The Falcon Always Wings Twice

by Donna Andrews

  “Exactly.” Greg seemed to be taking the interruptions to his talk quite calmly. “With her hood on, Gracie’s interested in everything, but nothing bothers her. Harry is different.”

  He indicated the other bird. Harry was slightly smaller than Gracie, only a foot and a half tall, and his plumage ranged from medium brown on the back and head to tan and white on the underside. Even though he wasn’t hooded, he was paying no attention to Greg or the crowd, and seemed quite absorbed in rubbing his bill vigorously against his perch.

  “He’s a red-tailed hawk,” Greg noted.

  “Buteo jamaicensis,” Grandfather added. “A bit small.”

  “Yes.” Greg frowned at Harry. “As a species, they run larger than peregrines, but Harry’s a male and a relatively small one to boot.” I caught a faintly negative tone in his voice—disapproval or disappointment, maybe. Was he merely unhappy about Harry’s lack of size? Or was the hawk unsatisfactory in some other way?

  “I see he’s feaking,” Grandfather said. “Good sign.”

  “Feaking means that he’s rubbing his beak against the perch to clean it and shape it,” Greg said for the benefit of the rest of us. “The falcon equivalent of using an emery board on your nails. Generally a sign that the bird is calm and contented. Which is pretty much Harry’s normal state. Even without his hood, he’s so calm you could set off firecrackers here in the grove and he’d just look around for a few seconds before going back to feaking. Or preening,” he added. “That’s what he’s doing now.”

  Harry had stopped rubbing his beak against the perch and was now running it through his feathers, grooming and fluffing them.

  “Important to keep the feathers in good condition,” Grandfather announced. “The uropygial gland at the base of the tail produces preen oil, which the bird spreads throughout its plumage using the beak. The jury’s out on whether it has any real antiparasitic effect.”

  “But it does keep their feathers nice and shiny,” Greg said.

  “Mind if I leave you here?” I said to Grandfather. “I have to go give a blacksmithing demonstration.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

  Either he’d adopted the royal “we” in imitation of Queen Cordelia or he’d already declared himself part of the falcons’ entourage. I caught Greg’s eye and nodded at Grandfather.

  “If you need me, I’ll be at the smithy,” I said.

  Greg nodded back as if he’d picked up on my message—although I wasn’t sure myself if the message was a request to look after Grandfather or an apology for inflicting him on Greg. Maybe a little of both.

  “Would you like to see one of them hunt? “Greg asked, turning to the tourists pressed against the fence.

  “Of course!” Grandfather exclaimed.

  The tourists were also eager. I wouldn’t have minded myself, but I had a blacksmithing demonstration starting in about one minute. I hurried back toward the mouth of the grove.

  As I approached the smithy I spotted Jamie peering anxiously in my direction. Relief flooded his face when he spotted me, and I saw him call something over his shoulder.

  “We thought you weren’t going to make it,” he said as I entered the smithy.

  “I was only next door with the falcons,” I said.

  “And Great,” Jamie said, using the boys’ usual nickname for Grandfather. “He can be kind of distracting.”

  “Poor Great,” I said. “Even you guys have got his number. Let me throw on my gear and I’ll start the demo.”

  “I’ll tell Josh to get everything ready!”

  Chapter 6

  Nice that I could rely on the boys to prep the forge for my demo. They’d recently decided that blacksmithing was at least moderately cool and had begun learning the rudiments in whatever time was not already taken up by homework, baseball, music lessons, acting in college and community plays, and play-testing any new video games their Uncle Rob’s company was developing. And Faulk was there to supervise.

  So I slipped into the back room to change. Spike peered through the chicken-wire fencing that kept him from entering the forge. When he realized it was only me and not his beloved Josh or Jamie, he growled—but softly, since I was his main source of food and treats whenever the twins weren’t around.

