The Falcons of Montabard (56 page)

'Edmund, for his living grandfather.'

Usamah made a non-committal sound and turned to leave. On the threshold, he paused. 'You may chafe at your confinement,' he said, 'but you should be thanking Allah for his infinite mercy.'

Sabin looked reluctantly up from his absorption with the child. 'Why do you say that?'

'Because il Bursuqi intends to take that which Baldwin refused to cede. He is marching on your fortress at Kafartab even now, and from there, it is only a short journey to Zerdana. You may complain that you have lost your ability to swing a sword. Be grateful. Many will not live to see the end of another summer. II Bursuqi's army is the largest assembled for many years and he has the support of all his neighbours. The Franks will be pushed back to the coast.'

'There are always intentions,' Sabin said more evenly than he felt. The news had jolted him, but he wasn't going to show it to Usamah.

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'Indeed, but some are more likely to be realised than others.' 'You do not ride to join il Bursuqi yourself?' Usamah smiled. 'We are the guardians of Shaizar and the pass down to the sea. We have demonstrated our goodwill to il Bursuqi's cause by giving him the most important of the royal hostages. I will tell the guards you have permission to train.' With a brusque nod and a click of his fingers to the dogs, he was gone.

As if sensing Sabin's tension, the baby whimpered and started to fret. The woman held out her arms to take him back. Sabin hesitated, then reluctantly gave him to her. 'If you need me,' he said, 'I will be in the courtyard with Joscelin. Tell my wife . . .' He paused. 'Tell her . . . No, I will tell her myself as soon as I may.'

He watched her leave and then returned somewhat shakily to the prie-dieu where he offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for the lives of Annais and his son. Then he went to the laver and sluiced hands and face. Although he had not slept, his mind was racing like a mill wheel in spate and his limbs felt twitchy. His father had once said that the darkest part of the night came in the hour before dawn. The old and sick gave up their souls and babies were born. It was a time of waiting and vigil; a time when a man should think of the hope beyond the despair. Except he hadn't been a man then, but a boy, and his father had been slowly dying of the wasting disease that was eating him up from the inside out. The dawn after that had been a long time coming.

Parting the curtain that separated the sleeping quarters from the main chamber, Sabin went to rouse young Joscelin of Edessa.

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CHAPTER 36

Strongfist swung his arm to test the fit of his hauberk, which the armourer had been repairing and refurbishing. 'How does that feel, my lord?'

'Good. A little tight when I flex my arm.' Strongfist tucked his left fist into his right armpit to emphasise the point.

The armourer moved in close, peered and set to work with pincers and T-bar. 'Now?'

Strongfist tried again. 'Better,' he said, and drawing his sword, gave a few flourishes. Beyond the armourer's workshop, Tel Namir's blacksmith was sweating at his forge, hammering out spearheads, shield fittings and horseshoe nails. The clang of hot metal on steel filled the air and so did the smell, carried on wafts of charcoal smoke and steam. The entire bailey resembled a bustling market place as the occupants of the castle prepared for war. 'I need to be able to wield my sword without impediment.' Strongfist swung again and watched the edge slice the warm wind.

The armourer nodded approval, and moved in again to adjust his work, meticulous despite the fact that he had several other customers awaiting his attention. Ever since the call to muster had gone out in response to il Bursuqi's seizing of Kafartab, his workload had increased tenfold.

'How many men can the King raise?' he asked as he tweaked and manipulated.

Strongfist shrugged. 'Not as many as il Bursuqi, but I hazard

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over a thousand knights and more than two thousand foot. . . when the King arrives.'

'Will it be enough?'

'If it is not, we will soon know.' Strongfist bared his teeth in a humourless smile. 'Kafartab has fallen, and the Saracens have laid siege to Zerdana. There can be no avoidance of battle this time.' He gazed around the frantic activity in the bailey. Three days ago, he had returned to Tel Namir to gather men and horses. He could have sent a messenger in his stead, but that would have meant kicking his heels in Antioch. He preferred to be active because it made him feel less helpless.

