Hawk Quest

by Robert Lyndon

  ‘You’ll never find her in there,’ said Walter.

  Wayland handed the reins to Syth. ‘I’ll go on by foot.’ He took a few steps then hesitated. He looked back at Walter. ‘The falcon isn’t far away. Help me search for her.’

  Walter flushed in anger. ‘Who do you think you’re speaking to? I’m not going into the marsh.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ Syth said. ‘I’m light of foot and I grew up in the fens.’

  Wayland kept his gaze fixed on Walter. ‘I have something important to tell you.’

  Walter frowned. ‘Concerning Drogo and Vallon?’

  ‘Concerning murder.’

  Walter looked back, one side of his face burnished by the last rays of the sun. Suleyman and an escort of about thirty men were galloping towards them. Alongside rode Vallon and Drogo.

  ‘I knew it. Tell me how they intend to do the deed.’

  ‘Not here. Suleyman will reach us before I can explain.’

  ‘What’s this talk of murder?’ Syth said. ‘Why are you acting so strange?’

  Wayland touched her wrist. ‘Wait until I return.’

  The Seljuks were close. The last segment of sun had sunk, leaving a flaming band on the horizon and dimming fire on the twin peaks. Wisps of charcoal cloud floated high in a sky of purple and saffron. Wayland entered the marsh, wading through brine, pushing through reeds. Walter followed, labouring in his armour.

  ‘Out with it then,’ he panted. ‘If I can turn the knowledge to my advantage, I’ll intercede for you with Suleyman.’

  ‘Let’s recover the falcon first.’

  Walter gripped his arm. ‘If I save you, you’ll be my loyal slave.’

  Wayland hurried on. The reeds grew so tall that only the light draining in the west told him what direction he was taking. Every few yards he stopped, listening for the sound of the falcon’s bells. It was hopeless. Suleyman’s entire army could search all day for the falcon and never find her. She would have dragged the pigeon into cover when she saw the eagle. Even if he passed within five yards, he’d probably miss her. Falcons froze on their kill if anyone approached.

  He came to what looked like a shallow pool furred with weeds. Something warned him off crossing it. He skirted it, only to run into another. And another. His course was so erratic that he no longer knew where the eagle had been hunting. He was trying to find a way between bogs and he’d have only the stars to show him the way back.

  Walter took a false step and sank to his knees. The surface quivered around him. Wayland helped him onto firm ground.

  ‘That’s far enough. My armour makes it too dangerous.’

  ‘There’s still enough light to find her.’

  ‘We’re already in too far. Take me back.’

  ‘You return if you want.’

  ‘I don’t know the way.’

  ‘Then stay with me. I won’t be long.’

  Walter drew his sword. ‘Tell me what Drogo’s planning.’

  ‘We’re wasting time better spent on searching. Come on.’

  Walter dragged him back and raised his sword. ‘You’re wasting my time.’

  Wayland looked into Walter’s eyes.

  ‘Well?’

  Wayland’s gaze darted. ‘I heard her bell.’

  Walter yanked his arm. ‘Liar. The wind’s loud enough to drown a church peal.’

  ‘No,’ Wayland said, disengaging from Walter’s grip. He walked away, his eyes tracking right and left before stopping. He pointed. ‘It came from over there.’

  Walter stumbled along beside him. Every few steps Wayland called out. The bell didn’t sound again. He slowed his pace, scared of treading on the falcon. He peered through the reeds, trying to sieve her form out of the darkness. ‘Where are you?’

  The faintest of tinkles. Wayland placed a hand on Walter’s arm. ‘She’s close. Don’t move.’

  He dropped on to hands and knees and crawled forward, mouthing sweet nothings. The rasp of the bell came again. He advanced a few feet and the haggard uttered an anxious kack from behind him. He turned and lay flat on his belly in an icy puddle, scanning around at ground level. Too dark to make anything out, but his gaze kept returning to a blur within the base of a thick stand of reeds. It didn’t move and it was the wrong shape. ‘Is that you?’

  He pulled himself towards it. He was only a yard away when the blur shaped itself into the haggard, lying prone with her wings outspread. She was frightened by the darkness and wind, the threat from the eagle. His arrival reassured her and she stood and mantled over her prey. Her bell shivered.

