Chanson was in good form today, and two hares, a partridge, and a grouse went into Meriel's game bag as she followed the falcon across the grasslands. While the short-winged hawks were birds of the woods, the long-winged falcons were creatures of the open sky and it was easy to ride great distances when hunting with them.
In midafternoon Meriel crested a hill and looked down to see a broad expanse of woodland. Though she had never ridden this far before, she knew it must be the royal forest. Regretfully she said, "We must turn back now, Rosalia."
Immense tracts of English countryside were designated as royal forests, and only the king and those bearing his warrant had the right to hunt or take the timber. The harsh Norman forest law that enforced royal prerogative was heartily disliked by every rank of society. Barons and bishops could be fined heavily for killing the king's royal deer, and commoners could be imprisoned for taking even so humble a creature as a hare.
Meriel took out her wooden whistle and the lure, which was a dummy bird on a cord which was used to attract a falcon back to its owner. She played a series of notes the falcon had been trained to, the swung the lure around her head. Looking up, she saw the falcon sweeping down as prettily as any owner could wish for.
Chanson was almost back to her mistress when the bird's attention was caught by a startled magpie darting upward from a nearby shrub. Unable to resist, the falcon stooped toward the magpie but missed. Frantically twisting and zigzagging in a series of short flights and glides, the magpie raced toward the trees in a black and white flurry of wings and tail.
Peregrine falcons are better at stooping than tail chases, but Chanson did her best to catch the rudely squawking upstart. It would have been amusing, except that the magpie disappeared into the forest, Chanson in hot pursuit.
"Sweet Mary!" Meriel exclaimed. "Why must Chanson go raking off here?"
Falcons were easily lost in the woods, where they couldn't see the lure, and this was the royal forest, the last place Meriel would have chosen to pursue a wayward falcon. Riding across Avonleigh and the wasteland, she felt perfectly safe, but on the far side of the royal forest were the two rival earls, and both of them the sort that humbler folk should avoid.
Telling herself that it was foolish to worry—Jesu, she'd not seen another soul all afternoon!—Meriel rode down the hill and into the cool shadowed woods. She followed Chanson westward, traveling along a dimly visible game trail and led by the elusive sound of bells.
Periodically she stopped and played the wooden whistle, hoping the sound would bring the falcon back to her. It was a maddening business, for the trees distorted the bells and made it difficult to know if Chanson was near or far. Even Meriel's keen eyes never caught a glimpse of the falcon. She wondered with exasperation if the bird was playing some kind of avian game, Chanson had always had a playful disposition.
The further she traveled into the forest, the more uneasy Meriel became. Scant sunlight penetrated through the branches to the damp forest floor, and in the dimness the very trees seemed threatening. It was easy to believe that unknown dangers sheltered here. Masterless men, perhaps, living in the forest as outlaws. In open country Rosalia could outrun any robber, but this was not open country...
Firmly telling herself that her fears were foolish, Meriel continued ever deeper into the forest. It was hard to judge how much time passed, but eventually she was forced to admit that she must turn back. She was alone and far from home, and her anxiety was increasing with every step the mare took.
Better to return tomorrow with Edmund and Ayloffe and hope that Chanson would not have gone too far. Bells could be heard for half a mile, so with several people searching they should be able to locate the falcon and lure her back.
She had just reached her decision when disaster exploded out of the shrubbery. It was a giant squealing boar, the most vicious and dangerous beast in the forest, capable of killing a man or horse with a single swipe of its tusks. As the boar slashed at Rosalia's belly, the terrified mare trumpeted and reared onto her hind legs.
Meriel was an excellent rider, but most of her attention had been on the treetops and she was hurled from her mount before she had time to react to the attack. For a startled instant she tumbled through the air. Then she crashed into the ground with stunning force.
The impact knocked all of Meriel's breath away, leaving her helpless as the bellowing boar wheeled and charged toward her. With horrible precision Meriel saw light slide along the curving yellow tusks and looked into the beast's small, mad eyes. There was no time for terror, and only an instant for the despairing prayer: May God have mercy on my soul!
