The Silver Falcon (43 page)

“You look terrible,” breathed William the next day, his voice trembling, his face twisted in a subdued smile.

Robert started with fright. It was some time before he realized that William had really spoken to him.

“Good heavens, Will, you should see what
you
look like!”

Walkelin de Ferrers had been among the sick, as had his daughter, Isabella, but fortunately they both survived. In addition to several villagers who had fallen victim to the illness, the lord of Oakham had to mourn the death of his youngest page, an eight-year-old boy of high birth and gentle disposition. Once nobody lay sick anymore, fear of the epidemic receded and life resumed its normal rhythm.

O
don had answered the king’s call the previous year. As lord of Elmswick he owed Richard military service, so now, like many English lords, he was leading a troop of knights and hired mercenaries from Flanders to join the fight.

In his tent, lost in thought, Odon prepared for the coming battle. The Bretons were a stubborn and courageous people; they were not fighting for money or some foreign king, but for their own freedom and independence. Every man who could more or less stand upright and hold a weapon in his hand was ready to fight. It would not be easy to carry out Richard’s order to punish these unruly Bretons.

Odon took a deep breath. It felt good to be the leader of such a battle-hardened troop, with no one to dispute his position. Bevis and Milo had not risen as far as he had, and now they were serving under his command. Odon drew his sword and admired himself in the gleaming blade. Is this what a coward looks like? No, he thought, grinning at his slightly distorted reflection. Every day, he gave proof of his resolve. Odon slid his sword back into its sheath, left his tent, and mounted his horse.

“Are you ready, men?” he asked the soldiers, who had been waiting for him impatiently. They answered by stamping their feet and hurling insults at the enemy, arousing Odon’s passion. “The Bretons are a devious people. They think they can ambush us in their dark forests, setting traps as if we are wild animals. But we’ll be on our guard. They are traitors, cowardly and deceitful,
but we’re fighting for a righteous cause,” he shouted to his soldiers, riding past them as he’d learned by watching William Marshal. He did not really like Marshal, because he seemed to know that Odon was not the bravest, but he did admire his ability always to make the right decision and to keep a cool head during battle.

“We must break the will of this rebellious tribe,” Odon thundered. “They will whimper for mercy, but treachery knows no pity and must be punished. Burn down their villages, one by one. Let their fields go up in flames so that their masters suffer from hunger as much as their subjects. They will soon be begging for the king’s aid and his crops. They will forget their demands for independence and rue the day they ever rose up against the king. Slaughter armed men without remorse! Leave women and children alone—hunger will bring them to their senses soon enough or kill them off. God save us and King Richard!” Odon spurred on his horse, rode to the front of his troop with his head held high, and gave the signal to set off.

The bloodletting and the burning of villages and hamlets went on for many days. Everywhere, men armed with pitchforks, axes, and flails were slaughtered by knights and soldiers on horseback. Anyone with a weapon in his hand, even if it was just a stick, was struck down, whether he was six years old or sixty. Even the many women who stood in their way were killed. The men poured through the villages like a destructive wave. Wherever they went, they left misery, pain, blood, and fire in their wake. In a desperate attempt to halt them, wailing women and howling children threw themselves in front of their horses and were trampled to death unheeded. The more time passed, the more bloodthirsty Odon and his soldiers became. As long as they were sitting on their horses, they felt invincible. Every day they murdered more men and beasts and burned down more houses, huts, and fields, cutting a bloody swath of destruction across the land.

At night, Odon kept dreaming of Carla. A full year before he left England, she had borne him a strong, healthy boy, and he thought of him more often than he thought of the son and heir borne to him a few months later by the beautiful but insufferable Maud. The boys were at least two years old by now, if they were still alive.

The thought of Carla, and the cold, dark January day on which he had seen her for the last time, tormented him constantly. He had entered the house that day without knocking. It had seemed strangely empty, as if Carla had packed up her possessions.

Odon heard a child wailing and could not help feeling a little pride. He rushed up the narrow staircase in the happy expectation of holding Carla in his arms at last. He was almost with her when suddenly he heard her singing. Pale and trembling, he stopped at the threshold and stared into the small room. That lullaby. Carla was rocking a rush basket suspended from the beam and staring lovingly at her child. It was the most peaceful, most beautiful sight Odon had ever seen, and at the same time the most horrifying.

When Carla noticed him, she fell silent. “You shouldn’t have come,” she said tonelessly.

“This is still my house. And my son, no?”

“Your house,” she confirmed, “but
my
son.” Carla left the basket swinging and took a step toward Odon. “We’re leaving this place today.”

“Where will you go? You have nothing—you’re nobody,” Odon protested helplessly.

“I’m going to marry the pigsticker.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Who’s going to prevent me? You don’t own me. I don’t belong to you or anyone else. Even the pigsticker’s a free man.”

“And the child?”

“He’ll raise him as if he was his own.”

“I won’t allow it!”

“And what are you going to do about it? Slit my belly open, like the woman in the forest? Or does that only give you pleasure when there’s still a child inside?”

Odon stood there openmouthed, staring at her. How could she know about that? His mouth felt dry. He swallowed. “I—I didn’t kill her,” he said defensively, unwittingly confessing to having known the woman in the forest. “It was Bevis. If I had tried to stop them, I would have ceased to be their leader. They would have killed the woman anyway.”

