a forlorn hope. Farah danced in his head. He was in a state of constant aching arousal thinking of her.

  Exhausted, it occurred to him that Farah’s oils had helped him to sleep. It was absurd to be afraid to use them. He quickly donned a shirt and breeches and made his way through the torchlit hallways to the Still Room. He pushed open the door. The room was in darkness but he knew where the vials were. He found the one he sought, removed the stopper and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes as longing and regret rushed over him. “Farah,” he whispered.

  He shivered and clasped his arms around his chest, swaying from side to side, holding Farah, dancing with her. His exhausted body failed him and he stumbled into the bench. His hand brushed against an object.

  He had been struck by lightning. It couldn’t be—

  He grasped the object with both hands, choking back a sob. An urge to scream welled up in his throat. He could not contain it. “Faraaaaah!”

  Her name echoed off the stone walls. He fell to his knees, clutching the shamshir to his chest. What a fool he had been. He had failed to recognise a love so great that she would leave behind the most precious thing she owned. For him.

  His destiny suddenly became clear. He would pursue her, though it meant abandoning his responsibilities as Master. Owning a piece of Normandie would mean nothing without Farah to enjoy it with him.

  The hour was late when he hastened to Amadour’s chamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Despite the beauty of the flat, forested terrain over which they rode for many days, Farah’s heart and body were in agony. The old saddle that Elenor de Giroux had evidently not used for many a year proved a torment. Learning to ride had not been a necessity in a harem. Georges de Giroux had never owned a horse in Jerusalem, and during the journey from the Holy City to Normandie, she had ridden in the cart with the baggage.

  After five days, her thighs and bottom were raw when they arrived in Tours, where Berthold planned to join the Path followed by pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela. The church that provided hospitality for pilgrims, built over the tomb of Saint Martin of Tours, offered no chance for relief, except to lie on her belly on the cold stone floor, biting into her wrist to muffle her sobs.

  The pilgrims on their way to visit the tomb of Saint James in far off Spain were impressed that Hospitaller Knights of Saint John had joined their pilgrimage. Berthold soaked up the attention, and paid little mind to Farah.

  For the next two days, Farah drifted in and out of a mindless fog as they wound their way to Poitiers. They slept in the Baptistère de Saint-Jean, amid the tombs of Merovingian monarchs. Someone was painting a fresco of Christ’s ascension and the air was heavy with the smell of lime and wet plaster. She shivered, her teeth chattering, unable to get warm, sick at heart.

  When they rode away from the ancient building, she looked up at the carved corbels of comical faces on the exterior wall, feeling their mockery. Why had she not confessed her love and stood up to Berthold? What was she doing in the middle of nowhere, bound for a place she did not want to go? She conjured an image of Izzy finding the shamshir. How glad she was that she had left it. It was made for him.

  ~~~

  After ten more grueling days crossing endless plains and fording countless rivers, the terrain changed to rolling hills as they entered Oloron. The Pyrenees loomed in the distance. She shuddered. On the other side of that divide lay an uncertain future. She had not spoken Aragonese since her mother’s death. Berthold had assured her Alfonso awaited her arrival with great anticipation, but his descriptions of her half-brother’s warrior-like nature intimidated her. Aragón and Navarra were in a constant state of war with the Moors. Normandie had its dangerous intrigues, but the holy war Alfonso waged against the infidels would be a bloody fight to the death. She feared many in his kingdom would not welcome her.

  The cathedral monks of Oloron extended their hospitality to the Knights. A sense of foreboding swept over her as she entered the church’s ornate portal.

  On the morrow, the mighty Perinés.

  ~~~

  Izzy had not been able to dissuade Amadour from accompanying him. “I need you to remain at Giroux to watch over the dissidents.”

  Amadour had shrugged. “There are other loyal men capable of doing that. I cannot allow you to make the journey alone. If we follow the Pilgrim’s Path to Spain, you will need an experienced Crusader with you.”