  I changed into the outfit I’d devised for blacksmithing. Vaguely period trousers of heavy brown fabric, because wearing skirts near an open fire was an invitation to being flambéed at the slightest breeze. Of course, women blacksmiths in less enlightened times had worn skirts, but I didn’t think absolute authenticity was worth dying over. An authentic knee-length leather apron, which would keep sparks from igniting my cotton blouse or, worse, landing on the bare skin above it. And a pair of highly anachronistic steampunk-style goggles, because I also valued my eyesight more than authenticity. I pulled on a pair of deerskin work gloves—heavy enough to protect against sparks and provide some cushioning against all the iron and tools I’d be handling, while flexible enough that they didn’t limit my dexterity.

  And all the while I found myself wondering what the big deal was. If I was late, Faulk could start the demo, couldn’t he?

  Or could he? As I moved into the forge, he slipped into the shop to help with sales while Josh joined me for the demonstration. I almost did a double take at how … unwell Faulk looked. He was only a few years older than me, and regular blacksmithing had kept him lean and fit. But today he looked tired and dispirited. And paler than usual—his face was closer to the off-white of his billowing shirtsleeves than the light brown of his doublet.

  I shoved the thought out of my mind. I could fret over that later.

  “Welcome to the Riverton blacksmith’s shop,” I said to begin my spiel. “And yes, I’m one of the two blacksmiths. I don’t know how things are in the outlandish parts most of ye seem to hail from”—here I swept my gaze over the motley crowd of tourists with a well-practiced bemusement that never failed to get a laugh—“but here in Albion, women can, indeed, become blacksmiths, thank you very much. Some of us were married to blacksmiths and took up the trade when widowed. Some of us had blacksmiths for fathers and no brothers to inherit the business. And some, like me, took a liking to the craft and became apprentices in our own right. Are we clear on that? Because I don’t want any of you to wait until the middle of my demonstration to tell me a woman can’t possibly be a blacksmith. Or worse, ask why I’m doing the work instead of my lazy lug of a partner over there.”

  The crowd laughed, and no one stepped forward to argue that it was a complete anachronism to have a woman blacksmith at a Renaissance Faire. I was prepared to debate the question if need be—I could cite the fact that London’s Worshipful Company of Blacksmiths listed women in its 1434 charter—granted the list contained sixty-five brethren and only two “sistern,” but still, we were there. I could whip out copies of medieval woodcuts showing women working at forges. This wasn’t the first time I’d done a reenactment, so I was well prepared to deal with naysayers and chauvinists. But it was a relief that at least this time around, I didn’t have to.

  In a pinch, I could almost do my demonstration on autopilot, and at the start, with my mind still filled with worry over Faulk, I wasn’t as into it as I usually was. I hoped the tourists didn’t notice. While Josh worked the bellows that fanned the flame in my forge, I explained the process—that the forge could get up to 2,000 degrees centigrade, more than hot enough to soften iron or steel so they could be worked with a hammer.

  As I liked to do, I pulled my iron bar out early—before it had reached the dramatic red-hot phase—and demonstrated that even though it was still apparently unchanged, it was already hot enough to turn a bit of paper into ash.

  “So if I drop this and it starts rolling toward your feet, don’t grab for it—run away!”

  While they were laughing at this, I finished heating the bar, then removed it from the forge and displayed it to the crowd, who gave a satisfying “oooh” when they saw the red-hot end.<
br />
  “Now comes the hardest part,” I said. “Hitting the bar.”

  Laughter.

  “No, I’m serious—this is an eight-pound hammer.” I held it up. “It’s not all that easy to lift. Hitting exactly the right spot on the bar with it time after time—that’s tough. Watch.”

  I laid the bar on my anvil, then proceeded to do a little fancy hammering, working rapidly and methodically up and down the red part of the bar until the last foot of it was partly flattened.

  While the bar was heating again, I allowed some of the audience members to lift the hammer and marvel over its heaviness. Then, when I took the bar out again, I gestured to Josh, who grinned with delight. He picked up a slightly smaller hammer, donned his own goggles, and took his position on the other side of the anvil.

  “Of course, if you have an apprentice, you can work twice as fast, though you have to be careful not to smash each other’s fingers.”

