Wildwing (13 page)

To His Most Excellent Lord, Sir Hugh of Berringstoke, From His Faithful Servant Eustace

M
y lord, something terrible has occurred and I beg you to return with all possible haste. Lady Matilda is being sent visions from heaven. What is worse, they are coming true.

The lady was praying in the solar when she heard a divine voice, commanding her to find an angel in the guise of a peregrine falcon, bearing a halo of blinding gold. There is no doubt it was a holy vision and no mere dream, for on arriving at the place, all was as she had foreseen, as witnessed by her maidservant and the falconer’s son.

Father Bartholomew, after deep prayer and study, has declared the lady destined, through her work with your lordship’s falcons, to hear and spread the word of God. This profound connection to the divine has surprised many at

Berringstoke, given the lady’s lack of attendance at matins.

Perhaps we should have been forewarned by her tendency to exclaim, “My God!” as if expecting the holy presence.

I need hardly spell out the dangers that might ensue should the lady begin having visions on a regular basis. We had thought it sufficient to keep the document bearing your seal and that of Sir Giles under lock and key, but a lock would be worthless against divine revelation. Moreover, should the lady feel herself called to a life of contemplation in a convent before your marriage is found binding, then truly, my lord, disaster is upon us.

Yet even these reasons for your return pale beside the increased hostilities from Sir Giles. A skirmish near the territory in question wounded several men. I enclose a missive from your constable with more details. Each day your pledge remains unfilled, the threat to Berringstoke intensifies.

In spite of the danger, I raised no objection when Lady Matilda expressed a desire to work with your lordship’s new peregrine, though it means leaving the safety of the castle walls. This noble activity indicates a welcome return to worldly concerns, and may distract her from unwelcome prying. The proposed field is safely centered in your demesne, and her ladyship will be with a falconer and maidservant at all times. Should you consider this insufficient, I will send a man-at-arms, but I need hardly remind you how dangerously undermanned the castle is at present.

I have succeeded, thus far, in keeping word of Sir Giles from Lady Matilda, impressing upon everyone the importance of preventing further anxiety in her weakened condition.

The cloth we purchased was delivered and cut in time for new garments to be worn to the memorial service. These will show Berringstoke in the best light for your wedding. I have also disbursed funds for lumber to make repairs in the bailey, in the hope that visitors of some importance might arrive for the nuptials.

Anxiously awaiting word of your arrival, I remain most loyally and fully dedicated to the furtherance of your estate,

Eustace, Steward of Berringstoke

From His Glove to Mine

E
verything is going gloriously well. After my so-called vision, it’s
my lady
this, and
my lady
that, and can I get you more wine or another cushion perhaps, my lady? It’s lovely.

Beatrix is still finishing up in my room as I head downstairs. Today I’m going back to the field.

William is standing outside the mews in the sun, the peregrine perched on his fist. “Come meet Pilgrim properly,” he says with a smile.

I come so close, I can see the outline of every feather. Her back is the blue-gray of stormy ocean water, the feathers rippling over one another like tiny waves. Her wing and tail feathers are something different altogether: striped and long, folded like the slats of a Japanese fan.

As I stare, Pilgrim stretches her wings to soak up themorning sun. She gives a small flap, and the fan of her tail spreads wide, each feather distinct. She lifts her face to the bright light, drinking it in. Suddenly, she fluffs up; for a moment she looks as downy as a chick, but then she pulls her feathers in, even sleeker than before. Her breast shivers lightly.

“Is she cold?” I ask.

He laughs. “That’s happiness, it is. She seems to like you.”

Happy. That’s how I feel, too. But it’s something more. “What is it called,” I ask, “when she fluffs up like that?”

“Rousing.”

I feel like I’m rousing right now. Like a shiver of joy is running through me, making me open up suddenly and soak in the whole world. That’s just how I feel.

William walks to the door of the mews and holds it open for me. “We’ll gather our gear and let my father know we’re ready.”

Inside, birds stand quietly on their perches, most of them on one foot, the other foot tucked so far into their chest feathers, they look like a bunch of one-legged pirates. Along one wall there’s a long narrow table with a hide sprawled across the wood, and a knife lies nearby, ready to cut the supple leather. Loops of polished leather and sturdy long gloves dangle from pegs on the wall. A door at the far end of the room reveals shelves laden with small pots, like an apothecary shop. Everything, even the gravel spread on the floor, is spotlessly clean. The soft cooing of pigeons floats through the wall.

