The Falcons of Montabard (42 page)

'You think so? Then why offer such generous terms at the start? It would usually take days of negotiation to reach that point.'

'Perhaps because he doesn't expect you to yield,' Sabin said. 'Perhaps he doesn't want you to yield because his satisfaction will lie in humiliating you and wreaking vengeance on the garrison.'

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'But no one is going to open the gates to him or let his followers inside,' said Waleran of Birejek, 'so how does he intend to take this place without siege machinery? He cannot afford to tarry. Our own army will be here any day.'

Sabin swirled the remaining wine in his cup and looked at Waleran. 'I think that he intends to undermine one of the tower walls and make a breach that way,' he said. 'I did notice carts heaped with faggots and brushwood and panniers of spades. I would say that come sunset, he will begin undermining our walls and if that is the case, we perhaps have less grace than we imagine.'

Baldwin's mouth tightened. 'You speak my own concerns aloud,' he said. 'But I consider the walls strong enough to hold out until our army arrives. I have faith in Joscelin.' He stared around the gathering of men. 'I stand by my word. Who stands with me?'

Whatever doubts some of them, including Sabin, may have harboured, they all shouted their support for Baldwin. It was a matter of pride and principle. Besides, no one believed for a moment Balak's sugared terms of surrender. They had no choice.

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Chapter 26

T Mhey will kill us, won't they?' Mariamne's voice was I calm, her hand steady as she poured the wine. JL. Strongf ist cupped his hand around the bowl of the goblet. 'They have to break through first,' he said gruffly. 'Do not let it worry you.'

She gave him a withering look. 'I hear the sound of them mining the walls day and night and there is no sign of succour on the horizon. I am not a child to have my fears comforted by a soothing pat on the head.'

'Then why ask in the first place?' Sabin had heard the beginning of the conversation. Now he straddled the bench beside Strongfist and thrust out his own drinking cup. 'Is that not what you were seeking
-
comfort?' There was no shortage of wine to assuage their increasing extremity, although no one was getting drunk on it. The fact that there was wine at all in a former Muslim stronghold owed much to the raiding abilities of Balak's forces and the garrison commander's penchant for the brew of the grape.

Mariamne glared at Sabin. 'No,' she said so curtly that he knew he had caught her on the raw. She served him without a tremor.

'Of course they will kill us if they break through,' Sabin said. 'Or most of us anyway. Nor will you be spared for your sex. Is that what you wanted to hear?'

Her lips formed an arid smile. 'It is not what I wanted to hear,

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but you confirm what I have been thinking.
¹
Her glance flickered to another trestle where Baldwin was taking a brief respite from his command to play chess with Waleran of Birejek. 'The King will not surrender . . . but then it is not he who will die.'

'And you think that we should abscond over the walls at night before we do?'

'Yes I do,' she said. 'But I know that I am crying in the wilderness for all the heed any of you will pay.'

'Anyone escaping over the walls has still to win past Balak's army,' Sabin said. 'And then cross the river.'

'Joscelin of Edessa did it.'

'With two experienced Armenian guides. And there is only one Joscelin of Edessa. Besides, Joscelin walked out of the gates and all he had to do was get past Balak's outriders, not his entire army.'

Strongfist cleared his throat and gave Sabin a look that warned him not to press the point. 'We will do what we can,' he said, the heartiness of his tone ringing false.

Mariamne shook her head and moved away to serve others. Strongfist grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. 'Why do I feel as if that woman has my bollocks in her hands?' he said.

'Probably because she does.' Sabin set his wine aside because its dark strength was cloying his palate.

'Is there a way out - if it comes to the crux?'

Sabin pursed his lips. 'Over the walls by rope,' he said. 'But that's hardly something you can do by stealth unless you are swift and the guards outside not vigilant. You could bribe Balak's guards, but it is difficult to know what with. We are not men of high importance and privilege like the King. Disguise might work, but not for long. I speak some Arabic, but not of the local dialect. . . and if we had a woman with us, that would immediately arouse suspicion.'

'She could disguise herself as a man.'

