The Silver Falcon (34 page)

T
he trees stretched out their bare branches at Odon like bony fingers. It was mostly elms that grew around Elmswick Castle, hence the name. Their supple wood made excellent bows, wheels, and chairs.

Odon looked up at the dense slate-gray sky. When Dale, his father’s most faithful knight, had come to fetch him, he knew what was about to happen, though he found it difficult to believe. As long as Odon could remember, his father had been a bear of a man—powerful, brutal, ungovernable. But now he was on his deathbed. Odon had always idolized his father, though he never lived up to his father’s expectations. He had never been good enough, strong enough, or brave enough. Now, the demanding old man soon would depart this world. Odon could not bring himself to feel genuine grief, but this much at least was true: his life would change profoundly.

His body tingled with excitement. Odon’s mother had passed away long ago; when his father died he would inherit everything. Gold and silver, the title, the lands—and therefore the power over several villages and their dwellers, eight knights without lands who were obliged to serve him, and thirteen smaller manors whose knightly lords also owed him fealty.

When they reached the dilapidated wooden fortification his father had neglected in recent years, Odon pondered what improvements he would make first. He would build a stone wall, then an accommodation tower; the kitchen had recently been renovated after a fire and, apart from the stables, everything else needed repair.

The damp weather of the past few days had worked its way into every joint in Odon’s body. He rubbed his hands to warm them up. It was high time for him to get down from his horse and allow himself to be pampered by his father’s maidservants.

When they reached the upper bailey, he dismounted and tossed the reins to one of the stable lads. Servants and maids ran up eagerly to greet their lord’s son. Odon nodded at some of them. He had known the older ones since childhood. As a boy, he had feared some of them. Now, though, it was they who did not know whether they should be afraid of him. Odon grinned broadly when they all bowed deeply before him.

“Have a hot bath drawn for me, my little dove,” he ordered one of the younger maids, grabbing her chin and looking hungrily into her eyes. She obviously knew exactly what this meant, for she ran away with a bright-red face, gathering her skirts about her.

Odon roared with laughter and ran his hand through his blond hair complacently. Very few women could resist him. He would soon show the little thing who was the master in this house.

“Take me to my father,” he ordered Dale, who had dismounted in the meantime.

“Yes, my lord,” the knight replied with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

Odon strode after the knight, satisfied that Dale had nonetheless called him “my lord” and not “Master Odon.” Everyone at Elmswick Castle seemed to expect the old man to die soon and his son to inherit.

Once in front of his father’s chamber, he thrust out his chest, flung open the door, and entered. The smell of sickness and death that greeted him made him retch powerfully. The room was dark and filled with smoke. Herbs burned in a charcoal brazier in
a corner, but the air, pregnant with death, was not going to be cleansed by them.

Odon tried to breathe as shallowly as he could so that he did not have to inhale his father’s poisonous breath. He found weakness and sickness profoundly repellent; they frightened him to the core, though he would never have admitted it openly. The thought that he might be ill and in pain one day made him shudder. He approached his father’s bed hesitantly, his legs heavier with every step.

Sir Rotrou of Elmswick held out a scrawny, trembling hand to his son. His fingers look like the gnarled branches outside, Odon observed. He stood there as if unable to walk and could not take even one step closer to his father. He could not even bring himself to take the dying man’s hand to comfort him. Instead, he looked despairingly at Dale.

The old man was racked by a fit of coughing.

“How long has he been like this?” asked Odon, turning his face away with disgust. He rubbed his nose on his sleeve, breathed in his own odor, and felt a little better. This was what life should smell like: sweat, horses, leather, iron, and dirt.

“He’s been near the end for some weeks,” Dale replied, distressed. He seemed more upset by his friend’s illness than Odon. “He can’t even get up to pass water. He doesn’t eat much either. It’s all over for your father. I’ll call for the priest so that he can receive the last rites.” The knight went over to the sick man, took his hand, and held it tightly.

Sir Rotrou’s eyelids fluttered and opened. He tried to say something but failed.

“Your father knows he will die soon. That’s why he wanted me to fetch you. He has some instructions to give you before he commends his soul to the Lord.”

Instructions? Pah! As soon as the old man was dead, Odon would do what he thought best. He needed no instructions. He
looked defiantly at his father, who was breathing stertorously. His gray cheeks had sunken, and his dull eyes had disappeared into their deep and shadowy sockets. His pale, cracked lips were moving feebly. Was he trying to say something, or was he just groaning? Odon wondered dispassionately why the old man didn’t simply give up. Why in God’s name did he torment himself by clinging to his piteous life?

“My son,” the dying man croaked.

“Father.” Odon made a slight bow and with some effort forced a smile. He would have preferred to run away that very moment, out into the woods, where the air was clear and pure instead of stinking of death and suffering.

“Come a little closer,” his father ordered, and Odon obeyed, albeit reluctantly. “De Tracey, stay close to de Tracey. He has a daughter, Maud. The child is an excellent match—she will get lands, the ones bordering on ours. The marriage is as good as agreed, as soon as the girl is old enough.” He broke off, coughing uncontrollably.

At last, some good news, thought Odon, nodding obediently. He still could not bring himself to hold his father’s hand. “You should rest a little,” he said at last. It would probably be a while before the pretty maid would have his bath ready, but Odon was suddenly in a hurry to leave the room.

“I’ll have time enough to rest soon,” Sir Rotrou wheezed, grabbing Odon’s tunic. “Listen to me, while I can still speak.” The old man kept pausing for breath, but he did not let go of Odon’s clothes. “When you are the lord, you must keep a firm grip and have eyes everywhere. Be just, but never show weakness.” After he had told his son in no uncertain terms whom he could trust and whom he should beware, he released him and went limp.

