Hawk Quest

by Robert Lyndon

  Wayland looked down the coast. Syth was gone. He smiled. ‘An angel came to me.’

  Riding by night they approached the walls of Norwich while it was still dark. They dozed shivering on their mules until the city began to take shape against the morning sky. Low clouds wept a thin drizzle. They waited until the west gate opened and traffic began to flow before moving closer. Hero studied the tower. A square building roofed with thatch, its timber walls pierced by loopholes. Sheep grazed in front of it, but after curfew the ground would be empty. Hero raised his eyes to the sky, praying that the dreary weather would last another night.

  He turned to Wayland. ‘I’ll go into the tower as soon as the guards change after dark. It might be a while before I get the chance to signal.’

  They retreated to a nearby copse. Wayland hobbled the mules and left the dog to guard them. Then he and Hero skirted the city on foot and approached the north gate. Costermongers cried their wares at the entrance. Two guards manned the gate, chatting up a pair of English girls.

  Wayland looked at Hero. ‘Ready?’

  Hero gave a convulsive yawn. ‘Now or never.’

  At first it seemed like they would stroll through unnoticed. Then one of the giggling girls pointed at random and the guard she was flirting with followed her throwaway gesture and noticed Hero. Their eyes met.

  ‘Keep walking,’ Wayland said.

  ‘They’re going to stop me. I know it.’

  ‘Give me the eels. Stay three or four paces behind me.’

  Wayland strode ahead, whistling a jaunty air. The soldier didn’t even look at him. He stepped away from the girls and was about to stop Hero when Wayland tripped and sprawled, sending the creel flying. Half the eels shot out and the others began to slither for freedom. A crone selling charms shrieked and clambered onto her stool. A retailer of palm crosses waved one in each hand. The girls screamed and threw themselves into the arms of the soldiers. A mule laden with clay pots shied against a barrow heaped with Easter buns.

  Wayland scurried through the wreckage. ‘My precious eels! Help me, good citizens. That’s a week’s work escaping.’

  A boy made of mud and sores darted from nowhere, grabbed one of the eels and raced off with it lashing under his arm. Other urchins dashed forward and began scooping up the buns. The guards didn’t hinder Wayland, but they didn’t help him. They were falling about laughing, punching each other in mirth. By the time Wayland had gathered up the last eel, Hero was inside the city.

  They met up at the White Hart.

  ‘Your dish will be ready by evening,’ Wayland said. ‘Give the dame a penny for her trouble.’

  ‘Run through what you have to do.’

  Wayland sighed. They’d gone over the plan a dozen times. ‘I sneak into the house and recover the chest. I buy a heavy axe and a stout hemp rope.’

  ‘At least thirty yards.’

  ‘I leave by the same gate … ’ Wayland paused. ‘The guards might wonder why I came in with eels and left with cordage.’

  ‘No, they won’t. You’re a fisherman who traded his catch for tackle.’

  ‘Unless they look in the chest.’

  ‘Buy a net to wrap up the silver.’

  ‘I return to my position outside the west gate. Then I wait. For how long?’

  ‘If we’re not with you by sunrise, assume the worst.’

  Wayland looked at him. Hero tried to smile. ‘Aren’t you going to wish me luck?’

  Awkwardly, Wayland extended his hand.

  Hero sat in his room at the inn, unpicking the hem of his tunic. He coiled a long length of twine around the hem and loosely sewed it up again. Maddening, fiddly work, but when he’d finished it was still only early afternoon. He lay on his bed unable to rest. He kept getting up and sneaking to the door, imagining he’d heard footfalls on the stair. It was almost a relief when the church bells rang vespers. He left the inn, went through the dusky streets towards the west gate and spied on the sentries until one of them beat a gong to announce the curfew. A few latecomers hurried in, the last of them speeded on his way by the sergeant’s boot, and then the guards pulled the double doors shut and barred them with a balk of timber. They went inside the guardroom and not long afterwards the next watch came out.

  Hero returned to the inn and collected the supper basket and a leather wine bottle. By the time he returned to the tower it was dark and the streets nearly empty. Torches guttered each side of the gateway. One of the sentries lounged against the guardhouse entrance, sucking a toothpick. The other three sat inside around a brazier, playing dice.

