Hawk Quest

by Robert Lyndon

  Vallon held out his hand. ‘Your husband wouldn’t be pleased to learn that you’d taken harm from my sword.’

  ‘I promise I won’t tell him, no matter how deep you thrust.’

  The faint baying of the hounds rose to a demented yodelling.

  ‘The hounds have found,’ Vallon said, taking back the sword. ‘You don’t want to miss the chase.’ He went and stood at the parapet and watched the wood. Some of the hunters had taken up positions around it.

  ‘Some would call your manner intimidating.’

  ‘I’m sorry my society disappoints you.’

  ‘No, I admire a man who suggests strength rather than flaunts it. Besides, I suspect you aren’t as unfeeling as you pretend.’

  ‘The stag,’ Vallon said.

  It emerged from the forest and plunged down a ribbon of snow, the hounds pouring after it. Drogo headed the field, lashing his horse.

  Margaret traced a line down the back of Vallon’s hand. ‘I’m sure that given time, I could bring you to bay.’

  He trapped her hand. ‘A beast at bay is dangerous.’

  She brushed against him. ‘Risk adds to the pleasure.’

  Vallon stepped away. ‘You forget I’m your lord’s guest.’

  She pouted. ‘Perhaps there’s another reason for your coldness. I’ve seen the way the Greek youth follows you with his great mooning eyes.’

  Vallon looked into her face. ‘Why don’t you tell me your real purpose.’

  For a moment it seemed that she would continue her pretence. Or perhaps her flirtation was genuine. But then she turned and crossed her arms as if the air had grown chilly. ‘I own land in Normandy. I’m prepared to use it as security against a loan to finance an expedition to the north.’

  Vallon made no response. The stag was keeping to the valley rim. So far, the hounds hadn’t closed the gap.

  ‘I want you to command it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think of it as a trading expedition. You can use any surplus to buy furs, ivory and slaves. Any profit you make is yours. For my part, all I want is my son safe at home.’

  ‘It’s not worth the gamble.’

  ‘It’s a more rewarding proposition than the one that brought you here in rags.’

  ‘I’m not talking about my chances. As soon as your money’s in my hands, what’s to stop me stealing it?’

  ‘Your word. I’d trust that from a man who travelled so far on Walter’s behalf.’

  ‘I’ve never met Sir Walter. I was never in Anatolia and first heard the name Manzikert weeks after the battle. Your son’s welfare is of no interest to me.’

  Margaret’s lips whitened. ‘You mean he’s dead?’ She clenched her hands.

  He caught her wrists. ‘The documents are genuine. Your son survived the battle. As far as I know, he’s still alive.’

  She sagged against him, her voice muffled by his chest. ‘Why did you come here? What game are you playing?’

  ‘No game. Let’s just say that I was caught up in one of fate’s eddies. I won’t be sucked into that pool again.’

  She pulled back. ‘I would still trust you. If you planned to cheat me, you wouldn’t have admitted your lie.’

  ‘Mother love is blind.’

  Margaret stamped her foot. ‘If I repeat what you’ve told me, Drogo will kill you on the spot.’

  ‘He plans to kill me anyway.’

  The stag reached a high hedge and broke right, towards the milecastle. By the time it realised its error and leaped the obstacle, it was close enough for Vallon to see its backward staring eye. The hounds poured over the hedge in a hysterical wave. They were going to catch it, Vallon thought.

  ‘I can help you escape.’

  Vallon turned.

  ‘Strong drink will flow tonight,’ she said. ‘By midnight almost everyone will be unconscious. If you leave when the matins bell chimes, you’ll find the gate open.’

  Vallon put Margaret’s larger scheme out of his mind. There would be time enough to consider it once they got clear — if they got clear. ‘That will give us only a few hours’ start. Drogo will catch us before we reach the next valley.’

  ‘Take the falconer. He knows every inch of this country.’

  Vallon focused on practicalities. ‘Horses?’

  ‘I can’t arrange that without exciting suspicion. Besides, speed won’t save you. Guile and good fortune are your only weapons, and you obviously have guile.’

  Vallon was thinking fast now. ‘We’ll need provisions. It will be days before we can risk going near habitation.’

