The Silver Falcon (27 page)

The monk, who had now returned without the goshawk, placed his hand on David’s back with a kindly smile and pushed him gently toward a wooden door in the aisle. David followed him, repeatedly glancing back at his only friend. With a heavy heart, William watched them go. Now he too was all alone. No one was demanding or expecting anything from him anymore. William listened inwardly. Was it relief that he felt? No. Although David had been a burden, always reminding him of Enid and the child, he did not feel liberated but empty, as if burned out.

As if in a dream, he stumbled out of the church. The sunlight was blinding, and William wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

He wandered through the streets of the unfamiliar city until dark, his thoughts constantly with David. Would the monks take care of him properly? William felt like a traitor.

He spent his first night alone in London half sitting, half lying on the ground in a narrow alleyway. Several times he awoke from confused dreams. His legs began to tingle. The longer he sat there, the number they became. In the morning he did not feel refreshed.

He shuffled down to the river, his stomach empty. The Thames was broad and filthy with roiling mud. It stank of putrefaction, sewage, and dead fish.

William heard two men talking about how strong hands were always needed at the port. But when he arrived at the docks and asked the harbormaster for work, the man just shook his head.

“Scrawny, you’re far too scrawny,” he jeered. “You’ll collapse under the weight you have to carry here. No, no, a miserable sprat like you brings nothing but trouble. Move along now.”

It was impossible to find work with a growling stomach and trembling hands. There were swarms of strong young men
everywhere, offering their services. Nobody needed someone who, like William, staggered like a drunkard on account of his twisted foot. In the end—hungry, weary, and desperate—William gave up the search.

Bowed down with sorrow and utterly discouraged, he shuffled back to Saint Paul’s and, for the first time in his life, held out his hand in the hope of a kindhearted donation from some devout person.

He did not allow himself to be driven away by the other beggars. At first he accepted their blows and kicks without defending himself, apparently indifferent. He accepted them as fitting punishment, an opportunity for atonement, and did not complain. In his eyes he had earned any humiliation the world could offer and had nothing left to lose.

One day, however, when he was pushed down the steps again, he fought back, furiously defending his place. From that day on he joined the beggars loitering around Saint Paul’s with a quite specific position on the steps of the cathedral.

Sometimes, the coins of the devout were enough to buy food and keep him satisfied till the following day, but most of the time William had to suffer hunger. He could not wash anywhere; he slept on the cathedral steps or in filthy alleyways and was soon stiff with grime. He noted his accelerating decline with grim satisfaction. If he had not thought only of himself that time in the forest, and had stayed with Enid instead, perhaps he could have prevented that grisly deed.

For days at a time, William sat and stared ahead of him, and when the news of King Henry’s death spread through the city one day, the abyss appeared to open up in front of him. This was the end of the world, the apocalypse he had heard about in church. His despair and hopelessness could not have been worse. Henry had been well-disposed toward him, and William had been determined to show him that he was right to believe in him. But now
it was too late. The king lived no more, and William was a beggar and would remain one forever.

With the few coins people had tossed to him that day, William bought a large tankard of cheap ale. The tavern that served him was crowded with pitiful drunkards. Here, even in the midst of the multitude, one was utterly alone.

On top of a stomach that had been empty for days, the sour brew soon made William drunk, and after a second tankard his tormented soul was at peace for the first time. What a relief! He tumbled from his bench in a stupor, noticed vaguely when he was dragged into a corner, and slept his intoxication off among the other drunkards.

But the pain, self-reproach, and despair were back again the next day. And William longed for the dull sense of indifference the ale had provided. While he was drunk, he had been able to forget his sufferings, at least for a while. So the next day, as soon as he had begged a couple of coins, he made his way there and again numbed himself with the cheap ale.

William rubbed his eyes and blinked up at the lightly clouded summer sky. It was already broad daylight. He scratched his louse-infested scalp. The bites of these tiny bloodsuckers itched terribly, and it was getting worse with every day he spent on the street. William groaned. His head throbbed. He tried to remember how many tankards of ale he had drained the previous night, but he was not up to completing the thought. He closed his eyes with a grunt. His stomach growled. He tried laboriously to get up. His clothes felt suspiciously damp in places. William grimaced with disgust. He opened his eyes again, just a crack this time, for the harsh light was painful.

