Read Online The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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kitchens and helped himself to a beaker of heather ale from a jug that had been left out on a trestle.
As he approached the dais table, he heard a soft ripple of notes, delicate and sensual as sunlit shallows over warm sand. Having dwelt at the English court, he was accustomed to hearing music, but usually in elaborate arrangements with more
48
than one musician. Here, the single harp spoke across the layers of smoke with a beauty and poignancy that caught his attention and drew his eyes to follow his ears.
Not for one moment did he expect the musician to be Edmund Strongfist's daughter and he was so astounded that for a moment he checked his stride. Her skill was in the same realms as the bards who played at King Henry's court. The notes reached out and touched him like fingers. It was almost frightening that a thin slip of a girl with great brown eyes and gauche mien should have such a luminous talent.
She was thoroughly absorbed in her music, her head bent over her harp in the manner that he might bend over his sword blade as he honed it in preparation for battle. The look of concentration on her face made it quite tender and beautiful. Her audience on the dais was spellbound. Sabin watched from a distance, recognising the danger. There is Sir Edmund's daughter, the dairymaid had said and, although she had been teasing, her eyes had been shrewd. How easy it would be to go quietly to the dais, to take his place among the listeners, to look at her and let her know when she raised her head from the beguilement of the music that he had been watching her. He knew how to set a twig so close to the fire that it smouldered and smouldered, gradually becoming so hot and volatile that all it took was one gentle nudge forward to create a blinding immolation. He had done it many times. From curiosity, from boredom, for no more reason than the challenge. Now, because he had made a promise, he held back. For Edmund Strongfist, for the girl engrossed in her music, and for himself.
Turning his back on the dais, on the beautiful embroidery of notes, Sabin walked quietly from the hall, purloining the ale pitcher on his way out.
49
Chapter 5
Annais opened her eyes and stared at the flapping roof of the deck shelter. There was sunlight behind it; she could tell from the white glow shining through the canvas. The creak of timbers filled her ears, the conversations of sailors, the hiss and slap of the waves beneath the galley's keel.
Gingerly she sat up and pressed her hand to her aching stomach. Over the past weeks she had retched so hard that she had vomited blood. How she could be so sick and still be alive was both a miracle and a torture. While others had been praying for the heavy seas not to boil up and engulf them, she had been exhorting God to end her suffering and let her die.
Apart from crossing rivers on a ferry, her feet had never left dry land. She had been terrified of boarding the pilgrim galley, but determined not to show her fear. No one knew how her mind had dwelt on the wreck of the Blanche Nef, of how she shrank from the thought of the green, cold fathoms beneath her, filled with nameless creatures and the white bones of drowned sailors.
The deck heaved beneath the woven rush matting on which she lay. She waited for the familiar and dreaded nausea to begin, but her only sensations were the hollow gripe of hunger, and pain from the constant retching. Her father and Sabin had said that the sickness would pass, the former with anxiety in his eyes, the latter cheerful and unperturbed. Perhaps they were
50
right. Perhaps the worst was over. She had vowed that once her feet touched dry land, she would never sail on the deep ocean again. Several times they had put into harbour along the coast of Spain to take on fresh barrels of water and food supplies, but it had been only for one night and she had spent most of the time asleep. Besides, the ports were not the kind of places that her father would let her go ashore,
As he approached the dais table, he heard a soft ripple of notes, delicate and sensual as sunlit shallows over warm sand. Having dwelt at the English court, he was accustomed to hearing music, but usually in elaborate arrangements with more
48
than one musician. Here, the single harp spoke across the layers of smoke with a beauty and poignancy that caught his attention and drew his eyes to follow his ears.
Not for one moment did he expect the musician to be Edmund Strongfist's daughter and he was so astounded that for a moment he checked his stride. Her skill was in the same realms as the bards who played at King Henry's court. The notes reached out and touched him like fingers. It was almost frightening that a thin slip of a girl with great brown eyes and gauche mien should have such a luminous talent.
She was thoroughly absorbed in her music, her head bent over her harp in the manner that he might bend over his sword blade as he honed it in preparation for battle. The look of concentration on her face made it quite tender and beautiful. Her audience on the dais was spellbound. Sabin watched from a distance, recognising the danger. There is Sir Edmund's daughter, the dairymaid had said and, although she had been teasing, her eyes had been shrewd. How easy it would be to go quietly to the dais, to take his place among the listeners, to look at her and let her know when she raised her head from the beguilement of the music that he had been watching her. He knew how to set a twig so close to the fire that it smouldered and smouldered, gradually becoming so hot and volatile that all it took was one gentle nudge forward to create a blinding immolation. He had done it many times. From curiosity, from boredom, for no more reason than the challenge. Now, because he had made a promise, he held back. For Edmund Strongfist, for the girl engrossed in her music, and for himself.
Turning his back on the dais, on the beautiful embroidery of notes, Sabin walked quietly from the hall, purloining the ale pitcher on his way out.
49
Chapter 5
Annais opened her eyes and stared at the flapping roof of the deck shelter. There was sunlight behind it; she could tell from the white glow shining through the canvas. The creak of timbers filled her ears, the conversations of sailors, the hiss and slap of the waves beneath the galley's keel.
Gingerly she sat up and pressed her hand to her aching stomach. Over the past weeks she had retched so hard that she had vomited blood. How she could be so sick and still be alive was both a miracle and a torture. While others had been praying for the heavy seas not to boil up and engulf them, she had been exhorting God to end her suffering and let her die.
Apart from crossing rivers on a ferry, her feet had never left dry land. She had been terrified of boarding the pilgrim galley, but determined not to show her fear. No one knew how her mind had dwelt on the wreck of the Blanche Nef, of how she shrank from the thought of the green, cold fathoms beneath her, filled with nameless creatures and the white bones of drowned sailors.
The deck heaved beneath the woven rush matting on which she lay. She waited for the familiar and dreaded nausea to begin, but her only sensations were the hollow gripe of hunger, and pain from the constant retching. Her father and Sabin had said that the sickness would pass, the former with anxiety in his eyes, the latter cheerful and unperturbed. Perhaps they were
50
right. Perhaps the worst was over. She had vowed that once her feet touched dry land, she would never sail on the deep ocean again. Several times they had put into harbour along the coast of Spain to take on fresh barrels of water and food supplies, but it had been only for one night and she had spent most of the time asleep. Besides, the ports were not the kind of places that her father would let her go ashore,
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