Tonight Matty was very much aware of being in this peculiar condition. Perhaps she had been in this state since Marigold’s flight that afternoon. She opened her eyes wide and seemed to find herself at a slight remove from her own body as if she were on a perch. She felt an odd stirring in her shoulders, and when she looked down she could see a tiny ant crawling in a crack in the floor. She blinked and looked around, seeing not just a spider in its web but the tiny hairs on each of its eight legs. Her eyes had never seen with such sharpness, such astounding clarity. And suddenly she sensed that her arms no longer felt like arms. What was happening? She was out of her own body but not quite in another. She felt part girl but part not girl. She experienced a faint pull in her head, as if she were being drawn elsewhere. Am I becoming a hawk? But the instant the thought occurred to her she was back in her own bed. She was not frightened in the least…perhaps a bit wistful. For there was a sense of loss for what had just vanished.
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Chapter 10
THE PRIORY AT BARNSDALE
For a true falconer a well-taught bird is never a captive but a partner.
IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING and Matty was sitting by her father in the pew of the chapel of the priory of Barnsdale when she felt a ping on the back of her neck. She knew immediately what it was even before she saw the little needle of thistle land on her shoulder. Fynn must be sitting behind her. He was almost as good a shot with a thistle and a hollow reed to blow through as he was with a bow and arrow. Matty turned around. She was struck suddenly by how tall he appeared—even sitting in the pew—and how broad his shoulders had become. There were even the first signs of a mustache! They had never spoken of that day when Matty had found Marigold and Fynn had declared the merlin a match for its mistress. She had never forgotten his expression and the play of light in his eyes when he had spoken those words. She counted back and realized that she had known Fynn for nearly half her life. She was thirteen now and he was well past fourteen but still acted like a mischievous boy. Well, she was hardly a lady herself.
Another thistle leaf hit the back of her neck. She turned again to look at her assailant. Fynn attempted to suppress a smile and maintain a solemn look, but his eyes sparkled with sly humor. He nodded toward the aisle. She cautiously slid her gaze to the side. Hubie was actually tying a fishing fly in church. If this wasn’t sacrilegious she didn’t know what was. But it made Matty laugh. Luckily the nuns had just begun the loudest part of their hymn, the part that led up to the Eucharist. Father Percival was getting ready to lift the holy bread. This was the moment when the Real Presence of Lord Jesus was to be recognized. Fly tying at a moment like this! Matty bit the insides of her mouth to keep from laughing aloud and prayed not to burst out into a storm of giggles. Was that a horrible thing to pray for? Thank heavens the nuns were trilling loudly and Father Percival was chanting in a thunderous voice. There was enough noise for some cover. But Hubie! So cocky, so pleased with himself. She looked again, and Will gave her the signal to wait after church.
Between Hubie’s fly tying, Will’s signal, and two more thistle leaves blown on her neck by Fynn, there was precious little time to concentrate on the service or the other people in the church. Several of the sheriff’s men were present as were some richly clad gentlemen who could only be courtiers of the prince.
Standing next to the old abbess from the nearby Abbey of St. Michael was a younger woman who also wore an abbess’s cross. Matty kept looking back at her. She was large with a heavy brow. There was something odd about her eyes—they were the kind of eyes that could pierce you. Matty shivered. They reminded her of something. She was not sure what, but she did not want this woman looking at her. She sank down a bit in the pew but tried to swivel her head and slide her eyes over for another glance.
In the shadow of the larger woman, the older abbess seemed to have shrunk and withered since last Sunday. What was happening? And who was this large lady? What was it about her eyes that so disturbed Matty? Was it like trying to stare into the sun? But they were not bright. The eyes seemed colorless, empty. And yet they had a power. Matty did not want to look at them, but she was drawn, as one might be drawn to the edge of a cliff, to peer into a deep chasm. Matty finally tore her eyes away and shook her head. She felt an overwhelming sense of threat. She wanted to get out of the church. Would the services never end? Father Percival could drag out a prayer longer than any person she knew.
