Hawk Quest

by Robert Lyndon

  When he caught up with the outlaws, they were strung out over fifty yards of trail. He looked for the moon and saw it floating tiny and remote above the trees. Vallon must have stopped for the night by now. Wayland reached a decision. He would shadow the outlaws as far as the oak, then tail the charcoal burner and his partner down the ride. Once he’d dealt with them, he’d lie up and wait for the boy. He’d choose a spot far enough away from the oak to give the travellers plenty of warning if they were still on the road.

  About halfway to the ride, the outlaws stopped and bunched. After a whispered exchange, two shapes detached themselves and disappeared into the trees to the right. When Wayland realised that Leofric and Siward were taking a short cut, he teetered with indecision. If he followed them, he might miss the boy returning to the oak. If he stayed with the main party and the fugitives were still on the road, he’d lose the chance to warn them before the two bandits met up with the boy.

  Wayland struck out after the scouts.

  They were woodsmen on their home ground and moved with assurance, ill-defined shapes flitting through moonlight and shadow. Wayland followed at a stealthy jog. The moon drifted behind a skein of cloud. Darkness stole across the forest floor, hiding Wayland’s quarry. Worried that he might blunder into them, he slowed to a walk. He could feel the bandits getting away from him.

  Here.

  The dog turned and Wayland laid his hand on its neck.

  They went on at speed, Wayland trusting to the dog’s nose.

  Without warning, the dog sank down. It turned a grave eye, telling him that the outlaws had halted and were close. The moon played hide and seek in the clouds. Wayland could make out the ride to his left. Ahead was a glade dotted with clumps of undergrowth. One of the shapes separated into two. A figure ghosted towards the ride, checked that it was empty, then ran into the trees on the other side.

  It would be easier to deal with the outlaws singly, but how? Even if he could disarm them without shedding blood, it would take too long. The boy might have already passed by and reached the rendezvous. He had to get back as soon as possible.

  He patted the dog’s shoulder and pointed across the ride. Kill him.

  It stood, took a few steps, then looked back.

  He pulled up his mask. Kill him.

  The dog loped off without a sound.

  The moon showed itself again, casting faint shadows. Wayland could see the remaining bandit half hidden behind a tree. He would have to skirt around until he had a clear target. He began his stalk, soundless as a cat’s shadow, until the man’s back was in view. Wayland didn’t know if it was Leofric or Siward and didn’t care. Given the chance, either man would kill him as casually as he would swat a fly. Wayland summoned up an image of Ash, those dead black eyes. He thought of the fugitives and imagined what the gang would do to the one they captured. He braced back, leaning away from the curve of the bow. At full draw, the arrow was pointing halfway to the moon. He brought it down in a smooth arc, watching the iron leaf at its tip, poised to release the moment the point passed down the man’s spine.

  His target jumped aside. Wayland blinked. The bandit was leaning out from the tree, like a runner tensed for the off. He’d heard the stifled commotion on the other side of the ride. Before Wayland could sight again, the bandit pushed off from the tree and went zigzagging into the dark.

  Wayland emptied his lungs in a sigh of frustration. Now he would have to stalk the man again. This time it would be more difficult. The bandit would be nervous.

  A long-eared owl gave a cooing moan — ‘oo-oo-oo’. If Wayland hadn’t been such an excellent mimic himself, he would have sworn that the call was genuine. The bandit expected an answer. But Wayland knew that his accomplice was dead, gaping up through the branches with his blood leaking from his throat.

  The outlaw repeated the call.

  If he didn’t get a response this time, he’d know that something was wrong. Wayland cupped his hands around his mouth and echoed the owl’s plaintive cry.

  No answer. The bandit must be wondering why his partner had crossed back over the ride. Or perhaps he’d given the wrong call.

  He hooted again. Still no response. The silence pressed in on him. His heart beat against his ribs.

  Somewhere a twig snapped underfoot. Wayland tensed, all his senses out on stalks.

  Ahead of him, a piece of forest began to move, creeping away from him. He stepped from cover and walked towards it, making no attempt at concealment.

  The bandit whirled, his arrow pointing at Wayland’s chest. He fluttered a hand across his eyes.

