The fugitives had reached the next milecastle. Vallon turned and gestured, then dropped his arm and led the ragtag caravan away. When they had walked out of his life, Wayland passed through the castle gate. In the long shadows the mounds and hollows in the courtyard resembled graves. His gaze wandered over the empty parapets. He smacked his palms together and the clap bounced back from the walls like an echo through time. He scratched the dog’s head. It’s just you and me now.
He frowned and went back through the gate. The faint tolling of a bell told him that the escape had been discovered. He sat down, imagining the scene at the castle — the soldiers with thumping headaches and addled eyes cursing as they tried to disentangle armour and harness with hands that seemed to have sprouted five thumbs. Their horses would be sore from yesterday’s hunt, but the Normans would use dogs to track the runaways. They wouldn’t get far. Already the mist was lifting.
Wayland shouldered his pack and set off downhill on a course that would bring him to the South Tyne miles upstream. He had no qualms about abandoning the fugitives. Vallon and Hero meant nothing to him, and Richard was a Norman and therefore a sworn enemy. He bore Raul no ill will, nor was he bound to him by friendship. He had no friends. He didn’t need friends. He was like the goshawk, a shadow in the forest, gone in the first glimpse.
In any case, there was nothing he could do to save them. He’d only agreed to Vallon’s request because it suited his own purposes. Their flight would distract the Normans while he made good his own escape. By nightfall, when they were lying hacked in pieces, he’d be safe in a forest hideaway.
As if some force was acting against his limbs, he found his steps slowing until he came to a stop. The dog watched him, ears pricked. Wayland looked back at the wall, then down into the valley. He leaned and spat. The dog, anticipating his next move, sprang away downhill. Wayland whistled and turned back towards the wall. I’m not doing it for the strangers, he told himself. I’m doing it for the look on Drogo’s face when he realises who’s outwitted him.
By the time he caught up with the fugitives it was broad daylight and only a few ribbons of mist clung to the slopes. The country on all sides was dreary common, open and almost treeless.
‘We have to get off the wall,’ Vallon gasped.
Wayland lay down and put his ear to the antique paving.
‘How far are they behind us?’
Wayland pointed at a milecastle and held up two fingers.
He scourged them on, amazed at how slowly other people moved. They were nearly at the next castle when he stopped and put a finger to his lips. Soon they all heard it — the distant belling of hounds. Hero and Richard stumbled on, throwing terrified glances behind them. They came over a rise and a flock of sheep stampeded across a part-walled enclosure below. The sheep stopped in a bunch, all looking back, the ewes stamping their feet. Two mean-looking dogs streaked over the turf. A boy and a girl emerged from behind a cairn and stared up at the fugitives.
‘That’s all we need,’ Hero groaned.
The children ran at the sheep, waving sticks and crying out. The dogs turned and chivvied the flock through a gap and down into a gulley.
Wayland stripped Raul and Hero of their cloaks. Richard cringed away. ‘Give it to him,’ Vallon said, pulling off his cape.
Wayland pushed him to the edge of the wall and pointed at the gulley.
‘He wants us to follow the sheep. Quick, before the soldiers come in sight.’
Wayland grabbed Raul and mimed the route they must take. South to the river then west to the first ford. On the other side follow the river until you reach a stream flowing in from the south. Go up the valley until the stream divides. Wait for me there.
Raul slapped Wayland’s shoulder to show that he understood, took hold of Richard and plunged off the wall. Wayland didn’t wait to see how they got on. He tied some of the runaways’ clothes to his girdle, the rest to the dog’s collar, then took from his pack a bag containing a concoction of musk and castor. He smeared the foul-smelling grease on his feet. The hue and cry drew closer.
The next section of wall ran as straight as a rule. Wayland dropped into the great ditch on the south side and broke into an easy lope, matching the dog stride for stride. A milecastle slid by. The next one stuck up like a rotten molar. Wayland scaled the broken turret and lay facing the way he had come. His breathing eased. On a stone beside him a bored or homesick legionnaire had scratched a prayer or obscenity or declaration of love. A lark sang its heart out so high in the blue that Wayland couldn’t spot it — singing at heaven’s gate, his mother would have said.
