Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love

by Anna Markland

  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 Knight’s eyes as he gritted his teeth.

  ~~~

  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 moustache. “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 pressed to Berthold’s throat in the blink of an eye. “Take your hand off her,” he growled.

  Berthold’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 speak your regrets to Farah.”

  Suddenly he felt Farah’s hand on his arm. “Sir Berthold is tired, Izzy. 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 Farah’s 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 Knight out of the Hall, her head bowed.

  Why would she give so much to his castle if she intended to leave?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A tapping at her 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,” she whispered. “I know what it has meant to you.”

  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…”

  He wove his fingers into her hair. “…your hair, your eyes. But I will never forget what you have done for me, Farah. You have made me whole again.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her with such passion she dropped the shamshir. He snaked his arms around her waist and drew her to his body. Her need for him spiralled from her toes, shivered up her thighs and roiled in the unmentionable wet place between her legs. His hard arousal pressed against her belly. She put her arms around his neck and returned his kiss, sucking his tongue rhythmically, pressing her needy breasts to his chest.

  Touch me, Izzy, please touch me.

  A fever of wanting seized her. She leaned into him, groaning deep in her throat. He growled, but his hands moved to grip her hips and he separated their bodies. Breathing heavily, he swallowed hard and stepped away from her, raking both hands through his hair. “I will bid you adieu now, Farah. Aubin and I must ride out long before dawn. Safe journey.”

  He was gone before she opened her mouth to protest. She wanted to go after him, but breathing was difficult and the chamber had tilted. Why did he not see how much she loved him? Did he have no feelings for her? His kiss belied that. He had arranged to be absent when she left. He could not bear to see her go. Why was he letting her go? He foresaw no future for them.

  In a confused haze she picked up the sword and secreted it in its chest. She undressed and climbed into bed where she cried herself to sleep.

  ~~~

  Izzy quietly closed the door of his chamber and leaned his forehead against the cold stone wall. His inability to tell Farah the things he had wanted to say made his belly roil. He fisted his hands and pounded the wall over and over, oblivious to the pain.

  The fears of rejection he had held on to for many years, the wall he had built to protect his heart, his insecurities had coming flooding back in those crucial moments. He was such a coward he had not summoned the courage to bid her a fitting farewell.

  His actions confirmed his belief that he was in no way worthy of her. His dreams of partnering with her in the dance came back to haunt him. He would never feel her naked skin against him, never press his hips to hers, never slide into her wet heat. She was lost to him, a woman with a far greater destiny than the deformed Master of Giroux Castle.