  Hero took a couple of deep breaths and hurried up. ‘Is this where Vallon the Frank’s held?’

  The guard took the toothpick out of his mouth. ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘I’m Hero, his servant. Why are you holding him?’

  The guard turned to his confederates. ‘Fetch the sergeant.’

  In a little while the sergeant came hurrying down the stairs, pulling on his tunic. His complexion was livid, one side of his jaw bruised and swollen. ‘Where have you been hiding?’

  ‘I’ve been away on my master’s business. I only got back this evening. As soon as I heard he’d been arrested, I came straight here.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘That’s confidential.’

  The sergeant grabbed him by the throat. ‘What business?’

  ‘For the Lady Margaret. More than that I’m not permitted to say.’

  ‘Go easy, Sarge,’ one of the soldiers said.

  The sergeant let go. Hero massaged his windpipe. ‘What charge are you holding my master on?’

  The sergeant bellied up to him. ‘Don’t play the fucking innocent with me. Murder, warranted by a justice in Durham.’

  ‘Murder? That’s ridiculous. Who’s been murdered?’

  One of the soldiers shifted uneasily. ‘I dunno, Sarge. He doesn’t act like a man with a price on his head. And those papers from Olbec’s wife looked genuine. I’ve served with Drogo. Good man to have beside you in a ruck, but a nasty temper, always picking fights. This might be just a family squabble.’

  ‘Makes no fucking difference. The Frank impersonated an official of the king. Acted high and mighty, weaselled his way past me with false documents. Me! I’m not having that.’ He kicked Hero’s basket. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Supper for my master.’ With shaking fingers, Hero unwrapped the linen cloth covering the basket and looped the cloth through his belt.

  The sergeant sniffed the stew. ‘That’s too good for those scumbags.’ He took out the wine bottle.

  ‘It’s for the German. He gets in a queer temper if he goes too long without drink.’

  The sergeant crooked his face up. ‘See this? The German did that. Nearly broke my jaw. He’s going to the whipping post. I’ll swing the lash myself. I’ll cut him to shreds. I’ll lay his fucking spine open.’

  Hero could hardly speak for fear. ‘He was only doing his job. If he’s committed an offence, we’ll pay the fine. There’s no need to take your grievance to law.’

  A smile spread across the sergeant’s face. ‘Lads, one way or the other we’ll come out a few bob ahead.’

  One of the soldiers dipped a finger into the stew and licked it. ‘Mmm. Matelot of eels with prunes, like my mum used to make.’

  The sergeant smacked his hand. ‘You’ll get your share when you come off duty.’ He nodded at one of the other guards. ‘Search him.’

  After a rough examination, the guard stepped back and shook his head.

  ‘Take him up.’

  Two soldiers frogmarched Hero up the stairs. As he climbed the tower, he tried to memorise the layout. The first floor was a storeroom and armoury. By the time he reached the sleeping quarters on the second floor, he couldn’t hear any sounds from below. When the sergeant opened the door to the top floor, the first thing Hero saw was Vallon’s sword and Raul’s crossbow propped against the wall behind a table occupied by the off-duty guards. Vallon was seated on a pallet beh
ind closely spaced posts that divided the room from floor to rafter. Raul sat slumped in a corner of the cell like a malevolent doll, shackled hand and foot and tethered by a chain to a ring in the wall. His eyes had closed into puffy slits and his bloated mouth stretched in a clown’s smile.

  Vallon jumped up and grabbed the bars. ‘About time. Have you arranged our release?’

  ‘Listen to him,’ the sergeant said. He walked up to the bars. ‘The only release you’ll get will come at the end of a rope, but not before I’ve skewered you from arsehole to eyeball. Just one more night and then Drogo will be here with testimony to hang you. In the meantime, why don’t you watch us enjoy the supper your servant’s brought.’

  Vallon kicked the bars and swung away.

  The sergeant fiddled with a heavy wooden bolt secured by a crude tumbler lock. He opened the door and shoved Hero into the cell.

  Vallon took his arm. ‘How did they catch you?’

  ‘They didn’t. I gave myself up.’

  Vallon winced. ‘That’s taking loyalty too far.’