When Wayland looked down, he saw riders stitched into the landscape on each side of the wall. One, two, three. They disappeared into a dip and others took their place. When all were clear, Wayland had counted thirteen, plus four hounds.
The hounds checked at the spot where the fugitives had left the wall. One of them ran down into the sheep pasture. The others didn’t follow. Their baying intensified. A rider rode after the wayward hound and whipped it back into line. The pack drew on.
Wayland slithered down from the tower. Ahead the way divided, a broad track descending through gentler terrain to the south, the wall switchbacking along a scarp with a steep drop on the north face. A moor dotted by loughs sloped up to a forest of ancient pines. He’d been in the forest years ago with his father and they had stood at this same spot.
‘See the trees in front,’ his father had said. ‘Those are the champions, frozen in their advance by a thunderbolt thrown by Odin.’
‘Our mother says Odin and all the other gods don’t exist,’ he’d said. ‘She says there’s only one God and his son is Jesus Christ, the light of the world.’
His father had scuffed Wayland’s hair. ‘Jesus has yet to shine his light into all parts. But don’t tell your mother I said so or she’ll deny me all comforts for a month.’
Wayland checked the knots securing the cast-offs. He followed the wall, his breathing growing harsher with the ascent. When he reached the first crag, he scrambled down where a horse couldn’t follow and hared off north, trying to keep below the contours. The land grew wilder, rough pasture and cottongrass giving way to heather and springy mosses. Drab little birds started up at his feet.
He reached the treeline and looked back. The frieze of riders was climbing the scarp, and from the way they rode their mounts he knew they hadn’t spotted his breakout. He jogged into the forest.
This was where the real effort had to be made, distance gained until the hunters had been lured so far from their quarry that they would need another day to recover from the deception. Wayland broke into a run and his mind closed down. All he was conscious of was his feet flying over the ground, the trees sliding back, the sun flickering between their high black crowns. He emerged from the forest on to an empty moor and ran on. Cresting a ridge, he saw in the distance two men astride shaggy ponies who stood in their stirrups to better make him out. When he went over the next horizon they were still watching, wondering perhaps if the running man and his giant dog were flesh and blood or apparitions from a mythical past.
On he went, running, trotting or walking as the going dictated, until he came to the rim of a wide basin thinly wooded with birches. At the bottom a burn swollen by meltwater tumbled down steps before dividing around a boulder and plunging into a clough. He untied the cast-offs and stowed them in his backpack. While he waited for his breathing to slow, he studied the waterfall, calculating the distance from the bank to the boulder and from there to the far side. Thirty feet at least. The current dashed at the rock, sometimes washing over it. He couldn’t cross in two separate moves. All or nothing.
He swallowed two deep breaths and hurtled down the slope. By the time he came to the burn he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. He took off too short, sprang off the rock, and hung for an age before crashing on to the other bank with a force that jarred him to his eyeballs. The dog thumped into the heather beside him. Wayland gave a breathl
ess laugh and ruffled its mane. He drank from the peaty stream and planned his next move. Not far above them lay a whinstone slab half buried in rank heather. They sank down against it and shared meat and bread.
The day was warm and still, the clouds anchored to the ground by their shadows. Budding leaves hazed the birches in luminous green. A moor owl quartered the opposite slope. The bugling of the hounds woke Wayland from a doze. He watched them work down the scent line and recognised them by their markings — Marte and Marteau, Ostine and Lose. Marteau ran lame, skipping along on three legs, the fourth loosely tucked up.
Riders notched the skyline. They remained on the ridge for some time, searching for movement. By now they must be wondering how such pedestrian quarry could outpace them for so long. They started their descent and from the way the horses sidestepped, Wayland knew they were pretty used up. He smeared peat on his face and drew sacking over his hair. He selected his heaviest arrow and stuck it in the ground by his bow.
The hounds rushed up to the waterfall and jostled on the brink. They tested the current and found it too strong. Their voices died. They cast upstream and down, each time returning to the fall.
The riders pulled up. Their horses were blowing hard. Some soldiers dismounted. The rest slumped over their horses’ necks. Their sweat-streaked faces were still besooted and the smudges around their bloodshot eyes gave them the look of plague victims. Some wore no armour. Drax had pulled on his mail over his nightshirt. Drogo’s mount was lathered and its head splashed with pink froth. Man or beast, he used both the same.
