Hawk Quest

by Robert Lyndon

  He limped right, downstream, towards the Pot. The cliffs upstream of the pool leaned close together and for as long as he could remember the gap had been bridged by a fallen ash. He remembered his mother’s fright when she’d found him and Edith playing dare in the middle of the bridge. That had been years ago. By now the tree might have rotted and collapsed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two of the mounted Normans keeping pace with him on the crest of the slope.

  The tree was still there, carpeted with mosses and bracketed with fungi. Wayland looked back to see how much time he had left. Even wounded and lame, he’d outpaced the dismounted soldiers. He felt his back. The bolt had penetrated his pack. His hand came away sticky with blood. The wound must be fatal, but it seemed important that he use his remaining strength to drag himself out of his hunters’ reach. It was the instinct of a mortally wounded animal.

  The shouts of the soldiers grew louder. The horsemen above were guiding them. One of them stopped and took aim with his crossbow. Wayland watched him as if trapped in a dream. The bolt leaped from the track. He dived headlong and heard it fizz past and splinter on the other side of the gorge. He hauled himself onto the trunk. The spongy wood came away in handfuls. Fifty feet below, the river spouted into the black waters of the Pot where he’d recovered his sister’s body.

  Ignoring the pain in his leg, he crossed the tree at a delicate run. As he jumped off, another bolt tugged at his sleeve. On this side of the gorge the forest understorey was choked with holly and hazel. He threw himself into cover and dragged himself up the slope until he reached the base of an alder. He sprawled against it, sobbing with exhaustion and pain. He felt sick and light-headed and guessed that he’d lost so much blood that he would soon pass out. The dog nuzzled him and then began to lick at his back. Wayland was so shocked that he smacked it across the jaws. It retreated and lay down with its head couched on its legs, watching him with unblinking reproach.

  Wayland could read the dog’s mind. Tentatively, he felt for the pack. Strange. He expected it to be pinned to his back, but it moved freely. He reached over his shoulder, took hold of the crossbow bolt and pulled. The pack lifted. Understanding struck. He threw back his head and laughed. Unnerved by the strange sound, the dog moved away and curled up at a distance.

  Wayland struggled out of the pack. The lower part was sopping with blood. He could smell its sickly odour. He unlaced the pack, dug his hand into it and scooped out a handful of bloody porridge. The gore came from the boar they had killed yesterday. He’d poured it into a bladder, intending to use it for pudding. He held out the mess to the dog. Unsure of his mood, it stayed where it was.

  Time had gone awry. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting at the base of the alder. For all he knew, the Normans had crossed the bridge and were creeping up on him. He scrambled forward. They were still on the other side, four of them crouched on guard behind trees, the huntsman kneeling on the ground.

  ‘ … bleeding like a stuck pig. He’s not going far.’

  Drax touched the huntsman’s hand, examined his fingers, then bent and wiped them on the leaf litter. He stared across the gorge.

  ‘It’s nearly night,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘And the dog will be with him. He’ll have crawled off to die in a hole. Leave it until morning.’

  Drax looked up at the trees steepling into the darkening sky. ‘Roussel was my comrade. The least I can do is recover his murderer’s corpse. Rufus, come with me. The rest of you, cover us.’

  Drax climbed onto the bridge and began to shuffle across, holding out his sword and shield for balance. Wayland watched him. He waited until he’d reached the middle before sighting. It was an awkward shot, a steep downward angle, the target hard to make out in the gloom. He didn’t see where his first arrow went. Drax heard it and stopped, teetering for balance. Wayland shot again and clicked his tongue in annoyance as the arrow dived into the tree behind Drax’s feet.

  ‘Get back!’

  Rufus managed to scurry to safety. Drax turned, manoeuvring like an old man. Wayland shifted to a better vantage but he didn’t have to draw again. Drax’s feet slipped. His legs shot out from under him. He dropped his weapons and managed to hook his arms over the trunk. His legs flailed as he tried to drag himself up, but the rotten wood provided no purchase. He clung for a moment by sheer terrified willpower, then dropped howling into the gorge.

