The Falcons of Montabard (8 page)

Turning his back on the dais, on the beautiful embroidery of notes, Sabin walked quietly from the hall, purloining the ale pitcher on his way out.

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Chapter 5

Annais opened her eyes and stared at the flapping roof of the deck shelter. There was sunlight behind it; she could tell from the white glow shining through the canvas. The creak of timbers filled her ears, the conversations of sailors, the hiss and slap of the waves beneath the galley's keel.

Gingerly she sat up and pressed her hand to her aching stomach. Over the past weeks she had retched so hard that she had vomited blood. How she could be so sick and still be alive was both a miracle and a torture. While others had been praying for the heavy seas not to boil up and engulf them, she had been exhorting God to end her suffering and let her die.

Apart from crossing rivers on a ferry, her feet had never left dry land. She had been terrified of boarding the pilgrim galley, but determined not to show her fear. No one knew how her mind had dwelt on the wreck of the
Blanche Nef,
of how she shrank from the thought of the green, cold fathoms beneath her, filled with nameless creatures and the white bones of drowned sailors.

The deck heaved beneath the woven rush matting on which she lay. She waited for the familiar and dreaded nausea to begin, but her only sensations were the hollow gripe of hunger, and pain from the constant retching. Her father and Sabin had said that the sickness would pass, the former with anxiety in his eyes, the latter cheerful and unperturbed. Perhaps they were

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right. Perhaps the worst was over. She had vowed that once her feet touched dry land, she would never sail on the deep ocean again. Several times they had put into harbour along the coast of Spain to take on fresh barrels of water and food supplies, but it had been only for one night and she had spent most of the time asleep. Besides, the ports were not the kind of places that her father would let her go ashore, even if she had been capable of walking along the wharfside.

They were now following the African coast. Her father said the route they were taking was the one used by the crusading English prince, Edgar Atheling. Annais did not care who had used it, only desired that the purgatory of the journey should end.

She could hear the sound of male voices, loud with excitement and laughter, outside the shelter. Crawling to the entrance, she parted the tent flaps and immediately had to squint, for the sunlight was blinding in a sky of lapis-blue. One of the sailors had lit a cooking fire on the ballast stones and the heat from the flames shimmered skywards. An aroma of onions and root vegetables drifted towards her, aggravating the hollow feeling in her stomach. Some headless silver fish were frying in a skillet and the smell of the spitting fat made her mouth water.

Unsteadily, Annais stood up and grasped a halyard for support. There was a slight breeze, enough to flutter her wimple, but not sufficient to fill the belly of a sail and drive the ship forwards. The crew had broken out the oars, but seemed more concerned with their shouting and jesting than with rowing.

Annais made her way slowly to one of the water barrels, dipped the ladle and took a drink. The taste was not particularly pleasant, having a flavour of oak and staleness, but she was thirsty. The crewman tending the cooking fire glanced sidelong at her and murmured a greeting.

She responded politely and asked him what the shouting was about.

His grin deepened the weather creases at his eye corners.

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'Some folk acquire their sea-legs long before others,' he said. 'And then they just have to brag about it.'

She looked at him blankly.

'Have you ever heard of the Viking sea-reaver Olaf Tryggvasson?' Taking a wooden spatula, he deftly turned the fish in the skillet.

Annais shook her head. She could recite most of the saints who had ever existed, but her knowledge of Vikings was somewhat less detailed.

'The claim was that he could run from one end of his long-ship to the other along the oars of his men. Yon young fool's wagered he can do the same.' He jerked his head towards the prow of the ship.

Annais took a few faltering steps on legs that felt as if they were made of wet rope and hastily leaned against one of the water barrels for support. In front of her, another crew member became aware of her presence and stepped aside, yielding her a clear view of the prow of the ship.

