The Falcons of Montabard (41 page)

Strongfist tugged on his regrowing beard. He had shaved it off to be rid of the lice that had infested it during his imprisonment. A wedge of silver light sparkled down the centre of his chin. The rest was the shade of a dusty wheatfield. 'You do not believe a relief army is coming?'

Sabin half turned. 'Of course one is coming. Joscelin of Edessa is loyal to the bone and tenacious, but whether it is the army of Antioch or that of Jerusalem is debatable. If it is the second, then pray hard that we don't see the glitter of Saracen spears at our gates for a while yet.'

'Balak will not find us easy meat,' Strongfist said belligerently.

'Indeed,' Sabin panted as he reached the top of the wall walk, 'but we dare take nothing for granted.'

Strongfist clenched his hands in his belt and looked at Sabin with exasperation. 'When did you become such a prophet of

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doom?' he gasped. 'I think I preferred you when you were a wild young man.'

Sabin gave him a sour grin. 'I'm not being a prophet of doom,' he said, pressing one hand to the stitch in his side. 'But a commander needs to look at both sides of the coin. If you had preferred me as I was, you shouldn't have taught me anything.'

'I didn't teach you command, lad,' he said. Walking to one of the merlons, Strongfist rested his arm on the gritty stone and looked out over the scrubby, mountainous landscape. 'You had that already and, if the truth be known, in better measure than me. I'm just a soldier who follows orders better than he leads.'

'You make no pig's ear of ruling Tel Namir,' Sabin said.

'Hah, anyone with half a brain and one hand tied behind his back could do that,' Strongfist snorted. 'Tel Namir lies in peaceful territory. It's like a milch cow. As long as I care for it, then it will feed me. It is no more than common sense.'

'Well, perhaps you showed me steadiness,' Sabin said quietly. 'I had never dwelt for any length of time in its presence before.'

Strongfist grunted, but he did not look displeased. 'Surely you had that with your father, even if he died untimely.'

Sabin grimaced. 'I stood on quicksand where he was concerned. I loved him hard, but his nature was not yours or Gerbert's. I have learned a great deal this past couple of years.'

'No, lad, you've grown up.' Strongfist set a large hand to Sabin's shoulder. 'If we get out of here alive, I'll be proud to call you son to the world.'

Sabin reddened at the compliment. 'You are generous,' he said.

A smile curved the straight set of Strongfist's lips. 'Aye,' he said, 'mayhap I am, but that's in my nature too.'

It was so rare for the older man to jest or tease that it took Sabin a moment to understand and respond to the remark with the appropriate broad grin.

Strongfist left after that, for he had promised to help in the armoury. One of their number was a smith and was occupied

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in making spears and arrows from the fortress's store of supplies. Strongfist was content to pump the bellows in the forge while the smith heated, hammered and quenched the metal into much needed weapons.

Towards noon, the men stopped to rest. The sun beat down like a brazen shield boss, and the heat from the forge struck up to meet it in searing blows of air. Melting in sweat, gasping with open mouth, Strongfist staggered outside and collapsed in the shade of the wall. Off came his tunic, off came his shirt, but it gave him little relief for the air was as hot as the inside of a frying pan.

Carrying a large stone jar, Mariamne came around the corner from the well. Unlike the native women, who had learned to balance such burdens on their heads from a young age, Mariamne bore the water in her hands and walked with a lurch that was quite out of keeping with her usual grace. Strongfist watched her, pretending indifference, but then gallantry got the better of him and he rose to help her.

'Sit,' she panted, gesturing him down. 'It is for you anyway.'

He took the jar and set it on the ground. Water slopped over the lip and clotted in the dust.

'That is kind of you.' His tone was impassive. Dipping his hands, he scooped a palmful of water and sluiced it over his hair and face. It was cold and fresh from the well and the contrast against the burning heat of his skin made him gasp with shock and pleasure.

'Not that kind,' she said. 'We have been carrying water to all the men. My duty fell your way, that is all.'

'And after me, will it fall Sabin's way?' He cupped his palms and sluiced again.

Eyeing him through narrowed lids, she handed him the drinking horn that had been thrust through her belt. 'You did not complain at the time ... I even wondered if you knew.'

