The Falcons of Montabard (16 page)

Her stepmother arched her thin black brows. 'I know exactly what I have been given,' she said. 'I do not underestimate its value, but neither do I view it through a glass of golden light. I will temper myself to your father's hand, but he must learn to adapt.' She moved to the door and flicked her glance to the crucifix dominating the wall beside it. 'Husbands are hard to come by in this land for a girl without prospects, although doubtless your father will furnish you with some sort of dowry from the revenues of Tel Namir. It may be that you will find a vocation after all.'

Annais did not follow Mariamne from the room. It would have been too much of a temptation to push her down the steep turret stairs. Clenching her fists, she went to the window. Her lips twitched at the sight that met her eyes. Poor Hodierne FitzPeter might only have had a crucifix for solace in her chamber, but when she turned her gaze upon the outside world, she had a fine view of the training ground where the men would come to hone their weapon skills. Not that there were any soldiers practising today. The archery targets stood unquilled and the sack of sand on the quintain post had been unhooked and laid at the foot. A fleece-stuffed dummy used for spear practice was propped against the wall and some jester had put a cup in its mittened hand.

Still smiling, Annais turned back into the room. It did indeed

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resemble a nun's cell. The bed was covered by a plain blanket of dark wool, albeit that the wool was as soft as coney fur to the touch. The single coffer was plainly wrought, but made from cedarwood so that when Annais threw back the lid, the air was filled with a glorious, resinous scent. It was empty, awaiting the possessions of the chamber's next occupant... or almost empty. In the bottom, lodged at the side, something gleamed. Kneeling, Annais leaned over and pinched up a wimple pin between finger and thumb. It was made of gold with a scrollwork head the size of a small pea. Here was no nunly accoutrement. This belonged to the world of the court, of bathhouses and bustling society.

Annais rose from the coffer and thrust the pin through her own wimple, adding to the daintier one of silver currently doing service. Mariamne might want her to become a nun, but the find in the coffer was a portent and had fixed Annais's decision on the matter.

The bed blanket would do for now until she could obtain one more colourful to replace it. Crossing herself, apologising to the image of Christ on the wall, she unhooked it from its nail, placed it at the bottom of the coffer and firmly closed the lid. Exchange, after all, was no robbery.

'Your daughter is finding it hard to accept that you have another wife,' Mariamne murmured, smoothing her naked thigh over Strongfist's hairy one and raising her leg so that her knee just nudged his softening genitals.

'She will come around,' Strongfist answered somewhat breathlessly. Droplets of sweat sparkled in the coils of his chest hair. 'And I think she minds less than you believe.'

'Do you? I have not gained that impression.'

'It is early days yet. Give her time.'

Mariamne licked her lips. 'Annais was very taken with Hodierne's chamber,' she said. 'I think it reminded her of the convent where you said she was educated. Perhaps in Christ's own land she will find a vocation after all.'

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Strongfist eyed his wife in the grainy light from the oil lamp at their bedside. 'I could almost think you want to be rid of her,' he murmured.

Mariamne's raven hair cascaded around her shoulders as she shook her head. 'Of course not!' Her tone was indignant. 'Did I not offer her my second-best gown when you arrived? Have I not shown her how to dress and comport herself among Jerusalem society? Why should I want to be rid of her, when she is company for me in this—' She bit her tongue on whatever else she had been going to say and leaned over him. 'I want what is best for her. It matters not save that she is content. I am sorry that you doubt me.'

'I am sorry too ... I am not accustomed to the ways of women. They seem to play by different rules to men.' Strongfist's tone was rueful. He ran his hand over Mariamne's silken shoulder and cupped her breast. Full, firm, delicately veined with blue. The gesture was languorous on his behalf, for they had made love but a short while since. 'And you . . . are you content?'

Her lips curved sweetly. 'Not yet . . .' she said and rubbed herself against his exploring hand.

