The Falcons of Montabard (44 page)

Annais was not so sure, but the Queen's command and a goblet of heavily sugared wine bolstered her resolve. Morphia

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was right. They had the bare facts without the clothing of detail. That would come later, and there was no gain in moping in a corner and thinking the worst.

The Queen set about cementing diplomatic relations and opening talks, not only with Balak's representatives to discuss a ransom price, but also with Balak's allies and enemies. No road was to be left untravelled lest it lead to a way out of the crisis.

Annais was occupied from dawn until dusk: fetching, carrying, attending the Queen at formal meetings, and taking her turn with the children. She played her harp to soothe the spirits and entertain the nobles who came and went at the royal summons. Time to worry was in short supply and mostly found at night on the edges of slumber or in chapel when prayers were led for the souls of those who had died and those who they hoped still lived. Annais was always surprised to see her prayer beads still round and full when she emerged from these sessions, for she was certain that her busy fingers ought to have worn them away.

Joscelin returned to Turbessel with the army, intent on a brief respite and garnering of more troops before moving on to harass Balak's territory around Aleppo. He could tell the women no more than they knew already. Baldwin and the remnants of his bodyguard had been removed to Harran. The identity of the survivors was unknown.

'Unless we press Balak very hard, there will be no ransom,' he said grimly on a visit to Morphia's chambers shortly after his arrival. 'He is not to be reasoned with.'

Morphia narrowed her almond-shaped dark eyes. 'Not at all?'

Joscelin let out a harsh breath and dug his hands through his receding straw-coloured hair. 'Not that I would call reason. He wanted Edessa from me. I doubt he'll settle for less from Baldwin. The only ransom he will accept is one that will beggar the kingdom of Jerusalem — especially after what happened at

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Kharpurt. What we do is harry him and strike at his interests,' he said, 'make his underbelly so sore that he changes his mind about what is reasonable.'

'Will that not bring fresh danger upon my husband?' Morphia remained quite still, only betrayed by the gentle quiver of one of her ear jewels which glimmered silky grey in the window light. 'Supposing he changes his mind to Baldwin's detriment - tosses him over Harran's wall?'

'He can no more afford to do that than he can currently afford to let Baldwin go. Trust me.' Joscelin touched Morphia's rigid shoulder. 'I laid my own chains of captivity on the altar of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. So will Baldwin lay his.'

Morphia smiled, but her eyes were shadowed. 'I pray you are right,' she said.

Sitting in silent attendance, pretending to sew, Annais saw the weariness in Morphia's expression. The Queen drew a deep breath and braced her spine. Beneath the gossamer silk of her veil, her throat gave a single ripple. Unlike prayer beads, the human spirit was worn down by the constant pressure of their predicament. To see the moment of doubt was oddly comforting to Annais. It was a glimpse beneath Morphia's iron control to the vulnerable woman beneath.

It was the waiting that took its toll, Annais thought. The long, interminable waiting, and the war in the soul between hope and despair.

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Chapter 27

Half a day's ride from Harran, Balak's army halted in an abandoned village and made camp for the night. The Turkish commander in charge of the Frankish prisoners bade them dismount and set six of his men to guard the King, Waleran and Ernoul with poised spears. Sabin and Strongfist, being of lesser rank, were taken under close scrutiny to fetch furze and kindling from the backs of two laden donkeys standing among the pack beasts. The Saracens saw no reason why they should toil in the service of the Franks when the Franks could do it themselves.

Sabin loosened a bundle of kindling and hefted it to his shoulder. It was a task he had performed several times now on their march. From what he had been able to glean, they would arrive at Harran on the morrow. The notion of being shut up in darkness again filled him with dread. One night had been sufficient to set a tremor in his fingers. Any longer than that and his captors would have been treated to the sight of a crawling, gibbering wreck.

'Do you think Joscelin has reached Kharpurt yet?' Strongfist asked as he shouldered his own bundle of kindling. He had survived the first shock of his wife's death and the slaughter at Kharpurt, but the grape-coloured shadows beneath his eyes and the lines between nose and mouth revealed the toll taken upon him.

Sabin shrugged. 'Whether he has or not is of no consequence.

