by David Blixt
Grumio made a disgusting sound and spat into the grass.
“I stand corrected,” said Cangrande, wrinkling his nose.
Casually slapping Grumio, Petruchio asked, “What do you boys know of falconry?”
At once Cesco began to recite:
I nurtured a falcon for more than a year.
When I had him tamed exactly as I wished
And had gracefully decked his feathers with gold,
He raised himself so high and flew to other lands.
Since then I’ve seen that falcon flying superbly;
He was wearing silken fetters on his feet
And the whole of his plumage was all red gold.
May God bring those together who want each other’s love.
“Amen to that,” said Petruchio. “Though I don’t know about loving a male falcon.”
“Kürenberc was a German,” said Cangrande. “And enjoyed symbolism more than substance, like some others I can name.” Cesco stuck out his tongue at Cangrande’s back.
“Very true,” said Petruchio. “But we’re going to be handling females.” Grumio opened his mouth and Petruchio closed his fist. “Mum. Most often they’re the better hunters, and they’re always the more dangerous. Can either of you lads name for me the different types of falcon?”
Detto was eager to impress his new lord. “The peregrine for the earl, the gyrfalcon for the king, the saker for the knight… ah, the, ah…”
“Lanner,” prompted Cesco softly.
“Yes, lanner for the squire, the merlin for the lady, the hobby for the boy, the goshawk for the yoman, the sparrowhawk for the priest, the musket for the clerk, and the tercel for the poor man!” Detto concluded proudly.
“Don’t forget the eagle,” said Cangrande.
“Which belongs to the emperor,” replied Cesco.
Petruchio appealed to the heavens. “God save us from poets. Look, I grant it’s a pretty list, but in practical terms it’s nonsense. Eagles, kites, vultures, muskets, and hobbys are for all intents useless. As for the rest, it depends what kind of game you’re after. So do me a favour, forget literary symbolism and start your list again.”
Crushed, Detto quickly complied. “The peregrine.”
“Good for winged game, especially water fowl. Has two types of flight – it can wait on over a fixed ground, or chase through the air in marvelous, unpredictable swoops. To kill, it can either strike with its pounces or bind its game and tackle it to earth. Next?”
“Gyrfalcons,” said Cesco, interested.
“Bigger, heavier than the peregrine, but basically the same. A little harder to train, but being so light-coloured, you’ll see a lot of them at court. They’re pretty, make nice ornaments. The more the court has, the less interesting in real hunting they are.”
“Noted,” said Cangrande, smiling.
“The saker,” said Detto.
“I could use a good saker right now,” muttered Grumio. “I’m thirsty.”
Petruchio ground his teeth. “Arab bird, looks like a dark gyrfalcon. Hardier than the peregrine, but not as good at catching water game. Next.”
“Lanners,” said Detto quickly. Cesco’s mouth had opened, and he made a face at Detto as he closed it again.
“Only really good in conjunction with another bird, but strong and reliable. Less temperamental than the peregrine. Decent at the river, good with hares.”
“The merlin.” This time Cesco beat Detto to the answer.
“A tiny peregrine. Good against small birds.” Petruchio nodded at Cangrande. “The Capitano here used to fly the most magnificent merlin I ever beheld. Trained it for war, though, so it was no good as a hunter.” Cesco raised a hand. “Yes?”
“I thought,” said Cesco hesitantly, “excuse me, but I thought a merlin was a woman’s hawk.”
Cangrande said, “Do I look like a woman?”
Cesco considered. “Not in this light, no.”
Petruchio shook his head. “Forget those idiotic appellations. Merlin’s a small bird, about as big as my arm, that’s all. So smaller arms can launch them. What’s next?”
“The hobby,” said Detto.
“He said hobbys were useless,” snapped Cesco. “The goshawk.”
“Ah, now, that’s a fist bird—”
“Bird on the fist worth none in the bush,” muttered Grumio.
With heroic effort, Petruchio pretended not to hear. “Again, good for smaller birds and hares. Maybe it won’t kill, but it’s strong enough to hold its prey until the dogs show up. They’re a bitch to train.”
