It was a glorious day.
Well, that was one opinion; the falcon didn't seem to share it. In fact, the hooded bird was annoyed, but that didn't annoy Mordred. He'd known that the saker was by nature irritable, and that the bird was more trying to claw through the thick leather glove than simply holding onto it wasn't surprising, and in fact he found it charming.
Falcons were amazing creatures, all of them, each special in its own way, not just as breeds but as individuals, as well. This saker was perhaps a touch larger than most, almost twenty inches long, and its dull brown color was relieved by the pale head, which emphasized the two dark brown stripes running down either side of its beak, which looked like mustaches even more than similar markings on the peregrines.
This one was a particularly tempery bird, and it was not happy. Even through the leather glove, even hooded, the bird could tell Mordred's hand from another, more familiar, one. This griping was just a mild reminder that he hadn't been handling the bird enough himself, leaving it to the old cadger and his apprentices. Falconry was, of course, the sport of kings, but kings had many demands on their time, and of the dozens and dozens of nights spent walking the birds, all but one of them with this bird had been left to Old Thomas and his apprentices.
It wasn't that Mordred V, by the grace of God Pendragon King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, among other places—as well as a score of other titles, including the obligatory Defender of the Faith—avoided the privileges and pleasures that came with the crown, any more than he skimped the responsibilities.
It's just that the responsibilities left him little time, and falconry, done properly, took much time.
Falconry had been a passion of his youth—no; it had been the passion of his youth—and these days he barely found time to occasionally hunt with the birds, and almost none for the endless work of raising and training them.
He loved it all. Every bit of it. Walking the birds; working with leather, shears, punch, and awl to make the hoods; winding the creances carefully around the spindles so that they could unwind smoothly and easily without pulling the bird out of the sky. Mucking out the mews, even, as strange as that would have sounded to anybody else.
A man had to have his pleasures, after all, and if others would have found some of those pleasures of his too common, well, that was a matter of contempt to Mordred, and he sometimes lied to himself that when Eric turned twenty-five or so, he would abdicate in his son's favor, and spend the rest of his life mucking out the mews and handling the birds. And, of course, hunting with them on every fine day, and a few foul ones.
It was a lie, and he knew it.
The Crown would pass to Eric upon Mordred's death, and with the traditional cry of "The king is dead! Long live the king!" and not some comical "The king has abdicated to go play with his birds."
Old Thomas cleared his throat, clearly to grab the king's attention, then frowned at the saker. "Not quite out of the molt, you know." He glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the entourage, most of whom were back at where the woods broke on the clearing, and Mordred repressed a grin.
Old Thomas was worried about the damage to the King's dignity if the bird failed. Charming.
"I'm passingly aware of that," Mordred said, giving the gentlest of tugs at a loose neck feather, which immediately came away, and drifted off in the wind. "Tickle his feet a little, I think?"
"Bowse him a bit, I think," Old Thomas said, already pouring water from the lambskin water bag into the wooden bowl. He didn't wait for Mordred to nod assent before raising the bowl to just below the bird's beak. The saker drank greedily; quite the little bowser, he was; Thomas quickly took the bowl away, lest he overdo it.
"And if anybody were to be asking me," the old cadger went on, "I'd say that he should best be flown on the creance today, and not hunted."
"Ah, yes, but then how would you expect him to get me a conie?"
Thomas smiled. "Well, there is that. But a conie caught by another bird would taste every bit as good, I'd guess."
"Not to me," Mordred said, smiling. "Not today."
This clearing in the King's Preserve, north and east of Pendragon castle, was for obvious reasons devoted to the king's own use, and the rabbits—although not the deer, probably for the reason that Mordred suspected but had deliberately decided not to take notice of—had become unwary and brazen. Even now, he could easily make out half a dozen munching on the greens that had been planted as bait at the far edge of the clearing, and while occasionally one would raise himself up and take a look at the humans hundreds of yards away, the rabbit would quickly go back to his foraging.
Thomas jerked a thumb back toward where his apprentices were situated, halfway back toward where the woods broke on the clearing. Three of the king's other birds were already hooded and perched on their blocks, and a half dozen more waited in their wicker cages.
