The Falcons of Montabard (60 page)

'That was different, a matter of honour, and it was your King who caused the death of those men by his perfidy.' Usamah's eyes narrowed. 'How do you know the outcome of the battle?'

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'We heard your womenfolk grieving, which they would not do for a Saracen victory.'

Usamah's nostrils flared. 'II Bursuqi tried to overpower your armies by weight of numbers, but he failed and paid for it. He lost many fine warriors and his baggage camp was seized.'

Sabin drew several careful, shallow breaths. He could not say he was sorry, but neither was it politic to grin with exultation. 'At least the men of Shaizar were not involved,' he said.

'Some were. A contingent rode with il Bursuqi, including the brothers of Faisal ibn Hamidh . . . and they will not be returning.' He cast Sabin a dark look. 'Faisal has sworn death to all Franks.'

Sabin shrugged. 'He had already so sworn before news of the battle arrived.'

'Well then, his hatred has only grown. I am sending him away from Shaizar for a short while. By the time he returns, you and the others will be gone.'

Sabin gave him a swift, surprised look.

Usamah nonchalantly studied his nails. A messenger came from il Bursuqi to say that a Frankish deputation is on its way, bearing the remainder of the ransom money. When it arrives, you are to be set free.'

Sabin heard the words, but they lay like oil on water. He had been so long a prisoner that now he was shown a key to the door, he mistrusted it. If he laid his hand to the golden shaft, it would vanish and his fist would close on nothing but his own flesh.

Usamah gave a dry smile. 'You do not believe me.'

He shook his head. 'I do not believe myself. . . How soon?'

'That depends on the Franks. It might be the morrow, it might be next month. Soon I hope. A pleasure though it has been to play chess with you, it is past time that you were gone.' He spread his hand and, turning, indicated the board at his back. 'Although perhaps we should play one final time for friendship's sake.'

Sabin was glad to sit, for his mind was turning upon the news, working the information into the crevices where com-

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prehension lurked. Usamah clapped his hands and sent an attendant to fetch sherbet and sweetmeats. By the time the man returned, Sabin had managed to respond to Usamah's opening gambit with some semblance of intelligence, but it was hard to ground his thoughts when they kept trying to fly away.

'We will part as friends, but the next time we meet, it may be as enemies,' Usamah said as he contemplated the board. 'I will not stay my scimitar, and you will not stay your sword.'

Since there was no denying the fact of the statement, Sabin said nothing.

Usamah eyed him. 'You should take your wife and your sons and go back to your homeland,' he said. 'There is naught here for the Franks but the death of their race. Mayhap not in your lifetime or mine, but in the years to come. What of your sons if they grow to be men? Or your grandsons should your people endure that long? Will you see them dead in the heat of a battlefield, pinned to the earth by a Saracen lance, their blood watering the soil?'

Sabin looked at the chessboard, the mingling of dark and white pieces in a battle of wits. 'What you say may be true, but unless you claim the power of prophecy, you do not know for certain that the Franks will not endure in Outremer. Besides,' he added, 'this is my homeland now. It has seeped into my skin with the sun and the dust. This is the land where my children were born, and God willing others will follow.'

'So you will not heed me?'

Sabin smiled. 'Would you if our places were reversed?'

'I would like to think so.'

'But beyond like.'

'I do not suppose that I would,' Usamah said with a smile and a yielding shake of his head. He pushed the chessboard aside. 'Perhaps a final game was not such a good idea after all. There can be no winner.'

Annais had brought Guillaume to watch Sabin and Lucifer in the sanded yard that the warriors of Shaizar used to exercise

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their mounts. Sabin was teaching Joscelin the art of sword -fighting from the back of a horse, as opposed to the same on foot. It was a month since the incident with Faisal, and the latter had been sent from Shaizar, together with any hotheads who might have caused trouble. Now it was certain that the hostages would soon be ransomed, the Emir wanted to keep them whole in order to receive his share of the gold.

'Can I ride with Papa soon?' Guillaume's voice was high-pitched with impatience.

'Yes, soon,' Annais replied, wondering how much grace she had before the fidgeting and whining set in. For a child of his years he was stoical and well behaved, but she knew his limit. Tn addition, the harem women had spoiled him. They were always feeding him sweetmeats and telling him what a good boy he was - neither of which was entirely beneficial.

