The Silver Falcon (3 page)

“William?”

He was startled out of his thoughts. Although his mother’s voice was muffled, he could hear her impatience. William held his breath.

Ellenweore called out again.

William peered out through a gap in the wall. His mother was standing with her back to the shed, shaking her head. “Where has that boy got to?” he heard her grumble, and then she strode off.

As soon as he could be sure the coast was clear, William slipped out, closing the door carefully and sliding the bolt back into position. He ran to the smithy as fast as he could. His mother would scold him for being late again. In a way, he understood her: she desperately wanted him to love swordcraft as she did. Hoping to avoid an argument with her, he opened the door to the workshop just wide enough for him to squeeze through. I hope she doesn’t notice I’m not wearing my cloak…The thought struck him like a thunderbolt, for he had left the garment in the woodshed.

The smoke from the fire left a bitter taste on William’s tongue. How could his mother love her work in the smithy so much? He shook his head pensively. Every day in the workshop was like every other: dark, dirty, stifling. William held his breath, closed his eyes, and conjured up the marvelous scents of nature: the wonderful, earthy smell of leaves and moss released from the humid soil by the autumn rains; the clear, clean smell of snow in winter; the fragrance of flowers and dry grass perfumed by the warmth of the summer sun. Outside in the open air, every season was wonderful. William smiled briefly. Summer’s heat did not scare him, and strong winds did not freeze him to the bone, though they might try. Icy cold, the kind that numbed one’s fingers and toes, held no terrors; rain, though often a nuisance, was not an enemy but mostly a friend, as he well knew, indispensable for survival in nature. To be exposed to the forces of nature meant, for William, to feel alive, though he was always glad for a warm bedchamber at night.

He gasped for air suddenly, like a fish on dry land. He could not keep holding his breath forever! With some difficulty, he suppressed a cough. He tried to reach his place without being noticed, but his mother had already spotted him.

“You’re the last one at the anvil again!” she rebuked him.

“I was just…” muttered William, exchanging a quick glance with Isaac. It occurred to him that he had not even prepared a plausible excuse for his tardiness.

“Go to your place,” his mother ordered brusquely.

William dawdled on his way to his station and reluctantly began to work.

“Haven’t I told you before to oil your tools and tidy them away?” she shouted at his back.

William turned and nodded, but rather than look at her he stared at an oily stain on his shoe. How he hated this work!

“Well? And is one single pair of pincers in its place?” Her voice rose menacingly.

“No, Mother.” William shuffled his feet on the beaten dirt floor. When she was in a bad mood, it was better not to offer a flimsy excuse.

“Don’t tell me you forgot again!”

“No, Mother.”

After his morning’s work, he had run to the meadow instead of carrying out his assigned tasks. He simply did not see why he should sit in the workshop alone and take care of the tools while the others could rest or do as they pleased before they commenced the forge work.

“I’ll do it now,” William said, sighing audibly. After all, he was not allowed to help with the hardening of the swords anyway. Since he was permitted only to watch, he could just as easily oil the tools and put them away while doing so.

“When I give you a job to do, you’re to do it at once and not put it off till later, understood? Just like the other apprentices!” His mother stared daggers at him and then took a deep breath, adding in a slightly conciliatory tone, “Now pass me the wolf-jaw tongs. I’ve lots to do before I can get started with the hardening.”

William spun around helplessly, looking for the tool.

“Get on with it,” his mother urged him. “The iron’s getting too hot!”

William could hear two of the apprentices whispering behind him, and he sensed their gleeful glances like needles in his back. He felt the heat rise to his face as he flushed with shame. He would have found so much pleasure in throttling them. Instead, he grabbed the nearest pincers and handed them to his mother.

“For heaven’s sake, child! I said the wolf-jaw tongs, not the round-jaw ones!” she scolded as the iron in the fire overheated and began to throw off sparks. “When I wasn’t even half your age, I could already tell all the tools apart.”

