Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

His father had scuffed Wayland’s hair. ‘Jesus has yet to shine his light into all parts. But don’t tell your mother I said so or she’ll deny me all comforts for a month.’

Wayland checked the knots securing the cast-offs. He followed the wall, his breathing growing harsher with the ascent. When he reached the first crag, he scrambled down where a horse couldn’t follow and hared off north, trying to keep below the contours. The land grew wilder, rough pasture and cottongrass giving way to heather and springy mosses. Drab little birds started up at his feet.

He reached the treeline and looked back. The frieze of riders was climbing the scarp, and from the way they rode their mounts he knew they hadn’t spotted his breakout. He jogged into the forest.

This was where the real effort had to be made, distance gained until the hunters had been lured so far from their quarry that they would need another day to recover from the deception. Wayland broke into a run and his mind closed down. All he was conscious of was his feet flying over the ground, the trees sliding back, the sun flickering between their high black crowns. He emerged from the forest on to an empty moor and ran on. Cresting a ridge, he saw in the distance two men astride shaggy ponies who stood in their stirrups to better make him out. When he went over the next horizon they were still watching, wondering perhaps if the running man and his giant dog were flesh and blood or apparitions from a mythical past.

On he went, running, trotting or walking as the going dictated, until he came to the rim of a wide basin thinly wooded with birches. At the bottom a burn swollen by meltwater tumbled down steps before dividing around a boulder and plunging into a clough. He untied the cast-offs and stowed them in his backpack. While he waited for his breathing to slow, he studied the waterfall, calculating the distance from the bank to the boulder and from there to the far side. Thirty feet at least. The current dashed at the rock, sometimes washing over it. He couldn’t cross in two separate moves. All or nothing.

He swallowed two deep breaths and hurtled down the slope. By the time he came to the burn he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. He took off too short, sprang off the rock, and hung for an age before crashing on to the other bank with a force that jarred him to his eyeballs. The dog thumped into the heather beside him. Wayland gave a breathless laugh and ruffled its mane. He drank from the peaty stream and planned his next move. Not far above them lay a whinstone slab half buried in rank heather. They sank down against it and shared meat and bread.

The day was warm and still, the clouds anchored to the ground by their shadows. Budding leaves hazed the birches in luminous green. A moor owl quartered the opposite slope. The bugling of the hounds woke Wayland from a doze. He watched them work down the scent line and recognised them by their markings — Marte and Marteau, Ostine and Lose. Marteau ran lame, skipping along on three legs, the fourth loosely tucked up.

Riders notched the skyline. They remained on the ridge for some time, searching for movement. By now they must be wondering how such pedestrian quarry could outpace them for so long. They started their descent and from the way the horses sidestepped, Wayland knew they were pretty used up. He smeared peat on his face and drew sacking over his hair. He selected his heaviest arrow and stuck it in the ground by his bow.

The hounds rushed up to the waterfall and jostled on the brink. They tested the current and found it too strong. Their voices died. They cast upstream and down, each time returning to the fall.

The riders pulled up. Their horses were blowing hard. Some soldiers dismounted. The rest slumped over their horses’ necks. Their sweat-streaked faces were still besooted and the smudges around their bloodshot eyes gave them the look of plague victims. Some wore no armour. Drax had pulled on his mail over his nightshirt. Drogo’s mount was lathered and its head splashed with pink froth. Man or beast, he used both the same.

The huntsman scratched his head. ‘The hounds say they crossed here.’

Drogo slid off his horse. ‘Don’t be an imbecile. The current would have swept them over the fall.’

‘One of them crossed.’

Drogo jerked. ‘Wayland?’

The huntsman nodded. ‘I saw him course a deer once and he leaped a chasm I wouldn’t have set a horse at.’

‘Then where are the rest of them?’ Drogo surveyed all around. ‘It’s a ruse. They must have backtracked. They can’t be far.’

‘They’re not here. The scent’s fresh. They’re on foot. We should have caught up with them long ago. Wayland’s leading us a dance.’

Drogo clubbed the huntsman to the ground. ‘Where did we lose them?’

The man felt his jaw. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled.

Drogo kicked him. ‘Tell me, damn you.’

‘Back at the wall where the hounds checked and Ostine began following a different line. I thought that sheep had led her astray because the others went on stronger than before. Since then they’ve run steadfast.’

Drogo stared back in a frenzy of disbelief. ‘By now they could be across the Tyne. They could be in the next county.’

Wayland notched arrow to bowstring.

Drogo’s eyes switched. ‘Who’s got the freshest horse? Guilbert, ride for home and send parties in all directions. Raise the alarm in Durham. Send word to York. I’ll follow you direct.’ He caught hold of his horse and dragged himself up. He stared across the river, his eyes burning like coals. ‘The bastard can’t be far away. He’s probably watching us.’

‘We’ll pin him another day,’ Roussel said.

Drogo’s gaze skewered him. ‘None of this would be necessary if you and Drax had dealt with the Frank. Well, now the two of you can make amends. Take the huntsman and four others.’ Drogo gathered his reins. ‘Nothing less than the falconer’s head on a spike will make me forgive you.’

Wayland stood, drew, aimed and loosed. The arrow skewed off Drogo’s mailed shoulder. His horse reared and the other riders milled, grasping for their weapons.

Wayland bellied away through the heather. Aimless bolts hissed overhead. When he was out of range, he stood up. Drogo sat clutching his shoulder, though the arrow hadn’t penetrated. The riders had closed up in combat formation, shield to shield. Wayland brandished his bow. He threw back his head and spread his arms in a wordless display of triumph.

In slanting afternoon sunshine, he sat at the edge of the wildwood and watched his hunters far below picking their way across the South Tyne. The huntsman carried lame Marteau over his saddle, and the other hounds quested in silence. When all seven riders had crossed, Wayland rose and massaged his aching calves. Since dawn he’d covered more than twenty miles. He yoked his bow across his shoulders and went into the trees, up through the childhood smells of violets and wood anemones. The dog remembered the forest and stuck close to heel, its tail drooping. Wayland entered the home clearing with the weary tread of a mourner. Ash and hazel had colonised the cultivated strips and the place where the house had stood was a riot of nettles.

Behind the house a byre had collapsed into a tangle of poles choked by ivy and brambles. He pushed between them. They weren’t stout enough to stop a charging horse, but the weeds grew dense enough to screen him from sight. He’d passed several spots where he could have ambushed the Normans without much risk to himself, but he wanted them to know why he’d led them here. Roussel and Drax had been members of the gang that had murdered his family; he wanted to see recognition flare before he killed them.

While he waited, he picked burrs from between the dog’s pads. He took six ash arrows from his quiver and planted them to hand. The sun sank into the trees. Blue dusk suffused the air. Rooks cawed on their nests. It was very peaceful.