“So, Matty,” said Lyra, “why are you here and, if I may be so bold, why in this form?”
“Well, now, you wouldn’t expect her to come as a hoofed creature, would you—a cow or a goat or a horse?” Moss said.
“How ridiculous! Not our Matty,” offered Ulysses in his slow, meditative voice.
“And what did you do with your other self?” Morgana asked.
“That’s difficult to explain,” Marigold chimed in. “Her body lies in the abbey, seemingly close to death, while her spirit is free.”
“But—” Matty spoke quite softly now. The birds grew still on their perches. “It is only temporary, my friends. I could slip either way. I had decided that my last sanctuary was death. I know that you of all creatures understand this the best.” At those words each of the magnificent birds nodded. “But there is more at stake than my own life. There is the life of our country. Our king has been kidnapped. And now is the time for us to fly to the greenwood…. I understand now what you tried to explain before about the earth points—the two earth points. I feel them in my head, just as you must.”
Moss grew terribly excited. “You feel the nwamelk, Matty? The pull of the north point?”
“Yes. It was as if I lived in a flat world before and now I feel the shape of this world…. It’s as if I feel the shine of the stars in my hollow bones, the pull of the moon on my brain, the earth points in my gizzard.”
“When do we leave?” Ulysses asked. “What is the battle strategy?” Erect on his perch, his tufted shoulders squared, he appeared like a knight ready to receive his orders from his monarch.
“We go now.” Matty addressed the bird. “We’ll recover the rubies, but before that there is something here I must get.”
“What’s that?” Morgana asked.
Matty turned to Moss.
“It’s still there, Matty. Don’t worry.” The old peregrine made her way painfully to the dust bath trough and poked deep into the sand. When she lifted her head, Matty saw the Star of Jerusalem glittering in her beak.
“Yes,” Lyra said, “we’re good at keeping secrets.”
“I know,” Matty replied. “So then, with the sapphire, once we get the rubies, we can fly on.”
“Fly on to where?” Lyra asked.
“Across the Channel, to France. To Queen Eleanor.”
Then Marigold spoke. “The winds are from the west. We can make it within the space of a day and another night.”
“But, Matty,” Moss said in a quavering voice, “you know my vision is gone, my talons shrunk. My flight feathers are a mess. I molt only very occasionally. The last time—when was it? Saint Rupert’s day? Or am I off entirely? Was it a summer molt or the feast of Saint Alban? I will go, but I am not the strongest of fliers.”
“It does not matter, dear.” Matty spoke gently. “For this flight I will be with you.” Matty knew the time had come to switch from Marigold to Moss. Once again Matty began to feel a pushing in her brain, and just as her spirit had meshed with Marigold’s it began to interweave with Moss’s. It was as if Moss were the warp and Matty the weft. Together they made a single cloth.
And suddenly the old peregrine experienced a peculiar sensation. This was unlike any molt she had ever undergone. Moss felt a tingle as if her feathers were infused with a new life and energy. There was a prickling and then a deep pain as her talons lengthened. The bird blinked, and for the first time in years Moss could see clearly. She roused her wings. A surge of new energy coursed through her.
Not yet, Matty’s voice within her head cautioned.
Matty, I feel as fresh as a young eyas, Moss said, referring to the young hawks.
But I am counting on your older instincts, Moss, Matty replied. You taught me once how to be a falconer. Now you must teach me to be a bird of prey, a raptor!
Chapter 34
WINGS AT DAWN
Short-winged hawks, or true hawks, fly low and kill by stealth; falcons fly high and plunge to kill. Thus, falcons are well adapted because of their methods for prey in clearings and fields.
AGAINST THE PALE PINK of the dawn five great-winged birds rose in flight. The birds’ primary feathers glinted with a rosy luster as they caught the first rays of the sun.
“I feel completely re-imped from head to talons!” Moss said. “And my vision!”
Matty herself was astonished by the splendor of this flight at dawn. The minute adjustments of Moss’s flight feathers enabled them to pass through the air effortlessly so she could ride thermal updrafts, to glide, to hover.
