She looked up at Izzy pacing the chamber, terrifyingly splendid, a naked, angry warrior. Her heart stopped.
“Read on, princesa,” he insisted, glaring at her. “I want to make sure I have not misunderstood.”
The tears welling in her eyes made it difficult to read. She wiped them away and swallowed hard, concentrating. “…ten thousand livres of gold, money of Paris—”
She gasped. It was a fortune.
Izzy left off pacing to poke a gnarled finger at the parchment. “Read on. What he gives with one hand he takes away with another.”
She stared at the words, but Izzy’s anger held her in its thrall. He tore the scroll from her grasp and continued reading. “…of gold, to be held in dower for her marriage to Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce, Knight of Normandie…”
He glanced at her, his anger still evident. She struggled to comprehend. “I don’t—”
He held up his hand. “…provided that said Knight accompanies his wife on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Santiago de Compostela, for the purpose of seeking a miracle, that is the healing of the scar inflicted upon the face of la princesa María Sancha by an infidel dog.”
He threw the parchment onto the bed and stalked away, trying unsuccessfully to clench his rigid fingers.
She stared at the document that had suddenly torn away her happiness. She recognized it for the lie it was. The pilgrimage was not to seek a cure for her, but for Izzy. Alfonso had known he would never agree to go for his own sake.
Her husband was struggling into his clothes. “Does he think I am bothered by your scar? I am a better man than that. He insults me with his patronizing arrogance. Does he believe I have to be bribed with an outrageous sum to take my wife to a shrine to seek healing for her? Am I a pauper with no means of my own?”
She remained silent. If he guessed the truth he would think she had suggested the pilgrimage, repulsed by his affliction. She longed for him to be rid of his pain, but would he understand that was her only reason? He would judge her mad if she told him she had received a message from the spirit of her dead father.
~~~
Izzy stormed out of the chamber, his shirt loose over his breeches. Decorum be damned! He thrust open the outer doors, much to the surprise of the guards. “Where is his Majesté?” he demanded.
The soldiers looked at him open-mouthed, seemingly unsure if they should brandish their ceremonial halberds or not. One of them made a pointing gesture with his hand. “Huesca, su Majestad. Anoche. Huesca.”
Izzy raked a hand through his hair. “Gone back to Huesca? Last night? Why am I not surprised?”
They shrugged, their incomprehension evident.
He strode back into the chamber. Farah still sat on their bridal bed, naked and trembling, her arms wrapped around her breasts. He was instantly contrite. Why had he taken his anger at Alfonso out on his beloved wife? He knelt on the bed and gathered the linens around her, cradling her to his chest. She seemed to be holding her breath, but then a long, ragged sob broke from her throat.
He rocked her. “Forgive me, Farah, my joy, I am not angry with you. My temper got the better of me. I am too proud. Beware a man whose pride is bruised.”
She wept softly for long minutes, then became strangely silent. Had she fallen asleep? He rested his chin atop her head, inhaling her fragrance. Spicy, satisfied.
What to do next? He had already been too long away from Giroux. The chances of becoming the Seigneur now seemed remote, but he had hoped to return there as quickly as possible. Completing the pilgrimage to Santiago would add weeks to their absence.
Ten thousand livres of gold was an enormous sum, not to be dismissed lightly. His pride smarted, but it would ensure comfort and ease for the remainder of their lives, whether or not he owned a piece of Normandie.
If he refused to complete the pilgrimage, would Farah believe he did not care about her being healed, or that he did not believe in the possibility of a miracle for her?
And if miracles were indeed possible, dare he hope for the healing of his affliction? Non! He would not fall into that trap. He refused to go to Compostela with hope in his heart only to be cruelly disappointed. L’arthrite was something he had learned to live with. That was that.
The decision was clear. They would return straightway to Giroux, forfeiting the dowry. He would prevail on Robert to give him another chance, and rely on his own strengths to provide for his wife. She would see the wisdom of not making the long and difficult journey on to Compostela. She knew he did not care a whit that she was scarred.
Farah stirred in his arms. He held her away and smoothed her hair back from her tear-streaked face. “I have given much consideration to this idea of a pilgrimage.”