At the last possible moment, the beast swerved around her, so close that moist earth spattered her face and she smelled its hot, fetid breath. Preferring Rosalia as quarry, the boar pursued the terrified horse down the forest path. The pounding of hooves and screams of equine fear were audible long after both animals were out of sight.
When Meriel had regained her breath, she shakily pushed herself to a sitting position. "Sweet Mary," she murmured, trying for levity, "if Alan finds out how careless I've been with horse and falcon, he will never let me forget it."
There would be bruises aplenty tomorrow, her ears were ringing, and her plain brown gown was muddy, but at least she was alive and unhurt. Then she tried to stand and pain shafted through her right ankle.
Meriel subsided to the ground again, her vision temporarily darkening. When her head cleared, she prodded the aching joint. Deciding that the ankle was only twisted, she tore a strip from the bottom of her shift and bound the ankle so that it would bear her weight.
The bag containing her game and hawking gear had also been thrown, so she slung it over her shoulder and started limping back along the path. The game bag was heavy enough that she could wish the day's hunting had been less successful, but she'd not throw good food away just to lighten her load.
It would be a slow journey back to Avonleigh and she would not be home until long after dark. Everyone would be in a panic when the mare returned with an empty saddle.
Meriel would never be able to escape without escort again and it would serve her right. She should have stayed home and helped with the bread baking.
After a quarter mile or so, she saw that the boar's hoofprints veered away from the path while the horse's continued straight along. There was no sign of a scuffle, so Rosalia must have escaped unscathed, saints be praised. If Meriel were lucky, she would find her mount grazing somewhere ahead on the path, but more likely the horse would run all the way back to her stable.
Perhaps a mile farther, Meriel heard a familiar ek-ek-ek as she entered a sizable clearing. Looking up, she saw Chanson perched in a tree on the far side of the clearing, the picture of innocence. Wrathfully she exclaimed, "You wretched crow-feathered bug-catcher!"
The falcon twisted her head upside down as if hurt by her mistress's words. Wasting no more time on insults, Meriel donned the heavy leather gauntlet, then swung the lure.
Chanson flew across the clearing to seize the lure and in a few moments she was safely hooded on her mistress's wrist. Carrying the falcon would make Meriel even more tired, but the bird's recovery meant that the day was not a complete disaster. Now, if only Rosalia was grazing somewhere ahead...
When she thought back later, Meriel realized that her concentration on the falcon made her miss the sound of approaching horses, but at the time it seemed as if a band of fairyfolk had materialized. One moment she was tightening Chanson's hood. The next she looked up into a chaos of hooves and horses and blazing colors.
She gasped, too startled to be frightened, too slowed by her twisted ankle to dodge out of the way.
"Halt!" a man's voice called out, and the group jangled to a noisy stop when the closest horse was scarcely six feet away.
It took a moment for Meriel to sort out the confusing images and realize that she had been discovered by a hunting party. Judging by the quality of horses and clothing, the hunters came from the highest l
evel of the nobility, and all six of them were staring at her and Chanson with frank curiosity. Meriel tensed, all too aware that she was a woman alone with a group of strangers. While in theory a knight would never offer insult to a lady, in practice the ideals of chivalry were not always upheld.
Surely the band before her must include one of the rival earls of Shropshire. The question was, which one?
Meriel tried to remember what she had heard about the two earls, but could recall little beyond the fact that both were renowned for ruthless military skill. As a member of a household loyal to Stephen, she would probably be allowed to continue undisturbed if this was the king's earl, Guy of Burgoigne. But if this was the empress's man, she might be in trouble.
The horsemen were ranged in a loose semicircle before her, and from the richness of his dress, she guessed that the man in the center was the leader. He was possibly the handsomest man she had ever seen, as tall and golden-haired as if he had just ridden out of a jongleur's romantic ballad.
