Falcon 1 - The Lure of the Falcon

by The Lure of the Falcon (v1. 0) (lit)

  Some moments later, Gilles and Tim were thrust by their captors into harsh contact with the floor of a dark, cramped hut that reeked unbearably of rotten fish. Even so, they greeted it with a kind of relief because their passage through the village, between a double row of women transformed into a horde of furies hurling everything that came to hand, had been far from pleasant.

  Gilles had landed face down and so managed to scramble up without too much difficulty, in spite of his bound hands, and seat himself with his back against a post. His eyes soon grew accustomed to the gloom and he looked for his friend, who was crawling about like a huge snail in his efforts to get up.

  'What do you think they'll do with us?'

  'Nothing pleasant. Not for us, at any rate, because we can always comfort ourselves with the knowledge that we shall provide them with some excellent entertainment. There's nothing the Iroquois enjoy more than putting a prisoner to death in due form. And two prisoners!'

  Gilles looked at it from every angle and decided that their situation was very far from enviable, but discovered to his satisfaction that he was not unduly perturbed.

  'I see,' he said coolly. 'Will it – take long?'

  Tim, who had managed to hoist himself up alongside his friend, uttered a short, mirthless laugh.

  'I should think so. We are white warriors and as such have a right to every consideration.'

  'Meaning?'

  'That they will be pleased to honour us with their most refined tortures. And you can't think how imaginative they can be.'

  For all his courage, Gilles could not help feeling an unpleasant prickle up his spine. Staring death in the face was one thing, but watching it creep up on you inch by inch through an eternity of suffering was quite another.

  'Oh well – I may as well make up my mind to it,' he sighed. 'In the meantime, move round until your hands are touching mine. I'm going to try and untie you. I hate the idea of sitting here like a fowl trussed for the spit.'

  The cords were tight but his fingers managed to find the knot and set to work.

  'Do you think it will be tonight?' he asked after a moment. 'Because if so, I'm wasting my time.'

  'No. It will probably be tomorrow, at sunrise. Go on. If you can't do it, I'll have a try at yours.'

  It was not an easy task and took a long time, and after all he did not have time to finish it, for just as the first knot gave way men came to fetch them from their prison.

  Darkness had fallen but the whole village was out of doors and a huge fire had been lighted in the centre, with two garishly painted posts beside it, casting a bright glow over the whole area, as far as the wooded slopes across the river. Round this open space, the Senecas stood in a wide, silent circle. This time, no one stirred as the prisoners passed but an almost voluptuous sigh went up, like a signal.

  'They are already gloating over the thought of watching us die,' Gilles thought in a cold anger.

  As they tied him to one of the posts, his mind went back a few years to a time when, in the course of one of his boyhood rambles, he had lost himself in the deep forest that stretched to the north of Hennebont. As it got dark, he had seen the eyes of a pack of wolves gleaming in the shadows and had owed his safety only to a tall tree in which he had taken refuge. A party of peasants, led by the Chevalier de Langle, had come in the morning and rescued him – but tonight no stout Bretons or bold hunter would come and scatter the circle of bright eyes waiting avidly for the first blood.

  Pride drew him up to his full height. His cold, contemptuous blue gaze travelled over the onlookers, most of whom were old men, women and children. It seemed that Tim was right and most of the warriors were away. Only those absolutely necessary to guard the camp had been left behind. A mere handful. He turned his head towards Tim.

  'They are in a mighty hurry to see us die,' he said bitterly. 'They aren't even going to leave us until tomorrow.'

  The woodsman shook his head.

  'I still think it will not be right away. On the other hand, I think we stand a good chance of spending the night in this uncomfortable position, so that fatigue may increase our sufferings and sap our courage.'

  He broke off at the sound of a number of drums being beaten rapidly. Some young boys were crouching on either side of the entrance to one of the largest huts, holding small drums between their knees and pounding away at them. Almost at once, the deerskin curtain across the hut doorway was flung aside and Hiakin appeared. The red designs painted on his body and the shaggy headdress on his shaven crown, joined to his height and the peculiar set of his features, which did indeed have some resemblance to a bear's, all made him look like some malevolent deity. He paced slowly up to the prisoners until he stood before them, arms folded high on his chest.

