The Silver Falcon (5 page)

“Be off with you—you’re making the falcon anxious!” said the younger one pompously, though the bird was not stirring.

“I won’t frighten it, I promise.” William looked at the older one. “Look, master,” he said in a gentle, even tone. “It’s not afraid; its feathers are all fluffed up.”

The older one raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s well observed. Is your father a falconer, too?”

“No, but I shall be one myself one day.”

“I know you,” said the younger one with a sudden frown. “You’re that smith woman’s son. The lame one.” He laughed. “How could a cripple like you, of all people, become a falconer?”

The bird took fright at his loud voice and hopped along the falconer’s arm. The falconer glared at his assistant and turned away.

“Last year I had a sparrow hawk,” said William stubbornly.

“Did you tame it?” asked the older man, scratching his neck.

“No.” William bowed his head sadly. “It flew away.”

“I told you, someone like you is better off as a smith. At least iron doesn’t fly away.” The younger one hooked his thumbs together, grinning, and mimed the flapping of a bird’s wings.

“And I found a white gyrfalcon recently,” said William triumphantly, though without raising his voice.

“A gyrfalcon? And a white one at that?” The falconer looked at him skeptically. “That I don’t believe. They only exist up north, far beyond where England ends.”

“Yes, I did. It had flown away from its master. The king himself came and took it from me. That’s why I’m going to be a falconer, because I took good care of his Blanchpenny,” William boasted, though he knew he was on dangerous ground, since the king had not said that his wish would be granted.

“A cripple for a falconer. Surely you don’t believe the king would allow something so ridiculous. If he really did say that, he was taking you for a fool. Wasn’t he, master?” The young man looked at the older one, hoping for confirmation.

“He’s right. A hunt assistant must be able to run very fast and have stamina besides.”

“But I want to be a falconer, not an assistant!” William protested.

“Do you indeed? Who do you think you are?” the falconer went on. “Everyone begins as an assistant. If you can’t accept that, forget your dream. And now let us get on with our work.”

“May I watch?” asked William contritely.

“As long as you’re quiet and don’t get in the way, I don’t mind.” The falconer gave his assistant a few ill-tempered instructions and paid no further attention to William.

He watched the men attentively, but the older one’s words would not leave him. If running was so important that it would determine whether he could become a falconer, then he would have to practice as long as it took for his foot not to be a handicap anymore.

Y
ou’re doing exceedingly well, my lady,” exclaimed the midwife. “Soon it will be time to push.”

Alix de Hauville had just turned seventeen, and this was her first child. The labor pains demanded her attention for a while, but then her fear of the moment of truth returned. It was very possible that her husband was not the father. What if it was obvious right away? Alix groaned at the thought and allowed herself to be overwhelmed by the next powerful contraction.

“You’re nearly there.” The midwife wiped the sweat from Alix’s brow. Several braziers filled with coal heated the lady’s chamber so that the newborn would not catch a chill. Despite the damp cold outside, the room was comfortably warm.

“I can already feel its little head. Now push with all your might,” the midwife ordered.

Alix could scarcely follow the instructions; she was so afraid of the punishment awaiting her if her sin was found out. She should never have given in to his wooing. She had been weak.

“Good, now once more,” the midwife coaxed.

Richard de Hauville was nearly thirty years older than Alix, and not the man of a young woman’s dreams. Alix had lived in his household since her seventh year, so he was more like a father to her than a husband. Perhaps this was why she was so afraid of disappointing him. She had been married to Richard for two years when she succumbed to Prince John’s youthful charms. He had spent a few days as a guest under their roof earlier that year,
and he had exploited the master’s absence to turn her head. They were about the same age and could laugh about the same silly little things. Was it so surprising that she had ended up in his arms?

Alix groaned. She should never have given herself to the prince. Although she had always patiently tolerated her husband’s exercising of his conjugal rights, she had not fallen pregnant, so he had been particularly glad when he learned she was with child.

Alix could not say why she was so sure the child’s father was Prince John, but it was her very certainty that made her so afraid. The prince had not stayed long enough to arouse suspicion. In fact, no one seemed to have noticed anything. Even John had no idea what she was going through now because of him. At the thought of the child resembling the prince, Alix began to sweat even more. John’s hair was a little darker than his older brother’s and his father’s, but as with all the Plantagenets, it had an unmistakable tinge of red. She, on the other hand, had dark-brown hair and her husband’s was pure black, though the years had woven in a considerable number of silver strands. Alix let out another sigh as she thought about bringing a red-haired child into the world.

“It will soon be over, my lady.”

She felt another spasm coming on. Alix pushed with all her strength, and the child was born.

“It’s a girl,” said the midwife with a hint of regret. “But don’t worry, my lady, you’re young and will have many sons yet,” she added reassuringly, scooping away the remaining muck from the infant’s mouth with her finger. She picked up the little girl by her feet. The newborn gave a full-throated howl. “A robust little girl, just like her father,” the midwife cried with satisfaction.

Alix shivered involuntarily at these words.

