The Falcons of Montabard (9 page)

'That settles the matter of friend or foe,' Sabin said.

'They're common sea-reavers,' Strongfist muttered. 'Not a decent piece of armour among them, although that doesn't make them less dangerous. They'll throw grapnel ropes to try to haul us in and rely on speed and agility to do the rest. If we can beat off their first attack, they'll run.' He spoke swiftly, his eyes never leaving the oncoming dhow.

A rope armed with an iron grapnel snaked across the short gap of churning water between the galley and the dhow. The claws dug into the wash strake and the rope went taut. With mighty heaves, the crew of the dhow began hauling the galley in, causing her to turn in the water like a fly near a drain hole. Strongfist's sword hacked down, parting the fibres of the rope in a single blow, but more grapnels had hissed out, tangling and parcelling the pilgrim galley to immobilise her for devouring.

The ships ground together and bounced apart. The reavers took advantage of the dhow's higher freeboard to leap on to the deck of the galley. Sabin jumped backwards, avoiding the slash

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of a scimitar that, had he been slower, would have disembowelled him. He backed again, drawing his assailant onwards. The pirate sprang, landed on the roasting hot ballast stones and screamed in agony. Sabin swiftly despatched him, danced nimbly over the searing rocks and tackled his second raider.

The fighting was furious and brutal. Sabin had never fought against the scimitar before, and the swift curves and flashes of the blade took all his speed and focus to avoid. A split moment of delay bared him to a downward slice that opened his gambeson like a fishwife gutting a herring and streaked a stinging cut along the line of his ribs. He swore and spun from the blade, got his shield up in time for the next assault and ducked to hack low at the raider's unprotected shins. The man went down, screaming, bleeding. Sabin leaped over him and darted to Strongfist's aid. The latter was under assault from both sides and bleeding profusely from a slash to the browbone. Sabin caught the descending scimitar on the edge of his shield, thrust sideways and came in hard with his sword. Knowing that the blow was true, not waiting to see the man fall, he pivoted and struck down the other pirate and moved on: fast, balanced, a little desperate but not despairing. The pilgrims were outnumbered, but they had the better fighting skills. Sabin downed another raider. He was breathing hard now, but his movement remained easy. He tried to imagine that it was a morning's battle practice at Henry's court.

Commands were screamed from the dhow in a language that Sabin did not recognise but he could hear the urgency. As swiftly as they had attacked, the pirates retreated, fleeing to their ship and slashing the grapnel ropes to part the vessels.

Open sea swelled between the dhow and the galley. Strongf ist began picking up the pirate bodies and heaving them over the side. The diminished occupants of the dhow brandished their weapons and spat threats, but did not attempt to follow them up. The captain of the galley roared a command, and the crew made haste to take up their oars and pull.

'Christ!' Strongfist staggered over to Sabin. Blood had begun

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to clot in a black lump along the cut to his brow. 'That was too close for comfort.' He clasped Sabin's hand. 'I owe you my life.'

Sabin shook his head. 'You owe me nothing,' he said. 'You would have done the same for me.' He drew away from Strongfist's grip and, feeling a little weak-kneed in the aftermath of battle, lurched over to the ballast stones. His first victim had gone over the side, but his scimitar gleamed against the hot, bloodstained boulders. Sabin set his hand to the hilt and turned it in his hand. There was some rust along the blade, perhaps caused by old blood, or the sea air. Whatever. The man had not cared for it properly. He swept an imaginary blow - and paid for it as the clotting cut across his ribs opened up and pain seared. He gasped and pressed his hand to his side.

'You are wounded?' Strongfist's voice was anxious.

'No more than a scratch,' Sabin said. 'My gambeson protected me from the full blow.' He set his fingers to the mouth-sized slit in the side of the garment and looked up as Annais emerged from the deck shelter and threw herself into her father's arms. Strongfist's good side had been facing her, and when she saw the clotted mess along his browbone, she drew back with a gasp of dismay.

Sabin thought for an instant that she was squeamish, but revised his impression as she lightly touched the cut and said that it needed stitching. She was pale with shock, but her expression was one of concern for her father, not herself.

