Hawkmaiden (6 page)

“Is it, now?” he asked, absently.

“Yes, it has a leaky cistern and a hole in the roof.  I can patch it enough to get through the winter,” she proposed, “and with some help I can repair it.  But the place needs a
lot
of work,” she said, warningly.  “Maybe I’m not the one who should be—”

“It sounds like you have things well enough in hand,” Anira said, suspiciously, from behind her.  “I’ll not pull someone off of more productive work so you can go play in the forest, Lenodara.  You just keep at it until it’s done!”  

Dara did her best to look appalled.  “But Aunt Anira!  That will take
weeks!
 Do you have any idea how much of a mess it is?  The fireplace is cracked, the bed is rickety and needs to be replaced, the shutters have holes in them, the floor is filthy and needs to be completely stripped and re-done, the plaster inside is—”

“That is quite enough, young lady!” her aunt said, with fire in her voice.  “I don’t care if you have to be in the nutwoods every moment of your day for weeks, you will scrub and repair that cot until it’s fit for someone to live in.  The Flame knows poor Widow Ama was fading, these last few years, and I’ve no doubt her place needs repair – those sons of hers barely went to visit her, the poor dear.

“But it’s the manor’s responsibility to see it repaired, and repaired properly.  You can take what you need from stores, and you can recruit help as you need to, but I want to have that cottage ready to live in by Yule.  Do you understand me, young lady?”

“Yes, Aunt Anira,” Dara said, meekly, as she bent over her stew.

So I have my mews secured
, she thought to herself, as she ate in silence, pretending to be feeling chastised.  
No one will want to go out there, not for weeks.  And now I have the perfect excuse to be out there.

She thought about all the details of her plan, including the other things she’d need.  She’d paid close attention to her Uncle Keram’s stories about falconry, and she had a pretty fair idea of what equipment she would have to assemble.

Jesses were no problem – she could get leather straps from the tanning shed and cut them to fit.  She could make a perch out of wood, she knew, or borrow something from the long storage shed, where the broken furniture was kept.  Constructing a hood or blind would be more difficult.  The little leather “helmet” that fitted over a bird’s head to keep it docile was a very specialized thing.  She knew it was made of leather, but she had little idea how to make one.  The journey up the mountain would be tough, but most of the gear she could scrounge up easily enough: gloves from the workroom, her boots, a basket she could take from the storeroom to get the bird down, once she got it.  That was the easy part.

In the end she dismissed the problem for a later day.  It seemed silly worrying about gear for a falcon she didn’t even have yet.  

Now that she had a mews, the next step was to capture the fledgling.  That was the dangerous part, too – well, that and getting caught.  She wasn’t certain which she feared most, plummeting to her death from a mountaintop or getting caught doing something she knew full well her father would object to.

Yet she had to try.  The very thought of the powerful raptor in flight sent shivers down her spine.  She would have to move soon, too, she knew, else the fledglings would fly, and all her hopes would be dashed.  

The hard part, she realized, was going to be finding over a
hundred feet
of rope.  That was her next task, she decided as she finished the bowl.  She had to have rope.

Chapter Three

Stealing Rope

Rope.  Dara needed rope.  A
lot
of rope.

She measured the distance by eye several times, calculating in her head just how much rope she would need to get up the back side of the peak, and then to descend the front side to the cliff.  She kept coming up with a hundred and twenty feet, minimum, that she would need to get the job done.

The problem was that there just wasn’t rope of that size lying around the manor.

The Westwoodmen were familiar with rope.  The bridge that connected their estate with the rest of Sevendor was secured by giant ropes the size of her leg, specially made of hemp, cotton, and blackberry, woven in a pattern developed to support the great weight of the bridge.   

But that rope was far too thick for Dara’s purpose.  More, it would have been ridiculously heavy, impossible for a girl of her size to carry up a mountain, she knew.  There had to be another answer.  The next morning, when Dara arose and went to the storeroom to collect supplies for her chores at the nutwoods cot, she discovered two coils of rope in the dusty room, each a disappointing twenty feet.

Dara took them anyway, as well as a broom, a mop, a bucket, some rags, a pair of gloves, some tapers, a trowel, a hammer, a sheet of oilcloth, some beeswax, three thick iron nails, a pot of sticky clay, another of tar, and an old moth-eaten sheet destined for the rag bin.  She packed it all in a wheelbarrow, then stopped by the kitchen to wheedle some food from her aunt to take with her for lunch.

She did her best to look despondent and reluctant, when she reported to her Aunt Anira before she went.  Dara loved her aunt like a mother – she was, in truth, the only mother Dara had ever known – but she seemed to constantly suspect Dara of being “up to something” whether it was climbing trees or throwing rocks into the chasm.  The reluctant act worked, however.  Anira gave her a wedge of cheese and a small loaf, and added a few small sausages as an afterthought, all the while insisting that the work would go faster if she kept focused on it.

