The Silver Falcon (14 page)

S
pring had arrived unusually early and been particularly mild, bringing forth thousands of marvelously fragrant yellow, white, and pink flowers. Now, after the recent heavy rain, everything was sprouting lovely plump green buds. A few birds were still building their nests; others were already laying their first eggs.

In the mews one day, as they were preparing to train the peregrines for heron hawking, William ran up to Logan with rage-inducing news. “Imagine, master. Odon doesn’t want Grace anymore. He says he’s too old for a child’s falcon. He wants a peregrine.”

“Disagreeable lout,” Logan muttered. “No idea about hunting but gives himself airs. Well, if the lord’s nephew wants a peregrine, then he’ll have one. But either the lady of the manor or her husband will have to order it. Tell him that.”

William nodded with satisfaction. Odon’s wish was not enough on its own. Grace was a magnificent falcon. Though merlins were small, hunting with them was wonderful. Odon really had no idea. William went back to Odon and passed on the falcon master’s message.

During the past few months, Odon had lost no opportunity to take revenge on William. He had tried to make him look bad in front of Logan, and twice he had ambushed him from behind. But he had not really succeeded in making William afraid of him.

“My aunt will be damnably angry that Logan won’t obey my orders,” Odon fumed, heading back to the castle.

It took two days for the mistress’s order to arrive: a peregrine for her nephew was to be selected as soon as possible. But this did not annoy William half as much as the fact that Odon returned the little merlin to the mews without a word. On the other hand, he was overjoyed to have Grace back with him again.

“My goodness, look how badly he’s taken care of her,” said Logan when he saw Grace on the high perch. “Her wings are drooping, and her back and tail don’t form a line. Just look how she’s holding her tail feathers, all spread out like that. And her eyes. It’s pitiful, this dull expression. Always pay attention to the eyes, do you hear? You can always see in its eyes how a falcon feels. Whether it’s starving or sick. Whatever’s bothering it—you’ll see it in its eyes.”

William nodded obediently. It was not the first time Logan had emphasized paying attention to a falcon’s eyes, and it would certainly not be the last.

“Let her rest in here for a few days, William,” Logan continued. “But give her some tirings every now and again so she doesn’t go back to being wild in the dark of the tower. Whenever you feed her, bring her among people, so that she stays tame and we can get a good price when we sell her.”

William nodded, taking her onto his fist since it was time to feed her.

“You carry well. One can see that she feels safe on your fist,” Logan observed. William blushed with pride at this praise. If only my mother had heard that, he thought, and for a moment he was overcome with terrible homesickness. Someday he would go home again, and Jean, Rose, and Isaac, but especially his mother, would greet him with great joy and pride.

“Are you all right?” asked Logan, frowning.

“Of course, master.” William left hastily to put Grace down in the tower.

A few days later, when Sir Ralph came to the mews, Logan complained about Odon.

“Before the boy gets the peregrine, he must learn to look after it properly and hold it correctly. He still doesn’t know how. The merlin was fearful and weak, but your lordship’s nephew will not accept that the fault is his.” Logan did not conceal his anger well.

“Handling swords and lances is closer to the lad’s heart, that and his equally sharp tongue,” answered Sir Ralph, understanding’s Logan’s ire. “Believe me, I know this all too well. You’ll never make a decent falconer out of Odon.”

“As long as he does no harm to the birds,” Logan growled, insisting that Odon come back to the mews to learn how to carry a falcon.

William and Robert did their best to stay out of Odon’s way, but their eyes sparkled with satisfaction whenever Logan criticized him.

Odon noticed. He was boiling with rage and swore bitter revenge on them if he ever had the chance. His oaths and dire threats increased their fear of him. So they cast their eyes downward whenever he came past, so as not to challenge him.

A few days later, William discovered that Grace’s tail feathers had been snapped. He had not expected Odon to avenge himself on the merlin, but William knew at once who was to blame. What was worse, Odon had the impudence to accuse William of having done it himself. Fortunately, Logan saw through the young squire and did not unjustly punish William.

Odon had wanted to hurt William, but since Grace had already molted, all the broken tail feathers meant was that she could not be sold that year. For Logan, this was a financial loss, but one that Sir Ralph, rather than William, would have to bear.

Thus, Odon had unwittingly done William a favor, for now Grace had to stay in the mews until the next time she molted, and it fell to William to care for her.

W
illiam’s first winter at Thorne had been exceptionally mild, but the next came in far too early, with bitterly cold weather. December felt more like January, and two weeks before Christmas a hostile freeze made the ground rock hard.

When Robert and William awoke in the gray dawn light, their limbs were stiff with cold. And yet they jumped out of bed eagerly.

“Come on, lazybones, get up,” cried Robert playfully. When his sister just stayed there, wrapped up in her blankets, he gave her a friendly thump.

“My head,” Nesta whined, fluttering her eyelids.

William knelt down beside her and felt her forehead. “Good heavens, she’s burning up.” He rushed to Logan’s bedside and shook him awake. “Nesta’s ill.”

Logan got up grudgingly and dressed. He did not really seem to believe that Nesta was unwell. But after feeling the tremendous heat of her body he was worried, too.

“Cold water, get some cold water,” he told William and Robert while he looked for a piece of cloth.

William grabbed a bucket and ran out to the river, dressed in only his smock. He had not even put on his shoes. He hardly felt the frosty ground underfoot, but the icy river water burned his skin. As fast as he could, he ran back to the house with the full bucket. A sharp stone wounded his malformed foot, but he paid no more attention to the pain than he did to the blood oozing from the wound.

He handed Logan the bucket. Logan dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and laid it on Nesta’s forehead.

“Go and take care of the animals. I’ll stay with her.” Logan’s order sounded uncharacteristically gentle. Obviously, he was worried about Nesta.