"I'd still say," Thomas said, "that if it's a conie you're wanting, one of the peregrines would do as well, and quite likely better at that. Or the goshawk, the merlin—"
Mordred stopped him with a quick frown. "I've never had much affection for merlins."
"Your father didn't mind the name."
"My father wasn't named Mordred."
Thomas just sniffed, as though to say that only the most superstitious twit would worry that the handling of a bird with the same name would somehow bring to back to life the legendary wizard of Arthur the Tyrant, and enemy of Mordred's ancient namesake. Mordred was the fifth Pendragon king to bear the name, and if he was the first such to find merlins not his favorite of falcons, that was among his many prerogatives.
Mordred would tolerate the sniff, but it was just as well that Old Thomas hadn't taken further liberties with his words. As his cadger, Mordred was far more interested in Thomas's opinions on the birds than he was in a private lack of decorum and proper acknowledgment of his station. After all, the late, unlamented Duke of York—Mordred's uncle—so history had it, had always been studiously respectful of his brother the King, to the point of obsequiousness . . . up until the moment that he'd tried to have Father and the then-infant Mordred assassinated, so that he could take the Crown for himself. He had come perilously close to success.
Had it not been for two knights—one of the Table Round, the other of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon—Mordred wouldn't have reached his third birthday, and would have missed not only the endless responsibilities and duties that came with the crown, but, far more tragically, a gorgeous day like today, with nothing more to think about, at least for the next while, than whether the new saker would stay with his kill, return to the lure, or have to be chased into the forest.
As with the birds, dogs, and his servants—from the meanest of indentured serfs to the Crown dukes, even though the latter were Pendragons themselves—Mordred was far more interested in them doing their job well than in how much bowing and scraping they did while doing their job.
Still, the borderlines of propriety were sometimes fuzzy, and sometimes sharp—but Thomas had come far too close to taking a definite step over.
Mordred met his eyes for a quick moment, and Old Thomas looked away.
"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," he said.
"Accepted, but not necessary," the king said. The gentle lie was not only a useful tool of state, but of other interactions, as well. Real steel always waited inside the velvet glove, after all.
Others were behaving much better. A short troop from the House Guard waited patiently just within the shade of the road leading into the clearing, as did the much smaller party accompanying Mordred's uncle, William, the Duke of New England—no soldiers, just a few servants, and, of course, Sir Joshua.
Patience was a virtue, but like all virtues, it could be overdone. Mordred had waited far too patiently for William Pendragon to take time away from colonial affairs to pay a call on and homage to his king; keeping Uncle William waiting, yet again, while Mordred enjoyed the morning seemed both fair, and a reminder.
It wasn't as though the duke had to wait alone, after all, or in discomfort; a small table and chairs had been set up, and since Mordred was far enough away that Uncle William wasn't officially in The Presence, he had chosen to sit, rather than to stand. If the wind had been blowing in the other direction, Mordred would have been irritated with him smoking his pipe, but it wasn't, so he wasn't. Besides, it was unlikely that tobacco smoke would startle these conies; they were very brazen.
The four Order Knights that served as the king's personal bodyguards were nowhere in evidence, which was to be expected. Assassination was always a possibility, and while the king made a point to take his excursions randomly, there were always concerns. A quick skulking through the woods at the edge of the clearing would serve better than the knights standing at the king's side to see if his back began to sprout bolts or arrows, after all.
Mordred tickled the bird's feet, just a little. It seemed to calm him, but not as much as Thomas's frown said that he would have liked to have seen.
"I always want your opinions," Mordred said, "about the birds. And that opinion would be that this one won't come back? That we—" He stopped himself. "—that you and the boys will have to go chase him down? Or that he might fly away altogether?"
Thomas took a long moment to consider his answer. "There's that risk." He seemed to want to say more, but only went on when the king made a beckoning gesture.
"Out with it, man. With no due respect for my station." After all, the borders of propriety might be fuzzy or sharp, but they were, after all, Mordred's to set, his and to move at will.
"It's just that, well, a saker is a common knight's bird. Seems unseemly that the king would have such an interest in it—particularly if it flies off. And never mind the kestrels, for the moment, much as I know you love them."
