‘Raul, Wayland, take his arms.’
They went where the wind buffeted them, skittering in the blasts, their cloaks streaming out in front. They reached a sheepfold and collapsed in the lee and crouched around Richard with their hands tucked up into their armpits. The snow streaked past with hypnotic intensity.
The wind slackened and the snow stopped. The fugitives looked at each other and saw that they’d grown old, with white hair and brows. The darkness began to lift and the pale disc of the sun blinked through the streaming overcast. In the watery light, Vallon saw that they’d been driven to the eastern side of the fell and were looking down a steep dale.
‘Do you know this country?’ he asked Wayland.
The falconer turned a circle and shook his head.
Hero was chafing Richard’s hands. ‘He can’t spend the night up here. All our bedding is drenched.’
‘I knew he was the weakest link,’ said Vallon. ‘But I didn’t think he’d break so soon.’
The last black tendrils of stormcloud floated east. The wind dropped to nothing and sunlight bathed the hills. The snow began to melt before their eyes, leaving icy filigrees in the shadows. Far down the dale Vallon spotted a solitary farmstead in a bright green triangle of cultivation. He shaded his eyes and studied it.
‘I can see a man working a field.’
Wayland held up two fingers.
‘Two men, then, and no other habitation for miles. We’ll risk it.’
They followed a rushing burn, keeping out of sight of the house. When they were close, Vallon climbed the gulley and peered over the edge. The farmstead was a windowless cottage of unmortared whinstone, the joints plugged with turves, the roof thatched with blackened ling. Fumes drifted out of the central smokehole. Attached to the cottage was a byre. Downhill of the house a man guided an ox-drawn plough through the thin soil. In an adjoining field another man was repairing a stone wall near a hobbled horse. Scrawny chickens pecked around the homestead.
‘Wait here,’ Vallon said.
He rose and began to walk towards the house. He’d gone only a few yards when a little girl herding two slat-ribbed cows appeared round a bend in the stream. She cried out and fled downriver, whacking the cows on their bony rumps. The chickens flew squawking onto the roof ridge. The men sprinted for the house.
Vallon signalled for the others to show themselves. The peasants rushed out armed with swords. Vallon kept his own sword sheathed and walked forward until they raised their weapons. They were youths, possibly twins. Vallon pointed back at the fugitives, then tilted his head and laid it on his hands, miming sleep. The youths flapped their arms at him. When he didn’t leave, they advanced with swords hoisted, looking to each other for courage. Vallon stood his ground. He held out a silver penny.
They frowned at each other. One of them shook his head, but the other said something and reached out to take the coin at full stretch. They moved back a pace. From the reverent way they handled the coin, passing it between them as if it were a charm, Vallon guessed that money played little part in their economy.
The two men stepped apart and beckoned Vallon to pass between them. He signalled for the others to wait. The youths closed up behind him.
He ducked through the doorway into a room dark except for the dim glow of a peat hearth. A woman stood pressed against the far wall with her arms crossed over her breast. Around the walls were four stone sleeping ledges, like burial niches. A slate table with stumps for stools completed the furnishings.
The men began to question him. The only word he could understand was ‘Normans’.
‘Not Norman,’ he said. ‘Normans … ’ He made a throat-cutting gesture.
He went out and waved the fugitives forward. They laid Richard in one of the bed niches and covered him with blankets. They hung their own sodden bedding on the smoke-blackened beams above the fire, then they crouched around the flame, holding out their hands in worship. The little girl came in and watched the strangers in mute fascination. Vallon donated what remained of their provisions to the woman — some beans and wheat flour, a venison shank, half a pot of honey and a nugget of salt. The woman slapped her daughter’s hand away and bore the scraps off as though they were treasure.
Ulf and Hakon, her sons were called, descendants of Viking invaders from Ireland. The swords they carried were the same arms their ancestors had waded ashore with, but now the blades were blunter than the ploughshares with which they scratched a living. Ulf told them that the Normans rarely came this far west. The last time they’d seen any was two years ago, when King William led his army through the Pennines after wasting Northumbria. The nearest strongholds were at York and Durham, more than a day’s ride to the east.