  'Men of the salt,'1 he said in excellent English. 'You come to us with false hearts, intending evil—'

  'You lie!' Gilles interrupted him. 'We come to you in peace, bearing words of friendship from the great chief who commands the American army.'

  'Words of friendship from an enemy are always false. We have made a treaty with our friends, the Redcoats. We cannot listen to words of peace from their enemies, the men of the coast.'

  A harsh chuckle sounded incongruously at Gilles' side. Tim was indulging in a crack of sardonic laughter.

  'You, Hiakin, the great medicine man of the Senecas, the one who speaks with the Great Spirit and for whom the veil of the future is no more than a fine mist, do you proclaim yourself the slave of the Redcoats? Do you confess that you serve them? Moreover you lie, as my friend said. You lie like a frightened old woman. He is no man of the salt but a soldier of the mighty King of France who reigns on the other side of the water, in a palace so splendid that beside it those of your redcoat masters are like the lodges of beavers! Have you forgotten that we have made a long journey in order to return to your camp fires the younger brother of your chief, Sagoyewatha, the wisest of the wise, "he who speaks that others may remain awake" – and he to whom we have been sent?'

  The medicine man's blue lips stretched into a broad, contemptuous grin.

  'It is not hard to capture a child who takes himself for a man, and easier still to win his innocent young heart. After that the two faces of the spy may readily put on the smile of friendship in order to infiltrate our council fires. But Hiakin is not deceived. As you yourself said, the Great Spirit is his guide – and the Great Spirit calls for the blood of those who have dared to strike down his favourite messenger, the great white bird which was coming to me. Therefore I, Hiakin, say that tomorrow, when the sun quits his bed of darkness, you, men of the salt, shall enter into the kingdom of death, slowly, as befits the warriors you claim to be.'

  Gilles' eyes, coolly ironic, rested on those of the sorcerer.

  'You reason ill, Bear Face. You speak of warriors, yet you do not seem to understand what that word means. The laws of war are noble laws and you know nothing of them, for you do not respect a parley. With God's help – the help of my God, to whom your Great Spirit is merely an apprentice – I shall show you how a soldier of the King of France can die. You shall see—'

  He broke off, all the breath suddenly taken from him. The Indian village, the rushing river tumbling by, the background of mountains and even the hedge of cruel eyes that stood between him and life, all these vanished from Gilles' sight as though by magic. Rising out of the darkness like a new dawn, a young woman had come to stand at Hiakin's side, a young woman of such beauty as he had never known was possible.

  Tall, slender and graceful, she had a face to dream about, with a wonderful golden skin and huge eyes that shone like pools of pale gold between thick lashes, highlighting the warmer colour of her skin and the red rosebud lips, parted slightly to show a gleam of white teeth, which were the very image of sensuality. Her white dress, ornamented with garlands of black and green leaves, clung so closely to her body that it might have been painted on. It was as if it had been moulded to her, a second skin making unseemly revelations about the length
of her thighs, the soft shadows at her groin and unashamed perfection of her breasts. Below the narrow white band that confined it, her midnight hair fell in a shining stream to her knees. She bore herself like a queen, but her slightest movement was a poem of sensual delight.

  She stood for a moment in silence, contemplating the prisoner, who was devouring her with his eyes. His face was suddenly much older and she read in it such evident desire that heat flamed in her cheeks and it was with difficulty that she turned her eyes away.

  'Why such haste, Hiakin?' she said, and she too spoke in English. 'The crime these men have committed is very grave but it was Sagoyewatha they came to see. You might at least wait for his return before putting them to death… or have you forgotten that you are not the chief?'

  Her voice was low and grave with a husky note in it which gave it a peculiar charm, while at the same time in no way detracting from the faintly contemptuous irony of her tone.

