The Falcons of Montabard (15 page)

Strongfist drew rein so suddenly that those travelling behind him had to pull up in an undignified press of startled, bunching horseflesh. Dust enveloped the party in a gritty cloud and men cursed as they hauled on bridles and strove to find space for their mounts. Strongfist heard none of it, for he was looking at the castle of red stone crowning a steep outcrop to their left. The level ground below was populated by the flat-topped roofs of a substantial village surrounded by olive groves and cultivated fields. He felt queasy with pleasure, and his eyes filled with more than just the moisture of his unblinking stare. Ten days ago, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, he had been married to Mariamne FitzPeter. He had been given custody of Tel Namir and sworn into service as a knight of the kingdom of Jerusalem. Gazing upon the keep and village that were only a small part of his new bounty, Strongfist's only regret was that it had taken him so long to return to Outremer. All this could have been his years ago. His brother's lands paled to insignificance when compared with these.

'I see ye're lost for words,' Fergus grinned.

Strongfist swallowed. 'Completely,' he said, and nudged his horse forward. Belatedly he remembered his bride who was

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riding in his dust, her silk wimple drawn across her face. He beckoned her to his side so that they might ride together into the village, and bade Sabin go before them to carry his banner.

Sabin took the spear, its silk pennant rippling on the shaft and secured to the socket. A formalised golden leopard snarled on a background of shimmering cerulean blue. Sabin wore his mail for the occasion, protected from the sun by a surcoat of blue silk that matched the banner. Bowing formally to Strongfist and Mariamne, he reined the horse and trotted out in front.

Strongfist glanced circumspectly at Mariamne. She had scarcely spoken a word throughout the journey. He knew that he was not of her choosing, but he had been selected for his military capabilities, not his aptitude for pleasing women. It was the way of life in Outremer. A man died, his widow remarried in short order and to suit the needs of the estate, not her own desire. He promised himself that he would make it up to her and she would soon realise that it was for the best. He thought that she might come to be reconciled for at least she had made her vows to him without weeping. In their marriage bed, he had found her not unwilling. If he wriggled his shoulders, he could feel the mark on his back where she had clawed him like a cat. He was not a man given to flights of fancy, but the thought of his new wife as a feline was so apt that he grinned to himself. She was fastidious in her ways, self-contained, aloof, but at the same time demanding of attention.

'I am the most fortunate of men,' he said and reached across the horses to lay his hand over hers and stroke her finger where the new wedding ring gleamed.

She gave him a tepid smile. 'And I am told that I am the most fortunate of women,' she replied. Her gaze rnet his briefly and then slipped away to consider the landscape before them, a part of which was Sabin, bearing the blue and gold banner.

'Between us we will beget fine sons to rule these lands when we are gone,' Strongfist said, his grip tightening as he imagined young males of their mingled blood riding straight-spined and proud.

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She slanted him a look through her kohl-lined eyes, which he took for agreement, perhaps even eagerness. Then her horse sidled and she withdrew her hand from beneath his so that she could control the beast.

Annais too had been rather quiet since her father's marriage. Strongfist might think that mutual affection would develop, but Annais had her doubts. Mariamne had been tight-lipped as the women prepared her for her marriage, her blue eyes glittering like winter ice. Congratulations had been received with a smile so thin it could have sliced cheese.There had been no loss of control, no weeping, no hurling of cups against the wall. If Mariamne was volatile, it was within herself. She had gone to her wedding pale but composed. Annais might feel hostile towards the woman but she admired the control that even the Prioress of Coldingham would have been hard-pressed to match. Certainly, Annais had been unable to match it herself. Although she had embraced Mariamne because it was expected, she had then sought a quiet corner in which to weep. She knew that a condition of her father taking these lands was that he should marry Mariamne, but surely the King had other estates within his gift that came without a widow? She had told herself that she was being selfish. Her father might have silver in his beard, but he was not yet in his dotage. It was natural that he should seek a mate, and the lady Mariamne was very desirable. But the selfishness remained, and the dismay and more than a twinge of jealousy. How they were all going to live in amity, she did not know.