  Izzy was adamant. He took the reins of Amadour’s horse, intending to pass them to a stable boy. “Robert will not be pleased I have deserted my post at Giroux. You too will bear the brunt of his disappointment.”

  Amadour grabbed the reins. “Your cousin Robert already knows that you command the loyalty of the vast majority of men at Giroux. He is impressed at how quickly you have turned things around there.”

  “But it will be for naught if the supporters of William Clito win the day.”

  No matter his argument, the two left Giroux together, bound for Tours. En route they stayed at Alensonne, the enormous castle left to Robert’s sister, Rhoni de Montbryce by her mother, Mabelle. His cousin, now Lady MacLachlainn, greeted him warmly, casting a curious glance at his sword.

  He embraced her. “It’s good to see you, Hylda Rhonwen—”

  He looked at her and winked.

  “—Oops! I mean Rhoni.”

  She punched his shoulder and flounced off to greet Amadour. Rhoni had grown up in England, but had spent most summers with her parents at Montbryce. She had met Amadour on many occasions.

  Izzy shook Lord MacLachlainn’s hand. “Ronan, your wife knows my comrade well, but I don’t believe you have met Amadour de Vignoles.”

  Rhoni’s Irish husband slapped Amadour on the back and offered his hand. “No, but I know of your heroism during the Crusades. Welcome. Let’s go inside.”

  They spent a pleasant evening enjoying a delicious meal in the Great Hall of Alensonne.

  Ronan MacLachlainn spoke Norman French, but was more comfortable with English, thus they communicated in that language. “Better than the only other language I speak,” he quipped. “I don’t suppose either of you speak Gaelic, and Rhoni’s the only one who can manage Welsh.”

  Rhoni smiled her agreement. “It was my good fortune that Baudoin married a Welsh woman, who has helped me with the language. By the way, Izzy, did you know my brother and Carys are expecting another child?”

  Amadour chuckled. “Seems Baudoin was a mere lad when I first met him on our trek back from Asia Minor. I haven’t seen him in a while. How many children does he have now?”

  “Two boys, Gallien and Etienne,” Rhoni replied. “Carys is a wonderful mother and wife, and her brother, Rhys has become a good friend of Baudoin’s. Rhys is the Prince of Powwydd.”

  Izzy knew and liked Carys, Countess of Ellesmere. “Yes, Baudoin hurried away after François de Giroux’s funeral, anxious to be off on a road building expedition with Rhys.”

  Rhoni c
alled for more wine. “They have already embarked on it. Carys and Rhys’s wife, Annalise are alone together at Ellesmere Castle. Both pregnant.”

  As they chatted, Amadour remarked on the warm friendship the cousins, indeed all members of the Montbryce family, seemed to share.

  Izzy smiled. “Rhoni and I have been friends since childhood, though she was born in Wales and grew up at my uncle Ram’s castle in England. We’re about the same age, and our parents gave us both names we’ve preferred to shorten.”

  Amadour grinned and turned to Rhoni. “I know the story of your birth in the Welsh mountains during your mother’s captivity.”

  Izzy could not resist the urge to tease. “Oui, she’s fond of repeating it. It’s a hair-raising story. Actually she’s proud of the fact she was born in Wales.”

  Amadour arched his brows. “I would be interested in knowing, then, how you came to be married to an Irishman!”

  ~~~

  Later, sitting in front of a hearty fire in the gallery, Izzy felt comfortable telling his cousin of the reason for his journey.

  Rhoni put her hand on his. “I am happy you have found love, Izzy. You’re a good man. I was wondering about your strange sword. You don’t seem to want to be separated from it. You even wore it during supper.”

  He smiled. “Let me show it to you. It’s an incredible weapon. I feel invincible with it. You don’t know what a relief that is to me.”

  Ronan whistled at the sight of the curved blade. “I can imagine. It’s impressive. May I hold it?”

  Suddenly the fire felt too hot. Izzy did not want to let the blade out of his possession. Perhaps the hand of another might destroy the alchemy he and the shamshir shared. As long as he held it, he had a connection to Farah. But he would appear petulant if he refused. Reluctantly, he handed it over.

  His cousin-by-marriage laughed as he hefted the weapon. “Don’t worry. I won’t damage it. I want to feel the weight. You’re right, it’s incredibly light. Lethal. Such workmanship. Perhaps on the morrow I can practice with it in the training yard?”

  Izzy reached for the weapon, sheathing it quickly. “We would stay longer, but we are already several days behind the Knights. We will be leaving at dawn.”

