The Falcons of Montabard (33 page)

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grip slackened, but the weight increased, becoming a need for support. Sabin gestured to the two attendants who had been standing in the background, prudently out of earshot, and they hastened to assist their lord.

'My will outstrips my flesh.' Gerbert's voice was constricted with pain and frustration as the men almost carried him towards the stairs leading down to the ward.'No, do not follow me. Complete your inspection and consider what I have said.'

Sabin sighed and continued along the wall walk. He spoke to a pair of guards, checked their weapons, asked after their concerns, and went on his way. He did not have to think about what Gerbert had said. He would give his loyalty to Annais and Guillaume 'without question. If Gcrbcrt wanted to bind him with a ceremony, then so be it. A year ago he would have packed his saddlebags and fled at speed from such a commitment, but the past months had changed him, forging a weapon of a different temper from the light blade that had arrived in Outremer. While unease still haunted him at the notion of binding himself, it was no more than a fading whisper from the code by which he had once lived.

Strongfist had never been shackled in his life although he had frequently seen felons thus encumbered. To have iron bracelets secured at his wrists and ankles and linked by chains so that he could only shuffle like a bear was humiliating and grossly uncomfortable. The irons chafed and he had been forced to tear strips from his tunic to bind around their edges. King Baldwin had done the same, and filaments of gold embroidery twinkled on the frayed silk wrapped at wrist and foot.

He and his men shared a cell somewhere in the bowels of the fortress. Since there was no window in the room, there was no telling day from night save by the changing of the guards outside the door and the routines of food provision and slop emptying. What light they had was provided by three inadequate oil lamps that did little but chase the shadows from the corners into the centre of the room. Strongfist tried to keep a

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tally of the passage of time by marking the wall with a chip of stone he had found among the floor rushes, but it was a crude indicator and he had no confidence in its accuracy.

Baldwin had been half hoping that they would be thrown into a cell with Joscelin of Edessa, but Balak was more canny than that, and they had no news of how the other captive was faring, or if he was even aware of their presence in Kharpurt. Most wearing of all was the lack of outside news. They did not know what havoc Balak was wreaking while he held the King of Jerusalem and the Count of Edessa captive. They did not know whether a ransom was being collected, or an army gathered to march upon Kharpurt, and they did not know if they would ever see fresh daylight again.

Strongfist was enduring the captivity with more resilience than some of the more restless men. Family and employers had often called him a 'great ox' in jest, and his almost bovine indifference was standing him in good stead now. No nervous rash had erupted on his skin. He had not taken to biting his nails, plucking out his beard, or become involved in the petty squabbles and occasional spurts of violence as tensions boiled over.

He sat now near the door in a puddle of weak light cast by one of the oil lamps and with his chip of stone painstakingly etched a tafel board into the floor beneath the rushes. He had been saving date stones from their food ration to use as counters. It kept his hands occupied and gave him a focus.

The key grated in the lock and the heavy bolts shot back. Time for the second meal of the day, he thought. In the morning they were given flat bread, fruit and cheese. At night, there were usually stewed grains with spices and vegetables, occasionally with slivers of goat meat meagrely stirred through. Their rations were short, but not so much as to bring about starvation, and the food was at least edible.

The door opened to reveal a torchlit corridor lined with armed guards. Two men entered, each bearing steaming bowls of the vegetable grain mixture. Depositing these in the middle

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of the floor, they went back out, returning moments later with a dish of dried dates and figs and a fresh water jar. Finally, the slop bucket was changed. As the second man left, he passed very close to Strongfist and surreptitiously dropped something into the straw by his hand. Then he stooped out of the room and the door swung shut behind him.

Baldwin and the others advanced to the food. Without spoons they had to eat in the eastern fashion, taking the mixture from the edge where it was cooler and rolling it into mouthful-sized balls with their fingers. Strongfist grubbed in the straw and found a small needle case such as women wore on their belts. It was made from the wingbone of a goose and delicately carved with a polished, tightly fitting stopper. The hair rose on Strongfist's forearm. Rising to his feet, he brought the object to Baldwin and told him what had happened.