  ‘No, sir. I came to get you out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The food’s drugged.’

  They watched the soldiers lay the table. The sergeant ladled stew and poured wine. He raised his cup to the prisoners. ‘Sure you don’t want any? It’s delicious.’

  ‘Whew. This wine packs a punch.’

  ‘It’s the German’s favourite brew,’ said Hero. ‘It might be too strong for Norman heads.’

  One of the soldiers scowled. ‘I can outdrink any poxy German.’

  ‘I’ve seen him empty two bottles in one sitting.’

  Vallon nudged Hero with his foot, warning him not to over-egg it. ‘What’s in it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Opium, henbane and mandragora. It’s a drowsy syrup used by the surgeons at Salerno.’

  ‘How long does it take to work?’

  ‘I don’t know. Constantine prescribed it for the pain in Cosmas’ chest — one spoonful to help him sleep.’

  ‘How much did you put in the wine?’

  ‘About half a pint.’

  By the time the soldiers had finished the meal, they’d grown very mellow. One of them yawned. ‘I’m for my pit,’ he said, and lurched out of the door.

  ‘Me, too,’ another said. He rose and had to steady himself against the table. He eyed the door as if taking aim, launched off and found himself heading in the wrong direction. ‘Whoops.’ He corrected his course and tacked towards the door. ‘Whoops.’

  When they’d gone, the sergeant fumbled for a chequers board. ‘Best of five for a farthing.’

  Halfway through the second game, his opponent gave a breathy laugh and rubbed his eyes. ‘Blimey, the wine creeps up on you. I can see two boards.’ He sat blinking slowly, his head alternately drooping and jerking upright, slowly and inexorably sagging to the table.

  The sergeant’s breathing grew harsh. With great effort he turned his head, some belated conjecture dawning. He swore and made an attempt to rise, the movement sweeping platters off the table. He almost made it to his feet before his legs buckled and he collapsed, banging his head on the bench and sprawling in a slack-limbed heap.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ Vallon said in a faint voice. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Which wall faces away from the city?’

  ‘This one.’

  Hero crossed to a loophole, pulling the cloth out of his belt. He put his arm through the slit and waved.

  ‘I don’t know how much time we’ve got,’ Vallon said. ‘The duty guards sometimes come up.’

  Hero put his finger to his lip, his mouth strained in concentration.

  A vixen yipped.

  ‘That’s Wayland. He’s waiting below with a rope.’

  Vallon frowned at the loophole.

  ‘Not that way,’ Hero said, and jabbed a thumb towards the roof.

  Vallon smiled. He squatted. ‘On my shoulders.’

  He straightened to full height and Hero wrapped his arms around one of the collar beams. Another boost from Vallon and he was lying across the beam. He swung his legs over and groped to his feet. Holding on to a rafter, he shuffled to his right and began wrenching out the spars threaded into the thatch.

  Vallon jumped for the beam but couldn’t reach it. Raul had braced himself against the wall, trying to wrench out the ring anchoring his chain. Vallon lent his strength. There was a creaking and groaning and the ring tore loose. Raul made a stirrup with his manacled hands and hoisted Vallon up to the beam. He and Hero ripped the battens out and tore at the thatch, straw cascading over their heads until Hero, spitting and blinking, saw the sky.

  ‘Keep going,’ Vallon told him.

  They continued demolishing the thatch until they’d cleared a space between rafters and roof joists.

  ‘Move aside,’ Vallon said.

  He bent and sprang, hooking his elbows over adjacent rafters. He dangled, grunting with effort, then hauled himself up through the gap. He lay on the thatch, one hand hooked around a rafter, the other stretched down.

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  He grasped Hero’s wrist and dragged him up. Hero thrashed until he managed to locate a joist and braced his feet against it. Vallon manoeuvred alongside him and they sat looking out from the city. The sky was beginning to clear. Moonlight rimmed the top of a cloudbank. From somewhere on the ground came a snatch of voices and a gust of laughter.

  Hero ripped open the seam of his tunic and pulled out the twine. He tied a lead plug to one end and paid out the cord. He was beginning to worry that he’d miscalculated the length when he felt it go slack. A moment later he felt three quick tugs.

