The Falcons of Montabard (19 page)

It was not what he had been going to say, she was certain of that. Remembering the swiftness of her father's marriage, and what she had learned of life in Outremer in the few months since her arrival, realisation was swift to dawn. 'I think it was more than kindness,' she murmured.

He made an awkward gesture. 'I ... I was hoping that you would . . . that you would play your harp. The sound has haunted me ever since I last heard you.'

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That had been when his wife was still alive, she thought, remembering the moment of attraction that had sparked between them. But he had drawn back and so had she. Now there was no barrier, should they choose to kindle the flame. From the looks her father was sending their way, she could see that he was willing the lightning to strike the timber. Her stepmother too.

'Yes,' she heard herself say, 'I will play my harp if that is what you wish.' She gave him a tentative smile and, because smiling had been difficult of late, felt a glow of warmth at her core. Was it a spark? Perhaps. It certainly lit an eager reaction in Gerbert's eyes.

'Nothing would please me more,' he said. 'Well, almost nothing . . . and I think you can guess what the other would be.'

That night, Annais played her harp for the gathered company. Gerbert sat in a place of privilege beside her, not quite touching but close enough for the delicate hairs on her wrist to rise and draw towards him, close enough to feel his warmth as the cool of the evening settled upon the garden and Safed lit the oil lamps and moths blundered into the pools of hot light and singed their wings.

Sabin listened for a while, studying the couple. Nothing had been openly broached. All was being conducted with the utmost delicacy but it was clear that the match would progress apace. Gerbert's expression was gentle and fully prepared to fill with love. Annais's was shy and modest, a little unsure. But she played her harp with certainty, and the curve of her lips was genuine. Tenderness filled Sabin's own heart, and pride and affection. When it became too much, he quietly left the gathering. With downcast eyes and blank expression, Safed let him out into the street.

This time Sabin spent the extra half-dinar and remained the night at the
Oasis.

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Chapter 11

Annais's wedding gown was fashioned from a bolt of ivory silk. Tiny seed pearls peppered the neck of the tunic, the edges of the hanging sleeves and the full hem. Seed pearls also decorated the braid belt encircling her waist and glimmered along the fluted edges of the veil pinned to her braids.

By holding up and angling Manamne's small Saracen mirror, she could see portions of herself and was both startled and delighted by her reflection. Until arriving in Outremer, she had never seen a mirror, and the only notion of her own features had come from hazy images in ponds and the remarks and responses of others: 'You have your mother's brown eyes,' or, 'When you frown you look just like your father.' Priests were always cautioning against the sin of vanity, and she could well understand why when there were objects like this to offer temptation. She began to make a face at herself, but stopped before she had done more than wrinkle her nose, aware that her stepmother was watching her with superior amusement.

Mariamne took the mirror and studied her own reflection, lightly running a forefinger over her subtly reddened lips. She had drawn a fine dark line beneath her lower lashes to enhance her eyes. Annais herself was unpainted. What was seemly in Outremer for a married woman was not seemly for a virgin bride.

'I doubt that you will have need of such finery when you reach Montabard,' Mariamne said. She compressed her lips,

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rubbed them together, and then parted them, checking that there were no red stains on her teeth. 'Still, every woman should have a rich gown for her wedding day. It is a pity that your father did not choose to hold the nuptials in Jerusalem or Antioch.'

'Tel Namir is his own territory.'

Mariamne made a small, contemptuous sound, but said nothing.

Annais strove not to be angry. It was her wedding day and she would not let Mariamne spoil it.

'Why do you say I will not need my finery once I arrive at Montabard?'

Mariamne set the mirror down and smoothed the folds of her exquisite blue gown. 'Because it is far from Jerusalem, and even Antioch. Gerbert will not expect to bring you every time he has to attend the court. It stands in the foothills in an area of strife. You should be thinking in terms of bandages and cauteries, not silks and pearls.'

Annais raised her chin proudly. 'I dwelt in a convent for five years, and I have lived on the borders of Scotland. That too is an area riven by constant strife and far from the court. I am bred to such conditions and not only will I survive, I will thrive.'