Clad in naught but his linen braies and a dazzling smile, Sabin FitzSimon was playing up to a laughing, sceptical audience. One crewman was taking bets and silver pennies strewed the square of red cloth spread at his feet

Sabin leaped onto the top strake of the galley and grasped a halyard to steady himself. He drew several deep breaths and although the smile remained, Annais saw that it was fixed and meaningless. His focus was nailed to the line of oars stroking the galley through the water. She saw his chest expand with a final breath. When he made his move it was fluid and without hesitation. He leaped precisely onto the first oar, and, arms outspread for balance, danced lightly along the line, leaving each oar before it could dip with his weight and cast him into the sea. He reached the bow of the galley near her shelter, pivoted, and returned to the prow in the same manner, nimble as a breeze.

The crew and other passengers cheered, clapped and whistled. The sailor holding the bets knotted the four corners of the

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red cloth and handed it to Sabin, who took it with a flourish and a bow. His success was the signal for others to try their luck, but although some got halfway, no one succeeded in turning and running back. Shouts of encouragement were punctuated by groans of dismay and loud splashes. The deck began to fill with dripping men. When Sabin succeeded in running the oars a second time without mishap to prove that it was more than just good fortune that had kept him dry-shod, the others tossed him into the sea.

Annais watched the sport until her legs began to buckle. She retired to sit on a bench near the cooking fire and accepted the oval of flattened bread that the sailor tending the fire offered her.

'Feeling better, sweetheart?' Her father came to the fire. He had succumbed to the exuberance of the moment and he too wore only his thick linen braies. His head, hands and wrists were a deep sun-weathered brown. Everywhere else was the white of new milk.

'A little,' she said. 'I don't feel sick any more -just sore.'

Sabin sauntered over to the barrels to drink a dipper of water. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed, and the way the sea water sparkled on his chest. His braies were made of the finest linen chansil, and because they were saturated, left no room for modesty. He had tied the cloth of coins to the waist cord and the weight pulled the garment down over the point of one hipbone. Annais tried not to look but it was difficult. He finished drinking, fetched his knife from his pile of clothes, and leaned to spear one of the sardines smoking on the griddle.

'You must have learned that trick somewhere,' Strongfist said. 'No man, no matter how good, could do that without training.'

Sabin shrugged. 'When I was a squire we used to do it all the time on the barges on the River Thames. There is no trick to it. All it takes is balance and practice.' He blew on the fish and delicately began to eat it, fiddling out the small bones and flicking them aside.

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'Like most things,' Strongfist said, a smile parting his fair beard.

'Indeed,' Sabin answered with a glint of humour. 'The problem is that I have had more practice at losing my balance than at gaining it.'

'Until now.'

'Until now,' Sabin agreed. He sat down on one of the ballast stones. More sardines waited their turn and he tossed a couple into the pan. His glance flickered to Annais and the diminishing morsel of bread in her hand.

'It is good to see you outside the shelter, mistress,' he said courteously. 'Dare I hope that you feel improved?'

She murmured that she did, and found herself resenting his enquiry. With the crew members and pilgrims - all men - he was jocular and easy. She had heard his laughter a moment since and watched him run like quicksilver along those oars. But with her he was grave, so correct and polite that his distance was almost a rebuff.

'Aye,' her father said, leaning over to squeeze her arm. 'But I'll be happier when she's filled out again. She's all skin and bone, like a heifer in a year of famine.'

Annais drew back indignantly as the men laughed. If she had had the strength, she would have retired in high dudgeon to her deck shelter.

'Don't you worry,' the cook said. 'I'm sure you'll have plenty of offers from eligible men in the Holy Land to fatten her up.' He patted his belly so that no one could mistake the innuendo.

There was a moment's awkward silence, for the words had crossed the line between good-natured jesting and into tavern-talk. Strongfist's spine stiffened and Sabin stood, his fist tightening upon the grip of his knife, the blade of which was edged with shreds of fried fish. For a moment Annais thought that he was going to assault the sailor, but then saw that Sabin's attention was fixed on a point beyond the stern.

'What is it?' Strongfist was alert too, shading his eyes against the hot blue light. Behind them, the rest of the crew

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was still boisterously engaged in the sport of oar-dancing.

'A ship,' Sabin said. 'She's lateen-rigged.'

The words meant nothing to Annais. She rose and squinted across the sun-dazzled sparkling water. There was indeed another vessel on the near horizon and it appeared to have three sails whereas their own galley had one.

