The falconmaster

  He leaped to his feet and began making his way over small rocks and bracken toward the castle. Since there was no one to see, he let himself run, although it was really more of a shuffling trot, and an awkward, uneven one at that.

  Not until he placed one foot on the rough wooden planks of the drawbridge did he pause and try to catch his breath. Finally, he straightened and began to cross the bridge, ignoring the trickles of sweat that itched along his spine and under his arms.

  It didn't take him long to wind his way through the village to the stables. He kept to the shadows mostly and did his best to ignore the gentle light spilling out of shuttered windows where families huddled together over a stewpot or bit of porridge.

  He paused at the doorway to the stable, allowing himself one last sweet-smelling breath of cool night air before he

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  entered. Pig slept fitfully in the straw, snorting and grumbling in his piggish dreams, and the two donkeys wheezed noisily. Pillock, the old nag, whinnied. Wat went over and ran his hand down her bony back, and she turned to nuzzle his hand, easy once she knew it was only him.

  Tired after the long gallop back to the fortress, Wat went over to his corner and allowed himself to sink into his own pile of hay. Glad to have finally reached safety, he let out a deep breath and let the day's trials seep from his body.

  No sooner had he closed his eyes than he heard the crunch of a step on the gravel outside the stable doorway. His eyes flew open and his heart began pounding like a blacksmith's hammer. Was it Ralph? Had he been waiting all afternoon for him to return?

  There was another step, a heavier one this time, followed by a low rumbled whisper: "Brenna."

  The first footsteps stilled, and Wat heard his mother whisper back, "Olin? Is that you? What are you doing here?" Relief at his mother's voice poured through his body until he was nearly dizzy with it.

  "Checking on you."

  "I am fine. You do not need to be here."

  "I do need to be here." Wat heard more footsteps, and the

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  voice drew closer. "Someone needs to watch after you to make sure you don't come to trouble looking after that boy of yours."

  "I've told you before, Olin. He's my son, and nothing will change that. He's mine to look after, to see to. And see to him I will."

  "I know, I know," the blacksmith growled. There was a long pause, and Wat wondered if Olin had left. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft with longing. "Brenna," he began, "if you'd only let me--"

  "Shh," his mother hissed. "We've spoken of this before, and the answer is still no. I can take care of myself and my son. Now go. Please."

  The silence stretched out long and tight until Wat finally heard the sound of heavy footsteps moving away from the stables. What had Olin been about to say? If she'd only let him what? As her footsteps reached the stable door, he closed his eyes and settled deeper into the straw, trying to pretend he hadn't overheard.

  His mother stepped into the stable and called out, "Wat? Wat, are you awake?"

  He stretched and rustled in the straw a bit, to make it seem as if he'd just woken. "Ma? Is that you?"

  "Yes," she said, hurrying over and kneeling in the straw

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  next to him. "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice anxious.

  "I'm fine. I spent the day in the forest and got back late, that is all."

  "The forest? Is that safe? They might think you're..." Her voice drifted off.

  "I just sit among the trees and stare up at the sky. So far the Normans haven't made a law against that, have they?"

  His mother shook her head in despair. "No, but you need to be more careful than most."

  Wat changed the subject. "Why is Olin so interested in how you fared up in the kitchens?" he asked.

  She turned from him in the dark shadows, and he could feel the heat of her blush as it ran up her cheeks. "He is trying to be a friend, Wat. That is all."

  Deep in his heart, Wat knew she was lying. Blushes weren't for friends.

  "Here." His mother changed the subject. "I've brought you some food."

  A delicious smell filled the small stable as she pulled something out of the pocket of her tunic--two meat pies.

  "Mother! Won't you get in trouble? Won't Cook find out? Or Lord Sherborne?" he asked as he eagerly reached for the pies.

  In the dim light Wat could see his mother make a small

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  face. "His lordship didn't care for them, and now Cook won't touch them and vows never to make them again."