“The sparrowhawk,” said Detto and Cesco in competition.
“A stubborn and unhelpful bird. This one really is a lady’s bird. Also a fister – don’t!” Grumio clamped his mouth shut and started humming innocently. Petruchio continued. “The sparrowhawk is a savage little bird, though, and would as soon peck out your eyes as look at you.”
“The tercel!” cried Cesco and Detto together, now so intent on the game they forgot to listen.
“You want a male, if you wanted a tercel at all, which you don’t. Anything else?”
Cesco and Detto looked blankly back at him.
“Your list forgets the alphanet,” instructed Petruchio. “But since she always flies back to Africa whenever she feels the sun on her back, you’re right to forget her. Don’t ever waste your time with an alphanet. Trust me, I know.”
Cangrande clucked his tongue. “Now you’ve done it. That’s the only one our little princeling will want.”
“His loss. Now boys, we have with us today a sparrowhawk I’ve managed to train, one peregrine, a lanner, a merlin, and pair of sakers. Up ahead is a clearing that’s familiar to them all. It’s where they were first aired, so it’ll feel like home.”
Detto looked at the trees. “Is this nesting land?”
“Indeed it is,” said Cangrande. “One of my many fights with the clergy has been over a monastery not far from here. The friars were chopping down trees used as nests by the local hawks. If not for their holy status, I could have confiscated their land and had them blinded. Instead I had to take the whole thing to court. I won, of course. You don’t disturb a falcon’s nest.”
“What was their penalty?” asked Cesco.
“Money, land.”
“But no eyes?”
“Of course not.” Cangrande’s perfect teeth shone in the summer sun. “I am generous to a fault.”
“Whose fault?”
Grumio sat up straighter. “I’m sorry – do you smell a fault? I thought I was downwind.”
Petruchio rolled his eyes. “Our own Aeolus.”
Grumio shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Lord Petruchio,” said Detto, “what’s your favourite bird?”
“O, don’t force me to choose! They’re like women – each with her own qualities. I actually like troublesome birds—”
“And troublesome wives,” said Grumio in a loud sotto voce.
“Exactly!” said Petruchio, as if Grumio’s comparison were actually helpful. “Peregrines are like red-heads, hot and fierce. Goshawks are blondes, but the kind of blonde that knows she’s attractive, and so turns into an absolute bitch. Lanners are brunettes, good, reliable, a little uncertain.”
“Listen close, boys,” chuckled Cangrande. “Two lessons for the price of one.”
“Girls!” said Detto, squinching up his face. “Bleah!”
Grumio instantly turned to Detto, feigning solicitousness. “Are you feeling well, young lord? It’s been a goodly ride already. Perhaps, masters, we could rest for a bit – even nap under the shade of that oh-so-inviting tree. Master, the young squire looks a bit peaked, and he’s making the oddest noises…”
Petruchio eyed his servant. “You, of course, could ride all through the day and into the night.”
“Of course I could!” declared Grumio, thumping his chest. “I am the picture of rude health! As long as my lord wishes to ride, I shall ride! Not even a hundred blisters
would keep me from my saddle! Let my legs lose all sense of feeling – as, being an honest man, I must say they have – it makes no difference! I will trace my lord’s steps through the Gates of Hell or to the Court of England, whichever is farther! I only thought of the young men – you know how it is with the young, my lord. They need their rest. No, it is the old men who need no sleep! We are near enough the final sleep, and need no reminder that soon we shall sleep forever in the earth’s cold embrace. My lord rides, so Grumio rides! It was only for their sake—”
“Shut up, rascal,” said Petruchio. “You’re in your prime!”
“So I am! Which makes you a youth, a mere stripling, though stripped from what I cannot say.”
“I’ll strip your back and have it striped with my lash, you crusty knob of insolence.”
“If he’s the knob,” said Cesco, “where is the door?”
“Another insolent country heard from,” said Cangrande.
Petruchio pointed. “There’s the clearing, thank God. Let’s dismount here and I’ll show you how to air each kind of bird in turn.”