William and Robert made themselves scarce. They carried out their duties even more conscientiously than usual, fed both hounds and falcons, and explained to Alfred why Logan had not left the house. They did not return until long after midday. Logan was still sitting at Nesta’s bedside. The stench of sickness and vomit filled the house.

William opened the wooden shutters to let in some fresh air. Robert, without a word, took out and emptied the pan into which Nesta had thrown up.

“She says her head hurts, as if it’s going to burst.” Logan stroked her hair anxiously.

“And the fever?” William asked.

The falconer shook his head. “Go fetch old Cwen,” he told his son. Robert ran off immediately.

“We could try wrapping damp cloths around her calves. They swear by it at home. It’s supposed to draw the heat from the rest of the body.”

Logan agreed, and William wet two cloths and wrapped them around Nesta’s lower legs. He then wrapped dry cloths around the wet ones.

“Please, Lord, don’t let anything happen to her. Don’t take her from me,” Logan murmured. He folded his hands and prayed devoutly.

William watched uncomfortably. Not even at Eastertide, when Logan marked the anniversary of his wife’s death, did he show this kind of despair—drink, curse, rant, and rage though he might. Here, beside his daughter’s sickbed, helplessness was etched into his features.

When Robert came back with the herbalist Cwen, Nesta was no better. She lay on her side, groaning, with her legs pulled up and her spine taut as a bow.

The old woman placed a hand on the girl’s forehead, turned her over onto her back, and carefully prized open her eyelids. Nesta whimpered when Cwen tried to raise her head.

“Completely rigid,” she said, concerned. She boiled up a broth of medicinal plants and tried in vain to get Nesta to drink some. Then she burned some fragrant herbs and muttered a few unintelligible words, continually probing Nesta’s head with her fingers.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Robert. Although he normally took every opportunity to tease his sister, he was extremely anxious.

“Worms in the head, that’s what’s paining her,” the herbalist whispered mysteriously. “The stiff neck is a bad omen. It looks bad for her, right bad. I don’t know anyone with signs of future misfortune like these who has survived the fever. Pray for her. I can say no more. It’s dusk. I don’t know whether the child will live through the night. You should call for a priest.”

Though her voice was gentle, Logan quaked, as if each word were the lash of a whip. He sagged and fell to the floor; tears disappeared into his gray beard. “Please, Lord, forgive me, whatever I may have done. I’ll do penance. Desire of me what you will, but don’t take away my child.”

Logan’s suffering moved William. He knelt down beside the man and gave him a comforting hug.

“I’ll go and fetch the priest,” said Robert, who had been pacing up and down in agitation. He asked Cwen to stay until he got back, and he took a torch so that he could run back to the village. When he hurried out through the door, a blast of icy air blew in a fine dusting of snow. The sun, on the point of setting, stood in the gray sky like a silver coin, ready to hand over dominion of the firmament to the moon.

The fire had gone out at some point, and no one had thought to build a new one. The house was bitterly cold. Old Cwen lit a couple of slender twigs and sent William to the shed to fetch a few logs so that they would have enough wood to replenish the fire during the night.

“Have you eaten anything?” she asked.

William shook his head. The thought of food had not occurred to any of them.

Old Cwen rummaged through Logan’s provisions and prepared a broth, which she pressed on William with a certain firmness. His stomach ached with hunger, and the broth smelled delicious, but he could not bring himself to swallow more than a few spoonfuls.

Wrinkled old Cwen, however, having tried in vain to get Logan to eat something, ate a good-size dish herself, smacking her lips.

“Why isn’t Robert back yet?” In contrast to his habitual anger, Logan sounded worried.

William looked at him compassionately. Logan was moody and demanding, but he had never been unjust. He knew how fond of Nesta his master was, though Logan certainly never showed it. He must feel the same about Robert, William thought. He loves him, too, for sure, without letting it show. William’s thoughts suddenly turned to his mother. Did she hide her love for him behind her often-harsh manner?

It was late at night when Robert finally returned. He was frozen through and fearfully angry.

“He won’t come!” Robert stamped his feet on the threshold to shake off the snow.

Logan, who had just dozed off, awoke in fright. “What?” he asked, confused.

“The priest, he won’t come. It’s too cold out for him. Nesta is young and strong, he says. We should wait till morning.” Robert tore the woolen hood from his head and beat the fine snow out of his clothes.

“A sinful man who will not walk among us on this earth for much longer,” muttered Cwen, her head swaying from side to side, but no one heeded her.

Robert’s hands were red, his fingers rigid with cold. He held them out over the fire and rubbed them together fiercely. “How is she?” he asked, looking anxiously at Nesta.

“She hasn’t come to, poor little thing. He should have administered the last rites, that worthless sot,” old Cwen grumbled angrily.

“The villagers are right: the Lord’s shepherd is more comfortable in bed with that maid of his,” exclaimed Robert. “I begged, pleaded, threatened, but he just slammed the door in my face and slipped back under the blankets with his sweetheart. I spent half the night waiting outside his cottage for absolutely nothing.”

Nesta was getting worse rapidly. She was pale; her skin was sallow and waxy. Did the Lord want to take her to him because she was such a lovely little girl? William sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand. He took the damp cloth and dabbed at her glowing-hot forehead. He knew Nesta liked him. She had even admitted to her brother that she thought she loved him and longed for nothing more than to be William’s wife when she was old enough to marry. Although she was still a child in William’s eyes, and the thought of marrying her had never even occurred to him, he would have made whatever pact was necessary, with God or the devil, if it would save Nesta.

“When you’re well again, I’ll take you dancing when there’s a feast day at the village,” he whispered in her ear, hoping the prospect might give her strength.