Sworn Brother (10 page)

‘A charming story,’ said Aelfgifu as
I
finished. ‘But is it true?’

‘Look over there,’
I
answered, rolling onto my side, and pointing to where Habrok sat quietly on her perch. ‘Ever since Odinn lost his tail feathers to Suttung’s sword, all hawks and falcons have been born with short tail feathers.’

Just then the gentle tinkle of Edgar’s hawk bells warned us it was time to return to the burh.

Our idyll could not last for ever and there was to be just one more tryst at our hidden refuge before its sanctuary was destroyed. The day was sultry with the threat of a thunderstorm and, for some reason, when Aelfgifu arrived to meet Edgar and myself she had no attendant with her but had chosen to bring her lapdog. To most people it was an appealing little creature, brown and white, constantly alert, with bright intelligent eyes. But
I
knew Edgar’s view of lapdogs - he thought they were spoiled pests — and
I
had a sense of foreboding which, mistakenly,
I
put down to my usual dislike of dogs.

Aelfgifu detected our disapproval and was adamant.
‘I
insist Maccus comes with us today. He too needs his fun in the country. He will not disturb Habrok or the other hawks.’

So we rode out, Maccus riding on the pommel of Aelfgifu’s saddle, until we tethered our mounts at the usual place and walked into the marshland. Maccus bounced happily ahead through the undergrowth and long grass, his ears napping. He even put up a partridge, which Habrok struck down in a dazzling attacking flight. ‘Look!’ said Aelfgifu to me, ‘I don’t know why you and Edgar made such long faces about the little dog. He’s proving himself useful.’

It was when she and I were once again in our bower and had made love that Maccus barked excitedly. A moment later I heard Edgar’s warning bell ring urgently. Aelfgifu and I dressed quickly. Hurriedly I picked up Habrok and tried to pretend that we had been waiting in ambush by the mere. It was too late. A servant, Aelfgifu’s old nursemaid, had been sent to find her mistress as she was wanted at the burh, and Maccus’s enthusiastic barking had led her to where Edgar was standing guard. Edgar tried to distract the servant from advancing along the little causeway leading to the bower, but the dog went dashing out from our little hut and eagerly led her servant to our trysting place. Not till much later did I know what harm had been done.

We were returning to our horses when Edgar glanced behind us and saw, high in the sky, a lone heron flying towards his roost. The bird was moving through the air with broad, measured wing beats, his winding course following the line of the stream that would lead him to his home. The arrival of the servant had ruined our sport so Edgar thought perhaps he could retrieve our day’s enjoyment. A heron is the peregrine’s greatest prey. So Edgar loosed his peregrine and the faithful bird began to mount. The peregrine spiralled upwards, not underneath the heron but adjacent to the great bird’s ‘flight so as not to alarm her quarry. When she had reached her height, she turned and came slicing down, hurtling through the air at such a pace that it was difficult to follow the stoop. But the heron was courageous. At the last moment the great bird swerved, and tilted up, showing its fearsome beak and claws. Edgar’s peregrine swerved aside, overshot, and a moment later was climbing back into the sky to gain height for a second onslaught. This was the rare opportunity that Edgar and I had discussed a dozen times: the chance to launch Habrok against a heron.

‘Quick, Thorgils. Let Habrok fly!’ Edgar called urgently.

Both of us knew that a gyrfalcon will only attack a heron if there is an experienced bird to imitate. I fumbled for the leash and reached out to remove the leather hood, but a strange presentiment came over me. I felt as if my hands were shackled.

‘Hurry, Thorgils, hurry! There’s not much time. The peregrine’s got one more chance, and then the heron will be among the trees.’

But I could not go on. I looked across at Edgar. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘There’s something wrong. I must not fly Habrok. I don’t know why.’

Edgar was getting angry. I could see the scowl developing, the eyes sinking back into his head, his jaw set. Then he looked into my face and it was like the day at the well in the forest. The words died in his throat, and he said, ‘Thorgils, are you feeling all right? You look odd.’

‘It’s fine,’ I replied. ‘The feeling is over. I don’t know what it was.’

Edgar took Habruk from me, removed hood and leash, and with a single gesture let loose the falcon. Habrok rose and rose in the air, and for a moment we were sure that the gyrfalcon would join the waiting peregrine and learn its trade. But then, the white and speckled bird seemed to sense some ancient call, and instead of flying up to join the waiting peregrine, Habrok changed direction and with steady sure wingbeats began to fly towards the north. From the ground we watched the falcon disappearing, flying strongly until we could see it no more.

Edgar could not forgive himself for allowing Habrok to fly. For the next two weeks he kept on saying to me, ‘I should have realised when I saw your face. There was something there that neither of us could know.’ The shocking loss brought all our hawking to a halt. The spirit had gone out of us, we grieved and, of course, I had lost my link with Aelfgifu.

The
rhythm
of
the hunting year had to go on. We fed and doctored the remaining birds, even if we did not fly them, and walked the dogs. There was a new kennelman, who was excellent at his job, taking the pack each day to an area of stony ground where the exercise toughened their paws. In the evenings he bathed any cuts and bruises in a mixture of vinegar and soot until they were fit to run on any surface. Edgar wanted the pack ready for the first boar hunt of the year, which takes place at the festival the White Christ devotees call Michael’s Mass. He and I returned to our scouting trips in the forest, looking this time for the tracks of a suitable boar, old and massive enough to be a worthy opponent.

