“Sssh!” Matty said.
“But what is it?”
“Can’t you tell, Fynn?”
“Come on. Whatcha got?”
“So you really want to know?”
“Yes, Matty, I really want to know.”
“It’s my—whatevers—in a twist!” She smiled slyly. Then both Matty and Fynn blushed madly. For indeed Fynn was staring straight at these most intimate of feminine garments and Matty had dared to joke about it.
Then Fynn reached out and tucked a dark curl that had escaped from behind her ear. He left his hand behind her ear for a moment too long.
“I’ve got to be getting on,” she said, and dipped her chin so he could not see the confusion in her eyes.
When she had walked on several paces and finally collected herself, she turned back and gave him a dazzling smile. “I found a merlin. They say they are the cleverest and the most ambitious of birds. Some say the noblest of all hawks.”
“Well, then this bird has met its match for a mistress, I daresay!” Fynn replied, his voice suddenly husky. Matty felt her heart race. She shut her eyes for a second and then continued walking.
Chapter 8
THE LIGHT BEHIND THE SHADOW
A babe might have a wet nurse, but a nobleman who keeps a hawk master shall fail. There is no joy in taking a hawk taught on another person’s fist.
AS MATTY MOUNTED THE stairs after a day’s hunting with Lyra, she could hear the hawks in the mews. Their muted caws and chirps, their talons making little scratching noises on their perches was a wonderful music: it dispelled the darkness of the stone and lightened the shadows of the castle.
The moment she passed through the doorway she felt calm. This was the only place she was really at home. The room itself was large and circular. Several perches radiated from notches in the stone wall like the spokes of a wheel. Lyra returned to her perch closest to one of the windows. Beside her perched the kestrel Morgana. Next to her was Ulysses, then Moss, and finally Marigold.
The walls of the circular chamber were divided into three sections. The birds occupied the largest section that went halfway around the tower. The two remaining sections were almost equal in size. The first was lined with benches on which an assortment of hawking equipment had been neatly laid—leashes; boxes with imping needles; waxed thread; a few pots filled with ointments, powders, and oils; small knives; and a stone slab on which to cut up tiny morsels of mouse or whatever meat was on the day’s menu. Sometimes she was lucky and caught a small rat in one of her traps. At one end of the benches there were two huge basins for bathing the birds. One was filled with water, the other with sand for dust baths in cold weather. Above the benches were neat rows of pegs from which hung several jesses and other equipment. Then above these pegs was a shelf for the tiny, beautiful leather hoods. Some of these hoods were quite old, going back scores of years. All were painted in the Fitzwalter colors of crimson and green. The third section was Matty’s own space: a bed shoved into a wall niche, a few pegs, and a basin for slops.
Twenty feet above, under the cone of the turret’s roof, Fynn had helped Matty hoist a platform that supported cages on its cross arms. It was a perfect loft space for molting birds. When raptors molt, they become finicky and sometimes cantankerous. It was best for them to be separated from the other hawks at such times.
Matty kept the tower room immaculate. On the floor beneath the birds’ perches was a thick layer of sawdust and wood shavings from the days when the castle had employed a sawyer to cut their firewood. Mattie covered this layer with rushes, strewed it with dried herbs—sage, chamomile, hyssop, and balm—and changed it often. She scraped the perches regularly and swept the chamber daily, scrubbing the stones weekly. The birds themselves were groomed and trimmed and clipped; their beaks and talons coped, or filed and snipped. When the shaft of one of their feathers was bent, Matty straightened it by pressing it with cloths soaked in hot water. If it was broken off, she had her supply of molted feathers carefully arranged in the special box. To Matty the world within the tower mews was as perfect a place as one could be if not outside hunting with the hawks or in the forest of Barnsdale with Fynn and the boys. It was a place of order, where living things were cared for and respected. It was the kind of world, Matty thought, that Richard could make if he would return as king.
