Hawk Quest

L

The walls of the tent stirred in a light breeze. Wayland went out through the flap. A dusting of snow had settled in the night, but now the sky was clear and stars burned in the dark vault, casting a glacial light on the peaks to the south. Ibrahim knelt facing the mountains, prostrating himself in prayer. The breeze that sucked at the walls of the tented city was so faint that Wayland could hardly feel it.

Ibrahim rolled up his prayer mat and made his way back. He called down God’s blessing and Wayland repeated the formula. He squinted at the sky.

‘Ideal conditions for the sakers.’

Ibrahim flicked his hand. ‘Pah! How is the Thunderbolt?’

‘I haven’t seen her yet. I thought I’d let her sleep for as long as possible.’

‘What about you? Did you rest well?’

Wayland smiled. ‘I spent most of the night fighting the contest in my head.’

They checked on the haggard. She recognised his step at a distance and gave a chup of welcome. When he approached she fanned her wings in pleasurable anticipation before jumping to his fist. She wasn’t upset that it didn’t hold food. Wayland let her nibble his finger.

‘Will the Emir fly her himself?’

‘No. You carry her and slip at his Excellency’s command. If she triumphs, he will receive the credit. If she fails, you will take the blame.’

Wayland stroked the falcon’s head. ‘Well, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be.’

‘Not quite. I have a special tonic that will put fire in her blood.’

‘She doesn’t need dosing. I’ll offer her a bath. It would be a disaster if she raked away in search of water.’

The underfalconers appeared yawning and began preparing lures and carrying the saker falcons out into the weathering area. The Emir would fly them in the morning. The contest between the crane hawks would be the last event of the day.

Wayland took the gyrfalcon out to weather in the first flush of dawn. Once the sun had risen she bathed with gusto, dipping her head under the water, squatting down in it and shaking herself like a dog. Afterwards she jumped to her block and hung out her wings before preening herself.

Wayland dressed with care in the costume provided for him. Ibrahim stood back, inspecting him. He nodded approval and placed a fur-trimmed hat on his head before leaving. Wayland sat on his bed, trying to steady his nerves. He kept coughing as if a hair were caught in his throat. He jumped up in relief when a trumpet blast announced that the day’s sport was about to begin. He hooded the falcon, mounted his horse and rode with Ibrahim and the underfalconers to the arena at the centre of the camp. Emerging into the open space, he pulled back, astonished to find a thousand armed and armoured horsemen milling across the ground. It looked more like a military muster than a hunting party.

Vallon rode smiling out of the crowd. ‘Welcome, stranger. We heard about your achievement. Not many falconers kill a crane at their first attempt.’

‘It wasn’t a sporting flight. It was bagged quarry.’

Vallon took him to one side. ‘I know the contest means a lot to you. So it should after all the work you’ve put in. But there’s more to it than that. I didn’t tell you earlier because nothing I said could have made Suleyman call off the challenge.’

‘I don’t want the contest to be called off.’

‘The night Suleyman agreed to the contest, he set conditions. Win and we ride away with a reward. Lose and you forfeit your freedom.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Lose and you’ll become Walter’s slave.’

‘I won’t be anyone’s slave. I won’t bow to any man. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t want the threat preying on your mind while you trained the haggard. I’m telling you now because I can make the Emir grant you your freedom if your falcon doesn’t claim the prize.’

‘What if he doesn’t? What will happen to Syth?’

‘You won’t be parted. Trust me. Put up your best performance, but don’t worry too much about losing. Do exactly what the Emir tells you and don’t attempt anything too ambitious.’

‘I won’t.’

Wayland was still dazed when Hero greeted him. ‘Don’t worry. Whatever the outcome, Vallon won’t hand you over to Walter.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘The night before last we had another meeting with Suleyman. It went well. He nurses more ambitious plans than beating his rival in a duel of falcons. He wants to create a sultanate in Anatolia. If you lose, Vallon will offer his services in that cause.’

‘But what about his plans to join the Varangians?’

‘His first loyalty is to his company. Now put it out of your mind and concentrate on the contest.’ Hero pointed to a knot of riders wearing uniforms emblazoned with an eagle motif. ‘See the man in the golden coat? That’s who you’re up against. His name’s Temur. It means “Iron”.’

Wayland studied the plump figure in the centre of the group. His face was as round as a dish and wreathed in a smile. ‘He looks like he’s made of butter.’

‘Appearances deceive. You recall that he asked for a postponement so that he could settle a dispute. Something to do with the theft of camels. He condemned the guilty party to be sewn into a wet hide and then left in the sun so that the hide would crush the life out of him as it shrank.’

Wayland looked around the arena and spotted Walter suited in mail with a group of Seljuk friends.

‘Why is everyone wearing armour?’

‘It’s a military exercise as well as a sporting event.’

‘Is Syth here?’

Hero shook his head. ‘Women aren’t allowed.’

