Free The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

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The sea vibrated against the strakes and she felt the sound deep in her stomach where the queasiness of seasickness had been replaced by the queasiness of fear.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