The Silver Falcon (35 page)

Robert’s laughter died. He blushed deeply and jumped up as if he had been sitting on burning coals. “Can we go now?” he muttered, his eyes glued to the ground. He clapped the dust from his clothes and loped off.

William ran after him. What could have made his friend so angry?

The wind blew through his hair, making him shiver. William looked up. There was an unpleasant yellow tone to the dark, menacing gray of the sky.

“Wait, Robert, we won’t get back early enough. What about that hut over there?” he suggested amid the tumult of the rising wind. Robert paid him no mind. By the time William caught up with him, the first fat raindrops were falling. The rumbling of the thunderstorm was approaching faster and faster.

“It used to be a charcoal-burner’s hut,” said Robert, who knew the area very well. “It’s been empty for ages.”

“Let’s seek shelter there.” William overtook him and reached the hut first. He was about to open the door when he heard the high peal of a woman’s laughter.

“Let’s go there instead,” he murmured to Robert, grinning suggestively, and pointed at a woodshed that had been built against the hut’s wall. They opened the rotting door carefully and crept inside.

The roof had a leak, and a thin layer of straw covered the floor. Using their feet, they pushed the straw into two little heaps where the roof seemed sound and silently settled in to wait out the storm. Whenever the wind let up a little, they could hear murmurs and giggles coming from the hut.

Robert’s eyes narrowed. He stood up, pressed his face to the silvery-gray planks, and peered through a gap in the wall. When he did not move for a while, William became curious, too, and crouched down beside him. The rain was falling harder. Water began to drip through the wood, and a puddle formed under the hole in the roof. William hesitated for a moment, then found a narrow crack in the wooden wall and peered through it himself.

There was a small wooden tub in the middle of the hut, and in it, naked as the day she was born, stood a young woman. A man, also naked, was approaching her. His skin was dark, his muscular shoulders broad, his hips narrow, and his buttocks unusually rounded. William had never seen a body like it. It must be the Saracen, one of the infidels who had invaded the Holy Land. Melva had told them about him. Apparently Sir Walkelin had vanquished him in battle and spared his life. Shaking her head with indignation, Melva had made clear to them that he was treated not like a slave but like a guest.

William shared her outrage; he had heard too much about the vileness of the unbelievers, and what he was seeing now confirmed it. He would rush to the girl’s aid immediately. He pressed his eye to the chink in the wall again. But when the girl turned around, he saw that her face showed no fear, only desire.

The Saracen gently washed her naked body with a wet linen cloth, dipping it into the bathtub and letting the water run over her back, her breasts, and her light, downy sex. A heady fragrance of flowers drifted through the crack in the wall, mingling with the scent of rain-soaked earth.

The girl giggled with embarrassment. But the longer the foreigner spent cleaning off the dirt that resulted from her lowly work—his movements gentle, almost reverent—the more relaxed she became. She began to squirm in response to his touch, leaning against him and closing her eyes with pleasure. Tenderly, the dark-skinned man stroked her pale-blonde hair away from her face and kissed her eyelids.

William’s heart was hammering like mad. Robert was also fascinated by the sight. They remained motionless and just continued to stare.

The girl was well nourished, with generous breasts and magnificent broad haunches. As if she were as light as a feather, the Saracen lifted her out of the bathtub and carried her to a mattress covered with a clean cloth. The girl’s pale skin looked like marble next to the man’s oaken hue. He took a small bottle and poured glistening golden oil into his right hand. He spread the liquid between both his hands and then rubbed it into her naked body. Under the Saracen’s gentle caresses, a simple young girl turned into a desirable woman. She glowed with passion as he stroked every inch of her body, writhing sensuously beneath his hands.

Through the cracks in the wall, a heavy, unbelievably arousing fragrance wafted toward them. William inhaled it deeply, closing his eyes appreciatively, and felt an agreeable tugging sensation between his legs. A wave of warmth flooded through him, burning throughout his body like a long-forgotten, pleasurable pain, leaving in its wake a yearning for physical relief.

With Enid he had been wild and frenzied. What he was seeing here, by contrast, was so full of tenderness and reverence that it moved him to the bottom of his soul. The Saracen’s caresses spoke of respect for and homage to not only this woman but all women. Spellbound, William watched the Saracen lie down on top of the girl, embrace her, and then enter her, slowly and cautiously. His movements were gentle and filled with devotion, though he did
not lack passion. This was not a struggle for power, such as William had seen elsewhere, but seemingly an almost sacred union of two people.

William turned away, unable to breathe. The Saracen and the girl could not have known each other for even a day. Yet they behaved as though they trusted each other completely. Like lovers. Like Adam and Eve before the Fall, thought William, suddenly ashamed that he had intruded on their intimacy. Nobody had the right to watch lovers in secret. He stood up, sat down in a different corner, pulled his knees up to his chin, and closed his eyes, but he was too shaken to drive away those inflaming images. They were etched in his memory. He heard Robert stand up, too, then sit on the ground with his back to him. He was breathing heavily. The sight of the naked girl and the physical act of love must have aroused him, too.

For the first time, William realized that they had never spoken about Robert’s love life. Not even when William told him about his life with Enid and her grisly death.

A brilliant light illuminated the shed, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. A voluptuous moan filled the silence that followed.

William jumped up, rushed to the door, and flung it open. He couldn’t stay there another moment.

“Looks as if the rain has slowed down,” he whispered, looking out wildly. “Shall we go?”

Robert nodded vigorously, confusion and excitement written across his face as well.

In silence, and without looking at each other, they ran back to Oakham through the weakening rain.

