by Jean Gill
‘Ais, Marselha… the hawks here are known.’
‘Not just hawks. We have gyrfalons, peregrines, mostly female but some tiercels - all bred here. My Lady and my young Lord have sent as far as Nice to get a bird for the bloodline. And if some noble wants to make amends for a wrongful act, he knows exactly what will help Les Baux understand his plight and show mercy. We had a lovely little merlin just this week that solved a disagreement over land boundaries and helped my Lady judge what was fair.’
‘And you’ve managed to bring enough birds to weight? In the time?’
‘It’ll maybe do but it wasn’t easy.’ Moisset shook his head. ‘And another time I’ll be pleased to have more warning for those sort of numbers, my Lord! Most of the mews in Christendom would still be stuck with moult so you’re lucky to be with someone who can do the impossible!’ Dragonetz looked suitably repentant. ‘But yes, they’ll be ready for the morrow, after noon. The ones ready are all on these perches.’ He pointed to the left hand side, his moves measured from habit, no sudden gestures to startle his hawks. He flashed the knight a shrewd look. ‘And you’re the day before everyone else to choose your own bird, no doubt.’
‘You have me.’ Dragonetz laughed. ‘And I have chosen.’ Without looking, he could feel orange eyes fixed on his, a sheaf of white feathers in speckled; bigger than the harrier. ‘I want her.’ He walked to the one goshawk, sleek and deadly, on a right hand side perch.
Moisset’s eyes narrowed. ‘A goshawk’s below your rank, my Lord. And she’s not at weight. Why not a saker? This tiercel?’ he indicated a male falcon smaller than the female I have one that flies sweet and straight, would suit your Lordship perfectly.’
‘She seems perfectly at weight to me.’ The goshawk gave a tiny shiver of pleasure as Dragonetz drew one leather-clad finger gently down the white breast, then again, and again. Her feathers fluffed out as she relaxed. ‘We’re river-hunting, not in the open. I don’t want a bird that suits my rank; I want the best hunter. And I know this is the best one. I know because she’s yours, isn’t she.’
Moisset mumbled something that was probably an assent, however ungracious. He made one last try. ‘What about a gyrfalcon?’
‘You flatter me.’ Dragonetz smiled. A gyrfalcon, fit for a king. ‘But I’d rather have that goshawk.’
‘Vertat,’ muttered Moisset, giving in, ‘she’s called Vertat.’
Truth thought Dragonetz, admiring the goshawk again. She looked back at him, unblinking, deadly. Truth indeed.
‘And how many others will be wanted?’
‘About two hundred in the party but a hundred birds will be enough. They’ll be collected before mid-afternoon tomorrow. I’ll take Vertat tonight, let her get to know me.’
‘She’ll want a morsel before sundown then nothing.’ Moisset was obviously reluctant to entrust care of the goshawk to Dragonetz.
‘I’d let you do it yourself but you’ll have your work cut out here.’ Dragonetz had a sudden inspiration. ‘Bran was your apprentice before I took him for pigeon-keeper. What if he looks after the goshawk while she’s with me?’
The relief was evident in Moisset’s face. ‘Aye my Lord. He’s a good boy. That would be better…’
Dragonetz grinned at the lack of faith in lords. ‘What about my Lords of Baux and of Barcelone?’
The man bristled. ‘My young Lord’s falcon is well out of sight, my Lord! You might have netted my goshawk but no man will fly Lord Hugues’ saker but himself! And the Prince of Barcelone - God curse him!’ Moisset swore automatically and spat, then made the sign against the devil, ‘- he knows a good bird when he sees one.
Lord Hugues brought Barcelone to the mews and made a choice for him that nobody would refuse who knows his birds. Fit for his station too.’ He glared at Dragonetz who was unabashed at the implied criticism. He was also pleasantly surprised at Hugues’ mature courtesy to his guest. Perhaps there was hope for him after all. ‘He’ll be singing the praise of Les Baux hawks after tomorrow, that’s for sure.’ ‘As shall I,’ Dragonetz demurred.