Has there been talk of that? he didn't ask. If he didn't know, he didn't have to deal with it. Backstairs gossip was, of course, commonplace, and unremarkable—as long as it wasn't brought to his attention.
Mordred actually preferred kestrels, particularly the New World one, which should probably have been named something else, although it would have been much to expect that the naturalists of New Eton would have thought that falco sparverius would have been of interest to a royal falconer, anymore than falco tinnunculus was. Falconry had never seemed to take on in the New World, or most other of HM possessions, in the way that it had in Inja, say, and, besides, kestrels were considered appropriate for servants and children. Small, easy to keep fed, although the New World ones were a challenge to train—but they couldn't handle prey larger than a field mouse. But they were bright, clever, and easy to hand, and . . .
Enough woolgathering. The morning was getting no younger, and the claque of ministers and secretaries waiting back at Pendragon castle were probably doing just that—waiting. And then there was Uncle William.
"Different birds for different prey," Mordred said. "And I'm curious to see if this bird is ready. The only way to find out, I think, is to try him."
He unhooded the saker, and gave it a moment to settle. After a quick look around, its eyes locked on the conies across the field, as he had hoped. A good sign.
He raised his glove and released it. Its wings pinioning, beating hard against the air, the bells from its jesses jingling in a mad fandango, it beat its way high up into the air, then spread its wings, circling over the clearing, high above the west end of it, where the rabbits waited.
It was always an exciting time when you released a new bird, and the king could feel his heart thumping hard in his chest, as he readied himself for the stoop, and the kill, and the run.
The king's big Arabian gelding stood waiting patiently, a servant holding the reins, but Mordred had no intention of mounting it and riding just a couple of hundred yards across the clearing when he could run across the clearing as quickly as he could ride—yes, the horse was faster, but it would take precious seconds to mount—and retrieve the bird and its prey without assistance.
It would be every bit as fast and much more personal to dash ahead of Old Thomas—who wouldn't be able to run as fast—and the apprentices—who wouldn't dare run faster than the king—and get his hands on the bird himself, without the aid of a horse.
For a moment, the saker seemed to hesitate in the air, as though debating whether or not to flee, but then it dropped into a gorgeous stoop, and dove down—
"And now . . ." Thomas murmured.
And the bird swooped low over the ground, then beat its wings, climbing back into the air, its talons empty. It had missed.
It circled again, tentatively, as though considering making another try, but then it banked off and away; the jingling diminished in the distance as the saker flapped away, out of sight, over the huge elms that rimmed the far side of the clearing.
Mordred gave Old Thomas a look, and then clapped his hand to the old man's shoulder. "Well, it seems that my eagerness will cost your apprentices some work this morning."
Chasing down and luring an escaped bird was time-consuming, and the king, alas, had no time for it, although he would have loved to have spent the rest of this beautiful morning in that pursuit, or anything else involving the birds.
The old man had already turned to where the apprentices were standing, and pointed two fingers; the two boys he had indicated took off at a run for the far side of the clearing. "Don't think I'd trust that bunch of thumb-fingered dolts to coax the bird down. But they'll find him soon enough, and I'll see what I can do. I don't think I'll lose the bird for you."
"It was too soon to turn him loose," the king said.
"Perhaps." The old man nodded. "But it had to be done sooner or later. And there's always the risk, no matter how long you've trained him. We'll work him some more, and hunt him again. Maybe next month, or the month after?"
"Perhaps."
Without another word, the king walked back to where the others were waiting on the road. Unsurprisingly, as he reached the shade and cover of the tree line, the four Order Knights known collectively as His Own had quickly surrounded him, although remaining a respectful distance. Etienne of Marseilles looked much the worse for wear—it looked as though he had forced his way through brambles and nettles, which spoke well for his dedication, if not his woodsmanship. But, like Walter and the Beast—more formally, Sir Walter Davies and Sir Sebastian Cooper—he was where he belonged, and it was only a matter of moments until John of Redhook joined them, stepping out of the shrubbery as though he was walking out a door.
Mordred repressed another smile. Big John knew that section of woods better than most; even a woodsman with his skills wouldn't have been able to make it through the blackberry brambles beyond the stand of elms without doing some damage to his clothing. While the others had been making their way about the circumference of the clearing, Big John had stationed himself near where the Duke of New England was, able to get quickly between him and the king, if necessary.