Strongfist took the horn from her, dipped it and drank deeply. Water ran down his beard and trickled in sparkling rivulets down his chest. 'Oh, I knew,' he said softly, 'but it was

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easier to ignore. What man willingly admits that a woman has put the horns on him? Besides, you didn't have your way with Sabin

'He told you that?' Her tone was scornful.

'I didn't need to be told. For all your wiles and my ignorance, I know the lad better than that. You were what he left behind in England. He had already had his fill of your sort.' He dipped the horn and drank again, more slowly this time.

'My sort?' She raised a plucked black eyebrow. Fine, dry lines like delicate embroidery seamed her forehead.

'Dissatisfied married women with the bitterness and boldness to do something about their state. I know I wasn't your choice, even if you played the role.'

'No, you weren't,' she said. The scorn departed her expression, which became thoughtful. 'Not having a choice. Perhaps that is the crux of the matter.'

'Well then, you have several now.' He wiped his mouth on his wrist.

She met his gaze. 'Yes,' she said. 'I have several now, for what use they will be to me.'

He returned the horn and she pushed it into her belt. Her once sharply manicured nails were clipped short and her hands were rough. A pang seared him and, as always, his emotion showed on his face. Her lips curved. 'For what it is worth, you are a good man,' she said. Hefting the water jar, she moved on to the smith, who was emerging from the forge, wiping his hands on a rag.

Strongfist watched her and thought that it was worth dross. From behind and above, there came a bellow from the wall walk: Sabin's voice pitched deep for loudness and strength. The cry was caught and repeated along the watchtower until the stones rang with the sound and the echoes filled the spaces between. The water in Strongfist's stomach lay like a cold stone. Grabbing his shirt, he ran to the nearest tower and scrambled up the stairs. The thundering of his heart and the weakness of heat-punished limbs made him slow, but finally he was at the

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top and pushing open the heavy wooden door that led onto the battlements.

Sabin's tanned complexion bore a greenish undertone and his mouth was set in a tight line. He was gripping his spear like a drowning sailor clutching a passing spar of driftwood. Gasping from his climb, Strongfist lurched to the wall, leaned against a merlon and peered through the narrow crenel. Summer dust choked the horizon and the rising cloud was punctuated by the dazzle of sun on spears and harness. Outriders had fanned out from the main troop; their single dust trails led the eye to swift, small horses and warriors with round shields and tasselled lances.

'It is Balak,' Sabin said. His breathing was as swift as Strongfist's. 'Our own relief army had better not be far behind.'

There was a flurry on their section of wall walk as King Baldwin arrived at the run. He looked for a moment and then bared his strong, square teeth in a snarl. 'Let them come,' he said. 'We are ready to send them to hell. They will batter themselves bloody, but they'll not take this keep while I am its commander.'

An hour passed and still the dust cloud grew. At the front it had resolved itself into the vanguard of Balak's army and the first soldiers were making camp just out of arrow-shot of Kharpurt's walls. It was obvious that they feared no attack from within.

'There's not much that we can do in daylight with a garrison of sixty men,' said Waleran of Birejek. 'Of course, it might be different at night.'

Sabin nodded. 'But we should wait until they have built their siege machines. That way we cause the most damage. If we make our sortie too soon, then we put them on their guard to no gain.'

Horns blared below their walls. The two men looked through the crenel and saw a herald approaching from the Saracen lines. A white banner streamed from his lance and he rode a white gelding with black mane and tail.

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'Ever been under siege before?' Waleran asked.

Sabin shook his head.

Waleran smiled, but there was little humour in his expression. 'This is the part where Balak offers us easy terms of surrender - and death if we refuse. We'll send a man out to parley, of course, but the outcome is not in doubt.'

Sabin raised his brows. 'And are the easy terms or the punishment for refusal to be believed?'

Waleran folded his arms. 'I wouldn't trust Balak as far as I could throw a Turkish lance,' he said. 'Smooth as a snake, he is, and warm when the sun is on his skin, but his blood is cold and he is as venomous as the deadliest viper.'

