Hawk Quest (85 page)
‘Not one of his sakers, perhaps. The gyrfalcon can kill almost anything that flies.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘You’ve only seen the falcon in a cage. I watched her hunting and
she’s deadly. On the night we first met, Hero said that the Emir was planning to hold a contest with a neighbour to see who had the best falcon. I’ll back my gyrfalcon against any cast of sakers. Tell him.’
‘She’s not your falcon. If you’re convinced of her qualities, describe them to the Emir and let him test them for himself.’
‘She won’t fly at her best for anyone but me.’
Hero broke in. ‘Do as Wayland says. The Emir’s about to announce a decision, and you can be sure it won’t go in our favour. If Suleyman agrees to the contest, it will give us time to straighten out the lies and confusion.’
Vallon saw the wisdom of Hero’s suggestion. ‘You tell him. Dress it up in such flowery language that the Emir won’t be able to refuse. Get the audience on our side.’
Hero began to speak just as Faruq turned away from Suleyman. He spoke again of the perils of their journey into the realms of ice and fire. He described Wayland’s ordeal with the white bear, the battle with the Vikings, the four-month journey to the south. He extolled the gyrfalcon’s virtues, pointing out that she alone had survived the ordeal and that the Emir must surely take this as a sign of God’s will.
Suleyman chewed one of his moustaches while the audience waited for his decision. He summoned his hawkmaster and the two men spoke at length, breaking off to point or stare at Wayland. Faruq hovered in an attentive stoop until the Emir raised his mace, and then he straightened up.
‘This is not a trifling matter. Is the English falconer certain that the falcon can kill a crane unaided?’
Vallon glanced at Wayland. ‘I’ve never heard him make an empty boast.’
‘On no account must the falcon disgrace his Excellency. She must win the contest.’
‘Even if she doesn’t,’ said Wayland, ‘she won’t shame him.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Vallon said. ‘She has to win.’
‘She will.’
‘You don’t even know the rules of the contest.’
‘There’s time to learn them.’
Vallon put aside his misgivings. He looked at the Emir and gave a stiff nod. ‘The falcon won’t disappoint.’
Faruq glanced at Suleyman. ‘His Excellency agrees.’
The audience buzzed. Faruq raised his voice to outline various practical matters.
Vallon turned to Wayland. ‘How long do you need to prepare the falcon?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘You have twelve days. If that isn’t enough, say so.’
‘She’s a haggard. She’s been killing almost daily for more than a year. All I need to do is get her fit.’
Vallon faced the interpreter. ‘The falcon will be ready.’
‘His Excellency will issue a challenge tomorrow. If the white falcon outflies his neighbour’s sakers, he will release the Norman and send you away with gifts.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘His Excellency is even-handed in his dealings. You have declared before his court that the falcon won’t fail.’ Faruq let the claim linger. ‘If it does, his Excellency will be put to scorn by his rival. You can’t accept the rewards of success while refusing to pay the cost of failure.’
Too late, Vallon saw the pit he’d dug.
Faruq continued. ‘If the falcon doesn’t triumph, his Excellency will give the English youth to Walter as his slave.’ Faruq stayed Vallon with an upraised palm. ‘And you as champion of the falconer must also pay a forfeit.’ Faruq allowed a space so that there could be no misunderstanding. ‘In your case, the Varangian woman.’
Wayland grinned. ‘What was that last bit?’
Vallon knew there was no way back. Before an audience of a hundred, he’d promised Suleyman a victory. It took all his self control to give a calm response. Behind Wayland he could see Hero’s appalled gaze and Walter’s smirk. He smiled and patted Wayland’s arm. ‘Nothing important. From now on, concentrate all your attention on preparing the falcon.’
Wayland began planning his campaign the moment he hurried away from the Emir’s pavilion. First he had to sharpen the haggard’s hunting
urge by cleansing her of the internal fat she’d accumulated during her months of inactivity. Washed meat and stones was the remedy. He calculated that two days after purging her she would be ready to fly free, giving him nine or ten days to harden her muscles. Her flight at the bustards had demonstrated her innate fitness. The cold would act as a tonic. In his mind’s eye she was already raking through the sky, climbing into the clouds, stooping with destructive splendour.