Mariamne sighed. 'Truly you are as prickly as a desert thorn,' she said. 'But I am glad that you feel it is no hardship to go to Montabard.' She folded her arms and her expression softened into something more genuine. 'If I say things to you that seem harsh, it is for your own good. I wish that someone had told me about life's realities when I was your age. Let me advise you on one matter at least, because I know I have more experience than you and you may have need of it.'

Annais wondered what Mariamne could possibly advise her about that she might find of value, then reddened as the answer dawned. She was indeed ignorant, but she did not want tuition from the woman who shared her father's bed. She opened her mouth to say so, but Mariamne must have seen the denial in her eyes.

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'Oh, do not be so foolish,' she snapped, but with impatience rather than unkindness. 'That aspect of marriage you can discover for yourself. Gerbert is neither old nor ugly and he's smitten by you. If you cannot make something of such bounty then you are a complete ninny. But there are other things you should know.'

Annais raised her brows.

'Gerbert desires children,' Mariamne said. 'He is still a young man, but time is always short in Outremer. I know that as a loyal and dutiful wife you will do your best to give them to him.'

Annais waited for her stepmother to whip out a phial of aphrodisiac or present her with a charm to wear around her neck to promote fertility. But Mariamne did neither.

'God willing, you will have no problem in providing him with many sons and daughters . . . but such toil is easier and safer to bear with a little respite.' Going to her personal coffer, Mariamne brought out a handful of foamy washed wool and a Saracen glass bottle with a stopper.

'If you wish to protect yourself from bearing a child when a man is inside you, you must soak a piece of wool or moss in vinegar, or sour milk, and push it deep inside your woman's place. It means that his seed will not mix with yours and curdle to form a child.' She presented a stunned Annais with the items. 'Take them,' she said. 'Consider them my personal wedding gift to you.'

Annais clutched the fleece in her right hand, the hard glass bottle in her left. She was fascinated, and a little disturbed. 'Does my father know you use this?' she asked.

Mariamne laughed sourly. 'Do you think I would give a man such knowledge?' she said. 'Of course he does not know . . . but I have not cheated him. Since wedding your father, these things have lain unused in my coffer. Why should I use them when to bear a child - hopefully a son - would increase my standing tenfold?'

'Then how do you know that they work?'

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Mariamne shrugged. 'When I was first married to Henri, I miscarried of infants thrice in swift succession. On the last occasion I lost so much blood that I almost died. A midwife advised me what to do and it worked. I gained the respite I needed.' She removed the wool and the vial of vinegar from Annais's hands. 'I will put these in your travelling chest. I know you can obtain what you need at Montabard, but to have them already will serve as a reminder.' Her tone was brisk and practical and it was obvious that she wished to close the subject.

Annais murmured a weak thank you, more from habit of manners than from genuine gratitude. She wondered if Mariamne's miscarriages were as much connected with her current tardiness to conceive as with the preventative measures. One of the lay workers at Coldingham had been thus afflicted and she certainly had no lore of fleece and vinegar at her fingertips. However, she said nothing to Mariamne. Whereas her stepmother appeared to have no qualms about sharing intimate confidences, Annais certainly did. Indeed, despite her nervousness, she was almost looking forward to the morrow. Even if it did lie on the other side of her wedding night and meant parting from her father, at least she would be a chatelaine in her own right and free of Mariamne.

The wedding feast, like the wine, was in full flow. Sabin gazed into the bottom of his cup, surprised to see that it was empty again. Henri FitzPeter had been keeping back some barrels of superb tawny wine in his cellar, and although they were supposed to be for the Patriarch's table in Antioch, Strongfist had broached them in honour of his daughter's marriage.

'More, sir?' Amalric appeared at his side, the flagon already tilted towards the rim of the cup. Having been given the duty of ensuring that no one ran dry, the lad was being very diligent.

'Why not?' Sabin said. His words were still clear; he had not yet reached the stage of slurring, but knew it wasn't far away. He had not drunk this much since . . . since the night in the tavern at Roxburgh, a night he could not remember except in

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nightmare flashes of steel and unwieldy firelit motion. A man had died then, sacrificed to the wildness unleashed by drink. And before that, it had been Lora . . . although the intoxication then had been more of lust than wine.