When at last he could see, he was surprised that there were more people than usual passing along the street and that a sort
of path of honor had opened up through them. William raised himself, groaning, and stood up. Important ceremonies often took place at Saint Paul’s. What was the occasion this time?

“She must be the richest heiress in the land! A ward of the king’s, an excellent match without a doubt.”

With undisguised curiosity, William watched a magnificently dressed lady speaking to a young girl who was obviously her daughter. Their strikingly long noses stuck out at the same angle.

“She’s not much older than you.” The mother sounded almost reproachful. Judging by her clothing, she must have been the wife of a very prosperous merchant.

“And the groom? What does he look like? What kind of a dress do you think she will wear?” asked the girl, fidgeting beside her mother.

William nodded with satisfaction. He would try to approach the betrothed in front of the church. People on their way toward the holy bond of matrimony were in a particularly generous mood, as he now knew from experience. This was as true for rich barons as it was for the sons and daughters of wealthy merchants who could afford to be wed at Saint Paul’s. The heat made William feel faint. He swayed and closed his eyes for a moment so as not to collapse. His tongue felt furry, and his mouth tasted disgustingly sour.

Curious onlookers crowded all sides of the procession, whispering and gossiping. The wedding party was led by a large group of knights wearing colorful surcoats and armed with swords and lances, followed by several powerful barons William recognized by their colors. The crowd looked on admiringly, enviously sniping at the costly finery of the wedding procession as it passed. Then came the bride, escorted by fourteen maidens. Two rode ahead of her, four alongside her, and eight behind
her in two groups of four. The manes of their milk-white palfreys were braided with ribbons of many colors. The bride’s horse was likewise white. Its mane was decorated with golden ribbons, and its back with a breathtaking saddlecloth embroidered with layer after layer of gold thread that must have cost a fortune.

William had once dreamed of being rich and famous for his birds, but his ambition seemed to have receded far beyond his reach. The man who was to have this lady as his bride must be one of those people who inherited good fortune in the cradle.

Erect as a queen, with an enigmatic smile on her lips and a glow that appeared to emanate from deep inside, the young bride sat in the saddle. Her delicate face, with its pale, almost translucent skin and slender nose, radiated calm and nobility without appearing haughty. The costly wedding gown, made from the finest purple silk and embroidered with priceless pearls, made her position in the upper nobility instantly apparent.

“Purple,” Rose had told him once, admiringly, “is the most expensive color in the world.” It existed in various hues, from dark mauve through violet to strong pink. Its vivid, glowing tones were predominant in the exquisite young bride’s gown, attracting exclamations of admiration from the delighted onlookers.

The merchant’s daughter, who was still standing near William, started talking to her mother again. “Look, Mother, what beautiful sleeves her gown has. And the cloth. How it shines. What finery. And those colors. I’d give anything to have a gown like that.”

“Nonsense! You’ll make a beautiful bride, even without a purple gown. I’ll make sure of that,” said the merchant’s wife before pointing excitedly at the tail end of the procession. “Oh, look there, the groom. Doesn’t he look handsome? He lodges with Richard FitzReiner. Your father supplied him quite recently. A fine man, that FitzReiner, and a truly valuable contract. Probably for the wedding celebrations.”

William could now see the groom. He gasped. In order to be sure he was not mistaken, he rubbed his eyes and looked again. Indeed, it was William Marshal. Beaming with pride, he was sitting on a magnificent black horse that was prancing about with excitement. Marshal looked exactly as he had looked in William’s earlier daydreams. William took a deep breath. The morning air was warm and heavy. It promised to be one of those pitilessly hot summer days. He swayed. Too much ale, he thought disgustedly. Then he belched. Spellbound, he gazed at Marshal, as if his eyes alone could cause the groom to turn and look at him. But the man on the splendid black horse continued to face the other way.