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The bird is now in a different cage - or will be soon.'

'No talk,' said their guard in heavily accented French, wagging his finger back and forth.

Sabin tightened his mouth and began to walk, his shoulders hunched to bear the burden of the firewood. Suddenly the ground beneath his feet shook as it had done on the day that the tower collapsed.

'What. . . ?' Strongfist's gaze widened in alarm. The donkey brayed in terror, kicked up its heels and bolted, catching Strongfist a blow with its rump that sent him sprawling. Sabin dropped the firewood. Behind them, the deserted building shook as if the mud bricks of which it was fashioned were turning to liquid. The guard's horse reared and plunged, eyes rolling with terror. A chunk of baked mud from one of the buildings flew through the air and struck the guard a crushing blow to the back of his skull. He fell without a sound, twitched and was still. The ground continued to rumble, shivering buildings to rubble, tumbling the scrubby thorn trees, panicking the horses and mules. Terror and confusion boiled with the dust.

Coughing, Sabin stooped to the dead Saracen, appropriated his spear and scimitar, grabbed his mount's bridle and vaulted into the saddle. As another loose horse plunged past him, Sabin seized the reins, brought the beast around and yelled to Strongfist who was staggering dazedly to his feet.

'Quickly!' Sabin cried, thrusting the reins into Strongfist's hand.

'The King—' Strongfist looked over his shoulder.

'—is out of reach. Hurry, man!'

Strongfist grabbed the bridle and hauled himself across the horse's withers. Beneath them, the growl of the earth was shuddering to a halt and the billows of dust were beginning to settle. The entire movement of the earth had lasted for less than sixty heartbeats.

'Hah!' Sabin yelled to his mount and lashed the reins down on its neck. Already frightened, the horse leaped forward. A turbaned figure barred his way and Sabin used the scimitar.

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The figure screamed and fell away. Sabin pounded the horse's flanks and the beast took the bit between its teeth and bolted, with Strongfist's mount racing at its tail.

Through clouds of grit and debris the horses galloped into the dusk. A whine of arrows chased them and the thunder of pursuit, but both were soon halted. Sabin supposed that he and Strongfist were the least important of the Frankish hostages. It mattered less that they escaped than that Baldwin should be prevented from following their example.

By the time Sabin and Strongfist had managed to control their blowing horses, the sky was livid violet in the west, streaked with a deep line of vermilion-red. The road was strewn with boulders shaken down from the hillsides by the force of the earth tremors, and Sabin marvelled that neither animal had slipped and broken a leg in the headlong flight.

A chill wind was blowing down the pass, leaching the remnants of heat from the end of the day. Sabin's teeth began to chatter as reaction set in. Gingerly he slackened the reins and allowed his foam-flecked mount to pick its way down the path in such light as remained to them. But soon he had to dismount and lead the horse, his own legs trembling like those of a newborn foal.

'You know they will kill us if they catch up with us,' Strongfist said as he too dismounted and paused for a moment, leaning his weight against his horse's flank.

'Better to take our chance than be locked up again,' Sabin said. 'Besides, since we are the most expendable, there would be nothing to stop them killing us in Harran. Baiak only needs Baldwin.' He handed Strongfist the lance he had taken from their Saracen guard. 'Here, it's only half a weapon, but better than nothing.'

Strongfist closed his fingers around the haft. A pale silver moon was rising, escorted by a handmaiden's scattering of stars.

'We couldn't have brought Baldwin with us,' Sabin said. 'Even in the chaos he was too well guarded.'

Strongfist's face contorted. 'You are right, of course,' he said.

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'And you see straight to the heart of my discomfort.' He hefted the spear, testing its balance. 'What now?'

'Keep moving,' Sabin said. 'Follow the sky and the stars westwards until we reach friends.'

'You think Balak will come for us?'

Sabin shrugged. 'They may send out hunting parties from Harran, but we are only small fry. It will be humiliating to lose us, but I am sure Balak can live with it while he still has Baldwin.'

Strongfist looked unhappy at the reminder.

'You remember what Mariamne said in church?' Sabin touched his arm.

'What?'