‘The boar hunt is very different from the hunting of the stag and much more dangerous,’ Edgar told me. ‘Boar hunting is like training for a battle. You must plan your campaign, deploy your forces, launch your attack and then there is the ultimate test — close combat with a foe who can kill you.’

‘Do many lose their lives?’

‘The boar, of course,’ he answered. ‘And dogs too. It can be a messy business. A dog gets too close and the boar will slash him. Occasionally a horse slips, or a man loses his footing when the boar charges, and if he falls the wrong way then the files can disembowel him.’

‘The files?’

‘The tusks. Look closely when the boar is cornered, though not too closely for your own safety, and you will see him gnash his teeth. He is using the upper ones to sharpen his lower tusks, as a reaper employs his whetstone to put a keen edge on his scythe. The boar’s weapons can be deadly.’

‘It sounds as if you are less enthusiastic about the boar hunt than pursuing the stag.’

Edgar shrugged. ‘It’s my duty as huntsman to see that my master and his guests enjoy their sport to the full, that the boar is killed so its fearsome head is brought on a platter into the banquet and paraded before the applauding guests. If the boar escapes, then everyone goes home feeling that their battle honour has been diminished, and the banquet is a dismal affair. But for the hunt itself, I personally don’t find there is much skill to it. The hunted boar travels most often in a straight line. His scent is easy for the dogs to follow, unlike the canny stag who leaps beside his own track to confuse the trail, or doubles back, or runs through water to perplex the scenting pursuit.’

It still took us three days of searching the forest, and the help of Cabal’s questing nose to find the quarry we were seeking. Edgar calculated from the mighty size of its droppings that the boar was enormous. His opinion was confirmed when we came across the boar’s marking tree. The rub marks extended an arm’s length above the ground and there were white gashes in the bark. ‘See there, Thorgils, that is where he has marked his territory by scratching his back and sides. He’s getting ready for the rutting season when he will fight the other boars. Those white slashes are file marks.’ Then we found the wallow where the creature had rested and Edgar laid his hand on the mud to check how long the creature had been away. He drew his hand back thoughtfully. ‘Still warm,’ he said, ‘the animal is not far off. We’d best leave quietly because I have a feeling that he is close by.’

‘Will we scare him off?’ I asked.

‘No. This boar is a strange one. Not just big, but arrogant. He must have heard us approaching. A boar sees very poorly, but he hears better than any other creature in the forest. Yet only at the last moment did this one leave his bed. He fears nothing. He may still be lurking nearby, in some thicket, even preparing to rush on us — it has happened in the past, a sudden unprovoked attack — and we have not thought to bring our boar spears.’

Cautiously we withdrew and the moment we got back to Edgar’s cottage he took down his boar spears from where they hung suspended on cords from the rafters. Their stout shafts were of ash and the metal heads were the shape of slender chestnut leaves, with a wickedly narrow tip. I noticed the heavy crosspiece a little way below the metal head.

‘That’s to stop the spear head piercing so deep into the boar that he can reach you with his tusks,’ Edgar said. ‘A charging boar knows no pain. In his fury he will spit himself even to his death, just to get at his enemy, especially if he is already wounded. Here, Thorgils, take this spear and make sure that you put a keen edge on it just in case you have to meet his charge, though that is not our job. Tomorrow, on the day of the hunt, our task is only to find the boar and run him until he is exhausted and turns to fight. Then we stand aside and let our masters make the kill and gain the honour.’

I hefted the heavy spear in my hand and wondered if I would be brave enough or capable of withstanding the assault.

‘Oh, one more thing,’ Edgar said, tossing me a roll of leather. ‘Tomorrow wear these. Even if you are faced with a young boar, he can do some damage with his tusks as he slips by you.’

I unrolled the leather, and found they were a pair of heavy leggings. At knee level they were cut clean through in several places as though by the sharpest knife.

By coincidence, Michael’s Mass of the Christians falls near the equinox when, for Old Believers, the barrier which separates the spirit world from our own grows thin. So I was not surprised when Judith, Edgar’s wife, shyly approached me and asked if I would cast the Saxon wands at sunset. As before, she wanted to know if she would ever see her missing daughter again and what the future held for her sundered family. I took the white cloth that Edgar had used and with a nub of charcoal drew the pattern of nine squares as my mentors in Iceland had taught me before I laid the sheet upon the ground. Also, to please Judith, I carved and marked the eighth wand, the sinuous snake wand, and included it when I made my throw. Three times I threw the wands into the cloth’s central square, and three times the answer came back the same. But I could not fathom it, and feared to explain it to Judith, not only because
I
was perplexed but because the snake wand was so dominant on each cast. That signalled some sort of death, and certain death because the snake wand lay across the master wand. Yet there was a contradiction too because all three times the wands gave me back, clearly and unambiguously, the signs and symbols for Frey, he who governs rain and the crops and rules prosperity and wealth. Frey is a God of birth, not death.
I
was baffled, and told Judith something bland, mumbling about Frey and the future. She went away happy, thinking,
I
suspect, that Frey’s dominance — he is the God shown with the huge phallus — meant that perhaps her daughter would one day present her with grandchildren.