  The soldiers didn’t make a sound. Like defeated phantoms, they backed into the trees behind their upraised shields. With a drawn-out groan, Wayland lay down on his back. He spread his limbs and lay unmoving while the sky turned to black and stars blinked through the tree canopy. He grew cold, but still he didn’t move. Bats flitted overhead. Beside him the dog gobbled the mess of blood and meal. Images of the day’s events broke into his consciousness like bubbles. Ever since the day he’d seen his family massacred, he’d fantasised about taking his revenge. He’d imagined the triumph he would feel. Well, now the moment had come, and he didn’t feel a thing.

  He crossed the river upstream and sent the dog scouting ahead. It returned and told him that the soldiers had left. In the dark it took him a long time to find his family’s graves. He knelt beside the weed-covered mounds and lit five candles. The flames conjured up spirits. They hovered around him, his mother anxious and disapproving, his grandfather exultant, Edith still lost and scared.

  He couldn’t bring them back. Killing a hundred Normans wouldn’t bring them back. Memory was the only bridge between the living and the dead. He’d returned to guard that link, but now he was back he knew that the woods wouldn’t provide a sanctuary for long. The world that had seemed so vast when he was a child was growing smaller each year. The Normans had caught him once; sooner or later they would catch him again. To survive, he would have to move on, across the fells to the west, into unknown territory.

  Loneliness overwhelmed him. For the first time in years he yearned for human company. He thought of the fugitives. If they had followed his directions, they would be camped a few miles upriver. Using his bow as a crutch, he levered himself upright and stood with bowed head.

  Beloved parents and grandfather, dear brother and sisters, forgive me. I have to go away. I don’t know where my path will take me, but I don’t think it will lead back here. I won’t forget you. Wherever I go, I’ll cherish the thought of you.

  He limped away. At the edge of the clearing he stopped for one last look. The candles burned tiny in the dark. Once they had flickered out, nothing would remain to tell a stranger that a family had lived here. Tears spangled his vision. He turned away and went on.

  VIII

  Hero and Richard sat side by side under a shared blanket. The fire had dwindled to a single tongue of flame. Raul lay snoring on the other side of it. Vallon was keeping watch somewhere in the trees on the crag above.

  Hero was trying to teach Richard how to calculate latitude by measuring the angular elevation of the Pole Star with his astrolabe. Richard had difficulty locating the correct star. ‘Not that one,’ said Hero. ‘Further right. Between the Great Bear and Cassiopeia — the constellation shaped like the letter W.’

  ‘I think I’ve got it,’ said Richard. ‘I expected it to be brighter.’

  ‘Now suspend the astrolabe as steadily as you can and line up the sighting bar.’

  Richard pivoted the bar and squinted up it.

  ‘Let me see,’ Hero said, taking the astrolabe from him. He read off the star’s apparent position from the scale on the rim of the instrument. ‘Hmm, more than ten degrees out.’

  ‘What’s a degree?’

  ‘It’s an arc equal to the 360th part of the Earth’s circumference.’

  Richard thought about it. ‘You’re saying that the Earth is round?’

  ‘Of course. That’s why the horizon curves when you view the sea from a height.’

  ‘I’ve only seen the sea once, when we crossed from Normandy. I was sick the whole passage.’ Richard frowned. ‘If the earth is round, we must live on top
of it. Otherwise we’d fall off.’

  ‘Wasps walk round apples without falling off.’

  ‘They have more legs than we do. They can walk upside down on a ceiling.’

  ‘There must be some force that keeps us grounded,’ Hero conceded. ‘Perhaps it’s the same force that makes the needle of my compass point south and north.’

  Richard sighed in drowsy admiration. ‘How much you know. Tell me more.’

  Hero watched the stars sliding around Polaris. Raul gave a rasping snore that tailed off into vigorous lip smacking. ‘It’s time you told me something. Why have you come with us?’

