Ironhand's Daughter (10 page)

Grame scratched at his thick white beard. “Maybe. It will depend on how they structure the contest. If obedience is marked highly you would have a good chance. But speed? The goshawk is lighter and faster than Abby.”

“You surprise me, Grame. I didn't know you understood falconry.”

“Had a gos myself once. Beautiful creature . . . but willful. Lost her in the year before Colden. I take it you're trying to get Abby used to crowds before the tourney?”

“Yes,” answered Sigarni, stroking Abby's sleek head. “They don't seem to bother her. She's baited a few times, but I think she'll perform well. I'll bring her again tomorrow.”

“Is there an entrance fee to this tournament?”

“Yes. One silver penny. I paid it this morning.” Sigarni's expression changed. “The cleric had to get permission from the captain of the tourney to allow me to enter. He wasn't sure if women were permitted to take part.”

Grame chuckled. “Well, it is unusual, girl. They don't understand that Highland women are . . . shall we say different.”

“From what?” she countered.

“From their own timid females,” said Grame. “Their women have no rights. When they marry, all their fortunes become the property of their husbands. They can be beaten, humiliated, and cast aside, with no recourse to the law.”

“That is awful. Why do the women stand for it?”

Grame shrugged. “Habit? God only knows. Their fathers choose their husbands, their husbands dominate their lives. It's a world ruled by men. So, the captain of the tourney allowed your entry? He must be an enlightened man.”

“He was fascinated by Abby. I could tell. He asked me where I got her, and how many kills she had. That sort of thing. He said the Baron would be interested in her.”

Grame said nothing for a moment. Then, “I'm not sure I like the sound of that, Sigarni.”

“Why?”

“You don't come to the Citadel much, do you? No, of course you don't. You sell your skins to the tanner and the furrier, and you buy your supplies—what . . . three times a year?”

“Four times. What does that matter?”

“The Baron is a keen falconer. He will certainly be
interested
in Abby. He may want her for his own.”

“Well, he can't have her,” she said.

Grame smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. “The Baron will have anything he desires. He is the Lord here. My advice is to forget the tourney and take Abby back into the mountains.”

“I paid my silver penny!”

Grame reached into his pouch and produced a coin. “I'll pay that—aye, and gladly.”

“I don't want your money, Grame—though I thank you for the offer. You think he would steal her from me?” Grame nodded. “But how could he do this. By what right?”

“Conquest. You are a clanswoman. You have no rights, save those he allows.”

Sigarni's face darkened. “By God, that is wrong!”

“I don't doubt that by
God
it is wrong. But it is not God who makes the laws here; it is the Baron. I have some business here, but I will be ready to leave by dusk. My wagon is by the north wall, behind the armorer's shop. I'd be pleased to have the company, if you'd like a ride back to Cilfallen.”

“Yes, I would,” said Sigarni. “I'll meet you there at dusk.”

Grame's words both irritated and upset Sigarni. She had wanted to compete, to show Abby's skills to a wider audience, to revel in their approbation. And she wanted to show that a woman could train a hawk as well as any man. Yet Grame was no fool. If he said she was in danger of losing Abby, then she had to listen, and act accordingly. It was unfair, but then life was unfair. If not, then she would have loved Bernt, and he would still be alive.

Sigarni strolled through the crowds and on to Falcon Field, passing the rows of hutches containing the hares to be used in the falcon displays; snared over the past few days, the little beasts would be freed individually to dart and run across the field, seeking escape from the silent killers sent to dispatch them. Abby's golden eyes focused on the cowering creatures. “Not for you, pretty one,” said Sigarni. “Not this time. No applause for my beautiful Abby.”

The cleric was still sitting at his desk on the outer edge of the field, and several falconers were waiting to sign their names, or make their marks on the broad ledger. A cadger had been set close by, hooded falcons sitting on the many perches. All were goshawks. Abby bridled and baited as she saw them, her wings flaring out. “Hush, now,” whispered Sigarni. “Best behavior from you, sweet one.” Behind the cleric she saw the two soldiers who had spoken to her earlier. The big one was no problem, but the shorter man had mean eyes. Beyond them stood the captain of the tourney. She could not remember his name, save that it began with Red, which matched his beard and his complexion.

