The Silver Falcon (42 page)

When at last they were safely moored in the harbor, the sun was rising again in the east, spreading its soft light on the bleak chalk cliffs of the coast. Now that land was within reach, William could examine the town more closely. Barfleur was two or three times the size of Portsmouth. Most of the houses were of stone. They glowed in the dawn light as if glad for the king’s visit. A young Norman squire had told William and Robert that Barfleur was the most important port connecting England and Normandy, and that it had an excellent shipyard. He even claimed that the very ship William the Conqueror had used to sail to England had been built there, and one of the sailors, himself from Barfleur, had proudly confirmed it.

As the ships docked, men, women, and children streamed toward them from all sides. The word that the royal fleet was approaching must have spread swiftly.

“It’s behind us, and we’re still alive,” cried Robert, interrupting William’s thoughts.

As William nodded, a fresh wave of sickness overcame him.

Robert pointed at a pretty church in the distance. The road toward it was filled with a dense crowd. “Look, the king is already there.” Richard and his retinue were on their way, as was customary for travelers, to thank the Lord for their safe passage. Before their journey, too, they had all, including William and Robert, prayed for the protection of Saint Thomas in the church dedicated to him at Portsmouth.

Relieved to have solid ground beneath his feet again, William stepped onto the swaying gangplank and walked unsteadily down it. Gratefully, he placed one foot and then the other on the ground. He turned uneasily and looked back at their ship. No, God knew he was not born to be a sailor; that much was certain.

When they arrived in Lisieux a few days later, de Ferrers and his men stayed at the king’s side. He had accepted an offer of
hospitality from a member of his retinue, Archdeacon Jean d’Alençon. It was the archdeacon, too, who brought a contrite Prince John before his king not long after. Everyone wondered what would happen to the disloyal brother, and the astonishing news that Richard had forgiven him and was threatening to bring down retribution on those who had counseled him poorly made the rounds all the more swiftly. Richard’s leniency was surprising, and behind it many saw the softening influence of his mother, who, as she grew older, was promoting peace.

William and Robert were fetching their master’s falcons from a high perch in the hall, where they rested with some of the other guests’ birds and two of the king’s finest, when Marshal came up to them accompanied by a nine- or ten-year-old girl with long brown hair.

“Oh, William, there you are. I’ve been looking for you. I’ve promised this young lady that you’ll show her the falcons.”

“I want to know all about them,” the girl said forcefully, her English tinged with a slightly Norman accent. She smiled charmingly at William and Robert.

“Mademoiselle.” William bowed.

“My name is Marguerite.”

“A beautiful name,” said William, smiling at her.

“I can’t abide it. A flower. I would have preferred Alix, like my mother, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.” She laughed mischievously. “If you’re William, you must be Robert, is that right?”

“
Oc
,” they answered unanimously in Occitan, the king’s mother tongue, although they did not really speak it properly. They bowed, grinning.

“Oh, please speak English with me. My uncle John says I must practice.” She smiled broadly, showing a pair of oversize front teeth.

“As you wish, Mistress Marguerite.” William bowed even more deeply and winked at her.

“Well, I can see you understand each other, which is excellent,” remarked Marshal contentedly. “Marguerite is besotted with falcons. Take her under your wing for a while. She’s worn me out with all her questions.”

“If you had been a little more willing to explain things, I wouldn’t have had to ask so many questions,” she retorted acidly.

“What a charming child,” William said, trying to conceal an amused smirk.

“I’m not a child anymore,” Marguerite protested, and her brown eyes shone with fire.

“She is John’s ward, and he’s very fond of her,” Marshal explained, not heeding her assertion. “And when she’s not tormenting you with her questions or climbing trees, she really is delightful company. I leave her in your care, William. Be very careful—she has a lot of strange ideas in her head.”

Marguerite looked at him reproachfully, then smiled winningly. Marshal withdrew with a nod.

“Would you like to hold one of the falcons on your fist before I feed it, mistress?” asked William, feeling compassion for her. If she was a ward, her parents must be dead. Perhaps her father had been particularly close to the prince, and that was why she was John’s ward and not the king’s.

“Can’t I feed it?” she asked, her cheeks glowing with excitement as she held her head to one side and looked pleadingly at William. “Please?”

“How could I resist such a request, mistress? Your wish is my command. I am your devoted servant.”

Robert, who had been standing there in silence until now, grinned from ear to ear. “William, you old heartbreaker. You can’t turn a young lady’s head the moment you step onto Norman soil,” he joked, pretending to be shocked.

“And why not?” asked Marguerite defiantly, sparkling with such mischief that Robert burst out laughing.

William, who joined in his laughter, was soon wiping tears from his eyes. He placed one of the falcons on her fist and explained how they should be handled, what she needed to watch out for when they were being carried, and what they liked to eat. He answered all her questions patiently. More than once he was reminded of the wonderful afternoon he had spent with Marshal and Princess. Did Sir William still remember it?

Marguerite fed the birds without fear of their sharp beaks, and she never tired of asking questions about them, so she was sad and disappointed when de Ferrers told William, early in the afternoon, that they would be turning their backs on Lisieux early the following morning and heading for Ferrières.

