Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

‘That must be Sherwood,’ said Vallon. ‘Raul says it’s one of the last refuges of the English resistance.’

‘Then we can relax our guard,’ Hero said.

‘On the contrary. From now on, we must be especially vigilant. Everyone we have dealings with, observe them closely. Look behind the smile. Trust no one.’

They descended a rutted track glinting with puddles. The forest closed around them — huge and ancient oaks with knuckled roots and fissured trunks spreading into vaulted crowns. The trees stood widely spaced and the ground beneath them was nearly bare. The fugitives stared down the empty avenues leading away in all directions. No one spoke.

The sun was sinking like flames in a smoky forge when they came to a millrace and followed it into a woodland village clumped around a green. It had rained on and off since morning and carts had churned the road to slurry. The travellers’ feet sucked in the mud. Some of the cottages had corn dolls tied to their doors. Vallon passed a tavern with a weathered sign depicting a man grinning out from branches and vines. Looking closer, Vallon saw that the greenery was sprouting from the man’s eyes, nose and mouth.

A cheerful hubbub came from the tavern. Hero and Richard eyed its lamplit windows with longing.

‘Not safe,’ Vallon said, and trudged on. A flock of geese mantled their wings and hissed at him. He’d reached the next house when he heard a familiar voice muffled by laughter and jeers. Frowning, he retraced his steps and stooped through the tavern door.

The room was crowded, but no one saw him enter. Everybody’s attention was craned on some drama taking place in a space around the hearth. Peering over their shoulders, Vallon saw Raul squatting on his haunches, one hand laid on the floor, a lad of about ten balancing on it. Raul’s face contused. Veins knotted on his temples. Slowly the boy came off the floor until he was level with Raul’s bent knees, suspended on a perfectly straight arm. Again, the veins on Raul’s temple bulged. He sprang to full height, at the same time swinging his arm up until the boy was poised above his head. The lad lost his balance and fell. Raul caught him, lowered him to the ground and tousled his hair.

Vallon pushed through the applause and catcalls. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

The crowd turned as if pulled by a string. When they saw the set of Vallon’s mouth, the sword hilt jutting at his side, they edged away and returned to their ale-benches. Raul gave a tipsy salute.

‘Captain, I was providing some harmless entertainment in return for the hospitality shown by these good souls.’

Vallon registered Wayland seated in a booth, the dog lying muzzled at his feet like some monstrous trophy.

‘I told you to keep away from public places.’

‘We can’t hide from everyone we meet. Now we’re in tamer parts, it’s safer to blend in.’

‘You call that blending in?’

The boy who’d featured in Raul’s stunt presented him with a cup of ale. Raul raised it to a man leaning against the counter separating the drinking hall from the landlord’s quarters. The man raised his own cup. Vallon appraised him. Lean and wiry, dressed in a filthy green jerkin and leggings, ears sticking out through a tangle of rat-tails under a leather skullcap.

‘Who’s that?’

‘His name’s Leofric. We met him on the road. He’s a charcoal burner.’

‘What did you tell him about us?’

Raul tugged his earring. ‘I told him we were a party of travelling showmen.’

‘A what ?’

‘Travelling entertainers who perform at fairs and festivals. I said that we’d done poor business in the provinces and were heading back to London for the Easter holiday.’

‘I suppose that was your strongman act?’

Raul grinned. ‘Not bad, eh?’ He pointed at Wayland. ‘And that’s Wolfboy and his performing dog. Does whatever Wolfboy tells it to do.’

‘Wayland’s dumb.’

‘That’s what makes it such a great act.’

Hero smothered a laugh. ‘What’s my role?’

‘Storyteller,’ said Raul. ‘Captain, you’re the Swordmaster, a champion of France who fought in Castile with El Cid. You take on all comers, three at a time — a penny if they beat you.’ Raul stifled a hiccup. ‘’Course, you don’t use real swords.’

Vallon shook his head at this nonsense and crossed to Wayland’s booth. He slid his sword under the table and subsided on to a bench. As soon as the weight was off his feet, he wondered how he would get up again.

‘Since we’re here, you might as well fetch us some ale.’

Raul came back balancing three cups. ‘The landlord asks if we want supper.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Nice dish of salt cod?’

The landlord stood behind the counter, smiling broadly, sharpening a knife on a steel. The boy sat on the board, swinging his legs.

‘Very well,’ Vallon said. ‘But we leave as soon as we’ve eaten.’

‘Can’t we stay the night?’ Richard said.

‘No. We’ve already attracted too much attention.’

Richard looked like he would cry. ‘Sir, it’s been three days since we slept under a roof.’

Raul patted his hand. ‘Don’t you fret. I’ve already found us beds. Leofric’s invited us to sleep at his cottage. It’s deep in the woods, Captain, well off the beaten track.’

Vallon studied the charcoal burner again. He was standing with his back to the room, sharing a joke with the landlord. He reached across the counter and cut a slice off a flitch of bacon with what looked like a flensing knife.

Vallon was tempted to accept. His joints ached from the damp that seeped into them at night.

‘Thank your friend and tell him we’ll be making our own arrangements.’

‘Like what? Another ditch?’

Hero’s expression turned mutinous. ‘We can’t go on living like animals. Lower than animals. Even the birds and beasts have their nests.’

Richard gave a flimsy cough of agreement.

Vallon looked at them over the rim of his cup. ‘We don’t accept invitations from strangers.’

Muttering under his breath, Raul went off to break the news to the charcoal burner. Vallon watched them. The man looked put out by the snub, but no more than was to be expected. He didn’t protest too much; he didn’t try to persuade. He touched his cup to Raul’s and shook hands when they parted. When the landlord came over with a platter of cod, Vallon dismissed the matter from his mind. He ate a few mouthfuls, then put his dish aside. He felt feverish. It had begun to rain again. For a while he listened to the water dripping off the eaves. The stuffy atmosphere made him sleepy. His head began to droop.

He woke from an ugly dream to find that the room had grown quiet. His fever was worse. The light hurt his eyes. Across the table, Hero and Richard lay fast asleep, heads cradled on their forearms. Raul sat in a bleary doze with his chin propped on his hand.

It had stopped raining. The tavern was nearly empty. Three locals sat talking quietly on an ale-bench beside the dying fire. When he looked at them, two averted their eyes. The other was old and sightless.

Vallon pulled Raul’s hand from under his chin. The German surfaced with a splutter.

‘How long have I been asleep?’

Raul bored a knuckle into his forehead. ‘Don’t know, but you had a fair old snooze. I reckoned you needed the rest.’ He threw his arms around Hero and Richard, and dropped his voice. ‘Didn’t want to wake these two, either.’

When Vallon stood, pain as piercing as a hot wire shot down one leg. He screwed his eyes shut and held on to the table. Raul reached out in concern. ‘Are you all right, Captain? You don’t look too good.’

‘The charcoal burner. When did he leave?’