Robert Lyndon: Hawk Quest

Vallon removed a silk binder seeded with pearls and embroidered with gold. Inside were two manuscripts, one written in Roman letters, the other in an unfamiliar script, both stamped with a seal resembling a bow and arrow.

‘I’ve neglected my letters,’ he admitted.

‘The Persian document is a guarantee of safe passage through Seljuk territory. The Latin text is a ransom demand addressed to Count Olbec, a Norman magnate whose eldest son, Sir Walter, was taken prisoner at Manzikert. We’re — we were — on our way to deliver it.’

‘I’m disappointed. I thought you must be searching for the Holy Grail.’

‘What?’

‘Why would an old and ailing philosopher take such pains to secure the freedom of a Norman mercenary?’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, sir, you’re right.’ The Sicilian seemed flustered. ‘Cosmas had never visited the lands beyond the Alps. He planned to call on scholars in Paris and London. All his life he searched for knowledge at its source, however distant that might be.’

Vallon massaged his forehead. The Sicilian was giving him a headache. ‘Why burden me with information I don’t want?’

The Sicilian cast his eyes down. ‘After contemplating my predicament, I’ve concluded that I lack the constitution to complete the assignment on my own.’

‘You should have consulted me earlier. I could have spared you a sleepless night.’

‘I’m aware that I lack your martial skills and courage.’

Vallon frowned. ‘You don’t imagine that I’ll take on the mission?’

‘Oh, I have no intention of turning back. I’ll serve you as loyally as I would have served Cosmas.’

Anger rose in Vallon’s face. ‘You insolent pup. Your master’s hardly cold in the ground and already you’re fawning around for another.’

The Sicilian’s cheeks burned. ‘You said you were a soldier for hire.’ He fumbled inside his tunic. ‘I’ll pay for your service. There.’

Vallon hefted the leather purse, loosened the drawstring and dribbled silver coins into his palm.

‘Dirhams from Afghanistan,’ the Sicilian said. ‘But silver is silver no matter whose head it wears. Is it enough?’

‘The money will run through your fingers like sand. There’ll be bribes to pay, armed escorts to hire.’

‘Not if I ride under your protection.’

Vallon made allowance for the Sicilian’s youth. ‘Suppose I agree. In a month or two I’d be back at this spot no better off than you see me now.’ He lobbed the purse across and continued on his way.

The Sicilian caught up with him. ‘A lord as grand as Olbec will reward you well for bringing him news of his heir’s deliverance.’

Vallon scratched his ribs. The hut had been crawling with vermin. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘With respect, that means little. Norman adventurers rise to glory from nothing. In my own short life they’ve conquered England and half of Italy. Here’s the seal of Olbec’s house.’

Vallon glanced at a medallion stamped with the image of an equestrian knight. ‘Your master wore another ring.’

After a moment’s hesitation the Sicilian withdrew it on a cord from inside his tunic. ‘I don’t know what kind of jewel it is, only that it’s as old as Babylon.’

The colours of the gemstone slithered according to how Vallon angled it to the light. Without thinking, he slipped the ring on.

‘Cosmas used it to predict the weather,’ the Sicilian said. ‘Now the jewel appears blue, but yesterday, well before the storm, it turned as black as midnight.’

Vallon tried to remove the ring.

‘Keep it,’ the Sicilian said. ‘It will be an advantage to know under what conditions you’ll engage the enemy.’

‘I don’t need magic to tell me how to plan a battle.’

But as hard as he tried, Vallon couldn’t twist the ring off. He had an image of the Greek’s cunning stare. ‘Before your master died, he passed you something. What was it?’

‘Oh, that. Only a copy of Constantine’s guide for travellers, the Viaticum peregrinantis . I have it here,’ the Sicilian said, patting his saddlebag. ‘In a casket containing healing herbs and medicines.’

‘What else?’

The Sicilian produced a filigreed brass disc similar to one Vallon had lifted from a Moorish captain he’d killed in Castile.

‘It’s an astrolabe,’ the Sicilian explained. ‘An Arab star guide.’

Next he showed Vallon an ivory plaque with a conical pin at its centre and a border of geometric carvings. Onto the pin he placed a small iron model of a fish.

‘Master Cosmas obtained it from a Cathay merchant on the Silk Road. The Chinese call it a south-pointing mysterious fish. Observe.’

Holding the device at arm’s length, he moved it in a semicircle, first one way, then the other. He wheeled his pony and repeated the demonstration.

‘You see, wherever I position myself, the fish remains constant, pointing to the south. But every direction has its opposite. And the opposite of south is north — the way my path lies.’

‘And mine leads south, so let’s agree the double pointer is a guide for each of us.’

The Sicilian clung like a burr. ‘You said you were riding to the wars. There are wars in the north, too. Ride with me and you’ll ride in comfort.’

‘If I wanted comfort, I’d have cut your throat and taken your silver.’

‘I wouldn’t speak so frankly if I wasn’t certain of your character.’

‘I’ve stolen your master’s mule.’

‘A gift. I can’t handle two mounts. Besides, a knight shouldn’t travel on foot.’

‘Who said I was a knight?’

‘Your speech and noble bearing. That splendid sword you carry.’

It was like being pestered by flies. Vallon reined in. ‘I’ll tell you the difference between north and south. First, I prefer to do my fighting in the sun, not slogging in the mud. Second, I can’t return to France. I’m an outlaw. Any man who takes me will receive the same bounty as if he’d delivered a wolf’s head. I don’t mind dying in combat, but I’ve no wish to meet my end hanging in a village square while some pork butcher pulls out my entrails and holds them up for my inspection.’

The Sicilian bit his downy lip.

‘You’re right about one thing,’ said Vallon. ‘You’re too tender for the task. I’ll let you follow me as far as Aosta. Take the ransom note to the Benedictines. For a few of those coins, they’ll post it from abbey to abbey. It will reach Normandy long before you could deliver it.’

The Sicilian looked back at the pass. ‘My master said a journey uncompleted is like a story half-told.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. A journey’s a tiresome passage between one place and another.’

The Sicilian’s eyes swam. ‘No. I must go on.’

Vallon heaved a sigh. ‘Payment for my advice,’ he said, holding up the finger banded by the ring he couldn’t take off. ‘Sell that pretty pony and buy a nag. Exchange your gay costume for pilgrim drab. Shave your head, carry a staff and mumble prayers. Join an escorted company and only sleep in hospices. Don’t blab about ransoms or wave coins and alchemists’ toys about.’ He flicked the mule’s reins. ‘We’re done.’

He thought he’d ridden clear when the Sicilian’s dismal postscript lodged.

‘The Count’s lands aren’t in Normandy. He fought with Duke William in the English campaign. His fief’s in England. Far to the north.’

Vallon laughed.

‘I know I won’t reach it on my own.’

‘Then we part in agreement.’

‘That’s why I was so heartened when Master Cosmas promised you would be my guide and protector.’

Vallon whirled.

‘With his dying breath, he said fortune had appointed you to lead the way.’