The room began to fill with peat smoke. Vallon went outside and sat on a rock and watched the hills turn velvety black under a golden sky. Hero came out and sat beside him.
‘Richard says you’ve agreed to lead an expedition to Norway.’
‘I’ll explain my intentions tomorrow, when we’ve rested and are seated at table.’ Vallon saw Hero bite his lip. He changed the subject and made his tone light. ‘Tell me what you think of our travelling companions.’
‘Richard’s more intelligent than I took him for. In fact he’s surprisingly quick-witted.’
Vallon nodded. ‘Determined, too. He told me that he’d rather take his chances with us than return to the castle. What about the falconer?’
Hero grew more animated. ‘He’s a rare creature. The defiant way he looks at you — like a hawk.’
‘He could do with some manning. I’ve never met a more impudent peasant.’
‘Perhaps he’s of gentler birth than that. Give him a bath and a proper suit of clothes and he’d cut a fine figure in any company. No, wait. He can read — which is more than anyone else in the Count’s household can do. The other morning he picked up one of the pages Olbec gave me and I saw his lips form words. If only he could speak, what a fascinating tale he could tell.’
‘He doesn’t need the gift of speech while he has you to romance his life.’
Hero reddened. ‘I think he’s a highborn Englishman whose land was stolen by the Normans. Sir, don’t scoff. History has many accounts of noblemen who were robbed of their inheritance and abandoned in the wild. Besides Romulus and Remus, there were Amphion and Zethus, sons of Zeus and Antiope, who were exposed in the mountains by their wicked uncle. And then there’s Poseidon’s son, Hippothous, raised by wild mares in Eleusis. Not to mention Jason and Achilles, both reared on Mount Pelion by the Centaur Chiron. In fact, when I see Wayland run, I’m reminded of Homer’s epithet for Achilles: podarkes — “the swift of foot”.’
Vallon laughed. ‘Enough. You’ve spent so long with your head in books that you can’t separate fact from fantasy.’ He gave Hero’s knee an affectionate cuff. ‘I’m going to miss you.’
‘Miss me?’
At that moment Raul poked his head out of the door and shouted that supper was ready. The first star had appeared in the east. Vallon rose and stretched. ‘Well, it will take more than a scrub and a haircut to civilise our crossbowman.’
‘He’s as rough as a boar, but his heart is kind.’
‘Gallows-bait. I’ve had a hundred men like Raul under my command and I’ve hanged a good few of them. For a penny a day and the prospect of plunder, he’d follow a fool to hell. Somewhere in a lonely corner of this world, there’s an unmarked grave waiting for Raul. Let’s eat.’
The others were already seated at table when they went in. Ulf bowed his head over the food and muttered a grace. The simple ceremony caught Vallon off guard. A lump filled his throat. He swallowed it. A man easily moved to tears cries only for himself.
Richard had recovered sufficiently to sit at table and sip a bowl of broth. The others ate a gruel of oats and beans containing nameless bits of gristle. For bread there was a gritty loaf of barley mixed with ground pulses.
The girl watched the strangers in breathless silence.
Hero picked at his portion. ‘What is this?’ he whispered. ‘Do you think it might be pig’s ear?’
Raul laughed. ‘It’s pig’s something.’
Hero put down his bowl.
‘I’ll have it if you don’t want it.’
‘It’s food taken from other men’s mouths,’ said Vallon. ‘Show some respect.’
After supper Ulf guided them to the byre. Vallon fell unconscious to the ruminations of cattle and the soft clucking of poultry. At some incalculable hour, he was woken by one of the brothers whispering in the doorway. He heard Wayland step over the sleeping figures and go out with his bow, the dog padding at his heels. Vallon shrugged and went back to sleep.
He spent the morning keeping watch, while Raul helped Hakon repair the stone wall. Hero stayed indoors giving Richard a writing lesson. Wayland and Ulf returned in the late morning with a brace of blackcock they’d shot at their lekking ground and a brown hare the dog had coursed and killed. They swung them on to the polished slate and everyone gathered round to admire the still life.