  Wat bit into one of the pies, the buttery pastry and savory meat filling as good as anything he'd ever tasted.

  "Wat," his mother began, then hesitated.

  "What?" he asked around a mouthful of meat pie.

  "You'd best stay away from the kitchens for a few days."

  Wat looked at his mother and could tell she was holding something back. "Why?"

  She squirmed slightly on the scratchy hay. "Ralph is claiming Sherborne refused the pasties because you cursed them."

  Wat stopped chewing as the food in his mouth turned to dust. "Cursed them?"

  His mother looked down at her hands. "Yes," she whispered.

  Wat nearly laughed. If he had the power to curse things, did they really think he'd waste it on a pie? "Mother, you know I didn't curse them."

  "I know. But they never believe me where you are concerned."

  Wat stared at the half-eaten pie in his hands and wanted to throw it into the stable wall, where he could watch it smash into a thousand pieces.

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  But he didn't have that luxury. He never knew where the next food was coming from and didn't dare waste any that came his way. Besides, his mother had risked much to bring it to him. He forced himself to take another bite, even though it now tasted like old ashes from the hearth.

  "I am so sorry, Wat," his mother began, and he could hear the tears in her voice.

  "Don't worry. I will go back into the forest tomorrow and stay there until dark again. I like it there better, anyway." He finished the first pie and carefully put the second one in the pocket of his tunic. He would wait and eat it later, tomorrow perhaps, when hunger once again reminded him he could not afford pride.

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  ***

  Chapter 3

  Wat reached his favorite clearing by late morning. He'd rushed through his chores, anxious to be well on the way to the forest while everyone else was still busy getting ready for the day.

  Once again, Wat entered the clearing slowly, wary of startling the falcons if they should be here again. They were nowhere to be seen, so he made his way over to his watching spot and stretched out along the forest floor, using a root to keep his head out of the slightly damp earth. He turned his gaze up to the blue sky and waited.

  He had slept poorly last night, worried about curses and bullies and the coming long winter. When he had finally fallen asleep, he slept fitfully, dreaming of meat hooks and a blacksmith who hammered meat pies until they disappeared.

  He wiggled a bit, settling himself more comfortably into the ground. A large white cloud floated overhead, and he was struck by how closely it resembled Pig. As the cloud

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  moved on, a dark shape appeared, its graceful movements unmistakable. The falcon had returned. Just as Wat had hoped.

  As it drew closer, Wat saw that it carried something in its talons. Letting out a high-pitched kik, kik, kik, the bird approached the clearing. An answering cry sounded high above Wat. He tilted his head back and saw that it came from the very tree he was leaning against. He held his breath, afraid of so much as twitching a muscle and disturbing the birds. He shifted his gaze up to the branches above him, where he could make out another falcon. This one was larger, probably a female, slate gray on top and striped underneath. A peregrine!

  The falcon flew from the branch she'd been waiting on and went to join her mate in the air. As she approached him, she twisted around onto her back, st
retching out her talons. The male bird flew straight toward her, coming so fast and true that Wat was afraid they would collide. At the last possible second, the male pulled back slightly and extended his talons. In a spectacular midair pass, the male handed off the prey it had been carrying and kept on flying. The female, the prey now in her talons, glided to a tree across the clearing and came to rest on a branch. She paused, casting her guarded gaze across the clearing. Finally satisfied that there

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  was no immediate threat, she began to rip and tear the feathers from the dead bird. Now and again her alert eyes turned to search the horizon. When she had managed to pluck the carcass clean, she fluttered back to the oak tree with the prey dangling from her talons, then disappeared into a hollow Wat hadn't noticed before.

  Wat closed his eyes, awed by the beauty and grace he had just witnessed. He tried to imagine himself, soaring high in the air, what it might feel like to have wind whooshing through a pair of wings. If he had the speed and strength of a falcon, he would--

  Wat's thoughts were cut off by the sound of horses pawing the ground and jingling harnesses. Cheerful voices nearby erupted into laughter. Surprise and disappointment filled him. He had thought himself safe from prying Normans this deep into the forest. He scooted around to the back of the tree and rolled over onto his stomach so he could peer around the tree without being seen.