She smiled weakly, averting her eyes. “We have to go.”
The snake that had lain coiled in his belly since he had read the scroll slithered to his bowels, then bit into his heart. “We will leave on the morrow.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Farah paced the chamber, nervously awaiting Izzy’s return from overseeing Amadour’s departure. It had taken two days for the preparations to be made, and Izzy had become more and more irritable. He insisted they go alone to Compostela—no Amadour, no Berthold and no Knights. Alfonso had provided fresh horses, an expert guide and a retinue of guards and servants.
Izzy preferred Amadour return to Giroux post haste, and Berthold could go to the devil for all he cared. He had been incensed to discover Alfonso had donated gold to the Order of Saint John in spite of everything that had gone wrong with Farah’s return to Aragón.
The pain had returned to Izzy’s hands with a vengeance. The healthy regimen that Farah had encouraged him to adopt at Giroux had been abandoned during the trek to Aragón. She sensed his resentment also contributed to his relapse. It broke her heart when he begged off lovemaking on their second night together, pleading the discomfort of his affliction. There would be scant opportunity in the monasteries along the Camino de Santiago de Compostela for a man and wife to share a bed.
He had let her massage his hands with the last of the spikenard, quickly falling asleep from exhaustion.
Unbeknownst to Izzy, she too had made preparations for their journey. The Infirmirian of the monastery had gladly refilled the jar of spikenard and compounded a vial of Al-Kindi’s drug for the spirits. The old man expressed delight at the discovery of a kindred spirit who knew of the recipes of the Islamic physician, even if she was a woman.
The scowl on Izzy’s face when he returned to their chamber reminded her of the first time she had ever seen him. He was wearing his heavy leather gauntlets. Was she doing the right thing, forcing him to Compostela? He would not thank her for it if he knew it was for him that she pursued a miracle. She had to trust in the words of her dead father. You must seek the help of a saint.
He held out his gloved hand and forced a smile. “Ready?”
She put her hand in his, but remained in place when he moved to leave. He glanced at her sharply. Obedience had been drummed into Farah from birth. Challenging a man, especially one she loved, filled her with trepidation. Trembling inwardly, she looked him in the eye. “We are embarking on a holy pilgrimage, Izzy. If we begin in anger, our quest cannot succeed.”
His shoulders tensed and he frowned, but then his face softened, and he drew her into his arms. “I am sorry, Farah. This quest perplexes me. Why is your brother adamant we go to Compostela? I know miracles can happen, but this further delay might cost me Giroux Castle. Is it that important to him that you not be scarred?”
If she admitted the real reason behind Alfonso’s demand for the pilgrimage he would surely refuse to go. She strengthened her resolve not to reveal the truth. “I only know we have to go, Izzy. Our Blessed Lord and Saint James will watch over us. But we must start out with loving hearts.”
Izzy bristled. “Never doubt my love for you, Farah. You are right, and I apologise for allowing my anger to hurt you. If there is a miracle awaiting you at Compostela, I will
do my utmost to see you safely delivered there.”
~~~
They rode through the mountains of the Perinés, but the going on the first day was mostly flat as they followed the river valley. As evening drew near, their guide led them to the monastery at the foot of the Leyre mountains. Though it was something of a climb from the valley, the view as the sun set took their breath away.
As Farah had expected, she was assigned to the women’s dormitory and Izzy to the men’s. There was no opportunity to massage his hands, but he did accept the vial of al-Kindi’s elixir.
They arrived in the walled city of Pamplona the following evening. The going had been hillier, but they had made good progress. To their surprise the guide led them to a building that was too ornate to be a monastery.
They were further surprised when they were shown into a grand hall where Alfonso awaited them. He rose and stretched out his burly arms in welcome to his sister. She hurried into his embrace. “We were told you had gone to Huesca,” she exclaimed, hoping he would catch the tacit warning of Izzy’s displeasure in her eyes. “I was afraid I might never see you again.”
Alfonso winked, strode over to Izzy, larger than life, and offered his hand. “Welcome to my second kingdom, brother-by-marriage.”
