R. L. LaFevers (3 page)

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out, and administered the punishment when they weren't.

It was he and his men who patrolled the forests to keep poachers away.

It was he who set fire to the fields two years ago, burning the villagers' crops and turning houses into charred ash; who had flushed the refugees from the safety of the forest, straight into starvation and the arms of death.

It was he who had caught John Thatcher and brought him forth to be hanged.

Wat had hoped he'd used up all his bad luck yesterday morning, but it wasn't looking that way. Slowly, trying to keep from drawing any attention to his movements, he pulled back into his hiding place.

Lord Sherborne's slightly nasal voice broke through the quiet. "Where did you say you spotted them?"

"They flew in this way, my lord." Hugh dismounted and walked away from the group of men.

Wat watched through the tall grasses as Hugh studied the trees. He knew by the look of satisfaction that crossed the other man's face that he had spotted the small pigeon feathers littering the ground.

"Their nest must be nearby," he muttered. In a wide arc, he circled the clearing, examining the ground at the base of

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each tree, looking for more telltale droppings and feathers. He passed out of sight and Wat held his breath, hoping he wouldn't discover the bird's hollow.

"Aha!" he heard Hugh exclaim with a note of triumph in his voice.

Wat felt a rough hand on the back of his tunic as he was jerked to his feet.

"What are you doing here, boy?" Hugh asked, his rough voice demanding an answer.

"Nothing." Wat looked down at his dangling feet to keep from seeing the harsh accusations in the other man's eyes. "I've done nothing--sir. I was just resting beneath the tree. That's all."

Hugh studied Wat as if he were something disgusting he had managed to step in. "It wasn't you who ate them two plums whose pits we found a way back, was it?"

Wat looked up at Hugh in surprise.

The hunter tightened his grip, and Wat could feel his tunic bunched up around his neck as tight as a hangman's noose.

"Did you think I wouldn't see? It's what I live for. Tracking vermin like you." Hugh shook him for good measure. "That was fruit from his lordship's orchard, wasn't it? Do I need to remind you that's thieving, boy?"

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Wat was saved from answering when Lord Sherborne called out, "What have you caught there, Hugh?"

"Nothing," Hugh called back over his shoulder. "Just a beggar brat that belongs to one of the kitchen maids."

He turned back to Wat. "Come with me and be still, or I'll make you sorry."

Wat had no doubt this was true. He had seen with his own eyes the cruelty and harshness these Normans were capable of. He limped along behind Hugh as they returned to the hunting party. Lord Sherborne ignored him completely, as if he didn't exist. Two of the knights acted as if they would catch Wat's deformities if he got too close, and made the sign of the cross as he passed them.

Placing Wat between himself and one of the other huntsmen, Hugh took up position in front of the horses. At his signal, one of the bowmen knelt and aimed his bow. Bitter disappointment seized Wat as he realized they had found the nest. The bowman loosed the arrow and it soared, straight and true, up into the oak tree.

The assault on the nest brought the female peregrine screeching from the hollow in attack. The moment she cleared the tree, Lord Sherborne released a huge gyrfalcon that had been sitting on his arm. The enormous bird of prey flapped its great wings and launched itself into the air.

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The peregrine was one of the fastest of the falcons and soared high into the air, trying to dodge the larger hawk. When she was nothing but a tiny black dot in the blue sky, she turned, dropping like a stone back toward the earth at breathtaking speed. Looping and swerving, she tried to dodge the gyrfalcon. It was useless. No bird could escape the gyrfalcon's powerful wings. Faster than the eye could see, the larger falcon struck the peregrine from the air with a muffled
thud.
It circled quickly around and caught her in its talons before returning to Sherborne's arm.

"There's my beauty," Lord Sherborne murmured to the falcon as he accepted the dead bird with his left hand. "What a good job you've done." He tossed the lifeless peregrine toward the base of the oak.

Wat was stunned. These men would even snatch the birds from the sky so they could control them. He'd known they were cruel, but these were falcons! Even the Normans had enough sense to prize these birds for their skill and beauty. In fact, they'd passed laws declaring that only nobility was allowed to own them. Why then had they killed such a magnificent bird?

"That's one," Wat heard Hugh mutter under his breath.

Wat heard a distant screech and looked up to see the male

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falcon come to his mate's defense. "No!" Wat yelled. The huntsmen grabbed him by the arm and boxed his ears.

The great gyrfalcon rose once again and went after the small peregrine male. Even with only one good eye, Wat could see he was not the least bit tired from his first kill.

***

Hugh tossed the second dead bird against the base of the oak tree.

He turned to Wat, who stood shocked and numb. Hugh reached out and snatched him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the other huntsmen. "You're small and light." He bent close to Wat and pointed up at the oak tree. "See that hollow up there in the oak? That'll be their nest. I want those nestlings." He shoved Wat toward the tree. "You can get to them easier than most. Or maybe we just care less if you fall." Hugh chuckled at his own cleverness.

Wat stumbled forward, pausing over the bodies of the two falcons. He could scarcely believe them dead, for even now they were proud, noble.

"Why'd you have to kill them?" he whispered, almost to himself.

He flinched as a huge hand came down on the back of his head with a crack. "Don't question your betters! Those

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birds were his lordship's to kill. By the grace of King William, Lord Sherborne owns everything--the birds in the sky, the berries in the brambles, every blade of grass you stand on, even the air you breathe. You live, like those falcons, because he suffers you to live. Although that could change at any time. Like it did with them." Hugh jerked his head toward the falcon bodies.

"Besides," he continued, "the chances of us taming them down were nigh impossible. They'd have attacked us when we went after their young, and those talons of theirs can do serious damage to a man. Now get up there and get me those nestlings."