  At least he had felt her touch, seen her dance, heard her laughter. He would treasure those memories forever. They would sustain him in his mission to become the Seigneur of Giroux Castle. Farah had changed him, given him back his strength, his hope in the future. If only they could have shared it together.

  ~~~

  Izzy’s decision to be absent from their farewell had been a knife in the belly, but now Farah was grateful for it. She had heard him pause outside her chamber door in the darkness before dawn, choking on her tears when the sound of his footsteps faded.

  The servants had removed her baggage and loaded it on the pack horses. The Knights awaited her in the bailey, and Berthold would be growing impatient. He had explained to her in detail his plan to head for Tours where they would join the well travelled route used by many pilgrims making their way to Santiago de Compostela.

  But she had two places to visit before she departed this
castle forever. She was leaving most of her medicinals in the Still Room and had one more thing to deliver there.

  Firstly, though, she stole down into the crypt and knelt before the tomb of Georges de Giroux, laying a hand on its cold surface. Violence had brought him into her life, but he had given her and her mother nothing but love. She said a silent prayer of thanks and sought his blessing.

  Crossing the threshold of the Still Room proved difficult. A tear trickled down her cheek as she ran her fingertip along the shelf of aromatic oils. She took the stopper from the vial of the Garden of Love, inhaling deeply. She closed her eyes and conjured Izzy’s face, his lean, muscular body. She raised her hands high above her head, snapping her fingers like castanets. Her feet moved to the beat of a silent drum. She gyrated her hips, pressing them to Izzy’s—breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Slowly she lowered her arms, tracing her fingertips down her neck, over her breasts, lifting them to his thirsting lips. A deep yearning threatened to rob her of her wits. Her knees buckled and she gripped the bench for support.

  When the room stopped spinning, she slowly unfastened the scabbard of the shamshir from around her hips and laid the weapon reverently on the bench in the place where she had first seen him use it.

  “With all my love, Izzy. Use it in good health. Recuérdame, mi amor,” she sobbed, patting the leather scabbard in a silent farewell.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The manner in which Vermudo Díaz always swaggered into her presence when she summoned him slightly amused la Reina Madre Felicia. As Dowager Queen she held the power of life and death, but the arrogant nobleman knew she depended on him for certain clandestine activities. He had proven to be an efficient and trustworthy spy and assassin, for which he had reaped rich rewards.

  Rumour had it his father was Moorish, and his swarthy features hinted at the possibility, but she was sure no-one ever intimated it to his face.

  He bowed low with a cheeky flourish of his plumed hat, showing a well-formed leg. Vermudo was a philandering rake, and most of the noble families of Aragón kept their daughters far away from him. If Felicia was thirty years younger— “Majestad,” he purred, “you summoned me, and I came running.”

  Felicia wanted to slap him, but Vermudo was not a man to make an enemy of. “I have a task for you.”

  “I live to serve, Reina Madre. I assume it is a task of the utmost secrecy?”

  Felicia inclined her head slightly, gripping the carved arms of her son’s throne. “A woman is on her way here to Huesca. She must never arrive.”

  Vermudo fingered his pointed beard. “Is one permitted to guess that this woman is our dear king’s sister of whom he speaks so fondly?”

  Felicia leapt to her feet. “She is not his sister. She is a bastard.”

  Vermudo jutted out his chin, stroked his thumb and forefinger over his throat, and looked up at the ornate ceiling, an amused grin on his face.

  Felicia paced. “I have learned from my son’s incessant chatter that she and her escort travel by way of Chaca. Alfonso wishes her to see the monastery of San Juan de la Peña, where their father is entombed. It’s a travesty.

  “I leave it to your knowledge of the area to decide where an ambush should be laid. However, it must appear to be the work of infidels.”

  “When is the fair lady expected?” Vermudo asked in a bored voice, heightening her annoyance.

  Felicia smoothed her palms over the folds of her satin skirts. The rich feel of the fabric calmed her. “They have departed Normandie. She travels with an escort of ten Hospitaller Knights.”

  Vermudo narrowed his grey eyes. “Hospitallers?”

  Felicia smiled inwardly. At last she had said something to shake his imperturbable demeanour. “This troubles you? You are intimidated by the prospect?”

  Vermudo shrugged. “I do not relish killing men sworn to God’s service, but for you, dear Queen—”

  Relief surged through her. She regained her seat and waved a dismissive hand. He bowed and left, humming.

  ~~~

  The king’s mother naively believed he was unaware of the secret compartment behind the throne of Aragón. Alfonso loved her, despite her constant plots to control the politics of his kingdom. Why did she not trust him to do what was best for Aragón?

  When he learned that his mother plotted to murder his half-sister, he was incensed. But he had long searched for a way to ensnare Vermudo Díaz and this scheme of his mother’s might be the key to ridding Aragón of the powerful nobleman. Alfonso suspected Vermudo thirsted to sit on the throne.

  He met with his most trusted lieutenants away from the palace, apprising them of the plot. “Dominguez, you are in charge.”

  The burly warrior thumped his fist to his heart.

  “I want to know everything Vermudo does, where he goes, whom he sees. His web must be large if he plans to attack ten well-armed and battle seasoned Knights. I want to know who the traitors are.”

  Dominguez chuckled. “We will trap him in a web of our own, Majestad.”

  Alfonso shifted his weight. He must be careful that his own mother did not become entangled in this web. She had to be controlled, but he did not want her blood on his hands. “La Reina Madre must not learn of our knowledge of this plot. She has eyes and ears everywhere, as does Vermudo. It is a delicate and dangerous task.”

