The Silver Falcon (2 page)

L
ook at it go!” cried William with delight, peering openmouthed into the radiant blue autumn sky. In high spirits, he set off in pursuit of the bird. Never letting it out of his sight, he ran across the big meadow. Suddenly he tripped over a molehill and fell flat on his belly. He sat up in the grass and examined his palms, wincing. They were scraped raw and burned like fire.

Despite his best efforts, tears welled up in William’s eyes. He sniffed noisily, blinked for a moment, and then licked the dirt and droplets of blood off his hands before checking his knees. They hurt, too, but at least they were not bleeding. And his wool chausses remained undamaged, too. William breathed a sigh of relief. Nobody would find out about his clumsiness and tease him for it!

He stood up and rested his weight on his right foot. It hurt more than usual, but he gritted his teeth and took a couple of steps. There was no way he was going to let a sprained ankle get the better of him. Ever since he could walk, he had been doing battle with the malformed foot he had been born with. Determined to pay no further heed to the searing pain, he clapped the dust off his clothes and pulled himself together. Although he did not feel the slightest desire to return to his swordsmith mother’s workshop and the chores he loathed, he decided, with a heavy heart, to head home. He looked up again at the place where he had last seen the long, narrow wings and forked tail of the bird he had identified as a red kite.

“Jesus Maria!” he cried.

A falcon had attacked the kite, and the two birds were dropping to earth like stones.

William set off at a run, forgetting the pain in his ankle. His heart was pounding so hard, he could hear the blood rushing through his ears.

The frantic beating of the birds’ wings was audible from a distance. William stopped and watched, breathless, as they fought fiercely. The falcon that had attacked the kite was almost completely white and exceptionally large. William had never seen one like it, and yet it was certainly a falcon: he could tell by the shape of its nostrils. He looked more closely and gasped in awe: it was so beautiful. The small golden bell on its foot tinkled brightly every time it moved. Slender leather thongs dangled from its legs. It had been trained and must have escaped from its master.

William sighed thoughtfully. He had been out and about for a good while that day, but he had not seen a single hunting party. William knew the kite’s sharp beak could be dangerous for the rare white falcon, and he ran his hand through his hair anxiously. No one else was going to come to the falcon’s aid, so it was up to him to save the magnificent beast. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then started running. The falcon’s beak could injure him, too, and even a small scratch could be a death sentence, so he could not simply put himself between the birds. William remembered the knife his mother had made for him a few years before. He was tremendously proud of it. It had brightly colored wavy lines on the blade and was one of the few presents she had ever given him. William always carried it, guarding it like treasure. Just two days ago, he had given it a thorough sharpening. Rapidly drawing it from its sheath, he seized a forked branch and cut it loose. As he hurried toward the two combatants, he stripped off the leaves.

The falcon seemed somewhat weakened now, but it would not release its prey. And the kite fought on, dead tired as it was.

Slowly, William approached the two birds. When he got within reach, he attempted to hold the kite’s head to the ground using the forked stick, while trying not to endanger the white falcon. But the kite defended itself fiercely. William sprang back, impressed, and the stick slipped off.

If you want to save the falcon, you can’t be such a frightened rabbit, he thought, cursing himself. He screwed up his courage and, with his third attempt, managed to catch the kite’s head with the forked stick and hold it to the ground. The falcon saw its chance and delivered the coup de grâce with a powerful bite to the neck.

Once the kite had stopped moving, William threw the stick aside and fell to the ground a short distance away. His hands were damp and shaky, and his heart was racing. He was sorry about the kite, for it, too, was a marvelous bird. But the falcon, with its magnificent off-white plumage, was something quite special and worthy of this intervention. Given the choice, he would have saved both birds. As the falcon stripped the feathers off its prey and filled its crop greedily with the flesh, William examined it more closely. How wonderful it must be to own such a remarkable bird, he thought, falling into a daydream in which he was a falconer training such a specimen.

When the falcon had finally had enough of the carcass, William noticed it was favoring its left leg. It had obviously been hurt in the battle.

