The Falcons of Montabard (62 page)

One of the other Saracens reined back and spoke sharply to Faisal, tossing him a lance. Faisal grunted a response and, looking less than pleased, cantered off to what was obviously

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his turn on reconnaissance duty. The man whom he had relieved rode in silence beside Annais, and even in the midst of her abject misery, she found a spark of gratitude for small mercies. Bowing her head over the baby, she prayed, reciting the words that she had learned at Coldingham Priory during a different, tranquil life. In the burning heat from the sun, the tears that filled her eyes were salty and scalding but as nothing compared to the pain welling and welling like a swift new spring from her core.

Hot, hay-scented breath gusted into Sabin's face. He heard the jingling crunch of a horse champing a bit, and the stamp of hooves. Raising his lids, he stared at stones, at settling dust, and at a whiskery grey muzzle with a triangular snip of pink between the nostrils. It breathed on him again and gave a loud snort.

Sabin tried to sit up and the pain rushed at him like a wild boar. It crashed through his skull and gouged his side. Gasping, he forced his will through the pain and struggled to a sitting position. Lucifer was considering him with dark, liquid eyes. His reins trailed in the dust, the loop broken where the stallion had stamped on them. Sabin looked down at himself. Three arrows were embedded in his mail. Two had been caught in the mesh and only the tips had pierced the thick cotton quilting of the gambeson beneath. The main damage came from the third arrow that had punched through close to one of the others. The initial arrowhead had weakened the links, allowing its companion to drive through and pierce the skin over Sabin's ribs, skewering him like meat on a spit bar.

Sweating with effort, he gained his feet and set about manipulating the arrows out of his hauberk and gambeson. Had his mail been made of inferior quality rivets and less well maintained, he would have been dead. As it was, the vicious throbbing of his wounds told him that he was alive and not too badly injured. It was when wounds were numb that they were severe. Clenching his teeth, he laid his hand to the inch of protruding

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shaft at his ribs, and pulled it from his flesh as if taking a large stitch in a tapestry. Blood ran over his hands, hot, slippery and red, and for a moment his vision darkened. He knew he mustn't faint and he clung to consciousness with grim determination, pressing his quilted tunic against the tear until the bleeding eased. Catching Lucifer's rein, he rested his head against the stallion's solid silver hide and let the horse take his weight. There was a waterskin hanging from the saddle and, after a moment, he was able to unhook it and take a long, deep drink. Then he cupped a palmful and swilled his face.

His sword was still in its sheath, his shield lying in the middle of the road. Casting his glance around, he saw the discarded weapons in the scrub There were no bodies, which meant that the others must have been taken for ransom. He did not know how long he had been lying in the road but he did not think that much time had passed, for it was close to Shaizar and must be well used.

A small object caught the corner of his eye. Leaving the horse, he went to it, stooped with an effort and retrieved the small wooden sword with its handgrip of overlapping strips of leather. The hilt was slightly sticky, evidence of the honey cake that its owner had been eating earlier. Sabin's throat swelled with grief, rage and a feeling of utter helplessness. He did not dare to imagine what Guillaume was experiencing. Pushing the toy sword through his belt, he returned to the horse. The effort it took to mount made his vision blur and his side burn as if seared by a brand. His struggle had deafened him to the sound of hoofbeats on the road, but now he heard them, coming from the direction of Shaizar at a fast drum. Gathering the broken reins in his hands, he swung Lucifer to face the sound. The stallion pricked his ears and pawed the ground. The sun beat down on Sabin's mail like a molten hammer and his side throbbed as if a part of that sun was embedded in his flesh. He drew his sword and his throat was as dry as if he had not taken the drink from his waterskin.

A score of riders pounded into view and the sun caught

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flashes and starbursts on lances and light Saracen mail. The leading horse was a grey with charcoal rings of dapple on fore-quarters and rump, and its rider wore a helmet with a spiked point and a turban of white cloth banded at the brow and set with an emerald. The rest of Usamah's garments consisted of his dusty hunting gear, with his light mail coat hastily donned on top. Abu rode at his side, his expression grim.

'In the name of Allah the merciful, what has happened?' Usamah demanded.

