The falconmaster

by R. L. LaFevers

  With his heart sitting like a stone in his chest, Wat began climbing upward, using his arms to pull himself from branch to branch. His mind spun in circles as he hoped that

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  some answer or solution would come to him, but none did. In the end he had no choice but to fetch the nestlings.

  When he drew even with the hollow, he jiggled the branch to test its sturdiness, then hoisted himself onto it. He risked a look down, then wished he hadn't. It was even farther than he had thought. He turned his attention back to the small hollow in the tree and peered in at the young peregrines.

  They were two of the oddest-looking creatures he'd ever seen, especially when compared to their sleek parents. They were scrawny and awkward, like very bony, plucked chickens that had been re-covered in white fluff. They sat on some odd bits of straw and leaves, their dark, keen eyes watching his approach warily.

  As he reached into the nest, the birds became a hissing, spitting mass of tiny sharp talons and vicious little beaks. Wat jerked his hand back in surprise. They were defending themselves! Against him!

  "Don't stand there gawking! Bring 'em down," Hugh called out.

  Trying to avoid the needle-sharp talons and beaks that were doing their best to rip his hands to shreds, Wat reached into the hollow. He grabbed the closest bird and popped it into the sack, trying to ignore the fierce pain that shot

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  through him when its talons made contact with his hand. The second bird put up just as big a fight, and by the time he had them both in the sack, blood was oozing from the rips and tears in his hand.

  He shifted his weight and began the climb down. The two small birds in the bag were surprisingly heavy, and Wat had to struggle to keep his footing while hanging on to the bag. He reached the lowest branch of the tree, and before he even stepped onto the ground, Hugh grabbed the bag from his hands. Wat dropped to the ground empty-handed, wincing slightly as his bad foot made contact.

  "For your help today, I'll say nothing to the lord of your stealing his fruit. But I've got my eyes on you, boy. And you'd better not let me catch you in the forest again. You're up to no good here. I can smell it." He winked one of his small piggish eyes at Wat, then turned and headed back to the hunting party.

  Wat stood, still as stone, his anger and frustration nearly choking him as he watched them ride out of the clearing. The one thing he didn't need was one more person trying to make his life unbearable. Ralph and the village bullies were already doing a fine job of it. The thought of Hugh watching him, tracking him, made Wat's stomach pitch and roll.

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  Trapped. He was as trapped as those nestlings. There was no place for him to go. The village wasn't safe, not with its taunting and bullies. Men who had no sense of what it offered had just taken the forest from him. Was his life to be spent in one long endless span of lurking in the shadows of the stable? Waiting for his mother to bring him scraps when she could? Raking out muck for all eternity?

  He turned and looked at the motionless falcons, lying on the ground. Grief at the senseless loss of their life welled up inside him. He knelt down and pulled them into his lap. Stroking their soft slate gray feathers, he studied them, committing their form, their color, the very majesty of their being to his memory. It was the only thing he could think of to honor their passing.

  When he could think of no more tributes or farewells to whisper, he gently laid the birds on the ground and turned toward the tree. Using his bare and bleeding hands, he dug deep into the dark, loamy earth, ignoring the new scrapes that appeared. Hot tears watered the ground where he worked, but he didn't stop until the grave was big enough and deep enough for the two birds to lie side by side, as they had died.

  He carefully laid the two peregrines in the ground. He thought of their courage and strength, their fierce pride.

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  How they had died fighting, even against overwhelming odds. They had not hidden in the shadows; they had not run from their enemies. They had met their fate head-on. Wat hesitated for a moment, then plucked one flight feather from each bird.

  As he held the feathers, his hands tingled and a sharp pain jolted through his head. The light around him suddenly grew brighter, clearer. He closed his eyes to let the pain pass, and when he opened them again, everything seemed normal once more. He shook it off. Hunger, fatigue, anger. All of these could make one's head swim. All of them together were sure to.

  He looked back down at the birds in the grave he had prepared for them. He would learn from these birds. He would use these feathers to remind him of their strength, and he would try to be strong, like them. He tore a strip of cloth from his tunic, wrapped the feathers together, and then wove them into a side lock of his hair.

  Reaching out for a handful of dirt, Wat sprinkled the earth over the falcons' bodies, repeating the process until they were completely buried. Standing, he tamped the ground hard with his foot, wanting to make sure they stayed covered. Staring at the small grave he had fashioned, he dropped to his knees and promised, "I will always remember."

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  His mind filled with the image of these proud birds in flight. The care the female had taken when feeding her young. The fearless way the male had rushed to his death, avenging his mate. Their young who had been taken captive and would now be dependent on man for all things.

  Whose eyes would be sewn shut.

  To tame them down.

  To break their spirit.

  Who would never be allowed to soar free, except at others' pleasure.

  A hot fury burned inside him, leaving but one thought, like a glowing ember in his head. He slammed his fist into the ground.

  "I will not let them do this!" He laid both his hands on the fresh grave and looked up to the sky.

  I swear it.