Strongfist's first wife had been accommodating, but unconcerned if he chose not to exercise his marital rights. Mariamne was a different prospect entirely: predatory, voracious. He had swiftly discovered that taking his pleasure and rolling over to fall asleep was a cardinal sin in her eyes. She expected to be satisfied, and usually more than once.

'You will kill me!' he laughed as she leaned over him, licking, nibbling, arousing. When she took him in her mouth, he almost came off the bed with mingled shock and pleasure.

'It is a sin against God!' he gasped, but made no attempt to push her off. Instead the veins stood out like whipcords in his throat and he experienced a rush of lust the like of which had not visited him since adolescence.

'I am sure the priest will absolve you.' Her response was muffled by his burgeoning flesh. 'He always absolved Henri.'

Ill

Chapter 9

messire, I told you no lie.' Hakim pointed to the of stables and paddocks running back from the road and standing opposite the church. 'This is where my father looks after the horses of the lord of Tel Namir.' His mouth widened in a gap-toothed smile. Beside him, Amalric shared his pride by folding his arms and looking manly.

Sabin stood and stared. Mares with foals at foot occupied several of the enclosures and it was like looking upon a sea of glittering, shimmering metal for almost every animal was the colour of bronze or copper or gold, with the occasional glint of silver flashing amongst the shoal.

Sabin's mouth began to water. He had always had an eye for good horseflesh, but usually what he rode was borrowed from his family's stable or hired — always the latter since arriving in Outremer, He had not had time to go hunting for the necessary animals. Every knight should have access to a strong riding mount, a warhorse and a beast of burden. One for hunting would not come amiss either. Thus far he had made do with the hard-mouthed bay that Hakim had called a nag, and an evil-tempered pack mule that pretended every shadow was a lion waiting to pounce and kept up a constant braying that strongly tempted Sabin to cut its wretched throat.

'They are Nicaean horses, sir,' Amalric said, eager to show off his own knowledge and prove himself useful. 'The old lord

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brought them with him from the north when he captured a Turkish caravan.'

Sabin gazed at the polished satin flanks. Nicaean horses. The mounts of kings and emperors. Even Henry of England did not possess a Nicaean, but had to make do with Spanish stock. The animals he was looking at were justly famed for their speed, their endurance and their ability to live on the sparsest of fodder without suffering. Perhaps not stout enough for a Frankish cavalry charge unless blended with colder blood, but superb riding mounts.

'The village has to present a mare and a colt foal to the King of Jerusalem each year,' Hakim said. 'That one is going this time.' He pointed to a mare with a hide the colour of Roman gold, and beside her an inquisitive copper-red foal with raven mane and tail.

Amalric nudged the younger boy. 'Sir Sabin doesn't want a mare and colt,' he said scornfully. 'Show him the stallions.'

Sabin wouldn't have minded a mare and colt in the least but followed Hakim to a long stable block facing the largest olive grove. Here Hakim's father, a native Christian named Yusuf, greeted him. He wore a loose white cotton shirt stuffed into Frankish-style braies and hose.

'Hakim has been showing you our horses.' Father and son shared the same quick smile. 'What do you think?'

'I am overwhelmed.' Sabin spread his hands. 'We have nothing like this at home, even at the courts of kings.'

Yusuf looked pleased and a little smug. He gestured Sabin to walk along the row of stalls. 'We do not keep many stallions,' he said. 'Those used by the garrison are stabled at the castle, of course. The ones we keep here are either for breeding to the mares, or waiting to be trained, sold, or gelded.' He smiled at Sabin's raised brows. 'I know that Frankish lords prefer to ride stallions, but other buyers would rather have their beasts castrated. It makes them more amenable, especially around mares.'

'You mean like eunuchs around a harem?' Sabin said.

Yusuf laughed. 'Exactly like that, messire.' He tilted his

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head. 'My son tells me that you are in need of a horse.'

'Apparently so. It seems that I rode from Jerusalem on a nag.'