A high, strong wall surrounded the village and was pierced by an entrance way of two solid wooden gates protected by a ditch and towers. Villagers emerged from their dwellings to watch the cavalcade ride through on its way to the castle. Women shaded their eyes, their arms curved protectively around slender brown-skinned children. The potter turned from the flat-bottomed amphorae and glazed cooking pots he had been placing in his kiln and, wiping red-stained hands,

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bowed to them. At the water cistern, more women stopped to point and chatter.

Strongfist delved into his pouch and flung a handful of coins. Fergus did the same and the bolder children broke from their mothers or came running from their tasks to pounce on the largesse like birds upon grain. The party paused at the small round-domed church where the priest was told of the marriage and bidden to join them at the castle. Strongfist announced that he would provide a feast for the villagers to celebrate the arrival of the new lord.

Annais watched her father assume the mantle of command. He sat straight and proud in the saddle wearing what she called his 'dignified' expression. The people crowded around the church, drawn by curiosity and expectation. Among the handsome, dark-eyed folk, chattering in their native tongue, she saw a handful of Frankish faces, including those of women: pilgrims and crusaders who had come to the Holy Land and stayed to farm and fight.

While her father was playing the benevolent lord, she saw that Sabin had abandoned his own pride to scoop a skinny black-haired boy up on his saddle. Another lad, heavily freckled and blond of hair, revealing his Frankish parentage, was standing by his bridle, talking earnestly and holding the spear with its flaunting blue banner. Sabin smiled and said something in reply. He let the boy on the horse try on his helm and used the moment to draw back his hauberk sleeve and wipe the cuff of his tunic across his wet brow. In mid-action, he caught Annais looking at him and his smile transferred to her along with a slight shrug, as if asking what else he could do.

Annais's own lips curved and before she could think better of the impulse, she nudged her mount over to his.

'You are undermining my father's dignity,' she murmured.

'Nay, I am increasing his popularity. This is Hakim.' He rapped his knuckles on top of the helm and the child beneath it giggled. 'His father breeds horses in the village and he informs me that I am riding a worthless nag. And this' - he indicated

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the fair boy - 'is Amalric, whose family are part of the castle's garrison and who very much desires to be a squire.' Sabin grinned at her. 'What do you think? Will your father give him to me for training?'

'That depends on what skills you intend teaching him,' Annais replied with mock severity. 'I think he is too young to learn some of them.'

'You are never too young,' Sabin retorted. The boy at the bridle had been listening and had drawn himself up, his dark grey eyes bright with indignation at the suggestion that he might be considered too young for training. 'Have no fear. I will not corrupt him beyond the measure of Christian decency.'

She eyed him with curiosity as he retrieved his helm from Hakim and slid the youngster down the nag's withers to the ground. 'You are fond of children?' She phrased the statement as a question.

Sabin gave her a sardonic half-smile. 'It is more that they are fond of me,' he said. 'They seem to adopt me as one of their own.'

She thought of him dancing along the oars of their galley, and the trick he had of twirling his sword hilt in his hands. She remembered him juggling half a dozen oranges in Fergus's pleasance in Jerusalem.

He winked at Hakim and leaned down to retrieve the spear from Amalric. 'Children are much simpler to deal with than adults,' he said. 'They might not all be innocent flowers, but there are far fewer stings and thorns to look out for.'

That was very true, Annais thought, with a glance at her stepmother who was sitting her horse with the patient expression of a madonna while she listened attentively to Strongfist and the priest. The picture she presented was marred by the whiteness of her knuckles on the reins.

'Yes,' Sabin said softly. 'Your stepmother is a rose at the peak of its beauty. And the bloom of her complexion is dependent on her thorns. Buyer beware.' Unslinging his shield from its long strap, he turned again to the fair-haired boy. 'Here,' he said. 'Join the men and carry this to the castle for me. If you

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do a good job, who knows, I might make you my squire.'