“I’ll take you with me and take care of you,” William whispered tenderly. He felt a deep happiness at this stroke of fate. He stood up slowly. The falcon would not allow itself to be caught just like that, so William took off his cloak, crawled over, and covered the bird with it. He wrapped it up so he could lift it carefully. As he did so, he was careful to keep clear of its razor-sharp talons, which projected from the wool like dangerous weapons. He carried the bird respectfully in his outstretched arms. It seemed to get heavier with every step, but William’s joy at his extraordinary catch
buoyed him so he felt as if he were walking on air. His decision to keep the falcon was firm, even if his mother would not accept it. She would undoubtedly say the bird would distract him from his work in the smithy, and she would probably be right, for the work there quite simply did not suit him. He would have to find a place for the falcon where his mother would never find it.

William sighed from the bottom of his soul. The falcon was the fulfillment of a dream that had begun three winters before, when he had been permitted to spend an utterly wonderful afternoon with William Marshal and his falcon, Princess.

Marshal was one of the most important knights in England, and he had been young Henry II’s tutor until the latter’s death. He was not only an exceptionally impressive man but also a favored customer of William’s mother. Her swords were famous far beyond the borders of East Anglia, and she counted several powerful barons among her clients. Some were friendly; others less so. Marshal, whose visit to the smithy that day had been his second, had paid considerably more attention to William than on his first visit, when he had hardly paid him any attention at all.

He had been particularly friendly that afternoon, repeatedly placing his hand affectionately on William’s shoulder and calling him “my boy.” While waiting for the dulled edge of his sword to be made good, he gave William, no doubt out of boredom, an exhaustive account of how to tame falcons—“manning,” he called it—and described in some detail how one trained a falcon to hunt. William was even allowed to hold Princess for a while and was praised by Marshal because he showed himself to be so adept. William had been filled with overwhelming pride that day. He had been eight years old at the time, and birds of prey had been his great, albeit secret, passion ever since.

From then on, he had observed the falconers of the area and watched the noble hunting parties that met near the smithy from time to time. William was eleven now, and he knew a good deal
about falconry, about as much as it was possible to learn without attracting attention. How could he possibly miss an opportunity to capture and keep such a wonderful bird for himself?

Marshal, whom he had warmly admired since that day, would certainly be impressed, thought William proudly, standing up straight. A smile played on his lips as he imagined what it would be like to own his own falcon. A warm glow of happiness came over him and his pace quickened.

When William reached the smithy a short while later, he looked around anxiously. The yard was deserted. William breathed more easily. The others must be inside the house or in the workshop; there was only Graybeard, lying lazily in the autumn sun, warming his old bones. When the old dog noticed him, he wagged his tail limply but did not even lift his head off the ground.

William crossed the yard swiftly. He must not be spotted! He glanced around quickly. To begin with, he would house the falcon in the woodshed. Since it was his job to replenish the woodpile, hardly anyone else came here. Once in front of the storehouse, William carefully slid the heavy bolt aside with his elbow, opened the door with his foot, slipped through, and closed it behind him, finally feeling relief.

Inside, it was almost dark. The few rays of sunlight that penetrated the chinks in the plank walls bathed the interior in diffuse light. William sat down, straddling a stack of wood.

“Let me have a look at your leg,” he murmured, not really knowing what he should do first. The bird was still hidden beneath his cloak, and he was trying to clasp it gently between his thighs when the door opened with a scrape.

“William?”

He recognized his stepfather’s warm, deep voice, but William did not answer. His heart was in his mouth, and sweat spread across his forehead. He hardly dared breathe, as if this would render him invisible.

Perhaps he’ll go away, he thought hopefully, immediately cursing himself as a fool. He must have missed Isaac outside, and Isaac must have noticed him hurrying across the yard with his strange bundle.

William turned around. The sun streaming in through the door blinded him. He blinked and feared for a moment that he would sneeze.

“What are you doing in there?” asked Isaac in a friendly manner, walking in and closing the door almost noiselessly behind him.