“Only if you keep talking about girls,” said Cesco. “I want my money’s worth.”
♦ ◊ ♦
The entire morning was taken up with the flight of birds. From tamest to wildest, Lord Petruchio set each into motion, pointing out the differing flight habits. Then he would call the bird home, feed it a treat, and prepare the next.
“When I’m hunting, I like to air them in pairs. They respond better to their calls, and keep each other from ranging. A lanner is the best to pair the others with. She’ll learn the other’s good habits, and break them of their bad ones. Reliable, but uninspired.”
“You never fly a lanner alone?” asked Cesco.
“Rarely. And only if she’s lived her life around peregrines and gyrfalcons. She has to learn to be wild, whereas they’re wild by nature. Temperamental isn’t always bad.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Cesco seriously, not returning the look he knew Cangrande was giving him.
To the amazement of everyone save Cesco, Detto was a natural. Like all animals, the birds took to him at once, and even if his arm sagged under their weight, they trusted him. Whereas Cesco had to be careful not to be nipped. “A few more lessons and my squire will be better than me,” groused Petruchio cheerfully.
Detto preened, and Cesco scowled, causing Cangrande to laugh. “Don’t fret, boy. We’ll find something you’re good at, I promise. We’ll start tonight with raking out the stables.”
At morning’s end they all sat down to eat. Two of the birds had brought back game, which joined the fare they’d brought with them. They ate around a firepit, some ways off from the airing ground.
From his place behind his master, Grumio pointed. “Master, what kind of tree is that?”
“It is a Damned-Be-Fools,” replied Petruchio. “It’s the place where we hang men of idiotic dispositions who always ask stupid questions.”
“Then I’m glad I have this belly, sir,” replied Grumio sagely, patting his stomach, “for those limbs wouldn’t hold me.”
“Keep eating like you have and your horse won’t hold you.”
“I’ve barely touched a morsel this whole day.”
“You filched that rabbit’s leg not five minutes ago.”
Grumio’s eyes grew wide. “God save me if I did such a thing!”
“Yes, pray to be saved, because your time is soon coming.”
“I’ve not an enemy in this world.”
“Perhaps, but you’re not that young anymore.”
“While my master stays the picture of youth. Even your grey hairs try to look blond.”
“Wretch!” Petruchio scrambled to his feet and swung a fist.
Ducking, Grumio backed away. “Master, pardon! I mean you’re going grey by trying to look blond!”
Petruchio kicked the groom’s legs out from under him, sitting Grumio down hard. “Ass!” declared Petruchio, dusting off his hands. “You’re lucky if you have three hairs left to turn grey.”
“Too true.” Sighing, Grumio removed his cap and stroked his bald head. “My pate’s as spare as my tool is long. Consequently, I have to make relations with my wife from the next room.”
“That must be a hardship,” mused Cangrande. “Never sure if you’re coming or going.”
“A hard ship it is. A vast vessel of voyaging, hard as the day is long, and long as the day is hard.”
“Are we back to women?” asked Cesco. Detto made puking noises.
Cangrande looked to Grumio. “He does need a lesson, doesn’t he? Because it’s the men are hard, not the women.”
“But,” said Cesco, “as I understand the mechanics, the men grow hard for women.”
“Unless you’re Grumio,” said Petruchio, settling into his seat again. “Then you’re hard for horses.”
Grumio bobbed his head. “Makes for damn awkward riding, I can tell you. Pardon my language, lord,” he added.
Cangrande replied, “If you’ll pardon my squire’s lack of sophistication. He’s not very worldly yet.”
“Takes time, sir, it takes time. Not everyone is as fortunate as we are, to be born with savoir faire. O!” he cried, shifting his weight. “Pardon, masters. That hare gave me the windigalls something fierce! Ooh! Allow me to remove myself.” Bowing, he crept away to stand by the horses, making the other servants frown as he passed.
“You’re quite lucky to have him,” said Cangrande.