Taking her place behind the men, she waited her turn. One of the falconers looked closely at Abby. “Fine creature,” he said. “Never thought to see another. Kushir bird, ain't she?”

“Yes.”

“Good killers. Not as fast as my own bird, but she'll come to call a damn sight faster.” Reaching out, he stroked Abby's chest with a broad forefinger. To Sigarni's annoyance Abby allowed this treatment, even seemed to enjoy it.

“Next!” called the cleric. He was ginger-haired and Sigarni remembered him riding with an escort through Cilfallen, taking the census. What was his name? Andred? No . . . Andolph.

The falconer signed his name, paid his silver, and moved away to the cadger to collect his bird. Sigarni stepped forward and Andolph glanced up. “Oh, 'tis you. You've already signed.”

“And now I wish to unsign. I cannot take part after all.”

“I see,” said Andolph, laying down his quill. “I am afraid there are no allowances made for withdrawals. I take it you are seeking your money back?”

“Yes. Why pay for something I cannot do?”

“Why indeed? However, the rules are quite specific. If a falcon becomes ill, or the falconer fails to appear, then his entry fee is forfeit. You see it is the entry fee that creates the ultimate prize.”

“I only signed an hour ago,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Can you not make an exception for a poor mountain girl?”

Andolph blushed. “Well . . . as you say, it was only an hour since.” Reaching into the box at his left hand, he removed a silver penny and handed it to her. Abby baited once more and the little man dropped the coin in Sigarni's palm and snatched his hand away. “I really don't like them,” he confided. “I prefer the hares.”

“Hares were created for sport,” said Sigarni.

Four riders came galloping across the field, their horses' hooves drumming on the hard-packed clay. Abby fluffed up her feathers, but Sigarni held tightly to the flying jesses. The lead horseman, a man dressed all in black, dismounted from the grey stallion, tossing the reins to a second horseman. Sigarni stood silently, for all the men were now waiting, stiff-backed. Even the little cleric had risen from his seat. This then, she knew, must be the Baron. Inwardly Sigarni cursed herself for bothering about the entry fee, for the man was staring intently at Abby. He was a tall man, with sleek black hair drawn back tightly over his brow and tied in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. He sported a thin, trident beard that gleamed as if oiled, and his eyes were large and wood-ash grey, hooded, and bulging from their sockets. His lips were thin, the mouth cruel, thought Sigarni.

“Where did you get the bird?” he asked, the voice so low that it was a moment before Sigarni realized he had spoken.

“A gift from a friend,” she answered him. The other riders dismounted and gathered in close. Sigarni felt hemmed in, but she stood her ground.

“In return for some sexual favor, I don't doubt,” said the Baron, his tone bored. “Ah well, I expect you are here to sell the creature. I'll give you ten guineas for it—assuming you haven't ruined it.”

“She is not ruined, my lord, and she is not for sale,” said Sigarni. “I trained her myself, and was planning to enter the tourney with her.”

The Baron appeared not to notice she had spoken. Turning to the man behind him, he called out, “Ten guineas, if you please, Leofric. I'll reimburse you later. And remind me to speak to the black man next time he visits the town.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the blond rider, fishing in his purse for coins.

Sigarni stepped back. “She is not for sale,” she said, her voice louder than she intended. This time the Baron turned and for the first time looked into her eyes.

“You are a Highlander, aren't you?” he announced.

“I am.”

“There are no noble houses in the Highlands, merely a motley group of inbred savages scraping a living from the mountainsides. The law is simple, woman. A yeoman may raise a goshawk. That is the only bird of prey allowed to those not of noble blood. The bird you hold is not a goshawk; therefore you cannot own the bird. Am I speaking too fast for you? Now take the money and hand the bird to my falconer.”

Sigarni knew that she should obey. It mattered not that it was unfair. Grame was right, the Baron was the law and to deny him would be futile. Yet something flickered deep within her, like the birth of a fire.