It had been more than two weeks since she had brought Marigold back to the castle. And for those two weeks Matty had spent nearly every hour with her, only leaving to hunt for food. She sensed that Lyra and Morgana were a bit jealous of her attention to the little merlin. Ulysses was a bird of extreme patience and maturity. He and Moss seemed to understand completely what it took to raise a young hawk. Moss knew better than any of them what was required to teach a young one, for she had taught Matty. Her devotion was ardent, almost maternal, and what was dear to Matty was unquestionably dear to Moss.
When Matty had found Marigold in the meadow, she was not even sure the merlin would survive. The young bird needed loving attention. Hunger, already shown by the streaks in her plumage, threatened to weaken every important flight feather in Marigold’s body.
If the young merlin had been previously trained, it counted for nothing. Matty had to begin all over again—hooding her, carrying her practically every available waking moment, talking constantly so that Marigold would know her voice. Matty tried to feed the merlin freshly caught mice, but feeding a merlin was not a simple matter. Her father had explained that a merlin’s diet had to be carefully monitored in relation to its growth because of the bird’s active nature and its rapid heartbeat. To calculate the growth, it was necessary to measure the bird’s wings each day and then weigh the food. Within the two weeks since she had found Marigold, Matty’s skill in mathematics had leaped forward.
But this merlin challenged her at every opportunity, and it was lucky that Matty lived in the tower mews so that she could be with Marigold all night, as was required in these first critical weeks of her training. During those long vigils as the moon rose and set, Matty often thought of that odd conversation she had with Fynn on the day she found the merlin. There had been her bold banter, which now hardly seemed all that bold. But then Fynn had touched her, tucked the lock of hair behind her ear. That moment she played and replayed in her head. The memory sent shivers through her. She could not recall the words, but she could almost hear the tone of his voice. It was different; it wasn’t that I’m-so-clever tone. Not a trace of raillery or ribbing. Fynn had sounded, for one of the few times in his life, very serious. They had both, she guessed, grown in more ways than one.
Matty was now twelve and a half years old. In the years since the raid the birds, too, had matured. They recognized her voice and the way she breathed. A mysterious link had been forged between the girl and the birds, an intimacy and trust beyond what most falconers could imagine.
Marigold was already beginning to bond with Matty. And though the merlin was still far from tamed, a mutual respect had grown between them. By the third week of her training, Marigold had stopped her bating, or temper tantrums, during which she would leap from Matty’s fist in headlong dives of rage and defiance.
Now Matty cooed and sang as she softly approached her merlin. “Marigold,” she whispered. “Marigold!” Ah! The small hooded head turned toward her, and the bird rustled her feathers. She lifted her foot as she heard Matty pull on the leather glove. Marigold was ready, eager to step on to Matty’s arm. This was a very good sign.
Matty could hear Morgana and Lyra grumbling softly. Even though Lyra had just been out with her and Morgana the day before, they were still greedy for attention. She knew exactly what they were saying: Never even looks at us, does she?
She heard Moss trying to soothe their obviously ruffled feathers with patience and reason. “Ku lu pshaw gru gru.” (This is important. A delicate point in the merlin’s training.) Matty nodded appreciatively. Then Ulysses came in with a harsh scolding to Lyra and Morgan. “Ki ki kak ki kak….” (You know nothing
of training or discipline. You forget your own days when Lord William spent hundreds of hours with you. Be a little more gracious, you slovenly ingrates!) The two birds were instantly chastened and settled down.
Matty continued with the merlin. She had learned most of the important vocalizations needed to communicate with the bird, especially the soothing ones that could calm her. “Ptschaw, chu chu, nice girl me, Marigold. Cha ka? Chu sho mwap. No, no…that’s a sweet tsha,” she whispered.
The merlin climbed onto her fist and then her arm. Matty, her lips nearly touching the hood, kept speaking softly in an odd mixture of English and the sounds that she sensed were peculiar to merlins and then the others that she generally used to speak with her birds. These sounds came burbling up from the back of her throat, whispering over her tongue with a velvety softness. Marigold was listening. Matty could tell that she was understanding more and more. Perhaps tonight Matty would remove her hood.