Effortlessly holding his restless horse in check, he exclaimed, "Jesu, the wench has a falcon-gentle!"
Meriel understood his surprise, for usually only noblemen had peregrine falcons. Thank heaven his expression was amused rather than furiously disapproving.
Her relief lasted only until an older man with grizzled hair said gruffly, "Aye, a falcon, and she's been hunting with it." The man dismounted, handed his reins to one of the servants, and walked over to her. "Well, girl, who are you, and what have you to say for yourself?"
Before Meriel could answer, a different man said quietly, "She might not understand Norman."
Ruefully Meriel glanced down at her plain muddied gown and couldn't blame them for thinking her a peasant girl rather than a Norman gentlewoman. Before she could correct the misapprehension, the grizzled man said in Norman-accented English, "Make your bow to the Earl of Shropshire, girl."
Still wondering which earl was before her, Meriel prepared to curtsy to the golden man, then paused at sight of his amused expression. He looked like a man anticipating diversion, and under these circumstances, it would likely be at her expense.
What if he was not the earl? That would certainly be a rich jest on her. Warily Meriel scanned the entire group, and her gaze came to rest on a smaller man with silver-gilt hair, the one who had suggested that she didn't understand Norman. His mount stood next to that of the golden knight, and Meriel had assumed the man to be of lesser importance, but as she looked squarely at him, she hesitated.
He was not half so magnificent as the golden lord, his clothing was far plainer, his expression as inscrutable as drifting smoke. Yet though he did not draw the eye quickly as his companion did, once Meriel looked at him, it was hard to look away. There was something about him, a quality like thrumming steel, an air of authority...
Praying that she was choosing correctly, Meriel dropped into a deep curtsy before the young man with the silver-gilt hair. The group broke into appreciative laughter and the golden man said, "The wench has an eye for an earl, Adrian."
"Perhaps," the earl said, unimpressed. "More likely she saw me somewhere in the past." Though his voice was dispassionate, he was watching Meriel with disconcerting intensity.
There was a strong resemblance between the two blond men. Brothers, perhaps? As Meriel studied the finely chiseled features, she decided that the silver earl was very nearly as handsome as his golden companion, though they were as different as crystal-cold ice and warm sunshine.
The grizzled man approached her, his hand out and his expression grim. "Give me your game bag."
Knowing that he would take it from her if she didn't cooperate, Meriel slipped the bag from her shoulder and reluctantly handed it to him.
The man looked inside, then pulled out the grouse and one of the hares. "A poacher," he said, scowling at the limp bodies. "What's your name, girl, and where are you from?"
A poacher! Stunned, Meriel stood mute, her mind racing frantically at the unexpected charge. She had caught the game fairly on her brother's land. Yet how could one prove where a particular hare came from? If they chose not to believe her...
She felt a bone-deep chill of fear. Poaching was a serious crime. So serious that in these uneasy times it was not impossible that the empress's earl might use Meriel's transgression as an excuse to attack Avonleigh.
For a greedy lord, almost any pretext would serve to take land from men of the opposing side, and hunting the royal forest was a grave offense.
The grizzled man said impatiently, "Are you dumb, girl? What is your name?"
The earl said, "From the look of her, she's probably Welsh, and may be as ignorant of English as Norman." To Meriel's surprise, he addressed her in slow but accurate Welsh. "What is your name and where do you live?"
Meriel made an instant decision. Alan was not home to defend his property and the manor had only a half-dozen men trained to arms. But the earl would have no excuse to threaten Avonleigh if he did not know that she came from there.
Very well, since they thought her lowborn, she would act the part. Bobbing a meek curtsy, she said in English, "Indeed I am Welsh, my lord, though I speak English, too. My name is Meriel."
Too late it occurred to her that she should have given a false name, but Meriel was not uncommon in Wales and the Marches. Earnestly she continued, "I swear I was not poaching, my lord. The hares and fowl were caught in the wasteland east of the forest, where anyone may hunt the beasts of the warren."
