The Falcons of Montabard (43 page)

Sabin gripped his shoulder with compassion and urgency. 'I am sorry,' he said.

Strongfist absorbed the words blankly. He stared at Mariamne. She stared back, her blue eyes fixed and wide, the pupils huge and unresponding to the shadows of the men stooping over her. Her mouth was filled with blood and her breast was still. When had she died? She had still been breathing when he picked her up, he was certain of it. He had not felt her soul fly her body, but it was gone as surely as their hope.

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'No.' He shook his head in denial. 'No!' His breath rasped in his throat like tearing silk.

Sabin's grip increased, the thin fingers steady and tight, anchoring him down against the desire to leap to his feet and rip the room and everyone in it to pieces. 'In moments Balak's army will be upon us,' Sabin said. 'Here.' Stooping, he drew Strongfist's sword from the scabbard and thrust it into his grip. 'This is the only language that matters now, and you have always said it is what you do best.'

Strongfist tightened his fingers around the leather-bound hilt, clenching until his joints cramped. He reached his left hand to stroke Mariamne's cheek as he had done moments before, and this time used the pad of his thumb to close her eyes. Making the sign of the cross on his breast, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

He wanted to run back down the tower stairs, to throw himself at the first men to clamber through the gap created by the fallen tower, but obligation held him back. His life was not his own to lose. It belonged to Baldwin and it was his duty to guard the King unto his dying breath. Tears streaking channels down the white dust on his face, he clenched his jaw, straightened his shoulders, and readied himself.

Balak's army swept into Kharpurt, alight with the spirit and rage of a nest of displaced hornets. The Armenian soldiers and knights were either slaughtered on the spot, or dragged up one of the towers and thrown off the walls to their broken deaths. Only when it came to the final stand did the Saracen leader stay his hand and spare the men standing back to back, protecting Baldwin at their centre.

Strongfist shuddered. It was as it had been on the banks of the Euphrates. Slaughter all around and himself still standing as if his life was either charmed or cursed. The moment brought him to breaking point and regardless of the reprieve he would have leaped upon the threatening wall of scimitars, but Sabin thrust out his foot and brought him down, then seized his sword

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from his hand. Strongfist struck out, but Sabin was too quick and his fist swiped air.

'It's over. You'll be no use dead,' Sabin hissed. 'Not even to yourself!'

Strongfist lunged and Sabin kicked him in the gut. He collapsed, wheezing, the pain in his mind a match for the pain in his belly, and as suddenly as the light going from a snuffed candle, he did not care any more.

The prisoners were roughly manhandled back to their original cell and once again the shackles were brought out. Strongfist accepted them with broken docility and it was Sabin who now had to prevent himself from struggling. Even without the memories of that night in November when the
Blanche Nef
had gone to her grave, the notion of being bound and helpless made his skin crawl as if there were tiny insects scuttling between it and his bones.

'Tonight Lord Balak will decide how to deal with you,' the interpreter said, pausing on the threshold, his figure blocking the light from the oil lamp in the passage. 'In the morning you will know.'

He strode from the room and the guards swung the great door shut and barred it. Now there was no light at all, for the prisoners had been left without so much as a single lamp. Sabin stared wide-eyed into the darkness. He felt as if he were a living corpse, walled up in a crypt.

'If Balak was going to kill us, he would have done it back in the tower,' said Waleran of Birejek's disembodied voice from somewhere on his right.

'You mean he's not going to save us for a public spectacle on the morrow and hurl us over the wall like everyone else?' said Ernoul, his voice rough with bravado.

'I doubt it,' Baldwin said. 'His decision will be whether to keep us here or move us. He knows that our army is on its way and since he has compromised the defences by undermining one of the towers, I think he will move us deeper into his territory.'

Sabin prayed grimly that Baldwin was right about Balak's

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intentions. He clung to the thought of Annais and Guillaume. He had to emerge from this not only alive, but with his wits intact, for their sake.

Beside him, Strongfist was murmuring quietly to himself and, although he could not see him, Sabin could sense from the movement of the air that he was rocking gently back and forth. For good measure, Sabin added a prayer for his father-in-law's sanity too.