  ‘I had to leave. At the castle, I had no say in my future.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Vallon isn’t interested in your future. This must have something to do with the ransom.’

  ‘Hasn’t he told you?’

  ‘There hasn’t been time to talk. I didn’t even know we were leaving until last night.’

  ‘Keep it down,’ Raul growled.

  Richard moved closer. ‘Lady Margaret has persuaded Vallon to lead an expedition to Norway. First we have to raise the finance. We’re travelling south to a Jewish moneylender. I’m not allowed to tell you where. Vallon says that the fewer people know, the safer for all of us.’

  Even though it was the answer he’d been expecting, Hero was shocked. ‘Vallon’s not going to Norway. Why would he risk his life to save a man he’s never met — a man whose brother tried to kill us?’

  ‘Vallon can use some of the money to trade and make a profit on the venture.’

  ‘That shows how little you know him. He’s a soldier, not a merchant. It’s just a trick to escape. Once he has your mother’s money, that’s the last you’ll see of him. You should have talked to me before running away.’

  ‘But he swore an oath.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t if it meant saving his skin? Look at Walter and his lies. Everyone lies when it suits his purpose. I should know.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘From the beginning, our journey hasn’t been what it seems.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Hero couldn’t stop himself now. ‘Ask yourself why Master Cosmas agreed to win Walter’s freedom.’

  ‘You told me that he wanted to visit Britain before he died.’

  ‘Walter possesses something that Cosmas wanted — something he offered on condition that Cosmas obtain his release.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Suppose I told you that at the eastern end of the world lies a realm greater than any built since the reign of the Caesars.’

  ‘China? I’ve heard you speak of it.’

  ‘Not China. This is a Christian realm.’ Hero patted his pack. ‘I have a letter written by the ruler of that country. It’s addressed to the Byzantine Emperor.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘The ruler offers to lead an army against the Turks and Arabs. That’s not all. As a token of his allegiance, he sent a gift with the letter — something that will stand the world on its head.’

  Someone or something not far away gave a heavy sigh. Hero and Richard clutched each other. Raul had heard the noise, too. He crawled to the fire, blew life into an ember and lit a taper shielded inside a horn. Holding the torch aloft, he crept forward. Hero followed him, then stopped with a gasp, the dog’s snarl printed on his retina.

  ‘Tell Vallon,’ Raul said.

  Hero scrambled up the hillside. ‘Sir? Sir?’

  ‘Over here. You two talk loud enough to wake the dead. And what the hell were you doing waving a torch?’

  ‘It’s Wayland. He’s back.’

  Raul took Vallon to one side and muttered in his ear. Vallon looked down into Wayland’s sullen blinks, then turned to Hero and Richard. ‘Wait by the fire.’

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Hero whispered. ‘I’ve never seen him look so grave.’

  Richard glanced at the dark figures. ‘Go on with your story. You were telling me about a gift.’

  Hero was regretting his indiscretion. ‘No, my tongue ran away with me. I gave my word to Cosmas that I wouldn’t repeat the secret to anyone.’

  ‘Not even Vallon?’

  ‘No, not even him.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘Ssh!’ Vallon was returning towards the fire. ‘You must forget about the letter.’ Vallon was only feet away. ‘Swear it, or forfeit my friendship.’

  ‘Very well. I swear.’

  Vallon stared into the embers and spoke in a colourless voice. ‘I’d hoped that we’d be safe once we’d put ourselves beyond Drogo’s reach. We hadn’t committed any crime, and with Richard to vouch for us, we had every chance of reaching our destination. Not any more. Wayland has killed two of the count’s men — Roussel and Drax.’

  Raul spat into the fire.

  ‘I’m not shedding tears for them either. But there’s no crime more serious than the murder of a Norman. From now on every sword will be raised against us. Richard, your name and title are no longer any protection. If we’re caught, you’ll swing alongside us. You’d better leave us at the next town. Tell the Count we took you against your will.’