'God helps those who help themselves . . . and we can best serve Baldwin by doing just that.' Turning to his horse, he groped in the compact roll behind the saddle. 'Flat bread and goat's cheese,' he said. 'At least we have food. Look in yours.'

Strongfist did so, emerging with some strips of dried meat, and a chunk of boiled sugar, studded with almond slivers and sesame seeds. It was enough to nourish them overnight, and there was a three-quarters-full waterskin on Sabin's saddle.

They exchanged half shares and, leading the horses, began to pick their way westwards.

In Turbessel, the earth tremors had brought down several buildings and given the town the sort of rattling meted out by a housewife shaking a pan over the fire. Morphia's exquisite set of Tyrian glass goblets had crashed from the sideboard shattering all but two, and a groom had suffered a crushed hand when a door had swung shut across his knuckles. Annais had been wide-eyed with fear at first, thinking that the wrath of God was being visited upon them, but Morphia and Countess Maria had taken the event in their stride.'Not a year goes by without some shuddering of the earth,' Morphia told her. 'Perhaps not so much in Jerusalem, but here it is a part of life . . . like riding a nervous horse. You grow accustomed.'

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Annais was not sure whether to be comforted or not.

The city walls had withstood the thunder. Accompanied by their women, Morphia and Countess Maria rode out to inspect the damage. Joscelin had left Turbessel in order to harry Aleppo and its environs and, for the moment, the women were nominally in command of the city. They distributed alms in the form of silver coins, food and wine, but although the quake had been sharp, the damage caused was not as great as it might have been. A few houses had been destroyed and part of the wall near the main gate had tumbled.

On the third morning after the quake, Morphia again summoned her grooms and her women and went to see how the rebuilding work was progressing. The sky was hot and blue. Sweat prickled Annais's brow and stung her eyes. The smell of ripe dung wafted on the air, and the sound of loud braying as a train of asses laden with kindling were drawn to the side to let the royal party pass.

As they approached the gates, Morphia's chaplain bestowed alms on the beggars crowding there, but the charity-giving was disturbed by a flurry at the gates themselves. Morphia's guards closed protectively around the Queen and gestured her ladies to draw together, but it swiftly became obvious that the commotion was one of excitement and joy rather than an incipient riot.

Moments later two Saracen horses pranced through the entranceway, a chestnut mare and a bay gelding with tasselled bridles and saddlecloths.

'Jesu . . . Holy Mary, Mother of God!' Annais's hands flew to her mouth, but in shock rather than a belated attempt to smother her oath. Her lips formed her husband's name against the pressure of her fingers and her eyes widened to drink in the sight of the two men astride the horses, surrounded by an escort of grinning, exclaiming soldiers.

'Sabin!' Before the word had been whispered. Now she shrieked it at the top of her lungs, not caring who heard.

His head came up and his eyes sought hers among the crowd. He looked as wild and unkempt as a desert wolf, his hair tangled

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and dusty, a grizzle of beard outlining his jaw. A sheathless scimitar was thrust through his belt and his tunic bore dark stains of blood and sweat. His lips parted and she saw him say her name in reply. Suddenly she was thrusting past the guards, shouldering and pushing her way through the crowd, using her elbows like a fishwife, her only thought to reach him.

Sabin swung from the horse, fought his way to her and, without a care for the onlookers, pulled her fiercely into his arms and crushed his mouth down on hers. It was a rough embrace, devoid of courtliness and consideration . . . and it fulfilled all of Annais's dreams. She kissed him just as fiercely back, her fingers clenching in his long hair, her body arching to his.

Ah God, ah Christ, I dreamed of this when I was on the verge of madness and it kept me whole,' Sabin gasped as they broke the embrace, only to kiss again and again until their lips were bruised and aching.

'I thought... I did not know if you were dead. I told myself not, I would have known . . . but ..." Weeping, laughing, she clung to him. Then Sabin disengaged one arm and turned her on the other to face her father who was watching the two of them with a poignant expression and wet eyes. 'Papa!' she cried and, feeling a strand of guilt at having ignored him, ran from Sabin's embrace into his. New tears poured down her face and she felt her father shaking as he too wept.

'Child, child, I thought I would never see you again . . .' He swallowed deep in his throat, striving for control. 'How is my grandson?'