That evening, William and Robert ate in Sir Walkelin’s hall alongside his guests—neighbors and friends who wanted to welcome the de Ferrerses—for as falconers they were entitled to a place at the lord’s table. When the Saracen took his seat on the bench
opposite William, he was embarrassed and could not bring himself to make eye contact. He only dared to watch the foreigner out of the corner of his eye, and he was surprised to observe the friendly courtesy he showed not only to the nobles but also to the maids, servants, and pages. When the maid who had submitted to him that afternoon placed a large piece of meat and a slice of bread before him, he showed no sign of knowing her. Most men would have slapped her on the buttocks, like a horse, and made a ribald remark. But he nodded to her with faultless politeness and thanked her as if she were a lady, smiling agreeably and revealing white teeth that sparkled like mother-of-pearl.

William was speechless. Had everything he’d heard about Saracens been lies? The dark-skinned man turned to him and introduced himself as Abdul Mustafa Eftaha Mohamedi, from Persia. In slightly halting language, but with carefully chosen words, he asked about William’s and Robert’s duties. He was delighted to hear that they were both falconers, and he questioned them more, explaining that his former master, a Persian prince, had been a keen falconer, too.

At first, William spoke only hesitantly and quietly. The images from the afternoon were still too fresh in his mind, and he felt as if he was blushing with shame the whole time. He was astonished to see Robert’s animation and receptiveness when conversing with the man. He laughed more than usual and listened to the exotic-sounding words with shining eyes. Robert, normally so reserved, was openly delighted by the foreigner’s colorful way of telling stories and his modest, cultivated manner.

The Saracen lavishly praised the beauty of de Ferrers’s newly built hall, though it was clear from his tales of Persia that his master must have lived in a much more magnificent palace. In the East, William learned, the walls of the rich were decorated with gold and enamel rather than the lime wash and paintings of wealthy Englishmen. The Saracen described his homeland in a
way that made it seem comparable in beauty to paradise; he spoke of incredible riches, a wealth of fruits and spices, fabrics laced with gold, the finest medical care, great inventions, and famous thinkers. And yet the foreigner seemed completely comfortable in his new, much colder home. He radiated happiness and contentment, as well as gratitude and common sense.

In no time at all, everyone around him was listening to his words, taking pleasure in his exemplary manners, and admiring the way he spoke of the deeds of Jesus Christ, his new master, to whom he had turned when a crusader had spared his life. William had never heard tales about the Son of God embellished with such inspiration and love, not even in church. Deeply moved by this fascinating personality, not to mention what they had witnessed that afternoon, William and Robert went back to the mews after their meal.

“Isn’t he an extraordinary man?” Robert gushed. “He knows so much, and when he tells a story it’s as if you’re there.”

“Hmm,” replied William absently. In passing, the Saracen had mentioned that in the East, people put leather hoods on falcons to deprive them of their sight while they were being manned. William had sensed that the foreigner, too, found the practice of seeling barbaric, though he had not gone into the matter in any depth.

“Oh, William,” cried Robert, punching him on the arm. “You must admit he’s—”

“I’m going to ask if we can invite him to the mews,” William broke in pensively.

“I thought you couldn’t stand the man. You hardly said a word at the table.”

“There are a couple of things I’d like to ask him.”

“Don’t keep me on the rack, William,” Robert replied impatiently. “What do you want to ask him?”

“I can’t get the hood out of my head.”

“The hood?”

“Didn’t you hear what he said? In the Orient they use hoods for falcons. I want to know how it’s done and what a hood looks like.”

On the day they expected the Saracen in the mews, Robert was very excited indeed. He scurried back and forth, straightened his clothes, ran his hands through his hair constantly, chattered unceasingly, and, finally, without saying a word to William, disappeared into the forest so as not to encounter the man.

He could not get the images from the charcoal-burner’s hut out of his head. The black man’s powerful thighs and his well-rounded buttocks had had more effect on Robert than the girl’s pale and low-slung bottom. The play of muscles beneath the dark, glistening skin had got Robert’s blood up and aroused him in ways that were forbidden and frightening. Why was it not the breasts and sex of a woman that brought lustful thoughts into his head, but the muscular chest and potent member of the Saracen? The priest had once spoken of such aberrations at Sunday mass, declaring them “against nature” and condemning them in the strongest terms. Robert knew that the Lord damned those who opened the door to such thoughts, punishing them with exclusion from paradise and letting them burn in hell.

The night after the thunderstorm, he had dreamed about William. He was naked beside him, and they were touching each other. Aroused and deeply ashamed, Robert had woken up in terror. For fear that William would notice, he had run outside to cool himself off with ice-cold water from the spring. It was the Saracen’s fault; it was the sight of him that had inflamed Robert, opening a door inside him that now he could not shut. He found himself imagining things he would never have thought himself capable of; provocative, deeply shameful images flashed through his head. The Saracen was
desirable, but William was so much more than that. He couldn’t even wrestle with him without getting excited. Never again would he touch him except when their work demanded it.

Robert covered his face with his hands. He was a disgusting monster, and he deserved to burn in hell until the end of time. In fact, the Saracen was probably the devil’s messenger. Robert ran through the forest, bewailing his terrible fate, praying and begging for forgiveness. He swore not to bring down guilt upon himself but knew he wouldn’t succeed. The flame sparked within him by the sight of the Saracen was still glowing. Robert forced himself not to stoke it further with thoughts of William. He knew he was born to suffer all his life, and beyond it in death, and felt eternal shame for it.

He did not go back to the mews until after dark.

“Where have you been?” William snapped. “I thought you wanted to hear what the Saracen had to say about hoods.”

Robert did not answer.