Sabin looked pained and bit down on his thumbnail. 'You are entering the realm of a troubadour's tale,' he said.

Outside the sound of mining ceased. The men in the hall

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held their breath and looked at each other. Faintly, through the open shutters, the cry of a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer pierced the taut silence.

Sabin slumped on the trestle and Strongfist washed his hands over his face. They both knew that once the miners had dug far enough beneath the foundations of the tower, they would fill the tunnel with brushwood and set it alight. The fire would burn through the props and bring the tower tumbling down, giving Balak's men an opening into Kharpurt. This time, however, the miners had only stopped in order to pray.

'We should pray too,' Baldwin raised his voice. 'All of you, on your knees, and make obeisance to God.' Crossing himself, he knelt and bowed his head. Everyone followed suit and for a moment the room was filled with the sound of scraping benches, clinking armour fittings and the rustle of clothing as men followed Baldwin's example. Then there was silence. They had no priest to lead them in prayers; each man was alone with God. Sabin wondered how many were bargaining for their lives. I will never sin again if you let me live. I will give half of all I own to the Church. I will offer my son to Christ . . . Behind the walls, beyond the reach of their Frankish arrows, doubtless slender brown-skinned men were striking similar bargains with Allah.

'Thy will be done,' Sabin murmured.

'God helps those who help themselves,' responded Manamne from close by. Despite himself, Sabin was amused and almost choked on suppressing a laugh.

A hundred miles away, the same saying was on Annais's lips, much to the consternation of the other women of the household.

'My lady, it is too dangerous!' Soraya's gaze was wide with anxiety.

Annais stiffened her spine. 'Queen Morphia has ridden north to aid her husband's cause, and it is only fitting that I should join her — to pay my respects and offer support. I can

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find out more about my father and my husband if I join the court. There is nothing I can do at Montabard save bite my nails to the quick and worry myself into a stupor.'

Soraya wrung her hands. 'But at least you are safe here.'

The young woman's tone roused Annais from the morass of her own concerns. Paying proper attention to Soraya, she saw her fear. 'I will be safe at court too,' she said. 'Queen Morphia is hardly going to ride into the heart of Balak's territory. She has her daughters with her and the youngest is little older than my son. Guillaume will have plenty of attention.'

'You are taking the baby?' Soraya looked horrified.

'Of course. I do not know how long I will be gone. There will be nurses and maids attached to the queen's household. I am not asking you to accompany me.'

'But Guillaume is used to me.'

'So he is, but he's young enough to adapt.'

Soraya bit her lip. Annais fought her impatience. Soraya had come to Montabard as a spoil of war, had converted to Christianity and married Durand. She was pragmatic, and strong in her own quiet way, but she had never once left the security of these walls since that time. 'It is your decision,' Annais said. 'I will not force you. Of course, your husband will be leading my escort. Think on it.'

Leaving the women, she entered the inner chamber and went to her travelling coffer. She would need her court gown — the one of cream silk in which she had been wed. And she would need sensible travelling garments. Cotton and linen for the heat of the day, wool and fur to keep her warm at night and protect her from the mountain winds. Morphia was currently lodging in Antioch with the Patriarch, but would soon leave for Edessa's main city of Turbessel. The army of Jerusalem was already on its way there.

Letice followed her. 'You are certain about doing this?' she said with a troubled frown.

Annais busied herself fetching items to place in the coffer.'I have been certain ever since I heard that Queen Morphia was

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bringing her court to the north. She could have sent representatives, but she chose to come herself and bring her children.'

Letice considered her gravely without speaking.

'You think me foolish?' Annais's tone sharpened.

'No,' Letice said slowly. 'In your place I would probably do the same, but since my heart is not engaged, I can stand back and worry for you.'

Annais's chin trembled. She wanted to say that there was no need, but it wasn't true. Sometimes she felt like a thread unravelling from what had been solidly woven cloth, and with no notion of how to restore the pattern. 'I would know if they were dead,' she said and blinked as her eyes stung. 'Wouldn't I? I would know.' She gave Letice a beseeching look.