  Wayland stretched out his right hand. She hadn’t even started plucking the pigeon. If the eagle hadn’t menaced her, she would have gorged by now and flown off to roost.

  His cold fingers fumbled before getting a grip on her jesses. No time to fit the swivel. Teeth chattering, he threaded the leash through the slits. When he’d looped the leash around his glove, his pent up breath burst out.

  ‘Where are you?’ Walter called. He’d been calling for some time.

  Wayland lifted the falcon and her prey onto his glove and rocked back on his knees. ‘I’ve got her.’

  The wind blew Walter’s response away.

  Wayland slipped the hood on and made his way back.

  Walter seized his arm. ‘Now tell me how Drogo and the Frank intend to murder me.’

  ‘Wait until we’re clear of the bogs. Stay close. Tread where I tread.’

  He took his bearings by the twin peaks and set off. The wind had strengthened to a gale and the reeds lashed over his head like swords.

  ‘Slow down, damn you. I can hardly see you.’

  Wayland increased his pace and reached one of the quagmires. He stepped onto it and felt the surface give. He looked behind him.

  Walter was out of sight, thrashing through the reeds. ‘Wait for me.’

  Wayland took a breath and crossed the bog at a gliding run. On the other side he stopped with a hand held over his thumping heart. He heard a splash and a shocked cry.

  ‘Blood of Christ! Another foot and I’d have been lost. Where are you, damn you?’

  ‘Here.’

  Walter’s dim outline appeared on the far edge of the bog. ‘Why do you go so fast? What path do I take?’

  ‘Straight across.’

  ‘This isn’t the way we came. It’s a bog.’

  ‘It’s the path I’ve just taken. There are my footprints.’

  ‘You aren’t wearing sixty pounds of armour.’

  ‘The surface will bear your weight.’

  Walter took one cautious step. ‘It trembles. I’m going to find a way round it.’

  ‘It’s too late to find another way. Walk towards me. Don’t linger on one spot.’

  Walter shuffled forward, knees bent, hands outstretched. Wayland watched with detachment. If he reaches me, he thought, I’ll let him live. Step after step he came closer, muttering to himself. The surface around him wallowed in slow undulations. He looked up, face white with fear in the starlight. ‘It won’t hold.’

  ‘Keep moving.’

  Walter took three more steps and was halfway across when the surface gave way and he plunged into the bog like a man falling through the hangman’s trap. He floundered waist-deep. ‘I can’t move,’ he gibbered. ‘The swamp holds me fast. I’m sinking. Oh my God! Help me!’

  Wayland watched him.

  ‘Save me! Why do you stand there? Why don’t you speak?’

  Wayland’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  Walter stopped struggling. ‘Is this why you brought me? I understand now. It’s Drogo’s doing. You’re the instrument of his hatred.’ His voice fell away in a moan of despair.

  Wayland recovered his voice. ‘It’s nothing to do with Drogo or Vallon!’

  Only the stars for witness. Walter’s teeth chattered.

  ‘Why do you want to harm me? I rescued you from the wilderness. I gave you house space, made you my falconer. Why do you want to harm me?’

  Waylan
d bent forward, his face ugly. ‘Because you cut off a man’s head.’

  ‘I’ve killed many men in battle. What are you talking about?’

  Wayland dropped to a crouch. ‘It was my father’s head.’

  ‘I don’t know your father. I can’t remember every English warrior who fell by my sword.’

  ‘He wasn’t a warrior and you didn’t kill him in battle. He was a farmer and you rode into his farmstead one evening four years ago as he was splitting firewood. Your men held him down over the chopping block and you hacked off his head and you laughed. When he was dead, you took my mother and my older sister into the cottage and raped them. Then you cut their throats and set fire to the house with my grandfather inside.’

  ‘That wasn’t me. It must have been Drogo.’

  ‘It was you and Drax and Roussel and others. I was there. I was watching.’

  Walter began to pant. ‘I did no more than any other Norman would have done. Your father was poaching my deer. The penalty for poaching is death.’

  ‘My mother and sisters weren’t poachers.’

  Walter groaned. ‘Wayland, I could have killed you when I found you in the forest. Show me the same mercy I granted you. Drogo wouldn’t have spared your life.’

  Wayland straightened. ‘Confess your crime and repent.’

  ‘Confess? To an English peasant?’

  ‘Repent or die.’