A hawk must be unhooded for the first time in nearly complete darkness. One could never be too careful when first releasing a bird from the hood into the light. The time must be well chosen and the light well placed. So Matty would begin at midnight. In the meantime she would carry the little merlin with her as she tidied the chamber and tended the other birds.
For long hours a curved sliver of the moon moved across the sky until now it was setting and the mews grew darker. Matty sensed the moment approaching even as she slept with her arm propped on a small crutch, the merlin perched on her glove. Almost immediately she was awake and alert. She transferred Marigold to a special low perch near her bed and fetched a candle. She put the candle as far from the merlin as possible, then lit it. She went back and placed Marigold on her fist.
“Ptschaw, mwap, chu chu. Nice Marigold. Chu sho no no…that’s a sweet tsha. Cha ka. Hschaw sachwa, my Marigold.”
Matty began to carefully loosen the braces at the back of Marigold’s hood. She’d chosen it carefully. The gilt initials WF, once bright as the gold in Marigold’s eyes, were now dim, the leather supple with age. One quick tug slackened the braces entirely and the hood slipped a bit. The merlin remained calm. Matty took hold of the plume on the hood and pulled gently. The hood was off! Marigold immediately swung her tiny head toward the pool of honey-gold light cast by the candle. “Tschaw ptschaw lucca lucca. Yes, Marigold, yes, dear, a bit of candlelight.” The most exciting part of the entire taming and teaching period was about to happen.
Soon Matty would turn her own head slowly toward the merlin and look deeply into Marigold’s eyes. This was when Matty would discover if she and the hawk had a true connection, an inviolable bond. What Matty saw in those eyes would influence the rest of the merlin’s education. She felt her own heart beat faster. The bird shifted on her fist as if she sensed her mistress’s quickening pulse. Now Matty bent her head very close. She whispered softly. “Ptschaw chatau, my Marigold.”
Until Matty received a signal, she would not look directly in the merlin’s eyes. So Matty kept her head turned slightly away. After a barely discernible ruffling of Marigold’s feathers, ever so slowly Matty began to turn her head, her eyes cast down. All the while she stroked Marigold’s talons, her wing edges, and her brown breast with its flecks of gray and purple. And now Matty felt it. The gold slivers, like tiny arrows lighting up her face. She was caught in the merlin’s gaze. Matty looked up. Her eyes were met by others as curious as her own. Not shy but trusting, intelligent, and ready for more. In the candlelight the bird and the girl peered at each other. It was as if two lost friends had finally met.
Chapter 9
FIRST FLIGHT
There is that moment for every falconer that is the most difficult when the jesses are released and the hawk is first tried. Will the hours, the weeks, the months result in not simply a bird ready to hunt but a bird with whom a trust has been built? The bird will fly off for the prey, but the real question is will it return to its master?
“Chwap chawap ptutch.” (Lark wings delicious.) Two days after Marigold’s unhooding, Matty stood in the middle of the bailey in front of the old mews. She held a length of cord to which a pair of bloody lark wings was attached. As Matty swung the lure, she cajoled and encouraged Marigold, who was tethered on a creance, or training line, several yards away. She wanted the merlin to fly to the lure. “Phryn, darm. You are a lovely, strong merlin. You will be a wonderful hunter.”
Matty watched Marigold carefully. She saw the dark eyes with the tiny gold flecks tracking the swing of the lure. The merlin roused her wings and made a quick, low-skimming flight, striking the lure with her talons.
From the window high in the keep Lord William observed this scene and marveled at his daughter. Her skills were unbelievable. A merlin, no less, and she had the bird flying to the lure faster than he had ever taught any hawk to do anything. But it was not just her obvious talent for communication. She had fed this bird perfectly. Every bird needed a little bit of fat. Figuring out a bird’s ideal weight was difficult. Too light and without enough fat the bird could appear quite healthy but might not have the energy to hunt successfully.
The late afternoon shadows stretched across the bailey, but Matty and her bird seemed to sparkle even in the dwindling light of the day. “She’s ready, Matty!” Lord William called down. “She’s ready!”
Matty tipped her head up. “You really think so, Father?”
“I know so!” Lord William exclaimed.
