The Silver Falcon (59 page)

“You are a miserable cheat!” cried William, enraged, turning to face him again. “For a falcon that hasn’t been manned or trained, you demand the kind of price she might fetch if she were made of pure silver! You should be ashamed of yourself. I ought to call the officers.” William pretended to be ill-tempered. Even if he could haggle the man down to half the price he had named, the falcon would still cost as much as three very good horses. Nevertheless, he mentally counted the coins in his purse.

“She’s the finest falcon I’ve ever put up for sale, and she’s worth every penny,” the dealer protested.

“He’s trying to cheat a baron,” William heard somebody say, and the circle of onlookers nodded in agreement.

“You heard that. If you won’t meet me halfway, you’ll have to man and train the falcon yourself before you’ll be able to sell her. And as I’m sure you know, that requires patience and time, not to mention experience. Only the finest feed will do for a bird like this. Otherwise, sooner or later, she’ll fly off. Training her will require at least one assistant, preferably two. But even if you manned her yourself, she wouldn’t be worth half what you’re asking.” William was exaggerating wildly, but that was all part of haggling. “But be
my guest. If you feel up to it and want to wait that long for a sale.” William shrugged his shoulders to feign boredom and made as if to leave again.

Despite the noble bird he was selling, the dealer was rather poorly dressed. The man had probably fallen victim to dice, like so many, or perhaps he was a drinker. If he did not sell fast enough, he threw away more money than the animals brought in.

“Wait, noble sir! I’ll meet you halfway, so you can see I’m a fair man.” The price he now named was lower, but it was still a long way off what William was prepared or, more to the point, able to pay. He knew that a gyrfalcon that had been trained to hunt cranes, herons, or kites could cost as much as fifteen or twenty good horses. So what would a white gyrfalcon like this one be worth? It really would be a gift worthy of a king. Besides, he was enjoying the challenge. So he came straight back with a price of his own, barely half what the dealer had first asked. In order to add weight to his bid, William took out his purse and showed that he had the necessary funds. “That’s all I have—as you can see. So take the money and seal the bargain, or else go on waiting for someone else who will pay more for a bird he can’t fly for himself.”

Grumbling, the dealer scratched his bristly eyebrows, which made him resemble an owl. He postured a little, mumbled something that sounded like a curse, hesitated, and then finally pulled himself together. “Very well. I see you know how to handle a bird like this,” he grunted.

When William returned to their room at the inn with the falcon and saw Marguerite, his conscience pricked him. It was such a touching sight, her sitting there on an unsteady stool with the child in her arms, giving him her full attention. William sighed. He had promised Marguerite cloth for new clothes, and now they would not be able to buy it.

She looked up at him, and his eyes shifted downward guiltily. She did not deserve to be disappointed.

“What a magnificent bird,” Marguerite whispered reverently. “For the king?”

William nodded glumly.

“I’ve been wanting to thank him for a long time for bringing us together,” said Marguerite with a gentle smile. “But tell me, dearest, how did you pay for such an expensive creature?”

“She hasn’t been manned, she was captured wild, and apparently she’s not ready to be trained.”

“A challenge, then,” laughed Marguerite.

“When you hear what I paid for her,” William confessed sheepishly, “you won’t be laughing anymore.”

“You haven’t a penny left, have you?”

William opened his right hand, revealing his last two copper coins.

“For goodness’ sake, you look like bad conscience personified.”

“It’s not enough for the cloth I promised you.”

“Oh, William, you should know me better.” Marguerite held her head to one side and looked at him archly. She went over to her bag and took out a leather purse that clinked when she shook it. “On long journeys I always carry a few coins. It’ll be enough for the cloth.”

“Oh, best of all women, you’re an angel,” William said with relief.

“Well, I’m pretty satisfied with you as a husband, too,” she said ironically, putting away the purse. “Once you’ve trained the falcon and she’s ready to be presented to John, he’ll reward you more than generously. I’m sure he’ll be absolutely delighted and will give you her weight in silver.”

“But I didn’t buy her to be rewarded,” William protested. “I bought her to thank him.”

“I know, my love. You’re far too good to think of your own advantage,” she teased. “Nevertheless, we won’t end up out of
pocket. John loves me like a daughter, and he must think highly of you, too, or he wouldn’t have chosen you as my husband. So why shouldn’t he reward you as generously as any of his other barons?”

William shrugged. He could hardly wait to take home the silver falcon, as he now called her, and start training her.

Once they had bought the cloth for Marguerite, they set off for Roford.

When they arrived, William put the falcon in the mews to recover from the journey. The sand and the perches were clean; the birds were resting.

He was about to shout “Robert,” so that he could show him the gyrfalcon, but then he remembered. Robert was gone. Forever.

William placed the falcon on a block and fastened her leash to the ring. He would have to train her with Humfrid, the older and more experienced of the two assistants. He stroked the bird’s white plumage and thought of John’s father, Henry, and his gyrfalcon.

“You’re much more beautiful, and much more expensive, than she was,” he whispered to her. “What would you think if I named you now, instead of waiting for your first hunt?” He stroked her noble plumage gently. “I think we should call you Blanchpenny. The king’s little fugitive brought me luck once, and since you’ve cost me almost all my silver, it seems a thoroughly appropriate name. Don’t you think?”

That evening, as William came out of the mews, he thought he saw Robert at the spring. His heart began pounding furiously. Hadn’t he made it clear that he didn’t want to see him again? “What are you doing here?” he shouted, striding toward the spring.