  ~~~

  It was not difficult to follow the route the Knights had taken. They had made a lasting impression everywhere they had gone. Izzy and Amadour were steadily gaining ground and were now only a day behind.

  Izzy shuddered when he envisaged Farah sleeping amid the tombs in Poitiers. Was she hale? How had she fared on the journey? Many remembered the Knights, but had little to say about the woman they escorted, except that she looked frail and unwell.

  Izzy would kill Berthold for subjecting Farah to this strenuous journey. It was difficult enough for a seasoned warrior. Did she even know how to ride a horse?

  Amadour and Izzy caused excitement in their own right. Because Izzy wore an infidel’s sword and was travelling with a Crusader, many assumed that he had visited the Holy Land. No one had trouble believing that the two were indeed bound for Santiago de Compostela, especially when they noticed Izzy’s hands. “Seeking a miracle from Saint James,” whispered many a sympathetic pilgrim signing the Cross of Our Lord.

  In Bordeaux, they discovered there were two routes over the Pyrenees. They questioned the priests at the church where pilgrims sought shelter. “Did the Knights intend to take the route through Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Roncesvalles, or did they travel to Ortolon in order to take the Somfort Pass over the mountains?”

  “Why do you wish to know?” one indignant cleric asked.

  “One of the Knights is my brother,” Amadour lied. “Our father has passed, and I must advise him. He is my father’s heir.”

  They were told the Knights had probably opted for Ortolon, since they intended to visit a monastery in Chaca.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Vermudo Díaz had crossed the Perinés many times. Somfort Pass had become an important trade route, and he had transported African goods from Aragón into Gascogne and the Pays Basque. It was lucrative.

  It was also dangerous, especially near the bridge at Canfranc. Having crested the divide, weary travellers descending the rugged, desolate gorge cut by the fast flowing Aragón River were often set upon as they crossed the narrow stone bridge. It was a place favoured by thieves, and the summit towering over it was named Coll de Ladrones in their honour.

  This was where Vermudo decided to ambush the Knights. There was naught a man could do once he was shoved into the raging fury of the Aragón.

  He knew the thieves who made their living there, had paid them off to leave his caravans alone. They would be only too willing to assist, aware they would be well rewarded. No necessity for them to know it was the King of Aragón’s sister they murdered. If they were blamed—so what! It was better than laying the blame on wandering Moors, an unlikely scenario this far from the plains.

  He took only his most trusted lieutenant with him, a man known as The Wolf, because of his given name, Lope, though in appearance he resembled his crow-like family name, Velasco.