In no time they were over the greenwood of Barnsdale, and she had quickly spotted half a dozen royal foresters. And just imagine we are about to steal the treasure right out from under them! Matty thought gleefully.
“All right, bear north,” she commanded the others. “The first tree is a spruce. There it is, below. Moss and I land first. Marigold, there is an oak directly behind it. Take the others there and you’ll find a nest in a hollow on the east side.” But Marian was not exactly sure if she had spoken the words north or east. She was aware of this new way of thinking about direction, aware of the slight pull in her brain toward an earth point. What talk there occurred between the birds was rather brief. “Moss and I will meet you, and then we’ll go on to the next trees that are a bit harder to find.”
Moss settled onto a large branch of the spruce. Now, Moss, close to where this branch joins the trunk, Matty said, there’s a hollow above. They quickly lofted the short distance. Matty blinked as Moss poked her head into the hole. It looks like a nest! the peregrine said.
We wrapped each ruby in moss and dried grass.
She felt Moss’s beak tearing gently at a clump at the bottom of the hollow. Suddenly there was a bright flicker of red. That’s it! they both said at once. Now can you hold it in your beak? And now hold the sapphire in your talon?
Certainly, Moss replied, and clamped her beak onto the ruby.
They met the other birds at the oak and Moss, with Matty as guide, led on.
As they settled in the last tree to pluck the fifth ruby, a royal forester came tromping down the path. He looked up and might have briefly wondered why five hawks had gathered in one tree. The birds felt their gizzards freeze. “What’s he doing?” Morgana asked.
“Just stay still,” Matty cautioned.
“I’ll fight if I have to,” Ulysses said.
“No, not yet. Just stay still,” Matty repeated. The forester stood there, studying the hawks. He looked nervously at the leper tree and its scaly leaves; then he simply walked on. A feeling of great relief swept through the birds. “Lyra, that last one is yours,” Matty said.
“The ocean!” Matty cried. Ahead was the Channel dividing England from Europe. It boiled with whitecaps in the gusty winds. The wind had turned, and the tailwind was boosting their speed and making the flight much less tiring. By late afternoon they were in France.
“Where is the queen?” Marigold asked.
“Barfleur,” Matty replied. On the old map of her father’s he’d once marked the fields where he had fought when he was a young knight with Hodge as his squire. Barfleur was near Cherbourg, the port town where he had first set foot on French soil after crossing the Channel. She remembered exactly where the town was—west of the river Seine in a notch on the coast of Normandy. She could picture the map so clearly in her mind, but it was no longer simply a flat drawing. She felt its position precisely in reference to the nwamelk, and, as she did, she noticed that the sensation transmitted itself to Moss, who was flying the point position.
They had been flying over the water for not more than an hour when the peregrine began to carve a banking turn. The other birds followed. Now flying parallel to the coast they continued in a southerly direction. The sun had already set and twilight engulfed them in a fragile purple light.
Spotting the turrets, Matty exclaimed suddenly, “That must be it! I see a castle!”
Chapter 35
THE PEREGRINE AND THE QUEEN
> Falconry—art or sport? Perhaps both. But the more popular it becomes, one fears that the less of an art it will be. And yet to think of it as mere blood sport is a disservice to the true falconer and, of course, the hawks.
SO THE PEREGRINE, GUIDED by Matty, swept through the courtyard and the various gardens of the castle of Barfleur. The other birds waited on a courtyard wall. The castle was not much bigger than her father’s and the plan was quite similar. By now it was night, and Matty could tell that most of the candles and torches had been extinguished, but in a small building on the castle grounds she saw something bright hanging in the night like an illuminated flower. It possessed an enchanting, almost eerie beauty. It’s a window! Matty thought. A stained-glass window. So this must be the chapel, Moss, and someone must be inside. Quietly Moss flew into the building through a small arched entrance.
The peregrine perched between two arches. Below, an elderly woman was kneeling. Her head was wrapped in a tight coif anchored on top by a simple gold crown.
