The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick
Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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A small brass bell with a tasselled pulley dangled beside a heavy wooden door reinforced with bands of exquisite wrought iron.
Wulnoth signalled his charges to dismount and gave the bell rope three vigorous tugs. The sound jangled loudly and faded away. The sun beat down, its rays so hot that Sabin felt as if fire were licking along his shoulders. Beside him, Annais gasped and swayed in the saddle. He turned and saw that she was biting her lip. Her face was burning scarlet and there were wringing-wet patches of sweat on her gown. He took her arm to steady her and felt the swift throb of her overheated blood through his fingers.
'I am all right,' she said.
It was so obviously a lie that he held on to her. Beyond the wall and the door, soft footfalls approached, a latch drew back, and the door opened on a brown-skinned man wearing a long robe of white cotton and a large crimson turban.
'Safed, I've brought some visitors to my lord,' Wulnoth said. 'An old friend from Lord Fergus's crusading days, together with his family.'
The porter dipped his head and widened the door, revealing a cool, dark corridor with rooms leading off it. 'Be welcome,' he said in clear, slightly accented French. 'If you will enter, I will send for my lord and tell him of your arrival.'
Wulnoth took their mounts. 'I'll bring these round to the stables,' he said.
Annais took two steps towards the oasis of shade and staggered. Her sodden weight slumped against Sabin and he grabbed her. Strongfist turned and, with a concerned oath, took her from the young man.
70
'It is the heat,' he said as he lifted Annais in his arms. 'If she was a horse or an ox, I would hurl buckets of water over her to cool her skin.'
'I will send for my lady. She will attend to her,' Safed said. He led them to a room and indicated they should wait. Colourful rugs adorned the thick whitewashed walls and rush mats covered the stone floor. There were several wooden settles pushed against the side of the room with embroidered seat cushions covering the polished wood. On a trestle in the centre of the room stood a large silver bowl piled with citrus fruits.
Barely had Strongfist placed Annais on one of the benches when two women arrived, followed by a maid. One was plump and fair-complexioned and of about Strongfist's age. The other was perhaps ten years younger with raven brows and dark blue eyes subtly outlined with kohl.
The fair one introduced herself as Lady Margaret, wife to Lord Fergus, her companion as Mariamne FitzPeter, and moved swiftly to Annais. She laid a capable hand to the girl's brow and clucked her tongue. 'Come with me, my dear,' she said briskly. 'We'll soon have you feeling better.' She helped Annais to stand and looked at Strongfist. 'Fergus will be here soon. Make yourselves comfortable. Safed will see to your needs.'
Between them, the women drew Annais from the room.
Strongfist gazed around in bemusement. 'Fergus told me in his letter that he had become a man of influence. I do not know why I had expected everything to remain the same,' he said.
Sabin paced the room, studying the rugs, the dyes of which were richer and subtler than anything he had seen before, even at Henry's court: the deep crimson of cultivated roses, the smoky green of sage leaves and a blue that was the hue of cornflowers at dusk. He laid his palm to the weave and discovered that the texture was close and plush.
'Some folk put them on the floor, but my wife's a proud and practical woman, she willna hear of it. She's probably right. I usually have camel shit on ma shoes.' The voice spoke in French but with a heavy Scots accent.
71
Sabin turned and found himself facing a short, but robust individual. A dandelion puff of red hair fuzzed out from his scalp and there was a spectacular beard to match. He was clad in a long robe similar to that sported by the native Arabs, but his was cinched at the waist by a belt of green galloon. Red hair sprouted at the embroidered neck opening of
Wulnoth signalled his charges to dismount and gave the bell rope three vigorous tugs. The sound jangled loudly and faded away. The sun beat down, its rays so hot that Sabin felt as if fire were licking along his shoulders. Beside him, Annais gasped and swayed in the saddle. He turned and saw that she was biting her lip. Her face was burning scarlet and there were wringing-wet patches of sweat on her gown. He took her arm to steady her and felt the swift throb of her overheated blood through his fingers.
'I am all right,' she said.
It was so obviously a lie that he held on to her. Beyond the wall and the door, soft footfalls approached, a latch drew back, and the door opened on a brown-skinned man wearing a long robe of white cotton and a large crimson turban.
'Safed, I've brought some visitors to my lord,' Wulnoth said. 'An old friend from Lord Fergus's crusading days, together with his family.'
The porter dipped his head and widened the door, revealing a cool, dark corridor with rooms leading off it. 'Be welcome,' he said in clear, slightly accented French. 'If you will enter, I will send for my lord and tell him of your arrival.'
Wulnoth took their mounts. 'I'll bring these round to the stables,' he said.
Annais took two steps towards the oasis of shade and staggered. Her sodden weight slumped against Sabin and he grabbed her. Strongfist turned and, with a concerned oath, took her from the young man.
70
'It is the heat,' he said as he lifted Annais in his arms. 'If she was a horse or an ox, I would hurl buckets of water over her to cool her skin.'
'I will send for my lady. She will attend to her,' Safed said. He led them to a room and indicated they should wait. Colourful rugs adorned the thick whitewashed walls and rush mats covered the stone floor. There were several wooden settles pushed against the side of the room with embroidered seat cushions covering the polished wood. On a trestle in the centre of the room stood a large silver bowl piled with citrus fruits.
Barely had Strongfist placed Annais on one of the benches when two women arrived, followed by a maid. One was plump and fair-complexioned and of about Strongfist's age. The other was perhaps ten years younger with raven brows and dark blue eyes subtly outlined with kohl.
The fair one introduced herself as Lady Margaret, wife to Lord Fergus, her companion as Mariamne FitzPeter, and moved swiftly to Annais. She laid a capable hand to the girl's brow and clucked her tongue. 'Come with me, my dear,' she said briskly. 'We'll soon have you feeling better.' She helped Annais to stand and looked at Strongfist. 'Fergus will be here soon. Make yourselves comfortable. Safed will see to your needs.'
Between them, the women drew Annais from the room.
Strongfist gazed around in bemusement. 'Fergus told me in his letter that he had become a man of influence. I do not know why I had expected everything to remain the same,' he said.
Sabin paced the room, studying the rugs, the dyes of which were richer and subtler than anything he had seen before, even at Henry's court: the deep crimson of cultivated roses, the smoky green of sage leaves and a blue that was the hue of cornflowers at dusk. He laid his palm to the weave and discovered that the texture was close and plush.
'Some folk put them on the floor, but my wife's a proud and practical woman, she willna hear of it. She's probably right. I usually have camel shit on ma shoes.' The voice spoke in French but with a heavy Scots accent.
71
Sabin turned and found himself facing a short, but robust individual. A dandelion puff of red hair fuzzed out from his scalp and there was a spectacular beard to match. He was clad in a long robe similar to that sported by the native Arabs, but his was cinched at the waist by a belt of green galloon. Red hair sprouted at the embroidered neck opening of
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