The Falcons of Montabard (58 page)

Finally he lowered the flagon, wiped his dripping moustache on the cuff of his gambeson, and glanced further round the tent, taking time now to notice the silky gazelle hides beneath his feet, the camp bed with good woollen blankets and a coverlet of fringed silk, the inlaid table on which the flagon had stood. A brass lamp hung from the tent roof on delicate chains and the scent of frankincense lingered in the air. Here was no common soldier's tent, or even that of a moderately prosperous landowner. This must belong to a higher lord, the Saracen equivalent of a baron at least.

Wedged against the side of the tent and topped by a cushion of tasselled red damask was a wooden chest carved with ornate

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geometrical designs. Strongfist caught his breath. Setting the flagon aside, he sat on the bed and used his sword hilt to break the lock. When he threw back the lid, gold bezants shimmered at him, layer upon layer like the scales of a carp. Strongfist's stomach clenched. His eyes burned, but he did not have the moisture to spare for tears. This would go a long way towards the hostages' ransom. He closed the lid and bound the coffer with cord stripped from the side of the bolster. Going outside, he commanded two of his Serjeants to stand guard over the pavilion and its contents, and gave them his banner to plant at the entrance as a symbol of his possession.

There was no hard pursuit of the Saracen army. The destriers could not have kept pace with the swift, light ponies and the Franks had learned to their cost the danger of chasing an enemy who could outrun them and then skirmish from a distance. The carnage of the battlefield and the chaotic baggage camp told their own story of an overwhelming victory.

That night, Strongfist was too exhausted to celebrate. Collapsing onto the pallet of the Saracen lord whose tent he had appropriated, he slept almost as deeply as the dead on the battlefield. In the morning, however, he set about assessing the sum he had gained. To add to the coffer of gold bezants, he had found a smaller one of personal effects: turban jewels, rings, brooches and buckles. Most were of Saracen work, but among them was a jewelled cross on a chain and a set of prayer beads in pearl, amber and gold that had obviously been seized at some point from Christian hands.

Fergus, nursing a wrenched arm from the vigorous axe-wielding of the previous day, eyed the trove with a gleam. He was wearing a green silk tunic that had come from a Saracen lord's abandoned clothing chest and the collar was stiff with embroidery and gems. 'The King will have enough to ransom the hostages twice over,' he said. 'I suppose you've heard that every knight is to pay a contribution.'

'Yes, I'd heard. He can have it all, if it buys back my family.' Strongfist cast an almost disparaging look at the opulence

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surrounding him. 'It makes no difference to me whether I drink out of a golden goblet or common earthenware.' He rubbed his back and felt the sharper twinge of bruises above the ache of strained muscles. Not only had he slept like a corpse, he was as stiff as one this morning.

Fergus grunted. 'It matters tae me. I like my comfort when I can get it, but you're welcome tae everything I have for your womenfolk and the wee scrap . . . aye, and the lad too. You can even have this tunic. The collar's fair irritating me tae death.' He hooked his finger into the neckband and tugged it away from his chafed flesh.

'That is beyond duty. You don't have to . . .'

'I know I don't, but they're my family too.' He grinned at his cousin. 'Besides, I don't have a choice. Baldwin will hang every knight by the heels and shake him until the bezants fall out of his braies.'

Strongfist chuckled at the image. Whatever the situation, he could always count on Fergus to lighten it.

'As soon as the money's gathered and counted, a deputation's to be sent to il Bursuqi.' Fergus watched Strongfist move gingerly across the tent to the entrance. 'Do you think you'll be fit to offer yourself up?'

Strongfist gazed out on the battlefield. The Saracens had come under flag of truce to remove their dead and to open negotiations about the hostages. The corpses that went unclaimed were to be buried in a grave currently being dug for the purpose. He could hear the scrape of shovels as the footsoldiers toiled. Other than their daily pay, their reward was whatever they could strip from the bodies to use or sell. The Frankish dead had been borne with ceremony to Azaz for their interment. All had to be done swiftly. Already the smell of corruption flickered on the air like a buzzing fly waiting to settle. 'I'll be fit.' His tone was grim but resolute. 'Not even the mouth of hell would stop me.' He clenched his fist on the tent post. 'Indeed, after yesterday, I doubt that the mouth of hell would be much of a challenge by comparison.'

