The Silver Falcon (9 page)

The falconer was sitting at the table, drinking from an earthenware tankard. His deeply fissured cheeks, his unusually long, matted gray beard, and his watery blue eyes gave him a wild and forbidding appearance.

“What do you want here?”

“I…er, didn’t the lord of the manor…? I’m here to, I can…” William stammered.

“What’s your name?”

“His name is William, Father,” Robert answered on his behalf.

William looked at him gratefully, but Robert’s expression was not exactly friendly.

“So you want to be a falconer?” Logan exclaimed contemptuously. “Why?” His scrutiny was so penetrating that William suddenly felt naked and helpless.

“Because I…er, because I love birds,” he answered, then immediately wished he could crawl into a mouse hole. He really couldn’t have said anything more foolish, for more birds were killed in a hunt than anything else. “Falcons, I mean. Falcons,” he corrected himself hurriedly, blushing.

“I see. I expect you hope you’ll be hunting with the knights soon, in expensive clothes and on the back of a noble horse?”

William’s eyes began to shine despite his best efforts.

“But there’ll be none of that, do you hear?” the falconer barked at him. “As a falconer’s boy you’ll be on foot, and if you want a cloak with fur trim you’d better hunt down a couple of rats and skin them.” Laughter could scarcely sound more hateful.

William had never in his life felt so small and insignificant. Despite his crippled foot, which the falconer had not yet noticed, fortunately, he had on the whole been treated decently up to now, not least out of respect for his mother. Now he found himself standing in this strange room, dusty, hungry, weary, and more than anything else disappointed.

Logan stood up. “I’m going to bed. The boy can sleep with you,” he told his son brusquely and turned away to get his pallet ready.

Robert did not seem particularly happy about this, but nonetheless he took him over to his corner, which was separated from the rest of the room by a piece of cloth.

William was painfully hungry but did not dare ask the falconer for food. He had resigned himself to going to sleep with his belly grumbling when someone tapped his arm.

“Here,” whispered a girl of about eight, handing him a slice of bread and a piece of ham. The child put a finger to her lips.

William nodded to show he understood.

“Go to sleep now, Bug,” Logan called out.

“My name is Nesta, not Bug,” she protested quietly.

“Thanks, Nesta,” whispered William. “Have you got any water for me?”

“Back there, the bucket with the dipper in it. We can all use it. Whoever takes the last bit has to go fetch more, but you’ve just done that,” she said.

It was obvious that she was Robert’s sister. She had the same dark-brown hair, though it was finer. Even her eyes were the same warm hazel color. If they were the falconer’s children, they must take after their mother, thought William.

“Will you be quiet now,” Logan thundered, yawning loudly. Soon, apparently, he was asleep; his even, sibilant breathing was clearly audible.

William ate his bread and ham and drank a few gulps of water. Only then did he realize how long and tiring his day had been.

He was so tired he could hardly stand, so he lay down on the straw mat beside Robert.

“Hey, you, time to get up!” Robert gave William an ungentle shove. “It’s getting light already.”

William stretched, yawning. It must still be early. He could make out only indistinct outlines in the little bit of light that penetrated the wooden shutters.

Logan was still snoring.

“We have to get ready before he wakes up. Come on—hurry up,” Robert urged William, letting himself out of the house. William had slept in his clothes, so he soon slipped out after him. Nesta followed hot on his heels.

William made his way down to the stream where he had filled the buckets with Robert the previous day; relieved himself in the bushes; and washed his face, neck, and hands, as he was used to doing at home.

“What’s wrong with your foot?” asked Nesta curiously.

“Crooked, since I was born,” he answered tersely, adjusting the binding. In Saint Edmundsbury, the younger children had occasionally teased him about his foot, but Nesta just nodded.

“Can you run with it?” Robert inquired.

“Of course,” growled William.