  ‘I repent nothing. My only regret is that I didn’t kill you.’

  Wayland’s voice fell to a mumble. ‘All you have to do is repent. Beg forgiveness and I’ll save you.’

  ‘Never.’

  Wayland clawed at his face. All his dreams and hopes had turned rotten. Before the night was much older, he too would be dead, leaving Syth and their unborn child alone in an alien land.

  Walter breathed in juddering spasms. ‘This is your own revenge, isn’t it? Vallon doesn’t know.’

  ‘I’ve told no one.’

  Walter’s voice rose to a screech. ‘You fool. If I die, the secret of the gospel dies with me.’

  Wayland stared in incomprehension. ‘What secret? What gospel?’

  ‘The Gospel of Thomas and a letter from Prester John. Treasures beyond price. Why do you think Vallon risked his life to save me? Why do you think Cosmas negotiated my ransom?’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Where no one can find them but me. Now pull me out of this foul mire.’

  Walter had sunk to his chest. Cries floated down the wind. A smear of flame appeared through the reeds.

  ‘Help!’ Walter shouted. ‘Help!’

  The cries came closer. Torches flickered.

  ‘Oh thank God,’ Walter gasped. He stopped struggling. ‘Now you’ll pay for your treachery. What I did to your family is nothing compared to the punishment I’ll deal out to you.’

  Four figures shoved out of the reeds.

  ‘Wayland?’ Vallon called.

  ‘He led me into the bog,’ Walter cried. ‘He tried to murder me. For the love of God, help me!’

  Vallon edged towards Wayland, Hero following. The other two men were Seljuks, carrying poles and rope. They took in the situation and unlooped the rope.

  ‘Don’t struggle,’ Vallon told Walter. ‘We’ll pull you out.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’

  Hero pushed forward. ‘Where’s the gospel?’

  Vallon slapped him. ‘The man’s in peril of death.’

  ‘He won’t tell us otherwise. Once he’s safe, he’ll turn against us. Walter, tell us where you’ve hidden the documents.’

  ‘You swear to save me?’

  ‘You’re wasting precious time,’ said Vallon. ‘Of course we’ll save you.’

  ‘They’re in a Roman bastillion on the eastern shore of Salt Lake. Hurry!’

  ‘We camped near the fort. Where will we find the gospel?’

  ‘The top of the staircase. Behind a stone carved with a lion. Hurry before it’s too late.’

  Vallon ordered the Seljuk to throw the rope. ‘Reach for it carefully. Don’t move more than you have to.’

  Walter clung to it. Vallon and Hero and the two Seljuks heaved. Vallon turned to Wayland. ‘Help us.’

  They strained and grunted until sweat broke on their brows. Each heave raised Walter half a foot, but all their efforts couldn’t break the bog’s grip.

  ‘Take your hauberk off,’ Vallon called. ‘You won’t sink if you rid yourself of your armour.’

  Walter clawed at the slippery mail with icy, mud-coated hands. ‘I can’t. Every movement pulls me deeper.’

  ‘Send one of the Seljuks for more men,’ Hero said.

  Vallon wiped his forehead. ‘It’s no use. It would take a team of horses to drag him loose, and the strain would tear him in two.’ He raised his head. ‘Walter, you have to break the suction. Paddle with your legs.’

  Walter had sunk to his shoulders. ‘I can’t feel them,’ he whimpered.

  Vallon seized the rope again. ‘Another effort.’

  They hauled first in one direction, then another. Something popped and the rope sprang loose, sending them tumbling backwards.

  ‘My shoulder!’ Walter screamed.

  Vallon picked himself up. He cast the rope towards Walter. ‘Take hold of it. At least we can keep you from going under.’ He turned to Hero. ‘Send one of the Seljuks to fetch a team carrying ladders.’

  ‘He’ll freeze to death before they get here.’

  Walter’s left hand groped for the rope. His fingers closed on it. When Vallon drew it taut, it pulled straight out.

  ‘I can’t hold it. All feeling has gone.’

  The bog was above his shoulders. Vallon doubled over, hands on knees. ‘Walter, there’s nothing more we can do. Make peace with your maker.’

  The surface was up to Walter’s chin. ‘Oh mother of God, save me in my hour of need. Oh merciful mother of God … ’ He broke off with a sob.