The Order Knights didn't speak to each other or to anybody else, and their eyes never even met the king's.
Truth to tell, he liked the company of some of them, and not of others, but the tradition is that one of His Own on duty—whether it was watching believed-to-be-loyal nobility and long-serving servants in the king's Pendragonshire preserve, watching from behind or next to the throne at a formal reception, or sleeping across the king's doorstep—had no other obligations at all, not even so much as to acknowledge the other of their Order who stood a few careful paces away from the Duke of New England.
Mordred waved away a proffered tray of sweetmeats, but pointed at a goblet of water, and drank it greedily, wiping his chin with the back of his hand where it dribbled. Water only, dammit. He would not contaminate his personal ritual of a celebratory glass of wine—that was for a successful kill. It wasn't for when the only thing to celebrate was that the old cadger had, once more, shown that he knew his trade.
Oh, well.
Uncle William was smiling openly, as he took the stem of his long, New World-style pipe from between his tobacco-yellowed teeth.
"A nice attempt, Your Majesty," he said, perhaps a little too loudly, as though to make it clear that his smile was a congratulation for the attempt, rather than a comment on the failure. "For a moment there, I'd thought that you had him."
"For a moment, so did I."
William Pendragon wore his years well. While he complained, both in letters and more recently in person, that the affairs of New England were constantly occupying every waking moment of his time—and permitting little for even sleep—his appearance belied the claim. Beneath his tunic, the chest was still almost peasant-broad, and had not sagged down to become belly. His healthy color—which he had arrived in Londinium with, three months ago—was that of a man who spent a fair time outdoors. And while more than a few men his age blackened their hair, William Pendragon's vanity extended only to the perfect grooming of his salt-and-pepper hair and beard, and he kept his dull gray hair both dull and gray, eschewing both dye and pomade.
The queen had been very impressed with Uncle William, and Mordred didn't think it was just a matter of her trying to play on the jealousy that she knew that Mordred didn't have. She had her own court, in practice, and he had his, and as long as she kept out of politics and kept her affairs discreet and without issue, it was no concern of his. One very easy way for a courtier to lose favor with the king was to suggest, no matter how indirectly, that the queen's affairs were something that he should taken notice of. All one had to do was read Mallory to know how badly that could turn out.
"Such things happen," the king said, turning to the man standing beside the duke. "What do you think, Sir Joshua? Old Thomas has had the bird in training for most of a year; was I too eager?"
He was watching the duke more than Sir Joshua Grayling as he asked, and noted with some satisfaction that the duke didn't seem surprised that Grayling didn't quickly answer with what no doubt all the others expected would be a quick denial that the king could ever make a mistake.
Mordred smiled. Uncle William had practically been dragged across the Atlantic by Gray, and knew him well enough by now to understand that, to Joshua Grayling, "Service, honor, faith, and obedience" included answering his superiors' questions honestly and bluntly, with less care for how things sounded than most, although with more care than a very few others that Mordred could name.
Sir Joshua Grayling was, as always, arrayed in the distinctive clothing of his order: a long, black, belted wraparound jacket over his white tunic, and that over loose trousers that had been bloused into his boots. The jacket was belted tightly across his narrow hips to support the two scabbarded swords that he wore, with their preposterously plain sheaths and hilts.
The leather cup that covered the stump of what had been Grayling's right hand rested near his waist, but not on anything, while the fingers of his left hand, as usual, seemed to keep themselves near the hilts of his swords, although, as usual, he didn't move to touch a finger to the metal of either hilt.
It didn't look protective; it looked like a challenge—there was something in his stance that seemed to suggest that he was constantly daring anyone else to take one of his swords, but perhaps the king was mistaken.
Not that any other man would have wanted to lay hands on the live sword. Even the whitest of White Swords would burn not just the body but the soul of the one who touched it, save for the one it was linked to. Once, as a boy—he had been far too impulsive as a boy—Mordred had deliberately reached out and laid a finger on the protruding hilt of the Goatboy, when Sir Alvin was guarding Father. While the wound had long since healed, the memory of the agony was as sharp and painful now as it had been on that day.
