The Silver Falcon (31 page)

The falconer shuffled reluctantly out to meet them. He smelled of rank stale beer, and his bloodshot eyes were dull and empty. William felt a chill though London had been blessed with a beautiful and warm late autumn day, complete with colorful leaves and sunshine. William knew what fate awaited the falconer, and it made him feel uneasy.

At the sight of the falconer, one of the birds began begging for food.

“Shut your trap,” the man shouted at the hungry creature.

William was horrified. This was not how one behaved with falcons. How could a creature treated like this ever really gain trust? Why should anyone be surprised if the falcon flew away?

“Pack your things and go. You’ve been falconer in my house long enough,” FitzOwen shouted at the man.

“But you can’t do that, master,” the old man whined, grabbing the young merchant’s arm.

“Can’t I, you pathetic old sot? Here are your wages till the end of the week. Now get out,” declared FitzOwen, shaking him off like some annoying parasite and tossing him a couple of coins. “William,” he called as he went. It sounded like someone calling a dog to heel.

William followed him, feeling profoundly uneasy. Had he made the right decision?

“He has abused my generosity for far too long. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

F
itzOwen was as excited as a virgin on her wedding night when he burst into the stables one fine November day. “William, the falcons. We’ve been invited on a very special hunt.”

William looked at his master with puzzlement. It would be dark soon, not exactly the right moment to be setting off on a hunt.

FitzOwen laughed at his young falconer’s bewildered expression. “Not now, William. In a week’s time. The richest merchants in London will be there, along with one of the highest barons in the land.”

“The falcons are in their best form, master, there’s no doubt about it. The female, especially, has developed superbly.”

“Then starve them just enough that they’re hungry and eager for prey. I belong. Finally,” he murmured with satisfaction.

To fly well, as William knew, falcons must be neither too fat nor too thin, and he said nothing in reply to his master’s advice. He would simply do what he thought was right. FitzOwen might be a good merchant, but about hunting and falcons he knew relatively little. If his birds were to be successful in the hunt, it would be best if he gave William free rein.

A few days before the hunt, William was making his way through the crowded market. He had run an errand and was on his way back to FitzOwen’s house. Since he was still saving up for a better future, he was satisfied just to watch the jugglers and musicians entertaining people
in a corner of the market square. He wandered on, paying no heed to the colorful displays. One day he would find a very special falcon, train it to hunt, and then present it to the king. He wouldn’t handle things like his mother and wait for somebody to put in a word for him with the king. No, he would muster his courage and take the initiative himself.

William did not know much about King Richard, only that he was on a crusade, driving the unbelievers out of the holy city of Jerusalem, and that he had taken several falcons with him because he was as besotted with falconry as his father had been before him. William smiled involuntarily at the memory of the dead king and his Blanchpenny. The two falconers who had mocked him at Saint Edmundsbury had been wrong, and Henry had kept his word.

“The cripple has become a falconer, after all,” he murmured to himself proudly. He headed toward a juggler whose jokes were so outrageous that people clutched their bellies and howled with delight. A woman on the other side of the crowd caught William’s attention. That blonde, wavy hair, that slightly bowed back, that gliding walk. William’s heart skipped a beat. Enid! A feeling of incredible happiness poured through him, and the jester was forgotten. Like a man possessed, he forced his way through the people in an effort to reach her. He shoved aside anyone who did not get out of his way fast enough, afraid that he might lose sight of her.

“Enid,” he called. But the woman—who was carrying an infant—seemed not to hear him. She did not even turn around. William deliberately plowed his way through the mass of people. Soon she would disappear into a side street. He raised his hand and called out to her. When he had almost caught up with her, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Oh, Enid,” he cried with relief.

But when the woman turned around, it was not Enid. “What do you think you’re doing?” The young woman tore loose, put her hand protectively on the child’s head, and hurried away.

William stood there, thunderstruck, and watched her go. She looked back one more time, shook her head as if she thought he was mad, and disappeared into the throng.

“Enid,” he whispered to himself. He felt as if he were falling into a deep, dark hole again. He couldn’t think straight. He must have known it couldn’t be Enid, and yet the feeling had been so strong, the hope so great.

The crowd in the market pushed him on. He allowed himself to be driven along until he was standing in front of a small tavern. Here it smelled of ale and oblivion.

“Come on, open the door! What are you waiting for? We’re thirsty, too,” a man called out, and his friends pushed William into the inn.

Before he knew what was happening, he was sitting at a long table, with the sleeves of his coat in the pool of ale left by an overturned jug. For an eternity, he stared at the tankard the serving wench had placed in front of him when he caught her eye. The dark ale smelled bitter and made him salivate. He found it difficult to raise his hand. He moved each finger carefully. The fingers belonged to him, so the hand must, too. Slowly, he reached out his right hand to pick up the tankard, but the man beside him leaned under the table and threw up on William’s left foot. William woke up instantly, as if from a deep sleep. He sprang up, disgusted, and rushed out into the street.

The cool, fresh air that greeted him cleared his head. You should drink ale because you’re thirsty, he said to himself, not to forget. Enid is dead. Gone forever. You buried her and the child with your own hands.

How could he have mistaken that woman for Enid, even if she did look like her? He knew Enid was with God. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he let out a sob of anguish.

Suddenly, he felt a child’s hand slip into his, and a small voice, full of compassion, asked, “Are you hungry, too?”

William looked down and found a little boy gazing up at him with wide eyes. The clothes on his back were no more than rags, his belly was distended, and the spindly bones of his chest and back were clearly visible through his thin skin. William sniffed and shook his head. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, reached for his purse, fished out a few coins, and pressed them into the child’s hand.