  'I am sole ruler in his absence,' the other reported. 'Sagoyewatha has declared it, Sitapanoki! And no one should know it better than you, his beloved wife. Moreover these men have killed the bird which strikes like lightning. None of these people would understand it if they should not be put to death with no more delay than that required by our custom.'

  The lovely Indian girl's small teeth gleamed in a mocking smile.

  'They would understand it very well if you were to take the trouble to explain it to them, Hiakin. They believe every word that falls from your lips, for they think that they are all inspired by the Great Spirit – even when it is not so! In any case, I have no need of the Great Spirit to predict that my valiant husband will be greatly displeased to find only rotting corpses where there might have been ambassadors—'

  'Your valiant husband is a weak man too much inclined to listen to the honeyed words of his enemies. It is best that these two should die. Nor do I fear his anger. Go back to your house, woman! Tomorrow, if you wish, you may take part in the festival with the other squaws.'

  The great liquid golden eyes flamed with sudden anger.

  'I am no squaw as others are, Hiakin. Nor will I permit you to forget it. This man is a Frenchman and his people and mine were linked by long friendship in the past, before they were massacred by the Iroquois. Moreover, he has brought Igrak back to us. If he dies tomorrow, my husband will listen to my voice as well as to yours – and more, perhaps!'

  They were confronting one another now, the man with the face of a bear and the woman with the sun in her eyes, and although neither abated one jot of their dignity, the hatred between them was almost palpable. It was like the eternal challenge of the forces of light to the power of darkness, angel and devil – but the angel had a body which set Gilles' blood on fire. He strained unconsciously at his bonds, like a captive wolf, in an involuntary movement towards the woman who had turned, with a gracefully disdainful lift of her shoulders, and was walking easily away. She vanished inside the chief's hut and Hiakin's loud voice followed her before the deerskin curtain dropped behind her.

  'Yet he shall die like the other, for the Great Spirit demands it and I, Hiakin, say it is my will—'

  But Sitapanoki did not reappear. All was over for that night. The drums began beating again and, after a last threatening gesture towards the prisoners, Hiakin too made his way back to his hut and the Indians dispersed in all directions. The prisoners were left alone, bound to their posts beside the fire which was slowly dying down. The gateways to the camp were barred and the Senecas turned to their evening meal. But Gilles' eyes remained fixed on the big hut with its closed doorway, as though he were still hoping for another glimpse of the miraculous vision.

  His muscles were growing cramped from the agonizing grip of the ropes and he was beginning to be very tired, but he did not notice it. He had even ceased to remember the hideous death awaiting him when the night was over. Instead, he was suffering unbearably from a curious feeling of frustration and of desolation now that she was no longer there. And he knew that when death came to him he would not be thinking of his lost dreams of glory, or of his blighted hopes, or of the battles he had so longed for and now would never see – nor even of Judith de Saint-Mélaine who would wait for him in vain. He would take with him only one regret, that he had never lived to hold in his arms an Indian girl of whose very existence he had been unaware an hour before.

  He heard Tim's lazy voice at his side, sounding strangely unlike himself.

  'What a woman!' He sighed. 'I'd heard that she was beautiful but I never imagined anything like that. I can understand why Cornplanter's crazy about her and has sworn to snatch her from her husband. General Washington is damned well informed – though I think Hiakin is going to save us having to carry out our distressing mission. The Six Nations are going to stay united. Sagoyewatha will never know that Cornplanter covets his wife – and the Trojan War will not take place.'

  But Gilles' mind was not on Greek history.

  'Sitapanoki,' he murmured. 'What a strange name!'

  'It means "She whose feet sing when she walks". And not only her feet, either. It's enough to make any man sing to see her, and any woman weep—'

  'What was that she was saying about her people?'

  'That before France lost Canada they were allies. Sitapanoki is the granddaughter of the last Sagamore of the Algonquins, who were defeated by the Iroquois. She could have been no better than a captive, like that wretched girl you saved from the gyrfalcon, but for her beauty, which is so great that she won the heart of the Seneca chief—'

  Beside them, the fire had sunk to a few glowing embers. Slowly, the darkness was gathering round them. Yet the night was clear and, looking up, the two prisoners could see the sky riddled with stars. The night wind brought with it all the scents of the mountain.