Finally Matty heard the words of the benediction and the church service concluded. As she left, she brushed by the young abbess but kept her head down as if studying the stone pattern of the floor with great intensity. Outside, Fynn was looking about furtively. “What is it?” Matty said, coming up to the boys.
“The sheriff’s men are gone,” Will said. “They don’t like church much more than we do.”
“We have to meet this evening, dusk. The big rock by the creek,” Fynn said. “Now scatter. We can’t be seen together.”
Chapter 11
THE EYES
Like all wild things hawks can smell fear. Therefore, it is best when dealing with birds of prey to keep one’s wits and stay calm. In this way a hawk will come to you.
“IT WAS HER EYES.” Matty looked around the circle of boys.
“What do you mean, her eyes?” Fynn leaned forward on the staff he had made from a limb of an alder.
“Fynn, they were transparent!”
“Transparent!” Will exclaimed. “How can eyes be transparent?”
“Hers were, I tell you, and it was the most terrible thing I ever saw.” Matty paused. “It was as if…” She hesitated, groping for the right words as she tried to remember the terrible cold feeling that had crept through her when she had seen the abbess. “It was as if they looked not just through you, but you could see through them and into her. And there…there was nothing…nothing human—nothing living inside! Yes, that’s it. It was as if those eyes belonged to nothing human or living on earth. They were eyes from the realm of the dead.” She looked directly at the boys, who drew in closer as she spoke. “And they reminded me of something. I can’t explain, but I felt they had seen me before.”
“The eyes had seen you before?” Rich asked, confused. “Are you trying to say she recognized you or you recognized her?”
“I—I…” Matty shook her head. “I don’t know. It just all felt very queer to me.”
“So you think,” Rich continued, “that she could be taking over from the old abbess?”
“No,” Fynn said. “I heard my father say that there is a new abbess at the big abbey in Nottingham and that’s just my point, lads.”
“What’s the point?” Matty said.
“It’s why Hubie called the meeting, isn’t it, Hubie?”
“Well, yes, but—” Hubie started to speak then Rich interrupted.
“Oh, this is the missing chalice thing,” Rich said.
“The missing chalice thing!” Fynn mimicked with undisguised contempt. “It’s real, Rich. Don’t make fun of it.”
“My mum noticed it was gone. But she wasn’t sure of its value,” Hubie offered.
“I noticed it was gone, too. Since three Sundays ago, right?” Matty said.
“Are you talking about the chalice with the rubies?” Will interrupted.
“Exactly,” Fynn said. “It hasn’t been there in its niche for these past three Sundays!”
“So what’s the point?” asked Rich.
“The point is this,” Fynn said more quietly. “Prince John has King Richard just where he wants him—miles away. Right now Prince John is the most powerful man in England and pretty near the richest. But there is still also one powerful man who stands in his way and has remained loyal to King Richard.”
“Who’s that?” Rich asked with sudden respect.
Matty watched Fynn carefully. He could certainly command attention when he wanted to. There was a force to the way he spoke. In a mews there was always one hawk who emerged as the leader. In hers it was old Moss whom the othe
rs, even the arrogant Morgana, regarded highly. Fynn was definitely the leader here. He did not have to be called that. He simply was.
“Go on, Fynn,” Matty said softly. He cast her a quick glance. “Who is it?”
“The Bishop of Ely, William Longchamp. He is the only high churchman who has been honest, faithful to his king and his flock. And he is the chancellor. That means that he is supposed to be the boss while Richard is away. He’s meant to keep an eye on Prince John, I’ll wager.”
“But what does this have to do with the church, except that he is a bishop?” Will asked.
Fynn lowered his voice to a whisper. “The church is rich. John has drained the nobles of every penny. On top of that, there are these new taxes for the Crusades. Now you watch, Prince John will turn more and more to the church. Its treasures could raise him an army. I’ll wager the Bishop of Ely is going to make it more difficult for him to get what he wants. Probably already has.”
“But the Bishop of Ely is far from here and from this church. I’m sure he doesn’t know that the chalice has gone missing,” Rich said.
“But there are rumors about another bishop, a bad one who is closer to here, to Barnsdale—the Bishop of Hereford,” said Hubie. “He’s Prince John’s supporter.”