The information filtering out of Shaizar had been scant. . . apart from one terrible day six months ago when they had heard in full detail about the beheading of Waleran of Birejek and Baldwin's young nephew Ernoul. Strongfist would have run amok with fear for the wellbeing of those dear to him had Fergus not taken him in hand and got him blindly, obliviously drunk. As Fergus said, Annais, Letice, Guillaume and Sabin ought to be safe. Slaughtering the less important hostages would not achieve the desired result, and sacrificing grown men who were warriors was less reprehensible than taking the lives of little children. But, like the sword of Damocles, the threat hovered and there was nothing he could do except pray and bite his fingernails down to the quick.

He knew that Baldwin was struggling to raise the coin to rescue the hostages. Sixty thousand dinars was no piddling sum to be whipped up by a few rattles of the begging cup. Such an amount required the squeezing of the last drop from the lemon and, as always, promises of aid were easier to secure than barrels of silver and gold.

'That will do, my lord, although I will need to rivet in some rings.' The armourer gestured for him to remove the hauberk.

Strongfist beckoned to Amalric who had been waiting in attendance nearby. Stepping forward, the youth helped him with the heavy garment and only staggered a little as he took its weight. He was growing up fast, Strongfist thought. The

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slender boy of four years ago had sprouted like an ear of wheat and now stood at Strongfist's shoulder. He gleamed with lithe young muscles, and fine hair sparkled on his upper lip.

'Remind me to give you another bout of sword practice this evening,' he said, tousling Amalric's corn-coloured hair. 'You still need to work on your follow-through on the backswing.'

'Yes, my lord.' Amalric draped the hauberk across the armourer's workbench.

Amalric's early training had been at Sabin's hands and the latter had done a commendable job of teaching his pupil the basics before Shaizar had got in the way. Strongfist had taken up where Sabin left off and was enjoying educating the youngster. He was quick to learn, adept and resourceful He would make a fine serjeant - perhaps even rise to knighthood one day ... if he lived. The thought brought a frown to Strongfist's face. If any of them lived . . .

'My lord.' Amalric was shading his eyes and pointing towards the castle gateway. Strongfist turned and saw a troop of knights and mounted Serjeants trotting into the bailey, raising a cloud of yellow dust. The silks of Jerusalem fluttered on their banners and the men were apparelled for war. Mail shirts caught the hard, pale light of the spring sun. Sword hilts glinted at right hips, side-arms on the left. Axes showed the blue-river curve of freshly honed steel. Strongfist abandoned the armourer and ran towards the troop, clutching his scabbard to hold it steady at his side.

The leading knight dismounted from his sweating blue roan stallion, removed his helm and pushed down his coif to reveal a blaze of red hair that clashed dreadfully with his puce complexion.

'Fergus!' Strongfist embraced him and thumped him on the shoulder. The smell of sweat and horse was so pungent that it was almost visible. 'What are you doing here?'

'Tel Namir's only a short detour from the road to Antioch. I thought we'd claim hospitality for the night and ride on towards Antioch on the morrow.' Stepping back, Fergus thrust

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his helm into the hands of a squire and pushed his hands through his dripping hair. 'In truth, I didna know if ye'd be here. I thought I might be bedding down wi' the bare bones of a garrison.'

'No.' Strongfist wrapped his hands around his swordbelt. 'I came back to organise the local muster myself, but I was going to ride at dawn. I'll be glad of the company.'

Fergus licked his lips. 'And I'll be glad of a drink if you have anything decent. The wine in our flasks tastes as if something has died in it.'

Strongfist grinned. 'No usquebaugh to keep you company then?'

Fergus grunted. 'I wanted to quench my thirst, not pickle it.'

Leaving his adjutant to take his horse to the water trough with the others, Fergus followed Strongfist to the keep and collapsed on a bench in the first aisle of the hall.

'Christ, my thighs feel as if they've been rubbed with crushed glass,' he groaned, spreading his legs. 'The King's driven us harder than a houseful of whores on the eve before Lent.'

Strongfist snorted at the comparison. 'He needs to if he is to save Zerdana from the same fate as Kafartab. Where is he now?' He signalled and an attendant brought flagons of wine and water. The latter was cold from the keep's deep well and it was this that Fergus drank first, swallowing and swallowing as if there were a fire in his belly.

Finally, gasping, he surfaced for air and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. 'On the road to Antioch. Said he'd billet at the Templar hostel. He's more stirred up than I've seen him since his return from Harran.'

Having dealt with their horses, Fergus's troop started to traipse into the hall and flop onto the benches. The thick stone walls meant that the air inside the keep was much cooler than the burning May heat outside.