William drew himself up to his full height, angrily filling his slender chest with air. Because he was small for his age, people often thought he was younger than he was. But he was certainly old enough to know every tool in the smithy, as well as how to use them. But tongs, burins, and hammers—these things did not interest him in the slightest. Round-jaw and wolf-jaw tongs were almost identical, apart from the shallow serrations on the latter. Unless you looked closely, they were easily confused, and he just hadn’t looked. William rolled his eyes. He really didn’t have the slightest wish to become a smith.

Ellenweore wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a broad streak of soot around her mouth. William giggled. The streak looked just like a beard. He struggled with all his might not to laugh.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, instead of grinning,” Ellenweore went on, now furious. “You really are good for nothing.”

His mother’s hurtful words cut him to the quick, but the last thing William wanted was for the other apprentices to notice. He bit his lower lip and stared at the ground, focusing on a small piece of hammer scale. Once he had composed himself, he looked up again, but Ellenweore had turned back to the anvil.

“You poor thing.” Adam mouthed the words silently behind Ellenweore’s back, his expression mocking. He was the oldest and cheekiest of the three apprentices. Smirking, he poked Brad, the guildmaster’s son.

“Luke, give me the wolf-jaw tongs,” Ellenweore ordered the youngest apprentice. She raised her eyebrows as Luke, who had been learning the craft only since the beginning of the year, handed her the right tongs. She looked reproachfully at her son.

William knew he had disappointed her yet again, even though she ought to be proud of him.

“I hate the smithy, and the stupid tongs, too. I don’t need them because I shall never be a smith!” he blurted out defiantly.

Ellenweore looked at him in astonishment.

William glared at her, turned on his heel, and rushed out of the workshop without another word.

As the door latched shut behind him, he took a deep breath.

October’s glorious sunshine and l
ight breezes had stripped the dry leaves from the trees and piled them up in rustling heaps. A gust of wind swept them about the yard in miniature whirlwinds, as if they were dancing a lively round. But even the sight of this was not enough to lift William’s spirits. In search of a little affection and security, he went over to Graybeard, who was still lying in the same position in the yard. He knelt down beside his old friend and pressed his cheek against the dog’s rough gray fur, stroking behind the animal’s ears.

“I can’t do anything right as far as she’s concerned.” William was still upset. He plucked a stray twig from the dog’s hairy chops.

Graybeard looked at him with devotion, his left and right eyebrows twitching alternately.

“And it’s not even what I want,” William growled stubbornly. “I’m going to be a falconer.”

The dog whimpered, suddenly uneasy, and rose to his feet despite the obvious pain it caused. William listened, too. He could
hear horses’ hooves approaching quickly. William stood up as the first rider burst into the yard holding a banner. The bright-red cloth, with its three lions passant in gold, fluttered proudly in the autumn wind. Every child in England knew whose colors these were. The continued clattering of hooves indicated that many horses were approaching the smithy. Before the man could address him, William ran off, the quarrel with his mother immediately forgotten. He rushed to the smithy, tore open the door, and called excitedly into the workshop, “The king! Mother, the king!”

After a few blinks, his eyes adapted to the darkness inside and he saw that his mother’s cheeks had turned red—presumably from joy. William knew how deeply she wished that King Henry might order swords from her.

“At last,” she gasped, visibly relieved, awkwardly pushing an unruly lock of rust-red hair back beneath her pale linen bonnet. She wiped both hands on her long leather apron before readying herself to go out.

“Wait.” Isaac grabbed her arm. “You have a big fat streak of soot around your mouth. It looks like a little beard. No wonder the boy couldn’t stop laughing.” He licked the corner of his right sleeve and affectionately wiped the black stripe off his wife’s face.

As Ellenweore left the smithy, she glanced at her son. Along with happy expectancy, William thought he also saw forgiveness in her expression, and he was relieved.

Isaac put his right arm around William’s shoulders in a friendly manner, hiding his left arm to conceal the stump. He nodded to the smiths to indicate that they should follow him outside.

The evening sun hung over the horizon like a glowing ball, as if it, too, had turned red with pleasure at the king’s visit. It bathed the yard with its soft light, glittering off the chain mail tunics, weapons, and silver harnesses, making the knights look like figures of
legend. This dreamlike sight enchanted William and confirmed that afternoon’s intimation that this was a rather special day, one he would never forget.