That night they dined on civet of game spiced with juniper and wild thyme. The brothers brought out a barrel of ale and the mood turned festive. The girl sat on Raul’s knee and watched him make a coin vanish from his hand and reappear behind his ear. No matter how many times he performed the trick, she wanted to see it again.
‘We should be observing the Lent fast,’ Richard said.
Raul drained his cup and banged it down. ‘I’ve done enough penance these last few days to purge my soul for a lifetime.’
Vallon rapped on the table. All eyes turned to him. Raul set the girl down.
‘There’s not much to say. We’ve left ourselves so open to the mercy of events that I can’t predict what tomorrow will bring, let alone next week. Our first goal is to reach a moneylender. I won’t tell you where he conducts his business in case any of you are captured. If we negotiate that hurdle, I intend leading a voyage to Norway in search of gyrfalcons. The falcons will be carried through Rus to Anatolia. We might make a profit on the enterprise. If we do, each of you will receive a share. Don’t get too excited, Raul. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that not everyone who begins the journey will end it. That’s all you need to know for now.’
Hero sunk his head. Wayland stared ahead as though thinking about something else. Raul grinned and raised his cup. ‘Fortune or a grave!’
‘A grave is the most likely outcome. Riders will be carrying our descriptions to every garrison in the north.’ Vallon’s eyes panned around the company. ‘Let’s face it, we’re not difficult to recognise. Ulf has offered to guide us tomorrow. In a day or two we’ll reach more populated country. If necessary, we’ll travel at night. Once we reach the lowlands and have to follow highways, we’ll split up. Wayland and Raul will scout ahead and search for refuges where we can eat and sleep. Richard and Hero will travel with me. We’ll meet up each evening.’
In the dead of night Vallon was still awake, his mind as restless as the mice rustling in the straw around him. Hero couldn’t sleep either. A blood-curdling shriek brought him upright with a gasp. A ghostly white shape wafted off the beam above and flitted through a slit in the gable. Hero crossed himself.
‘Only an owl,’ Vallon said.
‘A bird of ill omen.’
‘You’d better tell me what’s gnawing you.’
‘Sir, do you really intend to command an expedition to Norway?’
‘I thought that was it.’
‘Forgive me, sir. It’s just that, after all we’ve been through, to undertake a new and even more dangerous journey seems perverse.’
‘Not as perverse as all that. When our paths first crossed, I was on my way to Constantinople. That’s still my destination. The falcons will lead me there by a different route.’
‘But Rus is so dangerous. Cosmas told me that it’s descended into anarchy. Then there are the nomads on the southern steppe. Do you know what they did to a Russian prince who fell into their hands?’
‘Killed him — slowly, I imagine.’
‘And then turned his skull into a drinking cup.’
‘Hero, I’m still subject to arrest in France. I’d rather face a few savages than risk a third crossing of my homeland.’
‘There’s no need to return through France.’
Vallon had an inkling of what was coming. ‘Oh?’
‘You don’t owe anything to Olbec’s family. Quite the reverse. We travelled all that way on Walter’s behalf, and how did they reward us? Not only did Drogo try to kill us, but Olbec was ready to see us depart without a penny.’
‘You’re saying that I should steal the money intended for the expedition.’
‘It would be no more than just payment for the services you’ve rendered.’
‘So you think I should leave Walter to rot.’
‘Your very words, sir, when you discovered that he’d lied about his family’s wealth.’
‘I’d have lied if I’d been in his position.’
‘With respect, I don’t believe you would.’
Vallon rounded on him. ‘You know nothing about life’s harsh turns. You don’t know what it’s like to be a prisoner. You don’t know how it feels to see the weeks turning into months, not knowing if you’ll ever see home again.’
‘You, sir? A prisoner.’
Vallon fell back. ‘Fortunes of war. Now go to sleep. It will be light soon and we’ve got a long day ahead.’
Hero settled in the straw. Vallon knew what was troubling him. They’d been travelling for nearly half a year, yet the real journey had hardly begun.
