The Falcons of Montabard Read Online Free PDF

over the pallet of a sleeping maid. The woman jerked awake with a cry, stared up at the intruders and raised the sound to a piercing shriek. The young men's attempt at stealth proved futile, as everyone else was startled from sleep. A child began to cry and a bleary nursemaid stumbled to attend it. The main chamber curtain rattled aside and
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    Annais saw that candles were being hastily lit.
    'What is it, what's wrong?' Countess Matilda emerged, a cloak thrown over her linen shift, her abundant ruddy bronze hair streaming down her back. Then her eyes lit on the two young men and blazed with joy. 'Simon!' Regardless of propriety, she ran to the fair one, flung her arms around his neck and burst into tears. After a moment's uncertainty, the youth returned her embrace with fervour. The dark one stepped back, and although it was difficult to judge his expression because of the state of his face, Annais thought that it tightened, and she could almost sense his mental retreat.
    'We thought you drowned,' the Countess wept, relinquishing her hold to pass the youth on to his sister. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she turned to the dark one, and drew back with a gasp.
    'I fell, my lady,' he said without expression. 'It is indeed true that the Blanche Nef sank with William the Atheling on board, but we missed the sailing.'
    Prince David joined the greeting, embracing Simon heartily, but clasping the other's hand with more reserve. The family retreated into their chamber and attendants were sent running for food and wine.
    Following the initial excitement, a degree of calm was restored. The rumble of conversation came muted through the curtain but the women in the outer chamber could decipher no individual words. The senior maid ordered everyone to go back to sleep and, to emphasise the point, snuffed all the candles, even the thick night one on its pricket. A whispered conversation between two of the wenches was silenced by a terse command.
    Annais's eyes were gritty with weariness, but she stayed awake for a long time, pondering the scene she had just witnessed. She was of a practical nature, but nevertheless sensitive to atmospheres, and there had been sufficient undertow in that encounter to drown any but the strongest swimmer.
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    Prince David of Scotland, lord of Huntingdon and Northampton during his stepson's minority, rubbed a weary hand over his beard and considered the young man seated before him. On the trestle separating them were the remnants of a breakfast of oatcakes and curd cheese, and half a pitcher of brown heather ale.
    'Now,' he said, 'I will have the truth about what really happened at Barfleur.' His tone was pleasant, his French bearing the merest hint of a Scots burr, for he had dwelt most of his life at the English court. 'Much as I am overjoyed to see you and Simon whole, I would know what the price is to me and mine.'
    Sabin lowered his gaze from David's piercing dark one and suppressed the urge to squirm. The Scots Prince was scrupulously honest in his own dealings and expected others to extend him the same courtesy.
    'The truth is as we told you, sir,' Sabin said. 'We got drunk and the Blanche Nef sailed without us.'
    'And in your drunken stupor you managed to fall over not just once, but several times?' David arched a slender brow.
    Sabin shrugged. 'Does it matter what happened? Without it we'd be feeding fish at the bottom of the sea with the rest of them.'
    'Your tone borders on the insolent.' Grooves of muscle tightened in David's jaw and his tone was no longer pleasant, although it remained even.
    'That was not my intent. I am saying that you have the fabric of the matter. There is no reason for you to examine every single thread in the weave.'
    'Let me be the judge of that.' David folded his arms. 'If you won't tell me, then I will ask Simon, but I would rather hear the tale from your own lips. It is your responsibility, not your brother's.'
    Sabin sighed. 'There is little enough to tell. Simon drank