The crush parted in front of them. Suleyman rode up at the head of his entourage, clad in a leopard’s skin cape over a coat of scale armour. He quizzed the hawkmaster and then he turned his cat’s gaze on Wayland and spoke to Faruq.

‘He wants to know how the falcon will perform,’ Hero said.

‘Tell the Emir that, due to his Excellency’s generosity and the skills of his hawkmaster, the falcon is at the peak of her powers and is equal to whatever challenge presents itself. God willing.’

Suleyman felt under the falcon’s wings, assessing muscle tone. He said something to Ibrahim and the hawkmaster bowed. One last searching look at Wayland and the Emir wheeled his stallion. Trumpets blared and the horsemen began to flow out of the arena.

Hero grinned at Wayland. ‘How far you’ve come. When we first met, you couldn’t speak. Now you’re exchanging diplomatic niceties with a Seljuk emir.’

The army fanned out under an ice-blue sky and commenced to kill every wild animal in its path. It was some time before Wayland realised that the slaughter was methodical, an exercise for war. Spotters carrying flags had been sent out to locate quarry. One of them signalled from the skyline ahead and a trumpet blast brought the field to a stop. Another note and the wings of the army detached themselves with precision and advanced at a canter. They disappeared over the horizon, leaving the plain in front empty. The two emirs waited at the centre of the line with their retinues.

Distant bugles sounded. A puff of dust rose on the horizon and the first horsemen of the returning advance party appeared, streaming over the skyline in two lines a mile apart. A herd of gazelles raced into view between them. Behind the gazelles, rising from the earth, rode the rest of the Seljuks in crescent formation, driving the quarry between the horns. Suleyman pointed right and left with his mace and two more squadrons peeled off, galloping forward to prevent the game from breaking around the flanks. Every fifty yards one of the Seljuks dropped out, until by the time the foremost riders had linked up with the tips of the horns, they’d thrown a cordon around the quarry. They began to tighten it, waving flags, forcing the gazelles towards a funnel between the two emirs.

Thirty gazelles entered the corridor and so sure was the aim of the waiting archers that not a single animal broke through to the rear.

Walter rode over to Vallon. ‘Now you know what we faced at Manzikert.’

They moved on and Wayland’s recollection of events became disjointed. The Seljuks staged impromptu horse races and archery matches. They flushed a jackal in a dry riverbed and thirty riders lashed their horses in pursuit, Suleyman’s men on one bank, Temur’s on the other. One of Suleyman’s men drew ahead of the quarry. Twisting right round in his saddle he shot straight back over his horse’s tail and hit the jackal square in the chest. Suleyman showered silver on the marksman.

The two emirs selected saker falcons and cast them off at hares and bustards put up by the advancing army. Wayland thought it poor sport. The falcons coursed the hares, buffeting them until their wits were so scattered that they didn’t know which way to turn. The flights at bustards were tail chases that rarely rose above fifty feet. If the quarry put in to cover, the Seljuks kicked it up and flew it again, repeating the process until the bustard was brought down or escaped.

‘It’s a rat hunt,’ Wayland told Vallon. ‘I’m not going to fly my falcon like that.’

‘Careful. First, it’s not your falcon. Second, the Emir hunts in any way he pleases.’

A trumpeter signalled the end of the morning’s entertainment. Servants erected a kiosk and the two emirs dined on skewered lamb and rice, figs, melons and pomegranates, walnuts in syrup, sherbets cooled with ice brought from the twin peaks.

Wayland picked at his own meal and then withdrew from the bustle, worried that the commotion would unsettle the falcon. A figure slipped down beside him.

‘Don’t look. I’m not supposed to be here.’

‘Syth!’

‘I would have joined you earlier if the puppy hadn’t pissed on my leggings. I had to change and then wait for a chance to sneak out.’

Their hands slid towards each other.

The breeze had strengthened from the north-west and the servants striking camp struggled with the flapping tent panels. The army resumed its advance, skirting the southern shore of Salt Lake. The sun was in steep decline and the serious business was about to begin.

Two scouts breasted a ridge and the army halted. One of the scouts stayed put, while the other galloped towards the emirs to make his report. Ibrahim listened in and told Wayland that outriders had spotted a large gathering of cranes feeding on the other side of the ridge.

They advanced. Wayland heard the cranes’ clarion calls long before he saw them, flocked in their thousands along both sides of a river flowing into Salt Lake.

It was too risky to slip at such a huge number, Ibrahim said. The falcon would be intimidated. Even if flown in a cast, the birds would lose sight of each other in the storm of wings.

‘Who takes the first flight?’

‘Temur, at his own request. The wind will soon be too strong for his sakers.’

Wayland was relieved. If the emir’s falcons failed to kill, the pressure would be off the gyrfalcon.

Half the field advanced in two files and rode a wide circle around the cranes. As the horsemen tightened the circle, some of the cranes stopped feeding and stretched their necks up. Another circuit and the flocks closest to the riders took off with clanging cries. Their alarm communicated itself to other groups. One after the other they flew off. Only about thirty cranes remained when the horsemen halted their encirclement. Ibrahim pointed at the smallest group, indicating that it was the target.