Suddenly, William’s heart skipped a beat. Baudouin de Béthune, who was riding close behind Marshal, was looking William right in the eye. There was something questioning in his expression, as if he was trying to think where he had seen the ragged beggar before. For a moment, William hoped Sir Baudouin would recognize him. His hand twitched, ready to leap up and wave. Did he remember? William was not a child anymore. He had grown since the last time they had met. And since Enid’s death, he had even grown a beard, though it was not thick enough to look good. Sir Baudouin had given him his position at the falconry: no doubt he thought William was safely housed there. Why should it occur to him that William was living in London?

When Sir Baudouin spurred his horse to catch up and unexpectedly turned his attention to Marshal, William quivered with humble anticipation. He must have recognized him, and now he was telling his friend about his discovery.

After a short conversation, Sir Baudouin went back to peering straight ahead and paid no further attention to William.

The realization that Sir Baudouin had obviously not mentioned him cut William to the quick. He must have come to the conclusion that the miserable stranger was just another wretched beggar. William staggered. His head felt hollow and empty, like an
exhausted barrel of ale. Cold and clammy sweat broke out on his emaciated body. How could he have let himself go so badly since Enid’s death? For the first time, William felt deeply ashamed. Blood and heat shot through his head. Impulsively, he turned away, struggling through the crowd, which was greeting the betrothed couple with ever-louder cheers. Shamefully, he had even neglected his twisted foot of late; it had been an open and suppurating sore for days. William had not had any shoes for some time.

He glanced over his shoulder one more time. The young bride had dismounted and was offering her hand to Marshal so that he could escort her into the church. She looked happy. Why shouldn’t she be? After all, she was marrying the bravest, most famous knight in England, the one favored by all the kings.

William turned away once and for all. As long as he could remember, Marshal had been the model for the father he’d always wanted. With all his heart, William wished him well with his beautiful young bride. He would have given anything to be part of the wedding procession, riding with a handsome falcon on his fist—as Sir Baudouin’s falconer, or even Marshal’s—instead of a mendicant bystander.

William plodded away with his head down. He now knew that he didn’t belong in the world of the nobles. He had already suspected as much at Thorne. How had he fallen into the delusion that he could belong one day? Just because he knew how to handle falcons?

As the ale wore off and he became sober, William’s neglected body hurt more and more, but even more painful was the sense of guilt he still felt. Down at heart, he limped along the alleys of London until dusk. It was not until he was standing in front of the tavern he had visited far too often during the past few weeks that he half came to his senses. He pushed open the door and was about to cross the threshold when the repulsive smell of rancid ale hit him, making his empty stomach heave.

“No,” he muttered. “Never will I set foot in this house again.” He stepped backward and came within an inch of tripping over a pig that was rooting about in the dirt behind him.

William began to run like a madman. His foot hurt, and his stomach was rebelling. That’s enough, he thought. I must restore order to my life and bring some sense back to it.

Although there were about a hundred churches in London, his feet led him, almost of their own accord, to the little church where he had made his confession shortly after his arrival. Humbly throwing himself to the beaten-earth floor, he spread his arms as if on a crucifix, pressed his forehead to the ground, and prayed fervently. He had so many things to put right. First of all poor David, whom he had so shamefully neglected. The three weeks during which he was not allowed to visit him had long since passed, but he had not yet gone to see him. William knew the monks would not let him near David except on the Lord’s day, so he swore by all the saints to go and see him the next Sunday.

This time, his discussion with God lasted the whole night. And unlike after his last confession there, he emerged stronger than he’d been when he had entered the church.

Though he had not slept a wink during the night, he set out with renewed courage and—for the first time in a long while—fresh hope about his search for work. He was even thinner now, and dirty and shabby besides, but he got work with the third artisan he asked. To William it seemed a miracle, but more likely it was because no one else wanted to work at a tannery. But William was glad to earn a few coins doing honest work. Pushing a handcart that held a large clay pot, he went out collecting urine for his master, Tanner. Most of the dwellers of the narrow alleyways were grateful not to have to tip their night soil into the street, and they willingly filled up the pot.