Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love

by Anna Markland

  A servant’s cough interrupted her reverie. “Milady, the Comte urgently requests your presence in the Great Hall.”

  Dorianne’s heart skipped a beat. Urgent? Nothing must interfere with their return home. She glanced at her mother who had clasped her fisted hands to her breast. “I will follow. Lead on.”

  ~~~

  The scene Dorianne encountered when she entered the Great Hall did nothing to alleviate her anxiety. The servants had almost blocked the entryway with a quantity of baggage. Exotic aromas wafted into her nostrils as she edged past the pile of iron chests, atop which lay a large broadsword.

  Robert stood on the dais, his long legs braced, his mouth a grim line. Izzy stood next to him, looking like Robert’s twin, except for the studded leather gauntlets that covered his hands from knuckles to elbows—a sure sign his affliction had flared again.

  Baudoin and Caedmon flanked them, their expressions guarded. Her husband beckoned her to the dais. She shuddered audibly, hoping the rustling of her skirts had masked the sound.

  Melton, Adam, Mathieu and Denis stood behind nine armoured knights lined up in front of the dais. Steam rose from the strangers’ mud-spattered armour. The smell of male sweat mingled with the exotic aromas emanating from the chests. Water dripped from helmets tucked beneath their arms and trickled from wet hair. To a man they turned at her arrival and bent the knee.

  Dorianne forced down the bile rising in her throat, and took her place between her husband and his cousin, nodding in acknowledgement of the polite gesture.

  Raising her eyes, she noticed a frail, elderly man slumped in a chair. He seemed to be dozing. At his side stood another knight, his hand on the elderly man’s shoulder. A woman held the old man’s bony hand. There was something familiar about the old man, but the woman—

  “These good knights are Hospitallers of Saint John,” Robert declared loudly, gesturing for them to rise. The strain in his voice caused the serpent coiled in her belly to hiss anew.

  Izzy’s fist was clenched at his side, the other gloved hand gripping the hilt of his dagger, only his fingertips visible. His attention seemed fixed on the strangely garbed woman holding the old man’s hand. Her shapeless eastern garment covered her from neck to toe. A veil covered her head and face. Her downcast eyes were the only part of her not covered.

  Robert addressed the tallest of the knights. “Sir Berthold, I would impose upon you to retell the tale for my wife’s benefit. She is the Giroux.”

  Dorianne stifled a gasp of dismay at the rancour in Robert’s voice. The Hospitaller waved a hand towards the elderly man. “We have brought Milord Georges home.”

  The room spun out of control and Dorianne might have fallen over but for the support of Robert’s arm around her waist. She wanted to beg for a chair before her knees gave way. “Georges? My uncle? The lost Crusader?”

  Sir Berthold spoke again, indicating the veiled figure. “This woman brought Milord Georges to our hospice in Jerusalem a year ago. His mind had failed, but the one constant in his limited speech was his desire to return here to die. That, and his refusal to be parted from the woman.”

  Dorianne had no doubt the frail soul was her uncle. Despite the ravages of illness, his face was her father’s. Indignation welled up in her throat. Who was this foreign woman holding her uncle’s hand, her eyes fixed upon the stone floor?

  Sir Berthold must have sensed her anxiety. “The woman’s name is Farah.”

  ~~~

  Izzy shifted his stance and gripped the hilt of his dagger more tightly, sending shards of pain through his bones. He could not take his eyes off the infidel woman. What in the name of all the saints was wrong with him? Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his spine. His shaft ached unbearably with the rock hard erection that had unexpectedly surged the moment he had laid eyes on her.

  She was draped from head to foot in a flowing garb of black that gave no hint of her figure, but the brown depths of her almond shaped eyes enthralled him. Was it because her eyes were the only visible feature that they appeared so large, or was it the galena darkening her eyelids?

  She had looked away, lowering incredibly long black lashes after glancing at him. It knocked the wind out of him.

  Her name was exotic. Farah. What did it mean?

  His fascination bothered him. Since Robert and Dorianne seemed struck equally dumb, it fell to him as Master to sort out this mess. He cleared his throat. “Sir Berthold, there must be more you can tell us about Dorianne’s uncle, and—Farah?”

