Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

‘Appointed? He was sick in his wits!’ Vallon wrenched off the cape. ‘I won’t wear a dead man’s mantle.’ He made another futile attempt to remove the ring. ‘Don’t say another word. Don’t follow me another step. If you do … ’ He slapped the mule’s neck, squeezed its flanks.

It wouldn’t budge. It rolled its eyes and laid its ears back.

Vallon booted its ribs.

The beast reared. In the moment it took him to regain control, Vallon heard a muted fracture. From the nearest summit to the west a cornice fell like a severed wing and exploded into fragments that skipped and bounded into the valley. The slope began to crawl, accelerating, until the whole snowfield was sliding. The mass surged across the valley floor and smashed against the opposite side in a cloud of frozen surf.

When Vallon’s ears stopped ringing, the first thing he heard was a noise like pebbles clicking together. A black-and-red bird flirted on a rock, cocking its tail and fluttering its wings. Vallon knew that if the Sicilian hadn’t delayed him, he would have been right in the path of the avalanche.

Twice in the last twenty-four hours, fate had steered him away from what he deserved. There had to be a reason. His shoulders slumped.

‘Show me that pagan contraption again.’

He played with the compass, but couldn’t outwit its mechanism. Magic or trickery, it didn’t matter. Whatever direction he took, in the end he would find what he was looking for, or it would find him.

‘If I employ you as my servant, you’ll learn to curb your tongue.’

The Sicilian hung the cloak about Vallon. ‘Gladly. But with your permission, when the road is lonely and the night long, I’ll entertain you with tales from the ancients. Or, since you’re a military man, perhaps we could discuss strategy. Recently, I’ve been reading Polybius’s account of Hannibal’s campaigns.’

Vallon gave him a look.

‘And if you should fall ill, I’ll restore you to health by the grace of God. In fact, I’ve already diagnosed your condition.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘The melancholy cast of your features, your restless sleep — those are the symptoms of lovesickness. Tell me I’m right. Tell me that you lost your lady to another and mean to win her back by feats of arms.’

Vallon bared his teeth. ‘Can you make a hanged and quartered man skip?’

The Sicilian’s expression turned solemn. ‘Only God can perform miracles.’

‘Then start praying we aren’t caught in France.’

Vallon steered the mule around, not sure which of them was the dumber weathercock. The gem on his finger mirrored the flawless sky. The prospect of retracing his steps freighted his feelings with lead.

‘You’d better tell me your name.’

If the Sicilian had worn a tail, it would have been wagging. ‘My lord, I’m called Hero.’

Hero found himself at a standstill in the middle of black nowhere. They were still in the trees and the faint rustling he could hear was snow sifting through bare branches. A dog driven mad by loneliness barked a long way off. Movement close by made his eyes stiffen in their sockets.

‘Is that you, sir?’

‘Who else?’

‘Why have we stopped?’

‘I can smell smoke. We must be near a settlement.’

Hero populated the night with Norman patrols, Danish pirates, English cannibals … ‘Let’s rest here until daylight.’

‘By morning you’ll be as stiff as a fish.’

Tears pricked Hero’s eyes. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘So stay awake. And stop your teeth clattering.’

Jaws clamped together, Hero continued downhill in blind zigzags. Eventually he sensed from a loosening of the night that the trees were thinning. He smelled turned earth and the sour reek of a burned-out hamlet. The going became easier. After the lurching descent, it was like floating on darkness. The hiss of fast-flowing water grew louder until it smothered all other sounds.

‘The castle’s upstream,’ Vallon murmured, steering Hero that way. After a while, they stopped again.

‘We’re at the bridge.’

They felt their way across the wooden boards. The castle must be directly above them, blotted out by darkness and snow.

‘Stay here,’ said Vallon, and disappeared.

The river wouldn’t settle on an even note. Each splash and gurgle strung Hero’s nerves tighter. The snow had fattened into flakes. A thread of ice-water trickled down his spine. He sagged over the mule’s neck and groaned. This was punishment for pride, he decided, recalling how he’d ridden out from Salerno convinced that he was destined to witness a thousand wonders to impress his fellow scholars when he returned home.

Home. Longing clogged his throat. He saw the white house above the busy harbour. He hovered above it like a ghost, looking in at his careworn mother and his five sisters. The Five Furies he used to call them, but what he would give to be back in their company. There they were, chattering like starlings and applying make-up until Theodora, the youngest and least cruel, said, peering into the polished brass mirror, ‘I wonder where our dear Hero is.’

He gulped on his heartsickness.

‘Not so loud,’ Vallon hissed at his side. ‘We’re within bowshot of the walls and there are watchmen above the gate.’

‘What will we do?’

‘Tell me what Sir Walter looks like. Come on.’

Hero gathered his wits. ‘Master Cosmas said that he was handsome and had an engaging wit.’

‘You mentioned a younger brother.’

‘Richard, a weakling.’

Vallon brooded for a while. ‘Well, we accomplish nothing by standing here.’ He stepped forward a pace and cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Peace! Two travellers carrying urgent news for Count Olbec.’

Shouts of alarm overhead and the hiss of an arrow flying wild. A horn blared and a bell began to clang. When it stopped, Hero heard the distant counterpoint of cushioned hoofbeats.

He wrenched the mule around. ‘Mount up. We still have time to reach the trees.’

Vallon dragged him to earth. ‘They’ll follow our trail. Stand close and hide your fear. Normans despise weakness.’

More shouts. The gate grated open and cavalry bearing torches crashed out.

Hero crossed himself. Vallon gripped his arm.

‘Leave the talking to me. One wrong answer and we could end up twisting in the wind like that poor soul on the hill.’

I won’t flinch, Hero vowed. I’ll face death as bravely as noble Archimedes.

The squadron descended on them like a machine welded by flames, the torches roaring in the wind of their passing. The horses’ armoured heads swung like hammers; the concussion of hooves shivered Hero’s chest. They were going to ride over him. Pound him into a smear of gristle.

He whimpered and covered his eyes.

The charge stopped so close that he could feel the horses’ snorting breath on his face. When the anticipated blow didn’t fall, he peered between his fingers to find himself walled in by a picket of swords with flames dancing along their blades.

A face thrust forward, hot eyes glinting each side of beaked iron.

‘Take his sword.’

One of the soldiers vaulted from his horse and advanced on Vallon. Hero held his breath. He knew that the sword was sacred. Each night, no matter how hard the day’s journey had been, Vallon carefully polished it with oil and Tripoli powder. Surely he wouldn’t surrender it without resistance.

Vallon didn’t even glance round as the soldier drew the weapon and handed it over. The leader held the watered steel blade to the light. ‘Where did you obtain a sword of this quality?’

‘From a Moor outside the walls of Zaragoza.’

‘Stole it, I warrant.’

‘After a fashion. I had to kill him before he consented to part with it.’