With any luck the larks would be out today, Matty thought as she walked toward the meadow with Marigold on her shoulder. It was dry and sunny. The warm columns of air would be rising, making the wonderful updrafts that birds loved, for they could soar and hardly needed to flicker a wing for a good ride. She was excited and she hoped she didn’t run into Fynn or Rich and the others. She did not want any spectators around for Marigold’s first free flight. The bird was beautiful now. Her plumage was an amazing rich brown, and if one looked closely one could detect dark purple undertones, the color of summer plums.
Matty’s first instincts about Marigold had been right. This merlin was going to be a hawk among hawks, a hawk for kings and emperors. But Marigold was her merlin.
Matty felt the puff and shiver of the little hawk on her shoulder as soon as they approached the meadow. It was a sign of excitement. Although no larks were immediately visible, Marigold must have sensed them nearby. Then one darted out of a hedge and three more followed.
At the first sight of the larks, the taste of bloody wings flooded through the bird’s crop, the sac deep in a bird’s throat where its prey is first digested. “Hulla hulla mwatch…Chwap chawap ptutch.” Matty spoke softly while she loosened the jesses. The words like small burrs caught in the air between them as she moved her mouth to within inches of Marigold’s beak.
“Sweet tsha. Ptschaw chu chu, beauty Marigold. Cha ka? Chu sho mwap. Mrrru shru cha ptschaw.”
The leashes were off. Matty knelt on the ground, for she wanted Marigold to take off low, which would give her a long horizontal flight and time to discover for herself that she was truly free in the outdoors. Matty raised her arm and gave the command. Without a moment’s hesitation Marigold lifted off, at first skimming the ground and then rising in an aggressive flight to track the singing larks. Matty waited with her hands clasped at her breast. She could feel her heart beating through the stiff leather of the falconer’s glove. She could almost feel the thrill of the bird’s own beating heart. Marigold had not looked back. She was drunk with freedom. Matty watched as Marigold caught the changing angle of the breeze that curled around the treetops. The larks sensed her presence even though she flew high above them. Nervously twittering, they made desperate dashes against a sudden headwind. Just as the fattest of the birds was right over the middle of the field, Matty saw Marigold begin to plunge toward the earth. Her legs flattened backward against her half-closed tail; her wings folded close to her sides; the sharp little beak cut the air. She hurled down like a dart. There was a spray of feathers, then a splattering o
f blood. It had all happened so fast that it took Matty a moment to catch her breath.
Next she wondered what every falconer wondered on the occasion of a bird’s first free flight. Would the merlin—besotted with freedom—fly away forever? Would Marigold return when Matty whistled? Or would she lose her?
But Marigold did return. The little hawk had hardly settled back on Matty’s shoulder when a shiver ran up Matty’s spine. Someone was watching her. She felt strange eyes drilling into her back, but she dared not turn around to look. Fear flooded her. Would that I were a bird and could fly from this earth! Was this an idle wish? It seemed to Matty as if she had suddenly struck upon a truth at the core of her being.
Finally, her fear lessened. She felt she had been released from the staring eyes that had locked on her. But she waited. Marigold sensed her mistress’s caution. She cocked her head, to pick up any sounds. Matty listened, too. She knew the natural noises of the forest. The tread of a deer was different from that of a fawn. The owl flew sheathed in silence, but the wind curled off the edges of a hawk’s wings in a muffled roar. Matty crouched near the trunk of a gnarled oak tree with Marigold on her shoulder and listened for the sound of human footsteps. But finally, when all felt quiet, Matty stood up and began the long walk back to the castle.
That evening after Matty returned to the mews, she felt a mixture of joy and apprehension. Someone had been spying on her, she was sure. She could not shake the shreds of that fear that had so suddenly invaded her entire being. Sleep was hard to come by as the moon, now broad as a curved blade, rose in the night. Matty felt her eyelids grow heavy. But in the last few months—particularly in the weeks since she had found Marigold and all the hours she had to stay with her when normal sleep had been impossible—she was aware that it was not exactly in sleep that she sometimes experienced a kind of rest that was more like a waking dream, a trance.