'It's nothing,' Strongfist said with gruff dismissal.

Even if not serious the wound was more than nothing, but Sabin held his tongue. Annais had eyes to see for herself. He noticed that she had a rather fearsome knife thrust through her belt and his lips twitched in amusement. 'Who were you intending to stick with that?' he asked.

Her cheeks blazed. 'I haven't decided yet.'

His smile became a grin. Turning away, twirling the scimitar, he went to talk to the ship's master.

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Annais took her father to the deck shelter. She bathed his wound, set in two stitches as Sister Joveta at the infirmary had shown her how to do, and dressed it with a salve made from self-heal and honey. There were other minor wounds for her to tend: cuts and grazes, a wooden splinter from a shield that had to be tugged out with tweezers, broken fingers to be bandaged together.

Finally, as the fire was rekindled on the ballast stones and the cooking pot slung back over the flames to provide the evening meal, Sabin ducked into the deck shelter. He had removed gambeson, shirt and tunic to leave him bare-chested again save for the small gold crucifix dangling on a cord around his neck. A tang of sweat and salt clung to him and Annais felt suffocated by his scent and proximity.

'What do you want?' The sound emerged as a croak. She tried to back away without making it too obvious.

'Some of your salve for this tear in my hide.' He turned side-on, exposing the deep scratch from the scimitar blade. 'I have a needle in my pack, but the eye has broken. So I thought I might be able to prevail on you for one of those too.' His gaze settled on her hand, which had gone to the sheath at her waist. 'I promise to behave . . . despite my reputation.' He sat down and gestured towards the knife. 'Can I see?'

Filled with chagrin, Annais was tempted to refuse him, but knew it would only make her seem more foolish. Reluctantly she drew the scramaseax from her belt and handed it to him, hilt-first.

His touch on the haft was careful and admiring. 'It is a very finely crafted piece of weaponry,' he said. Lightly he traced the pattern welding on the surface and then cleaned his fingerprints with his folded shirt until the steel shone like moonlit water.

'It was my English great-grandfather's,' Annais unbent enough to confide. She took her pot of honey salve and, gesturing him to lean to one side, set about cleaning and smearing the scimitar wound. He flinched at the first touch, then held himself still. 'My father has his sword too.'

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'I used to have my father's cloak clasp, but I lost it.' He returned the knife. His tone was carefully neutral and reminded her of a drunkard placing each foot with exaggerated care.

'I thought your cloak clasp was a family jewel,' she said, remembering the huge penannular thistle she had seen him wearing.

'It is, but gifted by my brother. He has our father's sword too, and his hauberk for the time when he is old enough to wear it ... God help him.' He started to rise to his feet before the conversation took him into the murky waters off the coast of Barfleur.

Annais cleared her throat. 'You said you wanted a needle,' she reminded him and pointed to his side. 'It's a sharp cut, but it doesn't need stitching.'

His taut expression slackened and he found the curve of a smile. 'It's not for my hide, it's for my gambeson. There's a gash in it like a halfwit's grin.'

She wondered whether to offer to sew the tear for him and decided against it. Had he wanted her to do so, he would have asked the boon of her skill rather than the boon of her equipment. She found her small needle case, carved from a goose's wingbone, tipped out a small strip of linen cloth and from it removed the sturdiest of her silver needles attached to a bright strand of green thread.

'I have never been so afraid as I was when I heard the attack,' she confessed in a low voice as she gave it to him. 'I thought we were all going to die.'

He eyed her thoughtfully. 'I was afraid too.' The hand that took the needle from her was steady and dry.

'You don't look as if you were.' She shook her head. 'Jesu, I am still quaking inside. You were nearly killed and yet you smile.'

He shrugged. 'We cope as best we can. Once the fighting began there was time only to act. I wasn't killed, therefore I should thank God and give praise for my life.' He tilted his head to regard her. 'I am holding myself back,' he said softly,

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'because I am in a confined space and under obligation to your father.'

She stared at him, an unconscious frown between her brows and her eyes filled with question.

'Usually,' he said, 'I would spend the night after a battle steeped in wine and women. Well, it's never wise to get drunk aboard a ship in potentially hostile waters. Besides, we don't have that much wine aboard, and the only woman is a virgin and out of bounds.'