  Like a wolf, Velasco was a ruthless killer, dogging his prey, but like a crow he was a wily scavenger, a cleaner up of messes, a survivor. The brigands of Canfranc feared Lope Velasco. They would do Vermudo’s bidding or suffer the consequences.

  ~~~

  King Alfonso worried. Dominguez had reported that Vermudo Díaz had been seen only in the company of his henchman, the Wolf. Despite intense surveillance, no one else seemed implicated in the plot. Spies watching his mother reported Vermudo had not met again with la Reina Madre.

  The King of Aragón paced his chamber. “How can he hope to overwhelm a party of Hospitaller Knights with only Velasco?”

  Dominguez scratched his head. “I do not know, Majestad, but I have received word this morning that the two of them left the palace together, towing two donkeys laden with supplies. They took the road to Chaca. I have men following them, at a discreet distance.”

  “He is counting on help from someone else. It is the only reasonable explanation. But who? Did messages get through to the monastery, warning them?”

  “Sí, majestad, they report nothing unusual. And I have posted reinforcements there.”

  “So, either his plan is not to lay an ambush, but to rely on other methods of murder, or he intends to get someone else to help him.”

  “Ladrones,” Dominguez said.

  Alfonso stopped pacing. “What did you say?”

  “Ladrones, majestad. There are many thieves in the mountains who prey on weary travellers.”

  Alfonso fisted his hand and struck his palm. “Por supuesto! Of course! And where are the worst brigands? Not at Chaca—”

  “—Canfranc!” Dominguez exclaimed. “The bridge.”

  Alfonso strode to the door, issuing commands. “Prepare a score of men. Fully armed. We must pursue them into the mountains. They will avoid the monastery and evade the soldiers there. We leave in an hour.”

  ~~~

  Years of living in hot climes had not prepared Farah for the bitter cold of the mountains. After countless days on the road, sleeping fitfully in damp surroundings, she had lost the will to live. Dread of what awaited her in Aragón roiled in her belly.

  Why had she not stood up to Berthold? She watched him now through weary eyes. He strutted and boasted to the other pilgrims, shrugging off their concerns about rumours of thieves in the passes. His booming voice echoed off the sides of the narrow valley. “Fear not, you have Hospitaller Knights to protect you.”

  The ascent from Ortolon was gradual at first but then became steep. Beyond the summit of the Somfort Pass, where they had knelt beneath the giant cross, they had come across the Priory Hospital of Santa Cristina. Farah had toyed with the idea of seeking sanctuary, but Berthold had made sure she was never alone. She was ill. The Knight must have noticed her pallor, her lack of appetite, her constant shivering, yet he refused to allow her to enter the Hospital.

 
He had awed the others with his knowledge of this institution and his own in Jerusalem. He had waxed long on the topic of the fortress at Candanchú that protected the Hospital, pointing to the castle in the distant alpine meadows.

  “All downhill from here,” he proclaimed jauntily. “Follow my lead. On to Canfranc!”

  ~~~

  Having learned that the Knights and Farah had left Ortolon only hours before, Izzy and Amadour continued on, following the river as it meandered towards the mountains. Though the heavily wooded terrain became hilly, the valley cut by the river was wide enough that the going was easier than they had anticipated.

  Izzy was incensed by what the monks had told him of Farah. “A wraith,” one had said. “Wouldn’t eat,” added another.

  She was obviously ill, yet Berthold had refused to allow her to receive care, insisting they journey on to Chaca. A vision of Farah’s warm, smooth skin pinched and paled by sickness made him want to retch. If only he had asked her to stay at Giroux. He remembered how happy she had been there, as if she belonged.

  He and Amadour were tired, as were their horses, but they pushed on as fast as they dared, trying to gain ground.

  “What’s our plan once we catch up to them?” Amadour asked, his voice muffled by the cloak he had pulled across his face when the ascent became steeper and the wind colder.

  Izzy gripped the hilt of the shamshir. “I don’t know exactly, but I am prepared to use this weapon if Berthold won’t agree to release her.”

  He wished he felt as confident as he sounded. The cold had seeped into his bones. He could barely move his gnarled fingers.

  At the summit, they dismounted and knelt at the foot of the cross erected there. Izzy did not recall the last time he had asked God for anything, but he prayed earnestly for Farah. Tears welled in his eyes. Amadour noticed and gave him a reassuring slap on the shoulder.

  “It’s the wind,” Izzy rasped, but his friend’s sympathetic smile showed he was not convinced.

  Amadour remounted, but Izzy hesitated. “This not your fight, Amadour. You have seen me safely to Spain. There is no reason for you to risk your life for me.”