  Dominguez bowed. “It will be done with the utmost secrecy and stealth.”

  Alfonso paced. “I suggested to Berthold they take the pilgrim route through Chaca. I want my sister to visit our father’s tomb in the Monastery of San Juan de la Peña. Where will Vermudo lay his ambush? That is the question.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There was one bright spot in the endless days of gloom that followed Farah’s departure from Giroux Castle. Amadour de Vignoles arrived from Montbryce. Izzy and Steward Aubin greeted him in the bailey. “Good to see you again, Amadour. Aubin here is our steward. He will see to your needs.”

  Artus Aubin bowed. “It is an honour to meet you. I have heard of your heroism at Civitote during the First Crusade.”

  Amadour shrugged. “The credit goes to my friend, Caedmon FitzRam. I followed his lead. And it was to my great good fortune that meeting him brought me to Montbryce Castle, and into the service of Ram de Montbryce, God rest his soul.”

  Izzy remembered his uncle fondly. “Oui, oncle Ram was a good man, and Robert is following in his footsteps. He is a strong Comte.”

  Aubin passed the reins of Amadour’s steed to a stable lad, and indicated the door of the keep. Amadour took off his leather riding gloves and batted the dust off his legs as they walked. “Milord Robert is a bastion of opposition to the Curthose camp, especially after his imprisonment. He will fight to the death to protect his home from them.”

  Izzy chewed his lip. “That is our task here, Amadour, and the reason I am thankful for your presence. I am confident most of the Giroux men have accepted me, but there may still be some among them who support William Clito’s claim to the dukedom of Normandie. Hatred of the Montbryce name ran deep here for three generations.”

  Amadour shook his head, accepting a tankard of ale from a manservant. “How old is Clito now, six? Trust Louis of France to completely reverse his country’s position and back Curthose’s son to suit his own ends.”

  Izzy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a swig of his ale. Had Amadour noticed he no longer wore his gloves? “Louis isn’t even King of France yet.”

  “Non, but he might as well be. His father has more or less handed over power to him. They say the old king is weak and feeble. Philippe was king of France before we Normans conquered England.”

  Izzy flexed his fingers. How he missed Farah’s massages. “And, of course, our old enemy Fulk of Anjou also supports Clito’s claim. He will do anything to disrupt the peace of Normandie. We must be vigilant and root out the dissenters here. I cannot afford to have traitors in our midst.”

  Amadour drained his tankard, banged it down
on the table, and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get started.”

  Izzy laughed. “The morrow will be soon enough, my friend. You’ve ridden for many hours. A bath is ready and then we’ll dine and discuss our plans.”

  Amadour smiled, looking around. “A bath does sound good. I see you have already made many improvements here. I heard how gloomy and unwelcoming this castle was.”

  Farah’s loss swept over Izzy again. “I had a lot of help. There was a woman here—”

  “The Spanish princess? I heard about her. She’s gone?”

  Izzy took a deep breath. “She left with the Hospitaller Knights who brought her. Her half-brother is anxious for her to journey to Aragón. That is her destiny.”

  Amadour looked directly at Izzy. “But I detect deep regret in your voice. You wanted her to stay here?”

  Amadour would never imagine the depth of Izzy’s regret. Indeed, regret was not a strong enough word. It was all he could do to get through a day without her. He missed her laughter, her touch. Sleep eluded him. He lay on his belly, one arm hanging over the side of the bed, remembering the feel of her breast in his hand. Why had he not brushed his thumb over her nipple, raised her up to his bed, kissed, fondled, suckled?

  He wandered often into her chamber and curled up on her bed, taking deep breaths of the exotic scents that still hung in the air. He had not crossed the threshold of the Still Room, fearing he would cry like a baby if he inhaled the aromas of the oils and ointments she had used to calm him, to heal his soul.

  Amadour was right that the castle looked and smelled better, but Izzy was not the only one who missed Farah. She had made her mark on the people of his household and he overheard many speak of her absence with regret. She had been a ray of sunshine in a castle that had lived in dark shadows too long.

  Izzy bit his lip. “Oui, I wanted her to stay.”