  Had the woman’s shoulders tensed at the sound of her name? Did she understand their language? She must feel isolated, and afraid, although she did not show any outward signs of fear as she stood stiffly beside Georges.

  Berthold thrust out his chin. “Milord Georges fought in the successful siege of Jerusalem.”

  Robert interrupted. “That was nigh on eight years ago. Where has he been since?”

  Berthold fingered the end of his thin moustache. “We are not sure of the whole story, but it appears he helped to open various harems maintained by Saracens in the Holy City.”

  Izzy’s mouth fell open. He took a step forward, ice rushing through his veins. “You are telling us this woman came from a harem and has been keeping company with an elderly man ever since?”

  For the first time, Farah raised her eyes. They burned with anger, scorching him. “I am not a prostitute.”

  Dorianne gasped and buried her face in Robert’s chest.

  The woman’s sultry voice uttering such bold words in accented Norman French sent blood rushing to Izzy’s loins, intensifying the unbearable ache. The gnawing pain in his hands throbbed mercilessly. He took a deep breath. “Since you appear able to speak for yourself, pray tell us the story.”

  Farah stood squarely behind Georges and put her hands on his shoulders. “Milord Georges freed my mother from the harem. She had been a prisoner for thirteen years.”

  Dorianne raised her head abruptly. “My uncle is your father?”

  Farah leaned forward slightly, her fingers pressing into the Crusader’s shoulders. “This brave man has been like a father to me since our liberation, but no, he is not my sire.”

  Izzy struggled to understand. “Your liberation? You were also freed from the harem?”

  Farah locked her eyes on his. “Oui, I was twelve years old. I was born in the harem.”

  Dorianne swooned. Robert scooped her up and carried her away.

  After what seemed like an eternity of silence, broken only by the metallic creaking of wet armour as the knights shifted their weight, Sir Berthold cleared his throat. “Farah has cared for Milord Georges since her mother’s death. After his faculties failed, she is the one who sustained them until she had no choice but to bring him to us.”

  An ugly suspicion arose in Izzy’s mind, dampening his arousal. “You mean she was the breadwinner. And what means did she use?” He immediately wanted to take back the cruelly spoken words laden with accusation.

  Berthold opened his mouth to reply, but Farah spoke first. “Apparently, it is your custom in Normandie to speak of a person as if they are not in the room. I earned our keep by dancing.”

  A scantily clad, veiled figure cavorted behind Izzy’s eyelids. She was barefoot, her hair unbound. “D—dancing?” he stuttered, relieved Dorianne had been carried away.

  Farah’s expression was full of disdain. “Men pay well to watch a maiden dance.”

  Izzy looked away, ashamed that the mind’s eye of every male in the Hall must be filled with lustful visions. Even Hospitaller knights were men. How could a woman who earned her bread that way be a maiden?

  Berthold coughed again. “Milord, may I explain that in Eastern climes, dancing is a sacred art, and a talented dancer highly prized. Farah is a gifted artist.”

  Izzy struggled to control his renewed arousal, his throat constricted, body afire. Perhaps the rue he had ingested earlier to ease his pain was having its usual nauseous effect. “You are saying you have seen her
dance?”

  The face veil fluttered as Farah sighed with exasperation and rolled her eyes, sending more heat rushing through Izzy’s veins. “Oui, he has seen me dance, as have all these knights. I perform to honour and entertain, not to procure.”

  She waved her hand like a queen dismissing her court. “Enough of this! Georges is worn out. It has been a long journey. Please arrange for him to be taken to a chamber. He is content to be home. His family should be happy too.”

  Izzy squared his shoulders, irritated by the scolding. “Of course. I have been remiss. Steward Aubin will see to it. And a chamber for you, milady.”

  Farah’s wide eyes betrayed her surprise. “You are not the steward?”

  Izzy bristled. “Non, I am Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce, Master of this castle.”

  Georges suddenly raised his head, eyes wide with alarm. “Montbryce?” he wailed, his age-mottled hands gripping the arms of the chair as he struggled in vain to rise.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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.”