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Chapter 38

Sabin raised his shield and fielded the blows that young Joscelin of Edessa launched at him. The wooden sword struck the blazoned leather with a dull thud and rebounded.

'You see,' Sabin said. 'While I hold it tight to my body, and high, you cannot pierce my defences, but if I am careless thus ..." He slackened his grip and showed the boy the vulnerable space into which a blade could slide. 'You must ever be on the lookout for your enemy's weakness while never lowering your own guard.'

Joscelin nodded. His freckled complexion was pink with exertion and his eyes were aglow.

'Now, come at me again. Surprise me.'

The boy attacked with suddenness and vigour, feinting high for Sabin's head and at the last moment cutting low. Sabin's shieldwork was swift and automatic as was the practised ease with which he turned Joscelin's wooden sword with his own and flipped it out of his hand. When the youth looked disheartened, Sabin grinned at him.

'No, that was good, and you were using your head. More practice, more strength, more speed and you will be formidable.'

Scowling, Joscelin went to pick up his sword from the dust. 'But for now I am too slow and weak.'

'I did not say that. You could outmatch most youths of your

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age, and I would not go up against you lightly once you have your manhood.' He lowered the shield to blot his brow. Joscelin gave a yell and launched himself at Sabin, and this time the sword connected with his teacher's body.

Sabin's breath whooshed out and he doubled over. Joscelin lifted the wooden blade and laid it to Sabin's throat. 'That's two killing blows,' he said perkily.

'Both dishonourable!' Sabin choked.

'You said I had to surprise you.' Joscelin hesitated, torn between triumph and dismay. 'If you were my enemy, I would be mad not to take advantage.'

His arm across his midriff, Sabin gingerly straightened. 'Indeed you would,' he said with a wry smile. 'But when it's your tutor, it is decidedly underhand!' He tousled the boy's hair to show that he was jesting.

Joscelin's good humour returned. 'Then I did well?'

'Well enough,' Sabin said, carefully judging his level of enthusiasm. He was pleased with the boy, but did not want him to grow over-confident at this stage. Assurance and ability always worked best together when they were matched.

They had an interested audience of Saracen guards. One in particular was eyeing Sabin and fingering the hilt of his scimitar. He was called Faisal and his brother and cousin had ridden to join il Bursuqi's alliance against the Franks. Faisal had remained at Shaizar and was taking every opportunity to bait the male hostages.

'If that is the best that you Frankish warriors fight, small wonder you dare not face us,' he yelled.

Sabin ignored him. 'I think that will do for today,' he said quietly to Joscelin. 'Even if you are not worn out, I am.' He started to leave the courtyard. Above his head three doves clapped their wings as they took flight from a roof, circled and flew out over Shaizar's walls. If only, he thought.

'You are all cowards.'

'Keep walking,' Sabin said as Joscelin's eyes grew dark at the insult. 'He would like nothing better than an excuse to fight.'

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'Go on, run like women!' A handful of flung stones pattered against their backs. Joscelin made a small sound as one struck his neck and the sharp edge drew blood.

'Inside,' Sabin said, pushing the boy protectively in front of him. But before they could reach the safety of the door, Faisal had run to block their escape. The other guards looked on uneasily. There was some shuffling of feet, but no one moved to intervene, although an older man did sidle away in the direction of the Emir's apartments.

'Get past me, Frank, and you can go hide behind a woman's skirts,' Faisal said as he drew his scimitar from its sheath. The thin edge gleamed, mocking the crude wooden blade in Sabin's hand.

'Let the boy go within,' Sabin said.

The Saracen's dark eyes narrowed. 'No,' he said, his lip curling. 'He wants to learn? We will show him.' The scimitar came down in a slice of light. Sabin parried with the shield and heard the thud of the blade against the hide-covered linden wood. His sword was a toy, and he wasn't wearing any form of body protection. All he had was the shield and his speed . . . and the latter would not last.

