The Silver Falcon (57 page)

“Certainly,” William muttered, thrown off balance. The idea that anything more than friendship bound Robert and Marguerite was absurd. Robert might have loved Marguerite, but the other way around?

“So what are you waiting for? Why don’t you start looking for him. Maybe he went back to Oakham. We could stay with de Ferrers on our way to Saint Edmundsbury,” Marguerite suggested. Fresh suspicion rose up in William. Why did she keep asking about Robert? After their wedding, Odon had used his insinuations to open the door to mistrust in William’s heart, and now he couldn’t close it, try as he might. The suspicion that Odon might
possibly have spoken the truth had struck home like an arrow and poisoned his thoughts.

“No, we won’t do that. That’s enough. Don’t talk about him anymore,” he commanded harshly, leaving her standing there. He strode away and did not return to their bedchamber until Marguerite was already asleep.

He undressed, lay down beside her, and blew out the candle. He stared into the darkness for a long time before finally falling asleep. Images of the dungeon at Thorne mingled in his mind with memories of Robert. He tossed and turned in bed and awoke bathed in sweat. He lay there, greatly distressed, and thought about loyalty and friendship. Losing Robert affected him more deeply than he cared to admit and heightened his fear of losing Marguerite.

The sun rose, and the first rays pierced the slits in the shutters, bathing the room in soft light.

Marguerite woke up and stretched. “Sleep well?” she asked, kissing William’s cheek. “Ugh, you’re scratchy!” She rubbed his fresh stubble and laughed.

William took her in his arms and held her tightly, as if by doing so he could prevent her from slipping away from him, and all of a sudden everything that had been burdening his soul for so long came pouring out.

“He was my son, too,” sobbed William, once he had finished telling the story of Enid’s death and their child’s gruesome end. “He was so tiny, much smaller than Richard was when he was born, so sweet and innocent.” William clung to Marguerite like a drowning man. “There’s nothing I fear more than losing you and Richard.”

“I know, my love.” She rocked him in her arms like a child, kissing him tenderly. She whispered in his ear, “Let’s set off for Saint Edmundsbury soon. The change will do you good, and so will being near the people you love.”

W
illiam had insisted they wear ordinary clothes so that they could travel without a retinue and avoid the risk of being attacked. The mild weather allowed them to make good progress, and William felt more at ease the closer they got to Saint Edmundsbury. No longer burdened by the pressure to become a smith, he could think of nothing lovelier than returning home. He could hardly wait, and he was full of pride about being able to show his mother, and especially Isaac, their long-awaited grandchild.

William enjoyed the ride through newly awakening nature. He held his son close to his body, keeping him warm and safe. “You’ll see, little one, Rose smells of flour and delicious pies,” he whispered, kissing the child’s tiny, cold nose.

A few days later as they rode into the smithy yard, William’s heart began to race furiously. He paused for a moment and took in the tranquil setting, trying to preserve it in his memory. He slipped down off his horse; dismounting with a child on his arm was no harder than dismounting with a hawk on his fist. Once Marguerite had likewise dismounted, he handed the child to her, tied up the horses, and led her to the smithy.

But what was this? The workshop was silent. Something was wrong. He opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. There was no fire in any of the forges and no smith at any of the anvils. Fear crept over William.

Marguerite had come into the smithy behind him and was looking at him questioningly when he turned around.

“Something must have happened.” He left her there and ran over to the house.

They were all gathered in Ellenweore and Isaac’s room; Rose and Jean, Peter and the other smiths, the assistants, and all their children were silently crowded in. Ellenweore sat on the edge of the pallet on which the gray and hollowed-out Isaac was laid out.

Someone had wound a garland of roses around his remaining hand.

When William came in and saw his mother’s red-rimmed eyes, he guessed he had arrived too late. “Is he dead?”

“He was very ill, my lamb,” Rose told him gently, spreading her arms to embrace him.

William wept like a child, breathing in her familiar scent. He could hear Ellenweore sobbing. It pained him to think that his mother was suffering. William untangled himself from Rose, went to Ellenweore, and embraced her. Tenderly, he kissed her now-gray hair. Although she was still very strong, she had aged more in the past two years than he had expected.

Isaac looked strangely unfamiliar. “Father,” said William, laboring to get the word out. He leaned down and kissed Isaac’s colorless, cold cheek. He fell to his knees by the pallet, pressed his head into the bedclothes, and wept heartrending tears. “I brought you your grandson,” he sobbed, “and my wife. Look how beautiful she is!” It was as if William thought he could bring Isaac back to life with his words.

After a long while, he stood up, went out of the room, and brought in Marguerite.

“This is Marguerite,” he said by way of introduction, and Marguerite curtsied deeply, as if she were not the daughter of a baron and her mother-in-law were not just a swordsmith.

Ellenweore stood up and looked deeply into her eyes, as if she could see into her daughter-in-law’s soul. Then she saw the child, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“He looks like you,” William said softly.

Ellenweore embraced her son, stroked Marguerite’s hair, and reached out for her grandson’s little hand.

The smiths and assistants, Jean, Rose, and the children all left the small room one by one. They shook Ellenweore and William by the hand and murmured their condolences.

Henry walked past William with tear-filled eyes and gave him a hostile look. “You’ve come just in time, haven’t you? But the smithy is mine, do you hear? He was
my
father!”

“Isaac was a fine man,” said William through gritted teeth. “You’ll be a worthy successor to him. I’m not here to dispute your inheritance.”

Henry nodded sheepishly and left.

William asked to be left alone with Isaac for a moment and left Marguerite in Ellenweore’s care. He sat down beside his stepfather’s deathbed and prayed.

“You would have been the best grandfather a child could ask for,” he whispered after a silent prayer, suppressing a sob. “The boy’s name is Richard Isaac, after Marguerite’s father and mine.” He crossed himself, stood up, and went out to join the others.

