Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

‘There’s an alternative,’ said Hero.

They leaned forward again.

Hero was beginning to enjoy being the centre of attention. ‘Outside warfare, the Emir’s chief delights are hawking and hunting. He prides himself on possessing the finest falcons in Islam. He’ll set aside the previous demands in exchange for two matched casts of gyrfalcons, each one as white as a virgin’s breasts or the first snows of winter.’

Lady Margaret broke the imaginative silence. ‘What’s a gyrfalcon?’

‘The largest, rarest and most noble of hawks. They’re variable in plumage, ranging from charcoal-black to purest white. The palest and therefore the most valuable live at the world’s northernmost end, in Hyperborea, on the islands of Iceland and Greenland. The Portuguese call them letrados because their markings resemble the letters of a manuscript. To the Byzantines, they are known as-’

Vallon kicked him. ‘What my servant means is that four white falcons will secure your son’s liberty.’

Olbec brightened cautiously. ‘Four falcons doesn’t sound too steep. How much do they cost?’

‘The finest specimens fetch as much as two good war-horses.’

Olbec winced. ‘Well, that’s a price worth paying for my lady’s happiness.’

‘The price will be much higher than that,’ Drogo said. He menaced Hero with a smile. ‘Tell us, Greek, how we lay our hands on four gyrfalcons as white as virgins’ breasts that live at the world’s end?’

‘Sir, some fly south to escape the winter and are trapped on a plain in Norway. The Norwegian king reserves them as gifts for his fellow monarchs.’

‘Then I’ll petition William to request a royal gift.’ Olbec rubbed his hands. ‘That’s settled.’

Margaret, staring at Hero, plucked at her husband’s sleeve. ‘I see a “but” in his eyes.’

Olbec saw it too. His smile died. ‘What’s the problem? Are we at war with Norway?’

Vallon stepped in. ‘The falcons aren’t trapped until October. That will be too late. The Emir has a wager with a rival lord to settle who possesses the finest hawk. They’ve agreed a trial this autumn.’

‘And if they don’t reach him in time?’

‘I imagine your son will be sold as a slave. Since the Emir is well disposed towards him, he’ll probably let him keep his balls.’

Margaret swooned. Olbec caught her. She squirmed to face him. ‘We must send our own expedition to these islands.’

‘I don’t even know where they are.’

‘Iceland is a week’s voyage from north Britain,’ Hero said. ‘Greenland lies another week’s passage to the north-west.’

‘They must trade with civilised lands,’ Margaret insisted.

‘Yes, my lady. Each summer a merchant fleet leaves Norway for Iceland, returning before the autumn storms. Gyrfalcons are usually included in the cargo.’

‘There’s the solution,’ Margaret cried.

‘And how will the falcons be carried to Anatolia?’ Drogo demanded.

Margaret pointed at Vallon. ‘The same route this man travelled.’

‘It’s taken him half a year to bring us a piece of parchment. Imagine how much longer it will take to transport falcons overland to Anatolia.’

‘There’s an alternative route,’ Hero said. ‘Your blood-ancestors, the Norsemen, discovered it. It’s called the Road to the Greeks.’

Olbec waved his hand. ‘Go on.’

‘From Norway the falcons would be shipped up the Baltic Sea to Novgorod, a northern trade centre in the Land of the Rus. Then, by a series of portages, they would be transported south to Kiev. At the Russian capital they would be consigned to one of the merchant fleets that voyage down the Dnieper to the Black Sea. Having reached the coast, they would be taken by ship to Constantinople.’ Hero saw that he’d lost his audience. ‘From there,’ he said on a dying note, ‘they would complete the journey into Anatolia.’

Nobody spoke. Hero sensed their imaginations spreading out like ripples beyond the horizons of their understanding. Iceland. Greenland. Rus. The Black Sea. Mysterious city-states with outlandish names scattered to the four corners of the world. Even Drogo had been stunned into silence.

‘The voyage can be completed in three months,’ Hero added. ‘So I’m told.’

Lady Margaret pointed at Vallon. ‘Do you know this route?’

‘Only at second-hand. In Castile I heard an account of its perils from an ancient Viking who’d made the journey fifty years earlier. He set out from Novgorod with more than forty companions, all battle-hardened warriors. They were transporting a cargo of slaves. Within days they found themselves caught up in wars between rival Russian princes. They lost a ship and its crew before they reached the capital. South of Kiev the river plunges into a series of cataracts. The old Viking told me their names. He called one the Gulper, another the Echoer, a third the Insatiable. The torrents claimed the lives of another six men. Once the Vikings reached calm water, they found themselves in territory overrun by savage nomads. Day after day they fought running battles with horse archers. Of the forty Vikings who left Novgorod, eleven reached the Black Sea. And none of their cargo survived.’ Vallon shrugged. ‘Fortune was no friend of that Viking. A few months later Moorish pirates captured him.’

‘That was fifty years ago,’ Margaret said in a small voice. ‘Perhaps conditions have improved.’

‘It’s not only the dangers,’ Olbec groaned. ‘Think of the cost.’

‘We can borrow from the moneylenders in York.’

‘We burned York two winters ago,’ Drogo pointed out.

‘Lincoln, then, or London. Paris, Milan, if necessary. I don’t care!’ Margaret squeezed her temples.

‘My lady, a loan would be secured against our property, movable and immovable,’ said Olbec. ‘We could forfeit our estate.’

Margaret rounded on the Count. ‘And I could lose my son. I implore you, rescue him. If you don’t, I’ll return to Normandy and enter a nunnery.’ She clutched her throat. ‘No, I’ll swallow poison. I couldn’t live knowing that my family had done nothing to save my first-born.’

Olbec knuckled his eyes. ‘Even if we could raise the finance, who would man the expedition? Who would lead it? I’m too broken-down to make such a journey and Drogo’s services are pledged to William for the Scottish campaign.’

Margaret had no answer to that.

Vallon caught Hero’s eye. ‘It’s clear that you won’t settle this matter tonight,’ he told Olbec. ‘Our part’s done. By your leave, we’ll take our rest.’

Drogo blocked him. ‘I’m not done with you.’

‘Let them retire,’ Olbec ordered.

‘He’s a mercenary. He didn’t journey here out of love for Walter.’

‘You’re right,’ Vallon said. ‘Your brother swore that my labours would be handsomely rewarded. He boasted of his rich inheritance.’ Vallon’s gaze wandered over the stark wooden walls. ‘If I’d known the truth, I’d have left him to rot.’

Olbec struggled to his feet. ‘You deserve a reward, but you’ve heard how things stand. Listen, I know a good fighting man when I see one. Ride with us on the Scottish campaign. Prizes will be won in the north, and I swear that a generous share of the spoils will go to you.’

Vallon inclined his head. ‘You flatter me, but this climate makes my sword arm stiff and slow. I’ll follow the wind as soon as it turns south.’

Olbec subsided in grumpy resignation. ‘Then all I can give you is my thanks and a safe conduct.’

Vallon bowed.

Drogo barged against him. ‘I’ll escort you myself.’

*

‘Don’t blame you for turning down the old man,’ said the man-at-arms who guided them out. ‘You think Northumbria is bad, but Scotland — what a shithole. The natives eat the same food as their horses and live in hovels I wouldn’t put a pig-’