Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

A fist banged. ‘You’re wanted in the hall. Quick!’

Wayland half-opened the door. Raul the German stood there, panting with urgency. Wayland pointed to the hawk, then at its perch.

‘Bring it with you.’

Wayland reached for the muzzle hanging from a peg. The dog was supposed to wear it whenever it left the hut.

Raul yanked his arm. ‘No time for that.’

Wayland followed him into the rigid night. His feet slithered in icy ruts. Constellations frozen in their orbits outlined the keep. The dog padded beside him, its shoulders on a level with his hips. The hawk, stupefied by the rush of sensations, crouched on his fist.

Raul glanced back excitedly. ‘They’re talking about an expedition to Norway. If they’re after falcons, they’ll need a falconer.’ He stopped. ‘This could be our chance.’

To escape, he meant. To go home. Raul was from the Saxony coast, the main breadwinner in a sprawling family who’d lost their farm in a North Sea flood. He’d gone abroad to seek his fortune and, after various misadventures on land and sea, had taken service with the Normans as a crossbowman. A bearded, barrel-chested stump of a man with a weakness for drink, women and sentimental songs, his discipline away from the battlefield was atrocious. Ten years older than Wayland, he’d attached himself to the tall English youth, although they had little in common beyond the fact that both were outsiders.

Wayland shifted him aside. When he reached the hall, the dog lay down by the entrance without being told. He went in.

‘Hey,’ Raul called. ‘If they’re looking for volunteers, put in a word for me.’

Most of the men in the high-beamed chamber were asleep. A few fuddled faces looked up from ale cups and dice games. Drogo’s voice carried through the screen separating the communal quarters from the Count’s receiving chamber.

‘Watch it,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘They’ve been arguing for hours. The old man’s pissed.’

Wayland parted the drapes. Olbec and Margaret were seated in X-frame armchairs placed on a dais. Drogo paced in front of them, his face like a scalded pig, punching the palm of one hand to drive home some point or other. The strangers had their backs to Wayland, the Frank slouched yet alert, the Sicilian braced in nervous concentration. Wayland spotted Richard sitting alone in a corner.

‘I admit it,’ Drogo said. ‘I don’t know a lot about falcons. Hawk — ing’s too namby-pamby for my taste. Where’s the risk, where’s the danger? But I know one thing. Hawks are prey to endless ailments. They die from the smallest slight. Tie a healthy falcon down in the evening and next morning you return to find a bundle of feathers. Buy a dozen gyrfalcons in Norway and you’d be lucky if a single bird survived the journey.’

Margaret jabbed Olbec. ‘Don’t listen to him. His opinion’s warped by malice.’

Drogo spread his arms in frustration. ‘For once, my lady, set aside your prejudices and consider the practicalities. What will you feed the hawks on during the journey?’

Spots of red highlighted Margaret’s cheeks. ‘Pigeons, seagulls, sheep, fish!’

Wayland had forgotten about the goshawk. Its emphatic rouse attracted everyone’s attention. Faces turned as the hawk took a tentative bite. The taste of flesh dissolved its fear. It began a ravenous assault on the pigeon, tearing off large chunks, gasping and wheezing to force them down.

Wayland had lived close to nature and judged everything by the degree of danger it posed. The Frank’s gaze, at once piercing and indifferent, showed him to be very dangerous indeed. The Sicilian was no threat at all. His bulging eyes made Wayland think of a startled hare.

‘The falconer,’ Olbec announced.

‘I expected an older man,’ Vallon said.

Olbec had perked up. ‘Well built, though, and he has a cunning way with animals. That goshawk, for example. Trapped only a few days ago and already feeding as freely as a pet dove. I swear the boy can bewitch animals.’ The Count slurped his ale. ‘If anyone can bring the gyrfalcons safe to their destination, it’s him.’

‘Does he know what a gyrfalcon is?’ Hero asked.

Drogo uttered a contemptuous laugh. ‘Even if he did, he can’t answer. He’s as mute as a stone.’

‘It’s true that he can’t speak,’ Olbec said. ‘Elves or divers stole his tongue when he lived wild in the forest. Walter caught him when he was hunting upriver. The hounds ran him to earth outside a cave. He was clad in skins and feathers, looked more like an animal than a Christian man.’

Hero’s eyes widened. ‘How long had he been living in the wilderness?’

‘God knows. Probably since birth.’

‘Suckled by wolves,’ Hero breathed. ‘Do you call him Romulus?’

‘Romulus? We call him Wayland because that was the name carved on a cross he wore around his neck. A Danish name, but the writing was in English. He had a dog with him. Ferocious brute, big as a bull-calf. Still got it. First-rate hunting hound. That beast’s dumb, too.’

Drogo turned on Hero. ‘Because he’d cut its voice strings so that it wouldn’t betray him when he was poaching our deer. If it had been me who’d caught him, he’d have lost more than his tongue.’

‘Why did Walter show charity?’ Hero asked, addressing Olbec.

‘Ah,’ Olbec said, relishing the tale. ‘Walter said it was like a scene from a fable. When he rode up, he expected to find a wolf at bay. But no, the hounds were seated in a circle around the boy. He’d charmed them.’

‘And that dog of his had torn out the throat of the lead hound. He should have been thrown to the pack.’ Drogo’s head whipped round. ‘You see? No matter how much you feed a wolf, it keeps staring back at the forest. By God, show me that face again and I’ll have you flogged.’

Wayland lowered his eyes. His heart pounded.

‘Look at me,’ Hero said. ‘Wayland, look at me.’

‘Do as you’re told,’ Olbec ordered.

Wayland slowly raised his head.

Hero frowned. ‘He can understand speech.’

Olbec belched. ‘There’d be no point wasting house space on him if he was deaf as well as dumb.’

‘Yes, but if he once had the gift of words, they would have been English or Danish. Yet he understands French, which he must have learned in your household.’

‘Where else?’

‘What I’m saying is that even though he can’t speak, he possesses the faculty for language.’

‘Who cares,’ Margaret snapped. ‘Tell him what he has to do.’

Olbec held out his cup for a refill. ‘Listen closely, young Wayland. Sir Walter, your master, is held prisoner by barbarians in a foreign land. You must repay his kindness by helping to secure his release. His jailer demands four falcons in return for his freedom. These falcons are larger, paler and more beautiful than any that you have seen. They dwell far to the north in a country of ice and fire, and their nature has been forged accordingly. Each year, a few of these paragons find their way to Norway. This summer you will join an expedition to that land, select the finest specimens, and care for them on their journey south.’

‘You’ll be responsible for their survival.’ Margaret added. ‘If they die, my son’s life is forfeit, and you’ll suffer the consequence.’

‘Don’t frighten the boy,’ Olbec said, patting her arm. He beckoned Wayland closer. ‘Imagine falcons so noble that only kings and emperors have title to them. White ones, as big as eagles. You’ll voyage further than most knights travel in a lifetime. On your return journey, you might even make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.’ Olbec’s eyes swam. ‘By God, I wish I was going with you.’

Most of this had passed over Wayland’s head. He tried to imagine a white falcon as big as an eagle and produced a mental picture of a swan with a hooked beak and wings like the angels his mother had described.