  ‘Siward?’

  Wayland raised a hand and kept walking.

  The charcoal burner ran at him. ‘What are you doing? What was that noise?’

  Wayland put a finger to his lips.

  ‘They’ll be here any moment,’ the charcoal burner whispered. ‘Why have you come back?’

  Wayland was so close that he could see the man’s eyes through the slots in his hood. He stabbed his finger and the charcoal burner turned.

  ‘What?’

  Wayland stepped in close and swung his knife back, elbow locked.

  The charcoal burner tensed and put a hand to his ear. ‘Something’s coming.’

  From afar came a faint but forceful scuffling, heading their way. The sound grew louder — a helter-skelter gallop, a relentless … what? The charcoal burner stepped back, colliding with Wayland.

  Out of the trees came the dog, racing in a wide curve, its paws scrabbling for purchase. It saw the two men and skidded to a stop. Slowly it turned its head and there it stood, faintly luminous in the shadows, vapour pluming from its jaws.

  ‘Oh my God!’ the charcoal burner breathed. His bow twanged and Wayland heard the arrow go skittering across the leaf litter.

  ‘Shoot!’ cried the charcoal burner, fumbling for another arrow.

  The dog was already into its charge, a grey-black blur. The charcoal burner dropped his bow and grabbed for his knife. He managed to throw up one arm before the dog flattened him.

  Wayland ran forward. The dog had the man’s shoulder in its jaws and was shaking him like a terrier shakes a rat. The knife flew out of his grip. Wayland seized the dog’s mane and tried to wrestle the beast off.

  No!

  He hauled it away bucking and lunging on its hind legs.

  Leave him!

  The dog looked at him with blood-crazed eyes.

  Leave him.

  The dog stalked off in a stiff-legged circle. The charcoal burner scuttled backwards on his elbows. Wayland followed and stood over him, holding his knife. The charcoal burner looked up at the falconer, his hood twisted and the fabric over his mouth sucking in and out. Wayland leaned down and pulled the man’s hood off. He took off his own hood. The charcoal burner’s eyes rolled up into his skull and his head flopped back.

  Wayland trussed him hand and foot and tied him to a tree. He slashed the man’s hood into strips and gagged and blindfolded him.

  Then he went in search of the boy.

  Vallon’s eyes tracked from side to side, probing the forest margins. All lay quiet as the grave. Raul carried his crossbow loaded, occasionally turning and walking backwards to check the ride behind.

  ‘How far have we come?’ asked Vallon.

  ‘Two miles at least. It must be nearly midnight.’ Raul nudged his chin in the direction of Hero and Richard. ‘Those two are ready to drop.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Captain, if you’re worried there’s an ambush ahead, why are you leading us into it?’

  ‘Wayland knows this is the road we’re taking.’

  ‘We might not see him until morning. You know what he’s like. He might have gone hunting. Or more likely, he’s tucked up in a cosy roost.’

  ‘If he is, I’ll kill him.’

  They walked on into the oppressive silence.

  ‘I was in a wood like this once,’ said Raul. ‘It was in Normandy, the dead of winter, just before Yuletide.
I had a week’s leave and my wages and I was going to spend them in Rouen. I’d set out in good time, but it snowed in the afternoon and I took a wrong fork. A dreary day it was, sky as dark as doom, not a house or a soul to be seen. I came to a forest and followed a track through it. No other travellers had trodden that path all day. When night fell I was still in the wood, only a sprinkling of stars to keep me straight. Walking through that winter wood, I felt like I was the only being in the world, so I took out my whistle and played a tune to keep myself company. Then I stopped whistling because I had the feeling that I had more company than I cared for.

  ‘It was the trees. It was as if they were turning round to look at me as I passed. I watched them out of the corner of my eye and I swear I saw them bunching up on me. That was bad enough, but then …

  ‘Something touched my back. I shot into the air and jumped round. “Who’s there?” I called, but no one answered. Nothing but trees and snow. Right, I told myself, pay no heed to the bogles and bugbears. Easier said than done, Captain. As I went on, the flesh on my back was crawling, itching for another touch. Well, it didn’t come, but something else did. I heard it creeping up on me — scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. Froze the blood in my veins, stopped me in my tracks. Whatever was after me stopped, too. This time I didn’t dare turn round, because I knew that whatever was behind me had wings and horns and eyes as big as trenchers. I walked on, my knees knocking, and that thing came walking after me. Every time I stopped, it stopped, and every time I went on, it kept coming after me.

