The Falcons of Montabard (47 page)

Wineskins were passed around and men drank deeply while they summoned their courage and beat the miles and the defeat from their garments and armour.

Strongfist was unable to sit straight, but fiercely declined the suggestion that he might join the wounded in one of the baggage carts. Til ride through those gates with a horse beneath me, and if I die in the doing, then so be it,' he wheezed at Sabin.

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'All you need do is help me put on my helm. I cannot raise my hands high enough.'

Sabin plucked Strongfist's arming cap and helm from the strap behind the saddle cantle and, drawing Lucifer close, reached up to place them on Strongfist's head. The nasal bar came down, covering the broad, strong nose. Strongfist's eyes glittered like chips of sapphire glass and his cheekbones glowed as if he had spent half a day drinking in a tavern. A fever was setting in. Sabin wondered grimly how much longer Strongfist's resolve would hold him in the saddle. His thoughts must have shown on his face, for Strongfist scowled at him.

'My grandsire fought the Norsemen at Stamford Bridge, then marched south to Hastings with a spear wound in his leg. He stood on that ridge where the abbey now stands, and he fought your bloody Norman ancestors with his axe, his spear and his bare hands from dawn until nightfall. He stood packed shoulder to shoulder with dead men who could not be moved from the shield wall, so great was the press. And when the Norman King finally gained the battlefield, my grandfather retreated in forced march back to York with a piece of a Norwegian spear still in his leg.'

Sabin's lips twitched. 'So you are not thinking of dying just yet,' he said.

Strongfist's look was baleful. 'You waste so much of your breath on clever words that it's a wonder you have any left on which to live.'

Satisfied that his father-by-marriage was still lively enough to be truculent, Sabin allowed himself a full smile. Nevertheless, when they set out again, he rode unobtrusively close, ready to grasp Strongfist's bridle should he fail.

Joscelin's desire to enter Turbessel in full military array was partially successful. The cavalry drew in their reins so that the horses paced with heads tight in to their chests and stepped high. The armour shone more than it had done before their stop, and the burn of the wine in their blood made men stride out those final paces.

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The citizens were waiting on the walls and lining the roadway from the main gate. At first, the cheering was ragged, but Joscelin knew his people. During the pause on the road, he had changed to a fresh horse and_ donned over his mail a parade surcoat embroidered with gold. Preceded only by his standard-bearers, he rode at the head of the line and raised one arm on high, his fist clenched and the gilded leather arm brace catching the late rays of the sun. The cheering increased in volume. Fists in the crowd punched the air in reply to Joscelin's signal and the walls echoed with cries of defiance that were almost exultation.

Buoyed by their reception, Joscelin's army did its best to respond. Men sat straighter in the saddle if they could. The footsoldiers did their utmost not to limp. Those who bore banners held them aloft to stream in the evening wind.

'How to make a homecoming victory out of a difficult defeat,' Sabin murmured to Strongfist, who was rigid in the saddle. He had forced himself upright, but the cost was showing in his face. Sabin reached to his bridle.

'Do not you dare,' Strongfist said through his teeth.

Sabin took his hand away, but not his scrutiny.

It seemed to take an aeon, but finally they arrived at the palace. Grooms and attendants came running to take the mounts of the senior men. Amalric was there for Sabin, but a thumb jerk sent the youth to Strongfist's tawny stallion.

'Attend him first,' Sabin commanded. Swinging from Lucifer's back, he gestured another knight to help him and together they brought Strongfist down from his horse.

'I tell you I am all right!' Strongfist cried and, on the last utterance, dropped like a stone.

Because Sabin was prepared, he caught him, but the weight strained his arm muscles and almost brought him down too. Carefully, he and the other knight laid Strongfist on the ground and removed his helm. Sabin folded his saddle blanket and used it to cushion the unconscious man's head.

'Leave the horses,' he commanded Amalric. 'Fetch a litter to bear him within.'

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The youth sped on his errand, almost colliding with the two women who were rushing out into the ward. Turning at the squire's breathless acknowledgement, Sabin's eyes lit on Annais and Letice.

