The Falcons of Montabard (17 page)

The grey galloped towards the men as if he would attack, but shied away at the final moment, sending a spume of dust into their faces. Bucking, kicking, he pounded up to the wall, surged, turned, and slowed to a high-stepping trot. Sabin relaxed the muscles that had been prepared for flight. Yusuf exhaled and wiped his brow.

'This is probably the best horse in the stable, and the most untrustworthy,' he said. 'I would not breed him to any of the mares for fear that the foals would inherit his traits rather than his conformation.'

Sabin shook his head. 'He will suit me well,' he said. 'I have been called untrustworthy myself."

'But he has killed a man, messire . . . even if it was without intent.'

Sabin smiled grimly. 'So have I,' he said.

Once the grey had expended the first excess of rage and nervous energy, Sabin quietly instructed Amalric to return to the castle and fetch his pack mule. The next step was to put the mule in with the stallion.

'If I am fortunate,' Sabin said, 'the mule will steady him and I will be able to halter him and bring him up to the castle.'

Yusuf nodded, looking doubtful, but prepared to try the trick.

'Does anyone know why he threw his rider?' Sabin asked. 'A burr under his saddle, perhaps, or the sting of a hornet?'

Yusuf shook his head. 'I do not think we will ever be entirely certain, but in my heart I believe it was the whip.'

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'The whip?' Sabin looked curious.

'Men impose discipline on their horses in different ways.' Yusuf's expression was impassive. 'Lord Henri used whip and spur with perhaps more vigour than was necessary. He found it hard to master the grey ..." He made an eloquent gesture.

Sabin could guess what had happened. Some horses would cower when whipped, but in others, fear turned to rage until they became unridable and fit only for dogmeat.

'Let us hope,' he said, 'that whatever damage has been done can be rectified.'

Annais had hunted through her father's baggage and finally found what she was seeking: a woollen blanket of Scots plaid, woven in hues of woad and madder. She fancied she could smell sheep and heather and misty autumn days in its folds. It gave her a pang of homesickness amid the pleasure as she spread it on her bed to replace Hodierne's plainer covering.

Instead of the horrible crucifix, the wall now boasted a glowing Byzantine icon, liquid of eye and haloed in gold. She had found a cloth of embroidered red silk to throw over the coffer and had hung a curtain of heavy gold cotton across the doorway. The fabric, so she had learned, came from a Muslim city called Damascus where dwelt highly skilled weavers. It amused her to think that all these touches would be viewed as the height of luxury on the Scottish borders where silk, even for the wealthiest in the land, was a rarity and saved for the highest feast days.

A cry of greeting floated up through the latticed shutters and was noisily answered. Annais went to the window, unfastened the latch and gazed out on the practice ground. The garrison soldiers had been at spear drill, but had stopped to watch Sabin ride through the postern gate. He was straddling a pack mule without a saddle, and using his left hand on the bridle. A lead rope attached to a prancing grey stallion occupied his right. At a safe distance well to Sabin's rear came the boys, Hakim and Amalric, walking as if they had a serious purpose.

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Annais watched Sabin dismount from the mule and walk quietly back to the grey. He stood for a long time, just stroking the horse's neck and fondling the curve of its cheeks. Then he offered it something on the palm of his hand. The mule immediately turned to claim its share, and for a moment he was almost crushed between the two animals. She drew a sharp breath, but he emerged grinning and gave the mule's rein to Amalric. As the boy led the beast away, Sabin pressed his hands to the horse's withers and in one lithe motion straddled its back. The stallion stiffened as if petrified. Annais was convinced that the grey's stiffness would shatter into bucking, plunging destruction and that Sabin would be thrown and trampled to death. But the point of crisis came and went in a single dance of motion that triggered a rush of fluidity through the stallion's limbs. Crest arched, tail flagged, muscles flowing like wind through silk, he high-stepped after the mule. Sabin rode straight-legged, one arm down at his side, the other holding the reins high.

'Ah, now I see why you spend so much time here,' said Mariamne.

Annais whirled with a gasp of surprise. Her stepmother's footfalls had been so soft that she had not heard them.

'There is a fine view of the tilting ground, is there not?' Mariamne stopped at her side. 'All those strong young men ..." She smiled knowingly.