‘That’s as may be.’ Tight-lipped. ‘But Barcelone’s and my Lord’s are well away from prying eyes and no man else will have them,’ continued Moisset, who apparently saw no contradiction between hating Barcelone on principle and providing him with a fine hawk.
‘You do your Lord proud,’ Dragonetz told him, ‘both in your loyalty and your skills. I’m sure you keep abreast of modern methods. What do you think of this Jewish notion for silvered talons?’
The chance to talk of his passion brightened Moisset’s eyes and loosened his tongue. ‘I’ve heard of it,’ he began. ‘There’s a Jew in the north -’
‘Rabbenu Tam,’ nodded Dragonetz.
‘That’s him. For all he’s a heathen, he knows a thing or two about hunting. What I’ve been telling the apprentices is that everything comes at a price.’ He was obviously launching into a well-rehearsed speech but Dragonetz could always find the patience to listen to someone who knew his craft. Amongst the parts he knew would always be something he didn’t - and which might prove invaluable in the future.
‘A great hunter never wants to let go. If we’ve trained ‘em right then trading ready-meat for prey will do it most of the time but when you get a big one like a goshawk, and she has a mood on her, she just will not let go. Then what, I ask them? And the man that can answer me shall have my job for I’m sure I don’t know!
But then this Jew, Rabby-whomsoever, says try gloves on the bird itself. Not just any gloves but silver ones. Never tried it myself but they say it lets the hawk catch prey but not dig its claws in. Now that would be useful! And keeps the Jews happy too. They have right funny laws about food, you know.’
A sudden horrible thought struck Moisset. ‘Saints preserve us - there’s no Jews in the party is there?’
‘No,’ Dragonetz reassured him, well aware of the complications that would bring.
‘You never know these days.’ Moisset shook his head. ‘You can’t even tell them apart from us in the street. Everywhere, they are, come up from the south - and not short of moneybags. Easy enough to recognise the Moors though!’ He laughed. Then reflected. ‘That Moorish lieutenant of Barcelone’s - will he be wanting a hawk?’
‘He might well be. And make sure it’s one of your best. Do this right and you’ll get enough silver to make and test out those talon covers.’
As discussion rambled round training (the best in Provence if not Christendom) and the quality of apprentices (not up to the old days), Dragonetz ensured that sufficient jesses and bells were neither fretted nor rusted. He checked that sufficient pouches with meat scraps would be prepared.
Then he took his goshawk on his shoulder and left for the kennels, where he had a similar discussion, but this time involving running-hounds and spaniels, beaters and dog-boys. It was also a chance to test Vertat’s stress levels amidst a kennelful of barks and scuffles.
Only the three lymers remained silent, the tracker-dogs, trained to keep their noses to the ground and their thoughts to themselves. No need for lymers on a hawking expedition but Dragonetz was pleased to see that the quality of kennels maintained by Hugues was a match for the mews. Ramon might have better horseflesh but otherwise Les Baux could offer princely sport.
Dragonetz was also pleased with his hawk’s indifference. If Vertat’s presence tended towards brooding, then that made two of them, he thought. There was something oddly comforting about the weight of Truth, like the guardian angel in an allegorical painting - or of course like the demon familiar depicted on the other shoulder. He would summon Bran, arrange a perch and the goshawk could stay in his chamber that night, where they could both dream of hunting.
The morrow would show Costansa she had no power at Les Baux and the afternoon’s entertainment would keep her away from Estela. There was no doubt his lover would recover from her illness sooner if left in peace. As long as Hugues continued to play the role of good host and the game was plentiful, a fine day’s sport
was in prospect for all.
All morning, hawks and falcons toured the cobbled streets of Les Baux on human perches, either with servants or, in the case of real afficionados, the masters themselves. Dragonetz had worn Vertat like a cloak brooch since dawn, talking softly to her, learning her foibles.
Typical of a yeoman’s hawk, she was solid amid noise, even sudden shouts or clanking: less steady visually. A sudden downpour of slops from a window startled her and a swirl of a silk cloak flicking at her side caused her to bate. The full weight of anxious hawk, digging heels into his shoulder and beating her great wings in an attempt at flight was a bruising experience. Even more than a horse, she saw movement so far around that it was behind them, out of Dragonetz’ periphery.