Clutching his side, Sabin gave him terse details and Usamah's expression darkened.

'This is a stain upon the honour of Shaizar,' he said. 'We need to make haste.' He gestured at Sabin. 'Are you fit to ride?'

'For this . . . yes,' Sabin said grimly. 'Even were I at death's door, I would have you strap me to my saddle.'

Usamah gave a curt nod. 'We will pursue these bandits and we will yield them no mercy for they have insulted our honour.' His gaze flickered to the black-fletched arrows lying in the road, evidence of the assault. Cursing fluently, he lashed the reins down on his horse's neck and it sprang straight from its hocks into a gallop. Sabin spurred after him. Lucifer had the strength and stamina to endure. All he had to do was hold on hard and match those qualities.

The men of Horns rode through the burn of the midday sun, for their leader was eager to be as far away from Shaizar as possible by nightfall. Everyone suffered in the heat, which, as the day wore on, became merciless. Having the river nearby was a mixed blessing. While they had access to water, it also meant that swarms of biting flies plagued them and their horses. The Saracen leader had relented his initial harshness and Guillaume had been handed to Strongfist to carry. The little boy had ceased to whimper and scream. His thumb had entered his mouth and stayed there and his eyelids had drooped. Annais recognised the signs for she had seen them frequently enough in Joveta. Unable to cope with the terrors around him, her son

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had retreated into himself, burrowing down into his own private world like a small, frightened animal. She would have done the same herself had she not had the terrible responsibility of parenthood. As it was, she shied from the knowledge of what had happened a few hours since. For the nonce she could not cope with it, and so she slammed it from her mind. She could feel it pushing against the door she had created, infiltrating a fingernail of sensation, widening the crack. However, if she did not look, then for a while longer she could maintain the illusion of sanity.

In the hour after noon, they had to stop to rest and water the horses at a wayside pool. The hostages were dismounted and herded into a corner and a guard set over them. Annais took the opportunity to feed Edmund, sheltering her modesty beneath the covering of her light cloak. Strongfist sat at her side, Guillaume in his arms.

'I cannot believe this has happened,' he said. It was not an invitation to converse for he did not speak again and his stare was as glazed as his small grandson's.

Fergus was muttering under his breath, but in the Scots Gaelic into which he lapsed during battle frenzy. The sounds meant nothing to Annais. She felt the tug and pull of the baby's mouth at her breast and gazed down into his eyes. They were amber-green like Sabin's, and his brows were feathery black. He didn't know he was fatherless yet. He still had the security of her arms, the softness and sustenance of her breast, and it was all he needed. While she . . . Oh Jesu . . . Annais swallowed and bit her lip. The crack widened to a gap through which tendrils of madness writhed and reached for her. She must have made a small sound, for her father laid his hand over hers in a steadying grip. Still he did not speak, but she felt the strength flow from him into her and was able to patch her defences. They would hold a little longer yet ...

She had given Edmund one breast and was about to transfer him to the other when a shout went up from one of the Saracens posted on lookout. Another scrambled up the rock to join him;

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there was a brief conversation, followed by a rapid flurry.

'About time too,' muttered Fergus, emerging from his Gaelic monologue to glance darkly at their captors. 'There's going to be blood spilled, and it willna be ours.'

The hostages were gestured to their feet and ordered to mount their horses. More gestures and jabs with reversed spear hafts commanded them to make haste. They set off at a rapid pace. When before they had been moving at a gentle trot, now they jogged briskly, the Saracens keeping up the hostages' momentum by whipping their horses and poking anyone whom they suspected of slowing down with the haft of a lance.

Faisal rode close to Annais again and she saw the hatred glittering in his eyes. 'Do not think that you will be rescued,' he hissed. 'Even if they catch up with us, there is no escape for you.' He drew an inch of scimitar from his scabbard.

Annais stared at him, meeting him eye to eye, as no Saracen woman would ever do. 'Do you think it matters to me?' she said. 'Threaten what you will, I care nothing.'

'Not even for your children?'

'Kill them and you render me dead. What is the difference?' She did not know if he understood, nor did she care.

He drew his scimitar completely from its sheath and flourished it on high to threaten her. One of the other guards shouted at him in terse reprimand and turned his horse to intervene. Annais could not understand what was being said, but she could well guess. The Emir of Horns would not be best pleased if half the hostages died on the journey.

