Free The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick

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,