The Falcons of Montabard (13 page)

Gerbert de Montabard joined them and Strongfist turned with relief to talk to him, abandoning his daughter's question as if it had never been asked.

Fergus laid an avuncular hand on her shoulder. 'All in good time, lassie,' he said. All in good time.' He gave her what was supposed to be a reassuring wink, but it left her more disturbed. Convent-raised she might be, but that did not mean she was blind. She had often wondered if her father would remarry, and from the hints that had been dropped since their arrival in Outremer, the possibility had seemed ever more likely. But she had not expected it to be so soon, and although she could live as a fellow guest under the same roof as Mariamne FitzPeter, she was uncomfortable with the notion of calling her mother. Nor did she believe that the woman would make a good wife for her father . . . not the way that she had seen her looking at Sabin.

The latter had been captured by a couple of the Queen's ladies and he was entertaining them with some outrageous tale to judge from the way their hands had covered their mouths to stifle their giggles.

'I am told that you have a gift for music, Mistress Annais.'

She faced Gerbert de Montabard and managed a smile of sorts. 'I play the harp after a fashion,' she said. 'Who has been telling you tales?'

'Sabin FitzSimon said that you played like an angel,' Gerbert answered. There was admiration in his gaze and she did not miss the way that it slipped over her figure. He had the decency, however, not to let his eyes linger.

'He exaggerates my skills,' Annais murmured. 'It is true that I play, but there are many who have a greater talent.' She had

87

flushed at the notion of Sabin making such a remark. He was so circumspect with her, so careful, that the few insights she did receive were often second-hand like this.

'I should like to hear and judge for myself some time.' Annais made a non-committal sound and de Montabard did not pursue the matter, for which she was grateful. From the little she had heard of him, she knew that he was married, but that his wife had not attended the court because she was with child. Annais thought him attractive, but common sense and the rules dinned into her by Church and family led her not to encourage him. De Montabard appeared to be of the same mind for, after the initial instant of flirtation, he drew back. Most proper, she thought. Another glance in Sabin's direction revealed that he was no longer in the room, and neither were his companions. She hoped, for her father's sake, that he stayed within the bounds of propriety and did not cause a scandal on their first day at court.

It was with no small degree of relief that Sabin finally managed to rid himself of the two women. They had fastened on him like a pair of starving leeches, neither one prepared to let go and leave her rival with the victory. Sabin had at last resorted to telling them that he had a mistress waiting for him in the Latin quarter of the town, and that he was woefully late for the assignation. Then he had fled, feeling as if he had narrowly escaped with his life.

For the remainder of the morning, he wandered the streets of Jerusalem, absorbing the holiest city on earth through his skin, his eyes and his ears. The dark alleyways of the markets with their roofs of palm fronds and their shops and stalls pressed as closely together as flesh upon bone. Piles of exotic fruits. Grapes as dark as vein-blood. Figs and pomegranates. Olives. In bright sunlight, his eyes were the same clear green-gold as their oil. He wandered down Malquisnet Street again, taking his time on this occasion and indulging in one of the lacy pancakes he had so admired before. He had admired other

things too: honey sweetmeats, stiffened with nuts and sesame seeds and served by a girl with dark doe eyes and perfumed hair, black as midnight. She was willing to flirt with him while he ate, for she had her brother for protection and both she and Sabin enjoyed the frivolous exchange of banter, secure in the knowledge that it could go no further - for the moment at least.

Licking the sweetness from his fingers, he walked along the Street of Palm-bearers. The stench from the fish market was still overpowering, but he had grown more accustomed to it, and could breathe without putting his sleeve across his nose. Beyond the stalls with their occupants, stiff and silver if fresh, flabby and dull if not, he came to more stalls. Crudely carved wooden crucifixes were thrust beneath his nose, or ones fashioned of base metal with a red glass bead at their centre. Grosses woven from strips of palm branch; lead ampullae filled with the water in which Jesus was baptised, or with the dust from the ground he had trodden. Sabin walked between the stalls, admiring the industry and acumen of the sellers and ignoring the exhortations to buy, except to be irritated and amused by their persistence.

