The Falcons of Montabard (36 page)

Ernoul nodded agreement and shuffled off to speak with his uncle. Strongfist began to walk around the perimeter of the

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yard within the band of shade cast by the walls. The steps he took were bitesize, determined by the length of his chains, but at least he was treading solid ground instead of shuffling through rank straw. As he crossed the gateway, a guard barred his path. Without looking at the man, Strongfist shambled past and began another circuit of the ward.

The sun hammered down and the louse bites in his scalp, his beard and armpits began to itch fearsomely. Strongfist thought of the once despised baths in Jerusalem with longing. Cool water; clean, scrubbed skin; fresh linen underclothing smelling of citrus and sunlight. He plodded the courtyard like an ox yoked to a sesame mill. Round and round. If they were to escape then he must keep his body strong. From the messages that passed, he knew that they had perhaps another month to wait, but that plans were progressing. It helped that Balak was busy subduing Aleppo and seldom at Kharpurt - although much of his domestic household was lodged within its walls.

Strongfist sat down in a patch of shade to take a rest and leaned his back against the cool, hard stone. From his position, he could see the larger courtyard beyond the scowling guards. A group of heavily swathed women clustered around a well, drawing water and decanting it into large clay jars. They too were attended by a guard, although he was slouched on his lance and his posture was bored.

Ernoul joined Strongfist and slumped down, forehead pressed to his upraised knees. After a moment he glanced through the archway at the women. 'They'll be the lowlier members of Balak's harem,' he said. 'You shouldn't stare. If the soldiers see you, they'll pop your bollocks with the blunt end of a spear.'

Strongfist winced at the notion and lowered his gaze. 'My lust is for the water,' he said. 'My mouth feels like a cave in the Sinai.' From the corner of his eye, he was aware of some of the women lifting their water jars and, balancing them gracefully on their heads, moving off towards another part of the fortress. The senior women of the harem would inhabit an inner sanctum, away from the prying eyes of all but the most

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privileged men. Those who came to fill the jars were, as Ernoul said, the secondary wives and the slaves.

It was with enormous relief that he saw two soldiers bringing one of the filled jars towards them. From their treatment thus far, it was plain that Balak intended them to suffer but not enough to sicken and die. It would be foolish of him to lose his treasure or treat it in such a way that he incurred the wrath of all Christendom.

The prisoners were given a dipper of water each — enough to dull the edge of their thirst without quenching it - and then they were lined up to be returned to their cell. This time they were taken by a different route that traversed the main courtyard. A couple of women were still drawing water from the well and they kept their backs turned and their faces hidden. As Strongfist shambled past a tower opening, the Saracen commander of the garrison emerged, a shrouded woman at his side. He stopped to wait for the prisoners to pass, his expression fastidious and filled with contempt. Strongfist glanced at him in passing and at the woman yet more fleetingly, but what he saw stopped him in his tracks. The woman's dark blue eyes widened, then lowered and she drew back into her companion's shadow. The Saracen's hand hovered over his scabbard.

Ernoul gave Strongfist a shove from behind that pitched him against the man in front. Recovering the power of motion, if not his wits, Strongfist stumbled forwards, propelled by another hard push from Ernoul.

The Saracen did not follow, except with his eyes, which remained narrowed until the chain of prisoners had vanished through a small doorway further along the tower.

'Why did you stop?' Ernoul demanded as they were thrust back into their cell. His voice was pitched high with agitation. 'You've called attention to yourself now.'

Strongfist collapsed in the thick, fresh straw. 'The woman . . .'he said in a parched voice. 'The woman he had is my wife.'

'What?' Ernoul stared in disbelief. 'Are you sun-touched? How could you tell that it was even a woman under all those layers?'

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'I did not need to see every part of her. I would recognise her eyes anywhere.' Strongfist flushed beneath the younger man's scorn. The raised voice had brought the others gathering around.

'That's foolish!' Ernoul scoffed. 'What would your wife be doing in the harem of a man like Balak?' He looked round for approbation and received it.

'I am telling you, it was her!' Strongfist snarled raggedly. 'As to what she is doing here—' He broke off and glared at the ring of grinning faces. 'She absconded with a silk merchant and I thought it no one's business but mine.'

