Margaret darted a vicious glance at him. ‘You want Walter dead.’
‘He shames our name. By God, if I’d been at that battle, I’d have cut my throat rather than let myself be taken by barbarians who suck from their horses’ teats.’
‘My son’s as good as dead,’ Margaret wailed.
‘There’s an alternative,’ said Hero.
They leaned forward again.
Hero was beginning to enjoy being the centre of attention. ‘Outside warfare, the Emir’s chief delights are hawking and hunting. He prides himself on possessing the finest falcons in Islam. He’ll set aside the previous demands in exchange for two matched casts of gyrfalcons, each one as white as a virgin’s breasts or the first snows of winter.’
Lady Margaret broke the imaginative silence. ‘What’s a gyrfalcon?’
‘The largest, rarest and most noble of hawks. They’re variable in plumage, ranging from charcoal-black to purest white. The palest and therefore the most valuable live at the world’s northernmost end, in Hyperborea, on the islands of Iceland and Greenland. The Portuguese call them letrados because their markings resemble the letters of a manuscript. To the Byzantines, they are known as-’
Vallon kicked him. ‘What my servant means is that four white falcons will secure your son’s liberty.’
Olbec brightened cautiously. ‘Four falcons doesn’t sound too steep. How much do they cost?’
‘The finest specimens fetch as much as two good warhorses.’
Olbec winced. ‘Well, that’s a price worth paying for my lady’s happiness.’
‘The price will be much higher than that,’ Drogo said. He menaced Hero with a smile. ‘Tell us, Greek, how we lay our hands on four gyrfalcons as white as virgins’ breasts that live at the world’s end?’
‘Sir, some fly south to escape the winter and are trapped on a plain in Norway. The Norwegian king reserves them as gifts for his fellow monarchs.’
‘Then I’ll petition William to request a royal gift.’ Olbec rubbed his hands. ‘That’s settled.’
Margaret, staring at Hero, plucked at her husband’s sleeve. ‘I see a “but” in his eyes.’
Olbec saw it too. His smile died. ‘What’s the problem? Are we at war with Norway?’
Vallon stepped in. ‘The falcons aren’t trapped until October. That will be too late. The Emir has a wager with a rival lord to settle who possesses the finest hawk. They’ve agreed a trial this autumn.’
‘And if they don’t reach him in time?’
‘I imagine your son will be sold as a slave. Since the Emir is well disposed towards him, he’ll probably let him keep his balls.’
Margaret swooned. Olbec caught her. She squirmed to face him. ‘We must send our own expedition to these islands.’
‘I don’t even know where they are.’
‘Iceland is a week’s voyage from north Britain,’ Hero said. ‘Greenland lies another week’s passage to the north-west.’
‘They must trade with civilised lands,’ Margaret insisted.
‘Yes, my lady. Each summer a merchant fleet leaves Norway for Iceland, returning before the autumn storms. Gyrfalcons are usually included in the cargo.’
‘There’s the solution,’ Margaret cried.
‘And how will the falcons be carried to Anatolia?’ Drogo demanded.
Margaret pointed at Vallon. ‘The same route this man travelled.’
‘It’s taken him half a year to bring us a piece of parchment. Imagine how much longer it will take to transport falcons overland to Anatolia.’
‘There’s an alternative route,’ Hero said. ‘Your blood-ancestors, the Norsemen, discovered it. It’s called the Road to the Greeks.’
Olbec waved his hand. ‘Go on.’
‘From Norway the falcons would be shipped up the Baltic Sea to Novgorod, a northern trade centre in the Land of the Rus. Then, by a series of portages, they would be transported south to Kiev. At the Russian capital they would be consigned to one of the merchant fleets that voyage down the Dnieper to the Black Sea. Having reached the coast, they would be taken by ship to Constantinople.’ Hero saw that he’d lost his audience. ‘From there,’ he said on a dying note, ‘they would complete the journey into Anatolia.’
Nobody spoke. Hero sensed their imaginations spreading out like ripples beyond the horizons of their understanding. Iceland. Greenland. Rus. The Black Sea. Mysterious city-states with outlandish names scattered to the four corners of the world. Even Drogo had been stunned into silence.
‘The voyage can be completed in three months,’ Hero added. ‘So I’m told.’