Isaac was buried the same day, next to poor David and not far from the shed where William had hidden the king’s falcon all those years ago. The memory of that day made him sob again. Isaac had always been on William’s side. Even if he was old enough now and did not need anyone to speak for him, he still missed Isaac’s fatherly advice.

Once the grave had been covered with the last shovelful of earth, William and Ellenweore stayed behind while the others went back to the house.

William cleared his throat. “Henry will be old enough to take over the smithy soon.”

Ellenweore nodded. “He’s doing well. Still, I hope he’ll be glad to have me beside him for a few years yet. The day will come
when I’m too old for hard work.” She stroked her son’s arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry, William, you’ll inherit the smithy at Orford eventually.”

William was still looking down at the dark earth covering Isaac’s grave. “I know, Mother.” He already owned enough land, and he did not need the smithy, but he did love Orford.

“I’m so proud of you, William. Isaac would have been very happy to see you with a wife and child. You stole his heart from the very beginning, and he loved you as he loved Henry.”

“I know, Mother,” William replied soothingly. “Come, let us join the others in the house.” He offered her his arm and led her away.

“Do you still want to know who your real father was?” Ellenweore asked quietly and almost fearfully.

William hesitated for a moment. All these years he had hoped she would tell him, but now it didn’t seem important. “No, Mother. Isaac was the only father I ever had. Nothing else matters.”

“Indeed,” she said, visibly relieved.

Back at the house, they joined the others at the big table. Rose and her helpers had prepared a variety of meats, cakes, and sauces, as was customary, and now they all ate together.

After a few tankards of ale, the mood became more relaxed, and Peter told the story of when Ellenweore first entered Isaac’s smithy. Everyone laughed when they heard that Isaac had believed a woman’s place was at the hearth, not the forge.

“Isaac wasn’t always right, and he soon saw his mistake. Fortunately. Whether it was because your mother was a good smith or a bad cook, we’ll never know,” Jean joked. This earned him a furious look from Ellenweore, which he returned with a fat kiss on the cheek. “You’re the finest woman smith in the kingdom. You know how much we all admire you, even our young baron here. Isn’t that right, my lord?”

“My lord?” Ellenweore looked at her son with a frown.

William cleared his throat with embarrassment.

“Yes, dear. William explained it to me earlier. He’s a proper lord now. This young lady here hasn’t just given him a healthy son—she also brought a fine piece of land into the marriage, complete with a falconry, where he tends the king’s hawks. And on top of all that, it seems to me, the lucky fellow also gets a heart full of love from her.”

Ellenweore looked at Marguerite, who flushed with embarrassment, and then at William. “A lady,” she murmured, and William feared she might reject Marguerite for that reason, but Ellenweore smiled at her kindly. “A lady she may be, but I can see she’s above all a good girl. I could see it in her eyes immediately,” she said, touching her daughter-in-law’s arm.

In her eyes. Like with falcons, thought William, touched by his mother’s words.

“And she can clean vegetables, too,” laughed Ellenweore. Then she turned serious again. “I’m glad you brought her here and grateful that I can hold your son in my arms.” Ellenweore took a deep breath, wiping away a tear. “If only Isaac had lived to do the same. He always said you would bring him a grandchild one day.”

William put his arm around his mother and drew her to him.

Rose sniffled, stood up, and put the child in Ellenweore’s arms. She had been rocking him the whole time. “I’d better get the next pie out of the oven.”

Ellenweore rocked the boy, tickled his throat, and kissed his cheek lightly. “Ugh, his swaddling cloth is full,” she protested. “So that’s why you handed him over, is it, Rose?” She held her nose, and when everyone laughed, she joined them.

Leaving Saint Edmundsbury a few days later was particularly hard for William this time. His mother seemed overworked. The day after Isaac died, she was back in the smithy.

William wondered about her health. Would she save her strength, or would she overreach herself? How many more times would he be able to sit at table with her and talk? Would his son be able to visit Saint Edmundsbury often enough to remember Ellenweore?

Isaac’s death left a big gap, so they tried to persuade William to stay for a while. But he refused.

“We need to get back to Roford. I have to take care of the falcons,” he told his mother while they were alone together in the workshop, cleaning Isaac’s tools.

“What happened to Robert? Did he stay in Oakham, or did he go with you?” she asked. She obviously had not noticed that Robert’s name had gone unmentioned during their stay.

“He worked for me, yes, but he went away.”

“It felt to me as though you couldn’t ask for a better friend. What happened?”

“I don’t know. He left. One day he was there—the next day he wasn’t,” murmured William. He explained that he suspected Robert of being in love with Marguerite and believed that Robert had disappeared for that reason. He had never spoken so intimately with his mother before.

“I was afraid of losing her. That’s why I didn’t go after him,” he said finally, filled with shame.

“Love sometimes leads us down strange paths, and it punishes the unhappy lover most cruelly.” She touched William’s arm with her rough, powerful hand. It had liver spots he had never noticed before.

William nodded uncomfortably, scratching the ground with his foot as he used to when he was a boy. Perhaps it was true that Robert was suffering the most. But what if Marguerite was pining for him, too? The old jealousy started gnawing at his heart again.

Ellenweore was sorting Isaac’s tools and placing them in their holders on the wall. “Hopeless love is painful. It can drive people to do bad things. You can’t understand that. You’ve got the woman you
love, after all. Have you ever asked yourself what kind of sacrifice you would have been willing to make if the king had married her off to someone else? Sometimes a particular love is impossible.” She thought for a moment. “But even if it’s against all the rules, if it simply cannot be, for whatever reason, it’s never a bad thing as long as it comes from the heart, is pure, and is ready to relinquish everything.”