Gray's face was, as always, impassive; the nose too sharp and narrow; the eyes dark and recessed. Mordred had no doubt that the man could feel emotion, but had only once seen a trace of it on his face.
"Of the noble arts," Sir Joshua finally said, "I was never very much for falconry, Sire. Other activities have always occupied my time, and I'm a weak hand with the birds." Was that a shrug? "Makes me a poor judge of such things. I guess the only way to know was to try, and see, Your Majesty."
The king nodded. It was gratifying to hear that, from Gray, knowing that if Gray had thought that trying the bird had been a bad decision, he would have said so.
"It's that way with birds," the king said. And with other creatures, for that matter. You had to, at some point, try them out, and you could hope for success, but only a fool would count on success. "Sometimes you find that your judgment was right; sometimes wrong. Even if you're king."
He was reaching out his hand for his own pipe, when a cry sounded from far behind him, and he quickly spun about.
Old Thomas, his legs moving with a speed that belied his years, was running toward the far edge of the clearing, whooping and hollering like a New World saracen.
Damn.
He had missed it.
He carefully set the goblet down on the outstretched tray, although he wanted to smash it, and smash both his uncle and the knight, whose conversation had distracted him while the saker had circled back and made his kill. A good strong kick to Old Thomas, who had not interrupted the conversation, was also a temptation.
But, no.
It wasn't their fault, but his. He had let himself get distracted, and that the matters that he had been distracted by were of more importance than the hunt was no excuse; this was supposed to be his morning.
Oh, well. He had invited the duke along, and it was Mordred who had permitted the distraction, not the duke who had insisted on it.
In a few minutes, Old Thomas was proudly marching back across the field with the bird on his glove, unhooded. It didn't rouse at all, but just glared angrily at all and sundry, as though to express scorn for their having doubted that it would make the kill—in its own time, in its own way.
Behind, one of the apprentices followed with the limp body of the rabbit, already properly gutted, fat drops of blood dripping onto the grass.
Mordred forced himself not to scowl. The bird had come back, and it had gotten the rabbit, and Mordred had missed both the thrill of the stoop and the kill, and the unalloyed pleasure of the mad dash across the field.
"Well, we eat tonight," the king said, mildly resenting the chuckles that echoed around him at the weak joke. Although it was only partly a joke—potted conie would be set before him at table this evening, or he'd know the reason why. "And we'll be sure to give a special tidbit or two to Cully, here."
At the mention of the bird's name, Gray's entire body seemed to twitch, but he didn't say anything.
The king just smiled at him. "All in all, I thought I named the bird appropriately—and the evidence of today makes me think I was right. He got the prey, but in his own time, and in his own way. A fitting description of Sir Cully of Cully's Woode; I think. Would you disagree?"
Eyes widened as Gray thought about it for a moment. "Incomplete, Sire, but fitting, certainly," Gray said.
"Now, if I were to name a bird after you, Gray, what breed would you prefer?"
Gray seemed to consider the matter. "Perhaps a saker, too, Your Majesty. Or one of lower ranking. A kestrel, say—the common one, rather than the New World one."
"Hmm." Mordred frowned. "I think of you and Sir Cully as very different sorts of birds, yes, but I'd hardly think of you as a kestrel. Uncle?"
"If you want similarity with Sir Joshua, I guess you'd have to pick a crippled falcon with one wing. Which wouldn't be useful." He said the words lightly, as though making a joke at the nonexistent bird's expense, rather than Gray's.
Mordred cocked his head to one side, controlling his expression as much as his body. It wouldn't do, he supposed, to slap the Duke of New England across the face. It would be something to discuss later, in private.
In detail. With short, curt words, many of them unsuited for polite company.
Sir Joshua Grayling had lost his hand in the service of the Crown; his stump was a badge of honor, not something to be mocked.
And it was not just his hand; he had lost more, perhaps. It was hardly a secret from those of the Order or from the king that Gray thought that his bearing of the particular live sword at his waist—a Red Sword, of course—had damned him.