The huntsman scratched his head. ‘The hounds say they crossed here.’
Drogo slid off his horse. ‘Don’t be an imbecile. The current would have swept them over the fall.’
‘One of them crossed.’
Drogo jerked. ‘Wayland?’
The huntsman nodded. ‘I saw him course a deer once and he leaped a chasm I wouldn’t have set a horse at.’
‘Then where are the rest of them?’ Drogo surveyed all around. ‘It’s a ruse. They must have backtracked. They can’t be far.’
‘They’re not here. The scent’s fresh. They’re on foot. We should have caught up with them long ago. Wayland’s leading us a dance.’
Drogo clubbed the huntsman to the ground. ‘Where did we lose them?’
The man felt his jaw. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled.
Drogo kicked him. ‘Tell me, damn you.’
‘Back at the wall where the hounds checked and Ostine began following a different line. I thought that sheep had led her astray because the others went on stronger than before. Since then they’ve run steadfast.’
Drogo stared back in a frenzy of disbelief. ‘By now they could be across the Tyne. They could be in the next county.’
Wayland notched arrow to bowstring.
Drogo’s eyes switched. ‘Who’s got the freshest horse? Guilbert, ride for home and send parties in all directions. Raise the alarm in Durham. Send word to York. I’ll follow you direct.’ He caught hold of his horse and dragged himself up. He stared across the river, his eyes burning like coals. ‘The bastard can’t be far away. He’s probably watching us.’
‘We’ll pin him another day,’ Roussel said.
Drogo’s gaze skewered him. ‘None of this would be necessary if you and Drax had dealt with the Frank. Well, now the two of you can make amends. Take the huntsman and four others.’ Drogo gathered his reins. ‘Nothing less than the falconer’s head on a spike will make me forgive you.’
Wayland stood, drew, aimed and loosed. The arrow skewed off Drogo’s mailed shoulder. His horse reared and the other riders milled, grasping for their weapons.
Wayland bellied away through the heather. Aimless bolts hissed overhead. When he was out of range, he stood up. Drogo sat clutching his shoulder, though the arrow hadn’t penetrated. The riders had closed up in combat formation, shield to shield. Wayland brandished his bow. He threw back his head and spread his arms in a wordless display of triumph.
In slanting afternoon sunshine, he sat at the edge of the wildwood and watched his hunters far below picking their way across the South Tyne. The huntsman carried lame Marteau over his saddle, and the other hounds quested in silence. When all seven riders had crossed, Wayland rose and massaged his aching calves. Since dawn he’d covered more than twenty miles. He yoked his bow across his shoulders and went into the trees, up through the childhood smells of violets and wood anemones. The dog remembered the forest and stuck close to heel, its tail drooping. Wayland entered the home clearing with the weary tread of a mourner. Ash and hazel had colonised the cultivated strips and the place where the house had stood was a riot of nettles.
Behind the house a byre had collapsed into a tangle of poles choked by ivy and brambles. He pushed between them. They weren’t stout enough to stop a charging horse, but the weeds grew dense enough to screen him from sight. He’d passed several spots where he could have ambushed the Normans without much risk to himself, but he wanted them to know why he’d led them here. Roussel and Drax had been members of the gang that had murdered his family; he wanted to see recognition flare before he killed them.
While he waited, he picked burrs from between the dog’s pads. He took six ash arrows from his quiver and planted them to hand. The sun sank into the trees. Blue dusk suffused the air. Rooks cawed on their nests. It was very peaceful.
A jay squawked in the wood and the rooks lifted from their nests. A wren scolded at the edge of the clearing. Wayland heard the ragged panting of the hounds and drew his knife. The greenery trembled and Ostine appeared in front of him. She stopped and threw back her head, but before she could utter a sound the dog smashed into her, bowling her over. The other hounds broke cover. When they saw the dog they whimpered and squirmed in submission. Wayland crouched in front of them and cradled their muzzles. He looked into their eyes and smiled. Make a sound, and I’ll cut your throats. They lay down and began licking their sore limbs.