With a brightening glance, the King wiped his hands on his chausses, took the needle case and, with difficulty, because of the size and greasiness of his fingers, pried out the stopper. Inside was a furled strip of parchment covered with spider lines of brown scrawl. Baldwin rose to his feet and clanked over to the nearest lamp. Squinting, he strove to read the words.

'It is from Joscelin,' he said at length to a response of cheers. 'He says that the servant who brought the food is one of his spies and that he is in contact with allies outside the walls. They can do nothing for the moment, until the meltwaters subside from the river, but as soon as that happens, they will attempt a rescue.' His breathing had quickened as he read the note. 'It is too dangerous to engage in speech with his man, or even to pass messages with any degree of frequency, but he will do what he can.' Baldwin twisted the parchment, pushed the end in the lamp flame until it caught fire, and then held it until it had burned down almost to his fingertips. He dropped the flaming ember on the ground and crushed it beneath his heel until it was naught but black powder and a few white flakes that he stirred among the rushes. 'At least now we have a means of communication,' he said, 'and hope, no matter how slim.'

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The men returned to their meal with renewed gusto, their conversation charged with a cheerfulness that had not existed before. Strongfist tried not to feel too optimistic; it was but a small glimpse of light, but it made it easier to believe he would see the outside world and his loved ones again.

Annais took her harp from its protective leather case and tuned the strings. Gerbert enjoyed hearing her play as much as she loved playing and the moments were a pleasure to them both. Tonight she thought that the music might soothe him. Heavily dosed with feverfew to cool the heat of his blood and white poppy for his pam, he lay on their bed with Guillaume. The baby was free of his swaddling and was doing his best to grab his foot and suck his own toes.

'I could watch you both for ever,' Gerbert said as she brought the harp to a stool by the bedside and sat down to pluck the strings. 'There can be no sweeter sight on this earth.' His voice was a mumble, induced by the effects of the potions he had drunk.

'Flatterer!' She plucked out the sweet tones of 'Stella Maris', a tune she knew so well that she did not have to think about the movement of her fingers. In the privacy of their chamber, she had removed her veil and her dark braids fell to her waist, gleaming in the lamplight like polished dark oak.

'I'm but a simple man. I report what I see.' He reached out to touch the baby's plump, firm flesh. 'Others might revel in a different sight, but this is all to me.'

Annais cast him a silent smile over the top of the harp. She did not want to break the mood by ceasing to play and embracing him, nor, she thought, had that been his intention. The notes sprang from the harp in droplets both sweet and sharp, bright as gold, soft with melancholy. Tears welled in Gerbert's eyes and he pinched them away with thumb and forefinger. Annais raised her head and gazed at him in alarm.

'I am weeping for myself.' His throat rippled as he struggled for control. 'No, don't stop. If you love me, play on.'

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Annais bit her lip but did as he bade. Gerbert's mood was often difficult to gauge, especially in the evening when he was tired and in pain and the syrup of poppy had yet to do all its work. She knew that he was unwell. She and Luigi had nursed him back from the brink of death, but its shadow still breathed down his neck, and although he fought it at every turn, the outcome was at best a stalemate.

His lids closed and he slept. Annais set the harp aside. Lifting Guillaume from the coverlet, she kissed him and buried her face in his soft, warm skin, stifling tears of her own.

During the night, Gerbert's fever rose, and by morning, he was raving. Annais and Luigi bathed him with tepid water, changed the wringing sheets, wafted cool air over him with fans made from palm fronds, but the heat came from within and finally all they could do was sit by his bedside and pray.

At nightfall, all their attentions harvested a weak result as the fever dropped sufficiently to leave Gerbert lucid. Wrung out, limp, as exhausted as a shipwrecked sailor heaved onto the shore but lacking strength to crawl above the tideline, Gerbert raised his hand and plucked at Annais's sleeve.

'Fetch Father Tcrome and Sabin,' he whispered. 'There are things to be said and done before . . . before morning.' As he spoke, he cast his gaze towards the shutters, open to a tranquil starlit dusk. Annais followed his stare and the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach expanded until she felt as if she might disappear into it.