  Margaret pointed at the basket. ‘Food and blankets.’ She reached into her cuff and produced a purse. ‘Enough silver to get you to Norwich.’

  ‘Is that where the deeds are to be handed over?’

  ‘The moneylender’s called Aaron. The king brought him to England from Rouen, not far from my estate. My family’s done business with him before. I’ve prepared letters to send to him. They’ll be in his hands by the time you arrive.’

  Vallon watched the hunt. The stag was tiring and the hounds were closing on it. Riders converged from different directions.

  ‘Richard will be going with you.’

  ‘No! My servant’s enough of a handicap as it is.’

  ‘Richard’s not such a fool as he looks. He helped me hatch this scheme. He acts as my attorney. He’ll present the deeds and seal the contract. Besides, his presence will give you safe conduct. If you’re challenged by Norman patrols, Richard will show them documents vouching that you’re carrying out a commission on my behalf.’

  ‘Does the Count know?’

  ‘He suspects. Don’t worry, I know how to soothe his anger.’

  ‘Not Drogo’s, though.’

  ‘He won’t harm me in his father’s house.’

  The stag entered the ruined fort. Confused by the maze of walls and trenches, it headed one way then the other. It scaled a section of tumbled rampart, saw a vertical drop on the other side, and ran along the wall until it reached a dead end. Cornered, it turned to face the oncoming pack and lowered its antlers. The nearest riders raised their horns to blow the mote and recheat, signalling that the stag had been bayed. Drogo rode up and leaped off his horse. The hounds closed on the stag and swirled around it.

  ‘If you knew Walter, you would gladly do as I ask,’ said Margaret. ‘I know he lied to you — I mean, I know he lied — but you must understand his motives. He’s not like Drogo. He has charm and grace. Even the Count favours him over his natural son.’

  One of the huntsmen darted behind the stag to cut its hamstring. Drogo advanced through the heaving mass of hounds, his sword drawn. Vallon saw the hart stagger and go down. The hunters blew the death, and the refrain was taken up all along the valley.

  Margaret dangled the purse. Vallon pushed it aside.

  ‘I’ll give you my decision this evening.’

  The hunters returned under a bloodshot sky, the priest sharing the trundling cart with the butchered stag and the carcass of a boar the party had killed in the afternoon. In the hall, servants piled the hearth so high that the flames threatened the roof. The men were already drunk when a procession of skivvies carried out the stag and placed it over the coals on a spit turned by cranked treadles.

  Seizing his moment, Hero gave Olbec the potion. ‘Apply it shortly before you retire. You say that your wife wishes to conceive. What position do you usually assume?’

  ‘On top. What do the Arabs do?’

  ‘They have many positions,’ Hero said, relying on information picked up from whispers between his sisters. ‘One of them, par ticularly recommended for couples wishing to conceive … No, it’s disrespectful to talk of carnal matters when your lady sits only a few feet away.’

  Olbec seized his sleeve. ‘No, go on.’

  ‘From behind, the lady on her knees, head between her arms.’

  ‘Like a ram, eh? Grr! Makes my blood rise to think of it.’

  After the venison had been ceremoni
ally carved and served, Olbec rose, declaring that his wife’s expedition had fatigued her but that the merriment should continue after they had retired. In two days the Lent fast would begin, so eat, drink, make merry. The company stood and banged their drinking vessels. Olbec weaved in Hero’s direction and slapped down a thick ream of manuscripts. ‘Here you are. Got them from the priest.’

  ‘You’ve taken the physic?’

  ‘The whole bottle. I can feel it working already.’

  ‘I made it extra strength. I hope it didn’t produce too fierce a sensation.’

  Olbec belched. ‘Burned a bit as it went down.’

  ‘Down?’

  The old goat winked. ‘I’m not taking any chances. I drank it.’

  Hero riffled through the manuscripts. They were beautiful, each page illuminated with gilt and paintings in miniature. His face fell. ‘I can’t deface holy script.’