Falcon on fist, Temur cantered upwind towards the quarry. At his side rode another falconer carrying the second saker. They closed to within a furlong before the cranes rose, springing into the air as if their wings were operated by strings and levers. As the last of them cleared the ground, Temur whooped and threw off his falcon.

It flew with speed and purpose, making height to block the cranes’ escape downwind. The five birds in the group scattered, the saker staying true to the quarry she’d singled out. Sensing that they weren’t the target, the other cranes slipped downwind to safety. Only then did the emir’s falconer release the second saker.

Wayland watched fascinated as the two falcons shepherded their quarry into the wind. Temur’s bird strove to pressure the crane, while her partner flew her own course, intent on gaining height. Realising that it couldn’t get past them, the crane sought escape in the sky. It began to ring up, turning in small spirals, the sakers cutting larger circles beneath it. They rose like carousel figures, the wind drifting them south-east. Wayland urged his horse into a canter to keep up. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the difference in the size of the birds made it difficult to judge which one had the ascendancy.

The sakers were no bigger than swallows when one of them put in a jabbing stoop that made the crane sideslip. The stoop was a feint. The falcon threw up, sunlight flaring from her undersides as she rolled over for a second attack. Her partner continued to ring higher. Another sharp dive and the crane rolled and kicked out its legs. It had just recovered when the second falcon delivered a long stoop from a different direction. The tempo quickened, both falcons rising and falling like hammers, never quite making contact. Each feint drove the crane lower. Wayland no longer knew which falcon was which. One of them put in a stoop that connected, drawing a cheer from Temur’s supporters and leaving a puff of feathers drifting in the wind.

The crane decided it was beaten and plummeted with upstretched wings. Wayland had lost sight of one of the falcons. The saker that had feathered the crane poised herself above her quarry, taking aim before hurling down. This time Wayland heard the impact and saw the crane stagger. While he was still watching the saker throw up for the next attack, her partner swept down and bound to the crane’s back. Hunter and hunted fell in a wild whirligig. The second saker tore into the crane and all three birds dropped like wreckage. The horizon tilted back into Wayland’s view. Crane and falcons were spinning to earth at a speed that threatened destruction for all three. Less than fifty feet from the ground the falcons released their quarry. The crane landed with a thump and turned to face its foes with stabbing bill and flailing wings. One of the sakers grabbed it from behind, bowling it over. It lashed out with its feet and then Wayland lost sight of it as a dozen Seljuks galloped up. One of them vaulted off his horse. It was Temur himself. Squeezing through the scrum, Wayland arrived to find the crane dead and the emir with knife in hand encouraging his sakers to feed on its exposed heart. Buglers celebrated the kill. Temur looked round with a manic grin.

Wayland turned and found Vallon. He gave a rueful smile. ‘That’s going to take some beating.’

Some of the Seljuks had ridden after the main flock of cranes and marked down a dozen birds in a small marsh close to Salt Lake. Wayland waited at the southern edge while a hundred mounted beaters combed the reed beds. The wind was blowing hard enough to raise licks of snow from the ground. Ibrahim kept repeating instructions that Wayland couldn’t understand. All he could gather was that he mustn’t make any move without the Emir’s command. Suleyman and his senior officers had stationed themselves about forty yards away. The Emir pointed his mace at Wayland, reinforcing Ibrahim’s warning.

The gyrfalcon’s keenness made her difficult to manage. Every movement on Wayland’s part she interpreted as the prelude to flight, making her lunge and paddle at the air. He’d removed the swivel and looped the leash through the slits in her jesses. Remembering the difficulty he’d experienced when casting her off at the disabled crane, he slackened her hood so that he could whip it off at a moment’s notice.

He concentrated on the Seljuks working their way through the marsh. It was a good set-up. Salt Lake lay more than a mile upwind, its swamps the obvious sanctuary for any crane flushed ahead of him. None had showed itself yet, and the beaters had already combed half the marsh. Fear of committing the falcon to flight began to give way to anxiety that he wouldn’t get a flight at all.

Four ducks sprang quacking from the marsh and cut upwind. At the furthest point of their outrun, they seemed to tread air and then hurtled back as though pulled by cords. The falcon heard them arrow past and bated blind at them. Wayland’s horse shied. He tried to gather it, while struggling to swing the falcon back onto his fist. She’d tangled her leash around the jesses and in her struggles she dislodged the hood. It was the stuff of nightmare — a skittish horse and an unruly falcon, the possibility of game rising at any moment. One of the underfalconers grabbed the horse’s bridle. Wayland slid off and looked for the hood. The horse had trampled it. Ibrahim shoved a spare into his hand and he crammed it on.