The midwife cut the cord, washed the infant, cleaned her nose and ears, and checked every inch of her body. When she lay her down on her front, a frown appeared on the midwife’s forehead. “Most unusual,” she murmured.

Alix sat up a little. “Is there something wrong?”

“All her fingers and toes are there, and her eyes, nose, and ears look as they ought to.” The midwife’s head rocked from side to side. “It’s just her bottom…”

“What is it? Speak up,” begged Alix.

“The cleft between her buttocks is strangely crooked,” said the midwife, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Alix fell back onto her pillow. It was John’s child. A little wistfully, she thought of the handsome prince and his skewed crack, over which they had laughed so heartily. For a brief moment, she was happy the child was his. Then fear took over. God would punish her for her sin. She mouthed an oath.

“Fear not, my lady.” The midwife smiled archly. “A crooked nose would be far worse.”

Alix giggled with relief. The wise woman had no idea how right she was. An obvious resemblance would have been much harder to hide.

“Here, take your daughter in your arms.” The midwife held out the swaddled infant.

Alix looked curiously at the little girl. She had dark downy hair and resembled neither her husband nor John. Would that change? She felt the fear rise up in her again. What if the dense shock of dark hair were to fall out and reddish Plantagenet hair were to grow in its place?

“She has your gentle features, my lady.” The midwife bowed. “Her father’s strength and her mother’s beauty.”

Alix sighed. Perhaps fate would be kind to her, and the secret would never be revealed.

“Your husband.” The midwife dragged her from her gloomy thoughts.

“My dearest.” Richard, who had stepped into the chamber, was obviously rather moved at the sight of his young wife with the infant in her arms.

Alix held her daughter out to him, and he kissed her on the forehead, thus accepting her into the family.

“It’s a girl,” Alix said softly, looking down, not wanting to see her husband’s disappointment in not having a son.

“A girl!” His voice was tender and not even slightly angry. He took the infant uncertainly, inspected her, and then kissed her.

“She’s beautiful, just like you, my darling Alix.” He stroked her cheek tenderly. “We should call her Marguerite, like my late mother,” he suggested, kissing the child’s forehead again.

S
itting in his room, William unwound the filthy bandage, sucking in through his teeth the cold, damp February air. His malformed foot hurt, and the pinky-toe side was bleeding again. The skin on this side was always dry and regularly developed particularly painful cracks. Nevertheless, at night and when he was working in the smithy, William would strap his foot to a narrow wooden board that reached from his heel to his toe. He hoped that this would straighten out his foot over time.

He had been subjecting himself to this torture for weeks, but every step still hurt, for the wooden board chafed against his skin. Standing for hours while he worked was difficult, too. But since he wanted to become a falconer one day, trying to straighten his foot was his only choice. Hopefully one day he would be able to run as fast as other boys his age, perhaps even faster. To prove what he had in him, he would have to last at least as long as other hunt assistants, but that was going to require a bit more effort.

The king’s visit lay several months in the past. William had hoped so hard that a messenger would come, but nothing had happened. And yet he clung to his dream. If the king did not help him, he would handle this on his own. One day everyone would marvel when William would step out in front of the king with his head held high and a magnificent falcon on his fist. His mind made up, he dabbed a slightly rancid-smelling mixture of herb-infused fat on the inside of his foot first and then over the wound. William winced, for the ointment stung. Then he kneaded and
massaged his foot until the blood was flowing properly and the skin turned pink. He pulled at each toe, wiggled his ankle, and finally wrapped a strip of clean bandage around his foot. This was a delicate process: if the binding was too loose, it would come off as he ran; if it was too tight, his foot would start tingling and then go numb, and then running would hurt even more than it did normally.

William pulled his shoe on over the binding and stood up. Dawn was breaking. Everyone else was asleep. Only Rose, who was always the first one up in the morning, met him in the yard.

“You look a little green about the gills. Are you going running again?” she asked anxiously.

William just nodded and ran off.

“I’ll give you a cup of fresh goat milk when you get back—that’ll give you strength for the day,” Rose called after him, keeping her voice down.

William started off along the narrow path at the edge of the forest and then ran behind the sheep pasture and around the wheat field until he reached the hay meadow, at which point he turned around. He did this circuit three times every morning and three times every evening. At first he had only been able to manage one; soon he would increase it to four. His foot was burning particularly hot today. A searing pain shot up his right leg when he stepped on a sharp stone. But giving up was out of the question. Tears of pain and desperation ran down his cheeks, but he ignored them. He paused briefly to catch his breath after his second circuit.

Running felt much harder than usual today. He had hardly slept and found himself short of breath. Had he caught a chill? His head felt as if it were stuffed with down, and his nose itched. Just one more circuit, he urged himself, and finally fulfilled his expectation.

When he got home, he dropped onto the bench, exhausted, and laid his head on the table. “I feel like death,” he groaned.

Rose put the promised cup of warm goat milk down in front of him, as well as some porridge, and looked at him tenderly. “Eat up quickly. You’re late. The others are over there already,” she warned him, stroking his sweaty head affectionately.

When William entered the smithy, he could tell immediately that his mother was furious. He got down to work in silence, careful to avoid her stern gaze.