“I’m fetching water for the horses, my lord,” the man answered, obviously surprised. When he turned around to ask what was wrong, William saw it was not Robert but one of the stable boys.

“Ah, of course. Yes, do go on,” William muttered. He turned on his heels and walked over to the manor house. He had to forget Robert!

Within the first few days, William made a hood for Blanchpenny so he could man her. He told Humfrid to remove the seeling threads, then carried the unseeled bird around with her special hood on, feeding her the usual tidbits. Finally, he took her outside, too. In this way, he got her accustomed to him.

It took longer to win the trust of this white female than it had with many other birds, for she was particularly wary. But one day things had moved along far enough for William to start training her with Humfrid’s assistance.

He was always helpful and friendly, but neither he nor the other assistants could take Robert’s place. William missed him more and more as each day passed, though he would never have admitted it. Humfrid tried hard, and William had never seen him be rough, but Blanchpenny could not bear him and protested loudly whenever he took her on his fist.

William let her fly to the dragged lure over and over again, and it was soon apparent that she was not only beautiful but also graceful and courageous. Occasionally she was too courageous; one day she hurt herself and could no longer grip with her right foot.

“Please, God in heaven, don’t do this to me,” William pleaded desperately. If Blanchpenny’s foot didn’t heal, she wouldn’t be able to hunt and would no longer be any use as a gift for the king.

Terrified, William applied bandages and herbs, speaking softly to her as he did so.

William had shared with Marguerite his delight in Blanchpenny’s hunting, as well as his satisfaction with her progress and, now, his concern for her, but he still carried on imaginary conversations with Robert. Whenever he caught himself doing this, he felt ashamed and cursed himself for a fool.

After a few days, he bent Blanchpenny’s claws upward, bit by bit, fervently praying that God might be merciful and let the injury heal so that he could go on training her.

Three weeks passed, during which he missed Robert’s calm and support more than ever. There had been no obvious improvement. Blanchpenny’s claws were open now, but she still could not grip with her foot.

One morning, while William was sitting down and eating some cheese for breakfast, a wave of pain flowed through him. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. For some days, his stomach had started burning after only a few mouthfuls, as if he had swallowed fire. He moaned and pushed the bread away. With the best will in the world, he could not swallow any more. He stood up and nodded to Marguerite, ignoring her concerned look.

“Please excuse me,” he murmured and set off for the falconry.

It was concern for Blanchpenny and a guilty conscience about Robert that were making him ill. His stomach felt hard and painful, as if he had swallowed a large rock. He reached for the clay pot on the massive iron shelf and took half a handful of fennel seeds. For some time now he had been chewing them more and more often to combat the pain, and he imagined they gave at least some relief.

When, for the first time since her injury, Blanchpenny stepped onto the glove he used to feed her and reached out for the proffered chick with her right foot, William’s stomach pains disappeared instantly.

“Well done, good girl,” he praised her, rejoicing inwardly and feeling a sense of release. Now at last he could work with her again. The king was on the mainland, busy with an apparently endless war, and probably would not come back to England anytime soon, yet William could hardly wait to get Blanchpenny trained to the point that he could hand her over whenever he wanted.

A
good year had passed since William had witnessed Robert’s shameful deeds at Oakham. Marguerite tried several times to prize the details from him, and one day it all came pouring out.

“I wish I had never seen it. Who knows how long he had been practicing these outrages,” he groaned in despair. “I was disgusted, but also relieved, and that’s what I’m most ashamed of. Odon implied that Robert and you…I didn’t want to believe it, but…” He fell silent for shame.

Marguerite said nothing to end his torment. She just looked at him without saying a word. There was disappointment in her eyes, but also something akin to understanding.

“I find what he does repulsive. It’s a sin and it’s depraved. But even that wasn’t the worst. Robert confessed that he wanted me the way a man might want a woman. I find that incomprehensible and disgusting. I can’t have him around me anymore, much as I want to.” William crumpled. “I miss him terribly and that makes me afraid.” He had often wondered, lately, what would have happened if he had never caught Robert. His friend would have come back without confessing his love, and they would have worked together as before. But would his suspicions about Marguerite have been set aside?

William hid away more and more often, though Marguerite tried everything to distract him. Not even in their bedchamber, when she tried to entice him to lie with her, was he really with her in his thoughts. It was only when little Richard ran to him
and leaped whooping into his arms that William felt light and unburdened.

In the evening, when he emerged from the falconry and Robert’s favorite hound ran up to him, whimpering, disappointment and sadness at his loss rose up in him afresh. The dog had followed him everywhere since Robert left, as if he feared losing William, too.

This particular dog had caused Robert a lot of trouble at first. He had been a sickly whelp, and his survival had come by dint of great effort. Titch, as Robert had named him at birth for his scrawny frame, was neither particularly strong nor a good hunting dog, but he was good-natured and loyal. He patiently tolerated little Richard’s clumsy affections, which consisted of grabbing his fur with his tiny hands, and reminded William of Graybeard, whom he also missed terribly.

In recent months, William had developed a deep furrow between his eyebrows. Sometimes, Marguerite would stroke it and whisper, “I don’t want you to go on being unhappy. Send a messenger to bring back Robert.”

But William could not bring himself to do it.

One evening, William came out of the falconry a little earlier than usual. He was crossing the courtyard when he saw his son crouching on the ground, holding out a kernel of corn to a little sparrow.

“Here, birdie,” he called in his clear childish voice, adopting a honeyed, ingratiating tone. Richard would be a good falconer one day.

The boy suddenly looked up and noticed his father. His earnest little face brightened in a big smile. He staggered up to William like a drunken sailor.