Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love (3 page)

Farah removed her scarf, dragged the damp
abaya
over her head, and collapsed onto the mattress. The chamber smelled musty, and the rushes were none too clean. The furnishings bespoke neglect. She curled her knees to her chest, thankful that at least the linens were soft and fragrant. The last time she had enjoyed such luxury was in the harem. She had been a child then. It seemed a lifetime ago.

It was a relief that most of the precious treasures brought from the Holy Land had survived the journey intact. The ill-humoured Master had been irritated by the amount of baggage delivered to her chamber. First thing on the morrow she would make sure the oils, spices, herbs and medicinals were properly stored. There must be a Still Room somewhere in the castle? Georges’ chain mail, sword, and Crusader’s surcoat must also be put away carefully for when—

No! She refused to think on the inevitability of his demise.

Despite her exhaustion, she could not wait until the morrow to make sure her secret had survived the journey intact. Too remarkable to be worn overtly, the weapon had been carefully concealed. She rose from the bed, located the specially marked trunk and heaved open the heavy lid, quickly removing the layers of clothing covering the hidden compartment.

Biting her lip, she held her breath and eased out the false bottom. The trunk had scarcely left her sight, but it had been a long and difficult journey. Not even the Knights knew of her secret.

The tooled leather scabbard appeared undamaged. She exhaled and picked up the weapon, gripping the hilt with a trembling hand. She had vowed never to be parted from this daunting reminder of her past, no matter how dire her circumstances.

Slowly, she extracted the patterned blade. There was no sound, except the thudding of her heart as the instrument of death escaped its sheath like a jinn from a magic lamp. The candlelight glinted on the curved steel. Its dreadful beauty never failed to bring a lump to her throat.

For safety’s sake, she had allowed the blade to become dull, but, with a flick of the wrist, the point could still skewer a man before he had time to blink. She held the weapon to her breast. Shivering when the cold of the steel penetrated her thin shift, she recalled the terrifying moment the blade had sliced into her skin.

Satisfied the
shamshir
was undamaged, she secreted it again and put back the false bottom. Piling clothing on top, she listened to the wind whistling in the hallway outside her door, relieved that Georges had finally calmed. There was no sound from the next chamber.

She had rarely seen him so agitated. He had never spoken to her about the feud, but her mother had told her of it. Georges had avoided returning to the place of his birth, until death stalked him.

Madness had taken hold of Georges’ father after he had been blinded and mutilated by another nobleman whose daughter had married the eldest son of the Montbryce family. His madness had made life unbearable for his three sons. They had directed their resentment and hatred to Mabelle de Montbryce and her family.

Georges had preferred to endure the rigours of the Holy Land to returning home to Normandie. From what Farah had gathered from the tense meeting in the Great Hall, the Giroux girl had married a Montbryce, the man who had carried her away. Surely that should have brought an end to the enmity? She snickered, acknowledging that no Saracen would abandon a feud until the last drop of blood was spilled.

But who was the arrogant knight with the strange name who had proclaimed he was the Master of the castle? Apart from Georges, every man in the room was handsome in the way warriors were handsome—even the dwarf. Yet she had been unable to take her eyes off the tall, dark haired knight whose hands were gloved. Why did he wear heavy leather gauntlets in the middle of the day, indoors? A chill stole through her. Perhaps for the same reason she hid her face—to conceal and protect.

She was confident her garb had hidden the fire that flushed her cheeks and stole across her chest from the knight whose eyes had bored into her. But she feared the silk
abaya
had emphasized the hard points of her nipples as they tightened under his gaze. A sudden thirst had raged in her dry throat as tendrils of heat spiralled to her core. The fever had robbed her of the firm control she usually had over her emotions. Perhaps the incessant rain had made her ill.

She pummelled the bolster with her fisted hand. The haughty Norman had assumed she was an infidel, but he was not to blame for that. It was the purpose of the disguise she and Berthold had decided upon when they had set out on their journey. But he had acted as if she was not in the room when he spoke of her. She had endured enough masculine arrogance at the hands of her former Saracen masters.

She had been forced throughout her life to be subservient to men. Where had the courage come from to answer the Master back? Had the words
Enough of this
actually spilled from her mouth?

Thoughts of her childhood brought back the horrors of the siege. She raised her hand to trace a finger delicately over the scar that was her legacy from that terrifying ordeal, annoyed that a tear had trickled unbidden down the length of the disfigurement.

What would become of her now she had delivered her Protector to his kin? Would they allow her to remain with him until he died? It was evident they did not want him, why would they keep her?

Or should she listen to Berthold’s increasingly insistent entreaties that they journey on to Aragón to claim her birthright? But what recognition might the bastard child of a dead king hope for, though her half-brother Alfonso reigned there now? It was more likely a nunnery would be her fate. She would be a prisoner once more. The irony of it did nothing to stem the flow of tears.

The unexpected advent of the only surviving Giroux brother had delayed everyone’s departure from the castle. Denis had suggested to Robert that matters be settled at a family conference. Izzy was relieved. He had to be sure of his ground before taking over.

Caedmon opened the discussion when the men of the family gathered in the gallery. “It is evident Georges cannot rule the castle. If he lives, he has not the capacity.”

Izzy said nothing. Let his kinsmen come to the right conclusion without his pleading on his own behalf. They well understood the thirst for control of a piece of Normandie.

Robert drummed his fingers on the table. Everyone was aware Dorianne wanted to be home with her children. “I believe we are in agreement concerning that. I propose he be allowed to live out his days here. It won’t be easy, but with Farah’s help—”

Izzy leapt to his feet. “The woman will remain here?” he exclaimed, his thoughts suddenly in turmoil, his heart racing.

Hugh de Montbryce looked at his son curiously.

Baudoin tilted his head and arched his brows. “You would not wish her here, cousin?”

How to explain that, since her arrival, the woman had haunted his thoughts, that she danced in his dreams every night, that he became tongue tied when she fixed those enormous eyes on him? Her perfume, exotic yet somehow familiar, filled his senses, addled his brain. He lived to catch a glimpse of her veiled figure each day, but she must not stay, or he might go mad. Perhaps she had bewitched him with eastern magic. “I—
non
. It’s not that I don’t want her here, but, after all, an infidel?”

Berthold, who had been invited to observe the discussions, coughed. “May I speak?” he said to Robert who nodded his assent.

Berthold stood and cleared his throat again. “Farah was raised by infidels and she dresses in the eastern style. However, her mother made sure she was taught the true religion of her forefathers, albeit in secret and at great risk to them both. Farah is a devout Catholic. Her blood is Spanish, not Saracen. The garb is for her—protection.”

This astonishing revelation prompted gasps of surprise, frowns and requests for more details. Relief flooded through Izzy as the guilt of being enthralled by an infidel lifted from his shoulders. But a dull uncertainty still sat in the pit of his belly. Too many mysteries surrounded this woman. From whom or what did she need to be protected? She had played havoc with his careful self control. No good could come of it. “Surely she does not need protection from us?”

All eyes turned to him and he immediately wished he had remained silent. Was he advocating that Farah abandon her style of dress? What did it matter to him? Yet the image before him was of Farah naked, dancing, teasing. He remembered the pouting nipples puckering the light fabric of her robe that first day. Once again the throbbing ache at his groin had him taking deep breaths, glad of the long tunic he wore.

“Are you unwell?” Baudoin asked suspiciously.

Izzy felt his face flush. He held up his hands and slumped back down in his chair. “Er—
oui
, only
l’arthrite
paining me. It’s naught.”

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.”