His expression flushed to the point of incandescence, young Amalric took the shield across his own shoulders. It was no small weight, being made of linden wood planks, edged with rawhide, overlaid with painted linen canvas and bossed with steel. Amalric, however, was a large, sturdy child, promising to make a tall and powerful adult. Sabin watched him adjust the shield and bear its weight, saw that it would not encumber him beyond bearing, and gave a nod of approval. 'You'll do,' he said and turned to Hakim who was looking disgruntled.

'From you,' he said, 'I want proof of your knowledge of horses. Choose me one from your father's herd and I will come and see it as soon as I have the time.'

Annais watched him with the boys and thought about what he had said of Mariamne. 'You should have sued for lands of your own,' she murmured. 'You are wasted following in my father's entourage.'

Sabin laughed and shook his head. When she continued to look at him, he sobered and lowered his gaze. 'But then my responsibilities would be much greater,' he said. 'I am happy to travel lightly, not be burdened down like those donkeys you see in Jerusalem, bearing so much kindling that their knees buckle beneath the weight. There is a world of difference between having to look out for a squire who will polish my harness and scour my mail, and bearing a duty of care to a place like this.'

'It is fortunate, then, that you were not your father's heir.'

'Strangely enough, that is what everyone always told me at home.' The remark was flippant, but sharp too, warning her off. 'Your father is ready to leave.' Gathering the reins, he swung the horse and nudged it out into the road. A gesture sent the boy to stand in the line of footsoldiers. He did not make a similar gesture to Annais, but she felt herself dismissed in the same wise.

Her father prodded his mount away from the priest and the knot of villagers. He was flushed and smiling and Annais did not think that she had ever seen him look so happy. Cool as a dew-fresh rose, Mariamne rode at his side, her thorns

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concealed. Feeling as dusty and neglected as a weed at the roadside, Annais tugged her mare into line.

'I thought you might like this room for your own,' Mariamne said with a languid wave of her hand. 'It belonged to my former husband's widowed sister when she was alive. Unless, of course, you would rather sleep in the antechamber with the other women?'

Annais shook her head. 'No,' she said huskily. 'I will have this one.' The antechamber, to which Mariamne was referring, led directly into the main bedchamber where the lord and lady slept. Annais had no desire to lie on her pallet within hearing of her father and his new wife — whether they were breathing in sleep, discussing the day's strategy in soft murmurs, or making whatever sounds men and women made in the act of procreation.

'What happened to her?'

'Who? Oh, my husband's sister?' Mariamne moved around the room, each silken rustle of her gown releasing a waft of attar of roses. 'The heat took its toll on her and she was never strong. She died of a fever within a fortnight of Henri's death.'

'I am sorry. It must have been hard for you to bear.'

Mariamne lifted her shoulders. 'She and I were never fond of each other, and as to Henri . . .' She finished the shrug and changed the subject. 'Your taste is likely not Hodierne's. Do as you will with the chamber. The walls need another coat of lime-wash. I suppose you will be at home with her crucifix. She spent many hours on her knees in prayer - a most proper and devout lady, God rest her soul.' Mariamne's voice was cool and pitying.

'I may have been educated in a nunnery, but that does not mean I have a particular vocation,' Annais said. She could feel the corners of her mouth pursing with tension. She thought the crucifix was horrible. The dark wood emphasised the cadaverous rib cage of the suffering Saviour and the crude way it was carved only made His agony appear more brutal.

'I did not say that you had.' Mariamne laid a compassionate hand on Annais's sleeve. 'I hope you do not resent me too much.

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I know that I can never take the place of your own mother, but I am your father's wife and I would like us to be friends.'

Her speech made Annais feel guilty and defensive. Of course she resented Mariamne. And she was fearful too. 'You did not want to be my father's wife,' she said. 'You were forced to it by decree.'

The hand remained on Annais's sleeve. She could feel the outline of palm and fingers through the thin silk. 'Did your convent not teach you that what you want you cannot always have?' Mariamne said. 'Rather you should make the best of what you are given.'

Annais bit her lip. 'My father is a good man.You have been given more than you know.' She removed her wrist from Mariamne's touch.