The Silver Falcon (4 page)

William grew warm with pride beneath his child’s smock, though it was by no means hot. Tiny droplets of perspiration trickled down his temples. Ellenweore was surely the most famous swordsmith in all England. Would the king himself have come to her otherwise?

“Good, good,” said the king dismissively, “but I have not come here about the sword.”

“If not with a sword, how can I be of service, sire?” Her voice did not betray the slightest tremor.

Despite his best efforts, William’s face fell. He marveled at his mother’s composure. She must be much more disappointed than he was.

“My most precious falcon has escaped,” the king growled, so sharply that some of the bystanders started.

William felt faint, and his face began to burn, as if he had been standing too close to the forge. The falcon belonged to the king! The words had an intoxicating effect. As if in a dream, he stood up.

“Is it, perhaps…this big?” he asked hesitantly, demonstrating with his hands the approximate height of the bird he had found.

The king’s companions looked at him with astonishment, and so did the smiths, shaking their heads in disbelief at William’s impertinence.

“White, with light-brown spots?” William went on, unperturbed.

“Have you seen her?”

The king’s horse pranced restively as Henry sat up in the saddle.

William nodded a little diffidently.

“Where? When? Speak up, boy!”

William glanced briefly at the shed. “It’s in there, sire.”

The king snorted with disbelief and began to dismount. Suddenly there was movement among his retinue. Each of his men wanted to dismount first, as it was impolite to sit on a horse while the king did not. Henry seized the hawking glove that hung from his saddle and went up to William amid angry mutterings.

His legs are as bowed as a Saracen’s saber, William thought, still a little intimidated. The king’s every step looked as though it brought him pain, and suddenly William felt a strange bond with this royal figure. Henry did not wear gloves when riding, so his powerful hands were covered with calluses, and his fingernails were as black as a charcoal burner’s.

“Lead on, boy,” he commanded, grabbing William by the shoulder and pushing him toward the door as if expecting an ambush.

When the king entered the shed, the falcon spread its wings.

Henry smiled fondly. “It’s all right, Blanchpenny,” he said soothingly, approaching the falcon slowly. He stroked its back,
cautiously probing its wings and tail feathers to make sure they were undamaged.

William was amazed by how tenderly the king’s large, horny hands performed this task.

“His foot was bleeding, sire. I dressed it,” William explained, although Henry had not asked him to speak.

“Her,” the king corrected him, though without rebuking William for his improper behavior.

William looked at him, puzzled. “I beg your pardon, sire?”

“Not
his
foot but
her
foot,” Henry explained, baring his teeth in an attempt at a friendly smile. “This is a lady! A tiercel, which is what we call a male falcon, is about a third smaller than a female,” he continued, inspecting the falcon’s leg more closely. “This probably happened when you caught her.”

William was not sure whether this was a statement or a question, but nevertheless he blurted out, “Oh no,” and then hastily added, “sire.” He continued. “She attacked a red kite and hurt herself.”

“A red kite? Well done, Blanchpenny,” said the king, praising his falcon.

“She fought fiercely, sire, but the kite was very strong,” William explained hoarsely. “I helped her and then discovered that her leg was hurt. I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself. So I brought her here.”

“Well, well.” The king smiled. “That means you saved her.”

William felt the blood rushing to his head with pride and embarrassment. “Believe me, sire, I would have nursed her back to health.”

“And then kept her, perhaps?”

Henry sounded a little angry, but William thought it wiser not to respond, so he changed the subject. “I’ve never seen a falcon like her. Is she a gyrfalcon?”

This time Henry smiled genuinely and pulled on his gauntlet. “Yes, my boy, she is the most valuable gyrfalcon I have ever
owned, for gyrfalcons with white plumage are extremely rare and therefore costly. You seem like a clever lad,” he complimented William, clapping him on the shoulder. “Out you go now, though. I’ll come out soon.”

This time, William obeyed without hesitation. Everyone stared at him expectantly, except for Ellenweore, who did not even glance at him. How he would have loved to see the same pride in her eyes that he felt in his heart. But he waited in vain for her to turn toward him.

