Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love (5 page)

“I’ll stand, papa, if you don’t mind.”

Hugh frowned and pointed again to the chair. “Sit.”

Izzy obeyed, but his back remained rigid.

Hugh put his hands on his knees. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I intend to tell you anyway. And don’t worry, I won’t bore you with tales of falling in love.”

Izzy folded his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes. The twitch was back in his leg. “Go on.”

“You know most of the story, but what you don’t know is why I avoided women for six long years after the Battle of Hastings.”

Izzy frowned and looked askance at his sire. “What?”

“I avoided women because I believed it was violence that aroused me. I was afraid if I bedded a woman I might kill or maim her.”

How could this be true? Hugh de Montbryce was the kindest, gentlest man Izzy had ever known. “I don’t understand, Papa.”

“It was a foolish fear. No-one can imagine living with the memories of the horrors of Hastings. You may know I suffered for years from an uncontrollable hand tremor. The point is, I allowed fear to rule my life—as you are doing now.”

Izzy leapt to his feet. “I am no coward. What are you saying?”

Hugh shook his head. “Sit down, Izzy. I know you are a brave warrior, a courageous man, but when it comes to matters of the heart many men shy away from facing their fears. You are afraid she will reject you because of your affliction.”

Izzy tore off his gloves and thrust his hands in his father’s face. “Look at me, Papa. No woman will want to be caressed by these hands. I don’t need love.”

Hugh put his hands on his son’s. “Everyone needs love, Izzy. I would give anything to remove the cross you bear, but you are worthy of love. Your affliction does not make you any less of a man. Isembart Joubert lost one hand in the service of our great Duke William, but he never let his handicap stand in his way. Farah is not an ordinary woman. She has suffered much, lost much. She may surprise you. Is it not worth the risk? It’s obvious to everyone you burn for her.”

Izzy sighed, his heart and body weary. He had evidently made a complete fool of himself in front of his family. He picked up his gloves and stood. “I’m going to bed, Papa.
Dors bien
.”

His father rose slowly and embraced him. “I hope you sleep well, too, though I suspect you won’t. Think on what I have said.”

Izzy nodded woodenly and left the chamber.

Dorianne’s relief and excitement at leaving Giroux showed on her face. The baggage had been loaded into the rear of the cart, and Elenor de Giroux ensconced in her seat. It was the first time for many a year that Dorianne’s mother had left the castle. She was a woman reborn, her pallor gone, her eyes alight with expectation.

Dorianne looked to her husband. Izzy marvelled at the trust that passed between them whenever Robert and his wife exchanged glances. What must it be like to have a woman to love and depend on that way?

Dorianne had nursed Robert back to health after his terrible incarceration. Robert still had demons to contend with. Izzy had heard the nightmarish shouts in the dark, but no one looking at Robert now would imagine the horror he had endured at the hands of Curthose, through the treachery of Pierre de Giroux.

Baudoin and Caedmon had sailed back to England two days previously. Baudoin was anxious to get started on a road-building expedition in Wales he had been planning for months with his wife’s brother, Rhys.

Robert took Izzy’s arm and drew him aside. “It’s up to you now, Izzy. I have complete confidence in your ability to turn this place around, breathe new life into it.”

Izzy felt a lump rise in his throat. What was it Robert had seen in him to justify such faith? He clasped Robert’s hand. “I will not let you down, cousin.”

“Be wary. Curthose languishes in prison, but there are many in Normandie who would take up his cause against King Henry. I know you have already started taking the measure of the men here, but your brigades need to be built up. I will select suitable men from Montbryce to strengthen your garrison.”

Izzy’s nervousness eased. It was good news and would help resolve the problem of military vulnerability that had plagued him. “My father has also promised men from Domfort. Denis and Adam assured me before they left with Mathieu that that Uncle Antoine will allow reinforcements to come from Belisle.”

Robert slapped him on the back, and the two men embraced. “Good! The loyalty of the few Giroux men who survived Tinchebray has not been proven. It will be good to have men from Montbryce holdings whom we know we can trust. I have in mind to send you Caedmon’s friend, Amadour de Vignoles, as a commander.”

This too was welcome news to Izzy. He strode over to Dorianne and bowed, unsure of what to say. “
Adieu
,
cousine
. Don’t worry about Giroux Castle. I will take good care of it.”