Someone shouted and pointed south. Three hundred feet above the plateau and half a mile downwind, a solitary crane was making a leisurely passage towards Salt Lake. Wayland finished unravelling the falcon’s leash. She was panting, but the crane had a lot of air to cover and the haggard would have regained her composure by the time the quarry got upwind.

Ibrahim’s shout jarred him out of his calculations. Wayland looked to see the Emir lashing down with his mace, giving the order to release the falcon.

Wayland couldn’t believe it. ‘That’s crazy! The crane will turn tail before the falcon gets anywhere near it.’

‘Do what you’re told,’ Vallon yelled.

Wayland rode up to Ibrahim. ‘Tell the Emir to wait until the crane passes over our heads.’

Suleyman was riding towards him. Ibrahim headed him off. They shouted at each other, the hawkmaster pointing first at the crane and then at the lake, Suleyman staring at Wayland with an expression that would have made most men fall to their knees and beg mercy. The Emir swept out a hand in fury. With one last glare at Wayland, he pulled his horse round and rode off fifty yards.

Wayland tried to put it out of mind. The crane drew on, gaining height. She must have been at more than five hundred feet when she passed overhead. Wayland drew the leash from the jesses. He watched the Emir, waiting for the order to slip. Suleyman glowered ahead as if he’d lost interest in the proceedings. The crane had worked two hundred yards into the wind. Wayland waited, throwing increasingly anxious glances at the Emir. The crane was now four hundred yards upwind and the Emir hadn’t glanced up.

‘What’s keeping him?’ he asked Ibrahim. ‘If he waits any longer, the crane will have too big a lead.’

Suleyman turned and flicked his mace.

Wayland reached for the falcon’s hood.

Ibrahim lunged for his hand. ‘No!’

‘I don’t understand.’

Faruq shouted something. ‘The Emir’s ordering you not to fly,’ Hero called. ‘He says the crane’s too high.’

Wayland exploded with frustration. ‘He knows nothing. No wonder Temur always beats him.’

Vallon galloped over. ‘Don’t make matters any worse for yourself.’

Wayland glared at Suleyman, then he looked at the crane and with no further thought he struck the falcon’s hood and cast her into the wind.

Vallon was too appalled to speak. Hero clutched his face. ‘What’s got into you?’

‘What’s got into me? I brought the falcon two thousand miles for the Emir to fly at cranes. First he orders me to take on an impossible slip then, when I’m in the ideal situation, he forbids me to slip at all.’

Suleyman might have struck him down on the spot if his attendants hadn’t drawn his attention to the gyrfalcon. She was climbing up on her tail, making height at a tremendous rate. She’d closed the gap by half before the crane noticed the threat and quickened its pace. The falcon kept going, levelling off in order to power ahead of her quarry and cut it off from cover. Wayland spurred his horse after them. The falcon made its point and eased off, waiting for the crane’s next move. Although the quarry still had several hundred feet advantage, the falcon had gained enough height to command the airspace below, whether the crane flew upwind or down. It took the only route left open and began to ring up like a feather trapped in a thermal. The falcon followed, buffering up in steps, sometimes taking the opposite direction from its quarry. Already they were so high that Wayland had to tilt his head back to keep them in view. Up and up, the falcon scintillating in the golden light. Wayland’s neck ached from the effort of keeping them in sight. The crane was no bigger than a bee pestered by a fly. Wayland blinked to clear his vision because soon a blink would be long enough to lose them. The bee shrank to the size of a fly; the fly became a gnat. The gnat disappeared, leaving only one tiny speck in the sky. Then nothing. Wayland’s eyes were so sharp that he could spot a pigeon a mile away, yet the two birds had simply vanished into space.

The spectators waited, rubbing their necks. Most flights ended downwind of the slip, but nobody moved. Dusk began to hood the earth and pleats of violet shadow ran up the mountains.

Vallon rode over. ‘Do you think she took it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Pray God she does. A kill is your only chance of escaping punishment. I’ll plead for leniency, but I doubt if my words will carry much weight. What possessed you to defy the Emir?’

Wayland couldn’t answer. Turning away he saw Syth’s frightened face.

‘The Emir’s going to punish you, isn’t he?’

‘Not if the falcon takes the crane.’

‘If she doesn’t, he might kill you.’

‘Syth-’

‘Didn’t you stop to think what will happen to me — to our child?’

A Seljuk shouted. Wayland’s gaze whipped up, bright with hope. He saw the falcon falling … falling … falling. Stooping so fast that she seemed to descend in a series of flickers. Five hundred feet above the plateau her teardrop shape threw up in a tearing arc. She swung into the wind and rested on the rushing air. Suleyman’s men groaned and Wayland covered his face. It was over. The crane had outflown the falcon and he would suffer the consequences.

Ibrahim galloped up, grabbed Wayland’s reins and dragged him away. ‘Call her down.’

Wayland swung his lure. The falcon ignored it. She rode the wind, her wings curved back in a bow. She was still full of flying, waiting for fresh quarry to be flushed.