An arched colonnade of golden stone led into the courtyard that formed the south front of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and here the booths were as thick as flies on a corpse. Sabin thrust his way through, using his elbows where necessary, until he gained the open space of the courtyard. Here too traders cried their wares, but their numbers were regulated by the black-robed priests overseeing the stream of pilgrims entering the complex of chapels that comprised the Holy Sepulchre. A few moments since, Sabin had been eating halva and jesting with a native girl, nothing on his mind but the pleasure of the moment. Now his flesh tingled, and although the sun was white-hot on his unprotected head, he shivered at the notion of praying at Christ's tomb, site of the miracle of the Resurrection.

He had attended prayer in the great cathedrals at Westminster, Rouen, Fecamp and Caen. Sometimes with

89

reverence, more often with an impatient desire to be out at weapons practice or flying his hawk. Often he had passed the services in flirtation with women, in jesting with friends, in sleep if he had been short on it the previous night, and even on one occasion in a game of dice at the rear of the chapel. Much of it had been a deliberate rebellion at what he saw as the boring piety of his elders. Now, on the threshold of the holiest point in Christendom, a place that most of them would never see, a place that his father had set out to achieve and failed, Sabin hesitated, aware of his own unworthiness. He felt he had more in common with the greedy huckstering outside than with the sanctity of the awaiting chapels.

Other pilgrims crowded through the arches of the colonnade, shepherded past the traders like flocking sheep and thoroughly fleeced into the bargain. Sabin was jostled by the accents of Tuscany and France, by cries of astonishment, excitement and exultation. He listened, understood some of it, and was confused by much of the rest. He envied their chatter, bright as sun-sparkle on water, and about as deep.

Allowing the main surge of Italian pilgrims to go ahead of him, he steeled himself to follow their fading chatter into the first of several chapels. He was here. He would perform the offices for the souls of those who were not.

Sabin spent the heat of the afternoon in the cool, candle-lit depths of various chapels, and it seemed to him that he was wandering within the heart of some vast, faceted gemstone, with each chapel being a window in the facet, cut and polished, shimmering with celestial tints of light. Crusaders and pilgrims had carved crosses on the wall of the staircase leading to the chapel of St Helena, and Sabin took his knife to make a mark for his father. At the Tomb of Christ, he offered silver and lit candles for his father's soul, for Lora's, and, after a hesitation, for his own. It was strange to bend his head in church and actually pray. All around him, voices whispered and echoed, rising above the tiered arches to the domed roof of the chapel of the Franks. Incense perfumed the prayers. The white smoke rose

90

to heaven and the residue drifted down to permeate skin and clothing.

Sabin knelt for a long time. If there was a well of peace and silence within himself, it was elusive, but he was not disappointed, for he felt that he had found peace for his father, and the lighting of a candle had gone somewhat towards assuaging his guilt over Lora. The debt was still outstanding, but it no longer weighed as heavily. At least two sets of pilgrims came and departed, many of them weeping with a surfeit of emotion at having actually touched the place of Christ's burial and resurrection. Finally Sabin crossed himself, rose from his knees and went to find a priest who would confess him of his sins. An hour later, shriven as white as a new lamb, he emerged into the slanting late-afternoon sun.

The relic-sellers were packing up their stalls and preparing to go home. His cynicism mellowed, or perhaps his compassion increased, Sabin bought a small palm-branch cross from a toothless crone and, with her blessings ringing in his ears, pinned it to his cloak and made his way back through the narrow streets and suqs of the city. He found a bathhouse not far from the Jaffa gate, and he entered it, intent upon cleansing his body to match his soul.

The attendants administered to him with courteous efficiency. He was bathed, scrubbed, pummelled, kneaded and oiled until he began to wonder if he had not strayed into a bakery by mistake. A barber trimmed his hair and shaved his face with a razor of Saracen steel so sharp that it left his skin as smooth as a girl's. He also offered to remove the rest of Sabin's body hair.