“And,” Will added, “he works closely with Prince John’s chief bully, Sir Guy of Gisborne.”
Matty turned pale at the mere mention of Sir Guy. The memory of him standing in the bailey holding up her mother’s necklace with its Star of Jerusalem sapphire dripping blood was still vivid in her mind’s eye.
“You all right, Matty?” Fynn asked with sudden concern. She blinked rapidly and shook her head as if to banish the horrible image. “I wonder sometimes,” she said slowly, “whatever happened to my mother’s necklace.” The boys looked at one another.
“What necklace?” Will asked.
“A necklace my father gave her at the time of my birth. It held a blue star sapphire called the Star of Jerusalem. Very rare. She wore it as a pendant.”
“Well, if Gisborne has it, I’m sure he’s holding it for Prince John. A bargaining chip to buy loyalty,” Rich said.
“Prince John,” Fynn continued, “needs many for his plans—traitors, schemers, varlets—all kinds. Not just the sheriff and Gisborne. Like Hubie said, he’s got the Bishop of Hereford, as corrupt a man as any. And I’ll bet you the abbess is connected to him.”
Rich stood up suddenly. He was an astute lad with a sense of political maneuverings. On first glance, Rich looked as plain as a potato. His hair was a dusty brown and tiny freckles were scattered across his cheeks. His eyes were a very ordinary gray until he got an idea. Then they sparkled. “That makes sense. I heard, too, that there was a new abbess in the Nottingham abbey. How convenient for her to work with the sheriff. And the sheriff is owned by Prince John, who wants to own the church. Oh, yes, it all begins to fit neatly, doesn’t it? A devilish design of scoundrels and tyrants and rotten men of the cloth!”
“And women,” Matty said softly. “It’s like a giant chess game, isn’t it? Bishop against bishop, knights and rooks for the prince—like Gisborne and the sheriff. The king virtually checkmated in the Holy Land. And all of us are the pawns, of course.”
There was a deep silence. Then Rich said, “But there’s more to this—this…” He hesitated.
“This game,” Fynn said.
“More?” Hubie said. His large round face was flushed, and an anxious look clouded his green eyes.
“Yes.” Fynn began to pace in front of the rock where they had gathered. “My father was saying last night that more forest land—it’s not only Barnsdale but also Sherwood Forest—has now been forbidden to hunters, save for the prince’s and the sheriff’s men.”
Hubie sighed. “There’s not going to be a thing to be had to eat if on top of all these taxes people can’t hunt anywhere. I don’t know what my mum’s going to do. When I deliver to the alehouses, I have to pay the gate tax. It’s doubled in the past year. It really cuts into our profits.”
“The millers’ taxes have gone up, too,” Rich said. “The customs officers used to come once a year, but now they come every four months. They think we’re so stupid. They say they are charging us less, but I said to me da, ‘Tell them we can multiply, Da. If they be charging us one pound three times a year, that is three pounds instead of the two pounds once a year we used to pay, plus the four bags of milled grain they now add.’”
“What did your da say?” Matty asked.
“He said, ‘Don’t question, don’t argue. We don’t want trouble from them.’”
“You see,” Fynn continued, “every time you turn around, they are claiming more, be it land or taxes, in the name of the king. But we know John isn’t claiming it for King Richard. And now that the people have been bled, he turns to the church. Can’t tax the church, but why not steal from it?” Fynn paused and let that sink in.
“So what are we to do?” Matty asked.
“I’m not sure,” Fynn said, “but the chalice is gone. It must be somewhere.”
Exactly a week later, when the boys and Matty took their places in church, the chalice was back in its niche. Matty noticed it first and nudged Hubie, who was on his knees beside her praying. He opened his eyes wide, then blinked, then nudged Fynn, who blew a thistle leaf through a reed at Rich. Rich turned around and mouthed, “Unbelievable!”
Chapter 12
FIFTH TREE HOUSE
A hunting bird that attempts to fly off the fist before its jesses are loosened should never be helped back on. It must learn to pull itself up on its own.