Ibrahim threw out a live pigeon on a line. At the second throw, the falcon flicked over. Wayland blinked. She was heading in the wrong direction, driving towards the setting sun.

‘She’s after something.’

For a moment he thought she’d spotted the crane. Only for a moment. She was chasing a pigeon. It had such a huge lead that if he’d been flying any other falcon, he would have groaned in dismay at her vain pursuit. But she wasn’t any other falcon and he concentrated on keeping her in sight. The pigeon flew towards the setting sun. Wayland shielded his eyes and saw it graze the fiery disc. The falcon flew straight into it. The glare burned the back of his eyeballs. He dashed tears away. When he picked the falcon up again, she was only a short distance behind the pigeon, reeling it in as if it were tethered. The pigeon went into a dive. The falcon lifted before powering after it. The two specks merged into one and then the sky emptied. Wayland marked the spot where they’d disappeared. Over the marshes fringing Salt Lake.

He turned to Ibrahim. ‘She took it.’

Riders were lashing towards them. ‘Find her,’ Ibrahim ordered. ‘No, wait.’

The nearest riders were only yards away when Wayland spurred his horse towards the lake. Ibrahim was trying to win him a reprieve. If he recovered the falcon, he was to wait until well after dark before returning to the encampment. Ibrahim would use the time to speak on his behalf. He’d tell Suleyman that Wayland had misunderstood the Emir’s commands. He’d explain that the falcon was so fired up that she’d broken loose.

The flight had ended more than a mile away and Wayland knew there was little chance of recovering the falcon before dark. The sun smouldered on the horizon and the falcon could have landed anywhere in the briny wastes. She might have carried her prey right across the lake.

Hooves clattered behind him and two riders drew level. One of them was Syth, the other Walter. He swiped a hand into Wayland’s face.

‘Base wretch! You’ve made Suleyman a laughing stock. There’s no saving you now. I’ve a good mind to cut off your head myself. I’ll plead with him for the privilege.’

Wayland rode on pell-mell. He reached the marsh stretching into the lake and pulled up. The sun was already halfway below the horizon and the wind cut like a knife. He studied the landscape. Over to his right and about quarter of a mile into the marsh, an eagle quartered the reeds, sometimes rowing back in a clumsy hover. It must have seen the falcon land with her prey and was searching for her. He cantered towards the spot. His mare splashed across a salt pan and stumbled as she broke through the crust. He slowed to a walk, his attention fixed on the area where he’d seen the eagle. Thousands of islets dotted the pools and creeks. He dismounted and led his horse, listening for the sound of bells above the swishing of the reeds. A hundred yards further on the water rose above his mare’s knees. She dapped a foot at the surface and refused to go any further.

‘You’ll never find her in there,’ said Walter.

Wayland handed the reins to Syth. ‘I’ll go on by foot.’ He took a few steps then hesitated. He looked back at Walter. ‘The falcon isn’t far away. Help me search for her.’

Walter flushed in anger. ‘Who do you think you’re speaking to? I’m not going into the marsh.’

‘I’ll come,’ Syth said. ‘I’m light of foot and I grew up in the fens.’

Wayland kept his gaze fixed on Walter. ‘I have something important to tell you.’

Walter frowned. ‘Concerning Drogo and Vallon?’

‘Concerning murder.’

Walter looked back, one side of his face burnished by the last rays of the sun. Suleyman and an escort of about thirty men were galloping towards them. Alongside rode Vallon and Drogo.

‘I knew it. Tell me how they intend to do the deed.’

‘Not here. Suleyman will reach us before I can explain.’

‘What’s this talk of murder?’ Syth said. ‘Why are you acting so strange?’

Wayland touched her wrist. ‘Wait until I return.’

The Seljuks were close. The last segment of sun had sunk, leaving a flaming band on the horizon and dimming fire on the twin peaks. Wisps of charcoal cloud floated high in a sky of purple and saffron. Wayland entered the marsh, wading through brine, pushing through reeds. Walter followed, labouring in his armour.

‘Out with it then,’ he panted. ‘If I can turn the knowledge to my advantage, I’ll intercede for you with Suleyman.’

‘Let’s recover the falcon first.’

Walter gripped his arm. ‘If I save you, you’ll be my loyal slave.’

Wayland hurried on. The reeds grew so tall that only the light draining in the west told him what direction he was taking. Every few yards he stopped, listening for the sound of the falcon’s bells. It was hopeless. Suleyman’s entire army could search all day for the falcon and never find her. She would have dragged the pigeon into cover when she saw the eagle. Even if he passed within five yards, he’d probably miss her. Falcons froze on their kill if anyone approached.

He came to what looked like a shallow pool furred with weeds. Something warned him off crossing it. He skirted it, only to run into another. And another. His course was so erratic that he no longer knew where the eagle had been hunting. He was trying to find a way between bogs and he’d have only the stars to show him the way back.

Walter took a false step and sank to his knees. The surface quivered around him. Wayland helped him onto firm ground.

‘That’s far enough. My armour makes it too dangerous.’

