Robert Lyndon: Hawk Quest

The beaked face craned forward again.

‘There’s a curfew. You know the penalty for breaking it.’

‘My business with Count Olbec is too important to brook delay. I’d be obliged if you’d take me to your lord.’

The Norman braced one foot against Vallon’s shoulder. ‘My father’s drunk. I’m Drogo, his son. You can state your business to me.’

Hero’s stomach churned. Drogo? Master Cosmas hadn’t mentioned any Drogo.

Vallon patted his chest. ‘I’ve been burdened with it since last summer. It will keep for one more night.’

Drogo straightened his leg, shoving Vallon back. ‘You’ll tell me now or I’ll string the pair of you up by the balls.’

Hero’s testicles leaped. It wasn’t an empty threat. In York, three days ago, he’d seen a howling man separated from the parts that should have given him most pleasure.

‘Your brother’s alive!’ he squeaked.

Drogo waved down the murmur of astonishment. ‘The rogue’s lying and I’ll flay anyone who repeats the falsehood.’ His tongue flickered. ‘There may be more of them. Fulk, Drax, Roussel — stay with me. The rest of you, cross the river and spread out. They’re probably hiding in the woods. Don’t return until you’ve found them.’

He waited until the riders had been absorbed by the snow, then spurred in a circle around the travellers.

‘My brother’s dead. He died fighting under the Emperor’s banner at Manzikert.’

Hero filched a look at Vallon.

‘A false report,’ said the Frank. ‘I visited Sir Walter two weeks after the battle. He’s in good health. He took a blow to the head in the fighting, but suffered no lasting injury.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Do you think I’d waste half a year carrying a lie to this dismal frontier?’

Drogo angled his sword under Vallon’s chin. ‘Give me proof.’

‘Before the proper audience.’

Drogo drew back his sword. ‘I’ll send you to the rightful audience.’

‘Inside the saddlepack,’ Hero blurted. ‘Ransom terms.’

The soldiers ransacked their goods. One of them found the seal ring and passed it to Drogo.

‘Where did you steal this?’

‘Your brother gave it to me.’

‘Liar. You cut it from his dead hand.’

A soldier held up the documents. Drogo crammed them under his surcoat. He hooked the astrolabe on the tip of his sword. ‘Devil’s baubles,’ he said, flicking it away.

A soldier tried to wrench the ring off Vallon’s hand. When it wouldn’t budge, he drew his knife.

‘Wait,’ Drogo said, and hunched forward. ‘What do they call you? What’s your profession?’

‘Vallon, a Frank who fought with Norman mercenaries in Anatolia. And this is my servant, Hero, a Greek from Sicily.’

‘How did you save your skin, Frank?’

‘I was on a reconnaissance to the north when the Seljuks attacked. No one knew they were so close. After the disaster, word reached us that they wanted men to negotiate ransoms for the prisoners. I went out of Christian duty.’

Drogo snorted. ‘Describe my brother.’

‘Fair, well made. His quick wit has made him a favourite at the Emir’s court.’

Drogo breathed in through his nose. Far away and lonely came the faint note of a bugle. Drogo twisted in his saddle as if alerted by another sound, but Hero knew there was no other sound — only the creaking of leather and the sputtering of torches and the thumping of his heart. Snow was collecting between the links of Drogo’s mail and Hero knew what he was thinking. They were hidden from mortal sight. This circle in the night was the place where they would die.

‘Take them across the river and kill them. I’ll stay here with the horses. When the others return, tell them you cut down the foreigners as they tried to escape.’

Two of the soldiers prodded Vallon forward at swordpoint. The one called Drax grasped Hero by his neck and began hustling him over the bridge.

‘And fetch me that ring,’ Drogo bellowed.

Why hadn’t Vallon heeded his warning? Hero agonised as he stumbled after his master. It had been an act of suicide to go barging into the castle at night.

He was halfway across the bridge when a wordless shout ahead of him made Drax stop and tighten his grip. All Hero could see were the torches carried by Vallon’s escort swinging in the snow-filled night. One of them fell and fizzled out. Hero heard a succession of cryptic thumps and exclamations, the clash of metal, a cry of pain and then a faint splash. A moment later the other torch died, leaving everything on the far bank a mystery.

Drax shook Hero. ‘Move and you’re dead.’ He released his hold and raised his sword and torch, making futile fanning movements to clear his vision. ‘Fulk? Roussel?’

Someone moaned.

‘Fulk, is that you? For Christ’s sake, answer.’

‘ I think my wrist’s broken. ’

‘Where’s Roussel?’

‘ The Frank has my sword across his throat. ’

‘Oh, shit!’

‘What’s going on?’ Drogo shouted.

Drax turned his head. Hero heard him swallow. ‘The Frank must have broken free and seized Fulk’s sword.’

Vallon’s voice carried from the void. ‘ Drogo, I have your men at my mercy. Release my servant .’

‘Do nothing without my order,’ Drogo roared. The bridge began to tremble, a seismic forewarning of his rage. Hero shrank aside as he swept past. When he reached the other side, he stood in his stirrups and held his torch high. By its puny light Hero saw Vallon armed with a sword, holding Roussel in a necklock, Fulk doubled over, nursing one hand under his shoulder.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he groaned. ‘Roussel slipped and barged into me. The Frank took advantage of the-’

‘Silence! I’ll deal with you poltroon idiots later.’ Drogo spurred his horse towards Vallon. ‘As for you …’

Vallon retreated, using Roussel as a shield. ‘We have no quarrel.’

‘No quarrel?’ The gulf between this statement and the enormity of Drogo’s wrath rendered him speechless. When Drogo found his voice, it came from a different register, guttural, as if thickened by blood. ‘I’ll make you repeat those words when I’m standing with my foot on your neck.’

Vallon shoved his hostage away and took guard. Encumbered by torch, sword and shield, Drogo had to guide his horse with his knees. He circled one way, then the other, the snow falling so thickly that Hero could only make out fitful shapes.

‘You’d better dismount,’ Vallon said. ‘You can’t fight with your hands full.’

Drogo acknowledged his handicap. ‘Drax, get up here with your light.’

Drax cursed and dragged Hero forward. Drogo backed up to him and leaned to hand him his torch.

‘Sir, I can guard the prisoner or hold the torches, but I can’t do both.’

Drogo kicked out. ‘God’s veins, am I entirely surrounded by cretins? Cut his throat.’

Drax eyed Hero, shaking his head, then brought his sword up.

‘Stay your hand,’ Vallon said. ‘Here come more lights.’

Hero risked a backward look. A glow approaching through the snow resolved itself into several bobbing torches.

‘Let them come,’ Drogo snarled. ‘There’s no need for concealment now. Assault on a Norman is a capital crime. The more witnesses the better.’

‘Including your mother?’ Vallon said.

‘My mother? What about my mother?’

Vallon relaxed his stance. ‘I think she’s about to join us.’

Five riders filed past Hero. Four were soldiers, the last a small shape muffled from head to toe. Drogo swore under his breath.

‘What’s the cause of the alarm?’ the woman demanded. ‘Who is that man? What’s happening here?’