That wiped away most of the smiles. Those who thought it cause for jest were nudged by their neighbours, or hid their mirth behind their hands. It wasn't comfortable to think about what one's own wife might be doing in one's absence.

'So you truly think she is here?' Baldwin asked, looking dubious.

'I know it, sire. And she knows that I know.'

The King narrowed his eyes and rubbed his beard. Strongfist knew that he was wondering whether to believe him, or judge him a lunatic. 'It is the truth,' he said. 'What has happened to bring her here, I know not, but I am neither mistaken nor out of my wits. I would be glad never to see the bitch again.' Wounds had torn open that he thought healed and he could almost feel the sting of salt in them.

'Do you think she would help us?'

Strongfist shrugged. 'She will help herself,' he said bitterly. 'If she desires to be free of Kharpurt then she will give us her aid. If she is content with her lot and whatever lover is currently spreading her legs, then she will not hesitate to betray us. Use her,' he said, 'but do not trust her.'

The men shuffled and muttered, no one knowing what to say. One by one, they drifted away until only Baldwin and Ernoul remained.

The King laid a hard, firm grip on Strongfist's shoulder. 'I am sorry,' he murmured. 'If indeed it is true, and the woman

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is your wife, then it is a difficult burden you bear.'

'My back is broad,' Strongfist said with an unconvincing smile. 'And heavier loads are carried by others. A fickle wife is nothing, save to my pride.' He set his jaw, determined to show as little emotion as possible now that he was over the first shock. But inside both heart and pride were bleeding.

Annais knelt before the open coffer in the bedchamber and lifted out the shirts and braies that had belonged to Gerbert. It was almost six weeks since he had died, and she had made herself attend to the task of clearing the belongings that could be put to better use than gathering dust and entangling her in painful memories. Durand and Gerbert had been of a similar breadth across the shoulders. Annais would not notice him wearing Gerbert's shirts and braies, for they were underclothes. Decisively, she pressed them on Soraya, and when the young woman both thanked her and protested at the generosity, Annais waved her hand in negation.

'No, take them, with my blessing. They would drown Sabin . . . and in truth I would rather start afresh than clothe him in garments that Gerbert has worn. He "deserves better—' She broke off and buried her head in the coffer again. She could imagine Sabin's expression should she offer him Gerbert's cast-offs. The line they trod was already as sharp as a knife-blade.

Two pairs of chausses followed. The shoes went into the alms pile. The rich, fur-lined cloak was set aside for Guillaume's future, as were the gilded belts and the court dalmatic of embroidered silk. Annais decided to make some tunics for the child out of the best of his father's gowns. She returned what she was going to keep to the chest and had it removed to the women's chamber, leaving an empty place where it had stood. Next to that place was the coffer containing Gerbert's mail hauberk, oiled and stored in waxed leather, his helm, his sword, his spurs. That had to stay, for the contents were of high value and part of Guillaume's inheritance. As yet Sabin's equipment remained in his own room and he spent as little time as possible

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in this chamber. If he had to hold an audience, he would do it in the hall, or the guardroom, depending on the circumstances. He left the domain of the solar and bedchamber to her and her women. When they shared the great bed at night, he kept to his own side and was distantly courteous. Often he would wait until she was asleep before he came to bed. Frequently he did not sleep there at all, using the excuse of his duties to keep him up late, and bedding down in his former room so as not to disturb her. Or else he would take the men on patrol and stay away for a couple of nights.

Her task finished, Annais rose from her heels and dusted her hands. He was giving her time to grieve for Gerbert and, in a way, he was right, but the 'marriage in name only' was putting considerable strain on both of them. He was treating her not as his wife, but with the respect and distance owed to her as Gerbert's widow. Her gaze fell on the bed. It would have to end, she thought, for both their sakes, and sooner rather than later. The thought made her shiver. What would it be like to take Sabin's weight in the act of procreation? To taste and touch him? Would it be different to her experience with Gerbert? Flustered at her own thoughts, she pressed her hands to her face and turned away from the bed. Perhaps she would have to stop thinking as Gerbert's widow too.

