The Silver Falcon (22 page)

“He’ll never go hunting again,” her mother had said the night before, weeping and clasping Marguerite in her arms. So her father would never be able to make another bedcover for himself. Never again.

As usual, she had to throw the entire weight of her slight body against the heavy oak door before it creaked open. The room was dark and cool and smelled of sleep. She was used to feeling her way to her bed when she had no light. She gathered up the thick, soft cover. Why did it have to be so heavy? Too heavy for a little girl like her, she thought despondently. She sniffed. She was freezing cold and felt very alone. It was comforting to lay her cheek against the hide bedcover and close her eyes for a moment. Why couldn’t she even remember her father’s face? He was gone, simply extinguished.

Warm tears ran down her cheeks. Reluctantly, she wiped them away with the bedcover. It was marvelously soft and familiar, and yet it was only a small comfort. She had not slept alone the past few nights; she had joined her mother, climbing into the high bed with the heavy curtains. They had snuggled up close to each other, and she had not needed her bedcover. So she would be quite able to do without it.

Marguerite’s eyes had adjusted to the diffuse light in the room, and her gaze fell on the small golden bell hanging from a strip of leather beside her bed. Her father had given it to her a few days before. It was a falcon’s bell. Its ring was loud, but for her father the sound had been like music, for falconry fascinated him more than anything else. She took the strip of leather and hung it around her neck. Then, heartened, she reached for the heavy hide cover and
dragged it behind her out of the room, down the stairs, and to the door. Not until she was there did she try to gather the thick and unwieldy cover into her arms. One corner dropped to the ground, dragged through the soft mud of the courtyard, and almost tripped her up when she stepped on it. Crossing the meadow, she kept stumbling because the bulky blanket prevented her from seeing the ground in front of her.

“What are you doing?” cried her mother in astonishment, hurrying toward her.

“Father must be warm,” said Marguerite. “Will you help me cover him up? It’s so big.”

With tears in her eyes, Alix agreed. “Of course, darling.”

“I shall keep the bell until I’m grown up. Then I shall have falcons, too,” she explained in an almost defiant tone.

“Yes, you will, my little one.” Alix stayed by her husband’s grave for quite a while longer. Marguerite remained at her side, clinging to her mother’s soft, warm hand with her clammy fingers. It had stopped raining, but it was still bitterly cold. Marguerite could hardly feel her feet anymore, and the goose bumps all over her body were beginning to hurt. It was not until one of the servants, on her mother’s signal, began shoveling earth into her father’s grave that she looked up in fright and ran away sobbing.

She ran as fast as she could, though her breath was burning in her chest, and did not stop until she reached her favorite tree. To her it seemed tall, but she had learned by experience that it was easy to climb, for it branched not far from the ground. She had often climbed it, but never very high because her nurse usually warned her off. This time, though, she was alone and she wanted to go to the very top. She wanted to touch the sky, to be closer to her father. He must be there by now, not in that dark, damp grave.

Tears ran down her face. She would never sit in his lap again, listening to his stories, and never again be kissed on the nose by him. She understood that now. Why had he left her alone?

“You’re cruel,” she cried up at the sky, first muted and then louder. “I hate you for going away.”

There was a clap of thunder. Marguerite started with fear, lost her balance, and fell out of the tree.

“Marguerite,” cried her mother, rushing to her. “Are you hurt?”

Marguerite felt a burning pain on her forehead and right knee, but she shook her head bravely. Blood flowed down over her eyebrows, mingling with the tears. “I’m sorry,” she howled. “I didn’t mean it!”

Alix knelt down on the muddy ground, cradled her child in her arms, and rocked her. She was weeping, too, and kissed Marguerite. “It’s not too bad, just a scrape on your forehead,” she told her comfortingly.

“Did you hear the thunder?” Marguerite sobbed. “I’m sure father is angry with me because I cursed him.”

“No, darling, but he doesn’t want you to be sad. Trust me, all is well with him, for he is with God,” she replied gently, rocking Marguerite until she calmed down.

E
nid did not weep or shout when William told her he wanted to turn his back on the forest forever. She just looked helplessly at David and shook her head sadly. No rebuke passed her lips, as she was overcome with anguish and fear.

“Come with me,” William begged her, as he had countless times before. Enid was expecting a child. His child. But she refused to leave the forest.

William knew she feared people and was afraid for David, but his longing for the falcons was too great, and he was wasting away in the solitude of the forest. “But I
have
to go,” he shouted at Enid, louder than he meant to, and stormed out of the hut in a burning rage.

He left the tiny clearing behind him and ran as fast as he could. Just get away, he thought bitterly. He had already been here too long; he had spent a whole year with Enid. Yet his fury gradually subsided as he marched through the forest with his long strides. Once he had left the densest part of the forest behind him, he walked noticeably more slowly. Soon he was just strolling; he went uphill for a while and then climbed the chalk outcrop. From here there was a wonderful view far down the valley.

He had been up here many times in recent months, fondly remembering his falconry dreams. How he missed the proud birds!

William sat down on the moss-covered rock, placed his hand on the warm stone, and stared down. Whenever he observed hunts
from up here, he imagined what it would be like to be part of them. The world of falconers was so much more colorful and attractive than his lonely life in the forest. Every fiber of his body longed for it. He had never intended to spend so long in the forest. If fate had not put Enid in his path, he would have returned to people, and especially falcons, long since.

