Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

The wind slackened and the snow stopped. The fugitives looked at each other and saw that they’d grown old, with white hair and brows. The darkness began to lift and the pale disc of the sun blinked through the streaming overcast. In the watery light, Vallon saw that they’d been driven to the eastern side of the fell and were looking down a steep dale.

‘Do you know this country?’ he asked Wayland.

The falconer turned a circle and shook his head.

Hero was chafing Richard’s hands. ‘He can’t spend the night up here. All our bedding is drenched.’

‘I knew he was the weakest link,’ said Vallon. ‘But I didn’t think he’d break so soon.’

The last black tendrils of stormcloud floated east. The wind dropped to nothing and sunlight bathed the hills. The snow began to melt before their eyes, leaving icy filigrees in the shadows. Far down the dale Vallon spotted a solitary farmstead in a bright green triangle of cultivation. He shaded his eyes and studied it.

‘I can see a man working a field.’

Wayland held up two fingers.

‘Two men, then, and no other habitation for miles. We’ll risk it.’

They followed a rushing burn, keeping out of sight of the house. When they were close, Vallon climbed the gulley and peered over the edge. The farmstead was a windowless cottage of unmortared whin-stone, the joints plugged with turves, the roof thatched with blackened ling. Fumes drifted out of the central smokehole. Attached to the cottage was a byre. Downhill of the house a man guided an ox-drawn plough through the thin soil. In an adjoining field another man was repairing a stone wall near a hobbled horse. Scrawny chickens pecked around the homestead.

‘Wait here,’ Vallon said.

He rose and began to walk towards the house. He’d gone only a few yards when a little girl herding two slat-ribbed cows appeared round a bend in the stream. She cried out and fled downriver, whacking the cows on their bony rumps. The chickens flew squawking onto the roof ridge. The men sprinted for the house.

Vallon signalled for the others to show themselves. The peasants rushed out armed with swords. Vallon kept his own sword sheathed and walked forward until they raised their weapons. They were youths, possibly twins. Vallon pointed back at the fugitives, then tilted his head and laid it on his hands, miming sleep. The youths flapped their arms at him. When he didn’t leave, they advanced with swords hoisted, looking to each other for courage. Vallon stood his ground. He held out a silver penny.

They frowned at each other. One of them shook his head, but the other said something and reached out to take the coin at full stretch. They moved back a pace. From the reverent way they handled the coin, passing it between them as if it were a charm, Vallon guessed that money played little part in their economy.

The two men stepped apart and beckoned Vallon to pass between them. He signalled for the others to wait. The youths closed up behind him.

He ducked through the doorway into a room dark except for the dim glow of a peat hearth. A woman stood pressed against the far wall with her arms crossed over her breast. Around the walls were four stone sleeping ledges, like burial niches. A slate table with stumps for stools completed the furnishings.

The men began to question him. The only word he could understand was ‘Normans’.

‘Not Norman,’ he said. ‘Normans … ’ He made a throat-cutting gesture.

He went out and waved the fugitives forward. They laid Richard in one of the bed niches and covered him with blankets. They hung their own sodden bedding on the smoke-blackened beams above the fire, then they crouched around the flame, holding out their hands in worship. The little girl came in and watched the strangers in mute fascination. Vallon donated what remained of their provisions to the woman — some beans and wheat flour, a venison shank, half a pot of honey and a nugget of salt. The woman slapped her daughter’s hand away and bore the scraps off as though they were treasure.

Ulf and Hakon, her sons were called, descendants of Viking invaders from Ireland. The swords they carried were the same arms their ancestors had waded ashore with, but now the blades were blunter than the ploughshares with which they scratched a living. Ulf told them that the Normans rarely came this far west. The last time they’d seen any was two years ago, when King William led his army through the Pennines after wasting Northumbria. The nearest strongholds were at York and Durham, more than a day’s ride to the east.

The room began to fill with peat smoke. Vallon went outside and sat on a rock and watched the hills turn velvety black under a golden sky. Hero came out and sat beside him.

‘Richard says you’ve agreed to lead an expedition to Norway.’

‘I’ll explain my intentions tomorrow, when we’ve rested and are seated at table.’ Vallon saw Hero bite his lip. He changed the subject and made his tone light. ‘Tell me what you think of our travelling companions.’

‘Richard’s more intelligent than I took him for. In fact he’s surprisingly quick-witted.’

Vallon nodded. ‘Determined, too. He told me that he’d rather take his chances with us than return to the castle. What about the falconer?’

Hero grew more animated. ‘He’s a rare creature. The defiant way he looks at you — like a hawk.’

‘He could do with some manning. I’ve never met a more impudent peasant.’

‘Perhaps he’s of gentler birth than that. Give him a bath and a proper suit of clothes and he’d cut a fine figure in any company. No, wait. He can read — which is more than anyone else in the Count’s household can do. The other morning he picked up one of the pages Olbec gave me and I saw his lips form words. If only he could speak, what a fascinating tale he could tell.’

‘He doesn’t need the gift of speech while he has you to romance his life.’

Hero reddened. ‘I think he’s a highborn Englishman whose land was stolen by the Normans. Sir, don’t scoff. History has many accounts of noblemen who were robbed of their inheritance and abandoned in the wild. Besides Romulus and Remus, there were Amphion and Zethus, sons of Zeus and Antiope, who were exposed in the mountains by their wicked uncle. And then there’s Poseidon’s son, Hippothous, raised by wild mares in Eleusis. Not to mention Jason and Achilles, both reared on Mount Pelion by the Centaur Chiron. In fact, when I see Wayland run, I’m reminded of Homer’s epithet for Achilles: podarkes — “the swift of foot”.’

Vallon laughed. ‘Enough. You’ve spent so long with your head in books that you can’t separate fact from fantasy.’ He gave Hero’s knee an affectionate cuff. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘Miss me?’

At that moment Raul poked his head out of the door and shouted that supper was ready. The first star had appeared in the east. Vallon rose and stretched. ‘Well, it will take more than a scrub and a haircut to civilise our crossbowman.’

‘He’s as rough as a boar, but his heart is kind.’

‘Gallows-bait. I’ve had a hundred men like Raul under my command and I’ve hanged a good few of them. For a penny a day and the prospect of plunder, he’d follow a fool to hell. Somewhere in a lonely corner of this world, there’s an unmarked grave waiting for Raul. Let’s eat.’

The others were already seated at table when they went in. Ulf bowed his head over the food and muttered a grace. The simple ceremony caught Vallon off guard. A lump filled his throat. He swallowed it. A man easily moved to tears cries only for himself.

Richard had recovered sufficiently to sit at table and sip a bowl of broth. The others ate a gruel of oats and beans containing nameless bits of gristle. For bread there was a gritty loaf of barley mixed with ground pulses.