  ‘It came closer — scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. I began to walk faster, then faster still, but it just kept its own sweet pace a few feet behind me. Captain, I’ve fought in many a battle and I swear I never run from the enemy, but that thing at my heels scared me more than any mortal man with sword or lance. My nerve cracked, I don’t mind admitting it, and I broke into a flat-out run. But fast as I ran, there was no getting away from it. I could hear it catching up, getting closer, hissing with rage and breathing down my neck.

  ‘Just when I thought it would sink its claws into me, I saw a flame in the trees ahead. A woodcutter’s camp. I ran for it as if Old Nick himself was after me, which for all I knew he was, and threw myself down by the fire gibbering like a loony. The old woodcutter, bless his soul, he looked down at me, and then he looked behind me and a very peculiar expression came over his face.

  ‘“What is it?”’ I cried.

  ‘Slowly he put out his bony hand and pointed. I scrambled round. And then I saw it.’

  ‘Saw what?’ Vallon said, keeping his eyes on the trees.

  Raul halted, wheezing with laughter. ‘A length of rope that had worked loose from my pack and was dragging behind me.’

  Vallon didn’t laugh, didn’t break step. ‘Raul, you’re a drunken blowhard.’

  ‘Wait. I ain’t finished.’

  Vallon grabbed him. ‘I heard a cry.’

  Raul’s eyes patrolled. ‘Probably a fox.’

  Vallon turned. ‘Wayland’s not coming. We’ll find a path through the forest.’

  ‘Without Wayland, we’ll go round in circles. Let’s make camp and move on at first light.’

  Vallon felt a spurt of fury. ‘What does the wretch think he’s doing? If this was a regular company, I’d have him hanged for desertion.’

  Raul took his arm. ‘Come on, Captain, I’ll find us a place to rest.’

  ‘Sir,’ Hero said, pointing down the ride.

  Vallon made out a flicker of movement. He drew his sword. ‘Everybody into the trees.’

  They ran for cover. Raul went down on one knee and took aim. Vallon watched the advancing shape take on human outline. ‘It’s Wayland,’ he said. ‘Wayland and his dog.’

  Raul slapped him on the shoulder. ‘I don’t deny it, Captain. I feel happier with him back. If anyone thinks they can spring a surprise on us, they’d have to get up a lot earlier than Wayland.’

  ‘There’s someone with him,’ said Hero.

  ‘It’s the boy from the tavern,’ said Vallon. He looked the other way. ‘Stay hidden.’

  Wayland swayed to a standstill in front of them. He’d roped the boy to the dog’s collar. Looped over his shoulder was some kind of ragged and leafy garment.

  ‘Raul, find out what’s happening.’

  Vallon scanned the road while the German questioned Wayland.

  When Raul rejoined him, he was as solemn as an owl. ‘You were right, Captain. There are seven cutthroats waiting up ahead by an old oak. There were two others, but Wayland dealt with them.’

  ‘Killed them?’

  ‘The dog killed one. He tied the other up.’

  ‘He should have killed him.’

  ‘I know, but there’s a tender streak in the lad.’

  ‘What’s the boy’s part in this?’

  ‘He was tracking us in case we slept in the forest. His father’s the leader. The outlaws start them young in these parts.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Hero whispered.

  ‘Wayland knows where they’re lurking,’ Raul told him. ‘We’ll be long gone by the time they discover we’ve taken a different path.’

  Vallon looked at the falconer. ‘Can you guide us around the ambush?’

  Wayland looked uncertainly at Hero and Richard.

  ‘They ain’t up to it,’ said Raul. ‘They’re dead for lack of sleep.’

  ‘They’ll be dead all right. We have to get out of the forest before daylight.’

  Wayland pointed at the boy, then at the dog, then made a sweeping gesture down the ride. He pointed at the fugitives and made the same gesture.