  With that, Josh and I began a well-rehearsed routine, alternating blows on the iron bar, each of us going almost as fast as I’d done when hammering alone. After a few seconds of this, the tourists began applauding. It suddenly occurred to me that it might be rather amusing if we got the musicians to show up during our demonstration to play—or even sing—a few bars of Verdi’s “The Anvil Chorus.” Or would enough of the audience get it? I shoved the thought out of my mind for later consideration. I needed to concentrate to keep from hammering Josh, or getting hammered myself.

  By the time I called a halt, the business end of the bar was as flat as it needed to be for the next phase.

  “Anyone want to guess what this is going to be?” I asked. After fielding a couple of wild guesses—a sword? A horseshoe? A butter knife for giants?—I held up an example of what I was planning—a fireplace poker with a flat-sided business end and a handle shaped like a curving vine.

  “If you want to see the next phase of the poker, drop by at one,” I said. “And if you’re impatient to see more blacksmithing even sooner, my colleague, the distinguished blacksmith—and swordsmith—Faulkner Cates, will be doing his first demo at noon.”

  I gestured toward Faulk, who doffed his feather-trimmed hat and made a partial bow. The tourists applauded with enthusiasm, and half a dozen of them gathered around me to ask questions. At least that many went into the shop beside the forge. Josh followed them, ready to help with what I hoped would be a surge in sales.

  Eventually the questions tapered off, and I was free to leave. Actually, under other circumstances I’d have stayed to help with sales while Faulk did his noon demonstration, but today I had other plans. While Faulk was safely occupied with his demo, I was going to talk to his husband, Tad, to see if I could find out what was going on.

  “You think you and Josh can handle sales for a while?” I asked Jamie. “I have a couple of things to take care of.”

  “We’ll be fine.” Actually, I could tell from his expression that he thought he and his brother could handle the practical side of ironwork sales much better than either Faulk or me.

  He just might be right.

  “Faulk, I’m leaving the boys to hold up my side of things,” I called. “Hey, is Tad here already or is he coming tomorrow?”

  “He should be up at the house,” Faulk said. “Working. Or maybe just basking in the presence of electrical outlets and a Wi-Fi signal.” Understandable. Tad was a brilliant programmer, never happier than when multitasking on two or three monitors and keyboards. Luckily he was also a complete ham, and enjoyed dressing up in costume when Faulk attended Renaissance fairs or other historical reenactments. Absent costumes and the chance to ham it up in them, camping out probably met Tad’s personal definition of cruel and unusual punishment.

  “Great,” I said. “I have a tech question to ask him.”

  “Mom, if your laptop’s acting up again—” Josh began.

  “My laptop’s fine,” I said. “And I’d be smart enough to ask you two if it wasn’t. This is one of those abstruse, which-way-is-the-computer-industry-going questions.”

  “Abstruse?” Jamie echoed.

  “She probably wants him to check to see if we’re up to something online that she and Dad wouldn’t approve of,” Josh said.

  Actually, I relied on their cyber-savvy grown cousin Kevin to do that, but I decided it would be easier if I let them—and Faulk—assume that I did want Tad to snoop behind them.

  “Later,” I said. “And call me if you need me.”

  On my way out, I stepped a little way into the grove to check on Grandfather and the falcons. Grandfather was now wearing a leather falconer’s gauntlet with Harry perched on it. He appeared to be giving a large and appreciative crowd a lecture on the anatomy of a falcon’s wing. He pulled out Harry’s wing to illustrate some point, then released the wing and began flapping his own free arm. Harry took it all in stride. He only showed the slightest interest when Grandfather pulled open his robe to reveal the fisherman’s vest beneath and began patting the pockets in search of something. After inspecting and discarding a pack of chewing gum, a Swiss Army knife, and a tiny can of WD-40, Grandfather smiled triumphantly. He held up something silver and glittering. Harry lost interest, but Greg moved closer to inspect whatever it was. Probably one of the new generation of super-tiny tracking devices Grandfather was currently testing.

  “Mistress Meg!”

  I turned to find Cordelia had entered the grove, flanked by Jacks and Dianne as ladies-in-waiting.