‘You must miss home.’
‘Not as much as I miss the medical school. What about you, sir? Tonight is the first time I’ve heard you speak about home.’
‘I don’t have a home. I’m an outlaw.’
‘Yes, I know. But before that.’
‘There’s no before.’
Vallon stared through the darkness, remembering a sad song about an exiled knight turning for one last look at home and seeing open doors and gates without locks, windows without faces, the hall stripped of cloaks and mantles, the mews and stables empty, the horses gone, the falcons flown away.
He sighed. There was no going back. No matter how far he travelled, the road would always be leading him away.
‘Sir, you sound heavy of heart.’
‘Indigestion. I supped too well.’
Time passed. Vallon may even have dozed. ‘Do you remember your master’s last words?’
‘About you being sent to show me the way?’
Vallon lifted himself on to one elbow. ‘Did he really say that?’
‘He said it, sir.’
Vallon subsided again. ‘It wasn’t that. It was what he said before — something about the mystery of the rivers.’
‘Rivers with no known beginnings or endings. There was a river in Asia that he’d always wanted to follow — a river that leads into a fabulous land. Actually, sir, I’ve been meaning to confess something that-’
But Vallon was lost in his own thoughts. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. There’s no mystery about rivers. They’re born in the mountains, issuing from a spring as a baby emerges from the womb. They begin life boisterous, dashing about with ceaseless energy but no purpose. Gradually they become deeper and steadier. They grow broad and stately and proud. Next they turn sluggish and become confused, sometimes wandering off into backwaters. Finally, they lose their strength and merge into the sea.’
IX
Four days later the hills petered out. From the last outlier, Vallon, Hero and Richard stood looking south over a great forest still clad in its winter coat. Strands of smoke rose in places from the canopy.
‘That must be Sherwood,’ said Vallon. ‘Raul says it’s one of the last refuges of the English resistance.’
‘Then we can relax our guard,’ Hero said.
‘On the contrary. From now on, we must be especially vigilant. Everyone we have dea
lings with, observe them closely. Look behind the smile. Trust no one.’
They descended a rutted track glinting with puddles. The forest closed around them — huge and ancient oaks with knuckled roots and fissured trunks spreading into vaulted crowns. The trees stood widely spaced and the ground beneath them was nearly bare. The fugitives stared down the empty avenues leading away in all directions. No one spoke.
The sun was sinking like flames in a smoky forge when they came to a millrace and followed it into a woodland village clumped around a green. It had rained on and off since morning and carts had churned the road to slurry. The travellers’ feet sucked in the mud. Some of the cottages had corn dolls tied to their doors. Vallon passed a tavern with a weathered sign depicting a man grinning out from branches and vines. Looking closer, Vallon saw that the greenery was sprouting from the man’s eyes, nose and mouth.
A cheerful hubbub came from the tavern. Hero and Richard eyed its lamplit windows with longing.
‘Not safe,’ Vallon said, and trudged on. A flock of geese mantled their wings and hissed at him. He’d reached the next house when he heard a familiar voice muffled by laughter and jeers. Frowning, he retraced his steps and stooped through the tavern door.
The room was crowded, but no one saw him enter. Everybody’s attention was craned on some drama taking place in a space around the hearth. Peering over their shoulders, Vallon saw Raul squatting on his haunches, one hand laid on the floor, a lad of about ten balancing on it. Raul’s face contused. Veins knotted on his temples. Slowly the boy came off the floor until he was level with Raul’s bent knees, suspended on a perfectly straight arm. Again, the veins on Raul’s temple bulged. He sprang to full height, at the same time swinging his arm up until the boy was poised above his head. The lad lost his balance and fell. Raul caught him, lowered him to the ground and tousled his hair.
Vallon pushed through the applause and catcalls. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
The crowd turned as if pulled by a string. When they saw the set of Vallon’s mouth, the sword hilt jutting at his side, they edged away and returned to their ale-benches. Raul gave a tipsy salute.
Hawk Quest Page 10