Annais reddened. 'I thought you spent
all
your time steeped in wine and women,' she snapped.

He rose to his feet. 'I'm a reformed character,' he said so expressionlessly that she knew her retort had hit home. 'You should not believe everything that people tell you. It makes you gullible. I'll return your needle when I have finished.'

'Keep it,' she said crossly. 'I have plenty more.'

For a while she sat and fumed, but she could hear the sounds of conversation from around the cooking stones and smell once more the teasing aroma of stew. The bread she had eaten earlier had only whetted her returning appetite and now she was ravenous. Pride and chagrin were cold substitutes for food and companionship.

Annais took her harp from its leather bag and unwrapped the thick swathe of linen protecting the wood and strings from the salt air. If she played at the fireside she would not have to talk and the men would forget to be constrained by her female presence as they enjoyed the music.

She came to the fire and her father made room for her on his bench with a murmur of approval as he saw the instrument. Sabin was sitting on a ballast boulder, his head bent over the rip in his gambeson. She saw that it was indeed a wide slash, and that he had the ability to sew as neatly and daintily as any woman. Who had taught him to do that, she wondered, or was it another natural skill? Perhaps it went with his feline swiftness and balance.

He glanced up once as she joined the men at the fire. There

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was no apology in his look, but neither was there challenge or resentment. Perhaps though, a gleam of humour and wry acknowledgement which she circumspectly returned. Then he lowered his gaze to his task and she made herself busy, first with a bowl of pottage, and then with her harp. The soft tones of 'Stella Maris' drifted like incense to mingle with the heat haze, wreathing the listeners' minds and carrying on the wind to join sky and sea.

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Chapter 6

City of Jerusalem, Spring 1121

They approached Jerusalem on the pilgrim road that led from the port of Jaffa, and thus the great tower of golden-grey stone rising above David's gate dominated their first sight of the city. They had hired horses and pack mules in Jaffa for what Strongfist declared was an exorbitant sum, but at least they were mounted and did not have to trudge through hammering heat as the sun reached its zenith. Many of the pilgrims sharing their road were on foot. The contents of water bottles frequently swilled sun-roasted faces, but offered little relief.

Sabin's mail was roiled behind his saddle but he was still gently cooking in his mended gambeson. He wore his sword conspicuously at his hip as a mark of his rank and a warning to the thieves and cutpurses jostling among the crowds. Strongfist gazed up at the towering walls and pinched tears from his eyes. 'I have held it in my memory many long years,' he said, 'but at the same time I had forgotten the magnificence.' Unlike Sabin, he wore his hauberk, and although he had covered it with a sleeveless linen surcoat, his face was still scarlet and pouring with sweat. 'When the Saracens surrendered that tower to Raymond of Toulouse, we flooded into the city like water through a sluice gate. There was no stopping us.' He looked at Sabin. 'I was younger than you, still a boy. What I saw on that day . . .' He broke off, his throat working.

Annais pressed her horse forward and touched his arm. 'Papa?'

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He forced a smile and shook his head. 'I am foolish,' he said. 'Look with your own eyes, pay me no heed.'

Guards flanked the gateway, leaning on their spears and observing the procession of pilgrims with a bored air. There were guards on the wall walk at the top of the tower too.

Beggars and cripples huddled in the shade of the gate, crying for alms in the name of Jesus Christ. The stench of heat and soiled bodies was as strong as a blow. Sabin looked at outstretched brown hands, at blind eyes and missing limbs. He had seen such sights frequently during his travels in England and Normandy, but seeing them here, under the burning light and in the most sacred city in Christendom, made them more vivid and shocking. One old man sat huddled in a tattered cloak of threadbare grey wool. Stitched to the left side, above the heart, was a ragged cross, the colour an insipid rose-pink, although once it had probably been blood-red. His pupils were milky and the two teeth that remained in his jaw were the same yellow as the tower in whose shade he sat.

Sabin fished in his pouch and withdrew a coin to toss into the old beggar's wooden bowl. He wondered if he had been at the taking of Jerusalem with Strongfist.