Lady Margaret pointed at Vallon. ‘Do you know this route?’
‘Only at second-hand. In Castile I heard an account of its perils from an ancient Viking who’d made the journey fifty years earlier. He set out from Novgorod with more than forty companions, all battle-hardened warriors. They were transporting a cargo of slaves. Within days they found themselves caught up in wars between rival Russian princes. They lost a ship and its crew before they reached the capital. South of Kiev the river plunges into a series of cataracts. The old Viking told me their names. He called one the Gulper, another the Echoer, a third the Insatiable. The torrents claimed the lives of another six men. Once the Vikings reached calm water, they found themselves in territory overrun by savage nomads. Day after day they fought running battles with horse archers. Of the forty Vikings who left Novgorod, eleven reached the Black Sea. And none of their cargo survived.’ Vallon shrugged. ‘Fortune was no friend of that Viking. A few months later Moorish pirates captured him.’
‘That was fifty years ago,’ Margaret said in a small voice. ‘Perhaps conditions have improved.’
‘It’s not only the dangers,’ Olbec groaned. ‘Think of the cost.’
‘We can borrow from the moneylenders in York.’
‘We burned York two winters ago,’ Drogo pointed out.
‘Lincoln, then, or London. Paris, Milan, if necessary. I don’t care!’ Margaret squeezed her temples.
‘My lady, a loan would be secured against our property, movable and immovable,’ said Olbec. ‘We could forfeit our estate.’
Margaret rounded on the Count. ‘And I could lose my son. I implore you, rescue him. If you don’t, I’ll return to Normandy and enter a nunnery.’ She clutched her throat. ‘No, I’ll swallow poison. I couldn’t live knowing that my family had done nothing to save my first-born.’
Olbec knuckled his eyes. ‘Even if we could raise the finance, who would man the expedition? Who would lead it? I’m too broken-down to make such a journey and Drogo’s services are pledged to William for the Scottish campaign.’
Margaret had no answer to that.
Vallon caught Hero’s eye. ‘It’s clear that you won’t settle this matter tonight,’ he told Olbec. ‘Our part’s done. By your leave, we’ll take our rest.’
Drogo blocked him. ‘I’m not done with you.’
‘Let them retire,’ Olbec ordered.
‘He’s a mercenary. He didn’t journey here out of love for Walter.’
‘You’re right,’ Vallon said. ‘Your brother swore that my labours would be handsomely rewarded. He boasted of his rich inheritance.’ Vallon’s gaze wandered over the stark wooden walls. ‘If I’d known the truth, I’d have left him to rot.’
Olbec struggled to his feet. ‘You deserve a reward, but you’ve heard how things stand. Listen, I know a good fighting man when I see one. Ride with us on the Scottish campaign. Prizes will be won in the north, and I swear that a generous share of the spoils will go to you.’
Vallon inclined his head. ‘You flatter me, but this climate makes my sword arm stiff and slow. I’ll follow the wind as soon as it turns south.’
Olbec subsided in grumpy resignation. ‘Then all I can give you is my thanks and a safe conduct.’
Vallon bowed.
Drogo barged against him. ‘I’ll escort you myself.’
*
‘Don’t blame you for turning down the old
man,’ said the man-at-arms who guided them out. ‘You think Northumbria is bad, but Scotland — what a shithole. The natives eat the same food as their horses and live in hovels I wouldn’t put a pig-’
‘Drogo and Walter are stepbrothers,’ Vallon cut in.
The man-at-arms chuckled. ‘Sounds like Sir Walter forgot to tell you.’
‘Yes,’ said Vallon with fake resentment. ‘He claimed he was the sole heir.’
‘Right, it’s like this. Drogo’s the eldest son of the Count’s first wife, a farm girl from the next village. She died giving birth to Richard. Reckon she took one look at his face and lost the will to live. Lady Margaret had been married, too. Widowed at fourteen, when she was still carrying Walter. Much classier breed. Her family holds land near Evreux. But here’s the strange thing. Walter and Drogo were born on the same day. Sort of twins.’
‘And rivals.’
