The Falcons of Montabard Read Free Page B

look. They say that pieces of wreckage have been washed up by the Point and at least one body. All those young people ... all those we entertained last night. . . every one of them drowned, including the Prince.' Covering her face, she began to weep in earnest, rocking back and forth on the bench.
    'Holy Christ on the Cross,' Simon whispered and signed his breast. He gave Sabin an appalled look. 'We should have been with them.'
    Sabin stared blankly at the door that the woman had left open in her distress. Raw November cold blew into the room. Across the rectangle of pallid light he watched people going about their business and heard the screaming of gulls over the landed catches from the fishing boats.
    'Perhaps it isn't true,' Simon said. 'False rumours always spread like wildfire.'
    Sabin heaved himself to his feet and moved stiffly to the door. The wharfside was as busy as it had been last night, but now it was filled with clusters of townsfolk, bartering opinion and speculating on the news. As Simon said, it might not be
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    true, but there was a cold knot in his belly that told him it was.
    There was a sudden flurry as people began running towards the shore where a fishing vessel was beaching, the master and his lads splashing barelegged and knee-deep in the water. One of the youths was shouting and gesticulating. Thrusting past Sabin, Simon sprinted towards the vessel. Sabin lurched after him, the wind tearing into his mouth, making his loose teeth ache all the way to his eye sockets.
    The fishermen were lifting something out of their craft and bearing it onto the firm shore above the waterline. Sabin saw his brother crane to look and then abruptly turn away.
    'It's Lora,' Simon said, swallowing. 'Dear God, I didn't believe it was true ... I didn't.' Bending over, he retched.
    Sabin pushed his way forward, heedless of his superficial pain, for a far deeper one was gathering inside him - as if someone had seized his soft, vital organs in a fist and twisted.
    She lay on her back, her auburn hair spilling over her body like strands of seaweed and her complexion a deathly blue-white. The red lips were pale, the once laughing eyes as opaque as stones. Without his urging and blandishments, she would have been safe with the King. He had as good as caused her death.
    Someone brought a litter and Lora was lifted onto it. Grains of sand and crushed shell clung to her hair and sodden gown. The smell of brine and fishing boat rose from her body, replacing the warm scent of cinnamon and roses that had coiled around Sabin's senses last night. He shouldered to the side of the litter and gently stroked a tendril of hair away from her marble-cold cheek.
    'I should have died too,' he said and did not know if it was a blessing or a curse that King Henry's soldiers had taken his sword to a watery grave. Had it hung at his belt, he would have been tempted to draw the steel and fall upon its edge. Dazed, hurting, he stumbled back to the tavern. The main room was already filling with locals eager to discuss the news, their faces reflecting a mixture of horror and relish. There was very little
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    wine to go around, but there was plenty of rough cider and people had set to with a will. In the background, Sabin was aware of his half-brother shoving out a drinking horn to be filled.
    He hobbled away from the noise and sought the room where he and Lora had sported in light-hearted abandon the previous dusk. Here the scent was still of cinnamon, of burned wax from the guttered candles, of spilled wine. He lifted the flagon that had been knocked over in the initial scuffle and saw, shining among the rushes, a hair ribbon of woven green silk. Picking it up, he twined it around his fingers. The shimmer was like the glint of a drake's head in spring. Fierce heat prickled his lids, adding to the pain of his bruised eyes, but he did not weep. Tears were too easy a release. As a child, punished for mischief and misdemeanour, pride had been the stones