  They watched in horror as Walter sank deeper.

  ‘What a terrible way to die,’ he said, his tone remote. He called out in Turkic to the Seljuks. ‘I’ve told them what happened here. The Emir will make you pay for your crimes.’ His voice rose to a shriek. ‘I curse Wayland! And I curse you for bringing him here and I curse Drogo! I’ll be waiting for you in hell!’

  Water closed over his mouth and he delivered his final curse as a gargling scream. Wayland’s flesh crept, but he remembered his family massacred in their home and didn’t regret his crime. Bubbles erupted from Walter’s mouth. He heaved up as the water rose above his nose. He sank again and more bubbles burst. His eyes still showed, rolling with terror, and then they went still and glazed over. They sank from sight. Slowly his head disappeared. The surface quaked one last time and went still.

  Vallon was down on one knee. He turned his head. ‘Is it true? Did you lead him to his death?’

  ‘He slaughtered my family. Father, mother, brother and sister, grandfather … He raped the women and cut their throats.’

  Vallon looked at him for a long time. ‘That’s why you joined us. I set out to rescue Walter, and you were planning to kill him.’

  ‘Only at first. Once I met Syth, once I saw how gallantly you led us, I swore to bury my hatred. I haven’t even told Syth what Walter did. But then he threatened to kill me. He gloated about it. I know the Emir will probably execute me for disobeying his orders. I know I won’t see the child Syth’s carrying. Walter followed me into the marsh and revenge was all I had left. Even then I gave him a chance. I would have tried to save him if only he’d confessed his crimes and repented.’

  Vallon heaved an exhausted sigh and stood. ‘The Seljuks don’t know what happened. We’ll tell the Emir it was an accident. At least you recovered the falcon. That might go some way to assuaging his wrath.’

  Wayland broke down. It wasn’t fear of Suleyman’s punishment that overwhelmed him. It was the stress that had built up in him from the moment chance presented him with the opportunity to kill Walter. It was despair at the tho
ught of what would happen to Syth.

  Hero put his arm around him. ‘Come on. Let’s leave this awful place.’

  They picked their way out of the marsh. About twenty men remained with the Emir, rags of flame whisking from their torches. Suleyman rode forward, hunched and malevolent. Vallon and Hero stepped in front of Wayland and pleaded for mercy. Half a dozen Seljuks dragged them out of the way at swordpoint. The Emir stopped in front of Wayland and gave an order. Ibrahim approached. From the pitiful expression on his face, Wayland knew that the Emir wouldn’t show mercy. Ibrahim took the falcon. He held up a hand, showing Suleyman the pigeon. The Emir dashed it to the ground.

  Wayland raised his eyes. ‘Let me see Syth one last time.’

  Drogo spoke out of the dark. ‘They took her back to the camp.’

  ‘I’ll take care of her,’ Vallon said. ‘I promise she won’t come to harm.’

  The Emir raised his mace. Wayland stared at the twin peaks. The torches guttered.

  One of the underfalconers threw himself down and scooped up the pigeon. He thrust his hand up. The Emir’s stallion flared its nostrils and sidestepped.

  Ibrahim grabbed the pigeon and called for light. Two torchbearers ran up to him. He held the pigeon towards the flames and Wayland glimpsed something gleaming on its leg. Suleyman looked down at it and waved his hand. Faruq dismounted and hurried up. Ibrahim cut the object off the pigeon’s leg and handed it to him. He held it between thumb and forefinger.

  A tiny cylinder. Wayland had no idea what it meant.

  ‘A messenger pigeon,’ he heard Hero say.

  ‘I know,’ said Vallon. ‘The Moors used them in Spain. Wayland, stay where you are and don’t say a word.’

  Nobody was paying any attention to him. Everyone was leaning into the cluster of torches, intent on what Faruq was doing. He prised a cap off the tube and extracted its contents. He called for the torches to be brought closer and unrolled a tiny piece of fabric. From the way his lips worked, it must have contained writing. He gasped, collected himself with conscious effort and beckoned the Emir closer. Suleyman leaned down until Faruq was able to speak into his ear. What he said made the Emir sit bolt upright. His gaze roamed through the night. When it returned it settled on Wayland. He squeezed his horse’s flanks, rode forward and ruffled Wayland’s hair. He threw back his head and laughed.