Compassion softened the other woman's gaze. Coming to Annais, she put her arms around her shoulders and kissed her temple like a mother. 'Yes,' she said. 'You would know.' Even if it wasn't the truth, at least it was a sustaining lie.

Strongfist was coming from his duty on watch to snatch a few hours' sleep when Mariamne called to him. Pausing in mid-stride, he turned and went to her. She was standing at the foot of the tower where Balak's troops were undermining the foundations. A basket of bread was looped over one arm and the ever-present water jar rested at her feet.

'Well?' she said. 'No shine of armour on the horizon to report?'

He shook his head. 'No.'

She tilted her head. 'It will be moonless tonight. Perhaps now is the time to consider putting a rope over the wall.'

Strongfist pushed his hand against his sword hilt. 'If you wish to go, I will hold and lower the rope,' he said, 'but do not expect me to leave the King.'

'No, you are too honourable for that.' Her tone was mocking. 'You would rather die at his feet like a faithful dog.'

Strongfist swallowed the retort about faithless bitches that came first to his lips. 'It will be better if you wear men's clothing,' he said.

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She laughed and her eyes gleamed. 'Would it now?' She pushed her tongue into her cheek and looked at him through her lashes. 'I dare say I could lay my hands on some.'

Strongfist opened and closed his fists. He knew where he wanted to lay
his
hands. Mariamne stepped closer until they were almost touching. 'Would you like to see me in hose and braies?'

His throat closed. He raised his clenched fist but when he stroked her cheek with his knuckles, it was a tender caress. When he had faced her for the first time in Kharpurt, he had sworn an oath that he would have naught to do with her, but in the days of their besieging, it had been impossible to keep. She had been everywhere: fetching, carrying, cooking and tending. He had half expected her to try to attach herself to Waleran or Baldwin because of their status, but she behaved towards them no differently than to any of the men. Sabin she actively avoided, and he treated her with the frozen courtesy that Strongfist had come to realise was out of his own reach. He still ached unbearably when she was near.

'You know how I would like to see you,' he muttered. His other hand spread at her waist and drew her against him.

She laughed and reached up to stroke his short beard. 'Tell me . . .'

Strongfist opened his mouth, but his words were stolen by the violent shuddering of the ground beneath his feet. It was like the time he had stood on the battlefield at Dorylaeum as a young footsoldier and felt the vibration of hooves as the Saracens pounded towards their lines on their swift Turcoman horses.

'What in God's name—'

Mariamne screamed as the walls above them shimmered as if in a heat haze. The shimmer became a ripple and the ripple a wave. A huge crack ripped up through the tower walls, sundering rock from mortar. Stones bounced and the air filled with the roar of tumbling masonry.

Strongfist seized Mariamne's arm and ran. Boulders and dust rained down, pounding, bouncing, splintering to send out

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lethal shards, and the rumbling sound increased until it blotted out all else. Dust filled Strongfist's lungs. A sudden blow to his back punched the wind from his lungs, tore his grip from Mariamne's sleeve and sent him sprawling. Mariamne screamed again, the sound cut off in mid-shrill and overpowered by the thunder of falling rubble.

Retching, choking for breath, Strongfist struggled to his feet. Mariamne lay two paces behind him, her body pinned beneath a slab of rock. Dust boiled around them and the tower was a jumbled pile of rubble, still quivering and settling. Blood ran from Strongfist's temple into his eye, but he felt neither the pain nor the heat of the trickle. All he knew was that in a moment Balak's army would be swarming over those stones and he was standing directly in their path. Desperation lent him the strength of Samson, and he heaved the boulder from the middle of Mariamne's back as if it were made of no more than a balled-up piece of parchment. Her eyes were closed. Blood trickled from her nose and the corner of her mouth, but she was still breathing. Strongfist swept her up across the back of his shoulders like a shepherd with a stray lamb, and staggered towards the undamaged buildings. He was vaguely aware of Sabm sprinting out to help him, of lurching up tower stairs that seemed to spiral for ever, and at last, with bursting lungs and darkening vision, of yielding his burden and falling to his knees. He hunched over, wheezing, gagging, barely aware of the others in the room: the King, Waleran, Ernoul, several knights.