Mordred had studied theology in his youth, among many other things, and he privately disagreed, although it was among many religious opinions that he kept to himself. Religious discussions were something that the king had best avoid, as more than two of his predecessors had demonstrated all too well.
This matter, in any case, had been muchly discussed and debated, for a couple of centuries after the creation of the live swords during the Age. The position of the Church of England was that whether or not the souls trapped in the Red Swords were damned, the use of them in support of the Church and Crown was laudable, if possibly a temptation to sin, and that God, in His Grace, would surely not damn a knight of the Order even for taking something unholy to hand, if his goal was the support of the Church, and the Crown. After all, while Jesus had chased the moneylenders from the temple, and condemned the love of money as the root of all evil, even He had not condemned the use of money.
Mordred would, of course, make what judgments his nature and his position required; he tried to avoid others.
But none of the theologians who had written on the matter—nor the archbishops and kings who had made such rulings—had ever joined their own souls with a Red Sword, and there was something to be said for the notion that a knight who believed something from experience had knowledge that no amount of book learning and debate could teach others.
But it mattered not even a little if Gray was right—in Mordred's view, Gray's soul was every bit as expendable as his body was, in the service of the Crown. A saved soul was one's entry to Heaven, and that was all well and good—but Mordred was a man of this world, of this Crown.
But that sacrifice, were it real or honestly mistaken, was not something that Mordred would have mocked, and there would be words with the duke, in private, on that, and this mockery would not be repeated. And particularly not to Sir Joshua.
The Duke of New England's smile was in place. Good. Self-control was important in a ruler, and either Mordred had had the restraint to keep a trace of his fury from his face, or Uncle William the self-control to not react to it.
Gray's face hadn't changed in its lack of expression, but the fingers of his remaining hand had dropped to touch the hilt of his uppermost sword, although not gripping it as if to draw it—he just touched a finger to the metal. It was a common gesture among knights of the White Sword, and less so among Red Knights. Communion with the holy was often reassuring; Gray's communion with the Khan undoubtedly wasn't.
"A saker, perhaps," the king said.
The Duke of New England nodded. "I like sakers myself," he said. "A good choice for hunting conies. I use them to hunt weasels, as well." He grinned. "And even such a minor heir to the Pendragon name as a Crown duke needn't worry about using a bird below his status, eh?"
The king forced a smile. "There is, after all, only one other present who could correct you on the matter . . . and I enjoy sakers, as well."
William wasn't all that minor an heir.
The Duke of New England, as the king's eldest uncle, was third in line, after the princes—and it was no accident that there were no New Englanders serving aboard the Tusk, where Eric was a midshipman, and that both he and John were guarded both carefully and separately. Eton, where John was, was another matter, of course—there were young New English noblemen at Eton in abundance, over from the colonies. It wouldn't do to be too obviously worried about some treachery, and in fact, Mordred tried to worry about it as a matter of policy, rather than out of some grounds for suspicion, and most of the time, he was successful.
No. If this duke betrayed him, it would probably be to declare New England independent from the mother country, not a repeat of the York Rebellion.
Probably. But when the princes made a tour of the New England colonies—as Mordred had never done, although he wished he could have been able to do it—they would do it separately, not both at the same time, much less together.
Princes royal were, if necessary, expendable—but singly, and not en masse.
As were kings, come to think of it. But not now, not when Eric was too young to rule, if not to reign, and who knew who Parliament would name as regent? Perhaps even the Duke of New England? William was very popular at Parliament, and not just for the carefully selected gifts that had accompanied him, along with Gray, across the Atlantic. He had a smooth but not too-smooth way about him, and seemed to be able to moderate his New England drawl to precisely fit the circumstances.
Too good with words? Perhaps.
Well, leave that worry for another day. They all were waiting patiently for the king's next words, so he really ought to find some.
So Mordred just smiled at Gray. "Well, I've thought on it," he said, "I don't think a saker, or a kestrel. A gyr, I think, would be more appropriate." A gyr. A noble's bird, big, beautiful, and deadly—capable of taking much bigger game, and killing with dispatch before returning to the hand. "Always fit the bird to the task, eh?"
The duke didn't like that, but Gray's face was impassive. As usual.
Well, as long as he didn't grip the king's hand tightly, Mordred could live with that.