Farah feared Izzy was about to vent his anger, but Alfonso’s words seemed to take him by surprise. He arched his brows and accepted the handshake, though his shoulders remained rigid. “Second kingdom?”
Alfonso chuckled, stroking his beard. “Sí, I am King of Aragón and Navarra. Pamplona is the capital of Navarra. I suspect last night you tossed and turned on the hard pallets of Leyre. Tonight you sleep in the palace of a king—together!”
Farah looked pleadingly at Izzy, praying he would not choose this moment to start an argument. She was tired and the promise of a night in a comfortable bed, safe in her husband’s arms, sounded wonderful.
The tension was broken by the arrival of several servants bearing tankards of ale and victuals. “We have already had our evening meal, but please enjoy this meagre fare. You must be hungry after your journey.”
Farah had to smile at her brother’s notion of meagre fare. Sufficient food for ten people was quickly set out. Alfonso lounged in an ornate chair, watching them eat. Farah was relieved that Izzy ate heartily, but he tensed again when Alfonso cleared his throat and said, “I am delighted you have taken up the challenge of the pilgrimage, Izzy.”
Farah lost control of the sudden twitch in her leg. She leaned into Izzy, silently pleading for calm. Izzy nuzzled her ear and whispered, “I suspect your brother came to Pamplona to make sure we had embarked on the pilgrimage.”
Farah chewed on her bottom lip and pressed her fingers into Izzy’s thigh.
He put his hand over hers, squared his shoulders, and looked at the king. “Did you doubt we would, Alfonso?”
Farah gasped. Would her brother take offense at the familiarity? Clearly it had taken him aback. The servants standing ready to meet their needs shifted their weight nervously, most of them intently studying their feet.
Alfonso rose, indicating they should remain seated. “Not for a moment. You will be shown to your chambers when you have eaten your fill. I bid you goodnight.”
Farah breathed a sigh of relief when the King of Aragón and Navarra swept regally from the hall.
Izzy made a deprecating noise. “I don’t trust him. There is something he is not telling us.”
Farah kept silent.
~~~
Alfonso saw them off the next day a little after dawn. Izzy decided there was nothing to be gained from an argument with the king, so he bit his tongue, remaining politely silent when Alfonso slapped him on the back and wished him a good journey. Farah was clearly saddened at the leave taking, believing she would never see her brother again.
They rode in silence, side by side. Most of their fellow pilgrims were on foot, and of peasant stock, yet they were everywhere greeted with respect and wished Good Journey more times and in more languages than they could count. There were few women among them. It was plain to see many were ill.
While Alfonso’s guide made sure Izzy and Farah were provided with sleeping accommodations that befitted their rank, he suspected most of the pilgrims slept on communal straw mattresses, trying to share warmth, willing to endure the inevitable lice that abounded in such close conditions. Izzy shivered, revolted by the thought of his beloved Farah being subjected to such deprivations.
His anger at Alfonso rose anew in his throat. Farah was too quiet. The journey was taking a great deal out of her and he worried about her health, recalling how ill she had become after the journey across the Perinés. Compostela was still a long way away.
At least they had the means to pay for good food, which he suspected most of the pilgrims did not. Many of them probably drifted off to sleep with less than a full stomach. Food and lodging was supposed to be free for pilgrims, but even well intentioned ecclesiastical orders had a limited ability to provide meals.
Izzy had experienced firsthand the dangers from bandits along the Camino. Peasant pilgrims had no protection from such hazards or from unscrupulous ferrymen, toll collectors and money changers. The so-called safe conduct pass did little to protect them from bad elements.
Potable water was a constant problem and most pilgrims had only shoes, some of them sturdy, some not, a cloak, a staff, a gourd for water, a leather bag, and a wide-brimmed hat. Every one proudly sported the ubiquitous symbol of the pilgrimage, a small scallop shell, around their necks. Izzy refused to wear the token, though Farah wore one tucked into her bodice. She put her hand over it in silent prayer when she thought he was not watching.