  A group of maybe eight or nine mounted hunters stood in the clearing. Wat recognized Lord Sherborne and the shorter, bulky figure of Hugh, the master of the hunt. He shivered. Hugh was Sherborne's iron fist in the village; the one who saw to it that the new Norman laws were carried

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  out, and administered the punishment when they weren't.

  It was he and his men who patrolled the forests to keep poachers away.

  It was he who set fire to the fields two years ago, burning the villagers' crops and turning houses into charred ash; who had flushed the refugees from the safety of the forest, straight into starvation and the arms of death.

  It was he who had caught John Thatcher and brought him forth to be hanged.

  Wat had hoped he'd used up all his bad luck yesterday morning, but it wasn't looking that way. Slowly, trying to keep from drawing any attention to his movements, he pulled back into his hiding place.

  Lord Sherborne's slightly nasal voice broke through the quiet. "Where did you say you spotted them?"

  "They flew in this way, my lord." Hugh dismounted and walked away from the group of men.

  Wat watched through the tall grasses as Hugh studied the trees. He knew by the look of satisfaction that crossed the other man's face that he had spotted the small pigeon feathers littering the ground.

  "Their nest must be nearby," he muttered. In a wide arc, he circled the clearing, examining the ground at the base of

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  each tree, looking for more telltale droppings and feathers. He passed out of sight and Wat held his breath, hoping he wouldn't discover the bird's hollow.

  "Aha!" he heard Hugh exclaim with a note of triumph in his voice.

  Wat felt a rough hand on the back of his tunic as he was jerked to his feet.

  "What are you doing here, boy?" Hugh asked, his rough voice demanding an answer.

  "Nothing." Wat looked down at his dangling feet to keep from seeing the harsh accusations in the other man's eyes. "I've done nothing--sir. I was just resting beneath the tree. That's all."

  Hugh studied Wat as if he were something disgusting he had managed to step in. "It wasn't you who ate them two plums whose pits we found a way back, was it?"

  Wat looked up at Hugh in surprise.

  The hunter tightened his grip, and Wat could feel his tunic bunched up around his neck as tight as a hangman's noose.

  "Did you think I wouldn't see? It's what I live for. Tracking vermin like you." Hugh shook him for good measure. "That was fruit from his lordship's orchard, wasn't it? Do I need to remind you that's thieving, boy?"

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  Wat was saved from answering when Lord Sherborne called out, "What have you caught there, Hugh?"

  "Nothing," Hugh called back over his shoulder. "Just a beggar brat that belongs to one of the kitchen maids."

  He turned back to Wat. "Come with me and be still, or I'll make you sorry."

  Wat had no doubt this was true. He had seen with his own eyes the cruelty and harshness these Normans were capable of. He limped along behind Hugh as they returned to the hunting party. Lord Sherborne ignored him completely, as if he didn't exist. Two of the knights acted as if they would catch Wat's deformities if he got too close, and made the sign of the cross as he passed them.

  Placing Wat between himself and one of the other huntsmen, Hugh took up position in front of the horses. At his signal, one of the bowmen knelt and aimed his bow. Bitter disappointment seized Wat as he realized they had found the nest. The bowman loosed the arrow and it soared, straight and true, up into the oak tree.

  The assault on the nest brought the female peregrine screeching from the hollow in attack. The moment she cleared the tree, Lord Sherborne released a huge gyrfalcon that had been sitting on his arm. The enormous bird of prey flapped its great wings and launched itself into the air.

