R. L. LaFevers (2 page)

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horses, but the old shed that sheltered an old nag, two donkeys, and a sow. Castoffs, just like himself.

The fields disappeared and Wat finally reached the orchards, where he allowed himself to let down his guard. No one from the fields or the castle could see him here among the fruit trees.

He ignored his throbbing foot as he wandered among the trees. The soft, warm scent of the ripening fruit was overpowering, and Wat's stomach rumbled in rebellion. All the morning's excitement and his inability to scavenge any breakfast at the manor house had made him painfully hungry. He decided he'd rather the with a full belly than live with this hunger a moment longer. In spite of knowing he was alone, he found himself checking over his shoulder before he reached out and picked two ripe plums from the nearest tree. He bit into the first one and sighed with pleasure as the sweet, sticky juice ran down his chin. He kept walking as he ate, stopping only long enough to toss the two pits off to the side before licking his fingers clean.

As Wat passed through the orchards, the larger, shaggier trees of the forest came into view, calling to him. He could be alone there. Except for an occasional hunting party, few of the villagers ever ventured into the woods. Not since the

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Norman lord had declared it as his alone. Every freeman had grown up hunting in that forest, able to fill his belly and those of his family on its bounty. But no longer. Now only his lordship could hunt in the forest, and all the villagers were forbidden. So no matter how hungry they were, they stayed away. Except for the poachers, and Wat, like the rest of the village, did his best to pretend he knew nothing about them.

As Wat stepped under the huge trees, their cool shade settled over him. The very things that kept the other villagers away from the forest were what he liked best about it. The silence, the shadows, the small hunted creatures that lived there. As he wound his way deeper and deeper into the forest, Wat found comfort in the shadows. His shoulders relaxed, and the memory of his close call with Ralph fell away from him like a forgotten cloak. He felt safe and strangely at home amid the silence of the trees. He could think of nothing that lurked in the woods that was as frightening as a foul-tempered Ralph or a bored group of village lads.

Wat slowed his step and moved cautiously as he approached a large clearing where the sun's rays filtered down through a heavy canopy of branches. He had discovered this

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clearing only a fortnight ago, and just yesterday, while he'd been daydreaming in the grove, he'd spotted two falcons flying high overhead. Their beauty had nearly stolen his breath clean away. He was hoping that if he was cautious and quiet, he might see them again today.

He crept to the base of a huge, ancient oak tree, then, making no sudden moves, lay back and stretched out his tired legs.

His mind wandered away from this morning's near miss, skittering neatly past the temptation of self-pity. His thoughts settled on the billowing white clouds that rode on the breeze high above him. Before long, a small dark shape appeared among all that blue and white. Wat squinted his good eye, trying to see better against the bright light of the sun.

It was one of the falcons! As it swooped and dove, Wat could hardly believe his good fortune. It almost made up for his bleak morning.

Such speed, such skill! His heart soared as he imagined what he could do with those gifts! He would swoop down from high up in the sky and pluck tasty meals from those who had already eaten plenty. He could spy all the village bullies from miles away and be gone before they even knew where he was. If he could fly, it wouldn't matter that one of

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his feet was useless. If he could see forever with one eye, what need would he have for two? A small, satisfied smile crossed his face and he fell asleep, dreaming of flight.

***

When Wat awoke, the shadows had grown, stretch ing their long skinny limbs across the forest floor. It was cool now; surely that's why he shivered.

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, stretching 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