The Silver Falcon (61 page)

William told one of his knights to find the steward and ask where they should pitch their tent. He asked Robert to take care of the accommodation of the falcons. Until his marriage, William had never had to think about arrangements of this kind, but he was a master now, even though he was still getting used to giving
orders and having around him young men like this knight, who hoped for nothing more than the chance to defend him or his wife.

William held his son in his left arm and offered Marguerite his right. He led her up a massive external stairway and into the tower.

Richard wriggled and wanted to walk, but a severe look from his father immediately stilled his urge to rebel. He stuck his index finger in his mouth and turned to look over William’s shoulder.

A dense mass of guests and servants was going up and down the stairs, making the wood creak and groan worryingly.

“I’m so excited,” Marguerite murmured happily. “Christmas at court is wonderful, believe me.”

When they came into the great hall, which was decorated all over with ivy, mistletoe, and other greenery and smelled of cinnamon and spiced wine, William felt weak with excitement.

England’s mightiest barons, dressed in much more magnificent clothes than his own, with fur-lined cloaks and precious swords, stood around in small clumps, drinking wine and chatting merrily. William knew, from his mother’s stories, that most of them had known each other since childhood; many were brought up together as pages and squires before receiving their knighthoods, and most of them were related, either by blood or by marriage.

“Put Richard down. I’ll hold his hand, so you can shake hands anytime you need to,” Marguerite murmured, and William obeyed. Richard wanted to tear off immediately, but Marguerite was too quick for him. “Don’t you dare run away,” she whispered, looking severely at her son.

Richard nodded like a good boy and stared at his mother with wide eyes.

Whereas Marguerite was obviously quite at ease, greeting this or that baron with a radiant smile, William was overcome with the familiar feeling of not belonging. Who was going to shake his hand? He had certainly met some of the guests and had been
introduced to them as de Ferrers’s falconer, but it was unlikely that any of them would remember.

His heart raced, but he led his wife on with his head held high, pushing his way through the crowd until he reached John’s throne.

The king, glad to see them, stood up and embraced Marguerite for a long time. He laid a hand on William’s arm as he bowed deeply. Some of the barons whispered among themselves, probably asking their neighbors why the king showed William such favor.

Queen Isabelle, too, greeted Marguerite joyfully. She smiled graciously at young Richard and held out her arms to take him. But John beat her to it and raised the boy high in the air.

William held his breath anxiously. Normally, his son screamed with all his might and struggled whenever a stranger picked him up.

John looked intently, but not unkindly, at Richard. Despite the finger in his mouth, the child smiled and used his free hand to feel the sparkling jewels on the king’s robe. John grinned with satisfaction and started tickling the boy until he turned away and gurgled with pleasure.

“A fine young fellow,” he told the proud parents. “What’s his name?”

“Richard,” replied Marguerite. “After my father.”

“Excellent.” John smiled contentedly.

“Guillaume!” The king called Marshal by his Norman name. “Look at this splendid boy!” He lifted up Richard and then handed him back to Marguerite.

“Marguerite, how lovely to see you and your husband here,” Marshal said, clapping William on the shoulder.

William flushed. Although he had spent days discussing the ways of the court with Marguerite, he now found he did not know how to address Marshal. He was a baron, too, now, albeit of lesser rank, and had to observe the rules. “The pleasure is entirely ours, Sir William.”

“William, just William,” Marshal corrected him kindly, showing William that he now considered him his friend and equal.

William heard the whispering start up again and smiled at him shyly. “William,” he said quietly.

“Have you brought my falcons, William of Roford?” asked the king with mock severity, obviously unhappy not to be the center of attention.

“Yes, my lord, and not only them,” William quickly replied. “I have a present for you, too. Will you permit me to leave for a moment?”

“Make haste! I love presents, and I’m an impatient man,” he said, laughing.

This time William did not have to push through the crowd; a path silently opened in front of him. He rushed down the wooden stairs on the outside of the tower and looked for Robert.

