The Silver Falcon (49 page)

“I told him I would rather become a falconer.”

“You said that to his face, just like that?” The king shook his head in disbelief. It was obvious he could scarcely imagine that William had dared to be so brazen, and he was visibly impressed when William nodded. “Then you were either foolish or very brave. My father was famous for his rages. I feared him my whole life, even though I was his clear favorite.”

“He let me get away with it.” William smiled uncertainly and took a deep breath as he decided to give in to a foolish idea. He simply had to risk everything, cost what it may, so he plucked up his courage and cleared his throat. “That’s why I dare to hope for your consideration, sire. Because I should like to ask you to grant me something.” A chill went through him at the thought of what he was about to do. “I’d like to ask you for Marguerite’s hand.”

William saw that Marguerite had heard, and he saw her flush. Was she glad? Or maybe she was angry?

The king gasped, and William was afraid a tremendous rage would follow, but instead John roared with laughter. The nearby barons stopped talking and looked curiously over at them. Some of them started whispering, and the king suddenly looked at William quite seriously. “I must disappoint you,” he said severely, his voice low. “For the moment you will have to be satisfied with the coin.” Without another word, he stood up, offered Marguerite his arm, and asked her to accompany him. He walked past William without so much as a glance.

Hadn’t King Henry said almost exactly the same thing that day all those years ago? For one irrational moment, he allowed himself to imagine how it would feel to be married to Marguerite, to be able to kiss her whenever he felt like it and on whatever part of her body he chose. He looked around, red faced, but fortunately the other barons had followed the king and were not paying him any attention. Only Marguerite looked back at him briefly, but he did not rightly know how to interpret her look.

With a heavy heart, he went to his allotted place at the lower table and sank onto the bench beside Robert.

During the meal, Marguerite kept her eyes locked on the white tablecloth spread out in front of her.

William could not take his eyes off her; he kept hoping she would eventually look at him. He stared at her as if in a trance, and he ate less than a sparrow. Marguerite, too, managed only a few
crumbs. Was she angry that he had asked the king for her hand? William dared to hope she was eating so little because she was hungry for him and not meat and gravy. His love for her filled him so completely that there was no room in his body for food.

William sighed as he remembered the afternoon, Marguerite’s soft skin, and her supple body, which had trembled at his cautious touch. It was said that the king had many wards, but he was obviously particularly fond of Marguerite, for she spent more time near him than any of the others. The children of nobles who lost their parents before they were old enough to inherit inevitably became royal wards. This worked to the king’s advantage because he could supervise the running of their lands and, at the same time, rake in the income that derived from them. Moreover, the king had the right, provided no marriage had already been arranged, to marry off his wards as he saw fit, which meant they could be used as attractive lures for an alliance. Who knew what the king had in mind for Marguerite? Perhaps William would never see her again, never be alone with her again.

When Robert addressed him, breaking into his troubled thoughts, William started. “What did you say to the king to make him suddenly punish you with his indifference?” he asked with an anxious glance toward the king.

“Please forgive me. I’m tired. I’m going to bed,” William murmured. Then he stood up and left the hall without further explanation.

It had happened with Richard ten years before, and so it was again; the English scarcely had time to fete their king. Barely three weeks after he had stepped on English soil, John set off for the mainland once again. William watched as the king and his retinue readied themselves for departure at daybreak. He was standing near the great hall, behind a mighty oak tree. He had
hardly slept the night before and had gotten up long before dawn. He was now keeping watch, sadly hoping to see Marguerite one last time before she disappeared from his life, perhaps forever.

When at last she came out of the hall and mounted her horse, she seemed downcast. Or was she not thinking about him at all? When her eyes cast about as if searching for him, his heart skipped a beat. He stepped out from behind the oak and shyly waved at her, but Marguerite did not see him. Or perhaps she was ignoring him? She turned her horse around and rode off. The wind tussled her long dark hair. William closed his eyes and almost felt it brushing his face, as it had when he had helped Marguerite down from her horse the day before. He struggled for breath, but his throat and chest were so tight he thought he would suffocate.

When at last he opened his eyes, Marguerite was gone.

F
or the first time in a long while, William was spending Martinmas at Saint Edmundsbury.

Ellenweore embraced him warmly, gripped her son’s shoulders, and looked at him proudly. “You’ve really made something of yourself,” she said, pushing her red locks back under her bonnet. Her hair was less glossy than it had once been because of the gray strands running through it. She’s not getting any younger, thought William. She must be nearly fifty, perhaps even older.

“Where’s your friend Robert?” she asked.

“He couldn’t come. De Ferrers insisted that one of us be available for hunting. And since Robert doesn’t have any family, he wanted me to go. He sends you all his warmest greetings.” William kissed his mother’s cheek. “That kiss is from him. He says he would give anything to have had a mother like you. He lost his when he was young and doesn’t remember her at all.”

Ellenweore shook her head and rubbed her temple with her forefinger, as she was wont to do. “Come inside. The others will be so happy to see you.”

The farmers around the smithy had brought in the harvest, threshed the grain, and filled their sacks with corn so that it could be stored over the winter. The barns were full to the rafters, and people were in the mood to celebrate after all their hard work. On Saint Martin’s Day, masses were said in every church
in England, and the faithful thanked the Lord for a bountiful harvest and prayed for a mild winter.