“You be sure to do a thorough job,” she warned, waving a spoon in her face.  “No shirking.  This will be a good task for you.  You’ll be expected to keep your own home, someday.  Best you learn what that entails.”

Dara looked properly dejected, until she left the kitchen.  She placed her lunch basket in the wheelbarrow and then took it down the trail toward the nutwood . . . and near to the harness shed.

If there was any place that could be concealing rope, it would be the harness shed, she reasoned.  The manor only kept a half-dozen horses, mostly ronceys that could be used either as beasts of burden or ridden to range the frontiers on this side of the bridge.

Horses disliked going over the rope bridge and standing over the crevasse, so they rarely made the trip.  Westwoodmen preferred to walk.  The Westwood landscape was not well-suited to horses, due to the rugged nature of the land, but the few they had were kept in the stable near the cow byre. The harness shed, where saddles, bridles, blankets and such were kept, was next to the small stable. 

Dara let herself in as casually as she could, not even looking around to see if anyone was watching.  That would just arouse suspicion, she knew.  

Instead she walked in, boldly, and then began searching the rich-smelling shed for rope.  After pushing past the hanging bits and bridles, past the saddles hanging from the walls of the close little shed, she finally discovered a peg in the back upon which were three coils of supple line, as thick as her thumb, in neat forty-foot coils.  

Dara knew at once that if she tried removing all three coils at once, someone would see her and start asking questions.  Instead she contented herself with taking just one of the ropes, concealing it in the wheelbarrow under the oilcloth.  

The trip down to the pensioners’ cottages seemed to take forever, and the old wheelbarrow she borrowed seemed to have a mind of its own.  It kept trying to steer itself off of the path, forcing Dara to wrestle it back.  It was slow going, and she didn’t arrive until midmorning, covered with sweat and exhausted.

And you think you’re going to climb
a
mountain? she challenged herself.  
You’re going to have to be tougher than that – stronger than that – if you want that bird!

Once she caught her breath, she was filled with new resolve, despite her weariness.  She opened up the cottage, kindled a fire, and got to work.

She didn’t want to accomplish
too
much – she had to stretch this chore out, if she was to have use of the place for as long as she needed it.  She tucked her precious coils of rope under the bed, for now, and unloaded the other supplies into the cottage.  She did take the time to fit the oilcloth tarp over the hole near the cistern – it looked like it might rain soon – and tied it down well.  She also heated up the pot of pitch on the fire, once it was hot enough, and smeared enough on the leak in the cistern to seal it.  

Satisfied that she had accomplished at least some work, she turned her attention to her real purpose.  She sorted out the cleaning supplies from the climbing supplies and began assembling everything she thought she might need on her expedition.  By noon, when she halted for lunch, she felt as if she had nearly everything but the rest of the rope.

She spent most of the rest of the afternoon climbing trees around the cottage, choosing the hardest ones.  Dara had been a confirmed tree-climber for years, enjoying a reputation for daring among her fellow children long past the time when most girls gave up such pursuits for those more refined.  But Dara was far more active than that, and saw her sisters’ and cousins’ interest in such things as needlework, marriage, and gossip as supremely boring.  

She ascended one tree after another, refusing to rest between attempts as she tried to build her strength and endurance up.  It was exhausting, and when she did take a break for water and rest, the only chore she felt at all ready to do was pull the dead flowers out of the planters by the door before she collapsed on the rickety old bed for a rest.

Then the bed collapsed under her.

Despite the pain and sudden jarring, Dara stared at the dusty ceiling of the cottage and laughed hysterically.  

*                            *                            *

When she returned to Westwood Hall, comfortably before dinner, she apparently looked exhausted, too, according to her Aunt Anira.  After assuring her it was merely from her labors, and not a sign that she was getting ill, she was surprisingly approving, and even slipped Dara one of the tiny cakes that were to be served for dinner.

She told everyone over dinner how Widow Ama’s bed had collapsed, and complained how long it would take to repair or replace it, just to emphasize how she was really unhappy with her chore . . . and she received the expected number of chastisements for her laziness.  Ordinarily that would bother her, but each one ensured that she would be able to use the cot without the danger of folks wandering by.  After enduring a lecture from her father on the importance of hard work, she reluctantly promised she would stick with it . . . no matter how long it took.

The next morning she arose early and left just before breakfast was served, wheedling a tin of porridge and some things for lunch from her aunt before she left, suggesting she wanted to get an early start.  While the rest of the household was eating she slipped back into the harness shed and took the second coil of rope.  All day that day she practiced tying the ropes together in one long line, then testing her knots against her weight as she dangled from a tree limb.

Dara was actually good at knots – good enough that her aunt had frequently told her she had no idea why her needlework was so poor.  She paid attention when her brothers were tying them, preparing snares and traps for the Westwood.  While she was not adept, her nimble fingers knew enough to keep the ropes from slipping.