'Go inside the deck shelter,' Strongfist commanded her.

'Why, what is it?'

'Never mind. Just go.'

'It's possibly an Arabic ship out of Tunis,' Sabin replied, cutting across Strongfist. 'She might be a harmless trader, but she might also be carrying pirates, and with a rig like that, she's capable of running us down.' He turned his gaze from the horizon to her. 'Your father is right. You had best go within the deck shelter. If they see a woman on board, it will increase their incentive to attempt us — should that be their inclination.'

Annais swallowed. 'Pirates?'

'No different to the robbers who haunt the mountain passes on the overland journey. They take their opportunities as they arise.'

'By Christ, shut your mouth,' Strongfist growled. 'Do you want to make her witless with terror?'

'I think that you underestimate her.' Turning away, hands cupped at his mouth, Sabin bellowed a halt to the oar-dancing.

'It's all right, Papa,' Annais said hoarsely. 'I would rather know.' She raised her chin. 'Are you not always saying that I am descended from warrior stock?'

Strongfist grunted. 'Indeed you are, child, but I wonder if I have done you a disservice by bringing you.'

'Never think that. The disservice would have been leaving me behind.' She kissed his sun-hot cheek and tasted dried salt.

He found the edge of a smile. 'You're a good lass. Now go.'

Annais made her way back to the deck shelter. The cook had already doused the fire and the sound of merriment had ceased.

Ducking within the canvas, she sought among her belongings until her fingers closed around the hilt of a knife, an

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English scramaseax that had belonged to her Saxon greatgrandfather. She gripped the hilt of shaped antler and drew the knife from its scabbard. The blade was fashioned from numerous bars of steel, hammered and blended so that a pattern seemed to shimmer like snakeskin beneath the surface. Annais gazed briefly into its sinuous bright mirror and resheathed the weapon. She knew that she ought to lace up the flaps of the shelter, but could not bring herself to do so. Her father wanted to protect her by keeping her in ignorance, but Sabin was right in his assessment. She did need to know.

She felt the kick of their vessel as the rowers took up a hard, steady rhythm in an effort to outrun the other ship. The sea vibrated against the strakes and she felt the sound deep in her stomach where the queasiness of seasickness had been replaced by the queasiness of fear. Through the gap in the tent flap, she saw crew and passengers preparing to fight. Sabin paused briefly in front of the shelter, affording her a view of his legs and lower body, now clad in hose and boots, and a knee-length quilted gambeson. He had buckled on his swordbelt and drawn the blade. Unlike her knife, it looked like a plain Serjeant's weapon.

"I feel so helpless.' She had spoken more than half to herself, but he heard her.

'Then pray for us, demoiselle,' he said without stooping or turning. 'If we cannot outrun them, then they might be put off by the notion that we are armed to the teeth and not as soft a target as we look.'

'And if they are not?'

There was a slight stir of the gambeson hem to suggest that he had shrugged. 'Then we fight . . . Of course, I could be wrong and they could be sailing us down just to give us a friendly greeting.' He moved away then, his step light and quick.

Annais fumbled her small gold cross from beneath her linen shift and clutching it in her hand began to murmur an ave.

# * *

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Sabin watched the other ship gain ground on them. 'We should stop rowing,' he said. 'The men will exhaust themselves and be of no use if it comes to a fight. They are going to catch us; it is but a matter of time.'

Strongfist, who had arrived at much the same conclusion, spoke to the captain. The man shook his head, looking unhappy, but after a moment, bellowed a command. The frantic pace slowed and the galley ceased to shoulder the water.

Sabin moved to the side of the ship, his shield on his left arm, his sword unsheathed in his right hand. Similarly armed, Strongfist joined him. Two mail-clad knights followed him, six footsoldiers, in quilted gambesons like Sabin's, and a priest armed with a stout quarterstaff.

In a hiss of white water, the pursuing ship surged within range. Her three sails were the dark brownish-red of dried blood and her deck was lined with turbaned men brandishing curved swords and spears.