“Oh, what a pity! I’ve never learned as much in one day as I have today,” she said regretfully and curtsied to William in farewell. “I hope we shall see each other again soon.”

T
hey had been in Ferrières for a good twelve months when news of the death of Leopold, Duke of Austria, reached them early in the new year.

It was Leopold who had first taken Richard prisoner, and the report was greeted with an outpouring of jubilation. That the duke had died a pointless death was a matter of particular satisfaction for Sir Walkelin’s followers; they were still waiting for their lord, who had handed himself over as a hostage for Richard. Leopold, so the messenger reported, fell from his horse during a staged attack on a snow castle during a tournament. He broke his leg, and when the wound became infected it had to be amputated, but the putrefaction had already spread. Since he was still under excommunication for his imprisonment of Richard, he did not even have the right to a church burial—which most Englishmen thought only appropriate. The messenger also reported rumors that the duke’s son was considering returning the hostages that were in his custody, with the aim of ending the church’s sanction.

And indeed it was only a few weeks later that Sir Walkelin entered Ferrières, having had a difficult journey. His family was very relieved, and his serfs and household servants were also happy to see their master back and in good health.

The king had summoned Sir Walkelin to thank him for his faithful service, so he told Henry to stay at Ferrières that March while he made his way there with his squires, the Saracen, a few knights, and William and Robert.

On this visit, William and Robert saw the king only from a distance. Their master’s audience was but brief, and soon they were on their way back to England again, so that Sir Walkelin could take charge of his affairs again.

As was to be expected, the homeward crossing was no better for William and Robert than the crossing more than a year before, and they were right glad when they finally stepped on English soil. Groaning, they swore a mutual oath never to travel to the mainland again.

A
few months after their return, more than half the village fell ill. Fever, chills, vomiting, and loose bowels confined victims to their pallets.

“In Jesus’s name, you’re burning up,” exclaimed Robert with concern when he went to wake William one morning.

Usually, William awoke before Robert. On this morning, however, he remained on his mattress, groaning and delirious, face flushed and eyes feverish. Memories of his sister’s sudden death, memories Robert thought he had forgotten long ago, made him panic. Out of his mind with worry, he ran around the hut, not knowing what he was looking for. He stopped and took a deep breath.

“Leg compresses,” he muttered.

Although they had not saved Nesta, they could do William no harm. Besides, they were the only cure for fever he knew. He rushed off in search of cold water and in the courtyard almost knocked over Melva’s oldest daughter. She was dragging herself along, barely able to stay on her feet. Suddenly, she collapsed. Robert lifted her up and carried her to her mother’s hut. She and two assistants were also sick. Jane, Melva’s youngest, was the only one in good health.

Robert put the eldest daughter down and ran to the spring. He collected water and hurried back to the room he shared with William in the main building of the falconry. He wound the cool damp bandages around his friend’s legs, wrapped some dry ones around those, and cooled his burning forehead with some wet cloths. But the fever continued to rise unabated.

Many had fallen sick at the castle, too; all normal duties were set aside. Anyone who was well was busy taking care of the sick or burying the first victims.

William vomited violently several times, spouted confused nonsense about dying, and passed watery stools—all without noticing. While he was unconscious, Robert washed him with a piece of linen, rinsing it repeatedly in cold water. He made a bed of clean straw for him, cooled his forehead some more, and fed him cup after cup of the herbal infusion he had made at Jane’s suggestion. He took William’s hand, as he had held Nesta’s before she died, and prayed silently.

Fear for his friend caught in his throat and constricted his chest. He sat at William’s bedside day and night, ate only to keep up his strength, and permitted himself neither weakness nor sleep. But exhaustion got the better of him, and he did nod off every now and again. Whenever his head dropped, Robert would wake up terrified, leap up, and run around so as not to fall asleep again. He had to be there for William. But since the hounds and falcons could not be allowed to starve, and the younger assistant could not manage everything on his own, Robert looked after the animals, too. They could not find the strength to hunt, though, so they slaughtered a goat and then a sheep, both belonging to de Ferrers, and used them to feed the animals. They left the falcons in the darkened mews, merely clearing their droppings and feeding them regularly.

Many people in the village and surrounding cottages died. Even Melva passed away after a few days. The sick assistants and Melva’s oldest daughter recovered, but Jane, the younger daughter, fell ill and died within a few days.

William could not keep anything down and was losing weight frighteningly quickly, but Robert did not give up hope. He washed William’s bony legs, his shriveled sex, and his sagging behind without revulsion, affectionately laid him on his pallet, and prayed
to God for mercy. Robert spoke quietly to him, swore to fight for his life, described how wonderful it would be to show their falcons to the king one day, and, weeping softly one night, confessed his love unheard.

The following morning, the skin on William’s face at last seemed a little less waxy. He became pinker during the day, and by the afternoon he was quite himself again. He ate and drank like a sparrow, murmured a few words of thanks, and fell asleep again.

Robert stayed by his bedside. He observed the twitching of William’s eyelids with the watchful eyes of Argus, worried when he did not move for a while, rested his head on his friend’s chest to hear his heartbeat and feel his breathing, and was infinitely relieved as soon as he felt certain William was still alive.