It was not long before the king emerged from the shed. When the knights spotted the gyrfalcon, they applauded; the muffled sound of their leather gloves did not frighten the bird. They nodded and congratulated the king, while he handed Blanchpenny over to one of the falconers and turned to William.

“You acted calmly and saved my Blanchpenny’s life. I’d say you have earned a generous reward, lad.” With these words, he brought out a particularly heavy silver piece.

The smiths stared at the shiny coin, speechless.

But William drew himself up and shook his head. “Forgive me, sire, but couldn’t I become a falconer instead?”

William’s brazenness shocked the crowd. A cry escaped Ellenweore, and she turned white as chalk. Frightened, she looked first at the king, then at her son, then back at the king.

She’s worried for my sake, thought William with a rush of disbelief.

Astonished and even, it seemed at first, rather amused, Henry raised his eyebrows and flushed. Before he could express his fury, one of the knights from his retinue stepped forward. William knew him but had not noticed him before. His name was Baudouin de Béthune, and he was both a customer of his mother’s and a friend of Marshal’s. Ignoring William, de Béthune bowed down before the king, then whispered something in his ear. Henry nodded, apparently wishing to hear more. The king listened carefully, glancing at Ellenweore from time to time and expressing his surprise with
a short grunt. Then he smiled understandingly and, with evident pleasure, gave his full attention to the rest of Baudouin’s narration.

William was sure Sir Baudouin was telling the king about Ellenweore’s feat of heroism many years before. When Sir Baudouin was still a boy, she had saved his life. In pulling him out of a raging torrent, she had put herself in danger. The child’s well-being was more important to her than her own life, and she had succeeded in saving the boy from drowning.

William lifted his chin slightly and beamed proudly at the king. Henry nodded graciously and beckoned him to approach.

“Now, lad, I hear your mother is quite a remarkable woman with powerful friends. I shall therefore forgive you your impudence and give your request some consideration. But for the time being, you’ll have to make do with the coin and go back to your mother in the smithy. Is that understood?”

Despite the imperious severity in his voice, William thought he detected a conspiratorial glint in the king’s eye as he handed over the coin. William was a little disappointed, but he nodded obediently and bowed as he accepted the silver piece. It was so large he could only just enclose it in his fist.

The king turned to Ellenweore, who was still pale with fear. “You will be hearing from me, smith woman.” He nodded to her in a friendly manner, then turned around. “It will be dark soon,” he called out to his companions.

One of the knights sent his squire for some fire with which to light their torches. Then they all mounted their horses, and the king gave his men the signal to set off. None of the smiths moved until the last of the retinue had left the yard, and even then it took them a while to remember that they had swords to harden.

After the hardening of the blades, shortly before dawn, Ellenweore and Isaac came back into the house. They had sent William to
bed long before, but he was still awake. When he heard voices, his ears pricked up.

“You will be hearing from me, smith woman,” said his mother, mimicking the king and snorting with rage. “I’ll be waiting till the day of judgment. I’ll be bound. I always knew he’d come someday. I was prepared, and yet I missed my chance. I should have asked him into the smithy, shown him a few weapons, perhaps I could have persuaded him—” She broke off as her disappointment surfaced. “Why doesn’t he want a sword from me?”

“Just wait, Ellen, I’m sure—”

“Well,” she broke in, “why is it surprising that the king doesn’t want one of my swords when my own son can’t bring himself to be enthusiastic about our work? I wanted to be swallowed up by the ground when William said he’d rather be a falconer. He’s set his sights on higher things, just like my mother. The smithy wasn’t good enough for her, either.”

“Ellen, he’s good at handling birds. Truly he is.”

“Did you know about that falcon?” William could hear the suspicion in her voice.

“Yes, I did,” Isaac retorted, lowering his voice instantly. He was probably afraid of waking the children. “I saw how he bound the falcon’s leg. And take my word for it, he wasn’t the clumsy clod I know from the smithy.”

“Fie!” It sounded as though Ellenweore considered her husband a traitor for defending the enemy. “What’s to become of him, if not a swordsmith? A farrier, perhaps? I’d die of shame.”