He found the little enamel plaque in his right hand and fell to musing. He had known for a long time that it was not a piece of Enid’s jewelry. Did that not leave only one conclusion? Did the plaque belong to her murderer? The thought made William shudder, arousing a feeling of physical illness that almost made him choke. The more he thought about it, the more his certainty grew.

William felt life gradually flowing back into him. He opened his fist and examined the plaque more closely. It was round, made of silver with blue enamel, and it depicted a shiny silver leaf with a finely serrated edge.

William wondered where it could have come from. Decorations of this kind were sometimes found on horses’ tack, but they also appeared on sword scabbards, knife sheaths, and pommels. Everything suggested that more than one man had been present when Enid was murdered. Most likely they had been soldiers, mercenaries perhaps, or else men who called themselves knights but did not behave like them. The plaque could prove their guilt. William’s heart was in his mouth. He would find these men and avenge Enid if it was the last thing he did. His decision made,
he put the plaque back in his purse and returned to FitzOwen’s house.

The few days leading up to the hunt passed quickly. William did his best to suppress his dark thoughts about Enid, which filled his mind even more since his encounter with the woman at the market. He had enough to do to prepare the birds for the hunt.

His assistant, Jack, had taken a while to understand that William expected much more of him than FitzOwen’s previous falconer. William insisted that he clean the falcons’ accommodation daily and that the birds be bathed every day, since it calmed them down and was a good way to make them comfortable around human beings. William had spent a good deal of time getting the birds used to him and had then trained them afresh in the manner Logan had taught him. In this way he’d gained valuable experience. Even if he was exceptionally gifted, he still had a lot to learn, and he knew it. “You learn your whole life long,” his mother used to say.

To be a good falconer, you had to know each bird intimately, its strengths as well as its weaknesses. The secret was to encourage its good instincts and, with great patience, eradicate its bad habits. Almost every day, he and Jack would ride out of the city with the two lanners to train them to the wing lure and figure out which birds they should hunt. Jack learned soon enough what William wanted. He listened carefully and without argument to all his instructions and hurried to carry them out.

On the day before the hunt, FitzOwen came to William to discuss when they should set out.

“May I make a suggestion?” William asked at the end of their conversation.

FitzOwen frowned. “Namely?”

“What you are most looking forward to is the people you will meet, isn’t that right?” William waited until FitzOwen nodded. “If you arrange things skillfully, you are likely to meet influential lords and make some important connections. I think that is more important to you than how your birds fly. Is it not so?”

“You’ve seen through me, William.” FitzOwen laughed encouragingly. “So what do you propose?”

“You are of most interest to the lords when your falcons can impress them, so let me make all the decisions about the hunt. I shall treat you as if you were a baron: I will place the right falcon on your fist at the right moment and give you a sign when it is time to cast it off. That way you will be admired for your falcons and at the same time you will be able to concentrate on the other merchants.”

“You’re very sure of yourself,” said FitzOwen sharply, without immediately reacting to the suggestion.

William did not flinch. “I don’t have the faintest hint of an idea about the kind of trade you do, but when it comes to hawking”—he cleared his throat—“I reckon I’m as skilled as you are as a merchant.”

“I think you’re a cunning little devil more than anything else. You’ve got guts, my boy. So I accept your proposal, but woe betide you if my falcons don’t fly better than all the rest!”

By sunrise the following morning, William and Jack were waiting for their master at the gate, as agreed. The horses were saddled and the falcons ready. William could feel the birds’ agitation; it was as if they could sense that everything depended on this hunt. To calm them, he decided to keep them covered for the moment. Jack carried the tiercel on his fist, and William the more powerful female. As soon as FitzOwen was mounted on his horse, Jack would hand over the tiercel. He was more reliable than the female, which was more easily controlled by William.

The two dogs barked excitedly, and when FitzOwen came out of the house it was obvious that he was just as agitated as the animals. He hurried along the two servants who were to accompany them, for a larger retinue would make him seem more important, and gave the order to leave in an unusually harsh tone. The little group set off, heading west down Watling Street. At every crossroad, more of London’s merchants joined them. They rode past Saint Paul’s and left London by the Ludgate. They were all gorgeously dressed and in high spirits. Even their falconers looked like noblemen. William ignored them disdainfully. Not even King Henry’s falconers had dressed themselves up like that.

“They’ll take me for a poor man or a miser. It looks as though you’re the only falconer who has insisted on wearing his oldest clothes,” FitzOwen growled reproachfully.

William’s dress was appropriate for the hunt. The cloth was clean and of good quality; the color was a plain brown with narrow green trim. William found the other merchants’ falconers, clad as they were in eye-catching red, particularly ridiculous.

The number of riders kept increasing. FitzAilwyn, the mayor of London, had attached himself to them, as had FitzEldred, who was accompanied by Garth and a boy William did not recognize. They nodded to each other amiably and joined the line of riders a short distance away. Outside the city gates, yet more riders joined them: the Earl of Essex, Geoffrey FitzPeter, was accompanied by more than a dozen men on horseback, several ladies, and five falconers, as well as squires, pages, and a pack of ravening hounds and their handlers. Essex, a scion of the lesser nobility, whose family had served the kings of England for more than a generation, had recently become one of the king’s four justices. Richard trusted him and had given him titles and power; he had also given him the task, along with William Briwerre, Hugh Bardolf, and William Marshal, of keeping an eye on his chancellor, William Longchamp, while he was away in the Holy Land.