An expectant glint appeared on Robert’s face, and he jumped up. “So much the better. Falconers have to be able to run fast. My father says I’m quick. Let’s see if you can keep up with me. Let’s have a race around the house and back,” he challenged William, drawing a line in the sandy soil with his toe. “Starting here.”

William hated this kind of competition. If he lost, Robert would make fun of him. If he won, despite the pain in all his joints from his ride, the falconer’s son would probably resent him for it. William sighed. It was out of the question for him to turn down the challenge. So he positioned himself next to Robert, who had already begun to count. On “three,” they both started running.

Robert ran like the wind, panting, and quickly left William some distance behind. But William tried his hardest, too, and caught up, so they reached the starting point at the same time.

A draw! William was thoroughly satisfied with this result. He sat down and took off his shoe. The bandage around his foot had shifted and was cutting into his skin.

“It’s bleeding!” Robert said, pointing at William’s foot.

“I know.”

“It looks as if it hurts.”

“It’s all right.” William did not want to let on that he was in severe pain.

“If you want me to help you, it’s all right to say so. I don’t mind.” Robert touched William’s foot, as if he wanted to show that he meant it.

William was embarrassed, and he refused his help. He massaged the injured foot with both hands. When Logan’s thundering voice suddenly rang out behind him, he jumped.

“What the hell is that?”

William had not noticed the falconer’s arrival until Logan’s thundering voice boomed out from right behind him.

“So now my lord sends me a cripple who wants to become a falconer.” Logan raised his right hand to the almost bald spot on his head and stroked it, as if he could not quite believe it. “They have no idea, these great men, how much work it takes to tame a bird. They just have the trained birds placed on their fists and they think they know something about hunting,” he went on, more and more worked up. “And I’m the one who has to deal with it.”

“The king is a good falconer,” protested William, hurriedly rewrapping his foot. He pulled on his shoe and leaped up.

Robert was already standing.

Logan went to William and poked him in the chest with his forefinger. “I don’t know who put you forward, but even if it was the king his majestic self you needn’t think you’re something special.” He sniffed sharply and lowered his hand. “Perhaps you believe that I care who sent you here? Hear this: As long as you do what I tell you and don’t become a thorn in my side, you can stay. If you don’t work hard, you’ll be out quicker than you got here.”

William stood there, thunderstruck, but then his defiant spirit reasserted itself. The falconer had greeted him without the slightest show of hospitality; not even the poorest serf would have done that. He drew himself up. “I haven’t had anything to eat yet,” he protested daringly.

“Sweeping first, then eating. That’s how we always do things here. If it doesn’t suit you, you can leave whenever you like. I dare say there are plenty of other falconers who can’t wait to take you in.”

Not yet, but they will, thought William sullenly, looking the falconer bravely in the face.

“Now get on with the sweeping.”

Robert gave him a gentle poke in the ribs and pulled him away.

“And you, go in the house and do your work,” Logan snarled at his daughter, who had been watching all this from a safe distance.

“The dogs we use when we go hawking are in the barn there. And back there in the little shed we’ve put a bitch with her litter, so that nothing happens to the puppies. They won’t join the others until they’re big enough and weaned.” Robert’s little tour began.

“And what’s in the tower?” asked William, determined not to let anything grind him down.

“The falcons! Where did you think they were?” Robert smiled rather contemptuously, but that did not bother William. The thought of the falcons warmed his heart. He examined the tower curiously from top to bottom.

“My father raises nestlings in an aerie he made himself. Up there, see?” Proudly, Robert pointed at the top of the tower, but William could not make anything out. “The other falcons are housed below. That’s where we have to clean now. But quietly, mind you. Otherwise they take fright and we get into trouble.”

William fought down his rising irritation. Robert seemed to take him for a fool. As if he would have gone into the mews shouting and waving his arms about.