“Aye, but don’t tell him I said so,” replied Petruchio ruefully. “He’s the best groom in the land, and his wits keep me sharp. Even if he has made my oldest girl a trifle coarse.”
“Nonsense. She is an ideal young lady. Not demure or coy, but strong-willed like her mother. I tell you, Petruchio, if I were younger, you’d have a match.”
“As high a compliment as there is,” said Petruchio with a salute.
“Maybe I should meet her,” said Cesco. “Isn’t she about my age?”
“A year or so younger,” said Petruchio. “And you’re both too young to marry, no matter what Capulletto does. You must first thrive, young Cesco, before you wive.”
“Were you forced to marry your Kate?”
Petruchio chuckled. “Rather, I forced my way into her heart. Wooing is a game, and you two boys should play for lesser stakes before you try it. Which is why,” said Petruchio slowly, anticipation in his eye, “starting tomorrow, you’re going to learn how to woo a hawk.”
“A skillful segue,” admired Cangrande.
“Thank you. Boys, at the Capitano’s suggestion, each of you is going to pick out a red hawk – that’s the term for an inexperienced hatchling. And you’re going to train it. You’ll soon learn that every falcon is a lover. You have to know the best way to woo her. Some respond right away, fall for you and are eager to please. Some play coy, but all they want are treats and a little petting. And then there are those hellkites that fight you every step of the way. Those are the most dangerous, but also the most rewarding. Because once she’s tamed, she’s yours forever.”
Cesco was practically bouncing up and down for the challenge. “How do you tame a bird like that?”
Petruchio stroked his beard. “Eager, eh? Well, like most birds, you keep her in a place removed from home, a place she’s not used to. You keep her away from her food and never let her rest. Loud noises all through the day and night. Then you keep her busy – don’t let her fly, or she’ll escape.”
“How do you keep her from flying?” asked Detto.
“A hood is the common way, though with some birds you have to sew their eyelids shut. You keep all this up for as long as it takes, and every once in a while you offer her a little kindness – a mouse, a hunk of meat, a compliment. Soon she’s doing anything you want for that mouse, that compliment. Pleasing you is the only thing that matters. That’s when you take the risk and air her. If she comes back, she’s yours for life.”
“And if you judge it wrong?” aske
d Cesco. “If you air her too soon?”
“Then she flies off, but not before taking a nip at you. It’s happened to me a couple of times. They’re always the hardest, because you spend the rest of your life cursing them and worrying about them all at once.” Standing, Petruchio dusted himself off. “All right. This afternoon we’ll try you both on launching and recalling a bird. Then you can watch as the Capitano and I do a bit of real hunting.”
“And our hawks?” asked Cesco.
Cangrande said, “When we get back to the palace, you may choose. Or, rather, let her choose you.”
♦ ◊ ♦
Later, while Cangrande and Petruchio were off hunting, Detto drew his horse close to Cesco’s. “That was exciting!”
“You did well,” said Cesco sourly.
“The merlin was just in a bad mood. Not your fault.”
“Mmm.” Cesco was fussily stripping off the hard leather glove that stretched from knuckle to elbow, protection from razor-sharp talons.
“Not that I’m complaining, but any idea why this is our first lesson?” asked Detto. “I mean, why not swordplay or horsemanship? Why falconry?”
The furrow in Cesco’s brow altered from angry to pensive. “I’m not sure. It’s been much friendlier than I expected.”
“Yeah, we weren’t even made to clean or cook or scrape after them the way some squires are.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s coming. Today was like a holiday, almost.”
“Is that bad?” asked Detto.
“I don’t know. I can’t shake the feeling it was a message of some kind.”
“Message?”
“A gauntlet thrown down, some kind of challenge. Maybe even a threat. But for the life of me I can’t figure out what kind.” Instead of being put out by his lack of understanding, Cesco looked delighted.
Detto made a face. “Oh, good. Another puzzle. Let me know when you’ve solved it.”
Cesco nodded, brow still furrowed. “As soon as I see the pieces.”
Thirty-Six
Vicenza
Wednesday, 7 August
1325
