Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love

by Anna Markland

  Farah put her hand on his arm. “Please, Izzy. I know you did not want to make this pilgrimage, but I would not wish to be here with anyone but you.”

  He pulled her close to his side, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  She glanced up at the high altar. It was time for the truth. “I did not come to Compostela seeking a miracle for myself.”

  He tensed, gritting his teeth. He remained silent, so she decided to tell the whole story. “When I knelt by my father’s sarcophagus in the Pantheon at Chaca, I prayed for his intercession. I prayed for you to be healed of your affliction.”

  He let out a long breath. The air was heavy with incense and it caught in his throat. “Farah—”

  She put her finger on his lips. “Hear me out. I know you do not believe in interventions, but a message came to me.”

  He took his arms from around her waist, eyeing her sceptically. “Your dead father told you to make the trek to Compostela?”

  They were slightly separated from the hundreds of peasant pilgrims crammed into the cathedral, but several people nearby glared impatiently. Fingers tapped lips with a barely audible, “Hush!”

  Farah shook her head. “No, he told me to seek the help of a saint. It was Alfonso who surmised he meant Saint James.”

  Izzy made no attempt to lower his voice. “We have made this pilgrimage seeking a miracle for me, despite my not wanting it or believing a miracle possible?”

  One or two clerics were now eyeing them with censure. Farah did not want to have this conversation with others listening. Sweat trickled down her spine. The air had become more and more oppressive, laden with clouds of incense and the stink of hundreds of unwashed bodies, all caught up in the fervour of the Mass they had travelled for months to participate in. She looked at her feet. “Please, Izzy. I did not know Alfonso would force us to come here.”

  He stiffened, scowling at anyone who might think to scold them. She reached for his hand, but he folded his arms across his chest.

  The rite continued. Izzy went through the motions, kneeling and standing at the appropriate times, though he uttered none of the prayers or responses. Farah went alone to join the long line snaking its way to the altar rail to receive the Eucharist, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Corpus Domini—,” the young priest began the incantation as he placed the holy wafer on her tongue.

  “Amen,” she choked out, making the sign of the Crucifixion.

  On her way back from the altar, she became disoriented. There were too many people, too much incense, too little room to squeeze through the crowd. She thought she recognised the group they had been standing close to, but could not locate Izzy. Panic seized her. Where had he gone? Surely he would not leave her in this place alone?

  Her throat constricted. She was surrounded by strange faces. People touched their cheeks and made the Sign of the Cross when they caught sight of her scar, their eyes full of pity. She was close to swooning when she felt a strong hand on her elbow and Izzy pulled her to him. She trembled in his firm embrace, sobbing.

  He stroked her hair. “I saw you turn the wrong way. I couldn’t get through the crowd quickly enough. I’m sorry; I should have gone with you to the altar. My stupid pride—”

  She clung to him during the singing of the Blessing. “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus—”

  They both responded to the invocation of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, making the sign of the Trinity.

  Izzy rasped out a loud Amen that touched her soul. She reached for both his hands and kissed them lovingly. “Izzy, please believe I agreed to this only for your sake. I wanted to take your pain away, and since you will not allow me to do it, I sought help elsewhere. There is nothing abhorrent about your touch to me. I love the feel of your hands on my body. I love you.”

  He smiled, and relief flooded her. “I know, Farah. I love you too. Let’s get out of here. This incense is choking me.”

  She noticed he did indeed have tears in his eyes.

  As they left the cathedral with their guards and guide, they were greeted by a royal messenger from the King of Galicia and León. Bowing low, the man announced, “Su Majestad, Alfonso el Bravo, extends his hospitality to la Princesa María Sancha de Aragón and her consort.”

  Izzy stiffened for a moment, but then offered Farah his arm as they were escorted to the royal residence. He was probably as elated by the promise of a clean, comfortable bed as she was. For once they were thankful for the meddling of their guide.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The King of Galicia and León was not in residence at Compostela, but had given instructions they were to be treated with the deference due another branch of the Jiménez family. At first, being looked upon as Farah’s consort had bruised Izzy’s masculine pride, but he got over it. She was not a woman who would take advantage of her status. His pride in her grew. She was indeed a princess, and she was his wife.