Sabin was in the bailey, talking to the senior Serjeants after a training session for the garrison, but he came swiftly at the summons from the bedchamber.

'My lord?' He advanced to the bedside and saw from the looks on the faces of those gathered in the room that he was attending at a deathbed. Annais was as pale as a shadow with huge, haunted eyes. The senior officers had been brought from their posts and stood grim-faced and anxious. Father Jerome knelt at the bedside, telling his prayer beads from one hand to the other.

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Gerbert was propped up against several bolsters, which had been continued round the side of the bed, for without them he would have fallen over. His flesh had sunk against his bones and was the grey of a dove's breast. He beckoned Sabin closer, and his chest trembled with the effort of drawing breath to speak. 'You know the matter which we discussed on the walls?'

'Yes, my lord . . . you wish to see it done?' Sabin looked briefly at Annais.

'I do ... and more than that.' Gerbert licked his lips. 'I may yet recover from this bout . . . but I would be a fool to expect miracles. Before these witnesses, I charge you with the protection and wellbeing of my wife and son. It is my wish that if I die, you shall undertake the care of Montabard and the care of my son until he is of an age to hold this place by his own sword, and that you shall do this by right of marriage.'

There were several indrawn breaths followed by a stunned silence. Sabin blinked, and blinked again, but the scene did not dissolve and the words continued to ring in his ears. It was not a dream.

'Do not refuse me . . .' Gerbert's voice had sunk to a dry whisper. He started to cough and Luigi, who had been standing at the head of the bed, swiftly set a cup to his lips. Gerbert took a couple of swallows, but most of the liquid dribbled down his chin and stained his cotton shirt.

Sabin looked at Annais. Her complexion was ashen and her brown eyes huge with shock. He felt angry. Not even a dying man had the right to do this. 'You know I will care for them,' he said. 'There is no need to ask this.'

Gerbert bared his teeth. 'There is every need,' he gasped. 'We are at war with Balak.'

'That makes no difference, I will do my best whatever.'

'Until someone else is appointed by right of marriage.' Gerbert closed his eyes. His breathing was harsh and the blue tinge around his lips had increased. 'You know the rules in Outremer. If I do not do something about my successor, then Antioch will.'

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Sabin wanted to object, to say that he had always been a breaker of rules, but the words lodged in his throat.

'Promise me,' Gerbert wheezed. He seized Sabin's arm in a grip as strong as death itself and beckoned to Annais. Looking as if she too would rather run from the room, she inched to the bedside. With a supreme effort of will, Gerbert leaned forward, took her hand and placed it in Sabin's. 'I charge you to honour my wishes,' he said. 'Swear to me . . . both of you.'

Sabin felt Annais's fingers flinch against his, but she controlled the movement before it could become outright recoil. Her breathing was as swift and shallow as Gerbert's. 'I swear,' she said. Her voice held a higher pitch than normal, but it was cledi and fmii. She fixed Sabin with a look thai, daied him to baulk. Over his own hand and hers, he felt Gerbert's talon grip.

'I swear,' he responded, and felt cold sweat spring on his palm where hers touched. He didn't want any of it ... not like this.

Gerbert held on a moment longer, then let out his breath on a deep sigh and slumped against the bolsters. His grasp relinquished and Annais took back her hand. Sabm did not miss the way that she smoothed it against her gown, as if obliterating the feel of his skin against hers.

'Do it for Montabard and for Guillaume,' Gerbert said huskily as Luigi set the potion cup to his lips and made him drink. 'I hold you to it.'

Sabin inclined his head and stepped back so that the other senior officers of the castle could have their time with Gerbert and receive instruction, but since that instruction involved him too, he could not retreat too far. When it was finished, Gerbert was so exhausted that he could scarcely breathe. Only Annais and the priest stayed with him; everyone else went about their business.

'Courage, man.' Thierry clapped Sabin on the shoulder as they descended to the hall. 'It may not be what you intended for yourself, but there are worse fates.'

'You think so?' Sabin said grimly.