He took a sip from the refreshed goblet and rolled it around his mouth, appreciating the blend of sharp and mellow, the softness of the fruit, the astringent tang of stone. Amalric moved along the high trestle, murmuring and pouring, his fair hair gleaming in the light from the sconces. Robed in silks, glittering with jewels and metallic thread, the company resembled a triptych. Sabin felt as if he were seeping into the colours and gold. There was an unreal quality to the scene, not as if a painting had come to life, more that life was becoming a painting.

He watched Annais laugh as Gerbert raised the marriage cup of rock crystal for Amalric to refill. There was a flush to her cheeks, a dark sparkle in her eyes that told Sabin she had lost sufficient sobriety to forget to be a nun. Jesu ... if she had come to court in the days when he had prowled the corridors in search of prey, she would not have stood a chance. But that was when he had hunted for the thrill of the chase; to enhance a reputation already blazing with notoriety. He smiled bleakly into his wine. Perhaps now it was he who did not stand a chance. He had kissed her in congratulation after the marriage ceremony in the castle's small chapel, one of many to set his hands to her shoulders and briefly claim her lips. Her skin had been soft and delicately scented with floral oil - although not the attar of roses of which Mariamne was so fond.

'I am glad for both of you,' he had said with lightness but genuine warmth. 'And I will quite understand if you do not wish me to stand godfather to your firstborn child.'

That had made her blush and he had grinned to see it before yielding his place to the next guest in line, his departing gesture an irreverent tweak of her dark braid. He admitted to himself as he took another drink of wine that he was going to miss her. Not so much that he would pine, but enough to notice — like a cold draught in the side when a lover rolled away in the night

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. . . 'No, not like that,' he said aloud to his cup, both amused and horrified at the image his mind had conjured out of nowhere.

'Did ye speak, laddie?' Fergus leaned towards him. The Scots lord's complexion was almost as red as his hair and his words ran together like sea hissing on shingle.

Sabin shook his head. 'Foolish thoughts aloud,' he said. 'I need to piss, and I need some air to clear these fumes from my head.'

Fergus nodded and waved a floppy arm. 'I'd come wi' ye,' he said, 'but I dinna think my legs'll carry me.'

As Sabin left the crowded hall, the musicians struck up a lively tune: Frankish with eastern overtones. He recognised the sound of an oud. Moments later, voices rose above the music, chanting in the native Aramaic tongue.

'Sir?' Amalric said.

Sabin turned to the youth at his heels. 'Go back within, lad,' he said quietly. 'I'm not going anywhere that needs your company.' His lips twitched. 'I'm capable of going for a piss without falling in the midden you know; I haven't quite reached the stage of being blind drunk.'

Amalric reddened to the ears and went away. Sabin shook his head. The lad was suffering from a hefty dose of hero worship and dogged Sabin's every footstep. It would pass, but for the nonce it was like training a young and troublesome pup.

He walked out to the midden pit, attended to his business, then, not being ready to return to the feast, climbed to the wall walk. The sky was a deep starlit blue, and hung with a huge moon like an opalescent sanctuary lamp. Among the olive trees a nightjar croaked, and he saw the slender shadow of a jackal slip along the village wall and vanish into the deep shadow of the groves. He leaned on the merlon and listened to the faint thrum of music from below, glad of the space between it and him. A year ago he would have been in the thick of the celebration and the last one to leave, but now such a prospect left him feeling despondent.

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The aromas of oil and cooking that had drifted to the battlements with the music were suddenly overlaid by a stronger, sweeter scent - one that set his stomach churning and tightened his fingers on the gritty stone.

'Ah, I have found you.' Mariamne's voice was pitched low. She tapped him playfully on the arm and stood closer to him than was proper. 'Your squire said you had gone to the latrine pit, but you have been missing a long time.' There was wine on her breath and her eyes were as wide and dark as Annais's. They sparkled too, but with considerably less innocence.