'I was watching the sunset,' Annais said coldly.

Mariamne leaned out into the light, her long wrists braced on the sill. 'Hodierne used to do that too,' she murmured. 'Or so she said.' Her own gaze travelled along the parade ground, taking in what Annais had been observing. Her breathing stopped on a catch, then recommenced at an increased rate and a flush mounted her cheeks. 'So,' she whispered and moistened her lips. 'He has taken the grey. I thought he might.'

Annais felt the small hairs prickle at the back of her neck. She wanted to Cross herself. 'Why should you think he would choose that one?'

'Because of its nature and his.' Mariamne went to the coffer

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and picked up a ripe fig, running her thumb over its waxy green surface. 'Ferraunt was Henri's mount until he whipped the beast once too often and it threw him against the wall and spilled what wits he had.' Her sharp thumbnail dug into the fig to emphasise her point. 'He was useless at riding anything - be it horse or woman.'

Annais made a small sound in her throat, and Mariamne fixed her with a hard stare. 'It is the truth,' she said. 'Why hide from it?'

'Is it not also disloyal? Will you say similar things about my father when he is not present to defend himself?'

Mariamne split the fig to expose the fleshy red interior dotted with tiny seeds. 'I thought perhaps that you were old enough to be a friend and confidante,' she said in a voice that managed to be gentle and scathing at the same time, 'but I see I have misjudged your maturity.'

Nibbling the fruit, Mariamne left the room on a waft of rose attar. The smell curdled Annais's stomach. It was with tremendous fortitude that she managed not to hurl the bowl of figs in her stepmother's wake. 'Bitch,' Annais said through bared teeth. Uttering the word made her feel a little better. The icon watched her sadly from the wall with its great liquid eyes. She faced it with raised chin. 'Mariamne's a bitch,' she repeated without apology. 'And I am not the one who is immature.'

Sabin led the grey into an empty stall knee-deep in straw. He waved away the attention of the groom, who looked mightily relieved at not being called upon to deal with the horse. Amalric tethered the mule in the adjoining stall where the stallion could see it. Sabin sent the boy to the kitchens to fetch food and drink and set about grooming his new possession, his movements slow and measured and his voice a soothing murmur. He had to gain the stallion's trust, and that involved spending time in its company. Tonight he would sleep in the stall, and the horse would grow accustomed to his presence - either that or kick him to death, but he thought the chance worth taking.

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The sun had almost set, but sufficient light filtered through the door for him to see to kindle the oil lamp standing on a shelf a little above head height. The green aroma of warming olive oil began to layer the stall. He piled straw to make a bed for himself, placing his saddle at one end for a pillow.

A shadow obscured the deep glow of dusk from the doorway, leaving his vision dependent upon the small flame of the oil lamp. At first he thought that it was Amalric returning with his food, but then silk rustled seductively, and above the peppery notes of olive, he inhaled the sweet aroma of attar of roses. Definitely not Amalric. His spine tingled and the horse ceased tugging at its hay net and swung its proud grey crest to stare at the intruder.

'I met your "squire" on his way back with your supper.' Mariamne's voice was gently amused. 'I take it that you are not dining in the hall with everyone else this eve.' She set down a platter and a jug on the stool.

'No, my lady' Sabin gestured to the food. 'There was no need. Amalric is competent and he takes his duties seriously.'

'So do I.' She came to his side, and now the smell of her perfume was overpowering. The blue of her eyes was swallowed to darkness in the dim light; all he could see was their gleam. She reached out and touched the stallion's powerful shoulder. Beneath her long fingers the silver-grey hide shivered as if at the touch of a mosquito and the horse stamped its forehoof.

'His name is Ferraunt,' she said, 'and I suppose you already know that he is forfeited to the Church because of what happened to Henri.'

'Master Yusuf did tell me, yes.' He gave a wry smile. 'Indeed, he tried to dissuade me from choosing him. The horse was shut in a stall so that I would not see him, but after he tried to kick his way out, there was little Yusuf could do, save yield to the will of God.'

She returned the smile. 'Or the will of the man. I thought you would choose Ferraunt. Your natures are suited.'