“She was helpless, and you were armed,” Carla replied coldly.

“The other two were armed, too,” Odon said in his defense as he confronted the profound contempt in Carla’s eyes.

“You let a woman and her child die out of cowardice?” She looked at him in disbelief. Her voice was no more than a disgusted whisper. “Where was your honor as a knight when they cut out the child from her womb? Was she singing that lullaby out of desperation? Is that why you struck me?” Carla began singing the lullaby again.

Odon’s helpless desperation turned into cowardly fury. “Shut your mouth. She wasn’t a human being—she was a witch!” When Carla just looked at him without betraying any emotion, Odon broke down. “You can’t leave me, Carla!”

“I’m marrying the pigsticker. It’s all arranged. I’d rather sell him my body than sell you my soul, you devil.”

Without saying another word, Odon turned and left. He had not seen Carla or the boy since. He did not even know with what name she had baptized him. Nevertheless, that child meant more to him than the heir that Maud had borne him, for Maud, unlike Carla, had always treated him with disdain and mockery.

Maud was never pleased with him. She hated Elmswick and grumbled constantly about everything. The king’s summons had been a welcome reason to escape his wife.

Whenever he dreamed of Carla, Odon would wake up in a bad mood and try in vain to banish all thoughts of her, their son, and that accursed woman in the forest. On those days, he would surrender utterly to the intoxication of killing, which was always available and seemed to prove he was no coward. Why, he kept asking himself, hadn’t he just denied ever knowing the woman in the forest? How could Carla have known what happened that day? Had someone witnessed the scene? Or had that mute youth, the one he thought he’d beaten to death, survived?

T
he young Henry de Ferrers, who had forbidden William to use hoods, had remained on the mainland for the past three years. William had taken advantage of his absence to try out a hood when manning one of the new falcons, so that he could demonstrate it to his master, old Walkelin.

The Saracen visited him in the mews from time to time and told him what he knew about the use of hoods. As a servant of a high-ranking master, he had not had falcons of his own and had not become particularly familiar with them. But he advised William and Robert as well as he could. He encouraged them to persevere when they were tempted to give up because the hoods did not fit properly, and he tried to remember exactly how they were made. But William figured out how to make the hoods all by himself.

Arrow was a magnificent creature and William’s pride and joy. Not only did he allow himself to be hooded easily, but his bold flying and exceptional reliability enthralled everyone who saw the bird.

“I am convinced that a falcon that has been manned with a hood learns to trust people more quickly,” William told his master one day. “But a hood isn’t just good for training—it’s also good for journeys or for the ride to a hunt. It’s invaluable, because the bird stays calm and doesn’t get frightened by unexpected movements.” William’s eagerness was boundless, and Sir Walkelin gave him and Robert leave to tame another falcon using a hood. After Arrow they “made” Storm, a tempestuous tiercel, to the hood, and
they were more than satisfied with the result. Old de Ferrers was also extremely impressed.

“You called for me, my lord,” exclaimed William as he ran into the hall one day and bowed before Sir Walkelin.

“Get ready for a journey. You and Robert are to accompany me to Ferrières again. We will depart from Ipswich in a few days, and we’ll take Arrow and Storm with us.” De Ferrers grinned at the sight of William’s face turning pale. “Still afraid of the sea, after such a long time?”

“Just that awful sickness,” he said with an attempt at grim humor. “Ipswich? Doesn’t the crossing from there take even longer than from Portsmouth?”

De Ferrers roared with laughter. “Yes, my poor William, that’s right, but there’s nothing to be done now, so just come to terms with it. Perhaps you can get some advice in the port. There are supposed to be some plants that help against seasickness.” De Ferrers laughed again when he saw William’s despairing expression. “You may go now,” he said, dismissing him and shaking his head with amusement.

“And I swore I would never set foot on a ship again,” snorted William when he told Robert about the journey that awaited them.

“We’ll get through this together,” his friend said encouragingly, and he did manage to calm down William a little.

If nothing else, William probably owed Robert his life, for it was certainly thanks to his friend that he had not died during the terrible epidemic. Even if William would have done the same thing for him, as Robert claimed, he still felt in his friend’s debt. “You’re right,” William finally replied, pretending to be firmly convinced.

When they departed a week later, though, his courage had left him.

“I feel weak in my stomach,” he sighed as they approached Ipswich. His mother had once left for Normandy from here, too.
She had been robbed on that occasion, but she had not been nauseated, as she had once proudly told him. “We should try to find something for seasickness; otherwise I don’t know that I’ll be able to survive the passage again.”

Ipswich harbor was swarming with people. On all sides there were peddlers offering all manner of items both useful and useless, like things one might need at sea or on the onward journey, good-luck charms, provisions, herbal medicines, leather bags, wooden spoons, knives. William asked around and got some advice from experienced travelers. Most recommended the little galangal cakes that were being sold by a wrinkled old crone near their ship.

“You should eat some before the journey begins. They’re spicy and a bit different in taste, but apparently they help,” William said, chewing, when he returned and offered his friend one.