‘There’s still enough light to find her.’

‘We’re already in too far. Take me back.’

‘You return if you want.’

‘I don’t know the way.’

‘Then stay with me. I won’t be long.’

Walter drew his sword. ‘Tell me what Drogo’s planning.’

‘We’re wasting time better spent on searching. Come on.’

Walter dragged him back and raised his sword. ‘You’re wasting my time.’

Wayland looked into Walter’s eyes.

‘Well?’

Wayland’s gaze darted. ‘I heard her bell.’

Walter yanked his arm. ‘Liar. The wind’s loud enough to drown a church peal.’

‘No,’ Wayland said, disengaging from Walter’s grip. He walked away, his eyes tracking right and left before stopping. He pointed. ‘It came from over there.’

Walter stumbled along beside him. Every few steps Wayland called out. The bell didn’t sound again. He slowed his pace, scared of treading on the falcon. He peered through the reeds, trying to sieve her form out of the darkness. ‘Where are you?’

The faintest of tinkles. Wayland placed a hand on Walter’s arm. ‘She’s close. Don’t move.’

He dropped on to hands and knees and crawled forward, mouthing sweet nothings. The rasp of the bell came again. He advanced a few feet and the haggard uttered an anxious kack from behind him. He turned and lay flat on his belly in an icy puddle, scanning around at ground level. Too dark to make anything out, but his gaze kept returning to a blur within the base of a thick stand of reeds. It didn’t move and it was the wrong shape. ‘Is that you?’

He pulled himself towards it. He was only a yard away when the blur shaped itself into the haggard, lying prone with her wings outspread. She was frightened by the darkness and wind, the threat from the eagle. His arrival reassured her and she stood and mantled over her prey. Her bell shivered.

Wayland stretched out his right hand. She hadn’t even started plucking the pigeon. If the eagle hadn’t menaced her, she would have gorged by now and flown off to roost.

His cold fingers fumbled before getting a grip on her jesses. No time to fit the swivel. Teeth chattering, he threaded the leash through the slits. When he’d looped the leash around his glove, his pent up breath burst out.

‘Where are you?’ Walter called. He’d been calling for some time.

Wayland lifted the falcon and her prey onto his glove and rocked back on his knees. ‘I’ve got her.’

The wind blew Walter’s response away.

Wayland slipped the hood on and made his way back.

Walter seized his arm. ‘Now tell me how Drogo and the Frank intend to murder me.’

‘Wait until we’re clear of the bogs. Stay close. Tread where I tread.’

He took his bearings by the twin peaks and set off. The wind had strengthened to a gale and the reeds lashed over his head like swords.

‘Slow down, damn you. I can hardly see you.’

Wayland increased his pace and reached one of the quagmires. He stepped onto it and felt the surface give. He looked behind him.

Walter was out of sight, thrashing through the reeds. ‘Wait for me.’

Wayland took a breath and crossed the bog at a gliding run. On the other side he stopped with a hand held over his thumping heart. He heard a splash and a shocked cry.

‘Blood of Christ! Another foot and I’d have been lost. Where are you, damn you?’

‘Here.’

Walter’s dim outline appeared on the far edge of the bog. ‘Why do you go so fast? What path do I take?’

‘Straight across.’

‘This isn’t the way we came. It’s a bog.’

‘It’s the path I’ve just taken. There are my footprints.’

‘You aren’t wearing sixty pounds of armour.’

‘The surface will bear your weight.’

Walter took one cautious step. ‘It trembles. I’m going to find a way round it.’

‘It’s too late to find another way. Walk towards me. Don’t linger on one spot.’

Walter shuffled forward, knees bent, hands outstretched. Wayland watched with detachment. If he reaches me, he thought, I’ll let him live. Step after step he came closer, muttering to himself. The surface around him wallowed in slow undulations. He looked up, face white with fear in the starlight. ‘It won’t hold.’

‘Keep moving.’

Walter took three more steps and was halfway across when the surface gave way and he plunged into the bog like a man falling through the hangman’s trap. He floundered waist-deep. ‘I can’t move,’ he gibbered. ‘The swamp holds me fast. I’m sinking. Oh my God! Help me!’

Wayland watched him.

‘Save me! Why do you stand there? Why don’t you speak?’

Wayland’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Walter stopped struggling. ‘Is this why you brought me? I understand now. It’s Drogo’s doing. You’re the instrument of his hatred.’ His voice fell away in a moan of despair.

Wayland recovered his voice. ‘It’s nothing to do with Drogo or Vallon!’

Only the stars for witness. Walter’s teeth chattered.

‘Why do you want to harm me? I rescued you from the wilderness. I gave you house space, made you my falconer. Why do you want to harm me?’

Wayland bent forward, his face ugly. ‘Because you cut off a man’s head.’

‘I’ve killed many men in battle. What are you talking about?’

Wayland dropped to a crouch. ‘It was my father’s head.’