  ‘Wayland’s got it.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  Vallon hauled in the line. A rope came snaking up over the roof. Vallon gathered it in coils. It went tight and there was a dragging clunk from below.

  ‘Careful,’ said Hero. ‘There’s an axe tied to it.’

  Vallon drew it up as if it were a cargo of eggs. The rope went taut and wouldn’t move. Vallon slackened off, then pulled again. ‘It’s snagged under the eaves.’ He jiggled and teased, but couldn’t free the axe from the overhang. His face gleamed with sweat. ‘Hold this,’ he said, handing Hero the section of rope tied to the axe. Carrying the free end, he went back down the hole and lashed it around the crossbeam, leaving a length hanging to the floor.

  Once more he heaved himself up on to the roof. He rested until he’d regained his wind, then walked backwards down the fixed rope. When he reached the eaves, he leaned over at full stretch, feeling for the axe.

  ‘Give it some slack.’

  Hero eased off.

  ‘Pull.’

  Hero yanked and the axe came slithering up. Vallon hauled himself up the fixed rope, untied the axe and dropped it to Raul before climbing down himself. Everything was taking longer than Hero had expected.

  ‘Lie on your side and put your arms out,’ Vallon panted. He raised the axe and brought it down, severing the chain between Raul’s hands and feet. ‘Now your feet,’ he said, and brought the axe down again.

  From his perch on the roof, Hero could see part way into the soldier’s quarters. One of the sergeant’s legs was in sight. He thought he saw it move. As he opened his mouth, Vallon shifted position, blocking his view.

  ‘Spread your hands,’ Vallon told Raul. ‘Don’t move.’

  The axe descended and Raul sprang up. Vallon wiped his forehead with his arm.

  ‘Sir?’

  Vallon looked up. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The sergeant. I can’t see him.’

  Vallon whirled and froze. Raul seemed to run in two directions at once, then scrambled for the dangling rope.

  ‘No time!’ Vallon shouted. ‘Break down the door.’

  Raul attacked the bolt with blows that shivered the tower.

  ‘Hurry!’

  The bolt splintered and Raul kicked the door open. He and Vallon charged through it shoulder to shoulder and grab
bed their weapons.

  ‘What about me?’ Hero cried.

  ‘Climb down. Don’t wait for us. When you reach the ground, run.’

  Hero heard their feet clattering on the steps, dying away. He peered in terror down the steep pitch of the roof. He knew he didn’t have the strength to climb down unaided. From the belly of the building came a muffled shout. There was a long interval of silence, then the sound of someone running from the tower, followed by a furious clanking, both noises fading away up the street. A shutter opened somewhere and a voice called out. Hero dithered, losing time, until he realised that he had no choice but to take the stairs. He slid down to the beam, burning his hands, and dropped to the floor. The guard who’d fallen asleep playing chequers still lay slumped over the table. Hero tiptoed to the door and looked down into the soldiers’ sleeping quarters. The stairs were empty and two of the guards lay in drugged abandon on their pallets. Hero crept down step by step, one hand brushing the wall. When he reached the next floor, he listened as hard as he could, then went through the door. Halfway down the next flight the sergeant lay spread-eagled with his head cleft from crown to neck. At the bottom another soldier slumped half decapitated against the door-jamb. Blood everywhere — sprayed up the walls, pooled on the floor. Hero’s feet slipped in it. Behind the door sat another soldier, holding his stomach. He was still alive. When he saw Hero, his lips moved.

  ‘Help me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hero whimpered. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The guardhouse was empty, the brazier still burning, the dice lying as they had fallen. One of the soldiers sprawled face down outside the entrance. Hero found Vallon struggling to lift the beam barring the gates. He swung round, his face freckled with blood. ‘Take the other end.’

  ‘Where’s Raul?’

  ‘One of the soldiers got away. Raul went after him.’

  Between them they lifted the beam. Vallon barged the doors open. There was a jangling up the street and he spun and raised his sword. Raul staggered towards them clutching his side, still wearing manacles and dragging the severed chain. ‘Lost him,’ he gasped.

  Shouts carried from the city centre.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Vallon said, then checked. ‘Did you bring the mules?’