Free The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

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.
    53
    '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
    54
    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