Annais met his gaze, flew into his arms for a brief embrace, then, reassured that he was whole, fell to her knees beside her father. Letice had already stooped and laid her hand to Strongfist's brow.

'He took a spear in the ribs,' Sabin said, feeling raw with guilt. It was not as if he could have prevented it happening, but being the one to bear the news raised echoes of that terrible homecoming with Gerbert. The sharp gaze that Annais cast him compounded those echoes. He rubbed his neck, turned his back and walked several paces away. Suddenly it was hard to breathe and there was a stinging pressure behind his lids.

Murmuring to Letice, Annais rose to her feet and hastened to Sabin's side.

'He's strong,' Sabin said, only managing to speak after he had swallowed. 'If you had heard him swearing on the ride

'I know ..." She wrapped her arm around his. 'Do not blame yourself. I would rather you brought him to me than a stranger—'

'As I brought you Gerbert?' he said harshly.

'Hush.' She laid her fingertips swiftly to his lips. He grasped her wrist in his, trapping her to him and kissed her hand. 'I cannot help but see it,' he said, his voice muffled by her flesh. 'And do not tell me that you do not see the same thing.'

'Seeing with the mind is not the same as seeing with the eyes of now,' she said. 'Just because you have brought my father home wounded does not mean the same outcome as before.'

Sabin shuddered and turned to face the litter. The men-at-arms had picked it up and were bearing it within, Letice pacing at the side and holding Strongfist's hand.

'God sometimes works in very mysterious ways,' Annais murmured, and although her expression was pensive, it was not despairing.

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'Very mysterious indeed,' Sabin said bitterly.

Recognising that he was as much in need of care as her father, and that, for the moment, the latter had all the attendance he required, Annais tugged gently on her husband's sleeve. 'Come,' she said. 'Let me unarm you, and you can tell me all that has befallen.'

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Chapter 30

As the spring advanced in Turbessel and the snow on the mountains gave way to the green of grass and the mottled dots of grazing sheep, Strongfist's wounds gradually healed. It was a protracted battle and not without setbacks. On several occasions, he developed a high fever and the injury threatened to turn from sour to putrid. Letice took responsibility for most of the nursing. It was she who sat with him, who bathed, bandaged and tended him. Annais was only an auxiliary who took occasional watches when Letice had to sleep; the arrangement was at Letice's insistence.

'You have a husband and son to care for, and the demands of a queen,' Letice said one morning as they stood by the sickbed, where Annais had been taking a turn at watching.

'But still, it is not fair that you should do all the work,' Annais replied.

Letice waved the comment aside. 'I came to Turbessel as your companion, but when you requested my attendance, there was more than one motive... and fortunately so. It is no burden to me. I have the time and the patience.' She gestured to the bed and its occupant. 'How is he?'

'I—'

'Trying valiantly to sleep amid a chorus of female chatter,' Strongfist interrupted. Before either woman could move to help him, he drew himself to a sitting position. If he was somewhat stiff about the task, nevertheless, he managed it without wincing.

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'I'm sure he will tell you himself,' Annais said and, having kissed her father's cheek in greeting and farewell, went to find Sabin.

Strongfist smiled as he watched his daughter leave. 'I did not mean what I said about the female chatter,' he said.

Letice returned the smile and fetched his tunic, hose and boots. 'I know.'

'But I heard everything that was said.'

She lifted her shoulders. 'I do not suppose that you learned anything of which you were not already aware.'

His eye corners crinkled. 'There has been much talk of leading horses to water and then standing back in the hopes that they might drink.'

Letice laughed but beyond that did not respond. She helped him to dress, her manner efficient but not overbearing, and let him do the parts he could manage himself, patient when he lacked speed.

'I am like an old man I used to know at my brother's castle of Branton,' he said, shaking his head at his weakness. 'But he claimed four-score years and I am scarcely half that age.'

'Then you must have crammed twice as much into your life,' she said.

Strongfist grunted with amusement. 'I know not,' he said, 'because I never asked him his story. Perhaps I should have done.'

'But you have your own to live.' Letice wound his linen leg bindings neatly from ankle to knee and tucked the ends in at the top. She had noticed that he preferred this older, distinctly English style of dressing. 'Besides, you are not suffering the difficulties of age but of wounding. Given time you will improve.'