Annais travelled from Antioch toTurbessel in Queen Morphia's entourage. From the moment the Queen had learned that Annais's father and husband were among the men garrisoning Kharpurt, she had received the warmest of welcomes She was furnished a place among the Queen's ladies and Guillaume joined the children of the royal nursery. Morphia and Baldwin had four daughters, ranging in age from three to twelve, but there were younger infants too, belonging to the other women. Although Baldwin and Morphia had been married to cement alliances, theirs was a match where respect, affection and love had overtaken duty. For the sake of the kingdom of Jerusalem, the Queen was doing all in her power to resolve the crisis, but it was as a wife, mother and lover that she was moving heaven and earth to have her husband restored to her. Since Annais felt the same and had had the strength of will to venture forth from behind her own walls, Morphia had taken her to her heart.

A week after their arrival at Turbessel, Annais was in the royal apartments, playing her harp for the Queen's easement. Morphia had been occupied all morning in affairs of state. Although the kingdom possessed a strong administrative system, she involved herself rather than performing a purely decorative role.

'One day my daughter will be Queen of Jerusalem,' Morphia said. 'And while the rule will devolve upon the husband we choose for her, she will not be without power of her own. A woman should know the business of governance so that she can be effective in her lord's absence.' Her mouth was firm and

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decisive and her fingers clenched as if physically grasping the power of which she spoke. 'Melisande will learn by example.'

However, even a queen was subject to the curse of the monthly flux and Morphia had conceded an hour's rest in her chamber with a cold cloth at her forehead, goatskins of hot water at her aching back, and Annais's harp lulling the air. The afternoon was somnolent. A large black fly buzzed drunkenly at the half-open shutters until finally blundering its way out into the bright sunshine. One of the queen's women fanned her mistress with a date frond whilst two more prepared a tray of wine and sweet cakes. In a smaller antechamber the younger children were napping in the afternoon heat, Guillaume among them, his thumb tucked in the corner of his mouth and his golden-brown hair tumbled at his brow. By bending slightly forward, Annais could just glimpse the end of his blanket, and Soraya, seated nearby on watch. The latter had overcome her fear to travel in Annais's entourage, and was coping well, although Annais suspected that she would be happy when the time came to go home to Montabard.

Princess Melisande considered herself too old to take a nap. She was a thin, gangling child, her father's fair hair darkened on her to the shade of old bronze and her eyes a deep grey-blue lit with amber flecks. Breasts were just beginning to bud against the bodice of her gown and she was developing a waistline. An encouraged and competent reader, she had abandoned her leather- and ivory-bound book and was kneeling upright on the silk cushion in the embrasure, peering out of the window. Nearby, her next sister in age, Alicia, was toiling diligently over the piece of braid she was weaving to make herself a belt. Her tongue protruded between her teeth and there was a look of rapt concentration on her elfin features. Her hair was blonder than Melisande's and contrasted strikingly with her golden-brown eyes.

Watching the girls and the picture they made, Annais thought that it would be pleasant to bear a daughter, even if sons were the required coinage of power. Women shared so

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much that a man would never understand, even one as perceptive as Sabin. She thought that Sabin might enjoy a daughter too, and smiled a little at the image that filled her vision, albeit that the smile was wistful and her throat tight.

Melisande suddenly gasped, leaned forward a little, then turned back into the room, her eyes as bright as new candles. 'My lady mother, a messenger's just arrived from my cousin Joscelin.' The words were formal but their manner of announcement was like a thunderclap.

Morphia sat up on the couch, already peeling the damp cloth from her brow. 'Messengers come and go, child,' she said, but was already hastening to the window herself, her hands plucking her starred silk tabard to hold it above her dainty slippers. 'How do you know he belongs to Joscelin?'

Melisande blushed furiously. 'It is Stephen de Burzey,' she said. 'I know his face.'

Her mother gave her a sharp look. 'I hope that is all you know,' she said, kneeling beside her to look out. Her smooth complexion developed a bloom across the sculpted cheekbones. 'Fetch him to me at once,' she commanded one of her women. 'And tell Countess Maria that a messenger has come from her husband.' A clap of her hands dismissed her other ladies. Annais started to put her harp away in its case but Morphia wagged her finger. 'No, stay and play,' she said. 'I do not want silence.'