At first it was Enid’s eager and passionate ways that persuaded him to stay in the forest with her. Later, he realized that she was more to him than just a lover. She was the most unusual person he knew: wild and at the same time shy, like an untamed animal. Mysterious and beautiful, wise and innocent, good-hearted and sometimes ice-cold. Enid was strong willed and yet hungry for affection. Her almost childlike devotion made him feel needed, and her selfless love of David moved him profoundly. She knew so much about the plants and animals of the forest but so little about people’s sensitivities. She simply didn’t understand how sorely he missed falconry.

He sniffed bitterly. Perhaps it really was time to leave. He looked down into the valley and saw a falconer and his assistant. The men were training a bird to a lure.

William thought of Isaac, who, with everything he did, felt physical pain at the loss of his severed hand. He felt a similar anguish himself whenever he thought about the mews. He missed it so badly that it caused him bodily pain. It pierced his chest like a mighty thorn had been embedded there. He didn’t want to—no, he
couldn’t
give up his dreams!

At first he had convinced himself that he could live without hawking, but over time the sense of loss had become simply unbearable.

As dusk fell, William gathered a few dry twigs together and lit a fire. One warm summer evening shortly after his recovery, Enid had shown him how this could be achieved without tinder or flint. Afterward, they had lain with each other, passionately, by the light of the fire.

William groaned out loud. What should he do? How should he decide? He put another branch on the fire and stared into the bright flames. No, he couldn’t just leave Enid and the child behind. If she didn’t come with him, he would have to stay, for better or worse.

Perhaps he could train some more goshawks and then sell them, if nothing else. Even the king owned several of those birds, for one could hunt with falcons only in open terrain; for hunting in the forest, one used goshawks. William had caught and trained a young goshawk that spring.

Hawking with that bird had made him feel a little better, but he did not consider this kind of hunting an art. It served principally to put food on the table. Hunting with falcons, food was secondary; what mattered was the beauty of the high flight.

But he could make money selling goshawks, thus obtaining clothing and food for his family, thought William. Enid’s dress was so old and worn that her naked skin peeped out almost indecently in places. Although he frequently found this arousing, it could not go on. William knew Enid needed him. And the child needed his help, too.

“I’m going to be a father,” he murmured, suddenly moved, and he felt as though he had not understood the full implications until that moment.

For no reason he could fathom, he was sure Enid would bear him a son. Smiling ruefully, he tried to imagine how he would teach the boy everything he knew about birds of prey and hunting. William shook his head. Leave Enid? It was absurd.

“I won’t let you down, Enid,” he murmured decisively.

Enid slammed the door in fury. “Come with me,” William had said and then, when she had refused, he had simply left. She pounded
her fists against the shiny, silver-hued oak in a fit of helpless rage. He couldn’t expect that of her.

Enid’s head felt as if it were going to explode. She hit herself on the forehead with her hand. Sometimes that stubborn skull of hers was crowded with too many things. Words she didn’t say, thoughts she never confided to anyone, and feelings she couldn’t express.

“I…love…you,” she said out loud.
That
was what she had wanted to say to William for a long time. But even if she loved him, she couldn’t just leave the forest. The very thought sent an icy shiver down her spine. The forest was her home. Out of love for William, she might have been able to overcome her fear of people, but she had to think of David, too. He would never be comfortable beyond the forest. People would push him around and say cruel things. Nana had warned her about people often enough. Leaving with David was impossible. Enid let out a long sigh, put her hands together in front of her chest, and closed her eyes. “Please, God, let William come back to me,” she whispered.

The unborn child stirred below her heart. Quickly, she laid her hand on the taut skin of her belly, tapped her fingers lightly, and waited for the child to reply with a kick or two. A wonderful surge of joy flowed through her. Perhaps William was right and the forest wasn’t the best place for her child?

Enid opened the door and looked out. The oppressive heat of the summer’s day hit her. The air smelled of dusty earth and blossom; the sky was gray and overcast. David was crouching in the sparse and withered grass in front of the hut, playing with pebbles like a five-year-old. Enid shook her head sadly. He had the body of a man but the mind of a child, and that would never change.

No, she thought, considering the peaceful scene, it can’t be wrong to want to live here. It’s been good for David and me, and it will be good for our child.

Enid went over to her brother, affectionately stroked his mop of blond hair, and breathed in the heavy air. While the child was
little, she would be as careful as she had been with David to make sure it didn’t put anything poisonous in its mouth. And when it was older, she would teach it to understand animals and plants, for when you were at one with the forest it was akin to paradise. Full of hope, Enid looked out for William, but he did not come.

By evening, a nameless fear was creeping up on her. Had she lost him forever? It wasn’t the first night William had spent in the forest, but he had never left in the middle of a quarrel. She glanced longingly outside again. “Will,” she sighed quietly.

She prepared supper as she did every evening. Whatever happened, David was constantly hungry. He could eat at any time and gobbled down whatever she put in front of him. Enid, on the other hand, was too downcast to feel hungry. She had to force herself to take a couple of spoonfuls of food. The unborn child in her womb shouldn’t have to starve because she had argued with William. She set his dish and cup at his usual place and filled them in the hope that he might yet return.