Her voice had dropped a note and grown husky. Sabin

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recognised the game. It was not an invitation as such, but an overture to an invitation. She was tempting him. Displaying the goods that might be his if he played well and showed that he understood the rules. Sabin swallowed, aware of how dangerous this was. 'Ferraunt is a word for his colour,' he said. 'Does he have no other name?'

Mariamne laughed throatily. 'Many,' she said, 'but none that you would want to shout across a tiltyard or mention in polite company. 'Henri would sometimes call him Lucifer . . . which is fitting in a way since the horse was responsible for sending him to the devil.'

Sabin laughed too, but through his mirth ran a strand of unease. Her tone was acrimonious and it was plain that she bore no fond memories of her former husband. He wondered if Strongfist knew how much he had bitten off.

'1 am but teasing.' She touched his arm. 'But it is a good name, don't you think?'

'Admirable,' Sabin said, his breath a little short. 'Are you intending to stay and share my dinner, my lady?'

'Do you want me to stay?'

'Nothing would please me more, my lady,' he said, inclining his head, 'but will they not miss you in the hall?'

'I suppose they will.' Mariamne sighed and reluctantly took her hand from his sleeve. 'My stepdaughter could, of course, take my place at the high table, but they would still send someone to look for me. Besides, I am not certain that the girl is capable of performing the duty of chatelaine. She needs much guidance, and her moods are strange.' She glinted him a sidelong look. 'I sometimes wonder why her father did not leave her in the convent instead of bringing her with him. I am sure she would have been much happier with nuns.'

Sabin looked thoughtful. 'I do not think that she has a vocation,' he said tactfully.

'Do you not? She keeps to her chamber like a nun and spends much time praying to that icon she has hung on her wall.'

'You surprise me.' He felt driven to defend Annais. 'She

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prayed a lot when we were on board ship, but that was when she was vilely seasick. Once she recovered, she was no more devout than anyone else was . . . although she would sometimes wake during the night at the times of the holy offices.'

Mariamne tilted her head. 'You like her, don't you?'

'Yes, I do,' he said, 'but I have no desire to take advantage of that liking. Nor is liking the same as lusting.'

She absorbed the information with cat-narrow eyes and ran her tongue over her lips in a frankly sensual gesture. 'You know the difference then?'

'Oh yes, my lady. I know the difference well indeed.' His body was telling him the difference in a very loud voice. His body was telling him that there was a convenient bed of straw right by his feet. Once, not so long ago, he would have followed the urgent sensations to their hot, shameful conclusion. Now, he held back, knowing that there was a line he would not cross, no matter how much she dared him and his body demanded. All he had to do was think the word 'Lora' and resistance was easy. He turned away to the horse and rubbed the sleek grey neck. Rings of dapple like links of mail shone in a steel-dark pattern over the base colour and the mane was as silky black as a Saracen girl's tresses.

'And I wonder which it is that you feel for—' She stopped abruptly and turned around as Amalric appeared in the doorway. The youth's gaze flicked between Mariamne and Sabin with a knowing that was beyond his years.

'My lady, Lord Edmund sent me to find you and say that the dinner horn is about to sound.'

'Thank you, child.' She patted his cheek like a cat patting a mouse and smiled. Sabin thought that she concealed her irritation well, but then perhaps she had had much practice. He doubted that he was the first. 'I will come directly.' She looked at Sabin. 'I hope we can continue our conversation another time,' she said.

Sabin tightened his fingers in the satin-black mane. 'I think it not wise, my lady.'

Her lips curved seductively. 'We shall see.'

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In a rustle of silk and a swirl of heavy perfume, she was gone. Sabin breathed out and pressed his head against the stallion's warm grey neck. The horse sidled, but at the same time swung its head to nudge his hair. Its hay-scented breath gusted over him, replacing Mariamne's heavy, sensuous perfume. He looked at Amalric and grimaced.

'I should thank you for saving me,' he said. 'As much from myself as her.'

'I know what my lady is like,' Amalric said. 'There was a knight of the garrison before . . . and Lord Henri had to send him away.' He looked anxiously at Sabin. 'I don't want you to be sent away too. My father would never let me follow you and I'd miss my training.'

Sabin gave a bleak laugh and tousled the lad's blond head. 'I'll do my best to avoid temptation,' he said, thinking wryly that the temptation in the meantime would be doing its best to hunt him down and pin him in a corner.