Ibrahim the hawkmaster brought him back to earth. He was waiting beside the gyrfalcon’s enclosure at the far end of the tent. He shook his head and was still shaking it when Wayland reached him.
‘You wait and see,’ Wayland told him. He rummaged in his bag of hawking furniture and brought out a dozen pebbles, each about the size of a horsebean. He showed them to the hawkmaster. ‘Rangle,’ he said. He set a pot of water on the brazier and dropped the pebbles into it. When the water was scalding, he drained the pebbles and spread them on a cloth. He mimed eating them and rubbed his stomach to show that they would stir up the grease and mucus in the falcon’s crop. In the morning she would cast them up covered with glut. A four- or five-day course of stones would make her as keen as if she’d gone without food for a week.
He prepared to unhood the falcon. Ibrahim stopped his hand. He waggled a finger and went off to his store of nostrums and potions. He muttered to himself and returned with a spatula heaped with fine white crystals.
‘What’s that?’
Ibrahim didn’t say. He told Wayland to cast the falcon. With the falcon firmly gripped, Ibrahim cut a piece of pigeon breast about the size of a grape and coated it with the crystals. He opened the falcon’s beak and shoved the meat so far back in her throat that she was forced to swallow it.
He indicated that Wayland should place her on her block and give the purgative time to work. Then he retired yawning into his sleeping quarters. Wayland stayed up, watching the falcon. Only one lamp had been left burning and it was very quiet in the mews. After a while the falcon stretched her neck up and gaped. Wayland looked towards the hawkmaster’s quarters. He tried to relax. His thoughts turned to Syth. He hadn’t seen her since they’d arrived. Hero had told him she was well looked after, but why had the Emir mentioned her name? Vallon
hadn’t explained. There didn’t appear to be any Seljuk women in the camp.
The falcon staggered on her perch. Wayland jumped up. She hunched over, making gagging sounds. He hurried into the sleeping chamber and shook the hawkmaster.
‘Something’s wrong with the falcon.’
Ibrahim grumbled and rolled over, pulling his blanket over his head.
When Wayland returned to the mews, he found the falcon on the ground, snaking her head back and forth. She cocked her tail and excreted a copious and foully discoloured mute. He unhooded her and moaned in panic. She’d been poisoned. He carried her up and down the mews until his arm drooped with exhaustion, then he placed her back on the block and sat watching in a stupor of despair. Her mouth leaked a greasy drool. Sinister clicking sounds came from her innards. His head sagged into his hands. The lamp burned out and his eyes closed.
Faint bars of sunlight criss-crossed the interior. Wayland blinked and saw Ibrahim’s assistants opening the mews’ ventilation flaps. The gyrfalcon’s perch was empty.
He lurched to his feet as Ibrahim emerged from the chamber where newly caught hawks were kept isolated. ‘Where is she? Is she dead?’
Ibrahim crooked a finger and Wayland followed him into the chamber. The falcon sat bareheaded on a block and the moment he entered she bated at him, bright-eyed and ravenous. The hawkmaster held out a small square of cloth. On it lay a slimy leaf of grease and fat that the falcon had disgorged while Wayland slept.
Now she was ready for her first session of exercise, said Ibrahim.
The chamber was furnished with a stool placed about ten feet from the block. Ibrahim handed Wayland a strip of meat and made him stand on the stool. Then he unhooded the falcon. ‘Call her.’ The Seljuk and the Englishman had no more than a dozen words between them, but their common interest was a shared language.
Wayland held out his fist. The falcon winnowed furiously and rowed up in strenuous flight to claim the titbit.
‘Set her down again,’ said Ibrahim. He gave Wayland another mouthful.
‘Call her.’
After three steep flights to the fist, the falcon was panting. Three more and Wayland could see that she was wondering if the reward was worth the effort. When he held out his hand for the eighth time, she refused to come.
‘Enough,’ said Ibrahim. He counted off on his fingers to show how the sessions would proceed. Tomorrow the falcon would make ten jumps, the day after fifteen. When she could jump twenty-five times without distress she would be fit enough to fly free.
Wayland had worked out his own plan, and making the falcon flog up to his fist wasn’t part of it. It was demeaning. He’d always fed the haggard her daily ration in one go. She was a wild hawk after all, used to satisfying her hunger unstintingly. Food was the only thing that bound her to him. Break that bond and she’d come to hate him.