Like letting the air out of an inflated pig’s bladder, thought Odon contemptuously. He stood up and left the exhausted old man alone in his gloomy chamber.

In the kitchen he gave orders for bread and cheese and cold meats to be cut and brought to him, accompanied by a jug of ale, so that he could refresh himself during his bath. Then he ordered all the other maids to leave: only the young one was to stay with him.

A little later, when Odon was standing naked in the half-filled tub, he thought he caught a relieved, even mocking smile on the girl’s face. With a nasty look in his eye, he slid into the water and ordered her to come near.

Once she was standing in front of him, he grabbed her neck, pulled her to him, and pressed a kiss on her lips. She should know right away whom she was dealing with. She would soon forget that smile.

First he ordered her to scrub his back and feet with a brush. When they were hot and red, he got out of the tub, dried himself, and told her to lift up her skirt and lean over the table. It was his right to take her. When she went back to the hall, everyone would know what had happened. Her expression would give it away. Perhaps he would single her out more often in the coming days so that she would find herself expecting his bastard.

Odon closed his eyes, relishing the wonderful sensation of power. As soon as his father was dead, it would accompany him at all times, for then he would be lord of Elmswick.

To Odon’s dismay, his father survived nearly two more weeks. On the day of his death, he even seemed to revive a little. Odon was frustrated. All he could do was sit around waiting, condemned to inactivity, hoping his father would at last be called to his maker. One day it finally happened.

The old man felt that the end was near, so he gathered everyone around him, divided up his possessions, and died. That he left
some gold coins and one of his best swords to the faithful Dale enraged Odon, as did the generous gifts he doled out to the other members of the household. Why the old man’s fur-lined coat should go to the dim-witted steward, of all people, was a mystery to Odon. He would be sent packing first. But he had to carry out the dying man’s wishes. Everyone had heard his last will, so not even the new lord could ignore it.

As soon as the old man had breathed his last, Odon hurried to the cellar and checked the provisions, silverware, and weapons. Then he had his horse saddled and ordered the steward to show him all his lands.

“Shouldn’t you first bury your father and mourn him properly?” the man asked, looking at Odon like a mannerless oaf.

“So that the peasants can cheat me from the very first day?” roared Odon.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the steward replied sheepishly. He bowed and accompanied his new master without another word of disapproval.

W
illiam had been head falconer at Oakham for more than a year. It had not been easy to establish himself, even though he had Robert’s full support. The older assistants, in particular, refused to accept any instructions from the “youngster,” as they called him behind his back, and flouted his orders, thinking they would soon be rid of him. They knew he would not go to Lord Oakham to complain, since that would be an admission that he was not master of his mews. But they were mistaken in their belief that they could simply wear him down.

William and Robert worked like men possessed, carried out the assistants’ duties as well as their own, paying only half their wages in return, and trained de Ferrers’s falcons as if there were no problems in the mews. Although they were on their feet from early in the morning until late at night, hardly sleeping at all, they never complained. William gave every order only once. If it was not followed, he did the work himself. In this way he demonstrated to the assistants that he could manage without them. When at last he threw out the laziest of them, without making much of a fuss about it, and replaced him with an inexperienced but hardworking lad, the others considered their position. From then on, they carried out their duties without complaint.

Melva, who took care of the mews when the falconers were traveling, looked after David as promised. She soon took a shine to him, thanks to his childlike spirit, and David felt as happy at Oakham as if he had never lived anywhere else. He roamed about
with the children and did small jobs for Melva. Most of all, though, he did justice to her cooking.

One morning, Walkelin de Ferrers and his son Henry finally returned after their long absence in the East. Dusty and exhausted from their journey, their clothes ragged and filthy, they rode into the courtyard without prior warning.

News of their arrival spread like wildfire, and soon every member of the family and all the servants had come running.

Sir Walkelin was an imposing man. His small gray eyes gazed out steadily from among many folds. The long scar on his left cheek gave him a certain roughness, in contrast to his otherwise rather dignified appearance, which was heightened by the silver streaks in his dark hair and the embroidered linen robe he wore for the occasion. Sun, wind, and privation had etched deep furrows across his face and neck. One could see from Henry, who took after his father, how good-looking he must have been in his youth. Hugh and Isabella, Henry’s siblings, more closely resembled their late mother.

In both castle and village, the people were joyfully tumultuous thanks to the safe return of father and son and the men in their retinue. It was late summer, but it felt as if spring had arrived again for everyone. The girls made eyes at the best-looking young men even more than usual, laughed even more charmingly, and blushed even more quickly, as if gladness had warmed not only their cheeks but also their hearts.

William and Robert were running across the field back to the mews.

“The head groom’s daughter is making eyes at me,” cried William happily, leaping over a molehill.

“She does it to everyone,” laughed Robert, dropping down onto the grass.

William sat beside him. Robert, saying nothing, chewed on a dry stalk of grass, and William lay on his back and stared into the sky. The clouds rushed across it like a flock of fat, woolly sheep. They were becoming visibly thicker and darker. Suddenly, a strong wind blew up.

“We should go back. There’s going to be a storm soon,” Robert said as he stood and helped up William.

Instead of pulling himself up, William pulled Robert down. Laughing, they rolled across the field, wrestling as they used to when they were boys. Eventually, Robert was straddling William and holding his arms down so that he was almost defenseless. William squirmed and begged dramatically for mercy.