This is the queen! Can we get closer, Moss, without being seen?
In a shadowy corner was a stone statue of the Madonna. Moss flew and landed on her shoulder. There was a tiny click as the sapphire ring Moss held in her talon touched the stone. The queen turned her head slightly. Had she heard them? The light from one of the tapers illuminated her profile. She had been crying. She turned her head back toward the altar and continued to pray.
Go with the jewels, Moss. The bird lofted herself into the air and flew toward the queen. Now the woman turned and gave a little shriek as she saw the wingspread of the old peregrine. But then she caught sight of the gleaming jewel in the talon. Her flinty gray eyes suddenly sparkled. And when Moss landed directly in front of her, she leaned in closer, so close Matty could see every line in the woman’s face. Her cheekbones were high and a spray of pale freckles scattered across them. The strands of hair that poked out from beneath her coif were more brownish than gray. Matty thought she had probably once had fiery red hair like King Richard.
Matty had never been this close to a queen, and this queen did not even suspect that one of her son’s loyal subjects now perched before her. Moss dipped her head in a gesture of deep reverence and dropped the sapphire into the soft folds of the hem of the queen’s gown.
“God be praised.” The queen at first did not touch the jewel. She looked down at it as if the stone had fallen directly from heaven. “A star sapphire! The Star of Jerusalem!” She picked up the jewel. Her fingers were gnarled, her knuckles swollen. She opened her mouth, but no sound came as she glimpsed the twinkling at the sapphire’s center. Then Moss dropped a ruby. Now the queen gasped and looked into the old peregrine’s eyes. In that moment Matty felt a connection. She senses me. I know it. She senses that there is something human within this bird. She was praying for a miracle for her son Richard and now she believes it has come. Well, it has!
A fine web of lines radiated from the corners of the old queen’s flinty eyes. Though spots stained her forehead, she was still a handsome woman. She tipped her head to the side and looked into Moss’s eyes. There was a current, a pulse, like an invisible filament that sparked between the woman and the bird. The queen herself had been a falconer as a young girl and knew the way of hawks.
The queen’s voice creaked like a rusted hinge as she began to speak aloud. “I do not presume to know everything, but I know that what stands before me is more than a bird.” Her jaw trembled slightly. “Is this to do with my son? With Richard?”
Moss nodded. And then, extending her talons, she gently touched the woman’s hand. Queen Eleanor’s eyes swam with confusion. She had never been touched by a creature in such a way. It was such a quintessentially human gesture, telling her to be calm, not to fear, to be patient. The peregrine then spread her wings and flew out of the church the way she had entered. Eleanor turned to follow the bird’s flight. As old Moss passed through the high-arched opening, she emitted four shrill cries.
“The peregrine is calling others!” Queen Eleanor clasped the two gems in her hand. “I know that call. I know it.”
She waited tensely and soon she heard wingbeats. The peregrine reappeared, followed by a goshawk, a kestrel, a short-winged hawk, and a lovely little merlin with bright flecks of gold in its dark eyes. Each one dipped in a gesture of deep reverence and released a ruby. The five stones seemed to possess a life of their own, throbbing like five small hearts. The red glister of the light within them tinged the darkness of the chapel with a luminous glow.
“You have brought me a king’s ransom, a ransom for my son!” Tears streamed down the queen’s face. “Richard shall be free!”
Matty marveled for, like Moss, the old queen seemed mysteriously to become less frail. Something quickened in her. Her once-trembling hands grew steady.
That night a message was taken to the Holy Roman Emperor, who now held King Richard—a message delivered not by an ambassador but by Moss.
“What the devil?” the very emperor shouted as the peregrine flew into his audience chambers. He threw up his arms, for it appeared as if the bird were about to attack him. Drop it now, Matty commanded. There was a solid thunk as the ruby wrapped in cloth dropped at the emperor’s feet. A page bent to retrieve it.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure, your majesty,” the page said.
“Well, find out.”
It tried the emperor’s patience to wait for the twine to be unwrapped.