As they entered the tower, he felt the same excited fluttering in his stomach he had felt the day he had found the royal falcon. Specks of dust whirled and glittered in the broad beam of sunlight streaming into the room through the open door, wafted about by the draft. Robert closed the door, and suddenly it was
dark. Fortunately, William’s eyes were used to adjusting to the dark quickly, thanks to his work in the smithy, and soon he could make out some details. The floor was almost completely covered with sand. In the middle of the room stood a dozen cylindrical wooden posts that had been driven into the ground, each fitted with an iron ring. There was a bird perching on nearly every block, its leash fastened to the ring.

There were falcons of several sizes, colors, and markings. Sir Ralph must be very wealthy, for he owned—William counted lightning fast—nine falcons.

With the ease of habit, Robert took a glove from a hook by the door and approached the first bird. It was only slightly smaller than Blanchpenny, and its plumage was completely different. So it couldn’t be a gyrfalcon. Robert knelt down beside it, released the leash from the ring, and took the falcon onto his fist. With his free fingers, he gripped the leather strips attached to the falcon’s feet. Robert carried the bird toward a wooden frame, explaining to William that the strips were called jesses, as if William didn’t know such a thing.

William frowned at the sight of the falcon’s closed eyes, which looked as if they had been sewn shut. Robert raised the falcon to the wooden perch, lowered his hand until the bird’s feet touched it, then opened his fist to release the jesses. He wound the leash around the perch and carefully moved his hand away. Unable to see anything, the falcon stepped backward onto the perch. Robert wound the leash around the frame one more time so that the bird could not escape.

“They all have to be on the high perch, so that we can replace the sand,” he explained quietly as he picked up the next falcon in the same way and put it beside the first.

The high perch. William nodded, taking note of the new phrase so that he could master the language of falconry. Fascinated, he watched how easily the falconer’s son handled the birds.

“Can I try?” William asked after a while.

Robert shrugged and fetched another glove. “Of course, that’s what you’re here for.”

William slipped on the gauntlet. In silence, he knelt down beside the falcon, imitating Robert, and took the creature onto his fist. Feeling the raptor’s talons through the thick leather of the glove set off an extraordinary feeling of happiness. He stood up cautiously and lifted up the falcon to the high perch. Although he had carefully noted each separate hand movement, something he had never managed when he was smithing, he was trembling inwardly with the fear of making a mistake. Only when he had carried the falcon to its perch without difficulty and fastened the leash did he relax.

“Good.” Robert’s enthusiasm was muted, whereas William was almost bursting with pride. He lifted the next two birds onto the high perch without difficulty and fastened them, too.

“Now we have to clear up the mutes and castings,” explained Robert as he handed William a small shovel and broom.

“Mutes and castings?” William had never heard these words.

Robert sullenly pointed at the birds’ excrement, which was embedded with small pellets that appeared to consist of undigested remains. “That stuff.”

The boys began to clean the blocks, one by one, removing the mess from the sand around them.

“The mutes should be white with a black spot. If they’re green or reddish, it means the falcon may be ill and we must call my father,” Robert explained, pointing at the droppings around the first block. “That’s what they should look like—do you see?”

When they had finished, they put the birds back onto their blocks.

“Now we’ll get something to eat,” whispered Robert. “Come on, I’m hungry.”

At the door to the tower, William pointed to a ladder that led up. “Can I see the aerie?”

Robert hesitated for a moment, then nodded his consent and started going up. William climbed close behind him. After a few rungs, the falconer’s son stopped. “We’re not really supposed to be up here.”

William could only just see into the room. The wind whistled through the three open sides; the fourth side was closed off with planks, making for a space that was considerably smaller than the lower room. An aerie made of brushwood and twigs stood in the middle of the room, and in it sat two nestling falcons. They immediately started screeching.

“Those are eyasses taken from the wild,” explained Robert. “They’re calling for food.”

William grinned as his stomach growled loudly at the word.

“As soon as they can fly properly, we’ll take them down to be with the others.” Robert seemed nervous. “Let’s get out of here.”

They had only just reached the foot of the ladder when the door opened and Logan stepped in.

“Are you
still
not ready?” he demanded harshly.