After mass in the little village church, William, Jean, Isaac, and the other men set off for Saint Edmundsbury to celebrate. They entered the town through the southern gate and headed toward the market square. Here, the town worthies were performing the story of Saint Martin, earning tumultuous applause as they did every year. More and more people seemed to come to the town every year. The huge abbey of Saint Edmundsbury was known beyond the borders of England and attracted large crowds of pilgrims, who wandered through the streets after mass and thronged the taverns, where there was music, dancing, and fun.

William and his companions were looking for diversion, too, and they straggled from tavern to tavern. They drank and laughed, putting aside everyday cares and enjoying the happiness of the moment.

They did not get home until the evening. Rose had prepared a delicious feast, which consisted of a crisp roast goose with roasted chestnuts, a highly spiced sauce, and, in honor of the day, whiter bread than usual. The apprentices and journeymen sat down at the table with their master and mistress and drank Rose’s home-brewed beer.

William’s visit especially thrilled David. He sat beside him, smiling with delight and silently shoveling his food into his mouth with shining eyes. Eventually, he stood up and staggered out into the pitch-black night to relieve himself.

“The amount of beer he’s drunk! He’ll be pissing like a horse,” laughed one of the journeymen; another started coarsely miming the act, and David was soon forgotten. Not even William noticed that he did not come back, for he too had devoted more attention to beer than was good for him. Rose was not only a wonderful cook; she also brewed a splendid, full-flavored ale that sent one’s senses spinning. After a few drained tankards, William was too
drunk to think clearly. He missed Marguerite terribly, so he tried to drown his sorrow and banish all thoughts of her by dancing halfheartedly with the new maid. He sat her on his lap and paid no heed to his mother’s disapproving glance.

The more they ate and drank, the more tired they all became, and they were soon nodding off. One of the smiths simply slid down to the floor, two journeymen curled up together on the bench, and most of the others fell asleep where they sat, resting their heads on the table. At some point, William fell asleep, too.

He woke up the next morning with a furry tongue and aching head that reminded him of the days when he had drunk too much beer too often. “Never again,” he swore to himself, as he had done so many times before; he knew very well that this resolution would not last either. As soon as his head did not ache anymore, such oaths would fall by the wayside. Beer was part of life, as air was part of breathing. Except that one couldn’t get too much air, whereas an excess of beer often had evil effects. William stood up, yawning, and stretched pleasurably.

“You look terrible.” Isaac grinned. He was astonishingly alert, even though he had drunk quite a lot, too. “Where’s David, by the way?” he asked casually, passing William a tankard of beer.

He sniffed it quickly and grimaced with distaste. His stomach threatened to heave at the mere smell.

“You’d better drink something. It’ll soon clear your headache,” Isaac advised him, pointing at the tankard. “One’s enough. Stronger than you think, Rose’s brew.”

William obeyed reluctantly, then remembered Isaac’s question. “Where
is
David?” he repeated croakily, putting his tankard down and looking around.

“I thought he was here with you.” Isaac looked under the table and shook his head. “But he isn’t.”

“The last time I saw him, he was going out to relieve himself. That was last night. I’ll look outside,” he cried anxiously, tearing the door open and rushing out of the house.

It was not long before they found him in a bush behind the house.

“David!” cried William, turning over his lifeless body and kneeling down beside him. He slapped his cheeks in a panic and tried to sit him upright. “Help me, Isaac! He’s fainted!”

Isaac skillfully grabbed David’s legs with his hand and gripped them beneath his one good arm so that they could carry him into the house. “His lips are completely blue with cold. Let’s put him by the fire,” he suggested, once they were inside. Having heard the commotion, Rose came rushing in.

“What’s the matter with him?” She leaned over the lifeless body and felt his forehead. “Good heavens, he’s burning up!”

David wheezed and coughed. He groaned softly but did not wake up.

“The ground froze hard during the night. The boy’s stiff with cold,” Rose observed. “We need to get him in a bed right next to the fire.”

“I shouldn’t have let him go out alone. It’s my fault. I…” William could hardly breathe. “I should have looked after him. Why, Rose? Why am I never there when I’m most needed?” Tears ran down his face.

“The coughing doesn’t sound good, but David’s never been ill before. I’m sure he’ll get better soon.”

“You’re probably right,” said William, hugging her. He knew how much Rose and Jean had taken David into their hearts in the past few years. “I’m sure he’ll be fine soon,” he said, though his instinct told him otherwise.

A few days after they found him, David fell asleep forever. Nothing had helped, not William’s herbal infusions and not
Rose’s loving care. David had started to run a high fever and to cough dreadfully. His body was racked with cramps, and he died without ever really coming to. William stayed by his bedside day and night, praying fervently to the Lord to spare him. But it had not helped.

They buried David in the field behind the smithy. Jean dug out his last resting place, for William did not have the strength. He was too deeply oppressed by the memory of the time he had dug the grave for Enid and the child, and all the pain he had felt then returned now.

Rose wept bitterly, and even Jean kept having to wipe the tears from his face. William knew he had been particularly fond of the boy because he reminded him of Madeleine.

Ellenweore had told William about Madeleine. She was a girl from Jean’s village. They had fled together when robbers burned down all the houses and killed the other villagers. Madeleine had not been simple, like David, but the horrors she had witnessed had left her confused and dependent. Jean felt guilty because, a few years later, he had been unable to prevent her violent death.

“David is with God now,” said Ellenweore, probably hoping to soften William’s pain with her words.

“And with Enid and my child,” he added in a hoarse voice, but the thought gave him little comfort.