The Falcons of Montabard (11 page)

Strongfist scowled at him. 'Fergus, this isn't my son,' he said irritably. 'This is my travelling companion Sabin FitzSimon, son of the Earl of Northampton.'

'Bastard son of the Earl of Northampton,' Sabin qualified with a bow. 'And on crusade for my own good and everyone else's.'

Fergus hesitated while he assimilated the information. Then he belted Sabin's shoulder again. 'Well, whatever your parentage, you're welcome. Any companion of Edmund's is one of mine too. I assume you're escaping trouble at home, but you don't need to speak of it. Most of the youngsters who arrive here are on the run. You don't get many pious ones, and then they're usually raving mad.'

'I can assure you that I'm as sane as you are, my lord,' Sabin said gravely.

The Scotsman bellowed with laughter. 'That'll stand ye in

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good stead,' he said and returned his attention to Strongfist. 'You said raising a child?'

'My daughter Annais. She was overcome by the heat. Your wife and her lady are caring for her.'

'Ah, the lassie I passed just now. Don't you worry. Margaret and Mariamne will sort her out. If I had even half a bezant for every newcomer who's dropped o' the heat stroke, then I'd be a rich man.' Fergus clapped his hands and a servant arrived, soft-footed, white-robed. 'Wine for our guests,' he said, 'and sherbet.'

Strongfist glanced around. 'You appear to be a rich man already. When I left for England, all you had were those poxy lodgings in Malquisnet Street and your sword.'

Fergus flashed a smile. 'You should have stayed. Why go home to toil for that ungrateful family of ours when you could have stayed and reaped the rewards? I have estates to administer in the north, fishing villages up the coast near Arsuf, and this house in the city. You could have had the same.'

'I made a promise to my father that I would come home if I lived,' Strongfist said defensively. 'I have never broken a promise in my life . . .'

'I suppose not. You swore you would return to Jerusalem and here you are.' Fergus rumpled one hand through the abundant red fluff on top of his head. 'It's not too late, mind, which was the reason I wrote to ye. Indeed,' he said with a sudden twinkle in his eyes, 'as it happens, you might just be in time. Mariamne's recently widowed and there are some fine lands lacking a lord and master. What's more, they are in my gift to appoint.'

Lady Margaret unbound Annais's wimple and in its place laid a moist citrus-scented cloth across her flushed brow. 'You need lighter clothing, child.' She plucked at the heavy linen gown, which was Annais's best summer one. 'This might do for an evening when there is a chill breeze, but it is no use in the heat of the day.'

'I have a gown that might fit,' said the other woman. Her

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voice was cool and light, like pale wine. She moved with feline grace to a painted enamelled coffer standing at the side of the room, unfastened the brass hasps and threw back the lid.

A serving woman entered the room bearing a tray on which stood three goblets of green chalcedony. She stooped to Annais, who took one of the goblets and looked with bemusement at the semi-liquid mush floating within, pale dirty yellow against the green of the cup. The stone was not just cool but icy in her hands and felt wonderful.

'Sherbet,' said Margaret. 'The wine here is excellent, but it is better to drink such as this in the heat of the day.'

Annais took a sip and recoiled at the assault on her palate -sour, frozen, but with an underlying tang of sweetness. She had encountered lemon a couple of times in her life - once at a banquet at Branton to celebrate her cousin's knighthood where strips of rind had been served in a curd cake, and once in Spain on their journey here when it had been squeezed into honey and water and all that she had been able to keep down. But neither had prepared her for this sharp intensity of flavour.

'You do not like it?' Margaret asked, watching her.

'Oh . . . no. It is wonderful, but strange.' Annais sipped again, relishing the cold on her tongue and the way the little ice crystals melted against the roof of her mouth. 'Where do you get the ice from when it is so hot outside?'

'It is brought down from the mountains by donkey and camel trains and stored in deep pits in the ground, insulated by hides and hay. Of course it is a luxury and Fergus grumbles about the cost, but not so much that he will give it up.' She chuckled heartily. 'Nor would I let him.'

