Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

‘You’ve taken the physic?’

‘The whole bottle. I can feel it working already.’

‘I made it extra strength. I hope it didn’t produce too fierce a sensation.’

Olbec belched. ‘Burned a bit as it went down.’

‘Down?’

The old goat winked. ‘I’m not taking any chances. I drank it.’

Hero riffled through the manuscripts. They were beautiful, each page illuminated with gilt and paintings in miniature. His face fell. ‘I can’t deface holy script.’

Olbec jabbed the wad of parchment. ‘Nothing sacred about this lot. It’s just a collection of worthless English chronicles and a few rhymes and riddles. I got a clerk in Durham to translate some. Here’s one I remember. It goes like this:

I’m a strange creature, for I satisfy women,

a service to the neighbours! No one suffers

at my hands except for my slayer.

I grow very tall, erect in a bed,

I’m hairy underneath. From time to time

a beautiful girl, the brave daughter

of some churl dares to hold me,

grips my russet skin, robs me of my head

and puts me in the pantry. At once that girl

with plaited hair who has confined me

remembers our meeting. Her eye moistens.

Olbec winked. ‘What’s the answer?’

Hero blushed.

Olbec pinched his cheek. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind, young monk.’ He swayed towards the door, where his wife waited with a fixed smile. ‘It’s an onion,’ he bawled.

Hero tried to spot Richard among the revellers. He was ashamed of his outburst over the spilt ink. He also kept one eye on the door, half-expecting the Count to come crashing through in impotent fury. The orgy of feasting had ended and now the soldiers were playing some kind of drinking game that involved daubing their faces with soot, standing on benches stacked on the tables, and chanting an obscene ditty which Drogo orchestrated with his sword. In another part of the hall, Raul arm-wrestled two Normans simultaneously while a third soldier poured mead into his upraised mouth. A table collapsed and a brawl broke out. Hero had lost count of the ale cups he’d drunk. He was reaching for another when a hand closed over the vessel.

He smiled woozily up at Vallon.

‘Time to sober up. We’re leaving tonight. Put your eyes back in their sockets. Go to our quarters and pack. When you’ve done that, wait for me in the falconer’s hut.’

‘But I can’t. Tomorrow I’m going to the Roman wall with Richard.’

Vallon leaned forward. ‘I’ll make it plain. Do as I say or stay here and go down into a cold grave.’

As soon as Hero tottered into the cold damp air, nausea swept over him. He clutched his knees and vomited. When he’d finished retching he heard a laugh. Drogo straddled the doorway, bare-chested and sweating, a cup dangling in one hand, his sword loose in the other.

‘Off to beddy-byes, you Greek poof. Master will be along soon to tuck you up.’

He reeled inside and pulled the door shut, leaving Hero in the dark. Deeper than dark. Thick mist had risen from the river, making a mystery of everything around him. He tried to gather his bearings. The guesthouse was set against the stockade to the left of the hall. He groped through the fog, hands outstretched like a ghost.

He was almost sober by the time he found the guest quarters. Hands fumbling, he bundled everything into a blanket and embarked on another blind journey to Wayland’s hut. He collided with a building and felt his way along the walls until he found the door.

‘Wayland, are you there? It’s Hero. Master Vallon sent me.’

No answer. Opening the door a crack, he saw two tremulous lights. He shrank back. He had the wrong building. This was the chapel, and there was a man praying before the altar. An instant later he realised that the kneeling man was Vallon.

He waited for his master to finish. It seemed to him that Vallon was making a confession. He caught the occasional words — ‘penance’ and ‘blood of the innocent’, and then quite clearly he heard Vallon say, ‘I’m a lost soul. What does it matter where my journey takes me or whether I reach the end?’

The bleak utterance chilled Hero. He must have moved. Vallon stopped. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Only me, sir.’

Vallon stood and walked towards him. ‘How long have you been listening? What did you hear?’

‘Nothing, sir. I took a wrong turning in the dark. I have the baggage. Where are we going?’

‘Away. I always light a candle before leaving on a campaign.’ Vallon gestured towards the altar. ‘I’ve lit one for you, too.’

Campaign? What campaign?

Vallon steered him to Wayland’s hut. The interior was rank with animal smells. A lamp lit Richard’s anxious face. Another person floated out of the shadows, a ring gleaming in one ear, his hair in a sidelock.

‘What’s that tosspot doing here?’ Vallon demanded.

Raul was pie-eyed. He swayed forward. ‘At your service, Captain. You’d have found me in more soldier-like condition if Wayland had told me about your flight earlier.’

Vallon stepped towards Wayland. ‘Who else knows?’

Wayland gave a quick shake of his head.

Vallon shook Raul by the shoulders. ‘Tell me why I should take you. Speak up.’

Raul fumbled for his crossbow, turning like a dog searching for its tail. ‘Captain, I can put a bolt through a man’s eye at a hundred paces. I’ve served in three armies around the Baltic and I know how to deal with rascally Norwegian merchants.’ He screwed up his eyes and held up a finger, his face contorted by some gastric turmoil. ‘And I’m strong as a bear.’ He gave a flabby wave that covered Hero and Richard. ‘How far do you think you’ll get with these two sissys to nurse?’ Blinking, he pawed at Hero’s arm. ‘No disrespect.’

Vallon pushed him away in disgust and addressed Wayland. ‘It’s blacker than Hades out there. Are you sure you can lead us to the Roman tower?’

Wayland nodded and held up a coil of rope knotted at intervals. He’d muzzled his dog and fitted it with a spiked collar.

The bell began to chime a solemn end to the day’s frivolities. ‘That’s the signal,’ Vallon said. ‘There’s no time to lose. The mist is on our side for now, but it will slow our escape and it will soon disappear when the sun rises. We move as fast as we can.’

Wayland picked up two draped cages and slung them over his shoulders. He unmuzzled his dog, reached for his bow and stepped through the door, the rope trailing behind him. The fugitives took hold of it, each grasping a knot, and went out into the soggy night.

A few diehards were still whooping it up at the hall, but the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The runaways shuffled forward like felons or penitents. They hadn’t gone far when Hero shunted into the man in front and the man behind barked his heel. Hero heard muted voices from above. They must be under the gatehouse.

‘Is it open?’ he heard Vallon whisper.

Hero didn’t hear the reply, but soon the rope tightened in his hands and he found himself moving again. He didn’t know he was at the gate until he was through and someone slid the bar to behind them.

‘Stay together,’ Vallon whispered. ‘If anyone gets separated, no one’s going back for them.’

Wayland led the way up a wooded hillside with the runaways blundering behind him. Condensation pattered through the branches and splashed on their heads with maddening unpredictability. After a long, fractious climb they cleared the mist and saw the milecastle ahead of them. By the time they reached it, a seam of cold yellow light was cracking open on the eastern horizon. Wayland looked back over a sea of cloud broken by dark reefs and islands. Away to the west, snow-covered hills glimmered under the fading stars. Not a breath of wind.