'It is time that something did stir him,' Strongfist muttered.

Fergus licked water from the edges of his moustache. 'Well,

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there are certain rumours and tidings abroad,' he said, pouring himself a goblet of Tel Namir's dry, blood-coloured wine. 'We heard that not only is il Bursuqi marching to besiege Zerdana, but that he has negotiated with Shaizar for the custody of some of the hostages.'

Strongfist had just taken a drink from his cup. Now he choked on it and Fergus had to pound his back like a smith hammering an anvil.

'What?' Strongfist wheezed. Coughing, he clutched his ribs where the old wound bit at him like an angry dog.

'Patriarch Bernard sent a message down to Jerusalem after the fall of Kafartab, but it's not common knowledge - although it will be soon.'

'Then how do you know?' Strongfist glared at Fergus out of watering eyes.

'Och, get a hold of yourself, man. I was in the King's chamber when the messenger arrived. We were having a counsel about the loss of Kafartab and making plans to ride north. All of us were sworn to secrecy at the time. If I have told you, it is because you are directly involved, and it wilna be a secret once we join the final muster.'

Still coughing, Strongfist jerked to his feet and took several paces down the hall. He had to move; he could not contain the agitation and rage boiling within him. It hurt to breathe. 'Do you know which hostages?' he asked when he could trust himself to speak.

Fergus spread his hands. 'Of that I canna be sure. The Princess Joveta for certain; she's the fruit in the dumpling.'

And where Joveta went, Annais did too, and Guillaume. Letice and Sabin perhaps, but there was no guarantee that the Saracens would keep the party together. He rubbed his hands, washing them so hard that his knuckles cracked. Facing the bright arch of the open hall door, he thought about riding now. It stayed a thought. No matter that the light would be good for several hours, those hours were needed to finish preparing. You did not leap into a chasm without a rope to haul you back up.

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'What if il Bursuqi threatens to kill them unless we yield to him?' he said.

Cup in hand, Fergus rose stiffly from the bench and limped over to clap his arm on Strongfist's shoulder. 'That won't happen.'

'Won't it? Look at the fate ofWaleran of Birejek.'

'That was different. That was over an agreement already made and those who died were grown men. Besides, if anything happened to the wee lass, il Bursuqi would have the men of Shaizar to face. They gave up the hostages for goodwill, but also in good faith.'

Strongfist grunted, not in the least reassured. He had given up trusting in 'good faith'.

Fergus studied him through narrowed lids. 'You canna live your life by what if,' he said quietly. 'That way lies discontent and madness. Take what is and make the best of it.'

'Christ, you begin to sound like a priest.'

'Then I'm in trouble.' Fergus downed his wine and poured another cupful. 'One way or another the coil will unwind. My sons will be riding with the army of Antioch this time as fledged knights. Do you think you are the only one with cares?' He lifted his hand from his friend's shoulder. 'I'm away to find a bath.'

Strongfist pushed his hands through his hair. He had always thought of himself as a self-sufficient, pragmatic soldier, able to turn the blows that life dealt him. But the price of that self-sufficiency came high. He had yielded the loneliness and the indifference in exchange for a woman's softness in his bed, for a daughter's smile and a son-in-law's company. For the arms of an infant grandson wrapped around his neck. The price of loving came higher still and threatened to beggar him.

Cursing softly, he went back outside into the scorching heat to see how the armourer was progressing. One way or another the coil would indeed unwind, and either he would unravel with it, or hold as taut as a strong rope across a chasm.

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Chapter 37

Strongfist knelt to hear mass, his right hand clasped upon the cross around his neck. It was barely past dawn and the air was still cool from the passage of night; there were even pockets of cold, refreshing dew on the grass. All that would soon burn away as the sun rose from the streaked layers of cloud to the east and began to beat relentlessly on the Frankish army. Day and night they had ridden first north and then eastwards, picking up soldiers on their way, heading to a confrontation with il Bursuqi that could no longer be avoided. Their scouts had reported that he had withdrawn from Zerdana to besiege the smaller Frankish-controlled fortress of Azaz, which had been proving a thorn in his side. The garrison had sent messenger doves pleading for help, and Baldwin had returned the birds with the reply to hold out, that help was at hand.