‘Been fighting since they began to crawl. Would have killed one another by now if Lady Margaret hadn’t persuaded Walter to go abroad.’ The man-at-arms laughed. ‘So golden boy’s alive. Doesn’t surprise me. Could talk his way out of hell, that one. But you don’t need me to tell you how smooth-tongued he can be. Here we are,’ he said, pushing open a shed door with a mock flourish. ‘The guest suite.’
Clean rushes carpeted the floor. A basin of water steamed on a brazier. Clothes had been laid out on two sleeping platforms.
The man-at-arms lounged against the door. ‘You didn’t say where you were from.’
‘Aquitaine,’ Vallon said, steering him out. ‘Nowhere you would have heard of.’
Hero collapsed on to his bed. There wasn’t a bone or muscle in his body that didn’t cry out for relief. Through sticky eyes he watched Vallon strip off and wash himself. Where his clothes had protected him from the weather, his body was as white as a peeled stick. Hero had a vision of the warriors carved in stone on the walls of Salerno cathedral.
Vallon shook him awake. ‘Did you foul yourself when the Normans charged?’
Hero’s response was slurred. ‘No, sir.’
‘Even so, you’re filthy. Wash yourself. You’ll feel better for it.’
Hero hobbled over to the brazier.
Vallon yawned. ‘Drogo’s going to be a problem.’
Hero shuddered. ‘He’s a wild beast.’
Vallon laughed. ‘Born with wasps in his hair and a wolf at his throat. Still, put yourself in his skin. We’ve brought him the worst news imaginable.’
Hero turned. Vallon lay on his back, his sword by his side.
‘Sir, considering that he has us at his mercy, you seem remarkably unconcerned.’
Vallon didn’t answer for a moment. ‘Lady Margaret’s a determined lady, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, sir. How did you know she was in the party that came to our rescue?’
‘Because I wrote giving warning of our arrival.’
Stung that Vallon hadn’t told him, Hero risked a criticism. ‘You took too great a risk, sir. You should have waited in Durham until she sent for us.’
‘I wasn’t sure how much influence Drogo wielded. Suppose we’d waited and Drogo had turned up to escort us. He would have returned to the castle with sad news — an ambush on a lonely road, the foreigners slain … ’ Vallon waved a hand.
Hero toppled back on to his bed. He was so tired that at first he missed the significance of what Vallon had said. He jerked upright. ‘You knew about Drogo, too?’
‘I made enquiries about the family in London. I’m not so foolhardy as to rush into the unknown.’
Hero crossed his arms over his chest. His mouth set in a resentful line.
Vallon’s head rolled to face him. ‘I didn’t want to burden you with more fears than you already carry.’
‘Thank you for your consideration,’ Hero said in a tight voice.
Vallon smiled. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’ve acquitted yourself better than I expected. To tell the truth, I never thought you’d get as far as the Channel.’
Hero’s lip trembled at this double-sided compliment. ‘Then you’re not angry with me.’
‘Angry for what?’
‘For leading you on this vile and unprofitable enterprise.’
‘You didn’t lead me anywhere,’ Vallon said. He reached for the lamp and nipped out the flame. ‘If anyone’s to blame, it’s that one-eyed magus we buried in the Alps.’
V
Wayland drew back the wattle shutter and watched the foreigners walking towards the hall. Since their arrival, the snow had fallen without pause for two days. Now the sky was ablaze with stars and the strangers cast shadows as black as ink.
A bell rasped. On Wayland’s gloved left hand, tethered by leash and jesses, sat a goshawk with its eyelids stitched together. He’d trapped her four days ago in a net baited with a dove. She was a passager, still in her juvenile plumage, her buff chest streaked with umber barbs. After jessing her and seeling her eyes, Wayland had left her undisturbed until he judged from the sharpness of her breastbone that she was keen enough to be handled. Since he had picked her up yesterday evening she hadn’t left his fist. She wouldn’t sleep until she ate. Until she ate, he wouldn’t get any sleep.
When the strangers disappeared into the hall, Wayland closed the shutter and turned. The arena for this battle of wills was a mews of riven oak lit by a single lamp. Behind a canvas drape at the opposite end, two peregrines — falcon and tiercel — dozed like small idols on a beam perch. Wayland began to pace the earth floor, four steps forward, four steps back. A brindled hound lying by his pallet tracked his movements with sleepy eyes. The dog was enormous, heavier than most full-grown men. Part mastiff, part greyhound, part wolf, its bloodline went back to the Celtic warhounds prized by Britain’s Roman invaders.