Annais drank and drank again, beginning to revel in the tastes and the textures. The lady Mariamne closed the lid of her coffer and returned with a gown over her arm. Russet silk, scalloped with gold embroidery, shimmered across her arm. 'We are much of a size,' she said diffidently. 'See if this gown will fit you until you can find something more suitable.'

Annais stared at the fabric. It shone like a still pond at sunset

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or the hide of a sorrel horse at noonday. No one had gowns like that in England unless they were of the noblest rank. The Prioress at Coldingham would have looked upon the garment with censorious eyes. 'My lady, I cannot. Surely it is your best gown.'

Mariamne FitzPeter looked mildly amused. 'For certain it is not my workaday dress,' she said, 'but I have more and finer. Here in Outremer people dress differently. Robed as you are, you might be mistaken for a peasant.'

The words were spoken with a smile, but Annais did not miss the slight narrowing of the lovely eyes. Like a cat, there were claws and they were ready to scratch. 'It is very generous of you, my lady, thank you.'

Mariamne gave a little shrug that asked what else could she have done in the circumstances. 'I am glad to be of help. You will need a headdress too.'

'I have one that will suit,' Margaret said quickly, keen not to be outdone.

Annais found herself stripped of her linen gown and under -shift. At first she tried to stop them, but the women were so matter-of-fact about the process and so determined to have their way that it became easier to yield.

'You're not in England now,' Margaret said briskly as she tossed Annais's shift and gown into a basket. 'You will find that people bathe here far more often than they do back at home. It cools the blood and we have enough stenches with which to contend without adding to them.'

'But don't the priests object?'

Margaret snorted. 'Most of them are first in line at the bathhouses,' she said, 'those who don't have baths in their own homes.'

The serving woman brought a bowl of tepid water that had been scented with a few precious drops of rose oil and Annais was lightly sponged down. The feel of the water drying on her skin was heavenly and a slight breeze filtering through the latticed shutters only added to the pleasure of the sensation.

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Her hair was unbraided and that too was sponged before being secured again in two plaits.

'I married Fergus after my first husband died of a flux,' Margaret said as she helped Annais to don a light cotton chemise, 'so I did not know him in the days when he and your father were together. He often spoke of his cousin Edmund though, and of Edmund's strength and fortitude.' She tied the chemise at Annais's throat, fingers fussing. 'When Fergus spoke of seeing him again, I humoured him without believing it would come true. Men who leave Outremer for twenty years seldom return.'

'It was always my father's dream,' Annais said. 'He only returned to England because of his promise to my grandfather. Then he met my mother and I was born. He set the dream to one side, but he never put it away and it was always understood that he was marking the time until he could come back.'

And what of the young man who is with you?' Mariamne spoke out for the first time as she handed the russet silk dress to Lady Margaret. 'Is he a relative?'

Annais glanced up. The woman's blue eyes held a gleam and the carmine lips were slightly parted. 'No, my lady,' she answered, feeling wary, although she did not know why. 'His name is Sabin FitzSimon and he is kin to the Earl of Northampton. He is here to make a pilgrimage in respect of his father's soul and to offer his sword to the King of Jerusalem for a while.'

Ah,' said Margaret. A boy adventurer.'

Annais did not contradict her for the words described Sabin well. Mariamne FitzPeter said nothing, but the red lips pursed and a furrow appeared between the shapely black eyebrows.

The women dressed Annais in the copper-coloured silk, its surface glossily reflecting the light. Margaret tied the cords from armpit to hip so that the dress clung tightly to breast and waist before flaring in extravagant folds to the floor. Annais gazed down at herself. Since the chemise was so light and the

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fabric of the gown so thin, she could see the outline of her nipples. The Prioress at Coldingham would have fallen down in an apoplexy at the sight of such wanton exposure. She was certain that her father would not approve. It might wring a response from Sabin, but of the sort that would only make her father even more agitated. Yet she could not screech that it was the dress of a harlot because its owner was walking around her, tweaking and adjusting the folds of the skirt.

'It suits you well,' Margaret said with an encouraging nod.

Annais was uncertain. 'Is it not a little too tight?'