  Olbec jabbed the wad of parchment. ‘Nothing sacred about this lot. It’s just a collection of worthless English chronicles and a few rhymes and riddles. I got a clerk in Durham to translate some. Here’s one I remember. It goes like this:

  I’m a strange creature, for I satisfy women,

  a service to the neighbours! No one suffers

  at my hands except for my slayer.

  I grow very tall, erect in a bed,

  I’m hairy underneath. From time to time

  a beautiful girl, the brave daughter

  of some churl dares to hold me,

  grips my russet skin, robs me of my head

  and puts me in the pantry. At once that girl

  with plaited hair who has confined me

  remembers our meeting. Her eye moistens.

  Olbec winked. ‘What’s the answer?’

  Hero blushed.

  Olbec pinched his cheek. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind, young monk.’ He swayed towards the door, where his wife waited with a fixed smile. ‘It’s an onion,’ he bawled.

  Hero tried to spot Richard among the revellers. He was ashamed of his outburst over the spilt ink. He also kept one eye on the door, half-expecting the Count to come crashing through in impotent fury. The orgy of feasting had ended and now the soldiers were playing some kind of drinking game that involved daubing their faces with soot, standing on benches stacked on the tables, and chanting an obscene ditty which Drogo orchestrated with his sword. In another part of the hall, Raul arm-wrestled two Normans simultaneously while a third soldier poured mead into his upraised mouth. A table collapsed and a brawl broke out. Hero had lost count of the ale cups he’d drunk. He was reaching for another when a hand closed over the vessel.

  He smiled woozily up at Vallon.

  ‘Time to sober up. We’re leaving tonight. Put your eyes back in their sockets. Go to our quarters and pack. When you’ve done that, wait for me in the falconer’s hut.’

  ‘But I can’t. Tomorrow I’m going to the Roman wall with Richard.’

  Vallon leaned forward. ‘I’ll make it plain. Do as I say or stay here and go down into a cold grave.’

  As soon as Hero tottered into the cold damp air, nausea swept over him. He clutched his knees and vomited. When he’d finished retching he heard a laugh. Drogo straddled the doorway, bare-chested and sweating, a cup dangling in one hand, his sword loose in the other.

  ‘Off to beddy-byes, you Greek poof. Master will be along soon to tuck you up.’

  He reeled inside and pulled the door shut, leaving Hero in the dark. Deeper than dark. Thick mist had risen from the river, making a mystery of everything around him. He tried to gather his bearings. The guesthouse was set against the stockade to the left of the hall. He groped through the fog, hands outstretched like a ghost.

  He was almost sober by the time he found the guest quarters. Hands fumbling, he bundled everything into a blanket and embarked on another blind journey to Wayland’s hut. He collided with a building and felt his way along the walls until he found the door.

  ‘Wayland, are you there? It’s Hero. Master Vallon sent me.’

  No answer. Opening the door a crack, he saw two tremulous lights. He shrank back. He had the wrong building. This was the chapel, and there was a man praying before the altar. An instant later he realised that the kneeling man was Vallon.

  He waited for his master to finish. It seemed to him that Vallon was making a confession. He caught the occasional words — ‘penance’ and ‘blood of the innocent’, and then quite clearly he heard Vallon say, ‘I’m a lost soul. What does it matter where my journey takes me or whether I reach the end?’

  The bleak utterance chilled Hero. He must have moved. Vallon stopped. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Only me, sir.’

  Vallon stood and walked towards him. ‘How long have you been listening? What did you hear?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. I took a wrong turning in the dark. I have the baggage. Where are we going?’

  ‘Away. I always light a candle before leaving on a campaign.’ Vallon gestured towards the altar. ‘I’ve lit one for you, too.’

  Campaign? What campaign?

  Vallon steered him to Wayland’s hut. The interior was rank with animal smells. A lamp lit Richard’s anxious face. Another person floated out of the shadows, a ring gleaming in one ear, his hair in a sidelock.

  ‘What’s that tosspot doing here?’ Vallon demanded.

  Raul was pie-eyed. He swayed forward. ‘At your service, Captain. You’d have found me in more soldier-like condition if Wayland had told me about your flight earlier.’

  Vallon stepped towards Wayland. ‘Who else knows?’

  Wayland gave a quick shake of his head.

