Hawk Quest by Robert Lyndon Read Free Book Online Page A

then sprang up in one unconsidered movement. The commotion made the hawk bate so violently that the draught of her wings blew out the lamp. In the blackout Wayland couldn’t control her twisting and flapping. He opened the shutter and by the wash of starlight managed to scoop her back on to his fist and untwist her jesses. Mouth agape, chest heaving, she squatted on his glove like a spastic chicken. Wayland knew that the setback meant the loss of another night’s sleep, but he couldn’t set her down now. If he did, all the advances he’d made would be reversed, and he’d have to go through the whole tedious process from scratch. The dog, oblivious to his reproachful growl, threatened the door, its muzzle rucked back from canines the size of small tusks.
    A fist banged. ‘You’re wanted in the hall. Quick!’
    Wayland half-opened the door. Raul the German stood there, panting with urgency. Wayland pointed to the hawk, then at its perch.
    ‘Bring it with you.’
    Wayland reached for the muzzle hanging from a peg. The dog was supposed to wear it whenever it left the hut.
    Raul yanked his arm. ‘No time for that.’
    Wayland followed him into the rigid night. His feet slithered in icy ruts. Constellations frozen in their orbits outlined the keep. The dog padded beside him, its shoulders on a level with his hips. The hawk, stupefied by the rush of sensations, crouched on his fist.
    Raul glanced back excitedly. ‘They’re talking about an expedition to Norway. If they’re after falcons, they’ll need a falconer.’ He stopped. ‘This could be our chance.’
    To escape, he meant. To go home. Raul was from the Saxony coast, the main breadwinner in a sprawling family who’d lost their farm in a North Sea flood. He’d gone abroad to seek his fortune and, after various misadventures on land and sea, had taken service with the Normans as a crossbowman. A bearded, barrel-chested stump of a man with a weakness for drink, women and sentimental songs, his discipline away from the battlefield was atrocious. Ten years older than Wayland, he’d attached himself to the tall English youth, although they had little in common beyond the fact that both were outsiders.
    Wayland shifted him aside. When he reached the hall, the dog lay down by the entrance without being told. He went in.
    ‘Hey,’ Raul called. ‘If they’re looking for volunteers, put in a word for me.’
    Most of the men in the high-beamed chamber were asleep. A few fuddled faces looked up from ale cups and dice games. Drogo’s voice carried through the screen separating the communal quarters from the Count’s receiving chamber.
    ‘Watch it,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘They’ve been arguing for hours. The old man’s pissed.’
    Wayland parted the drapes. Olbec and Margaret were seated in X-frame armchairs placed on a dais. Drogo paced in front of them, his face like a scalded pig, punching the palm of one hand to drive home some point or other. The strangers had their backs to Wayland, the Frank slouched yet alert, the Sicilian braced in nervous concentration. Wayland spotted Richard sitting alone in a corner.
    ‘I admit it,’ Drogo said. ‘I don’t know a lot about falcons. Hawk -ing’s too namby-pamby for my taste. Where’s the risk, where’s the danger? But I know one thing. Hawks are prey to endless ailments. They die from the smallest slight. Tie a healthy falcon down in the evening and next morning you return to find a bundle of feathers. Buy a dozen gyrfalcons in Norway and you’d be lucky if a single bird survived the journey.’
    Margaret jabbed Olbec. ‘Don’t listen to him. His opinion’s warped by malice.’
    Drogo spread his arms in frustration. ‘For once, my lady, set aside your prejudices and consider the practicalities. What will you feed the hawks on during the journey?’
    Spots of red highlighted Margaret’s cheeks. ‘Pigeons, seagulls, sheep, fish!’
    Wayland had forgotten about the goshawk. Its emphatic rouse attracted