Two riders came out of the trees. They stopped and surveyed the clearing, then one of them gestured and the other five emerged. All were armoured, wearing helmets. Two of them held loaded crossbows. Wayland’s mouth grew dry. He wiped his palms and raised his bow.
The encircling forest made the soldiers edgy. They advanced stirrup to stirrup, peering over their shields. Wayland bent his bow, sighting on Roussel’s chest. That’s far enough. They kept coming. They were only twenty yards in front of him when they halted. Swarms of midges clouded around them. The horses tossed their heads; their flanks twitched.
Roussel dragged his forearm across his cheeks. ‘I’m being eaten alive.’
Drax’s head patrolled from side to side. Wayland watched his eyes. Shoot the moment he realises where he is. Shoot and then run.
‘Roussel.’
‘What?’ Roussel demanded, scratching his wrist on the edge of his shield.
‘I know this place. We both do.’
Roussel stopped scratching.
‘Don’t you remember? There was a cottage over there. You can still make out the fields.’
Roussel pulled back on his reins. ‘Jesus, you’re right.’
‘It must be a coincidence. We left no one alive.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Walter captured the falconer not far from here. He must have grown up in these woods.’ Roussel looked around the clearing. ‘You know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘He could have lost us any time it pleased him. We’re not hunting him; he’s hunting us.’
Drax gave a nervous laugh. ‘One against seven. Are you serious?’
‘The odds might not be as good as that. The Frank must have fled south. We’ve been chasing the falconer in a circle. He could be leading us into an ambush.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I say we get out of here.’
‘Drogo will crucify us.’
‘We tell him we tracked the falconer until nightfall and found ourselves in a forest, with no food or shel
ter. What were we supposed to do?’ Roussel turned to the huntsman. ‘Call off the hounds.’
Relief was what Wayland felt. Standing only a few yards from seven armoured horse soldiers, he’d felt his resolve leaking away. At best he would have been able to release only one arrow, and he wasn’t confident that it would have hit the mark. The effort of holding his heavy bow at full draw was making his aim waver. He slackened off and let his breath go.
If only the huntsman had used his horn. Instead he took a bone whistle from around his neck and blew a thin note barely audible to the human ear. One of the hounds whimpered.
Roussel lifted his sword. ‘Straight ahead!’
Wayland drew and let fly. The arrow skewered Roussel’s mailed wrist, punched through his iron helmet and sliced through bone and brain. Wayland’s last sight of him was him leaning back, his hand pinned to his backthrown head as if scandalised.
‘Charge!’
Wayland turned and ran, clawing through the poles. He’d expected the Normans to scatter, but he’d underestimated their discipline, their confidence in their armour and horsepower.
‘There he goes!’
He was in the forest, breaking for the ravine, when he realised 4his second mistake. In the years since he’d left the wildwood, the familiar trails had become overgrown. Branches snagged him, thickets thwarted him. While he struggled to make distance, the horses battered their way through, gaining with every stride. They were so close that he didn’t have time to fit another arrow.
‘I see him. Spread out. Don’t let him get around our flanks.’
A fallen tree blocked Wayland’s path. The trunk was too high to hurdle, too long to run around. He vaulted up, and as he gathered himself to spring down the other side, a blow between his shoulders knocked him over.
‘Got him! Hit him fair and square!’
Wayland sprawled winded on the far side. He knew he’d been hard hit. The fact that he felt no pain meant nothing. He’d seen deer shot through the heart run a hundred yards before their legs folded. He spat dirt from his mouth and staggered on, his breath sawing in his throat. The ground fell steeply towards the edge of the ravine and he had to brake his descent by grabbing at trees. A dead birch snapped off in his hand. Arms flailing, he careered down the slope. The mouth of the ravine rushed up towards him. He threw himself on his side and tobogganed feet first through the mulch. His right knee hit a stump with a sickening wrench. He clawed his hands into the earth and managed to halt only a few feet from the drop. He turned and saw four Normans on foot slip-sliding down the slope. When he stood, the pain in his knee made his leg buckle. He abandoned his plan to climb down into the gorge and lie up until nightfall.
Hawk Quest Page 8