‘I don’t know your father. I can’t remember every English warrior who fell by my sword.’

‘He wasn’t a warrior and you didn’t kill him in battle. He was a farmer and you rode into his farmstead one evening four years ago as he was splitting firewood. Your men held him down over the chopping block and you hacked off his head and you laughed. When he was dead, you took my mother and my older sister into the cottage and raped them. Then you cut their throats and set fire to the house with my grandfather inside.’

‘That wasn’t me. It must have been Drogo.’

‘It was you and Drax and Roussel and others. I was there. I was watching.’

Walter began to pant. ‘I did no more than any other Norman would have done. Your father was poaching my deer. The penalty for poaching is death.’

‘My mother and sisters weren’t poachers.’

Walter groaned. ‘Wayland, I could have killed you when I found you in the forest. Show me the same mercy I granted you. Drogo wouldn’t have spared your life.’

Wayland straightened. ‘Confess your crime and repent.’

‘Confess? To an English peasant?’

‘Repent or die.’

‘I repent nothing. My only regret is that I didn’t kill you.’

Wayland’s voice fell to a mumble. ‘All you have to do is repent. Beg forgiveness and I’ll save you.’

‘Never.’

Wayland clawed at his face. All his dreams and hopes had turned rotten. Before the night was much older, he too would be dead, leaving Syth and their unborn child alone in an alien land.

Walter breathed in juddering spasms. ‘This is your own revenge, isn’t it? Vallon doesn’t know.’

‘I’ve told no one.’

Walter’s voice rose to a screech. ‘You fool. If I die, the secret of the gospel dies with me.’

Wayland stared in incomprehension. ‘What secret? What gospel?’

‘The Gospel of Thomas and a letter from Prester John. Treasures beyond price. Why do you think Vallon risked his life to save me? Why do you think Cosmas negotiated my ransom?’

‘Where are they?’

‘Where no one can find them but me. Now pull me out of this foul mire.’

Walter had sunk to his chest. Cries floated down the wind. A smear of flame appeared through the reeds.

‘Help!’ Walter shouted. ‘Help!’

The cries came closer. Torches flickered.

‘Oh thank God,’ Walter gasped. He stopped struggling. ‘Now you’ll pay for your treachery. What I did to your family is nothing compared to the punishment I’ll deal out to you.’

Four figures shoved out of the reeds.

‘Wayland?’ Vallon called.

‘He led me into the bog,’ Walter cried. ‘He tried to murder me. For the love of God, help me!’

Vallon edged towards Wayland, Hero following. The other two men were Seljuks, carrying poles and rope. They took in the situation and unlooped the rope.

‘Don’t struggle,’ Vallon told Walter. ‘We’ll pull you out.’

‘Oh, thank God!’

Hero pushed forward. ‘Where’s the gospel?’

Vallon slapped him. ‘The man’s in peril of death.’

‘He won’t tell us otherwise. Once he’s safe, he’ll turn against us. Walter, tell us where you’ve hidden the documents.’

‘You swear to save me?’

‘You’re wasting precious time,’ said Vallon. ‘Of course we’ll save you.’

‘They’re in a Roman bastillion on the eastern shore of Salt Lake. Hurry!’

‘We camped near the fort. Where will we find the gospel?’

‘The top of the staircase. Behind a stone carved with a lion. Hurry before it’s too late.’

Vallon ordered the Seljuk to throw the rope. ‘Reach for it carefully. Don’t move more than you have to.’

Walter clung to it. Vallon and Hero and the two Seljuks heaved. Vallon turned to Wayland. ‘Help us.’

They strained and grunted until sweat broke on their brows. Each heave raised Walter half a foot, but all their efforts couldn’t break the bog’s grip.

‘Take your hauberk off,’ Vallon called. ‘You won’t sink if you rid yourself of your armour.’

Walter clawed at the slippery mail with icy, mud-coated hands. ‘I can’t. Every movement pulls me deeper.’

‘Send one of the Seljuks for more men,’ Hero said.

Vallon wiped his forehead. ‘It’s no use. It would take a team of horses to drag him loose, and the strain would tear him in two.’ He raised his head. ‘Walter, you have to break the suction. Paddle with your legs.’

Walter had sunk to his shoulders. ‘I can’t feel them,’ he whimpered.

Vallon seized the rope again. ‘Another effort.’

They hauled first in one direction, then another. Something popped and the rope sprang loose, sending them tumbling backwards.

‘My shoulder!’ Walter screamed.

Vallon picked himself up. He cast the rope towards Walter. ‘Take hold of it. At least we can keep you from going under.’ He turned to Hero. ‘Send one of the Seljuks to fetch a team carrying ladders.’

‘He’ll freeze to death before they get here.’

Walter’s left hand groped for the rope. His fingers closed on it. When Vallon drew it taut, it pulled straight out.

‘I can’t hold it. All feeling has gone.’

The bog was above his shoulders. Vallon doubled over, hands on knees. ‘Walter, there’s nothing more we can do. Make peace with your maker.’

