The Falcons of Montabard (6 page)

The door opened and Helisende returned with a basket of oatcakes still warm from the griddle and glazed with honey.

The maid glanced in his direction. 'You have told him?'

Sabin smiled at her.

Matilda looked rueful. Helisende had always had a soft spot for Sabin, ever since he had been brought into their household as a swaddled scrap barely two weeks old.

'Indeed my lady has, and that it was your idea.' Easing to his feet, Sabin took the basket from Helisende and lightly kissed her cheek. 'I always knew you wanted to be rid of me the most.'

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She gave him an affectionate cuff. 'Sit down before you fall down and eat those oatcakes,' she said brusquely. 'If I want rid of you, it's because I'm ambitious for you. You no more fit in here than a war sword belongs in the kitchens for chopping parsnips.'

This time Sabin's laughter was genuine. 'I would not have put it quite like that.' He began to wolf the oatcakes.

'Well, I would,' Helisende said stoutly. She wagged her index finger. 'I expect great things of you, and not the kind that have brought you to this pass.'

Sabin swallowed, cleared his palate with the last of his wine and looked at the two women. 'Then I will not disappoint you by saying that you are expecting too much.'

'No, you will not.' Helisende folded her arms with the determination of a battle commander about to send a champion onto the field.

Matilda turned away, knowing that her own faith would never match that of her maid's and that, for once in his life, Sabin was probably right. 'I will go and speak with the Prince,' she said. 'The sooner he is told, the sooner matters can be resolved.'

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Chapter 4

Sabin stood in the gateway at Roxburgh and made his awkward farewells. The December morning was hard with frost, good for travelling but bitterly cold. Prince David clasped his hand briefly and gave him a nod that contained both goodwill and warning.' Your last chance,' he said. 'Use it wisely.'

'You think me capable of wisdom?'

David's lips twitched. 'Are you not travelling to the land of miracles?'

Sabin returned the smile, albeit sourly.

From the children there were kisses and hugs. Young Henry had to be stopped from dashing around like a spark on the wind, and upsetting the horses. Countess Matilda embraced Sabin and he returned her clasp. Both of them acknowledged that it was a public duty, but neither drew back. Helisende wept and for an instant clung with maternal ferocity.

'Promise you will send word to us.' She drew her knuckles across her eyes.

'I promise . . . God willing.' He grinned. 'I will send you a bolt of golden silk from the harem of a Syrian emir.'

'I want no gifts. That you are safe will be reward enough.'

Finally, there was Simon. The youth was dressed for the occasion in the blue cloak that had belonged to his Saxon grandfather. Lined with the pelt of an arctic bear, it was a rare garment. His stepfather might be a prince, but Simon was heir to an earldom and royal blood ran in his own veins.

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'I'm going with you in spirit,' he said as he and Sabin embraced. 'I wish I was going with you in body too.'

'Don't let your mother hear you say that.'

'She knows.' Simon smiled wryly. 'She'll watch me like a hawk for the next few days to make sure I don't take off after you. I might have risked it, except that Strongfist would tie me across my horse like a parcel of heather and send me straight back.'

He was trying for lightness and not succeeding. Sabin tightened the embrace. 'I will pray for our father at the Holy Sepulchre,' he said. 'And I will send you news, I promise, although I am not so sure about a bolt of golden silk. An emir's head perhaps?'

Simon found a more genuine smile. As Sabin released him, he took the large silver pin from his cloak. It was circular with a fastener in the shape of a thistle; the head was set with a large amethyst. 'Here,' he said. 'Take this to remind you of us. You lost yours on the
Blanche Nef.'

Sabin looked down at the offering and shook his head. 'I cannot,' he said. 'It is part of your inheritance.'

'And it is mine to give.' Simon jutted his chin. 'If you do not take it, then I will throw it into the Tweed as an offering to God.' He thrust out his hand insistently. After a brief hesitation, Sabin took the brooch. It was as large and solid as a church doorknocker, and so cold from the air that it almost burned in his fingers.

'What choice do I have?' he said. 'It would be a sin to send a second to join the first.' He pushed the pin through his own cloak, which was of heavy green wool lined with marten skins. The existing pin was Simon's too, of good bronze with a pattern of beadwork circles.