'No, it looks perfect, although you need a belt. With a waist as narrow as that, it would be criminal not to show it off.' Thoroughly enjoying the moment, Margaret darted away to another coffer, rummaged, and returned with a length of woven gold braid. She passed it twice around Annais's waist and folded it over. Two weighted fillets of decorated gold dangled at the ends, which hung at the level of her shins. 'I have always missed having a daughter to dress,' Margaret said. 'I bore only sons and they're away squiring. Besides, you know what boys are like — they don't gild the lily as girls do.'

Annais certainly enjoyed gilding the lily, but there had been small opportunity in her life to indulge in such pleasure, and her upbringing had set a restraint on her desires. She ran her palms over the sheer silk, so luxurious, so different from the heavy linen garment she had just discarded.

'My father might think the gown is not modest,' she said nervously as Margaret floated a veil of golden gauze over her braids and fastened it with exquisite pins of ivory and gold. 'I have been raised in a convent for the past five years and he is accustomed to seeing me in more sombre dress.'

'If he's to stay in Jerusalem, then he'll soon have to unac-custom himself,' Margaret retorted, her lips firming. 'Unless, of course, you are to enter a convent here?'

Annais shook her head. 'I was lodged with the sisters at Coldingham for my education, not because I was intended for the Church.'

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Margaret stepped back to examine the finished result. 'Well, then. You will find there is fierce competition for husbands in Outremer. You need to take every advantage that nature has given you in order to snare one.'

Since Annais's immediate goal was not snaring a husband, she said nothing, but looked suitably attentive, a skill she had developed at Coldingham and necessary sometimes when the Prioress was in a lecturing mood.

It was with trepidation that she let the women lead her back to the original room, but when she arrived it was to find that her father and Sabin had also been given occasion to refresh themselves. Her father had changed into a cotton tunic obviously borrowed from Fergus, and Sabin had removed his gambeson and was wearing his Norman court robe of maroon silk. Both men had goblets in their hands, although the smell was of wine, not sherbet.

Her father's eyes bulged at sight of the russet gown, as she had known they would, and blood darkened the sun-flush across his cheekbones.

'Sir Edmund, I have lent your daughter one of my own gowns,' said Mariamne FitzPeter, stepping quickly into the space where Strongfist drew breath for a tirade. 'I know that the fashion may seem somewhat immodest to your eyes, but it is the mode of dress worn by the women of the court, including the Queen. Of course, she would cover herself with a shawl if she went out in public. If it meets not with your approval, you will soon be able to attire her more fittingly from the fabric markets.'

Strongfist opened and closed his mouth as if he were a fish hooked from the water and cast gasping on the bank.

'Aye, the lass looks gey bonny,' Fergus said, his own voice filled with admiration and approval. 'It would have been foolish to keep her in that heavy sack she was wearing before.'

Strongfist scowled. 'Surely no more foolish than exposing her thus?'

Fergus shook his head. 'It is the way of things here, man,'

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he said almost pityingly. 'You can always tell the newcomers from those who have dwelt here a while by their clothing and their ways. The sooner you adapt, the better you will settle. Look at my wife, look at Lady Mariamne.' He gestured to the other women's attire. 'If you missay your daughter, then you missay them too.'

Strongfist stared at Annais with a mingling of dismay and shock. When he had collected her from the convent, it had been simple to think of her as still little more than a child. The dark, sombre garments had concealed her curves, and her attitude had been demure and grave, giving few overt signals of femininity - or certainly none that had made him think of her in the sense of a blossoming woman. When he had been warning Sabin away, he had been warning him against damaging a child. Now he could not avoid the fact that his daughter was a woman, ripe for the notice of men. In Christ's name how could they
not
notice her in that gown! She had her mother's rich dark hair and doe-brown eyes. Before he would have said that she was pretty as all young women were pretty, but the colour and cut of that gown made all the difference.

Somehow, he drew his wits together from the four corners where his daughter's emergence from her chrysalis had scattered them. 'I mean no disrespect,' he said slowly. 'You are right, Fergus. Matters are different in England. Even at the royal court, the women would be hard pressed to follow such fashions. You must give me some leeway to grow accustomed.' He took a deep swallow of his wine and watched Mariamne move across to Sabin and refill his cup, leaning towards the young man and smiling.