‘Your method will take too long. I’ll fly her free tomorrow.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. Only flying will make her properly fit. I have to get her used to being carried on a horse. She has to grow accustomed to crowds. She needs to learn the terrain.’
The hawkmaster asked him if he’d flown the falcon loose.
‘Yes, and she killed a bustard at her first flight.’
He wouldn’t back down and eventually the hawkmaster agreed that he could fly the falcon free if she proved her obedience by coming immediately to the lure while tied to a creance.
They waited until late afternoon. On leaving the mews, Wayland was taken aback to find a squad of mounted Seljuks waiting to accompany them. To chase after the falcon if she flew off, Ibrahim said.
They rode out of the encampment and headed west until they came to a bald stretch of plain. The escorts sat their horses at a distance while Wayland dismounted and removed the falcon’s leash and swivel. The hawkmaster tied a line to the slits in her jesses and carried her away about thirty yards. Wayland produced a leather lure garnished with pigeon. The hawkmaster unhooded the falcon. She bobbed her head and launched off, flexing her sails half a dozen times before gliding in to the lure. Wayland knelt beside her while she ate, picked her up as she swallowed the last mouthful, and replaced her hood. He untied the line and held her out to Ibrahim.
‘Now we’ll let her take the air.’
The hawkmaster was reluctant. He’d noticed how the falcon had tried to fly off with the lure. Putting her on the wing would be too risky. He fluttered his finger in the direction of the horizon. He pulled a doleful face, pointed towards the camp and drew a finger across his throat.
‘You’re saying the Emir will have me killed if I lose the falcon.’
There was nothing in the hawkmaster’s response to suggest otherwise.
Wayland looked across the bleak plain, the sparse and withered grass. His features set. He held out his fist. ‘Take her, before it grows too dark to fly.’
This time the hawkmaster retreated a hundred yards before unhooding her. Wayland could see that her behaviour was different. After registering his presence, she began scanning around. The sky was empty, the plain lifeless, yet her gaze settled on something only she could see and she took off and beat away.
At a shout from the hawkmaster the Seljuks spurred their horses and galloped in pursuit.
It was all but dark when Wayland caught up with them. A horse warrior cantered out of the gloom and pointed behind him at a ridge. Wayland handed him the reins of his horse and made in on foot, speaking so that his approach wouldn’t alarm the falcon. She’d taken stand on a rock no more than waist high and was staring off to the north. When she turned towards him, it was as if she’d never seen him before.
Foot by foot he moved closer. She seemed lost in a dream, only noticing the food when he placed it against her feet. She looked down, looked away again. Her shoulders bunched up and Wayland grabbed her jesses an instant before she took flight. His hands shook as he fitted her leash. He knew he’d been lucky. Without the Seljuks he wouldn’t have found her before nightfall. Roosting on the rock, she would have made easy prey for wolves or jackals. Even if she’d survived until dawn, she would have woken a lot wilder than when she’d gone to rest.
He returned chastened to face the hawkmaster’s censure. But Ibrahim only told him to reduce the falcon’s rations, pointing out that when a wild bird feels the wind under its sails again, it forgets its hunger. Don’t feed or fly the falcon tomorrow, he ordered.
‘I can’t afford to miss a day,’ Wayland said. ‘The riders unsettled her. Tomorrow I’ll take her out on my own.’
Next morning he went to find Syth. She and Caitlin were accommodated in a harem tent linked to the Emir’s pavilion. A stout woman covered from head to toe came to the entrance and studied him through the slit in her veil. He asked if he could see Syth. She went away and then another woman appeared dressed in a flowing silk gown that clung to her breasts and hips, emphasising her slim and shapely figure. A scarf covered her hair and she held one end of the scarf over the lower half of her face so that all Wayland could see were her eyes outlined with black.
He felt awkward in the presence of this exotic maiden. ‘I wanted to see Syth,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what I look like so soon.’
‘Syth! I didn’t recognise you. What’s that black stuff around your eyes?’
‘It’s called kohl. Don’t you like it? Where have you been?’
‘Preparing the falcon for the contest. That’s why I’m here. I need your help.’
‘Is that the only reason you came?’
‘Of course not. I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed
you
. Why didn’t you come earlier?’