Izzy marvelled at the resilience of these folk. It reminded him of some of the tales Caedmon had told about the Crusades. Travelling the camino on horseback was tiring enough. They had obvious faith in the gruelling pilgrimage to the far flung reaches of Spain. Many of them would be away from family, friends, and loved ones for at least a year, if they made it back at all.
He wondered somewhat cynically how many of them helped their ailing fellow pilgrims after hearing the dire warning of the Miracle of the Thirty Pilgrims. The supposed miracle had taken place more than a score and ten years earlier, but it was still the most talked about event. No man wanted to incur the wrath of Saint James by foreswearing their promise to help other pilgrims.
Everywhere there was annoying talk of miracles. He did not know how fervently Farah believed a miracle awaited her. He was afraid her heart might break if her scar was not healed by the saint. She had put too much faith in the rumours of miraculous healings. But then again she had performed miracles.
On one occasion, when they had stopped to water the horses, a group of pilgrims approached them. Noting Izzy’s hands, one of them asked if he was bound for Compostela seeking a miraculous cure for his affliction.
He bristled and would have reminded the peasant of his station, but Farah put a hand on his arm. He turned his back on the pilgrims and helped his wife remount. “Why does everyone assume I seek the aid of Saint James? This wretch is the first to voice the words, but I have seen the same pity in the eyes of others. It galls me. There is no point expecting a miracle for me. It would lead to nothing but disappointment. I have to wonder about this talk of hanged boys being found alive after eight days on a gibbet, and cooked pullets arising from a trencher. Do you believe any of that?”
Farah said nothing in reply, but there was sadness in her eyes.
The track had been mostly flat land, but now they climbed until they crested the craggy hills beyond Bidaurreta. Then the gradual descent led to Estella.
They slept in the church of Santa María Jus del Castillo, side by side, but not in a private chamber. Izzy missed his wife, longing to be back in Giroux, cuddling her naked body in the big bed in the Seigneur’s chamber. He fell asleep listening to the frogs and cicadas and woke to the sound of birdsong.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ten weary days lat
er, they rode into Santiago de Compostela. The cathedral would not be finished for many more years, though ground had been broken in the year of Our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Five, but the magnificent structure had taken away even Izzy’s breath.
Farah shivered, despite the sweltering heat. Would the bones of a saint beheaded over a thousand years ago have the power to heal the bones of a Norman knight determined to believe such a miracle impossible?
She sought nothing from the saint for herself. These days she hardly paid attention to her disfigurement, confident in the belief it did nothing to lessen Izzy’s love for her. Why was she afraid he would doubt her love for him if she revealed the true reason for Alfonso forcing them on this pilgrimage?
There had been no opportunity to share a bed in the monasteries and refugios along the camino. Izzy touched her discretely every chance he got. The desire in his eyes told her he missed her as much as she missed him. She worried about the long term effects of this enforced physical separation on their marriage. It was hardly an auspicious beginning. Izzy seemed to grow more and more cynical about the existence of miracles. He was building a wall of defence, just in case.
The closer the pilgrims on foot came to Compostela, the more determined they seemed to be to help each other overcome the difficulties—horrendous blisters, heatstroke, thirst, hunger, exhaustion. At night the strains of simple instruments, brought along to ease the pain of the ordeal, drifted on the air. Izzy remained aloof.
Most fell to their knees weeping tears of joy upon entering the cathedral. They embraced one another, full in the knowledge they had overcome. They had won through to their journey’s end. Farah understood that, for many, this was the miracle.
The crush was so great, Farah barely had a chance to touch her hand to the pillar beneath the statue of the saint, already worn smooth by the caress of thousands. Izzy’s attention was all on seeing her safely inside.
At the Mass a short time after their arrival, she and Izzy were embarrassed when the names of recently arrived pilgrims were read out, and they were first on the list, referred to as members of the royal family of Aragón. Farah felt guilty. They had learned along the route that most pilgrims had to wait at least a day to hear their name. Izzy bristled, glaring at the guide Alfonso had provided. The man merely smiled, patting the leather satchel wherein lay the compostelas issued by the cathedral to confirm they had completed the pilgrimage. Though they did not require the indulgence, Alfonso would no doubt wish to see the proof.
Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love Page 15