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  ***

  Chapter 4

  Trying to take in great big gulps of air as quietly as possible, Wat approached the small building where the falcons and hawks were kept. He had run the entire way from the clearing, his fear for the nestlings giving speed to his tired legs.

  He sidled up to the single window on the west side of the mews and strained to listen. His ears, sharper than most to compensate for his poor sight, could hear Hugh's voice murmuring instructions to the assistant falconer.

  "They're young enough that they shouldn't give you too much trouble. Just tie on the jesses and leashes. When I get back from the hall, I'll show you how to sew their eyes shut. Then we'll walk them about."

  As Hugh strode out of the building, Wat flattened himself against the wall, his throat nearly closing in panic at the thought of Hugh catching him here, now. To Wat's way of thinking, there was nothing on earth more evil than Hugh and the tasks he carried out for Lord Sherborne. Wat's fingers

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  twitched as Hugh walked by his hiding place on his way to dine in the great hall, and Wat was surprised to find them make the sign to ward off evil. He'd never done that before.

  Very quietly, as if he were nothing more than a light breeze, Wat moved from the wall to the doorway. When his eye adjusted to the semidarkness inside, he made out several perches of different heights occupied by birds of prey. He recognized the merlins, the kestrels, and a goshawk, but saw no sign of the gyrfalcon that had so ruthlessly killed the peregrines. Then he remembered the rumors he'd heard that it slept in Sherborne's private chambers in the manor house. Perhaps they were true.

  A faint movement caught his eye as the keeper took one of the young peregrines out of the sack. Soothing its ruffled feathers, he placed the bird on a small table. The keeper crooned to the young bird as he tied a thin strip of leather to its foot, then tied the other end of the leash to a small perch. When he was certain the bird was well secured, he let go of it long enough to tie on two smaller strips of leather. These strips sported tiny bells that jingled, and the young falcon squawked as they were fastened to him.

  "Yes, yes, I know. You'll get used to it, I'll wager."


  The bird kept on squawking and nipped at the keeper's hand with its sharp little beak.

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  "Ah, hungry, are we? Well, you'll be hungry for a while, that you will." The small bird pecked at him one more time before he was placed on a perch. "Mind your manners," he teased the nestling. "We'll not feed you till you begin to learn some respect."

  Wat clenched his fist, enraged that anyone would think these noble creatures could be reduced to such a state. He wished he were strong enough to march in there and tie that clodpoll of a keeper to one of those perches. Then he'd decorate him with tiny bells and leashes and see how he cared for it.

  Impatiently, Wat watched the keeper repeat the process with the second bird, who was even less docile than the first and put up more of a fight. The man was in a fine lather by the time he'd finished with the second bird. He placed the agitated nestling on the perch next to its sibling and went to quiet the other birds, who had become unsettled by all the commotion.

  Wat's leg ached from all his running, and the stitch in his side wouldn't go away. He shifted his weight to relieve the ache slightly, then froze at the crunching sound of the gravel under his feet. His heart thumped in his chest and he made ready to run. But the assistant keeper never paused in his duties and gave no sign that he had heard anything amiss.

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  Just as Wat despaired of him ever turning from the birds, the man wandered over to a small table and poured himself a tankard of ale. Drinking deeply, he eyed the birds. He put the tankard down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It'll be a long night with the likes of you," he muttered, examining his nipped finger. "You'll not tame as easy as they're hoping. Might as well grab some sleep while I can." He shook his head and went to lie down on the pallet.

  Wat waited another eternity until he heard the heavy, deep breathing that told him the keeper was asleep. He shifted from his spot in the shadows and silently approached the young birds. He paused behind their blocks to give them time to adjust to his presence. Using small movements, he took an old, nicked hunting dagger from his belt and moved toward the jesses. Holding the bells quiet, he cut them from the birds and lay them on the floor next to the burlap sack the keeper had carelessly left there.

  Wat's dagger hovered just above the leash. His own vow rang in his ears as he pictured the falcons' bright eyes being sewn shut. He steadied himself and reached out with his knife, slicing through the small leather straps. He moved so quietly, the nestlings didn't even realize they were free. "I'm sorry, little ones," he whispered, his voice no more than a lifting of the air around them. "It'll just be for a bit." With

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  that apology, he reached for them. His breath caught at the downy softness of their feathers, the fragile feel of their bones. As carefully as he could, he laid them in the bottom of the burlap sack.

  The other birds began to fuss, and Wat realized that speed would be more valuable than silence. He darted quickly for the door, startling the birds even more, so that the mews was a-squawk with the sound of unsettled falcons. Wat was out the door before the ruckus roused the sleeping man on the pallet. He awoke, springing to his feet in confusion, unsure of the cause of the commotion.

  With any luck, it would take the keeper a while to figure out exactly what was missing. It would give Wat just enough time for the head start he would need. He knew he couldn't run faster than the others, but maybe, just maybe, if fortune's star would shine down on him just this once, he could stick to the shadows and they wouldn't be able to see his flight.