As the men argued, she heard the sound of hunting horns close behind. The quarrelling ceased and the two warriors drew apart to look back. Their leader joined them, a worried frown set between his eyes. He drew his own scimitar.

Uttering a sudden yell, Fergus turned his stallion and dug in his spurs. The destrier slammed into the leader's lighter mount and sent it staggering. Fergus grabbed the man's wrist, wrenched the scimitar from his hand, and used it. Howling, he turned the dripping blade and cut at another warrior. Following

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a hiatus of shock on both sides, Saracens and Franks engaged, the latter heavier, mailed, but mostly weaponless, the former recovering swiftly from their surprise to try to recover the situation.

'In God's name get the women and bairns out o' here!' Fergus bawled at Strongfist. 'I'll hold these devils! Go on, man, go!' He rowelled the destrier side-on into another Saracen mount and clashed blades. One of his sons joined him, a lance in his fist that he had won from a downed warrior.

Strongfist whirled his stallion and spurred towards Annais. 'Ride!' he cried. 'Ride, daughter!'

She could see Guillaume's wide grey eyes peering from the shelter of his grandfather's breast, his fair curls, the leper-whiteness of his complexion. The numbness encasing her splintered and exploded. She cried out with the pain of it, caught up the black mare's reins and dug in her heels.

Faisal cursed and spurred after them, his scimitar poised on high like a hawk poised above a partridge. He avoided the mailed man and the child and rode onto the outside of the black mare, intent on making Annais his prey. Annais was aware of Faisal's horse thudding up close. She could hear its breath, sense its straining forequarters. Bound in his sling, Edmund was screaming. And she was screaming too. The mare was at full stretch and still she could sense Faisal gaining. Any second she would feel the bitter steel cut of the blade and then she would feel nothing.

Her father squeezed a last burst of speed out of his destrier and knocked into Faisal's horse. Uttering an oath, Faisal struck at Strongfist, missed, and cut a gouge in the destrier's neck. Although not a mortal slash, it was deep and cruel and the stallion veered away with a scream of pain.

The diversion had allowed Annais to gain a few more yards and now Faisal had to work his mount hard to catch up. The hunting horn sounded again, almost upon her. Glancing beyond her straining mount, she saw the warriors advancing on them. With their turbans, lances and scimitars they looked

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no different to those from whom she was fleeing, and yet, even if she had wanted to, she could not draw rein. All that lay between herself and certain death was the black mare's fleet-ness of foot.

Closer, closer. Her eyes stung with sweat, her body screamed with the exhaustion of holding the mare to her course and clinging on for her life and the life of her child. One slip, one wrong foot and it would be over. Faisal uttered a battle howl and brought the scimitar slicing down. At the same time, a white-fletched arrow slammed into his raised arm, piercing the upper muscle like a meat skewer. Faisal's blow lost momentum and went awry, ripping Annais's dress and breaking the strap of the sling. But Faisal did not drop the scimitar; he merely transferred it to his left hand.

Clutching a screaming Edmund who had almost fallen from her arms as the sling broke, struggling to stay on the mare, Annais was defenceless. She watched in horror as the curved silver edge came at her again, and then she saw it caught on a straight steel blade and turned from its purpose. Sparks flew from the connection. Faisal's eyes widened in astonishment and fear. The silver horse thrust its rider side-on to his bay. The sword clashed upon the scimitar again and sent it spinning from Faisal's hand. Annais's vision blurred at the edges and her skull rang with the sound of battle. She was terrified that she would faint and tumble from the mare. With grim determination she held on, thrusting her full will against the door in her mind. The things behind it had changed, but they still threatened to overwhelm her grip on sanity.

She watched Faisal fall and his horse bolt and it all seemed as slow to her as a scene acted out in water. The man on the silver horse turned to her and beneath the iron browband of his helm she met his green-gold eyes. And then she was falling too with that same slow-fast rhythm. The exhausted black mare had trembled to a halt and Annais did not strike the ground hard - enough to bruise, enough to wind, but not to cause serious injury and she had instinctively cupped the baby's skull.