Clucking his tongue, Yusuf cuffed Hakim around the ear and reprimanded him for his lack of manners, but playfully.

'He was right,' Sabin said. 'It was a nag, but the best I could find in the time. Let the boy speak his mind. It is easier to hear the truth than spend time sifting through tact for the meaning. Show me what you have available.'

Presented with a dozen Nicaean stallions, Sabin felt like a glutton arriving at a groaning table. In England, if someone had offered him one such horse he would have been ecstatic. To have the choice of twelve was almost too much. He ran his hands down strong legs, slapped rippling muscles, peered in mouths, allowed Yusuf the privilege of handling and expounding on the excellent state of the genitalia, stood back to study general conformation.

He was much taken by a gold-coloured five-year-old with black points, not saddle broken, but trained to the halter. Indeed, he had almost made up his mind when a pealing neigh issued from a stall at the end of the block. Hooves smacked solidly against wood as the horse within lashed furiously at the closed door. Sabin looked enquiringly at Yusuf.

The horse-keeper shook his head and looked sombre. 'That one is already spoken for,' he said. 'And you would not want him.'

His words immediately piqued Sabin's curiosity. 'Why would I not want him?' he asked. And who has spoken for him?' He began walking down the line of stalls towards the end one where the sound of banging shoes was becoming increasingly frenzied.

'That animal bucked Lord Henri off against a wall and cracked open his skull,'Yusuf strode out beside Sabin, gesturing the boys to stay back. 'Three days later my lord died. Because he has caused a man's death, the horse has been given to the Church, as is the rule. Father Andrew is the official custodian now and it is up to him what he does with the creature.'

Sabin could hardly imagine the portly little priest doing his

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rounds on the horse trying its best to kick its way out of the stall.

'There was talk of him donating it to the Templars,' Yusuf added as they arrived at the shuddering door, 'but nothing has been decided yet. Father Andrew wanted to consult with the new lord.' Yusuf shot back the bolt on the top half of the door and pulled it wide. A black tail lashed and a dappled silver rump bunched and kicked.

Yusuf made huffing sounds through his teeth that sounded like 'Hoa, hoa' and moved to one side so that the horse could see him. In a swish of straw, its hooves echoing hollowly in the confines of the stall, the stallion plunged around and thrust its head out of the opened top door. Eyes rolled, showing their whites. The arched neck was streaked with foam, and it frothed at the muzzle too, making the horse look as if it had just sprung from a breaking wave at the head of Neptune's chariot.

'Wild,' Yusuf said. 'Lord Henri wanted an unusual colour so that he would be remarked upon and admired when he rode past, but he had no notion of how to control an animal like this. Wouldn't have him gelded either. Said that geldings were for infidels and priests.'

'And now a priest has him.' Moving on soft feet, Sabin came to stand at Yusuf's side. 'Clear the yard,' he said, 'and unbolt the other door.'

Yusuf hesitated.

'He can be no worse in the open,' Sabin argued. 'If you leave him confined now, he will work himself into a true frenzy. If he casts himself, he could twist a gut, and then the Church will have nothing but the price of a carcass.'

Yusuf frowned, then opened his hands and shrugged. 'It is your responsibility,' he said.

'I take it in full.'

Yusuf turned and began shouting commands. Within seconds, the yard was clear and Hakim and Amalric ordered off the wall where they had been sitting, swinging their legs.

Sabin drew back the heavy bolt and swept open the door. A

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fury fashioned of iron and gleaming quicksilver surged out of the stall and careered around the yard, black tail flagged high, crest arched, teeth bared. Sabin was captivated. He had often scoffed at the notion of love at first sight, but now he knew it was true, for it had struck his heart like a smith's hammer on an anvil and moulded it into a new shape.
'"He swalloweth the
ground with fierceness and rage",'
he quoted softly.

Although his eyes never left the stallion, Yusuf smiled through his concern. 'The book of Job,' he said.
'"He paweth
in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength".'