He glanced back at his mother and put a forefinger to his lip. “We only whisper of these things, you understand?”
Berthold had 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 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 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, and the promise of something worth more than gold.
* * *
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. Did 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 bear the heart-shaped birthmark, a dagger across the throat would quickly erase it.
Domestic Improvements
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, moldy food, and animal droppings everywhere? Yet it did. The odors 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, and rents, but he had never married and seemed to have no inkling of the domestic improvements the castle desperately needed.
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.
Izzy had shared with her his hopes and dreams for the castle’s future. “Good thing it wasn’t King Henry who stepped in it,” she teased.
“Huh!” he replied, his face reddening. “You’re right. This place needs cleaning up.”
He glanced around and it dawned on her 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 odors 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 desire darkened his eyes. 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.
When they broke apart, 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 and seemed happy to take 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. She might not have looked out of place in Jerusalem. Here she could be mistaken for a Saracen. Izzy made excuses to seek her out in order to catch a glimpse of 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 the kitchen had never been cleaner. The food improved.
Izzy watched with pride as Farah organized the women, never shirking from the worst of tasks. Many of them copied her turban-style head covering. She enlist
ed 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.
However, 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 much of Normandie, as well as large parts of Sussex and the Welsh Marches. He would never take to wife a scarred woman with a questionable past who dressed in baggy pants.
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 resolved to journey to Aragón.
Transformation
Berthold talked himself out of returning to Normandie by ship. 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 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 de Montbryce had assured them of a welcome anytime they passed through Alensonne and they enjoyed the hospitality offered by Robert’s sister, Milady Rhoni MacLachlainn 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 noticed 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 when 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 woman 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 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.
Here 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. He’d gone to great lengths to protect her in Jerusalem and painstakingly learned her story in 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. She had uttered wicked prayers that some mishap might befall the Hospitaller Knights. Though riddled by guilt, she greeted him warmly, proud of the way the household had efficiently taken care of his needs. Had he noticed the changes 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 traveling the short distance from Mont Saint Michel would not have worn him out so completely? He had returned mounted on a different horse from his own. Where had he been all this time?
His frown betrayed his anger. Could he tell she did not want to leave Giroux? Berthold de Quincy was an intimidating man and he had set his mind on delivering her to her half-brother. It would be difficult to convince him otherwise.
Dread pooled in her belly when Berthold’s gaze fell on Izzy as he strode into the hall, her shamshir on his hip. There was no mistaking the glint of malice in the Hospitaller’s eyes.
* * *
Izzy’s heart fell when word was brought that the Hospitaller Knights had returned, but, as Master, it was his obligation to greet them warmly. He was confident their needs had been taken care of, thanks to the changes Farah had wrought.
Berthold’s icy glare and perfunctory handclasp took him by surprise. The Knight stared at the shamshir. “What is this?”
Izzy touched the hilt. “Farah has let me use it to practice. It fits my hand perfectly. She said you might be able to procure one like it for me.”
Berthold grunted, stroking his mustache. “Highly unlikely.”
Izzy was dumfounded by the man’s rudeness. “We had assumed, given your connections—”
To his consternation, Berthold walked away, fixing his glare on Farah. Her eyes met Izzy’s for a brief moment. She seemed as confused as he.
Was the man jealous? Of what? That she had lent him her sword?
His blood boiled when Berthold grasped Farah’s elbow and spoke gruffly to her. “Have you forgotten you are a princess of Aragón? This man is nothing but a Seneschal.”
She tried to pull away.
Izzy had the shamshir at Berthold’s throat in the blink of an eye. “Take your hand off her,” he growled.
The Hospitaller’s face reddened. He removed his hand from Farah’s elbow, eyes fixed on the blade. “How dare you threaten me? You are fortunate my knights are not present. They would cut you to shreds.”
Izzy’s heart raced, but he kept his voice low. “You are a guest here, Sir Berthold. Guests do not manhandle other guests, especially women. You will express your regrets to Farah.”
She touched his arm. “Sir Berthold is tired. It is evident he has travelled far and is weary. He did not mean to hurt me. My welfare has always been his first concern.”
Slowly, Izzy lowered the sword and sheathed it, noting with satisfaction the beads of sweat on Berthold’s brow. He was starting to have doubts concerning this man’s motives for Farah. “I will not allow him to bully you.”
Berthold squared his shoulders. “I am her guardian. It is my duty to counsel her.”
Farah’s efforts had transformed Izzy’s castle into one any Seigneur would be proud of. She had lavished love on every nook and cranny, just as she had lavished her healing care on him. He would not let her be forced into leaving by this arrogant man. “Farah enjoys my protection while she remains at Giroux. You would do well to remember that.”
Berthold snickered. “She will not be here much longer. Come, Farah. It’s time to pack your belongings. We depart on the morrow.”
Farah’s eyes betrayed her despair as she released Izzy’s arm, but
his gut roiled when she meekly followed the Hospitaller out of the hall, her head bowed.
Why would she give so much to his castle if she intended to leave?
Recuerdame, Mi Amor
A tapping at the door stirred Farah from her doze. She was exhausted, but the packing was finished. She would be leaving Giroux with only a portion of the baggage she had brought, but every decision about what to leave and what to take had been wrenching. Only the hidden compartment waited for its treasure.
She knew who was at the door before she rose from the chair to open it. Izzy had come to return her sword.
His face bore a forced smile, but the desolation in his eyes mirrored her own. He wavered on the threshold, arms outstretched, offering the sheathed shamshir, his bare hands fisted around it. “I cannot adequately thank you for letting me use this weapon. It has—”
He seemed unable to continue. She put her hands next to his on the scabbard, feeling his warmth. “I know what it has meant to you,” she whispered.
They stood in silence for long minutes, their hands touching. He took a deep breath and looked at his feet. “Farah, it isn’t only the weapon. You have become an important part of this castle. It will miss your laughter, your presence. You have made this place come alive.”
He released his hold and she clutched the shamshir to her breast.
Tell me you will miss me, Izzy. Tell me you’ll miss the warmth of my hands on your body, the depth of my love. Ask me to stay and I will defy Berthold.
He shifted his weight and took another deep breath. She held hers when he stepped forward and traced his finger over her scar. “Never think you are not beautiful, Farah. I will forever remember your face...”
Crescendo Page 9