Robert interrupted whatever response Dorianne had in mind, his face stern. “See that you do, or you will not become the
Seigneur
.”

~~~

It was a good two hours later before Hugh and Melton de Montbryce were ready to leave. Age had slowed Izzy’s father down, but he was a man of three score and two years. No one lived forever.

Antoine, two years older than Hugh, was dying. Their older brother, Ram had passed several years ago. They were great men, heroes of the Battle of Hastings two score years before. They had founded a dynasty, strengthening a noble Norman family and bringing it more honour, glory, wealth, and power. Pride surged through Izzy’s veins at the sight of his father’s grey hair and stooped bearing. Though he had difficulty mounting his horse, in Izzy’s eyes, Hugh de Montbryce was still a giant of a man. He would miss him after he was gone.

He put a gloved hand on his father’s thigh.
“Give
Maman
un petit baiser
from me.
Tell her not to worry.”

Hugh snorted. “I will give her the little kiss, but expecting her not to worry is like trying to hold back the sea. She loves you, Izzy, as do I, and we know you will do a fine job with this castle. It’s what you have always wanted.
Adieu, mon fils
.”

Izzy slapped his father’s horse on the rump. “
Adieu
, Papa.”

Melton had watched the exchange. They would fight to the death for each other, but Izzy and his taciturn brother had drifted apart since the onset of his affliction.

Now Melton strode over to embrace Izzy, then mounted his own steed. “Go with God, little brother. This is a fine castle that has fallen into your lap. Don’t mess it up. The same goes for Farah.”

Before Izzy could protest, Melton had spurred on his horse and ridden out of the bailey.

~~~

Izzy watched the last of his family ride away and suddenly felt his isolation. Melton had the right of it. This was what he had thirsted for, but it would not be easy.

However, life had not been easy for the past ten years. His affliction had rendered many of the skills he had previously boasted of nigh on impossible. How was a warrior to defend his property and his family honour if he could not wield a sword?

His brother and father seemed to consider it an easy matter to woo a woman like Farah. She was so far out of his deformed reach, it sickened him. But he would strive to resurrect this holding from its tortured past, though accomplishing it alone filled him with a trepidation he would rather not admit.

He took a deep breath, but it caught in his throat when he turned to see Farah standing in the doorway of the keep.

~~~

Farah had not meant to linger long enough for Montbryce to notice her, but watching him bid farewell to his family had touched her heart. She had spent her childhood in a harem, with only her mother to share love. The new Master had obviously grown up in the bosom of a family that loved him. He would miss them as he strove to redeem Giroux Castle.

She did not envy him the task, but felt a strange urge to make suggestions concerning things she had noticed were in need of improvement. Better to keep silent. The proud Norman would not welcome her ideas. He resented her presence.

Her fear was confirmed when he caught sight of her in the doorway. He scowled, turned on his heel, and strode away. Tears welled in her eyes. She felt an inexplicable bond with this troubled man. Her heart raced whenever she caught sight of him. Carnal thoughts and fantasies took hold of her and she had awakened several mornings with her hand pressed between her legs. The memory was shameful.

It pained her to hope for a quick release for Georges, but then she would leave Giroux. Longing for a man who abhorred her was hard—and he had not seen the horror of her face. Then his revulsion would be unbearable.

Izzy saw little of either Georges or Farah over the course of the next fortnight. Berthold and his men had gone off on a pilgrimage to Mont Saint Michel, promising to return in two months. Robert had told them nothing of his rescue of Dorianne from the famous monastery after Pierre had consigned her to the nunnery there.

Izzy had assisted his father and brother in the running of Domfort Castle, but there was a lot to learn and his head buzzed with ideas and plans. His father had promised him cuttings from the apple orchards at Domfort. Men were already turning the soil in preparation.

Georges became too weak to come to the Great Hall for meals, and Farah fed him in his chamber. At first she collected their food from the kitchens, but Izzy arranged for it to be taken to them by a servant. The less he saw of her, the easier it would be to get her out of his mind. She had informed the Montbryces of her intention to travel on to Aragón after Georges’ death.

Izzy did not know how she spent her time, assuming she kept Georges company. He told himself he did not care. But every night he lay awake for hours, haunted by the vision of her dance. When exhaustion claimed him, he dreamt of suckling her breasts, wrapping her long legs around his hips, inhaling the spicy scent of her jet black hair. He longed to know her face, longed for those elegant fingers to stroke him. Red nails raked his skin. He often awoke in the middle of the night, startled awake by his own moans of desire, the sweat cold on his body—might someone have heard him cry out?

He hoped for Georges’ death, but dreaded it. Then she would leave. It was best she go. If only he might see her face once before she went. Often, unable to get back to sleep, he wandered the darkened hallways of the castle, clad only in shirt and breeches, listening to the creaks and groans of an unfamiliar stone edifice. Would Giroux ever feel like home?

One night, as he wandered, a door hinge squeaked nearby. Georges’ chamber, he was sure. His heart hammered when he heard the swish of fabric on stone. A faint trace of Farah’s perfume hung in the air.

She would be alarmed if she bumped into him in the dark. “
Milady
?” he whispered loudly. Her footsteps stilled. He peered into the shadows. She was a ghost, pressing her back against the wall, her face turned from him. She wore no veil! But it was too dark to see clearly. He took a step towards her.

She held out a hand. “Come no closer.”

Even in the dark he repulsed her. He swallowed his anger. “Don’t be afraid. It’s only me, Izzy.”

There was a moment or two of silence. “Izzy?”

He chuckled. “Gerwint Isembart. Everyone calls me Izzy. I prefer it.”

Was she smiling? What did her smile look like?

“Izzy,” she murmured, her sultry voice sending arrows of desire flying through his body. He took another step closer. She put one hand to her face, but did not try to flee. “Please, come no closer—Izzy.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “I will not harm you, Farah. You have naught to fear from me.”

“I do not fear you,” she whispered, “but my presence here is a burden for you.”

They stood in the darkened hallway for long minutes in silence. Izzy’s mind whirled. He might never have another chance to see her face. Why was he plagued with this obsession? “You are not a burden, Farah. You are a beautiful woman. Why do you hide your face? Is it forbidden to look upon you? Berthold claims you are not an infidel.”

Her sharp intake of breath was audible. Was it a sob? He took another step. She covered her face with both hands. “I am a Christian. It is not forbidden to look upon me—only abhorrent.”

Ice seeped into Izzy’s veins. Abhorrent? How often he had used the same word to describe himself. “I do not understand.”

Her voice was bitter. “I cover my face for the same reason you cover your hands.”

He took a step back, dread coiling in his gut. She was disfigured. His emotions warred within him. What if he looked upon her face and felt revulsion? He knew the utter despair of such rejection. He would not inflict it on her. “I will trouble you no further,” he rasped. “Goodnight.”

He turned away and forced his legs to carry him back to his chamber, cursing himself for a coward as well as a fool.