That answered the second part of the question, Sabin thought. Although the siege had scarcely begun, he was finding it difficult to adjust to the notion of being surrounded and attacked. It was the feeling of being backed into a corner and held at bay rather than having open ground on which to fight or flee that he disliked. Strongfist, with his bovine, stoic nature, was far better equipped to cope with such a situation than he was.

Baldwin arrived from another section of wall walk and slapped his hand down on Sabin's shoulder. 'I need a man to go out and meet Balak's herald,' he said. And since you served your apprenticeship as a squire in a royal court, you will do admirably.'

'I will be honoured, sire.' Although Sabin's stomach gave a momentary lurch, he was relieved. Having something to do was better than the waiting - even if the task was facing snakes. He was under no illusions. Baldwin might have selected him for his courtly training, but he was also expendable.

'More than that, you'll be observant,' Baldwin said. 'You have sharp eyes; I expect you to use them.'

They found him a horse in the stables; not the one that had belonged to the dead commander, which would have been a calculated insult to Balak, but a fine black mare with a white star marking.

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'Whatever terms Balak offers, you are to listen politely and refuse,' Baldwin instructed. 'Although I yield him the courtesy of an answer, it is immutable. We fight to the last drop of blood.'

'Sire.' Sabin met the King's gaze briefly. The blue eyes were as cold and clear as glass. Baldwin meant every word. Sabin hoped that the Saracens had sufficient honour and restraint not to take Baldwin's reply out on Baldwin's messenger. He mounted the mare, took the lance with the requisite white banner tied to the socket, and rode out.

The terms offered by Balak, and delivered by his herald in accented but fluent French, were too good to be worth a moment's consideration. A safe conduct for Baldwin to whcr ever he wished to go and leniency towards the garrison in exchange for yielding up Kharpurt before sunset. Looking into his opposite's flat dark eyes, Sabin knew that the only place Baldwin would be going if he yielded was another prison - one impregnable to all assault. And as for leniency towards the garrison . . . the sword instead of the rope was the only probable mercy. The manner in which Kharpurt had been taken had left Balak smarting with humiliation, and the fact that his harem was within Kharpurt and had been subjected to the pollution of Frankish men was another shame to be expunged in blood.

'Emir Balak is generous to offer such terms,' Sabin said, bowing and smiling with a jaw that ached. 'However, I am advised by my lord, King Baldwin, to refuse them since they do not accord with his own wishes. Emir Balak should know that a mighty Frankish army is on its way to Kharpurt and, if he is a wise man, he will withdraw his troops before sunset reddens the sky.'

The herald smiled back, his teeth a dazzling white between his red lips. 'Emir Balak, may Allah's blessings fall upon him, is indeed a wise man — wise enough to know the difference between the hot air of bluster and the true breath of fire. If your King does not come to terms by the setting of the sun, then you will all die.'

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'Tell Emir Balak that he has his answer,' Sabin replied and reined the black around. All the way back into Kharpurt, his shoulder blades itched. He was aware of the garrison on the battlements, their arrows nocked to give him covering fire if need be, and dissuade any sudden charge for the gates on Balak's behalf. However, the Saracens withdrew to their camp without incident.

Sabin gave Baldwin the ultimatum and Baldwin laughed. 'He must think I was born yesterday! A safe conduct indeed! What would be the point of keeping me prisoner all these months if he is prepared to yield so much for so little?' He looked keenly at Sabin. 'Tell me what else you saw.'

'Not a great deal, sire,' Sabin said and gratefully took the wine that Strongfist handed him. It was dark and strong and he needed it.

Baldwin frowned. 'I hope you have more to say than that.'

Sabin swallowed. 'Balak's army is as large as you see from the battlements. Indeed, you have a better view from here than I did on the ground. Of course, that means nothing. If our walls are impregnable, then feeding such an army while conducting a futile siege will put a considerable strain on Balak's resources and leadership.'

'And?' Baldwin continued to frown. His fingers twitched impatiently.

'The point is that they appear not to have brought any siege equipment with them, and there are no vast forests around here to cut down trees and construct such. We are not about to be assaulted by trebuchets, rams and perriers.' Sabin took another deep drink of the wine and felt it sting his palate. 'But Balak must believe that he can take the keep.'