IT WAS MONDAY, THE day after the mysterious reappearance of the chalice. It had disturbed them all, of course, for without theft there could be no thieves. Rich declared that it most likely had been taken to a silversmith for repair. Matty reflected on all this as she sat in her tree house, the one she had built by herself. The long slender branches of the willow hung like a veil against the day. She peered out through the lovely strands of ivy that she had woven into the tendrils of willow. She often came to the tree house to think, bringing her birds, for it was quiet and afforded a good vantage point for spotting game.
On this day she had brought Moss along with Ulysses and Marigold. Moss fascinated Matty. The peregrine had aged significantly, and she was now nearly blind. Matty had not taken her out often of late. Her flight feathers had grown brittle and her molts had become less frequent, the regrowth thinner each time. And just as an old person often shrinks in stature, Moss’s talons had shortened so much they looked more like chicken claws than the talons of a bird that was once the scourge of large hares. But while the faculties upon which a bird is so dependent seemed to have weakened, other aspects of Moss’s being seemed to have grown stronger. She had become even more sensitive, almost intuitive. She could anticipate what Matty was about to do, as well as the other birds’ behaviors. With stalwart Ulysses, Moss and her powers of intuition, and Marigold, so bold and aggressive, Matty felt that she could not be in better company or with stronger allies.
Moss now perched on her left shoulder, Marigold on her right, and Ulysses in his watch position high over the roof of the tree house. Matty looked up through the canopy at the immense goshawk. His broad shoulders were squared and he had a keen look in his red eyes. She turned to Moss and spoke softly in the strange language that she shared with her hawks. “Four birds we are,” Matty whispered, “all perched in a tree. Moss and Marigold on my shoulders and me on a limb and Ulysses on the roof of my lovely little house.”
She no longer attached their jesses when they went out. It was her own version of the golden rule. They would never tether her, and she would never tether them.
It began to rain softly, and the tree house seemed cozier than ever. Once again she began to experience the sensation she had after Marigold’s first flight. It began with the stirring in her shoulders. Except now that stirring did not seem so odd. She blinked and looked down at a leaf. What she thought was a sma
ll green bump or blister began to quake and a tiny worm no bigger than a pinhead squirmed out. I am seeing like a bird. She felt Moss turn to her, and with her beak gently begin to stroke her bare skin. She’s preening me! Have I grown feathers?
Her skin still looked like skin and yet it felt very different. Odd? But not odd! That was perhaps the most astounding part. None of this felt peculiar or strange but so natural, as if two elements of Matty’s being, of her spirit, were magically being woven together into a new living thing. But the sensation was fleeting. She felt a soft jolt and the mysterious fabric was softly torn asunder as Marigold suddenly puffed up and shivered.
Matty knew immediately that Marigold’s reaction was not to the chill breeze that accompanied the rain. She could almost sense the danger herself, but not quite as her hawks were sensing it. From the top of the tree there was a kak-kak sound of alarm from Ulysses. Moss roused herself. Marigold seemed ready to fly off, but Moss shot her a severe glance.
Soft gurgling vocalizations drifted down from Ulysses. “Gyruch garrrgh tosch, stasik malpee.” (Permission to fly a short reconnaisance, requested.)
“Gyruch hyeh hyeh,” Matty whispered back. To any human passing it would sound no different from the clucking of a very small flock of birds.
Ulysses had barely lifted off when, from behind the scrim of the willow’s branches and the soft drizzle misting over the creek, Matty saw a shadowy figure. The shadow man? After all this time?
“Ptschaw, chu chu,” she whispered, stroking Marigold’s back feathers. She felt her own heart thumping loudly. A figure swathed in a dark hooded robe was approaching the creek’s edge. Matty watched as the figure knelt. So intent was the person on his business that he did not notice the goshawk hovering overhead. Was it in the kneeling that something familiar struck Matty? Was it the way in which the figure nearly prostrated itself on the bank of the creek that reminded her of—something—a gesture, a peculiar posture that did not belong in this wooded land? The figure held something in its hand. Just as it reached to stuff whatever it was under the embankment the hood slipped back and the head turned quickly.