‘Later girl, later,’ Dragonetz soothed, and she calmed to his murmured compliments. He could sense the muscle and hunger, in perfect yarak. Moisset would have approved her preparation.
The minuscule portion of bloody meat which Dragonetz gave her, supervised by Bran, was just enough to take the rawness off her famine but not enough to dull her for the day’s work. She would be ravenous by the afternoon and his own senses heightened as he focused on his hawk. In the castle walkways with pages scurrying, in the crowds of street vendors, there were only the two of them. He felt her heartbeat quicken and slow.
He visited the stables, made sure Sadeek would be readied for him, met the lad’s hesitation and understood. He even did the stable-boy the courtesy of an explanation. ‘I know. A destrier for a hawking party is like wearing cloth of gold to till soil. But Sadeek is Arab bred, knows hawk as well as he knows fancy footsteps and has no more fear of bog than of battle. This is a pleasure outing with no risk to my friend.’ He stroked the arch of satin neck.
The boy’s eyes shone, reminding Dragonetz of another boy, in another land, his protégé Muganni. A pang of loss and regret. Perhaps he should have brought the boy with him instead of freeing him to rejoin his tribe of Hashashins. Few were born with such a voice and even fewer came through a man’s changes to find their new voice pleasing. The fleeting sweetness of youth…
Shaking off his nostalgia, and earning a reprimand from Vertat, Dragonetz left the stable, happy with the encounter between hawk and stallion. As fully prepared as he could be, Dragonetz broke fast and rested in his chamber, not alone. The room’s dark filled with another’s breathing and heartbeat, a stir of feathers, a small ‘chuff’ of complaint and whenever he looked her way, the orange eyes of the goshawk stared him out.
What were the hunting verses of the Moorish poet Abu Nuwas? Horse, hawk and cheetah. There would be dogs instead of hunting cats but Dragonetz thought the poet would approve of Sadeek and Vertat, who looked every bit the ‘demon spirit’ of the Arab verse. Through darkness and closed eyelids, Dragonetz sensed the orange glare from under the furred eyebrows, as he fell asleep.
A light breeze offered some relief as the party rode through the great gate, confined to three or four abreast by the rocky path, as they rode south, down towards the marshes. Scarves fluttered and spurs glinted. Final numbers were well over a hundred horse and as many beaters, peasants taking time off their usual work to earn an extra penny.
Moisset had no doubt received a stream of visitors all morning to judge by the variety of hunting birds perched on every third person in the throng. Ladies had responded in force to the invitation, some riding pillion behind their lords, others riding astride, with falcons on their shoulders. The most seasoned huntresses wore duller, forest colours and serviceable circular skirts but there was no shortage of bright silks, sported by those who placed entertainment above sport.
The Master of Hounds had done his work too and Moisset grunted approval at the mixed pack which accompanied the beaters. When Dragonetz asked for spaniels, the fewterer had shaken his head at the failings of the breed. ‘They’re the best at flushing but the most quarrelsome. And they’re as like to chase chickens around a cottage as head for the woods with you. Keep them leashed! After you’ve started up the game, you’ll need something steadier to follow through and retrieve. With spaniels, game is the word! All’s a game to spaniels! Take some running-hounds too.’
Dragonetz could see the three breeds; the bouncing vivacity of the liver and white spaniels, always ready to play; the tireless lope of the greyhound pairs, elegant and ready for work; and the rugged terriers. Beside him, in the vanguard, Hugues sounded his horn and the signal was conveyed back along the line, a simple ‘onward’ that made the heart beat faster and had the hounds yipping in anticipation.
Once out of the rocky ravine, riders regrouped, following beaters and hounds, spreading out across the marshland. Dragonetz identified the various lords and was pleased to note the Porcelets splitting off with lesser bands. Although they might gain followers, that possibility was probably less dangerous than if they stayed near Hugues and Ramon. Les Baux wouldn’t take much sparking to catch fire and a hunt always roused the blood. With less pleasure, Dragonetz noticed that Costansa had stayed with the royal party. If there was to be mischief, she would doubtless be its source.