It seemed to William that the blood had frozen in his veins, and his shirt was now like ice frozen to his back. “Nothing,” he lied, but he did not feel comfortable doing so. He loved Isaac like a real father, and lying went against his conscience. So he avoided looking into Isaac’s eyes. The falcon’s feet began to scrabble in William’s lap.

“What are you hiding there?” Isaac looked over his stepson’s shoulder and pointed at the cloak with his good arm. His voice took on a sharper tone. “You haven’t been stealing, have you?”

“No, Father!” William raised his head immediately. “Truly I haven’t!” It was too late to keep the falcon a secret from Isaac. Now he could only try to make him an ally.

“I…I found a falcon. Its foot is injured.” William was annoyed that his voice sounded a little thin. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Let me see,” Isaac ordered.

“We’d better leave the cover on until I’ve looked more closely at its foot. If it sees us, it’ll struggle even more,” William explained eagerly. “But you could help me hold it, so I can look.”

Isaac came closer and stroked his stepson’s brown hair. “If you think I can…” He held up the stump of his arm, sighing. A few years before, his left hand and half his forearm had been amputated because of an infected wound. It had taken him a long time to come to terms with this mutilation.

“Of course you can.” William showed Isaac what he needed to do, then examined the falcon. “Its leg is bleeding!” he said, looking anxiously at Isaac. “We should bind it the way Rose did Marie’s arm when she fell off her horse,” William went on, thinking about Rose, the house’s benevolent angel. She had brought up not only William but also Isaac’s daughters by his first marriage, Agnes and Marie, while William’s mother, Ellenweore, took care of Isaac’s smithy. William took one of the canvas strips his mother used to wrap scabbards and tore it in two. He dabbed at the blood with the first, then wound the second around the bird’s leg.

“It would be best if your mother didn’t come here just now,” Isaac observed while William was doing this. “If you want to keep the bird for a while, you’d better find another hiding place for it. And come to the smithy soon, before Ellenweore misses you,” he suggested. “I’m going there now.” He nodded conspiratorially and left the shed.

William breathed a sigh of relief. Isaac wouldn’t give him away! He put the falcon down on a stack of wood, waited for a moment, and removed the cloak.

The falcon shook itself and protested loudly.

“Shh!” William put his finger to his lips, alarmed. “Be quiet! If anyone hears you and gives us away…” he whispered, warning his new friend. He took a couple of steps back.

“Isaac’s right,” he murmured sadly. “I have to go to the smithy or she’ll scold me. But don’t worry. I’ll come back soon—you just have to keep quiet in the meantime.”

That night, his mother was due to harden off the swords she had made in the past few weeks. This was done by quenching the heated iron in a basin of water. It was important that the preparatory work was blemish-free and that the blade did not become brittle because of the sudden cooling. Like most swordsmiths, William’s mother would harden swords only under the total darkness of a new moon. For the whole day leading up to this important
task, which determined whether a blade would be good or useless, she was usually tense and irritable. It would be unwise, therefore, to aggravate her ill humor.

William approached the falcon cautiously and stroked its breast with his finger. The bird’s plumage tensed, and it spread its wings indignantly.

William knew what this meant, and he lowered his hand. It was afraid. It had to get used to him. Anyone who thought birds of prey hunted with men because they were dependent was mistaken. What falcons saw in a falconer was, to begin with, an enemy; later, at best, they saw a useful companion who provided the best food. But they never really took the falconer into their hearts. And yet William was driven by the desire to become a falconer. The birds’ wariness of people made them very difficult to tame, and it was considered a high art to train them to return to their master consistently, despite the freedom they tasted with every flight. Marshal had described it to him so vividly that William’s highest dream was to train the finest falcons in England. It was a perfect ambition for the bastard son of a knight, William had decided, ever since he discovered by chance that his father truly was a knight. He had been unable to find out more, try as he might, for his mother remained stubbornly tight-lipped on the subject. William sighed and thought about the wild sparrow hawk he had captured the previous summer, with the aim of manning and training it. Unfortunately, the bird had disappeared forever into the heavens on its first free flight. For this reason, William was determined to spend sufficient time letting this falcon get used to him before he allowed it to fly.