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  “I will make this place the envy of all,” he declared to the darkening sky.

  Farah

  The heavily laden cart lurched. A small iron chest careened across the rough boards, jolting Farah from her reverie. Hampered by the copious folds of her eastern garment, she lunged to prevent the baggage slamming into the pallet on which lay her Patron. She held her breath, praying he did not wake. Let the beleaguered soul enjoy his rest.

  Farah had hardly slept since the long journey began. Eight days at sea had not been strenuous, the rocking of the wind and waves allowing her to doze, if somewhat fitfully. The ten-day journey across Francia from the port city of Massilia had been rendered difficult by rain and terrain. She had at times doubted that her protector’s wish to die in his childhood home would come to fruition.

  The threat of attack from brigands and the like was real, but the well-armed escort of a dozen Hospitaller Knights had dissuaded attempts to rob the party of its baggage. Farah was glad of their protection. She did not fear them as men. They were sworn to a holy cause, but she was unsure of their reason for bringing her on this expedition.

  The cavalcade had ground to a halt, but there were no shouts of “aux armes!” She cast a worried glance at the pile of iron chests, hoping the tilt of the cart would not bring the whole lot crashing down. The weight would surely smash the wooden sides. They were close to their destination. Would the precious possessions shepherded through many difficulties be lost to the mud?

  She adjusted the veil covering her face and peeked out from behind the rough canvas covering.

  Sir Berthold de Quincy stood ankle deep in mud, legs braced, hands on hips, issuing quiet but firm commands to the lackeys hired in Massilia. He seemed oblivious to the rain cascading off his helmet to pool in a puddle around him.

  The peasants, coated in the rich brown earth of Normandie, strained to right the cart, their bare feet finding no purchase in the mud. Berthold had seen her frown of concern. She remained silent. The warrior would not welcome any suggestions she might offer. If he wanted her to descend from the cart, he would tell her. If he deemed it wise to unload the baggage, he would see it done. Though her Patron had insisted she accompany him, Berthold would have quickly dismissed the notion had he not judged it beneficial in some way to his Order.

  They had rested a few days in the port city of Massilia. Despite his aura of invincibility, Berthold had proven to be a poor sailor. Retching in the presence of his men was clearly an embarrassing weakness that didn’t sit well on his broad shoulders.

  The Knights took advantage of the sojourn to explore the ancient city. She overheard discussions about the harbor being an excellent place to build a commandery fort, the first in Francia. This raised further suspicions that the delivery of an ailing crusader from their hospice in Jerusalem to his home in Normandie was not the main reason for the journey. What role did Berthold’s knowledge of her own true heritage play in their motives?

  She held her peace, retreating to the interior of the cart and the safety of her veils, content to enjoy a degree of the freedom denied her for many years. The clean, cool air of Normandie, even the rain, was welcome after the stinking heat of Jerusalem.

  Shouts of triumph heralded the success of the men’s efforts as the cartwheel groaned out of the mud. The chests shuddered, but remained in place.

  The journey resumed. Farah made the Sign of the Crucifixion across her body and uttered a prayer of thanks to the Christian God she had long been forbidden to worship.

  * * *

  Sir Berthold looked to the heavens, closing his eyes against the downpour. He prayed this would be the last delay. Farah and the old crusader had been delivered into his hands as part of the Almighty’s grand plan for his Order—of that he was certain. However, sometimes the Lord’s work was hard. “Grant me patience and forbearance,” he begged.

  He was being tested. Why else would God make a woman the instrument through which the plan would succeed? Berthold had never made any secret of his disdain for women. They were feckless creatures who distracted men from their true purpose. He had to remember it was Farah’s rank that mattered, not her sex.

  At least she’d had the sense to stay silent during the righting of the wagon. Clearly, she still believed returning Georges de Giroux to his ancestral home was the reason for this seemingly endless journey.

  Exotic Visitors

  Dorianne marveled at the change in her mother as the two supervised servants preparing the baggage for the return journey to Montbryce. They had been at Giroux a fortnight, and Dorianne longed to see her children again. Three-year-old Alexandre would be restless, chafing under the reign of his bossy older sisters. But her anticipation paled in comparison to that of her mother who prattled on incessantly about her imminent visit to meet grandchildren she had never seen.

  Dorianne’s apprehension about leaving her husband’s cousin in charge of her childhood home had lessened with Robert’s assurances. Izzy, it seemed, learned quickly and had established good relations with the steward, and other members of Artus Aubin’s staff. Robert seemed impressed with the repairs already underway on the rampart. Izzy had spoken to her personally, sharing his passionate ideas for improving the estate. She had never seen him as enthused, but had been careful not to flinch when he took her hand and kissed it politely. Touch caused him great pain.

  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 they encountered upon entering the hall heightened her anxiety. The servants had almost blocked the entryway with a quantity of battered baggage. Exotic aromas wafted into her nostrils as she edged past the pile of iron chests, atop which lay a large broadsword sheathed in a well-worn scabbard.

  Robert stood on the dais, 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.

  Robert’s cousins stood behind a group of armored knights lined up in front of the dais. Steam rose from the strangers’ mud-spattered armor. 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 Izzy, nodding in acknowledgement of the homage.

  Raising her eyes, she noticed a frail, elderly man slumped in a chair. He seemed to be dozing. At his side stood another knight. A woman held the old man’s bony hand. There was something familiar about him, 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. Downcast eyes and one hand were the only parts of her not hidden from view.

  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 rancor 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 fall
en 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 long-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 age and 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 confusion. “The woman’s name is Farah.”

  * * *

  Robert clenched his jaw. Yet again, a member of the Giroux family had succeeded in disrupting his life and upsetting Dorianne. They were both concerned for the babe she carried. When it seemed the never-ending burden of the feud had been lifted, Sir Georges had returned from the dead to rekindle its pernicious memories.

  He respected the Hospitallers, but undertaking the arduous journey from Jerusalem to Normandie simply to bring a crusading knight home seemed implausible. There was more to the tale than Berthold was telling them.

  And the woman with the exotic name? No doubt a prostitute.

  It wasn’t surprising Izzy seethed with anger beside him. His hopes for the future now hung in the balance as well.

  * * *

  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 laid eyes on her.

  She was draped from head to foot in a flowing black garb 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 kohl darkening her eyelids?

  She looked away, lowering incredibly long, dark lashes after glancing at him.

  Robbed of breath, he gulped air.

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

  His fascination bothered him. Since Robert and Dorianne seemed equally dumbfounded, 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 mustache. “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 more 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 eyes with him. “Oui, I was twelve years old. I was born in the harem.”

  Dorianne swooned. Robert scooped her up and carried her away, shooting a backward glance at Izzy that said Deal with this.

  After what seemed like an eternity of silence, broken only by the metallic creaking of wet armor 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 must be filled with lustful visions. Even Hospitallers were men. How could a woman who earned her bread that way be a maiden?

  Berthold coughed again. “Milord, may I explain? 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 honor 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.

  The Secret

  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-humored 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—

  She refused to think further on the inevitability of his demise.

  Despite her exhaustion, she could not wait to make sure her secret had sur
vived 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.

  She breathed again. The tooled leather scabbard appeared undamaged. She 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.