The grizzled man snorted. "A likely story for someone afoot in the western half of the forest." He stepped toward her. "In England, it's against the law for a serf to possess a falcon-gentle. Give me the bird."
"No! I am no English serf, and the falcon is mine." Meriel raised a protective hand to Chanson, horrified to realize that she had trapped herself in her own lie.
As the daughter of a Norman knight she had the right to have a falcon-gentle, though it was an unusual choice for a female of any rank. But for someone of humble birth, possession of any falcon greater than a kestrel was unlawful.
She opened her mouth to confess the truth, then stopped. If she admitted her identity, she might bring danger to Avonleigh. Perhaps her fears were ridiculous and she was starting at shadows, yet dare she take a chance? Knowing that she had only a moment to decide whether to tell the truth or maintain her deception, Meriel raised her gaze to Earl Adrian, who watched her with implacable stillness.
Abruptly she remembered something Alan had said to his seneschal just before he left for Normandy. Meriel had been busy with her spinning, not really listening, but now in her head she heard Alan say: The new Earl of Shropshire is one of the wickedest men in England, capable of anything.
Could that be true of this quiet, contained man? Meriel looked searchingly at the earl, then caught her breath as she realized that the measureless depths of those gray eyes were not quiet, but blazed with dangerous emotion.
Sweet Mary, this man capable of anything, ice on the outside and fire within! His dangerous, unarguable power reminded her of the angel of her long-ago vision, that bright, sword-brandishing being who had barred her path to the nunnery.
But if the earl were an angel, he must rank among Lucifer's fallen, for she saw no compassion or gentleness in him. His masked intensity was more frightening than obvious brutality, and her throat went dry with fear.
The faces of her people at Avonleigh flashed through Meriel's mind, all of them trusting her to do her duty by them. From the chaos of her agonized thoughts emerged a solemn vow: she would say no word, do no deed, that might bring harm to Avonleigh. Nay, not even if the earl had her whipped or cast her into a dungeon.
Her frantic calculations had taken only a few moments, just long enough for the grizzled man to reach for Chanson.
"I took the game lawfully," Meriel said, backing away from him, "and in Wales there are no foolish laws about who can possess a falcon."
"You're in England now, girl," he said impatiently.
"No! S
he is mine!" Meriel repeated as she continued to back away. There would be no escape into the forest. If she turned to run, they would have her in an instant. "I found her myself in a nest high on a cliff, and trained her, too. You have not the right to take her from me!"
The golden knight said reassuringly, "If what you say is true, you'll have her back, but let Sir Walter hold the bird until the matter is settled."
As if a nobleman would return a falcon-gentle to a woman he thought a peasant! Meriel might be at the earl's dubious mercy, but grimly she resolved that he would not have Chanson as well. Swiftly she loosed Chanson's jesses and bells, the fingers of her right hand hidden by her gauntleted left arm.
"You heard what Sir Richard said," the grizzled man said as he extended his gloved hand. "We'll not keep the bird if you can prove you've a right to possess it."
As he spoke, she slipped the hood from Chanson's head, then hurled the falcon skyward with all her strength, not casting into the wind like a hunter, but down the wind, the traditional way of returning a hawk to the wild. "You'll not have her!" Meriel cried. "If she is not mine, she will belong to none but herself!"
For an instant, Chanson seemed startled by the suddenness of her mistress's action. Then, freed of the jesses she had worn for a year, the falcon soared heavenward with all the speed and strength of her kind, her four-foot wingspan casting a broad shadow across the clearing and drawing the mesmerized gazes of the watching men.
"God's blood!" Sir Richard gasped. "The wench has whistled a falcon down the wind!"
Meriel blinked tears from her eyes as she watched Chanson spiral upward, but she had no regrets, save that she could not fly away as well. Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she lowered her gaze to the earl.
Of all the men in the clearing, he alone watched her rather than the diminishing form of the falcon. "You should not have done that," he said, his voice low and intimate, as if they were alone in the clearing.