  Vallon frowned. ‘I think he’s saying we should go on down the track, using the boy as a hostage.’

  Wayland pointed at himself, then across the ride, and moved his hand in a half circle, indicating that he would make his way back until he was behind the outlaws’ position.

  Vallon looked at the boy. ‘Find out his father’s name.’

  At Raul’s approach, the boy backed to the end of his tether, breathing in and out through his nose. Raul wrapped one hand around the boy’s collar and hoisted him off the ground. ‘Give us your father’s name, you little shit.’

  The boy uttered a choked syllable.

  ‘What was that? Ash, did you say?’

  The boy jerked his head up and down. Raul dropped him. ‘Sounded like Ash.’

  Wayland nodded.

  Vallon’s eyes patrolled the dark avenue. ‘Imagine how many travellers have met their deaths along this road.’ He turned to Raul. ‘I think we should put back into Ash’s life some of the terror he’s dealt out.’

  To the waiting outlaws it must have seemed like a cavalcade from fairyland, the boy lolling astride the giant dog, Vallon’s sword glinting across his shoulder, the other fugitives in close attendance.

  The procession halted a bowshot short of the oak.

  ‘Ash?’ Raul shouted. ‘Ash? Your eyes don’t deceive you. That’s your son on the dog, and it will rip the life from him just as cruelly as it tore out Siward’s throat. Leofric’s dead, too. Wolfboy killed him. Do you want to know where Wolfboy is? He’s closer than you think. He’s watching you. He’s cloaked and hooded in your own uniform. Look at your neighbour. Look close. Are you sure he’s the man you take him for? Are you sure it’s a man at all? Wolfboy can change form. Listen.’

  Stark silence, and then a sound that made the hairs on Vallon’s neck stand up. The dog that everyone thought was mute lifted its head and joined in. The mournful howling of hunting wolves rose up until it enveloped the forest, and then it fell away, leaving a tingling hush.

  ‘The show’s over,’ Raul cried. ‘Don’t follow us if you want to see your boy again. Do as I say and you’ll find him unharmed at the next village.’

  The procession moved on. A mile beyond the ambush site, the trees gave way to open common. Raul puffed out his cheeks. ‘Captain, that was the longest walk of my life. My back felt as wide as a barn.’

 
; Vallon frowned at him. ‘How did you know I fought alongside Rodrigo Diaz?’

  ‘The Cid? I didn’t. It was just showman’s patter.’ He missed a step. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘Go on with the others.’

  Raul’s footsteps faded. The road behind stretched away like a ribbon of blackened silver. Up ahead, a dog began to yap. Vallon touched his brow with the back of his hand. He felt as if he’d walked through a bad dream.

  X

  On a mild overcast afternoon at the beginning of April, the runagates gathered by a busy crossroads on the Ermine Way, a few miles south of Stamford. In the surrounding fields, peasants were sowing and harrowing, the same scene repeated all the way to the flat horizons, as though the peasants themselves were a crop.

  The company lounged back on their elbows, legs outstretched, heels propped on toes, watching the passing traffic. Nobody bothered them. After three weeks sleeping rough, they looked a thoroughly villainous crew. So did many of the other itinerants on that highway. Carters, drovers, vagabonds and refugees criss-crossed the junction, where a makeshift bazaar of stalls and booths offered refreshments, charms and horoscopes. A squadron of Norman cavalry rode by looking neither left nor right and went highstepping south, towards London. Raul farted.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Hero.

  Vallon stood and squinted north to the highway’s vanishing point where a small but important outline had appeared against the milky sky. It advanced slowly, slower than a man walks, gradually shaping itself into a wagon train of four great carts, each drawn by six oxen and piled so high with bales and kegs that they resembled lurching siege engines. Whips snaked and cracked. Two thuggish outriders flanked the convoy and crop-eared mastiffs stalked between the wheels. A feral-looking boy darted from wagon to wagon, greasing the axles with lard. The driver of the leading vehicle was whippet-thin with a face like a shrivelled wineskin. Beside him sat the train captain, an immensely fat merchant with dewlaps spilling over his fur muff.