The Falcons of Montabard

Setting her piece of the embroidery aside, hoping that her aunt would not notice the small brown bloodspot marring the bleached linen, she went down to the hall. Her father was deep in conversation with several of the household knights. Sabin had been playing a game of merels with one of the older squires but, as Annais arrived, the youth rose, stretched, nodded to Sabin and went off to attend to his duties. Sabin started to put the wooden gaming pieces in their leather pouch. He paused briefly as Annais took her place on the bench across from him, then continued the task with nimble fingers.

'I see that you are trying to get me killed,' he murmured with a rueful glance in her father's direction. The latter had turned with the unerring instinct of a hound on a scent and although he remained among his companions, it was obvious that his attention was no longer wholly on the conversation. Annais frowned. 'Have you been told not to speak to me?' He smiled grimly. 'I have been told that you are a beautiful, convent-raised innocent and that if I so much as loosen a single hair of your braid, your father will mutilate me where it matters.' He tugged the drawstring tight on the pouch and, placing it on top of the little gaming board, pushed it towards her. 'By all means play, demoiselle, but not with me.'

Also by Elizabeth Chadwick

The Conquest

The Champion

The Love Knot

The Marsh King's Daughter

Lords of the White Castle

The Winter Mantle

A
Time Warner
Book

First published in Great Britain in 2003 by Time Warner Books This edition published by Time Warner Paperbacks in 2004

Copyright © Elizabeth Chadwick 2003 The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real person*, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the

prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise

circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in

which it is published and without a similar condition including

this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 0 7515 3272 X

Typeset in Horley Old Style by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Polmont, Stirlingshire

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

Time Warner Books UK Brettenham House

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www. Time WarnerBooks .co.uk

Acknowledgements

As always I'd like to say a brief word of thanks to all my back stage helpers who have been working tirelessly behind the scenes while I've been writing this novel. In the workplace I want to say thank you to the editorial team at Time Warner - Barbara Boote, Richenda Todd and Joanne Coen for their professionalism and friendship. Also my thanks to my agent Carole Blake and her hard-working staff at the Blake Friedmann agency for their endeavours on my behalf in a tough market place.

On the Internet, I'd like to thank Wendy Zollo for running my online reader group and for being such a good friend; Teresa Eckford, for Medieval Enthusiasts and a great friendship too; Gillian Pollack for answering some of my stranger Medieval questions without batting an eyelid; and all the members of the SKP, Histfict and goodbooks lists who have enriched my life and increased my reading pile to astronomical proportions!

At home, and as always, I owe much love and gratitude to my husband, Roger, for giving me space and understanding; to my parents who thought they'd finished when my sons reached independence, but now get stuck walking the dog on the days I have to go out and give talks! To Alison, who has known me from the days when publication was only a dream, and still puts up with me now, and to the various members of Regia Anglorum who have helped so much with my research.

Chapter 1

Port of Barfleur, November 25, 1120

Sabin FitzSimon stood on the wharfside in the gathering dusk and through narrowed tawny-green eyes watched King Henry's ship, the
Mora,
put to sea. A chill wind chamfered the iron-coloured waves with silver as the galley diminished to a dark beetle shape toiling through the troughs. The fading plash of her oars carried back to shore and Sabin smiled to hear the sound because it heralded the success of his scheming. With the King's departure for England, his way was clear.

The young woman at his side moved closer until her hip grazed his. Her hood was drawn up against the cold, and strands of auburn hair had escaped her veil to whip in the stiff salt breeze. Lora was still fresh, still had that glimmer of innocence that was so fleeting in the court whores, and he should know. At two and twenty, Sabin FitzSimon had had them all ... or nearly all. It was said among the young knights at court that Sabin kept a notched tally stick of his seductions, but it wasn't true. He had no particular interest in remembering those who had gone before. His pleasure was in the pursuit, and there was a keener edge to this particular chase, for Lora was a favourite bedmate of King Henry's and Sabin was trespassing on royal territory.

1

Shouldering a wine cask, a porter emerged from one of the dockside taverns and strode towards a moored galley. In the deepening twilight, the vessel's strakes gleamed like the feathers of a swan and her prow was a proud and graceful curve. Boldly coloured round shields lined the wash strake, increasing her freeboard and protecting her passengers from flying spray. Silk banners streamed at her mast, their colours intense in the last of the light. She was the
White Ship,
the
Blanche Nef,
pride of King Henry's fleet and a fitting transport for his heir Prince William and the lively younger element of the court who were still roistering on shore.

'Shall we go within?' Sabin indicated the hostel from which the porter had emerged. 'We could have a room to ourselves while we wait to embark.' His voice was devoid of suggestion but his gaze was eloquent.