  Richard stirred one foot miserably.

  ‘Wayland killed the Normans only a few miles from here,’ Vallon said. ‘The others probably rode straight back to the castle. Drogo won’t wait until morning before coming after us. He could be here by daybreak.’

  Raul loosened his breeches and pissed on the fire. ‘We’d better get started then.’

  Vallon began to gather his belongings.

  ‘Is Wayland coming with us?’ Hero asked.

  ‘He can come or go as he pleases. The damage is done.’

  Wayland guided them south-west, across the grain of the country. They crossed a barren common by starlight and dropped into a wooded valley as the first faint wash of dawn spread in the east. They began their next ascent with sunlight fanning through the gaps behind them. They climbed a steep moor dotted with wind-racked junipers. The sun grew warm on their backs. Around them curlews cried their liquid song and grouse burst cackling out of the heather. Vallon didn’t call the first halt until mid-morning. Everyone was struggling, Wayland included. After they’d eaten, Vallon told him to stay behind and watch for pursuit. The Frank led the others on. At noon they were still climbing, one false summit leading to another.

  Vallon reached the top first. Against the sky an old grey druid leaned into the wind with his cloak blowing out behind him. When Vallon approached, he saw that the figure was an ancient runestone covered by a mat of shaggy lichens. He sat against it, pulled off his boots and looked at his blistered heels. He put his boots back on and waited for the others to straggle up. Hero and Richard could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

  At last Wayland appeared, hobbling with the help of a stave.

  ‘Any sign of them?’

  Wayland shook his head and went past and stopped on the western skyline. Vallon struggled up and joined him. Beneath their feet the land spilled into a broad vale chequered with fields and veined by tracks. Wisps of smoke rose from dozens of hamlets. On the other side, snow-capped mountains cradled lakes in crooked folds. Figures like mites crept along a road that followed the valley north-west towards a plain bounded by a shining firth.

  Vallon studied Wayland. The falconer was a good-looking youth, tall and straight, with yellow hair and a disconcertingly clear blue gaze. Vallon’s anger at his wanton behaviour was tempered by curiosity and grudging admiration. It took courage to kill two Norman cavalrymen. More than that, it took grim intent.

  Wayland became aware of Vallon’s scrutiny and turned to face it. Not many people could look Vallon straight in the eye. The Frank faced towards the south. They were on the spine of the country — a range of bald fells wearing rags of snow and curving away on each side like the hull of an upturned boat. ‘See this ring,’ he said. ‘This morning the stone was as blue as your eyes. Now it’s clouding over. The weather will turn soon.’

  Wayland studied
the ring, then glanced at the sky. He nodded as if he didn’t need gadgets to predict the weather.

  They followed the felltops south and bivouacked among the ghostly grey spoilheaps of a lead mine abandoned in Roman times. Richard fell asleep at supper with his spoon half raised to his lips and had to be put to bed like a child. Next day they continued south through a needling drizzle and didn’t encounter a living soul. They camped under a ledge in a stony gill and chewed their food woodenly, hardly exchanging a word.

  Dawn broke like blood percolating through dirty water. All morning showers scudded in from the north-west. The fugitives were already cold and wet when they turned to see a curtain of black cloud closing down on them. It cast the mountains to the west into darkness and spread over the vale like a contagion.

  There was no shelter on the fell. The storm knocked them sideways. Pellets of rain lashed them. The rain thickened into sleet and then wet snow that clogged their eyes and balled on their feet. Hero came struggling up to Vallon, shielding his face in the crook of his elbow. The wind blew the words away.

  Vallon cupped a hand to his ear. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘I said, Richard’s in a dreadful plight.’

  ‘It’s only a squall,’ Vallon shouted. ‘It will soon pass.’

  ‘He can’t endure much longer. Come, see for yourself.’

  Richard looked like he’d been poleaxed, his eyes rolled up in his skull and his face deathly grey. He rambled in a slurred voice and lashed out when Vallon caught hold of him.