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  ***

  Chapter 5

  He ran until he could run no more, then he trot ted. When his leg ached and throbbed so badly he thought it would surely fall off, he slowed to a walk but still kept moving deeper into the forest. His chest felt as if it were weighted down with stones as he struggled for breath. Dusk was all around him, and he knew night would arrive quick and sudden, like a giant snuffing out a candle.

  The cramped muscles in his arm burned and twitched. Wat would never have guessed that two such weightless balls of downy fluff could become such a burden. He switched the bag to his other hand, worry settling over him as he realized how quiet and still they'd become. He needed to find a safe place to stop for the night and check on them.

  He had been careful to pick out a path leading south, away from the clearing where Hugh had found him this morning. It had been hours since he left the mews and not once did he see any signs of pursuit. But deep down in his

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  heart he knew they would follow him. If not today, tomorrow. If not then, the following day.

  The sky darkened from dusk to early nightfall, and Wat's progress slowed even more. Roots and stones rose up in his path, twisting around his feet or blocking his way. His only comfort was that the search parties would be hampered by nightfall even more than he. The forest had always been his place, his refuge from the ugliness of the manor and village life. But tonight it seemed different somehow. While he didn't quite fear it as the villagers did, he found himself with a new respect for the dangers that lurked in its darkened shadows. His one good eye peered through the gathering blackness, trying to locate a safe place to pass the night. Somewhere that offered a bit of protection from the wild boars, wolves, and bears that prowled among the trees at night. A cave, perhaps.

  Food. They would also need food. Already it was too dark to search out anything to eat. And the young falcons would need meat. In his haste, he hadn't thought to bring anything to hunt with. No bow. No spear. Nothing but an old, nicked dagger that was practically useless for any type of hunting. And how often did the young birds need to eat? Did they need water? How much? How did he get it to them?

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  He should have taken the time to make some sort of plan.

  Wat's foot caught on something once again, but this time he lost his balance and the ground came rushing up, knocking his breath clear out of him as he sprawled facedown on the forest floor. The bag holding the young falcons flew out of his hand, landing on the ground in front of him. He gasped and wheezed, his mouth working like a blacksmith's bellows as it tried to get air back into his burning lungs.

  When at last he could breathe again, he sat up and felt along his arms and legs. While no bones were broken, his good ankle had been badly twisted during the fall. Testing it, he realized it wouldn't support his full weight. Now his good leg was as useless as his crippled one. Disgusted, he brushed the twigs from his tunic, plucked a bit of leaf out of his nose, and tried to take stock of his surroundings.

  It was full dark now. Not wanting to put any weight on his twisted ankle, he crawled forward to where he thought the sack had landed, groping in the dark until his hand closed around the rough burlap. He pulled the sack close, then crawled over to the nearest tree and positioned himself in front of it. If he was stuck spending the night out in the open forest, he wanted something solid at his back.

  He pulled the sack up close and peered in to check on the nestlings. They were silent and still, but two pairs of small,

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  bright eyes looked back at him. With one finger, he reached out to pet their fluffy down. It was so soft, he could scarcely be sure he was touching it.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured to the birds. "I didn't plan well--'tis a fault of mine, this not planning," he confessed. "I don't have any meat for you, but I will tomorrow, I promise. As soon as it is light enough, I will find something to-- oh! I forgot." He reached his hand down to his pocket, pleased to discover the lump of meat pie still sitting there from yesterday. "Here's something you'll like," he told the birds. "The best meat pasties, straight from his lordship's table."

  He held the birds in place with one hand while he dug around in his pocket with the other. Two pairs of bright eyes watched him closely.

  The pie was squashed, with meat filling oozing out the sides in places. Wat pinched a bit of the filling and held it out in front of the nestlings.

  Uncertain, the larger o
ne cocked her head and studied the glob of meat. The smaller one, the male, had no such caution and lunged forward and nipped the meat off Wat's finger.

  "Owl" Wat yelped, then hastened to get another bite ready as the young nestling prepared to stab again. After a few more assaults on his fingers, Wat decided to rip the pie

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  open and expose the filling for them to peck directly off the crust. The nestlings seemed unsure what to do, until Wat held the pie out and slightly above him at about the same angle he reckoned a mother bird would have.

  After watching the other bird for a bit, the larger nestling finally decided to risk it and made a stab for the filling clinging to the pie shell.

  Wat watched in satisfaction as these two wild creatures ate from his hand. He would never have imagined such a thrill. For the first time in his life, something needed him. He could provide for them, keep them safe. And not because he wanted to own them or control them, but because he wanted to give them a chance to be free.

  In surprisingly little time the meat pie was plucked clean, leaving nothing but an empty shell of pastry crust that the birds refused to eat. Wat pulled off a piece of the crust and stuffed it in his mouth. The birds watched, curious. Once they realized there were no more meat bits, they began running their beaks through their feathers, as if combing them. They sat together in a companionable silence, Wat eating bits of day-old pastry for his dinner and enjoying the sensation of two wild things settling in his lap.