As he patrolled, Wayland drew a fillet of pigeon breast across the goshawk’s feet. She ignored it. She couldn’t see and had no sense of smell. The food was merely an irritant. Wayland stroked her back and shoulders with a quill. She didn’t react to that, either. Pinching her long middle toe provoked a feeble hiss — nothing like the outraged gasps that had greeted the lightest touch when he caught her. He knew she was ready to eat. Some hawks fed the first night, most refused for a day or two, but only once had Wayland found a hawk that would rather starve than submit. That had been a goshawk, too — a haggard so old that its eyes had darkened to the colour of pigeon’s blood. It had spent a day and a night thrashing upside down from his glove before he cut its jesses and cast it back into the wild.
Wayland was less focused on his task than he should have been. The garrison was buzzing with stories about the strangers. A mysterious Frankish veteran of far-off wars had broken Fulk’s wrist and held a sword against Roussel’s throat. And got away with it! His servant — his catamite said some — was an astrologer who spoke every known tongue and carried medicines blessed by the Pope. Wayland was desperate to get a closer look at them, but he couldn’t leave the hut until he’d manned the hawk. Deciding to force the pace, he pulled the hawk’s right leg down with thumb and forefinger, applying pressure until she snaked her head at his hand. Her beak closed on pigeon breast instead. She wrenched off a wedge, imagining she’d got her enemy, and flicked it away. But the taste lingered. She salivated and shifted into a more balanced stance. Wayland held his breath as she inflated her feathers, swelling as if building up to a violent sneeze. She roused with a furious rattle, flicked her tail, tightened her talons and bent her head.
The dog’s eyes opened. It lifted its craggy head, listening, then sprang up in one unconsidered movement. The commotion made the hawk bate so violently that the draught of her wings blew out the lamp. In the blackout Wayland couldn’t control her twisting and flapping. He opened the shutter and by the wash of starlight managed to scoop her back on to his fist and untwist her jesses. Mouth agape, chest heaving, she squatted on his glove like a spastic chicken. Wayland knew that the setback meant the loss of another night’s sleep, but he couldn’t set her down now. If he d
id, all the advances he’d made would be reversed, and he’d have to go through the whole tedious process from scratch. The dog, oblivious to his reproachful growl, threatened the door, its muzzle rucked back from canines the size of small tusks.
A fist banged. ‘You’re wanted in the hall. Quick!’
Wayland half-opened the door. Raul the German stood there, panting with urgency. Wayland pointed to the hawk, then at its perch.
‘Bring it with you.’
Wayland reached for the muzzle hanging from a peg. The dog was supposed to wear it whenever it left the hut.
Raul yanked his arm. ‘No time for that.’
Wayland followed him into the rigid night. His feet slithered in icy ruts. Constellations frozen in their orbits outlined the keep. The dog padded beside him, its shoulders on a level with his hips. The hawk, stupefied by the rush of sensations, crouched on his fist.
Raul glanced back excitedly. ‘They’re talking about an expedition to Norway. If they’re after falcons, they’ll need a falconer.’ He stopped. ‘This could be our chance.’
To escape, he meant. To go home. Raul was from the Saxony coast, the main breadwinner in a sprawling family who’d lost their farm in a North Sea flood. He’d gone abroad to seek his fortune and, after various misadventures on land and sea, had taken service with the Normans as a crossbowman. A bearded, barrel-chested stump of a man with a weakness for drink, women and sentimental songs, his discipline away from the battlefield was atrocious. Ten years older than Wayland, he’d attached himself to the tall English youth, although they had little in common beyond the fact that both were outsiders.
Wayland shifted him aside. When he reached the hall, the dog lay down by the entrance without being told. He went in.
‘Hey,’ Raul called. ‘If they’re looking for volunteers, put in a word for me.’
Most of the men in the high-beamed chamber were asleep. A few fuddled faces looked up from ale cups and dice games. Drogo’s voice carried through the screen separating the communal quarters from the Count’s receiving chamber.
Hawk Quest Page 4