William’s father looks up from the great white falcon standing on his wrist. It’s the first time I’ve seen him so close, and I’m surprised to find father and son are nothing alike. Where William is fair and slim, Harold is a solid, broad-shouldered wall of a man with dark hair and eyes as brown as hazelnuts. There’s a sense of command and confidence about him, the air of a man used to making quick decisions.

“Your ladyship,” he says, with a brief bow of his head, and now I also see the kindness in his eyes.

I follow his glance back to the falcon on his glove. It’s larger than Pilgrim, snow-white feathers flecked with black. A low brow and powerful neck make it look cross and regal at the same time.

Harold lifts up one of the falcon’s bright yellow feet and peers closely. “Seems I’m staying here today,” he says to William. “Since her ladyship’s going to the field, she can hold Pilgrim on the glove.”

“Bumblefoot?” asks William.

“Bumblefoot!” I laugh. “Is that the bird’s name? Not very dignified, is it?”

But Harold doesn’t smile. “Nothing funny about bumble-foot. ‘Tis a disease that can kill a bird. No, this one’s name is

Lightning. The king’s own gyrfalcon, she is, and mewed at our expense. A great honor for us to be trusted with her care. But should any harm come to her … Well, let’s just say the bird had best be healthy when the king arrives.”

“The king?” I ask, trying to remember which king it would be. Henry I? No, too early. Richard the Lionhearted? Still too early. “When is he coming?”

The white falcon jerks her head in my direction, but Harold doesn’t seem to hear a word I’ve said, he’s looking so intently at those yellow feet. Then, to William: “A bruise. I need to make up some salve so it doesn’t turn worse.” He sets the bird on a perch, nods to me, and heads into the back room.

“I’m afraid it’s just us and Beatrix, then,” says William, picking up a leather coil and putting it into the bag draped over his shoulder. “More work for you, it turns out. Do you mind?”

I look up into his blue eyes. I don’t mind one bit.

Beatrix is sitting against a tree trunk, sewing. The horses are grazing nearby. And I’m standing in a field of golden grass, so close to William, I can feel his breath.

The bell on Pilgrim’s leg sings gaily as she steps from William’s glove to mine. His fingers shape my hand, showing me how to hold the leather jesses fastened above her feet.

“Now the creance,” he says, attaching a long line. Then he turns and walks a distance away.

Pilgrim is much lighter than I expected. No need to brace my arm so tight. If I hold my upper arm close to my body and bend my elbow, like William showed me, I can stay with her on my wrist forever. I relax, and Pilgrim adjusts her feet easily on the glove.

“Are you ready?” calls William.

I nod, and he swings the lure in a circle before tossing it high in the air.

Pilgrim spreads her great wings wide, there’s a rush of wind, and the next thing I know, she’s standing on the ground near William, the lure firmly grasped in her talons. He motions me over.

“First time, and she came right off!” he says, looking at me like he realizes it could be a fine thing, having me along.

He pulls a strip of meat from his pouch and holds it out near Pilgrim, nudging it closer until she drops the lure and gets back on his glove to take the tidbit. He stands, murmuring to her, words of praise and affection. And then he whistles again, that same dancing phrase I heard the first day.

“Why is it always the same tune?” I ask.

“So she’ll know it later, even from high in the air,” he says. “It’s her tune, to come back to.”

And I realize I want one, too. A tune to come back to.

When it’s time to go, I walk toward Fidelius, and he raises his head from the grass with a gentle nicker. I reach a hand to his side, feeling the strength and warmth of it. William makes a stirrup with his hands to boost me back up. Fidelius stays still while I settle. I pat his neck and lean over, whispering, “Thank you.”

Now William helps Beatrix, and I wait, perfectly content. The sun sparkling on the leaves, the light wind teasing my hair, the warm look in William’s eyes—it feels right, being here with him. As if I’ve been doing it all my life.

And then a cold current in the breeze whispers in my ear:
Like mother, like daughter
. Caroline’s voice.

Fidelius takes a step sideways.

Who’s your father, then, Addy?

But I’m not Addy anymore
, I think fiercely, my hands tightening on the reins. I force the voice back into rustling leaves.

I glance at William. Pilgrim is perched on his left wrist; his right hand reaches to the saddle, and he swings up in a single supple movement before turning to me with an easy smile. Here, I get to do what I want.