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  The peregrine was one of the fastest of the falcons and soared high into the air, trying to dodge the larger hawk. When she was nothing but a tiny black dot in the blue sky, she turned, dropping like a stone back toward the earth at breathtaking speed. Looping and swerving, she tried to dodge the gyrfalcon. It was useless. No bird could escape the gyrfalcon's powerful wings. Faster than the eye could see, the larger falcon struck the peregrine from the air with a muffled thud. It circled quickly around and caught her in its talons before returning to Sherborne's arm.

  "There's my beauty," Lord Sherborne murmured to the falcon as he accepted the dead bird with his left hand. "What a good job you've done." He tossed the lifeless peregrine toward the base of the oak.

  Wat was stunned. These men would even snatch the birds from the sky so they could control them. He'd known they were cruel, but these were falcons! Even the Normans had enough sense to prize these birds for their skill and beauty. In fact, they'd passed laws declaring that only nobility was allowed to own them. Why then had they killed such a magnificent bird?

  "That's one," Wat heard Hugh mutter under his breath.

  Wat heard a distant screech and looked up to see the male

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  falcon come to his mate's defense. "No!" Wat yelled. The huntsmen grabbed him by the arm and boxed his ears.

  The great gyrfalcon rose once again and went after the small peregrine male. Even with only one good eye, Wat could see he was not the least bit tired from his first kill.

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  Hugh tossed the second dead bird against the base of the oak tree.

  He turned to Wat, who stood shocked and numb. Hugh reached out and snatched him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the other huntsmen. "You're small and light." He bent close to Wat and pointed up at the oak tree. "See that hollow up there in the oak? That'll be their nest. I want those nestlings." He shoved Wat toward the tree. "You can get to them easier than most. Or maybe we just care less if you fall." Hugh chuckled at his own cleverness.

  Wat stumbled forward, pausing over the bodies of the two falcons. He could scarcely believe them dead, for even now they were proud, noble.

  "Why'd you have to kill them?" he whispered, almost to himself.

  He flinched as a huge hand came down on the back of his head with a crack. "Don't question your betters! Those

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  birds were his lordship's to kill. By the grace of King William, Lord Sherborne owns everything--the birds in the sky, the berries in the brambles, every blade of grass you stand on, even the air you breathe. You live, like those falcons, because he suffers you to live. Although that could change at any time. Like it did with them." Hugh jerked his head toward the falcon bodies.

  "Besides," he con
tinued, "the chances of us taming them down were nigh impossible. They'd have attacked us when we went after their young, and those talons of theirs can do serious damage to a man. Now get up there and get me those nestlings."

  Staring up at the tree's branches, Wat hesitated. Nothing was safe from these harsh new masters. Nothing could stop them. Certainly not someone as small and weak as himself. But he wanted no part of this. More than anything, he wanted to be strong enough to resist this foul man and refuse to help.

  Almost as if sensing his thoughts, Hugh leaned over and put his face close. Wat could see the man's rotting teeth and smell his fetid breath. "If you don't do what I tell you, I'll do the same thing to you that we do to young falcons. You know what that is, don't you?"

  Afraid to speak, Wat merely shook his head.

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  His voice soft and gentle, as if he were describing something wondrous to behold, he said, "We sew their eyes shut."

  Wat tried to pull away from this horror, but Hugh held tight and kept talking in his soft gentle voice. "We've got to break their spirit, see? We have to teach them that they live by our grace. Just like we did with you villagers.

  "So we sew their eyes shut. Blind them to the world around them. They're too young to fly, and without flight or sight, they're helpless. All ours for the taking. And the breaking." Hugh laughed at his own little rhyme.

  Wat felt any fight he might have had in him flee at this hideous threat. He thought of the needle being put to his flesh, of the darkness that would follow as his eye was permanently sealed. He shuddered. Without sight in either eye ...his mind skittered away from that thought. He would do anything to save himself from that fate. And Hugh knew it.

  Wat grasped the coarse burlap bag that Hugh held out to him, then took a reluctant step toward the tree. Hugh gave Wat a rough boost up to the first branch and stepped back.