The Saracen circled and came in from the side, feinting as the boy had done but with considerably more skill. There was nothing in his eyes to give away what he intended. Sabin guessed right and again thwarted the blade on the shield's hide binding. Faisal snarled and cut high. The edge of the scimitar clipped the top of the shield, narrowly missing Sabin's skull, indeed shaving a lock of hair. As the strands scattered in the breeze, Sabin leaped forward and butted the shield into Faisal's stomach. The iron boss struck him square in the gut and Faisal doubled up with a grunt. Sabin discarded the shield, grasped the muscular brown wrist and twisted. At the same time he brought up his knee into the Saracen's face and felt bone give beneath the pressure. The scimitar dropped from Faisal's fingers and before it struck the ground, it was in Sabin's hand

'Inside!' Sabin snarled again at Joscelin. 'Now. Do it. Don't

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argue.' Seizing his shield, he backed to cover the boy's retreat. Faisal huddled in the dust, crying out like a wounded hare, blood running from his tooth-punctured lip and broken nose. Beyond Faisal, a half-circle of guards fingered their hilts and assessed their chances. Assessing his own, Sabin began a silent recital of the Lord's Prayer and prepared to die. There was no sign of anyone coming to intervene from the Emir's apartments, and one dead Frankish knight would make little difference to the overall hostage agreement. He took several paces back until he was standing in the doorway. As yet the space behind him was clear of guards. He could have turned and run, but decided he would rather face his death than feel it slam hilt-deep into his back.

'Come,' he said. 'What are you waiting for? I am only a single Frank.'

Still they paused. On the ground between him and them, Faisal staggered to his feet, his lower face streaming with blood. Spitting red saliva, he reached for the dagger on the right side of his belt, but before he could draw the weapon, there came a cry from the gateway and a hunting party galloped into the courtyard. The horses were sweating from a hard day's riding, and the dogs ran with lolling tongues and lowered tails. Astride a dappled mare with black points, Usamah took in the scene at a glance and spurred across the courtyard. The guards parted in haste to avoid being shouldered by the horse.

'What is this?' he demanded. His gaze darted to the scimitar brandished in Sabin's hand.

The soldier let forth a torrent of indignant Arabic, his words slurring through his lacerated lip. Blood dripped steadily from his nose.

'He baited me,' Sabin said with quiet vehemence. 'First with words, then stones, then steel.'

Usamah looked between the two men. A gesture and some rapid words cleared the ground of the onlookers. He spoke to the bleeding guard in a voice that was edged with ice. The man bowed his head and, making an abject gesture, shuffled aside like a whipped cur. The glance he cast toward Sabin was

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murderous, but he did not dispute whatever rebuke had been meted, and swiftly made himself scarce.

Usamah dismounted from the mare and gave her into the custody of one of his grooms. Then he held out his hand for the scimitar. 'I hope you are not going to be foolish,' he said. 'If you make a wrong move now, not even I can save your life.'

Sabin reversed the hilt and handed the weapon across. 'Or your own,' he said.

Usamah thrust the scimitar through his hunting belt and smiled without humour. 'Fortunate that we know each other.' The smile faded. 'I will speak with Faisal and he will be given duties elsewhere. Perhaps you will refrain from training with the boy for a couple of days until the dust has settled.'

Sabin had no alternative but to agree. Besides, he was grateful to be alive. Joscelin was waiting for him at the foot of the winding stairs that led up to the Frankish apartments. Eagerness and anxiety warred in the boy's expression, and there was more than a glimmer of admiration.

'Will you teach me how to do that?' he demanded.

To do what?

'Fight like ..." Joscelin sought for a comparison '. . . like a common footsoldier.'

'You need years of tavern brawling to get that good,' Sabin retorted curtly. 'I doubt your father would approve. My relatives certainly didn't.' Feeling queasy in the aftermath of the tension, he thrust the shield into Joscelin's hands and began to mount the stairs. Suddenly his legs felt as if the bones had turned to butter.

Joscelin ran his fingers over the vicious slashes gouged into the leather hide and grimaced. 'He came very close,' he said. 'Weren't you afraid?'

'I didn't have time,' Sabin said. 'All I knew was that I had to put him down and make sure he stayed.' He glanced over his shoulder and managed the semblance of a smile. 'The fear comes now, in the aftermath. Any man who tells you he is never afraid at some point in a battle is a liar.'

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Joscelin said nothing until they were almost at the door of the hostages' chamber. A pair of guards lounged on duty, but barely looked up from their game of chess.