“The king said he’d think about William’s request,” Isaac objected.

“The boy won’t hear from the king any more than I will. You should know great men better. The king owes William nothing; he’s already rewarded him handsomely. Why should he grant him anything more?”

“I’d say that depends what Sir Baudouin told him.”

Ellenweore gasped with fear.

“I’ll give William more work. That will drive the nonsense out of him,” she said, changing the subject. “When he’s a little older and has more experience…”

“He still won’t care any more about smithing than he does now. Falcons are his passion—why won’t you grasp that? You of all people ought to understand!”

William closed his eyes for a moment. His mother would never understand, never. No matter how long Isaac talked.

“The boy has your stubbornness and the same extraordinary dreams you used to have. And were
you
willing to listen to your mother?”

“That’s not the same thing at all,” replied Ellenweore indignantly. “After all, I only want what’s best for him. My mother hated me. If it had been up to her, the only fire I would ever have tended would have been a hearth. And of course that would have suited you better, too.”

“You know very well I stopped thinking like that long ago.” Isaac sounded hurt.

Ellenweore must have realized she had gone too far. “Oh, Isaac, try to understand,” she pleaded, trying to make up. “The thing with his feet is a sign from God.”

Even though he could not see her, William knew her eyes were shining as she said those words. His nostrils flared with fury. First, only one of his feet was malformed, not both, and second, he did not want to be compared with Hephaestus or Wayland or some other blacksmith cripple. Lord, he was so tired of her bringing it up all the time.

“Ellen, you’re wrong, believe me,” Isaac pleaded afresh. “The boy hates smithing as much as you hate housework. You let the food burn. He lets the iron get too hot. You leave the seasoning off the meat. He forgets to add flux. Where you start soaking the grain too late so the gruel goes hard, he strikes the iron when it’s
too cold so it develops cracks. You know yourself that you’ve never been a good housewife, and he, Ellen, will never in his life be a good swordsmith, however much you may wish it.”

“Nonsense, he’s lazy and contrary, that’s all. The men in my family have been smiths for generations.”

“His father wasn’t,” Isaac reminded her sharply.

“Do you hold that against me?”

William was astonished at the bitterness of her retort.

“No, Ellen, you know very well that I love the boy like a son,” Isaac replied softly. “But you shouldn’t forget that it’s not only smiths’ blood that flows in his veins.”

William listened eagerly, but neither his mother nor Isaac said any more. It was only by chance that William had once learned from Sir Baudouin that his father was a knight. Sir Baudouin, Isaac, and his mother had never provided any more information, so William did not even know his father’s name. He closed his eyes, tired. As he’d so often done in recent years, William imagined his noble father riding into the yard, leaping down from a mighty warhorse and commanding Ellenweore to give up her son so that he could take him away. Although the knight in his fantasy was armed to the teeth, William was not afraid of him for one moment. He sat serenely on the huge horse, holding the reins his father had passed to him, and slipped on the glove he was handed. The knight placed a wonderful small falcon on his fist, and William looked his unknown father in the face for the first time. It seemed strangely familiar, and at last William realized that the strange knight was the very image of William Marshal.

A good week had passed since the king’s visit, and William was still confident that a messenger would come to fetch him before long. To be as ready for that moment as possible, he took every opportunity that presented itself to flee the workshop and run
to the hay meadow where he had found Blanchpenny. He had often seen the abbot’s falconers there, but until now he had only watched them. Today, he wanted to change that. This time he would talk to them, for he would soon be one of them.

But when William reached the meadow, there was nobody to be seen. Disappointed, he lay down in the grass, folded his hands over his stomach, and stared up into the sky. Although the ground was damp and the autumn cold crept gradually into his limbs, he remained there for a long while, motionless, staring into the bleak blue-gray void and dreaming of his future as a falconer.

Suddenly, he heard voices and sat up. Not far off, two men were running across the meadow.

William stood up and brushed off his damp behind. “Greetings!” He nodded politely and went up to the men.