  He had treated her unfairly. He supposed he had known, deep in his heart, that the pilgrimage was for him. He had not wanted to hope for a miracle. Unfulfilled hopes led to despair.

  They were shown to their chambers. Decorum, and the presence of servants, precluded bathing together. They were given cool silk robes in the Moorish style, Izzy’s a black, knee-length wraparound with ties at the waist, Farah’s a red caftan that slipped over her head. They were served a refreshing meal—fruits of many kinds, cheeses and crusty bread.

  “Red is my favourite colour on you,” Izzy whispered, watching Farah enjoy the succulent melon.

  She grinned, licking her fingers, heightening his arousal. Her caftan hung loosely, but her nipples pouted under his gaze. He thirsted to see those dark pebbles again, soon.

  The servants departed, reminding them this was the hour for siesta. They both looked longingly to the big, elegant bed and sighed.

  “I wager I can be naked and abed before you,” Izzy taunted. He had already untied the robe and slipped it from his shoulders.

  Farah raked her eyes over him, and giggled, reminding him of their first night together. His heart leapt into his throat.

  “Unfair, Izzy de Montbryce, you have an advantage. Your clothing is much easier to remove than mine.”

  He winked at her seductively. “Do you need some help, princesa?”

  She smiled knowingly and raised her arms in the provocative gypsy dance posture so familiar to him. A low groan rumbled from deep in his throat. His robe fell to the floor. In a trice he had crossed the chamber and whisked the caftan over her head.

  Instead of matching her hip to hip, he cupped her derrière and pressed her mons to his arousal. Her nipples hardened against his chest as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She purred when he set them in motion, swaying side to side. “This will be a different dance, one Norman knights excel in,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear.

  “Especially one certain Norman knight,” she murmured. “Do you forgive me? I want no rancour between us.”

  He licked her neck, then kissed her deeply, but gently, savouring the taste of melon on her lips. “There is nothing to forgive.”

  He danced her over to the bed, lifting her onto it. He suckled hard, his need intense. She moaned, arching her hips off the mattress. Sensing that she too was close to release, he slid two fingers into her. Her wet heat sent him over the edge. She cried out her ecstasy, pressing his fingers deep inside. She was still convulsing when he lay down and lifted her to straddle him. “Ride me, my princesa. Ride me hard.”

  Slowly she lowered her body onto his shaft until he was seated to the hilt inside her. He felt the lingering spasms of her release clench on him. He had married an angel.

  “You fill me,” she murmured.