~~~

Farah’s knees buckled and she crumpled to a heap on the cold stone floor. She heard the door of Izzy’s chamber close and her heart closed with it. Izzy! Such a name for a warrior! Why did he insist on seeing her face? Because he lusted after her. She had seen it before. Men intrigued by her eyes, by the fact she was veiled—unattainable.

She had sensed, hoped, he was different. He was a man whose pain she ached to ease with her gift. But the idea of a disfigured woman had repulsed him.

Sharing her gift brought intense pain, but she could have borne it for him.

She must have dozed, slumped against the wall. She did not remember how she arrived at her own chamber where she relived the nightmare of the long ago voyage from Morocco to the Holy Land.

The storm was terrifying in its intensity for a child of ten. When their new master, ad-Daula, was pinned to the deck by a fallen mast, the crew despaired and panic seized them.

Farah did not recall the precise moment the calm awareness of power had stolen peacefully over her. Ad-Daula was close to death. Rain lashed the deck. Unafraid, she knelt at his side and lay her small hands on his broken body. Intense pain shook her to the core, but she did not scream. Flashes of lightning illuminated desperate faces as all eyes gazed in disbelief at the kneeling child taking their master’s pain into her body. Hands reached out to touch her; some scrambled to kiss the hem of her robe.

She was not sure what happened next. She had awakened two days later in a soft bed in the harem, her mother bathing her forehead, cooing words of endearment. Ad-Daula had recovered and declared Farah and her mother
untouchable
. Farah was revered from that day forth as a miraculous healer and allowed to study the treatises of al-Kindi, the great Islamic physician, under the tutelage of ad-Daula’s doctor. She was a child of ten, but they recognized her ability to learn.

It was a boon from God that most of ad-Daula’s library had survived the siege and been safeguarded by the Crusaders. Georges had secured access for her to continue her studies, arguing on her behalf that great healers were to be prized and encouraged. Raymond Saint Gilles had concurred.

If only she knew how to heal the crippling resentment of her disfigurement. Although she had saved his life, ad-Daula turned against her. His sword would have inflicted greater pain but for the arrival on the bloody scene of Georges de Giroux.

~~~

Farah accepted and welcomed the aid of servants from the castle, but she took on most of Georges de Giroux’s care. It cheered her that many of the older servants remembered Georges fondly, and she learned much about the horrors Georges and his brothers endured under the tyranny of their father’s madness.

She cared for Georges not only because he had saved her life, but also in memory of the love he had lavished on her mother, María Catalina Tarazona, though the Norman knew she had never abandoned her love for Sancho Ramírez.

Her nightmares came less frequently now, but Farah often relived the horror of the last day in the harem. The enslaved women were kept ignorant of the state of the siege of Jerusalem, but everyone sensed the impending fall of the city. The eunuchs guarding them held their shoulders more rigidly, their eyes darting about warily. Sweat sheened their bodies; fewer and fewer took up their post each day. The stench of burning flesh was sickening. The sumptuous meals usually brought to the seraglio were a memory. Favourites returned from ad-Daula’s bed bruised and weeping.

Quiet desperation hung in the air. Every woman knew that if the city fell, ad-Daula would not leave even one alive for the Crusaders. Better to die at the hands of their Master than to be raped or tortured by invading infidels.

The morning the Governor of Jerusalem appeared with the eunuchs, their weapons drawn, the women clung to each other, wailing softly. María Catalina hurriedly pushed Farah into a corner and covered her with her own body. The eunuchs methodically scythed their way through the crowd of kneeling women, beheading one after another with a single stroke, like practice dummies in the training yards.

Farah could not see what was happening. She covered her ears to shut out the screams for Allah’s mercy. She pressed her face to her mother’s back and felt the cold sweat of her fear.

María Catalina later told her that ad-Daula had watched impassively, his gaze fixed on the
untouchables
. It was only when foreign voices and the metallic sound of sword on sword reached his ears that his attention wavered. María Catalina seized the moment to push Farah towards the entry gates. “
Corre
!” she urged.

“
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.”