“Blanchpenny!” he shouted, long before he reached him. “Give me Blanchpenny!”

Robert untied the leash from the high rail he had set up for the falcons, hurriedly slipped on a glove, and handed Blanchpenny to William. She was wearing a hood so that the journey would be less tiring. William took it off so that he could carry her into the hall unhooded. Very few people knew the uses and advantages of hoods, and William had already been mocked more than once because of his enthusiasm for them. They would probably not catch on until kings had their birds trained with them, recognized their benefits, and publicly endorsed them.

Once Blanchpenny was standing on his fist, he held her jesses firmly in his left hand and gently stroked her breast with the other. He spoke softly to reassure her and walked back to the tower with confident ease.

When he reentered the hall with the magnificent gyrfalcon on his fist, the crowd parted for him again. This time, though, an admiring murmur spread across the room. William walked up to
the king. He felt as though he were walking on air. His mother must have felt like this when she gave the sword Runedur to the young King Henry, John’s older brother. She had told him the story many times, describing how terribly excited and yet, at the same time, extraordinarily calm she had felt. William desperately hoped he appeared more composed than he felt.

“Sire.” He bowed before King John. “This is Blanchpenny.”

“Blanchpenny? That was the name of my father’s favorite falcon,” he said, not without emotion, and approached. He examined the falcon, his eyes wide with delight. It was not hard to see how much he liked what he saw.

“She earned me a coin from your father, which I refused, and I asked him if I could be a falconer instead.” William smiled and was surprised to see Marshal smiling, too, as if he already knew the story. “Today, sire, it is my turn to give you something. To thank you for allowing me to marry your ward.” William offered John a glove so that he could hold the falcon himself. “I hope you will accept my gift.” He bowed deeply.

“Did you train her?” John asked, trying to sound severe, but obviously too delighted for William to feel anxious.

“Yes, sire,” he replied without hesitation. “And I promise you she is not just a beauty—she’s also a magnificent hunter, indefatigable, swift in flight, courageous, and very agile.”

John took the bird onto his fist and showed her to the barons in the hall. “See what a wonderful creature!”

William had spent a good deal of time getting Blanchpenny used to stepping onto the fists of complete strangers without becoming distressed. He had not wanted to make a fool of himself when he handed her over to the king, after all. Now, though, she spread her wings a little.

But John was experienced and knew how to carry her. He held her far enough from his face and spoke friendly words to her before setting her on the high rail beside his throne. There were two other
birds there already, and although they were magnificent gyrfalcons themselves, they were no rivals for Blanchpenny. She was the only one with white plumage and unquestionably the finest.

“A splendid creature, sire. Will you take her with you when you travel or will you leave her in William’s care?” Marshal inquired, winking at William.

“Well now,” John thought aloud, “perhaps I’ll do both. We shall see. In any case, the young baron can certainly expect an appropriate reward from me.”

“That was kind of you. Thank you,” William murmured to Marshal when John had turned away. To continue to care for Blanchpenny would be an extraordinary honor and would probably also entail a generous fee. But that was not the only thing; of all the falcons William had ever manned and trained, Blanchpenny was his favorite—perhaps because she had caused him some anxiety at first and remained timid for so long.

“She really is magnificent. You have earned the recognition you will now receive.” Marshal nodded to a man who had just arrived. “Would you excuse me? Duty calls. John has called a hunt for tomorrow. I hope I shall be able to speak with you a little more then, if not sooner.”

Marguerite was conversing animatedly with Isabelle, and William began to get bored. He did not have much in common with the other barons; most of them were talking about battles on the mainland and the French king’s stratagems. The air in the hall was heavy with wood smoke and the odors of so many people. Once William realized that no one would miss him, he decided to go for a ride and use his slingshot as he had when he was young, to bag a couple of songbirds to feed to the falcons. He was reluctantly reminded of Odon and the stone he had slung at his head to save Robert’s honor. Hopefully he would not come across Odon here.