'God speed you.' Simon's voice was tight with emotion.

And keep you,' Sabin responded, feeling his own throat constrict. Abruptly he turned to his dun cob, and swung into the saddle.

Edmund Strongfist had sat his mount silently throughout

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the farewells. Now he inclined his head in salute to the Prince and his family, and clicked his tongue to his own mount. Man and horse rode over the bridge at a brisk walk that settled into an easy long-swinging stride. They had a full day's ride ahead of them. Sabin followed, the dun's shod hooves ringing out, the pack pony clopping behind. Although he was tempted to look round, he kept his eyes fixed on the space between his mount's ears.

Strongfist was the one to turn, his light blue gaze fixing briefly on the walls of Roxburgh before settling on Sabin with assessment.'No doubt you have been told as much about my reputation as I have been told about yours,' he said. He spoke French, but his accent was a peculiar blending of English and Lowland Scots. 'What you have heard of mine is likely true. I am hoping that the opposite applies to yours.'

Sabin raised his brows. 'If you are going to judge me by my past then I am condemned already. I might as well save you the trouble of the journey and jump into the Tweed now.' He indicated the roaring brown water, scummed with white.

The knight's eye corners crinkled with grim humour. 'That would be too easy. Besides, from what they say of you, you would likely float. Nay, I judge men by what I see myself, not what I hear from others.' He made a beckoning gesture. 'Ride alongside me. I'm not an owl to turn my head naturally like this.'

Sabin heeled the dun's flanks and joined Strongfist. They had spoken very little at Roxburgh: all the talking had been done by Prince David. A large bag of silver was now sequestered somewhere about Strongfist's person - expenses that had not been given to Sabin for fear that he might squander them. Or perhaps it was bribery to a gaoler. Edmund Strongfist had been summoned from his winter quarters at his brother's keep at Branton in order to take charge of Sabin, and that was where they were going now to await the pilgrimage season.

'You will find me easy enough company,' Strongfist said. His breath whitened the air and droplets of moisture hung in

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his fair beard. 'I have rules, but they are simple. I ask nothing of you that I do not ask of myself.'

'Prince David has rules like that too,' Sabin said neutrally.

'Aye, well, I'm not so much of a saint as he is.' Strongfist matched Sabin's tone. 'All I ask is that if you drink, you keep enough wits about you to handle a sword; if you wench, you do it discreetly; if there's trouble you walk away rather than become embroiled . . .' He looked sidelong at Sabin. 'Oh yes . . . and if you go near my beautiful convent-raised daughter, expect to find your bollocks cut off and stuffed up your arse.'

The knight's tone was conversational, but Sabin was in no doubt that Edmund Strongfist would not hesitate to act. Sabin thought of the girl that he had seen riding in Strongfist's wake. The soft glance of an eye, the glint of a dark braid. Forbidden fruit. It had started that way with Lora.

'I swear I have no intention of touching your daughter.' Sabin made the sign of the cross on his breast to reinforce his words.

'As long as we understand each other.'

'I think we do, sir,' Sabin said with what he hoped was convincing sincerity.

Strongfist's grunt of response could have been either satisfied or pessimistic, but Sabin did not pursue the issue to find out.

They continued their journey through a world of frozen white and grey. Sabin was glad of his cloak and the foresight he had had to don the padded tunic he usually wore beneath his mail. The mail shirt itself had been heavily greased to keep out the rust and rolled in a sheepskin, which was secured behind his saddle. He had heard tales of how hellishly hot the lands of Outremer were, that a man could stew to death within his armour. Today he could not imagine such heat; he knew by the time they reached Branton, his fingers and toes would be chilblained.

'They have weather like this in Outremer too,' Strongfist said as if reading his mind. 'In the mountains, the nights can

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be as cold as a witch's tit, and on the high ground there is often snow.' He looked at Sabin. 'But mostly it is the heat that men remember because of the intensity and the days, one upon the other, when there is not a cloud in the sky. The khamsin wind is as hot as the fires of hell and the sun beats down on your head like a hammer.'

'And yet you want to go back?'