He gasped, then whispered a mighty oath as he saw the sparkling ruby that lay at the center of the cloth.
“There’s a note with it, your majesty.”
“Yes, yes.” The emperor picked up a small furled piece of parchment. “A message from Queen Eleanor of England,” he whispered.
The emperor’s minister had come to his side. “What does she write?”
“‘Sir, there are four more rubies equal to this one and the magnificent Star of Jerusalem, thus constituting a price far greater than your ransom of one hundred and fifty thousand marks. Send your ambassadors with my son and they shall be yours.’ It is signed: Eleanor.”
Chapter 36
HAWK FEVER
Bathing a hawk’s feet in water distilled from lettuces, nightshade, or juice of the henbane root can relieve a fever.
TIME CAN DO STRANGE things. The days of the journey to Barfleur and then on to the emperor were a blur in the mind that Matty and Moss now shared. The ransom had been delivered. Richard was released, but it all seemed like a dream. Matty felt herself and Moss both weakening on their flight back to England. Was it a fever? A hawk fever? Would the treatments she had used to cure the birds work for her and Moss? And even so who would know how to treat them?
She knew that some unseen power had allowed her this time out of time, this life that had straddled both living and dying, both human and bird, splicing feather and flesh. But the effort had been great, and she now felt that the end was near. She could hear the others speaking as they flew those last miles back to the Fitzwalter castle.
“Come, Moss, you can make it.” Lyra and Ulysses were both flying under the peregrine, creating an updraft so that the bird would not have to pump her wings so vigorously, for each wingbeat seemed to deplete her strength. Matty, too, felt their shared strength ebbing, her heart slowing.
Marigold flew and spoke to them both. “We’re almost there. I see the castle. Hang on! Oh, Matty, live!”
“Trying. Trying.” The whispered words were not quite bird nor were they human.
They flew in through the window on the east wall of the mews. Moss, too weak to perch, settled on the floor. The other birds brought talons full of straw to pile around her. Matty felt a tearing inside. We are separating, but I am as withered as this old peregrine.
“Matty, say something. Say something,” Marigold begged. But Matty could say nothing. She watched from somewhere just above Moss. Watched the bird’s chest heaving, the breaths growing shallower, the peregrine’s eyes no longer seeing. The
space between each breath grew longer until…until…
In the shadows of the cell of the abbey, the lepers gathered around.
“Is she still breathing?” Helena asked.
“Hardly,” said a legless old man. “She can’t last till morning.”
And Marian felt herself dissolving like night dew in the rising sun. She felt no pain. Nothing. Death is not that bad, she thought with mild surprise. It seemed almost like an old friend who had waited patiently for her at the end of a very long road. Had she the strength, she would have run to it. Yes, I am falling in love with dying, she thought. In love…
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Morgana said as she looked at the unmoving feathers on the floor of the mews.
“Yes,” Marigold replied. They had all felt it, known it the instant Moss died. It was like a breeze passing through the mews and then only stillness, a whisper, and finally silence. No more. “But Matty—is she gone, too?” The birds began to cock their heads, swiveling them this way and that. There was an emptiness in the mews that none of them had ever experienced. They dared not speak what each one sensed. “Matty?” whispered Marigold. But there was nothing.
“She’s not here,” Lyra said softly.
Suddenly Marigold felt a great anger suffuse every one of her hollow bones.
“We’re going!” she announced.
“Where? What’s to be done?” Lyra asked.
“She has to be somewhere,” Marigold said staunchly. “This…” she said, looking down at the body that had held Moss, “this is not Matty.”
Then Ulysses said, “Marigold, you loved her like no other. Because of you she was almost hawk, and because of her you were almost human; but she is gone. She has died.”
“But, Ulysses, even in death, she must be somewhere. Moss’s body is here.” Marigold’s voice cracked. She could not bear to think of Matty as a body. “Terrible things have been done to her. We cannot right all wrongs. But I swear on the memory of Matty, I will take my vengeance on her enemies.”