The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

remained just on the elegant side of bold. Her stomach wallowed. She was unaccustomed to men and those she did know were family and without dangerous reputations.
    'Sweeting!' Her father leaned down so that she could kiss his
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    cheek, and then he folded her arm through his and presented her formally to his companion.
    Sabin FitzSimon bowed, but did not attempt the liberty of kissing her hand, as she had half imagined he would do. 'Mistress Annais,' he said. 'I am pleased to make your acquaintance.'
    Trained to music, she appreciated the quality of his voice and wondered how it would sound in company with her harp. 'And I yours,' she murmured. His cloak was pinned with the most magnificent brooch she had ever seen: a great silver thistle with an amethyst jewel in the head. Beneath the cloak, the hem of his tunic sparkled with metallic embroidery. Annais gazed admiringly. It was as if a gilded figure had stepped out of a stained church window and come to life ... or as much of life as it was possible for an effigy to possess. Sabin FitzSimon's eyes might be as clear as coloured glass, but they looked through rather than at her. The polite expression and amiable curl of the lips were born of distant courtesy and possessed no substance. A glance at her father showed that the greeting appeared to find favour with him.
    The men exchanged looks and Sabin took a back-step. 'You will find me no oath-breaker,' he said.
    'You know what would happen if you did,' her father said flatly. 'Come, you must meet my brother. He knows nothing of your reputation or your reasons for being here, other than your wish to make a pilgrimage in respect of your father's soul.' He gestured somewhat brusquely at his daughter. 'Annais, go and help your aunt. I will speak with you later.'
    Annais pursed her mouth at the dismissal, but swallowed the urge to make a fuss. She could understand her father's concern. He was like a shepherd inviting a wolf to sup at his hearth and then spending the rest of the night in terror for his sheep. She wondered what the oath was that Sabin FitzSimon had no intention of breaking.
    Over the following weeks, Sabin caused a minor stir in the household. Annais watched him charm her aunt, the normally
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    dour lady Wulfgeat, until the woman almost simpered - a sight to make grown men shudder. He was the subject of endless discussion in the women's bower. Rumours abounded, from the almost true to the fantastical. Annais, who could have enlightened the ladies and wiped the approval from her aunt's expression with a single sentence, managed to keep her mouth closed. Convent training had been excellent for developing self-control.
    Not that he had shown any signs of living up to the reputation that Annais knew he possessed. He was polite to all, but unforthcoming. Sometimes he would play dice with the men in the hall of an evening, or settle down with her father for a game of chess over a flagon of wine. But she never saw him the worse for drink and if his eyes occasionally strayed over this woman or that, it was in idle perusal. Annais herself might not have existed for all the attention he paid her.
    She went to watch him train on the open ground beyond the keep where the garrison and the knights practised their craft. While he did not have the stolid strength of the older men he was unbelievably fast, skilled in the use of his weapons, and possessed the balance of a cat. She began to understand why her father had taken the risk. If her own God-given skill was music, then Sabin FitzSimon's was combat.
    He came from the field flushed and sweating hard despite the raw cold of the day. No longer a polite and distant effigy, but a man vivid with life, filled with pleasure and pride. Annais drew a sharp breath and suddenly she was as flushed as he was. He caught her gaze on him and, for an instant, she was trapped like a doe in a hunter's snare. His eyes were woodland gold. It was no more than the briefest clash of engagement, for