The king, whom William recognized at once from the insignia on his horsecloth, had broad shoulders, a powerful chest that emphasized the cut of his clothing, and the beginnings of a slight paunch. Despite his decidedly advanced age—he was about fifty—he remained an impressive and stately figure. The tonsure-like bare patch on the top of his head was wreathed with light-red hair whose brilliant hue was increasingly dulled by streaks of gray. His cheeks were clean shaven, and his skin looked leathery and weather beaten. His round eyes looked out at the world severely but above all alertly. The deep vertical clefts etched in his brow revealed an eternal doubter. Over his fairly plain hunting clothes of fine moss-green fabric, Henry wore a short woolen cloak trimmed with ermine. As William knew from stories his mother had told him, Henry’s preference for short cloaks as a young man, at a time when cloaks were still worn long, had earned him the nickname Curtmantle.

Ellenweore had often talked at the table about Henry II and his dead son, Henry the so-called Young King. Eleanor of Aquitaine, King Henry’s wife, had previously been married to King Louis VII of France. After the annulment of her marriage to Louis, she had brought all her lands with her, making Henry an extremely powerful man, though at the time he was only Duke of Normandy and not yet king. William’s mother loved describing how Henry’s coronation had ended years of anarchy and war. Stephen, the previous king, and his cousin, the Empress Matilda, had fought each other bitterly for the throne of England. But since Stephen had no heir, he had adopted Matilda’s son Henry and named him as his successor. Thirty years had passed since then, and Henry had brought peace and prosperity to England. Although they feared his notorious fits of rage and his severity, the English still loved their king.

As well as daughters, Henry’s wife had given him four healthy sons, so the succession was assured. Eleanor was a little older than her husband, but she was blessed with great beauty and exceptional intelligence, and they had been a happy couple for many years. At some point, however, the king had turned to other women. The embittered Eleanor had withdrawn from her husband and skillfully exploited the princes’ hunger for power to wreak her revenge. On several occasions, she had spurred on her sons to rebel against their own father, until the king felt he had no choice but to lock up his disobedient wife to keep her from further intrigues.

William could only stare at the king. His mother said the queen must have loved him very much, if she now hated him so. Could that be right?

A large number of lightly armed knights and their squires had gathered close behind the king. The dog handlers waited a little farther off, their lead dogs sniffing curiously and straining at their leashes. The younger hunt assistants put their heads together and giggled. As soon as they thought they were unobserved, they began play fighting. The falconers, by contrast, stood erect and silent on the fringes. They radiated pride and elegance, with the noble birds on their slightly outstretched fists.

When he saw them, William forgot everything else around him.

The smiths, meanwhile, had doffed their leather caps respectfully and were bowing deeply.

Ellenweore, who was standing a little in front of the others, as well as Rose and the housemaids, curtsied, their demurring eyes cast toward the ground.

William alone continued to stare openmouthed at the falconers. How stately and elegant they looked. It was not until Isaac gave him a less-than-gentle shove that he closed his mouth and bowed. He
watched the beautifully dressed knights out of the corners of his eyes. Their horses pranced and steamed in the damp air of the autumn evening. For a moment, he wondered whether his father might be among them. Was he in the king’s service, or was he long since dead?

“Which one of you is the swordsmith woman?” asked Henry. His powerful voice sounded rather ungracious.

“That’s me, sire, at your service.” Ellenweore spoke clearly, though her repeated curtsy looked a little awkward.

Henry frowned down at her. “I hear you made a very fine sword for my eldest son—God rest his soul.” The king glanced up at the sky briefly and crossed himself.

William knew from his mother that the young Henry had died more than a year before. William thought he saw in the king’s eyes not only resolute majesty but also grief for a dead son.

“May he rest in peace,” murmured Ellenweore, likewise crossing herself.

“The sword was called Runedur, was it not?”

“Yes, sire.” Ellenweore looked up at him. Her small smile showed that she was flattered.