The surface was up to Walter’s chin. ‘Oh mother of God, save me in my hour of need. Oh merciful mother of God … ’ He broke off with a sob.

They watched in horror as Walter sank deeper.

‘What a terrible way to die,’ he said, his tone remote. He called out in Turkic to the Seljuks. ‘I’ve told them what happened here. The Emir will make you pay for your crimes.’ His voice rose to a shriek. ‘I curse Wayland! And I curse you for bringing him here and I curse Drogo! I’ll be waiting for you in hell!’

Water closed over his mouth and he delivered his final curse as a gargling scream. Wayland’s flesh crept, but he remembered his family massacred in their home and didn’t regret his crime. Bubbles erupted from Walter’s mouth. He heaved up as the water rose above his nose. He sank again and more bubbles burst. His eyes still showed, rolling with terror, and then they went still and glazed over. They sank from sight. Slowly his head disappeared. The surface quaked one last time and went still.

Vallon was down on one knee. He turned his head. ‘Is it true? Did you lead him to his death?’

‘He slaughtered my family. Father, mother, brother and sister, grandfather … He raped the women and cut their throats.’

Vallon looked at him for a long time. ‘That’s why you joined us. I set out to rescue Walter, and you were planning to kill him.’

‘Only at first. Once I met Syth, once I saw how gallantly you led us, I swore to bury my hatred. I haven’t even told Syth what Walter did. But then he threatened to kill me. He gloated about it. I know the Emir will probably execute me for disobeying his orders. I know I won’t see the child Syth’s carrying. Walter followed me into the marsh and revenge was all I had left. Even then I gave him a chance. I would have tried to save him if only he’d confessed his crimes and repented.’

Vallon heaved an exhausted sigh and stood. ‘The Seljuks don’t know what happened. We’ll tell the Emir it was an accident. At least you recovered the falcon. That might go some way to assuaging his wrath.’

Wayland broke down. It wasn’t fear of Suleyman’s punishment that overwhelmed him. It was the stress that had built up in him from the moment chance presented him with the opportunity to kill Walter. It was despair at the thought of what would happen to Syth.

Hero put his arm around him. ‘Come on. Let’s leave this awful place.’

They picked their way out of the marsh. About twenty men remained with the Emir, rags of flame whisking from their torches. Suleyman rode forward, hunched and malevolent. Vallon and Hero stepped in front of Wayland and pleaded for mercy. Half a dozen Seljuks dragged them out of the way at swordpoint. The Emir stopped in front of Wayland and gave an order. Ibrahim approached. From the pitiful expression on his face, Wayland knew that the Emir wouldn’t show mercy. Ibrahim took the falcon. He held up a hand, showing Suleyman the pigeon. The Emir dashed it to the ground.

Wayland raised his eyes. ‘Let me see Syth one last time.’

Drogo spoke out of the dark. ‘They took her back to the camp.’

‘I’ll take care of her,’ Vallon said. ‘I promise she won’t come to harm.’

The Emir raised his mace. Wayland stared at the twin peaks. The torches guttered.

One of the underfalconers threw himself down and scooped up the pigeon. He thrust his hand up. The Emir’s stallion flared its nostrils and side-stepped.

Ibrahim grabbed the pigeon and called for light. Two torchbearers ran up to him. He held the pigeon towards the flames and Wayland glimpsed something gleaming on its leg. Suleyman looked down at it and waved his hand. Faruq dismounted and hurried up. Ibrahim cut the object off the pigeon’s leg and handed it to him. He held it between thumb and forefinger.

A tiny cylinder. Wayland had no idea what it meant.

‘A messenger pigeon,’ he heard Hero say.

‘I know,’ said Vallon. ‘The Moors used them in Spain. Wayland, stay where you are and don’t say a word.’

Nobody was paying any attention to him. Everyone was leaning into the cluster of torches, intent on what Faruq was doing. He prised a cap off the tube and extracted its contents. He called for the torches to be brought closer and unrolled a tiny piece of fabric. From the way his lips worked, it must have contained writing. He gasped, collected himself with conscious effort and beckoned the Emir closer. Suleyman leaned down until Faruq was able to speak into his ear. What he said made the Emir sit bolt upright. His gaze roamed through the night. When it returned it settled on Wayland. He squeezed his horse’s flanks, rode forward and ruffled Wayland’s hair. He threw back his head and laughed.

The other Seljuks were as baffled as Wayland. They spread their hands at each other, hitched their shoulders.

‘What’s going on?’ said Drogo.

‘A miracle, that’s what,’ Vallon answered.

Suleyman unslung his quiver and passed its contents out among his company, pointing in a different direction as he handed over each arrow. One after the other the Seljuks galloped into the night, heading to all points of the compass. When the last of them had gone, the Emir grinned at Wayland, shook his head in fond amazement and turned his stallion. The remaining riders formed up around him and they raced off, their horses spraying gravel.