Annais sat down again and rippled her fingers down the strings, feeling the successive strands of horsehair press against her fingertips. Moments later Joscelin's wife hastened into the room accompanied by two maids. Countess Maria was slender and small, her sallow skin given life by a gown of jewel-red silk. Her hands fluttered nervously, never still, as if they were borrowed from small birds. Her large dark eyes were liquid and tragic.

'Oh, my dear.' She hastened to embrace Morphia. The taller woman stood as rigid as a statue of bronze and looked over Maria's shoulder to the messenger standing in the doorway.

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Annais followed Morphia's frozen gaze and felt the chill pierce to her own marrow.

He was of about Sabin's age and possessed the same wiry build. His face was flushed with the exertion of his ride and his blue eyes held a storm of troubles rather than cloudless joy. Dust clung to his garments and made him look as if he had been floured ready to be turned on the spit. With obvious weariness, he knelt to Morphia and bent his head.

'I am so sorry,' Countess Maria said. 'So very sorry.'

The urge to retch almost closed Annais's throat. The harp slipped in her hand and her fingers slashed across the strings in discord as she grabbed it to prevent it falling from her lap.

Morphia jumped at the sound, but did not turn. 'What has happened?' she demanded in a clear, steady voice. 'Tell me.' She gestured the young man to rise with an imperious flick of her long fingers.

'Madam, Lord Joscelin sends you his greeting and his news.' He moistened his lips. 'Our army came to the walls of Kharpurt too late. The Emir Balak had succeeded in undermining one of the towers to make a breach ..."

'And my husband?' Morphia stood like an effigy statue on the side of a church. Imperious, regal. Even the pleats of her purple silk dalmatic looked stiff. 'Am I then to mourn him?'

The messenger swallowed. Perspiration made an oily gleam on his travel-grimed face. 'No, madam. There had been some hard fighting . . . very hard indeed, but King Baldwin was not among the slain.' He raised his eyes to her for an instant and they were filled with the horror of what he had seen. 'The Saracens threw all the defenders over the walls, the dead and the living, to be broken and mingled in the ravine below. Lord Joscelin had word from one of his spies that Balak is bringing the King to his fortress at Harran, which is beyond our abilities to assault.'

Annais whimpered behind her lips without being aware that she had done so. Morphia's head gave the slightest turn and the messenger's blue glance flickered briefly.

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'Was anyone with my husband?' Morphia asked. 'What of Waleran of Birejek and Ernoul of Rethel? Surely the Saracens would not slaughter them?'

'I know not, madam.' The young man gave an uncomfortable shrug. 'Lord Joscelin's spy said there were five Frankish prisoners, but he could not tell their identity from where he was hiding - save that one was obviously the King.'

Morphia absorbed this without expression. 'And Lord Joscelin?' she said.

'He has sent envoys to Emir Balak petitioning for the King's release, and the army is returning to Turbessel.'

Morphia thanked and dismissed him. When her daughter Melisande followed him from the room, she sent a woman in pursuit as chaperone, but it was an absent gesture: her mind was clearly focusing on the news.

The messenger's words had sliced through Annais like a sword blade, severing all reaction. She stared numbly at Morphia. No words came, no movement of hand or eye. Behind the blankness of her stare, she was seeing Sabin and her father lying shattered at the foot of a castle wall. She had watched the kites and vultures picking at the brigands who had dangled from Montabard's battlements. She did not have to imagine what would happen to the bodies . . . she knew.

Then Morphia was at her side, her grip hard on Annais's sleeve and her voice clear and firm. 'Nothing is carved in stone,' she said. 'Your husband and your father may be among the prisoners and they may be among the dead - but now is not the time to mourn them or fall into a faint over what might have happened. You must endure and you must be strong. I need your support.' She gave Annais's arm a small shake to emphasise her point.

Feeling sick and cold, Annais nevertheless responded to the tone of voice. 'Yes, madam,' she murmured woodenly.

'Good. I know I can rely on you.'