Relentless drizzle, seeping beneath his cape, soured Guy's mood a notch further with each mile that passed. It was, he supposed, an improvement on the week before, when snow and black ice had caused the falconer's horse to slip. The man had been laid up, his leg broken, waiting to send for help. He was fortunate, Guy knew, to have a relative within a day's ride; Vaisey would have refused his expenses. Guy had continued, transporting the sheriff's valued cargo back to Nottingham.
The bamboo cage bumped awkwardly against the horse's flank, in time with its slow gait. Guy glanced down, could see only sodden tail feathers peeking out from beneath the cage's cover. He quelled a flash of pity, reckoning the bird probably fared better than he did at that precise moment. But then he recalled the falcon's stitched eyelids, and resolutely turned his thoughts away.
As drizzle became downpour, the rising wind clutched indiscriminately at hair, mane, cape, branches; head bowed, Guy hunkered down against it as they plodded forward, only his bitter thoughts and the temporarily blind falcon for company. Nursemaid to a bird. How far I've come. Chained, as always, by his lord's whims.
This latest had been brought about by the debacle a year earlier. Not content with his goshawk – perfect for forest terrain – the sheriff had craved a long-winged falcon. A gift for the prince of course, dear boy. I'll just borrow it for a while. He'd sent his falconer to Valkenswaard, there to haggle at the autumn market, amongst other lords' representatives, for one of those prized birds. The project had ended in disaster; the bird hadn't survived the return from the continent. The falconer had been foolish enough to try and pass off an inferior specimen; Vaisey had thought it fitting punishment to cage the man on the castle battlements and paste his eyes with honey.
This time, Vaisey had tried something different. He'd sent a man to Ramsey Island, there to trap a young falcon. But, being late in the season, it had taken weeks; since then, the bird had been manned, but it's training to fly and hunt postponed. Vaisey had wanted the bird's eyes sealed until he took possession; he liked to tweak the silken thread attached to the stitches.
Guy had been sent to meet the pair, and to escort them safely home. With the Christmas hunt little more than a fortnight away, to which many local nobles had been invited, there could be no more delays.
And yet. The road had become a quagmire. Guy halted his mount, casting about for a landmark. He realised that with such poor visibility he must have taken a wrong turn. It couldn't be too far to Nottingham, but this cursed road seemed wholly unfamiliar.
Everywhere branches flailed; wind funnelled debris through gaps in the trees, pelting him and his mount with twigs. As he looked around, Guy heard a loud crack. A branch, splitting from the trunk; it crashed down mere paces away. It spooked his horse, and Guy barely had the animal calmed when he saw that the cover had been knocked from the cage. The bird was threshing about, drenched and distressed. Cursing, his own cape dislodged by now, Guy was struggling to re-cover the cage when a figure appeared, speaking quietly and calmly to the falcon, securing the other end of the cover which was flapping violently, its edges tugged by the wind.
When it was done, the young woman leaned in and spoke, placing a hand on his arm.
"This way," she said loudly, pointing. "Follow me."
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"My lord Gisborne. Come in." The maid's father, his mouth set in a terse line.
"No, I think not." Guy stood on the threshold beneath the drip-line from the thatch and saw that preparations were underway for a modest feast. "This bird needs quiet. But I'll need a change of clothes, and a blanket for my horse."