Edmund, thank all the Saints, was for once sound asleep in the rushwork basket at her feet, his skin protected from the sun by a muslin shade stretched across the top end of the basket. She knew that the blessing would not last, for he was not an infant who required much sleep . . . like his father, she thought with a wry glance at Sabin. Never needed more than a couple of hours at a time and had a surplus of energy when awake. A part of it in Sabin's case was the constriction of being a hostage, she knew. Once they were back at Montabard, once he had numerous matters, administrative and military, with which to deal, he would become less edgy. And of course there was the tension of waiting. Each moment listening for the cry at the gate that would herald their freedom.

She watched Sabin guide Lucifer with his thighs and heels. The stallion's coat shone like opal in the sun. He twisted and manoeuvred with a sinuous grace the equal of his master's and, watching the partnership, Annais felt a pride so strong that it almost stung her eyes.

Joscelin jabbed his own smaller pony forward and raised his sword. Sabin talked him through the moves, drawing his blows, compensating for the lad's smaller size and lack of experience.

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Guillaume wafted his own miniature wooden sword around his head and shouted. Annais winced. The toy had caused as much trouble to the adults as it had pleasure to her son. Yesterday she had caught him about to poke Usamah's pet cheetah in the ear with it. This morning he had aimed a killing blow at Joscelin's head and hurled a tantrum when the plaything had been temporarily confiscated.

The baby snuffled. Annais turned to look at him. He rubbed a little fist over his nose, yawned, revealing a pink expanse of gum, and continued to sleep, although the sucking motions he made with his lips warned her that her time was short. In the brief instant that her attention was diverted, Guillaume launched himself out of her lap and dashed into the courtyard, wafting his sword above his head. Annais sprang up and ran after him, frightened that he would be kicked by one of the horses.

As she caught up with and grabbed him, a troop of riders clattered through the gates, the iron-shod hooves of their mounts striking sparks from the ground, the banners of Edessa and Jerusalem rippling on spear hafts. Guillaume, who had been about to scream, forgot his rage and stared wide-eyed. So did Annais. The leading knight rode a golden-dun stallion and wore a surcoat of blue and gold silk over his hauberk. Although a mail coif and helm concealed most of his face, there was no mistaking the line of his jaw, outlined by a close-cropped blond and silver beard. He drew rein, dismounted and looked around. His gaze met Annais's, dropped to the little boy in her arms, and then he was striding across the courtyard, his arms open and a wide smile filling the space between the end of the nasal bar and throat protector.

'It is your grandfather!' Annais told Guillaume who had backed against her skirts, considerably less bold than a moment before. 'He has come to bring us home!'

'Sweetheart!' Strongfist reached them and engulfed Annais in a huge bearhug. Then he swept Guillaume into his arms and held him aloft.

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'And how's my fine soldier, eh?'

Guillaume deliberated between bawling his head off and accepting the stranger about whom there was a vague sense of familiarity.

'Here, see, do you not remember?' Seating the child in the crook of his left arm, Strongfist tugged off his helm and pushed down his coif.

Guillaume eyed him for a further moment and decided that, since his mother appeared joyful, there was no threat. 'I've got a sword,' he said, thrusting it beneath Strongfist's nose. 'My papa made it.'

'And very fine it is too,' Strongfist said, his voice awkward and choked. He swallowed deeply.

'Of course it is. And named Durendal for the sword of Roland, greatest of our heroes against the Saracens.' Drawing rein, Sabin flung down from Lucifer and strode to clasp first Strongfist, and then Fergus, who had followed more slowly on his cousin's heels.

In the midst of the emotional hugging, backslapping and tears of reunion, a baby's fractious wail added to the wonder and chaos of the moment.

'His name is Edmund,' said Sabin as Annais brought the infant's basket to the men.