  Vallon shook Raul by the shoulders. ‘Tell me why I should take you. Speak up.’

  Raul fumbled for his crossbow, turning like a dog searching for its tail. ‘Captain, I can put a bolt through a man’s eye at a hundred paces. I’ve served in three armies around the Baltic and I know how to deal with rascally Norwegian merchants.’ He screwed up his eyes and held up a finger, his face contorted by some gastric turmoil. ‘And I’m strong as a bear.’ He gave a flabby wave that covered Hero and Richard. ‘How far do you think you’ll get with these two sissys to nurse?’ Blinking, he pawed at Hero’s arm. ‘No disrespect.’

  Vallon pushed him away in disgust and addressed Wayland. ‘It’s blacker than Hades out there. Are you sure you can lead us to the Roman tower?’

  Wayland nodded and held up a coil of rope knotted at intervals. He’d muzzled his dog and fitted it with a spiked collar.

  The bell began to chime a solemn end to the day’s frivolities. ‘That’s the signal,’ Vallon said. ‘There’s no time to lose. The mist is on our side for now, but it will slow our escape and it will soon disappear when the sun rises. We move as fast as we can.’

  Wayland picked up two draped cages and slung them over his shoulders. He unmuzzled his dog, reached for his bow and stepped through the door, the rope trailing behind him. The fugitives took hold of it, each grasping a knot, and went out into the soggy night.

  A few diehards were still whooping it up at the hall, but the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The runaways shuffled forward like felons or penitents. They hadn’t gone far when Hero shunted into the man in front and the man behind barked his heel. Hero heard muted voices from above. They must be under the gatehouse.

  ‘Is it open?’ he heard Vallon whisper.

  Hero didn’t hear the reply, but soon the rope tightened in his hands and he found himself moving again. He didn’t know he was at the gate until he was through and someone slid the bar to behind them.

  ‘Stay together,’ Vallon whispered. ‘If anyone gets separated, no one’s going back for them.’

  VII

  Wayland led the way up a wooded hillside with the runaways blundering behind him. Condensation pattered through the branches and splashed on their heads with maddening unpredictability. After a long, fractious climb they cleared the mist and saw the milecastle ahead of them. By the time they reached it, a seam of cold y
ellow light was cracking open on the eastern horizon. Wayland looked back over a sea of cloud broken by dark reefs and islands. Away to the west, snow-covered hills glimmered under the fading stars. Not a breath of wind.

  Richard sobbed on the grass as if his heart would burst. Raul went into the tower to collect the supplies.

  ‘Look,’ Hero wheezed, pointing at a tiny silhouette on a summit miles to the south. ‘There’s the gibbet we passed on our journey here.’

  Vallon straightened up, panting. ‘At the pace you travel, we’ll all be food for crows before noon. Which way now?’

  Wayland pointed west, along the wall. Its course was visible for miles, rising and falling through the mist like the backbone of a sea monster.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Vallon said, leading off. The other runaways jerked into motion. Vallon glanced back. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Wayland gestured at the cages.

  ‘He wants to release the hawks,’ Raul said.

  ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse what he wants.’

  ‘Captain, Wayland does things his own way.’

  ‘Not any more. And that goes for you, too.’

  ‘Understood, sir, but we need Wayland more than he needs us. Best leave him be.’ Raul emitted a rasping belch, shouldered the basket and lurched off like a demonic pedlar. After a moment’s angry indecision, Vallon followed him.

  Wayland was in no hurry. He waited until the sun rose and the cloud ocean flushed pink before opening the cage containing the goshawk. It gave him a glare, bobbed its head and rowed away into the mist. By evening it would be as wild as the day he’d caught it. He released the peregrines. He hadn’t flown them since Sir Walter’s departure more than a year ago. They spent their days blocked out in the weathering yard, fanning their wings and tracking their wild kin circling down the wind. The falcon flew heavily and landed on the tower, but the tiercel winnowed into the sky as if he’d been waiting for this moment and knew exactly what course to follow. Up and up he went, a dark flickering star that Wayland watched as if it carried his hopes and dreams. He didn’t blink until the sky closed over it.