'How much time?' Strongfist gazed towards the open window where spring sunshine was dappling through the fretwork. 'High summer? Summer's end? Balak might be at the gates of Turbessel by then.'

'If that happens, then one man will make no difference.' She

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stood back, her hands at her hips, and studied him. 'I would say that you will be hale and well long before the sun reaches its zenith.'

He eyed her keenly. 'You believe that? You are not just cozening me like my daughter?'

Letice folded her arms. 'I never cozen,' she said. 'Ever.' Reaching to the side of the bed, she produced his walking stick. It was fashioned of mountain oak, something of a rare wood these days as forests were cut for fuel and building. At first, he had been reluctant to admit that he needed a stick, but since the alternative was languishing in bed, he had grudgingly agreed to try it out. Now he accepted it as a prop to his returning strength and balance, and used it to move gingerly from the bed to the window embrasure.

'So,' he said nonchalantly to Letice, 'do you think that we should oblige them and perhaps drink just a little?'

She faced him. Her braids were the hue of new-hulled chestnuts, just here and there a glitter of silver like spider-strands on a bright autumn morning. Her eyes were a dark green-hazel, rayed at the pupil with flecks of reddish-brown, and seamed with fine lines that showed humour and experience. Suddenly his breath was short, although not in the same manner as when he first set eyes on Mariamne. This was a slower, far subtler burn that had caught him by surprise as it suddenly licked into flame.

She raised her brows. 'Oblige them, or oblige ourselves?' she said.

He cleared his throat. 'Both, I suppose.'

Letice studied him thoughtfully. '"A little" and "suppose" are not urgent encouragement to a baulky mare,' she said, but there was a smile tucked into the severity of her lips.

Strongfist tugged unknowingly at his beard. 'I have no skill with words,' he muttered. 'I do not want to frighten you or see loathing in your eyes.'

'Why should I loathe you for consideration?' she said. 'If we are going to drink, it ought to be full measure.' She came to his

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side and gave him a candid stare. 'You do not frighten me . . . but I wonder if I frighten you.'

Strongfist looked indignant, but she held his gaze and raised her hand to lay it over his busy one. 'You will soon be cleanshaven,' she said with a smile.

The gesture of her hand over his was intimate and the onus was upon him to respond. After a brief struggle, he found the courage to close his fingers over hers. 'Yes,' he said, 'you do frighten me . . . but then I am not accustomed to women. I have dwelt with them all my life and still they are more a mystery to me than my sword or my horse. I don't have the courtly ways or the patience to conquer in that area.'

She considered him, the smile remaining in her eyes. 'Perhaps not,' she said, 'but you have steadfastness and a charm that is your own. Some very pretty scabbards hold fine-looking swords that shatter when put to the test. I do not believe you would do so.' She leaned towards him.

He inhaled the scent of her, felt her warmth, and thought, Why not? She was a widow; he was free to remarry where he wished. If the ghost of Mariamne had trodden hard on his shadow, her haunted step had lightened with each day that his wounds improved, courtesy of the care of this woman beside him. Before caution could reassert itself, he took her in his arms, but gingerly because of his damaged ribs, and he kissed her. And Letice held his face between her hands and kissed him back.

They were married on a fine morning in May when Strongfist was able to bear the weight of his sword on his hip without discomfort and stand without tiring for the duration of the wedding mass afterwards. Taking a brief respite from duty, Fergus arrived from Tyre to bear witness to the marriage and join the celebrations.

'It's a braw lassie you've got yourself,' he said as he gave the bride a smacking kiss on the mouth and a hearty slap on the rump. 'A buxom, bonnie armful. She puts me in mind o' my Margaret.'

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Letice decided to take his words and actions as a compliment, only murmuring to her new husband that there were men who were far more challenged than himself in the matter of courtly ways and that he was never to consider himself inadequate again.

In high good humour, Strongfist threw back his head and laughed, squeezing her to his side. The throng of guests repaired to an inn where the wedding feast had been prepared. Fergus descended upon Sabin and Annais like a wild, red-haired dervish.