Soraya was gazing at her with concern and knowing in her great dark eyes. Her arms were piled with Gerbert's clothes. 'Is there something wrong, my lady?'

Annais gave a shaken laugh. 'No,' she said, and then, 'Yes.' She went to the window and looked out on the courtyard. 'I don't know what to do,' she murmured.

'You only think that, my lady,' Soraya said in her gentle voice. 'It will come to you.'

Annais screwed up her face. 'You are optimistic'

The young woman looked at her earnestly. 'I was once in your position - worse, in fact, for the man who took me under his wing was my enemy and my husband was killed by his companions. I told myself that I had to take each day - each

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moment - as it came . . . not look forward and not look back.'

'It worked?'

'Not always, but enough . . .' Soraya jutted her chin in the direction of the wall. 'That bed is a prison for both of you. You need to spring the lock before you can be free.'

'And how am I to find the key?'

Soraya moved her shoulders. 'That I cannot tell you, my lady . . . but surely you will find your own way.'

Annais gazed out across the courtyard. Letice had taken Guillaume for a carry around the castle in order to give Annais a moment's peace. At almost eight months old, he had the frightening combination of being curious about everything and possessing the ability to crawl faster than an ant up the side of a honey pot.

Now she watched Letice cross the space in front of the hall and, lifting the baby high on her arm, point. Guillaume bounced up and down and pointed too. An instant later Sabin strode into Annais's line of vision and she realised that the patrol must have returned. He was still clad in his mail but had stripped off his helm and coif and given them to Amalric. Hoisting Guillaume out of Letice's arms by a fistful of linen smock, Sabin swung the infant aloft and perched him on his shoulders. Guillaume squealed in delight and tangled his fists in Sabin's hair for purchase. Sabin gave a mock wince and said something to Letice that made her nod and laugh.

Annais felt a melting tenderness at her core, tinged with a degree of sadness. It should be Gerbert holding his son like that, not the slender, wiry man who stood surrogate in Gerbert's place. She would weave memories and stories of his father for the child, but those memories would hold Sabin's features.

'Have a tub prepared,' she told Soraya. 'Lord Sabin will want to bathe.'

The maid took the pile of clothes to her coffer, then set about her task. Two younger women slid aside a thick curtain and drew out a large wooden bathtub, banded with oiled iron hoops, and brought towels made of heavy, sun-bleached cotton from a deep

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chest. Annais removed the chatelaine's keys from her belt and unlocked the chest containing the oil and candles. Here too was stored soap made from olive oil and scented with essence of lemon. Back in England, the only soap available was made from mutton fat, and while it certainly performed the task for which it was intended, the smell was less than delightful.

She filled a smaller flagon from the large wine pitcher in the antechamber before sending a maid to bring bread, cheese and figs, and another to fetch clean garments.

From the top of the stairs, she heard the girls giggle and Sabin's voice speaking with breathless good humour. Then, stooping under the door arch, he entered the room, Guillaume still perched triumphantly on his shoulders. The baby was leaning over now and sucking experimentally on a fistful of Sabin's hair. Sabin reached up and swung his burden round, tossed and caught him, and presented him, squealing with delight, to his mother.

'He is going to be a skilled horseman one day,' he said, 'providing he learns not to pull too hard on the reins.' Grimacing, he rubbed the top of his head, then wiped his slimy hand on his surcoat.

Annais laughed and shifted Guillaume to her hip. 'I suppose it depends on the quality of his mount too,' she said.

'Oh, there's no doubt in the least about that.' Sabin responded to her tone in a similar vein. In the light from the window, his eyes were vivid amber, ringed at the pupil with green. 'This one's a bargain . . . depending on what you are seeking, of course.'

There was a moment's hesitation. Annais's loins were heavy, as if the force of his stare had pierced to her vitals. 'I have heard that you should never look a gift horse in the mouth,' she said.

His lips twitched and he inclined his head at her riposte. 'Or anywhere else,' he said. 'For the Good Lord knows what you might find.' He unlatched and discarded his swordbelt and scabbard, following them with his long surcoat of blue linen.