'Did ye title him afore or after he opened his mouth?' Fergus enquired as the wails rose in pitch and volume. 'I can aye see the resemblance.' He peered dubiously into the basket. 'He's no' the bonniest bairn I've ever laid eyes on, but no' the worst either,' he said judiciously. 'My own were the worst, although my wife would box my ears for saying so ... and now look at them.' He thumbed towards the two red-haired young men standing by the horses. 'She calls them handsome, but I'll not have it that they're better looking than me. The girls think they're bonny, mind, but then what do women know, eh?'

'More than men,' Annais retorted and retired to privacy in order to feed her son.

Fergus looked mildly wounded. 'What did I say?'

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Strongfist chuckled in her wake. 'I always thought I wanted a meek and biddable daughter,' he said, 'but I am glad that she has found her tongue.'

'Aye, well, you're an unnatural father. Women's tongues are the sharpest weapons ever devised.' Fergus rolled his eyes. 'The wounds I've taken in my time . . .' He turned to Joscelin of Edessa who had dismounted from his pony and was standing a little to one side. 'I hope you are listening to all this, lad, and storing it up for the future.'

The boy smiled but looked bewildered ... as well he might, Sabin thought.

'He's grown.' Fergus came to stand beside Joscelin. 'Another handspan and he'll be as tall as me.'

'Not difficult,' Strongfist said. 'And half your height is your hair.'

The men's banter, much of it used to cover up strong emotion, was curtailed by a summons from the Emir to attend him in his apartments.

'I need to speak to you,' Strongfist murmured to Sabin as they followed the Saracen guards towards the main complex.

Sabin gave him a swift look. 'Is there trouble?'

Strongfist's shrug was eloquent. 'I hope not, but it is best to be prepared. I know your tendency to tell Annais the bald truth about everything, but what I have to say is no more than rumour, and I count on your good sense to keep it to yourself. I do not want my daughter worrying herself over Guillaume and the babe when there may be no cause.'

'Tell me and I will decide.'

They had paused in the outermost chamber that led to the Emir's apartments. Cushions for seating were piled down each side of the room and a brightly patterned rug covered the floor. Strongfist still had difficulty accustoming himself to the fact that the Saracens walked on their fabrics as well as hanging them on the walls. 'We were warned that the Emir of Horns might try to snatch us on our release. He lost men and valuables beyond count at the battle for Azaz and we would be

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useful to use as a lever — especially the lad.' He cast a sidelong look in young Joscelin's direction. 'We have seen nothing on our journey here and, God willing, we will come back without incident . . . but it might be wise to sharpen your blade when they return it to you. From what I saw when I arrived, you have kept your skills fresh.'

'After a fashion,' Sabin said, 'but I have not been training every day.'

Strongfist grunted. 'You looked fit enough to me.' He narrowed his eyes. 'You are not going to tell my daughter of this.'

'I might not tell your daughter, but deciding whether to tell my wife is a greater difficulty,' Sabin said. 'She is entitled to know.'

Strongfist's frown deepened, setting three harsh furrows across his brow. 'She is a woman . . .'

'A moment since you were saying that you were glad that she was not meek and biddable,' Sabin argued.

'I am . . . but neither should she be worried without reason . . . especially when she has a babe to feed. She will curdle her milk.'

Sabin's brows rose in proportion to Strongfist's lowering glare. 'If I were not such a respectful son-in-law I would say that you were talking from a hole in your body lower down than your mouth,' he said. 'If her milk were going to curdle, it would have done so long ago after the trials we have endured. Yes, she is a woman, and as gentle and as tender as a snowflower bloom in early spring. When I watch her nurse my son, or play with Guillaume, or breathe at my side in the night, I want to hold the moment for ever because I am so afraid that I will lose her.' He pinned Strongfist with his gaze. 'If that were all, I would tell her nothing. I would keep it to myself in order not to see a frown trouble her brow or watch her mouth droop. But she is also a woman who carries a honed English scramaseax in her sewing basket, who has been the chatelaine of a fortress and the companion of a queen. She has put herself into the maw

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of danger for the sake of a child not her own. Do I reward that sort of courage by silence? If so, perhaps I am then a coward.'

Strongfist's jaw tightened, showing grooves of muscle between cheek and mouth. 'Do as you choose,' he growled, 'but choose wisely.'

At that juncture, the Emir's attendants came forth to usher them into his presence and there was no further opportunity for conversation.