  'It may be our last night,' Gilles murmured, 'but it's very beautiful…'

  'Maybe, but I'd rather it poured with rain if I could have a good draught of rum.'

  They fell silent. Each wrapped in his own thoughts, trying to get some rest by supporting their weight on the ropes that held them, but already their numbed limbs were becoming an agony.

  Time passed. The wind freshened. One by one, the noises of the Indian village died away and soon there was nothing to be heard but the distant cries of night birds – and a snoring which told Gilles that Tim had somehow succeeded in falling asleep.

  All at once, he was aware of a presence close beside him. Clouds had covered the stars and the night was darker now but he could still make out a crouching human figure. It stood up as he peered at it.

  'I am going to cut your bonds,' whispered a voice. 'Then I'll free your friend.'

  The voice was a woman's but it was almost impossible to distinguish any other details of the shadowy bundle. Hands searched for the ropes, slid a knife under them and began to cut…

  'Who are you?' Gilles breathed. 'I had not looked for any help among these savages—'

  'I am she you saved from the bird and for whose sake you are to die. I do not want that. A slave—'

  'A captive,' the young man corrected her. 'And you belong to my own people. What is your name?'

  'Before I became less than a dog, I was called Gunilla.'

  Chapter Nine

  Cicero and Attila

  Gunilla's knife was sharp. In a few seconds, Gilles and Tim were both free. It took a little longer for them to regain the use of their limbs.

  'What do we do now?' whispered the hunter. 'How are we to get out of the village?'

  'There is a broken stake in the palisade. It is possible to shift it – possible for a man, that is. I've never been able to do it myself, or I should have run away long ago.'

  'Well,' Gilles promised, 'you shall run away with us. Show us the way.'

  As noiselessly as cats, they crossed the open centre of the village in single file. Tim went first, followed by the slave girl and then Gilles. But when they came to the huts, the route pointed out by Gunilla led past the chief's house and Gilles slo
wed down, held by a power stronger than his will. There, close by, breathed the woman who still burned in his memory.

  It was dark inside the hut. The deerskin curtain drawn across the entrance was not securely fastened and stirred a little in the night air, as though inviting a hand to lift it. Gilles' heart began thudding loudly in his chest and at the same time he was seized again by the same ferment of desire, fierce, demanding and irresistible, which only a little while before, when he was bound to the stake, had made him oblivious even of his own imminent death.

  Sitapanoki was there, within two yards of him. He had only to make the slightest move to be with her, to touch her – or merely to watch her as she slept.

  'This is madness!' the terrified voice of caution was telling him inwardly. 'Fly! Don't tempt providence…'

  But Gilles' feet were rooted to the spot. If he went now, he would never see again that divine loveliness which made the Indian girl a living goddess of love, and the thought was more than he could bear. He must see her again! He must see her, even if he died for it.

  Someone took his hand and was trying to pull him away.

  'What are you doing?' Gunilla hissed. 'There is no time—'

  'Just a moment—Leave me.'

  'Leave you? Are you mad?'

  'Go on! Go with Tim. I'll catch you up in a moment. Go and help him move the post and leave it open.'

  But she still clung to him and he saw her eyes flash angrily in the darkness.

  'Are you out of your mind? That is the chief's hut. If you go in there, nothing can save you.'

  'I know,' Gilles answered impatiently. 'Go on, I tell you—'

  He started to prise the clinging hand off his arm but at that moment, with a moan of terror, Gunilla stepped back. The deerskin curtain had been raised and a pale figure stood there. Dark as it was, it seemed to Gilles that the sun had risen.

  For an instant, Sitapanoki stood quite still, facing the young man. She was so close that he could hear her breathing. She did not glance at the slave but at a movement of her arm Gunilla faded into the shadows.