  His body was on fire. He put his hands on her hips, moving her up and down, showing her the rhythm he needed. His angel thrust her head back, put her hands on her breasts, then rode them both to the pinnacle of heaven and beyond.

  ~~~

&nbs
p; Izzy woke some time later. Farah slept atop him. He had softened, but remained inside her. New tingling in his groin had him considering another dance. But she seemed so soundly asleep, he eased out from beneath her, rose from the bed and tucked the linens around her. He cleansed his body with water from the ewer, dressed and stole quietly from the chamber.

  Two guards greeted him. Izzy wondered how much they had heard, but had no time to worry about that now. He had a mission to complete. “Escort me to the cathedral.”

  One sentry obeyed, the other remained to guard Farah. The royal residence was situated not far from the cathedral. The entrance was crammed with people. With the guard’s help he pushed his way through the crowds to stand at the foot of the bejeweled statue of Saint James. Heart racing, he touched both hands to the pillar beneath the statue. “I beg a miracle,” he whispered in a voice he barely recognised. “Not for me, for my wife.”

  He withdrew his trembling hands as the eager crowd pressed behind him. Four men were struggling in vain to carry a stretcher to the pillar. A girl, who looked more like a skeleton than a child, lay atop it. Izzy signalled his guard to make a way clear for them. One of the men touched the child’s bony hand to the pillar, then fell at Izzy’s feet, grasping the edge of his cloak. He murmured something in a language Izzy did not understand. But the gratitude in the man’s eyes said it all when he raised his head. “Meine Tochter,” he explained, pointing to the girl, then to himself. Izzy had to turn away, feeling like a fraud. How far had they carried this man’s daughter on a pilgrimage that had exhausted Izzy, and he had travelled on horseback? They had so much faith, and he had none.

  He wandered, blinded by tears, in the direction of the crypt. Again his guard got him to the front of the long line, though the atmosphere here was different. There was no pushing and shoving. No one spoke as they gazed through the grill to the ornate reliquary tomb of the saint beneath the high altar. Izzy curled his gnarled hands around the cold bars, pressing his face as far into the narrow opening as possible. The silver sarcophagus glowed like a beacon in the light cast by hundreds of candles. He stretched out one hand, too far away to touch the tomb. The unrelenting metal bit into his shoulder. He could not speak. “Please,” he mouthed.

  As he made his way back through the church, the guard paused, pointing to one of the many side chapels. “Capilla del Relicario,” he explained.

  Izzy recalled being told this chapel held a two hundred year old gold crucifix, said to contain a piece of the True Cross. He had begged everywhere else, why not here? The guard led him inside and found him a place to kneel.

  ~~~

  Farah awoke, feeling strangely chilled. Izzy was not in the chamber. She quickly donned the caftan, shivering as the silk caressed her skin, and poked her head out the door.

  “La Catedral,” the guard explained before she had a chance to ask.

  She closed the door, hope blossoming in her heart that Izzy had found the faith to believe. She curled up on the bed to await his return, pressing her palm to that most intimate place where Izzy’s expert fingers had worked their magic. She touched her fingers to her lips, tasting the salty tang of sweat that had gleamed on his weather-bronzed body.

  She fell back to sleep in a haze of contentment.

  ~~~

  Izzy tiptoed into the chamber. Farah was still asleep, though she had donned the red caftan. His body swelled with desire, but his heart was full of conflicting emotions. He had to sort out his thoughts before trying to express them to her.

  He disrobed and shrugged on the black robe, then curled up facing her, his knees touching hers. She stirred, but did not waken.

  He cradled her face in his hands.

  She smiled in her sleep. “Warm,” she murmured.

  He drifted off, thinking of the foreign man and his crippled daughter. It terrified him that when the child’s fragile hand had touched the pillar, Izzy had felt the presence of God.

  ~~~

  Farah did not know how long she had slept when a loud knock awakened her. They were being summoned to the evening meal. Her face felt warm. Izzy’s hand lay against her cheek. He too stirred and stretched. A bolt of desire coursed through her as his muscles tightened, then relaxed.

  She fluttered her eyelashes and brushed her lips against his. “I want you again, husband.”

  Izzy stared at her, open-mouthed, his eyes wide. He seemed to have lost his voice and his ability to breathe.

  She frowned, alarmed. “What’s wrong, Izzy? Am I too brazen?”

  He shook his head and lunged for her, gathering her up in his arms, squeezing the breath out of her.