Staring up at the tree's branches, Wat hesitated. Nothing was safe from these harsh new masters. Nothing could stop them. Certainly not someone as small and weak as himself. But he wanted no part of this. More than anything, he wanted to be strong enough to resist this foul man and refuse to help.

Almost as if sensing his thoughts, Hugh leaned over and put his face close. Wat could see the man's rotting teeth and smell his fetid breath. "If you don't do what I tell you, I'll do the same thing to you that we do to young falcons. You know what that is, don't you?"

Afraid to speak, Wat merely shook his head.

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His voice soft and gentle, as if he were describing something wondrous to behold, he said, "We sew their eyes shut."

Wat tried to pull away from this horror, but Hugh held tight and kept talking in his soft gentle voice. "We've got to break their spirit, see? We have to teach them that they live by our grace. Just like we did with you villagers.

"So we sew their eyes shut. Blind them to the world around them. They're too young to fly, and without flight or sight, they're helpless. All ours for the taking. And the breaking." Hugh laughed at his own little rhyme.

Wat felt any fight he might have had in him flee at this hideous threat. He thought of the needle being put to his flesh, of the darkness that would follow as his eye was permanently sealed. He shuddered. Without sight in either eye ...his mind skittered away from that thought. He would do anything to save himself from that fate. And Hugh knew it.

Wat grasped the coarse burlap bag that Hugh held out to him, then took a reluctant step toward the tree. Hugh gave Wat a rough boost up to the first branch and stepped back.

With his heart sitting like a stone in his chest, Wat began climbing upward, using his arms to pull himself from branch to branch. His mind spun in circles as he hoped that

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some answer or solution would come to him, but none did. In the end he had no choice but to fetch the nestlings.

When he drew even with the hollow, he jiggled the branch to test its sturdiness, then hoisted himself onto it. He risked a look down, then wished he hadn't. It was even farther than he had thought. He turned his attention back to the small hollow in the tree and peered in at the young peregrines.

They were two of the oddest-looking creatures he'd ever seen, especially when compared to their sleek parents. They were scrawny and awkward, like very bony, plucked chickens that had been re-covered in white fluff. They sat on some odd bits of straw and leaves, their dark, keen eyes watching his approach warily.

As he reached into the nest, the birds became a hissing, spitting mass of tiny sharp talons and vicious little beaks. Wat jerked his hand back in surprise. They were defending themselves! Against him!

"Don't stand there gawking! Bring 'em down," Hugh called out.

Trying to avoid the needle-sharp talons and beaks that were doing their best to rip his hands to shreds, Wat reached into the hollow. He grabbed the closest bird and popped it into the sack, trying to ignore the fierce pain that shot

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through him when its talons made contact with his hand. The second bird put up just as big a fight, and by the time he had them both in the sack, blood was oozing from the rips and tears in his hand.

He shifted his weight and began the climb down. The two small birds in the bag were surprisingly heavy, and Wat had to struggle to keep his footing while hanging on to the bag. He reached the lowest branch of the tree, and before he even stepped onto the ground, Hugh grabbed the bag from his hands. Wat dropped to the ground empty-handed, wincing slightly as his bad foot made contact.

"For your help today, I'll say nothing to the lord of your stealing his fruit. But I've got my eyes on you, boy. And you'd better not let me catch you in the forest again. You're up to no good here. I can smell it." He winked one of his small piggish eyes at Wat, then turned and headed back to the hunting party.

Wat stood, still as stone, his anger and frustration nearly choking him as he watched them ride out of the clearing. The one thing he didn't need was one more person trying to make his life unbearable. Ralph and the village bullies were already doing a fine job of it. The thought of Hugh watching him, tracking him, made Wat's stomach pitch and roll.

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Trapped. He was as trapped as those nestlings. There was no place for him to go. The village wasn't safe, not with its taunting and bullies. Men who had no sense of what it offered had just taken the forest from him. Was his life to be spent in one long endless span of lurking in the shadows of the stable? Waiting for his mother to bring him scraps when she could? Raking out muck for all eternity?

He turned and looked at the motionless falcons, lying on the ground. Grief at the senseless loss of their life welled up inside him. He knelt down and pulled them into his lap. Stroking their soft slate gray feathers, he studied them, committing their form, their color, the very majesty of their being to his memory. It was the only thing he could think of to honor their passing.

When he could think of no more tributes or farewells to whisper, he gently laid the birds on the ground and turned toward the tree. Using his bare and bleeding hands, he dug deep into the dark, loamy earth, ignoring the new scrapes that appeared. Hot tears watered the ground where he worked, but he didn't stop until the grave was big enough and deep enough for the two birds to lie side by side, as they had died.

He carefully laid the two peregrines in the ground. He thought of their courage and strength, their fierce pride.

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How they had died fighting, even against overwhelming odds. They had not hidden in the shadows; they had not run from their enemies. They had met their fate head-on. Wat hesitated for a moment, then plucked one flight feather from each bird.

As he held the feathers, his hands tingled and a sharp pain jolted through his head. The light around him suddenly grew brighter, clearer. He closed his eyes to let the pain pass, and when he opened them again, everything seemed normal once more. He shook it off. Hunger, fatigue, anger. All of these could make one's head swim. All of them together were sure to.

He looked back down at the birds in the grave he had prepared for them. He would learn from these birds. He would use these feathers to remind him of their strength, and he would try to be strong, like them. He tore a strip of cloth from his tunic, wrapped the feathers together, and then wove them into a side lock of his hair.

Reaching out for a handful of dirt, Wat sprinkled the earth over the falcons' bodies, repeating the process until they were completely buried. Standing, he tamped the ground hard with his foot, wanting to make sure they stayed covered. Staring at the small grave he had fashioned, he dropped to his knees and promised, "I will always remember."