She slanted him a look through her lashes. In the gloaming, her eyes were dark but he knew that in daylight they were the blue-green of a sunlit sea. 'That would be welcome,' she said, the formal words belied by the mischief and frank lust dancing in her expression. If Lora's list of conquests was not as long as Sabin's, it was because she had more recently come to the battlefield. It was of her own will that she chose to end the hunt. Had she wanted, she could have sailed on King Henry's ship, instead of remaining to dally with the revellers . . . with one reveller in particular.

He turned her on his arm to face the torchlight spilling from the drinking house. Tipsy laughter and overloud conversation beckoned the couple as they picked their way across the straw-littered mire of the street to the door. So did the stares of three well-armed and relatively sober soldiers who had also not sailed with the King.

Sabin swept a giggling Lora into his arms, carried her over the threshold and deposited her on a trestle bench. 'A flagon of your best wine if you have any left,' he commanded the tavern-keeper. 'And food to soak it up.'

'There's just one keg, sir.' The landlord wiped his hands on

the cloth at his belt. 'But it's supposed to go to Prince William's ship with the rest.'

Sabin fished in his pouch and withdrew a handful of silver - winnings from an earlier game of dice. 'It isn't now,' he said with a wolfish grin. 'A flagon for me and the lady, and share the rest around.' He cast his gaze into the murky corners of the hostel and snorted with contempt to see a youth slumped over a trestle, one hand curled slackly around a cup. Sabin strode over to the table and, lifting the mop of fair-gold hair, looked into the slack, pickled features of his youngest half-brother. 'Simon?'

The youth blinked owlishly. 'Is it time to go?' he slurred, and belched a miasma of sour wine fumes into Sabin's face.

'No. I was just making sure that you were still alive.' Sabin's mouth curled in good-humoured scorn. 'Looks as if you've sunk enough to float a galley.'

"S good wine. You should try it. . .' The lad's head thudded back onto the trestle and he began to snore, saliva drooling from his open mouth.

He was going to have a head like a bell tower on Easter morn when he awoke, Sabin thought with grim amusement. If Simon's mother and stepfather could see him now, they would be furious - and as much with him as the boy. Whenever there was trouble, it was so often Sabin's fault that even when he was innocent he frequently got the blame.

Abandoning his half-brother to his sotted slumber, he returned to Lora. The generous scattering of silver had prompted the landlord to find half a roasted hen, a wheaten loaf and a compote of apples stewed in honey. 'If you have a quieter place where myself and the lady can dine in peace, I will not be ungrateful.' Sabin touched the pouch at his belt with emphasis.

The tavern-keeper raised a knowing eyebrow and, placing the food on a tray, started for the door. 'This way, sir,' he said.

Sabin caught his sleeve. 'I'll ask you to watch out for the lad too.' He jerked his head in the direction of the almost comatose Simon.

'As if he were my own, sir.' The landlord gave a mildly sardonic bow and, straightening up, led Sabin and Lora to a chamber at the rear of the hostel. There was a large public dormitory on the floor above the drinking room, but the landlord had found it profitable to provide accommodation offering a degree more privacy. His wife had thought him mad when he converted the old hay store. Now she dressed in blue Flemish wool and thanked his business sense.

The pleasantly appointed chamber boasted a bench against one wall, a central hearth burning charcoal for heat without smoke, a handsome enamelled coffer and, most importantly, a capacious bed with a feather mattress. The landlord placed the tray on the coffer and lit candles in the wall niches either side of the bed. He accepted his payment from Sabin with a murmur and bowed out of the door.

Sabin listened for the click of the latch, then turned to Lora with a bright, incorrigible grin. 'I have been dreaming of this for weeks now. You and me and a bed.' Going to the flagon, he poured two cups of wine.

Lora swayed over to him. Removing the goblet from his hand, she dipped in her index finger, withdrew it, and slowly sucked from base to polished nail-tip. In the candle shadow, her eyes were as black as sin. 'I hope you make it worth my while,' she purred, dipping her finger again, this time reaching up to outline his lips. The sheer eroticism of the gesture almost made Sabin grab her, throw her onto the bed, and take her fully clothed like a common street whore.

'In full measure!' he said in a lust-constricted voice. His hand trembled as he pushed down her hood and took the gold pins from her veil. Her braids shimmered like the leaves of a copper beech in late summer and she smelled intoxicatingly of cinnamon and roses.

'You do know that poaching the King's game is a dangerous sport,' she cautioned impishly. Her forefinger collared his throat with jewelled red droplets.

'I'm a dangerous man, sweetheart,' he muttered and set his

hands at her waist, drawing her hip to hip. It was at once a relief and a frustration.

She laughed and rubbed against him. 'That is what everyone says. I have been warned more than once to stay away from you.'

'And obviously paid no heed to the warnings.'

'Oh, I've paid them every heed. But my curiosity is the greater. I want to know how true the rumours are.'

'What rumours?'