  “Your scar,” he stammered. “It’s gone.”

  ~~~

  Farah’s hand went to her face. Her frown betrayed her disbelief, until she traced a finger where the scar had been. She leapt off the bed, tangling her legs in the caftan, stumbling as she ran to look in the glass mirror.

  She gaped at her unmarred image, tears streaming down her face. Izzy came to stand behind her. She turned to bury her head against his chest, clinging to him. “I did not want this,” she sobbed. “I wanted the miracle for you. How can this be?”

  Izzy stared at the mirror. He held up his hands, turning them this way and that. They looked and felt exactly the same, but he knew in his racing heart that God had worked through him, unworthy sceptic that he was, to heal Farah.

  He gathered her into his embrace and rocked gently. “This is a time for rejoicing, Farah, not weeping.” His voice cracked, so great was his joy for her.

  He forced her to look at him, brushing away the tears with his thumbs. “When we return to Giroux, your loving care will ease my pain, as it did before, and your healthy regimen will put me back on the road to wellness. Having you in my life has made me a whole man. You are my miracle.”

  EPILOGUE

  Gerwint Isembart and María Sancha de Montbryce journeyed home to Normandie on fresh horses as far as Oiasso, then by sea to Cherbourg. The waters of the Cantabrian Sea were unusually calm, which they took as a good omen. Another day’s ride brought them clattering into the courtyard of Giroux Castle. Stable boys rushed to grab the reins of their mounts, obviously excited to see them return.

  Artus Aubin limped out to greet them. He looked at Farah with surprise, but then shook Izzy’s hand warmly. “Good to have you home, milord, and milady. Amadour de Vignoles told us of your marriage.”

  Izzy breathed a sigh of relief knowing Amadour had made it back safely. “Why are you limping, Artus?”

  The steward’s face reddened. “It’s nothing. A bit of a skirmish.”

  Izzy frowned, but, as if conjured by the mention of his name, Amadour strode into the courtyard. Izzy’s eyes went wide. A shamshir bounced on his comrade’s hip. “What the devil—?”

  Amadour chuckled, clasping hands with Izzy. “I have been called many things, but devil?”

  Izzy pointed. “Your sword?”

  Amadour winked. “You can thank Sir Berthold for that.”

  Izzy bristled. “Berthold?”

  “Indeed. Do not be too hasty concerning him. At considerable risk he escorted the gold of your dowry home.”

  Farah gasped. “My dowry is here?”

  “Every last livre of it, milady, under heavy guard, I might add.”

  Aubin coughed. “If I may interrupt, it was the gold that led to the, er, skirmish.”

  Izzy scratched his head. “Enlighten me.”

  Amadour stepped forward. “Two or three malcontents among the former Giroux men-at-arms, friends of Pierre, got wind of it and plotted to redirect the gold to Clito supporters.”

  Izzy’s heart fell. No doubt his cousin Robert knew of this rebellion. Now he would never be the Seigneur. “Tell me the whole story.”

  Amadour brightened. “We would not have known of their treachery had other Giroux men not told us. The traitors were easily rooted out.”

  Had he misheard? “Giroux men betrayed their own?”

  Aubin shook his head. �
��It was rather a case of being loyal to you, milord.”

  Izzy looked at Amadour. “Me?”

  Amadour clamped a hand on Izzy’s shoulder. “Oui, my friend. They felt their first loyalty was to you.”

  Farah nestled against Izzy. “They recognised a worthy leader,” she whispered proudly.

  Izzy struggled to comprehend this new information, his heart feeling lighter. “But the shamshir?”

  Amadour drew the weapon. It flashed in the late afternoon sun. “Ah, oui, back to Berthold. The Hospitaller arranged for two craftsmen versed in the art of making these weapons to come to Giroux. They are fashioning shamshirs in the forge as we speak. The competition for them is fierce.”

  Izzy was speechless. On the one hand, he wanted to be the only knight in Normandie with a shamshir—Farah’s shamshir—but a whole castle full of men-at-arms with the deadly weapon? Any enemy would think twice before attacking such a force.

  Izzy was so preoccupied with the startling news, he failed to notice his cousin lounging against the doorframe. It was not until Farah curtseyed that he caught sight of Robert walking towards them. His heart lurched. He bent the knee. “Milord Comte, cousin, I did not see you there. I apologise.”

  Robert braced his legs and folded his arms across his chest. “Welcome home, at last, cousin. You may rise.”

  Izzy’s dreams danced away like leaves tossed by an autumn wind. Farah squeezed his hand. “It is good to be back. It has been a long journey. Er, you know Farah and I are married? I had to go after her, Robert. I know I deserted my post here. I have let you down—”