“I am of the blood of Gandarin the King,” she said, “and the hawk is mine. Mine to keep, mine to free!” So saying, her arm swept up and she released the jesses. Surprised by the sudden movement, Abby spread her wings and sailed into the air. Not even a glimmer of anger showed on the Baron's face. For several heartbeats no one moved, and all watched the hawk gliding up on the thermals. Then, without speed, almost casually, the Baron's black-gloved fist cracked against the side of Sigarni's face. Half stunned, she staggered back. The Baron moved in. Sigarni lashed out with her foot, aiming for his groin, but her aim was out and she kicked him in the thigh. “Hold her!” said the Baron. She found her arms pinned and recognized the soldiers who had first spoken to her in the market square. The Baron hit her in the stomach, and she doubled forward. His voice echoed through her pain; it was not a raised voice, nor did it contain a hint of emotion. “Stupid woman,” he said. “Now you have forfeited your right to the ten guineas. Any more stupidity and you will face the lash. You understand me? Call the bird!”

Sigarni looked up into the hooded eyes. Her mouth tasted of blood. “Call her yourself,” she said, then spat full in his face. Blood and saliva dripped to his cheek. Taking a black handkerchief from the pocket of his tunic, he slowly wiped the offending drops from his face. “You see,” he said to the gathered men, “with what we are dealing? A people who have no understanding of law, or good manners. They are barbarians, without culture, without breeding.” His hand lashed out in a backward strike that cannoned his knuckles against Sigarni's right cheek. “Call the bird!” he ordered. “And if you spit at me again I will have your tongue cut out!”

Sigarni remained silent. The Baron turned to his falconer, a short, wide-shouldered Lowlander. “Can you call it in?” he asked.

“I'll do my best, my lord,” he answered, moving out onto the open ground with hawking glove aloft. He gave a long, thin whistle. High above, Abby banked and folded her wings into a stoop to dive like an arrow. Some sixty feet from the ground her wings spread again and she leveled out. “She's coming in, sir!” shouted the falconer.

The Baron turned back to Sigarni. “Ten lashes for you, I think, and a night in the cells. Perhaps you will learn from the experience, though I doubt it. You Highlanders never were given to learning from your mistakes. It is what makes you what you are.” Casually he struck her again, left and right, his arm rising and falling with a sickening lack of speed. Sigarni tried to roll her head with the blows, but the soldiers were holding hard to her arms.

And then it happened. No one watching quite understood why. Some blamed confusion in the mind of the hawk, others maintained the woman was a witch, the hawk her familiar. But Abby swept down, past the falconer's outstretched glove and straight toward Sigarni, talons extended for the landing. At that moment the Baron's fist came up to strike the woman again.

“The hawk, my lord!” shouted the falconer.

The Baron turned, arm still raised. Abby's razor-sharp talons tore into his face, hooking into the left eyebrow, raking down through the socket, and tearing out his eye. He screamed as he fell back, the hawk still clinging to his face, her talons embedded in his left cheek. Abby's wings thrashed madly as she tried to free herself. The Baron's hands came up, grabbing the wings and ripping the bird clear. Blood gushed from the face wound. Staggering now, he threw the bird to the ground, and Sigarni watched in horror as one of the riders drew a sword and hacked it through Abby's neck. The wings fluttered against the clay. Men gathered around the Baron, who had fallen to his knees, pressing the palm of his black glove against the now-empty eye socket.

The three riders who had arrived with him half carried him from the field.

The captain of the tourney moved in front of Sigarni. “You'll suffer for that, bitch!” he told her. “The Baron will have your eyes put out with hot coals, your hands and feet hacked off, and then you'll be hung outside the walls in an open cage for the crows to feast on you! But first you'll answer to me!”

Sigarni said nothing as she was dragged away by the soldiers. A crowd had gathered on the edge of the field, but she did not look at them. Holding her head high she stared impassively at the keep ahead, and the double doors of the outer wall. Abby was dead. Had she given her to the Baron, she would still be alive. She saw again the fluttering wings, and the iron sword cleaving down. Tears fell to her cheeks, the salt burning the cut under her eye.