At lunch she spent an hour working on the cottage, removing the broken bed outside and sweeping the dirt floor smooth.  She would bring fresh dried ferns from the herb house tomorrow, she decided.  

The bed was ruined.  It had been old when Widow Ama had taken residence in the cot, and while the headboard was solid enough; the rest of the bed was warped, cracked, and uneven.  Once she decided that it wasn’t salvageable, she used her hammer to bust it apart.  

The footboard, she discovered, would make a decent perch, for now.  Even if its legs were in no condition to support it, turned on its side the piece was the right height and thickness for a perch, Dara decided.  She placed it in one corner of the cottage and piled the rest of the debris with the other garbage outside (cleanly picked through by her raccoon friend, she noted).  

The headboard went into the wheelbarrow, so that it could be used in a new bed.  That would take her cousin Keru a few weeks to put together in the woodshop, she knew with satisfaction.  Which would extend the time before the cottage was ready even more.  Dara had no idea how long she would need the privacy for training, but every day was precious.

Once she stowed her stolen ropes in the cottage, she headed home again, propping the door shut and leaving the last of her lunch for the raccoon.  She was exhausted, after her days of hard exercise.  She skipped dinner and went to bed early, earning a look of concern from her aunt

It rained all day the next day, which forced Dara to actually work on the cottage instead of preparing for her climb.  She decided against bringing the dried ferns (no sense transporting them in the rain) and focused on re-mudding the wattle-and-daub inside the house.  She noted with satisfaction that her patch over the hole in the roof seemed to be working splendidly.  Not a drop was coming through, now.  And the cistern was holding water without leaking.  

But there was only so much she could accomplish inside the cottage.  Eventually she ran out of easy tasks to do, and she found herself idle, staring out the window.  The rain and the forced inactivity also gave Dara time to think.  

Am I really going to do this?
she asked herself as she watched the raindrops collect on the side of the window.  She had been thinking about the Silver Hooded Raptor’s majestic flight all morning, imagining herself with wings flying nearby.  
Am I really going to risk my life, risk my poor behind if I get caught, just for this little bird?  Or is this just the stupidest little girl idea I’ve ever had, and I’m too stubborn to admit it?

She was overcome with doubt, for a while, and seriously considered giving up on her plan entirely.  The idea of a twelve-year old girl who hadn’t even flowered yet doing something as preposterously dangerous as climbing a mountain was laughable enough.  Even if she didn’t die, what would she do if she actually succeeded?  A falcon wasn’t like tending a baby rabbit abandoned by her mother, or taking care of goats or chickens.  Raptors were
predators
, and everything she’d heard her uncle say about the process of turning one into a trained hunter sounded complicated and daunting.

Dara struggled with the question all afternoon as she cleaned and tidied the cottage in the downpour, until it turned into a drizzle.  She took a brief break to pull on her heavy cloak and go dig up some sassafras root from near the springhouse down the trail, so that she might make some tea – she should have brought some from the hall, she chastised herself.  But
the Forest and the Flame would provide for the Westwoodmen
, as the old saying went.

While she was digging into the dirt with her knife, she heard a screech from overhead.  A hawk – not one of the big silver-headed raptors she coveted, but a common redtail – had taken the respite in the rain to hunt.  It dove and plucked some unfortunate rodent from a small meadow nearby; its delicate and deadly grace was irresistibly captivating.

That’s as good as a sign from the gods,
Dara told herself, fervently, as she walked back to the cottage.  
How could it not be?  I
want
that bird,
she decided.
 I want that bird more than I want
anything.

With her doubt resolved, Dara prepared for the journey ahead.  Rain or no rain, she couldn’t waste any more time.  She had to make the attempt soon.  Autumn was coming, and any fledglings in the nest on Rundeval would be empty, if she did not get there.

The rain held for another day, and Dara begged off visiting the cottage in favor of shadowing her Uncle Keram again, as he made the Master’s rounds in her father’s stead.  Dara stopped only briefly to discuss the need for a new bed with her cousin Keru, who acted as the manor’s woodwright when his father wasn’t around.  He gladly accepted the headboard and promised the completed project in four weeks.  Then it was back to Uncle Keram to pick up whatever morsels of falconry he was willing to impart.

Getting her uncle to talk about falconry was easy enough – she just mentioned the redtail hawk, and asked innocently if they were good hunting birds, and that was enough to set him off about how poorly they hunted, compared to larger and more majestic birds.

“Good bird for a beginner,” her uncle acknowledged, reluctantly, “but they’ll never take anything bigger than a hare.  A squire’s bird,” he said, disdainfully.  “Pretty enough, but hardly worth the time and effort to train them.  But that’s where most falconers begin training their first birds.  Red tails and kestrels.”