William left the hall, told Robert where he was going, saddled his horse, and rode off. Once outside the city walls, which were
ringed by a well-stocked moat, he crossed a field and entered a sparse forest. The dead leaves were ankle deep on the ground and clung to his horse’s hooves.

William dismounted and led the horse by the reins. The forest gave off that irresistible fragrance of damp earth he loved so much. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes with pleasure. After the tumult at the castle, the silence and peace all around felt good.

Suddenly, he heard a noise in the undergrowth. His eyes widened with shock. He drew his hunting knife and listened. Ever since his encounter with the wild boar at Orford that time, he had been cautious. He heard a piteous whimpering, like someone weeping. A child? William was on his guard. Children did not normally wander about alone in the forest. So who was hiding in that thicket? He crept closer to the sound, peered through the bushes, and found a boy sobbing quietly, his body contorted. Blood was dripping from his right leg and sweat covered his face. Suddenly, he turned pale as chalk and fainted.

William examined the leg carefully while the boy was still unconscious. There was much blood, though the wound was not deep. “The lad was lucky,” he murmured in relief. He looked around and finally found what he was looking for.

There were several birch trees nearby. Their leaves would have been good for healing the cut, but it was winter and the branches were bare. The white bark was almost as good, though. He went up to one of the trees and started peeling off some bark. It was easier to do this in the spring, when the sap was rising, but with care he managed to remove a piece nearly as big as his palm. He hurried back to the boy. First he had to wake him up. William sprinkled him with water from his pouch, slapped his cheeks, and spoke to him, kindly but firmly. When the boy came to and tried to spring to his feet, William pushed him down gently.

“Stay there. I’ll take care of the wound,” said William. He closed the cut with smooth birch bark; once moistened and pressed
down, it stuck to the skin by itself. The boy was still pale, and his hair was wet with perspiration, but already he looked somewhat more lively.

William asked him what he had been doing. “I was making arrows,” he said apologetically, pointing at some sharpened sticks. “My knife slipped.”

“Does it still hurt?”

The boy shook his head bravely. “Not at all,” he claimed, but it was obvious he was fibbing.

“It’s dangerous in the forest. You shouldn’t have come here alone.”

“But you’re alone in the forest,” the boy protested.

“And I know how to take care of myself, because I’m more experienced than you are,” said William, gently punching the boy’s nose. He picked up the blood-smeared knife, rinsed it with water from his pouch, and wiped it dry with some leaves.

The knife was rather big for a boy of his age. William looked at it more closely and noticed an enameled decoration on the handle. His stomach suddenly churned, and his left hand moved of its own accord toward the purse on his belt. But he did not need to look inside to compare the decoration on the knife with the plaque in his purse. William knew they were as alike as two eggs. He turned the knife over and saw that the other side of the handle was decorated with an enamel plaque, too. And yet the leaf looked slightly different, as if a different craftsman had been asked to match a lost original.

William’s pulse raced. Whomever the boy had got this knife from—he must be Enid’s murderer!

“Where did you get this?” he asked urgently, holding the knife under the boy’s nose.

“My father gave it to me a little while ago. I’m nearly eight years old, and I’m to be a page soon. He got it from his father, but not until he became a page himself,” the boy explained excitedly,
and when he saw how closely William was looking at the enamel symbol, he went on. “It’s an elm leaf. My father is Lord Elmswick, you see. I’ve got a pony, too, even though I’m a bastard.”

Odon’s son!
He’s Odon’s son! William’s head was pounding so hard it was impossible to think clearly. All he felt was rage and impotence. For a moment, he was tempted to put his hands around the boy’s neck and squeeze. But the little fellow was looking at him so innocently that William just smiled, albeit thinly.

“A bastard is just as good as a son born in wedlock. I’m a bastard, too, and so was William the Conqueror, the first Norman to sit on the throne of England. Your father told me about him,” he heard himself say calmly.

“Is that true?” the boy asked uncertainly, smiling shyly.

William nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Adam,” replied the boy with a sniffle.

“Is your father here, too?” William’s throat was so raw that even clearing it did not help.