Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love (17 page)

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.

~~~

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.”

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—”

Robert held up his hand. “If you would stop babbling and let me speak.”

Izzy bowed, his hopes shattered.

Robert took Farah’s hand. “First, and mostly importantly, welcome to the Montbryce family, Farah. The name you bear now is an honourable one with a glorious history. I am confident you will be worthy of it. I don’t know what it is you see in this bad-tempered cousin of mine, but—” he chuckled, “—I hope he knows how lucky he is. Who would have thought Izzy would fall victim to the Montbryce curse!”

Farah frowned.

Robert bent towards her and whispered, “He’ll explain it to you later, I’m sure.”

He turned to face Izzy. “Secondly, I hastened here upon receiving news of a possible rebellion, only to discover a fit and disciplined army and household staff whose love and loyalty you seem to have inspired. I can hardly believe this is the same castle I left not too long ago.”

Izzy opened his mouth, but Robert silenced him. “Third, my own cousin seems to have become the richest man in the duchy of Normandie, nay maybe in all of Francia, with his stash of gold.

“Fourth, you are equipping your men with a sword that will be the envy of everyone in Normandie, and I expect to receive one as a gift for myself.

“Fifth, I, of all people, do not need to be convinced of the merits of a man riding off to rescue the woman he loves. Do you recall naught of my history?”

He took a deep breath. “Need I say more?”

Izzy looked at his cousin sheepishly. “Does this mean I can remain as Master?”

Robert grimaced. “Do you take me for a complete fool, Izzy? I want you to be the
Seigneur
here. You have more than demonstrated your worth and your ability to lead. Giroux Castle will be in safe hands with you, and Farah. Hopefully it won’t eat up all your wealth!”

Izzy bowed to Robert. “I thank you, cousin.”

Farah flew into Izzy’s arms. “You have your heart’s desire at last.”

He cradled her tightly. “You are my heart’s desire, Farah.”

###