  “Good morrow, Your Majesty.” I sank into a suitably deep curtsey. Cordelia smiled and beckoned for me to rise and approach.

  She frowned in Grandfather’s general direction. Then she realized that tourists were clustered around us, expecting a scene, and gathered her wits to provide one.

  “What business does our court alchemist have with our falconer?” Somehow she’d learned to project her voice as well as the professional actors—tourists in the back of the crowd had no trouble hearing her. And it was curious how naturally she’d taken to using the royal “we.” “We like it not that he meddles with our birds.”

  “I do not know that he has any business here,” I said. “He’s here for his own pleasure, so if Your Majesty has need of him elsewhere in the kingdom—”

  “We were not aware that we had need of an alchemist anywhere in Albion,” she said. “So we would be well pleased if he were to stay in Falconer’s Grove where we need not see him.”

  “I will convey Your Majesty’s pleasure to Magister Blake.” I made another low curtsey. “But Your Majesty—may I make a suggestion?”

  Cordelia nodded graciously.

  “Methinks Magister Blake would be a great deal more likely to stay in the grove if he thought you didn’t want him there.”

  The crowd laughed at that. Cordelia didn’t bother to disguise her annoyance at this bit of truth, and her reaction provoked more laughter.

  “Well spoken,” she said, when the laughter had died down. “Convey to Magister Blake whatever you think will encourage him to avoid our sight.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Cordelia turned to go, then turned back for a parting shot.

  “And we hear he has threatened to turn several of our subjects into toads.”

  “Only the annoying ones, Your Majesty.” I thought it was time for another particularly obsequious curtsey.

  “We have sufficient toads in the kingdom already. Tell him that if he makes any more toads, we may decide to make him shorter—by a head.”

  With that she turned and sailed off, followed by laughter and applause. And I realized the crowd was now looking at me to continue the entertainment.

  To my relief, Michael stepped out of the crowd.

  “Her Majesty has given you a difficult commission,” he said.

  “She has,” I said. “And they always say ‘meddle not in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle, and quick to anger.’” Thank heavens for the boys’ recent obsession with rewatching all three Lord of the Rings movies—in
the extended director’s cuts. Bits of Tolkien were almost as useful in the Game as bits of Shakespeare. “An alchemist’s a kind of wizard, isn’t he?”

  “Aye, that he is. So let me convey Her Majesty’s pleasure to Magister Blake. He will not be so quick to work his magic on a peer of the realm.”

  He strode off toward Grandfather, taking nearly all of the crowd with him. I made good my escape and headed toward the house.

  Chapter 7

  As soon as both Michael and Cordelia were out of sight—along with the crowds trailing them—I took a deep breath and relished the feeling of being, at least for the moment, offstage. My outfit—a long brown skirt and a dark-red laced bodice over a white blouse—wasn’t all that different from what the tourists could rent if they decided to go for the budget end of the costume shop’s offerings. I might pass unnoticed in the crowd—just another commoner. For a few minutes, at least, I could forget that I was on duty.

  In fact, I decided to make my stroll to the house a leisurely one, and pretend, just for twenty minutes or so, that I was a tourist, seeing the Faire for the first time.

  I watched as the jugglers strolled by, throwing around a collection of real coconuts and fake cannonballs. I stopped by the ring-toss booth to watch a little boy—so short he had to stand on a stool to play—win a tiny bright-blue stuffed bear.

  “The prizes are pretty chintzy,” I overheard a teenage kid behind me say.

  “Yeah, but that’s ’cause the games aren’t rigged,” another kid replied.

  I turned down one of the food lanes and found my mouth watering. Breakfast wasn’t that long ago—was I really hungry, or was I just giving way to the delicious smells? Fish and chips and roasted turkey leg smells wafted from the left while the odors of pork pockets, steak-on-a-stake, and shepherd’s pie assailed me from the right. Farther on I could choose between crepes, fried cheese, fried pickles, corn on the cob, hot pretzels, cinnamon rolls, and several flavors of Italian ice. I usually waited until the Faire was over to indulge in the mead, but there were coffee, tea, lemonade, limeade, fruit slushies, root beer floats—