Smile creases grooved Strongfist's cheeks above the fair beard. 'It is a land of great beauty too. The olive groves are shady at noonday and the houses have courtyards with pools and fountains. The Plain of Sharon is lush and green and there is good hunting. You breathe in the dust and it becomes a part of you. I cannot tell you. You must see for yourself.'

'My father went on crusade, but he never spoke much about the experience. He had to turn back after the battle of Dorylaeum because he was mortally sick. I know he always regretted not making the full journey.'

'I know your father was at Dorylaeum,' Strongfist gathered the reins through his fingers. 'I was with him at the battle and a desperate one it was too, with the Turkish hordes assaulting us on all sides. We had to stand firm, hour upon hour in the burning sun. For a time, I was in the same line as your sire. We knew he was suffering, but he would not leave his position, even when he took a Saracen arrow in his side.' He looked at Sabin. 'He was a
preux chevalier,
your father. You should be proud of him.'

'I am,' Sabin croaked and there was almost a lump in his throat. Usually people spoke of what his father would think of him, not what he thought of his father. 'He always regretted that he had to turn back. He never went to a priest to have his vow rescinded. When he knew he was dying, he set out again, but it was too late . . .' He broke off and clicked his tongue to the dun, urging it to a trot. Its hooves rang hollowly on the frosty ground. He concentrated on the sound, on the surge of its powerful body, on the raw cold burning his face.

After a moment, the grey trotted up beside him. 'It is not

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too late for you,' Strongfist said and leaned across to squeeze his shoulder, the power in his fingers revealing the source of his nickname.

Sabin forced a smile. 'So I am told, but that the hour draws perilously near.'

Strongfist removed his hand and nothing else was said. In silence, uneasy at first, but becoming more companionable, the two men rode on towards Branton.

The scribe's wall chamber at Branton had room for little more than a stone bench and a lectern, positioned to gain the best from the weak winter light filtering through the narrow window. Having dwelt within a regime of nuns, Annais was accustomed to bodily privation, but still she wondered how Andrew, her uncle's scribe, managed to sit here at his labours without benefit of a brazier. The draught from the window-slit was perishing, yet if she closed the shutters, she would have to light a candle in order to see her writing. The only consolation was the modicum of privacy afforded by the heavy curtain drawn across the chamber entrance,.which shielded her from prying eyes.

Annais nibbled the end of her trimmed quill and studied the list she had written on a scrap of parchment. It was an inventory of the items needed for their journey. Whether it would all fit on three packhorses was another matter, and she did not know how much their travelling companion was bringing with him.

Her father had been ambivalent when the messenger from Prince David had arrived with the 'request' that Sabin FitzSimon be permitted to accompany them to Jerusalem. The young man's reputation for wildness and trouble was precariously balanced against that same young man's reputation on the battlefield, although the promise of several marks of silver for expenses had somewhat tipped the scales. It would be useful to have extra protection on the road, her father had said with stoic resignation as he prepared to return to Roxburgh and fetch FitzSimon.

Perhaps four packhorses, she thought. One would need to carry fodder for itself and the others. At least her clothes would

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not take up much room. There was little call for a vast wardrobe in a nunnery and what she had was serviceable and plain.

There had to be room for her harp. She glanced at the small instrument beside her on the bench. It had travelled with her Saxon grandparents to their exile from England and the boxwood was smoothed by the hands of many generations, their songs blended deep into the grain. She had learned the first notes at her mother's knee, and then later with the nuns; she was skilled in tunes both secular and religious. Her father said that everyone had a God-given talent, and hers was her music. Just to ripple her fingers over the pale horsehair strings soothed her soul and gave her a feeling of inner calm.

A shout from the courtyard below the meagre window distracted her from her thoughts. Turning, she peered out and saw that her father had arrived with Sabin FitzSimon in tow. The young knight rode a solid dun cob and had a tubby Galwegian pack pony on a leading rein. Like her father, he wore a fur-lined cap against the cold; there was a sword at his hip and a large kite shield strapped at his back. The distance was too far for her to see his features clearly. Last time he had resembled a grotesque that one of the stone-masons had been carving for a waterspout at the Priory. She noticed that he dismounted with a deal more ease of movement than he had shown before. Annais rolled up her list, put her ink and quill away in the scribe's coffer and went down to greet them.