Although hawking lacked the dangers of more manly hunts, Hugues and Ramon were both proud enough of their skills to have donned coarse garments in muted colours. Like Dragonetz’s own jerkin, theirs had well padded shoulders and with reason. As they rode easily towards wherever the beaters chose to stand, the marsh creatures paused to stare. This was a new beast but not one that frightened the small beasts of field or scrub: the hunting trinity, man riding horse and hawk riding man, aroused no fear, unlike a man on his own two legs. The three men rode easily, in silent communion.
Dragonetz noted the qualities of the two sakers with approval. Hugues had indeed paid tribute to his guest and deserved respect for his fine taste. If Malik had flown a bird, it would doubtless have been a saker, as his people generally prized these falcons above all other hunting birds. Although smaller than the goshawk, both sakers were large females and the combination of speed and strength made them formidable hunters. They were also less prone to bad temper than goshawks.
As if reading his thoughts, Vertat shifted her weight from one foot to another, reclaiming his attention, reminding her perch that a goshawk could match a saker. Sadeek kept to the walking pace required, but with a hint of spring in each careful step. Horse and hawk tolerated each other, and neither balked when spaniels scampered too close. Horse, hawk and hounds. How could a man not thrill to the power of earth harnessed between his legs, and the power of air on his shoulder, ready to loose like an arrow, to recall like a familiar demon? This was true lordship, reading track and fewmet, acknowledging your own animal nature and controlling it. Loosing death as part of the great cycle of nature that was both man’s pleasure and his responsibility.
‘My Lord Dragonetz?’ Etiennette’s interruption made him frown but he recovered his courtesy instantly. Like her son, she was dressed more for practicality than for decoration, unlike the Lady of Montbrun. Costansa could have modelled for a Psalter illumination, an allegory of Love Divine.
Her golden hair was caught in a glittering net with a silk scarf fluttering. Her robe might have had a full skirt for riding astride but no man would have described it as practical. Royal blue and flimsy, the hem floating above a neat ankle, neckline deep and hinting at more than the lace beneath.
If she’d told the truth regarding her condition, then it added no more than some becoming curves to her delicate frame. Everything about Costansa suggested a summer butterfly, about to alight on a man’s hand. Only her serviceable boots and her shoulder padding suggested that she was no novice in the sport of hawking. To judge from Hugues’ gaze, hawking was not the sport foremost in his mind as he acknowledged the ladies.
‘Mother. My Lady de Montbrun - your Lord is not joining us?’ Dragonetz and Ramon exchanged glances, a shared smile, at youth, at lack of subtlety. Etiennette was not smiling.
‘My Lord is fatigued and prefers to rest.’ Costansa replied, reining in her grey palfrey beside
Hugues’ solid brown mare, and neatly forcing Sadeek to step further away. ‘He has suffered a deep disappointment today and needs to recover.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. We must ensure that you find solace in the day’s sport.’ Hugues’ sincerity was unmistakeable.
‘How could I not, in such company? But you are dressed to chase the hart, my Lord Hugues. I fear I have mistaken the game.’ Costansa’s meaning was equally clear, as the couple put enough distance between themselves and their entourage to allow privacy for a conversation that occasioned much mirth.
‘You told her?’ Dragonetz took the chance to speak to Etiennette.
‘Aye. I sent word to the two of them. She and her puppet-husband were informed that the hearing is cancelled, with no grounds, given that the servant and stock have vanished without trace.’ It was strange to hear Nici referred to as livestock and Dragonetz was surprised at how far he’d come to think of Estela’s dog as a personality. It wasn’t as if the dog was even a gentleman’s breed like a greyhound. But of course, stock was the exact term - and stock belonging to Montbrun. ‘Apparently she slapped the messenger - gave him a nose bleed.’
Another trill of girlish laughter reached them from the couple in front and Etiennette winced. ‘I’m worried about Hugues.’
‘You’re his mother. Every young man grows beyond his mother.’ Dragonetz felt a twinge of conscience, thinking of his own, of all she did not know, of Estela, of her grandson. He spoke with extra firmness. ‘A dalliance is normal.’
‘Not with her,’ muttered Etiennette. ‘And it’s not just that. There’s something more, something wrong.’