'It is the fashion,' he said, placing one hand on his hip and looking put out when Sabin refused. All the Franks of the court have it done. Only newcomers and peasants sprout hair like beasts.' His gaze assessed the crucifix of hair on Sabin's chest and followed it down while he thumbed his razor longingly.

'Mayhap,' Sabin said with a smile, 'but I am a newcomer and I will claim that leeway for the nonce. Since I am unlikely

91

to disrobe before the court and they before me, I doubt that my boorishness will be remarked upon.'

With a dramatic sigh, the bath attendant replaced his razor in its tooled leather case. 'If you change your mind, which assuredly you will, I will give you a good price,' he said and presented Sabin with a hand mirror so that he could view the difference that the barbering had made. Sabin stared, slightly startled at his own image. He had seen himself in a mirror before. Although they were very rare at home, Lora had owned one - a gift from King Henry for services rendered. The wavering distorted image had shown him a pale young man with thin black brows and symmetrical features lit by a devilish smile. The barber's mirror revealed a much clearer image. A deep tan had replaced the pallor; his eyes were a clear olive-gold rather than being murkily reflected; and the smile showed self-mockery, not devilment. After a brief glance, he returned the mirror to the barber, face down.

Ah,' said the man with a grin, 'my lord is afraid of the sin of vanity.'

Sabin laughed. 'Far from it, but a man can become a slave to his appearance rather than being its master. There is a line that one should not cross . . . like the difference between barbering one's beard and shaving off the hair around one's cock.'

The barber widened his eyes at the comment and sucked in his cheeks. 'I have Templar knights who come to me, and priests from the Sepulchre who value my services.' His tone was proud and indignant.

'I am sure that they do,' Sabin said in a congested voice, glad that the mirror was still face down.

The barber continued to boast of his clients while Sabin dressed. His shirt and braies had been washed and dried during his time in the baths, and they smelled of sunlight and sandal-wood.

'You will come again?' the barber asked as Sabin latched his belt and laced his sword to it by the scabbard thonging. He was

92

aware of the man watching the movement of his hands with hunger and wariness. Wanting to touch. Knowing that such a move would meet with drawn steel.

'I might.' Sabin gave a non-committal shrug and finished latching his belt.

'You will recommend me to your friends?' An obsequious note entered the barber's voice.

Sabin's smile was dry. 'I will certainly speak of you to them,' he said as he paid his fee. Actually, he was quite pleased with the services, although he could not imagine that Strongfist would take kindly to even the mention of some of the commodities on offer.

Stepping into the street, he found that the shadows had lengthened and dusk was only a breath away. The buildings bore a reddish tint in the westering sun, as if all the blood that had been shed over them had soaked into the pores of the stones. There was another bathhouse close to the one he had just patronised, intended for use by women, and, as he turned down the street, he almost collided with a Frankish lady and her maid who were emerging from it.

Sabin bowed and apologised and, as he straightened, found himself gazing into the expertly painted face of Mariamne FitzPeter. The scent of exotic oils drenched the air, making it almost hard to breathe - or perhaps there was another reason.

'I see you have taken quickly to our ways, messire,' she murmured in her light, cool voice. Amusement curled the corners of her carmine-red mouth.

Turning to follow her gaze, Sabin saw that the barber was standing on the steps of the men's bathhouse, watching him leave. 'Some of them, my lady,' he said wryly and offered her his arm. 'May I escort you home?'

Inclining her head, she curved her hand around his wrist and paced at his side.'I visit the baths at least once a week,' Mariamne said. 'I know that Fergus and Margaret have a bathtub at their home and indeed I make use of it, but it does not compare with the services on offer at such places as these.'

93

'No,' Sabin agreed, having first cleared his throat to speak. He started to imagine Mariamne FitzPeter bereft of clothes, her pubic mound shaved as smooth as a silk cushion, and hurled the notion from his mind as if it were red-hot. He grimly resolved to find out about certain other amenities on offer in Jerusalem. He had a place to sleep, he knew where to eat, where to worship and where to bathe. Now all he needed was a discreet establishment where the women were accommodating.