Hawksmaid: The Untold Story of Robin Hood and Maid Marian Read online

  Hawksmaid

  The Untold Story of Robin Hood and Maid Marian

  Kathryn Lasky

  Contents

  Book One:

  When Robin Hood Was Fynn and When Maid Marian Was Matty

  Prologue

  1: First Lessons

  2: The Notion of a Merlin

  3: The Greenwood

  4: Matty’s Brilliant Idea

  5: Four Tree Houses

  6: Stone and Shadows

  7: Answered Prayers

  8: The Light Behind the Shadow

  9: First Flight

  10: The Priory at Barnsdale

  11: The Eyes

  12: Fifth Tree House

  13: Down the Garderobe and into the Night

  14: A Stranger on the Road

  15: Blood and Rubies

  Book Two:

  When Fynn Became Robin Hood and When Matty Became Maid Marian

  16: A Winter of Despair

  17: The Thick of It

  18: A Birthday Surprise

  19: A Message Delivered

  20: The Poison Ring

  21: Fire or Dung?

  22: Outlaws

  23: To Take a Bishop

  24: To the Fist

  25: Market Day

  26: To Sherwood

  27: The Blasted Oak

  28: Watched

  29: Trapped!

  30: The Never-Ending Night

  31: The Living Dead

  32: The Beginning of the End

  33: Matty Once More!

  34: Wings at Dawn

  35: The Peregrine and the Queen

  36: Hawk Fever

  37: The Death Walkers

  38: Yarak!

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  BOOK ONE

  WHEN ROBIN HOOD WAS FYNN

  and

  WHEN MAID MARIAN WAS MATTY

  A.D. 1187

  PROLOGUE

  A hawk will never serve a tyrant.

  “TRAITORS!” THE ANGUISH IN her father’s voice tore into Matty as sharply as any dagger. “They’ve cut the hoistings. We can’t raise the drawbridge! It’s sabotage!”

  Lord William Fitzwalter had just run from the drawbridge through the bailey into the castle’s great hall and up two flights of stairs to his private chamber. His face was drawn into a pale mask of shock. Moments before, he had witnessed the last of his peasants frantically driving their sheep and pigs before them across the drawbridge to seek refuge, only to be denied safety.

  Matty shuddered as her father looked at her mother, his eyes misted. “I can’t believe it, Suzanne.”

  “Neither can I, William, you—Richard’s staunchest supporter.”

  “That’s just the problem,” her father cried. “I sided with Richard the Lionhearted and not with his brother. Prince John is behind this, and John’s lackey the—”

  “The sheriff!” Hodge, her father’s oldest and most faithful servant, exclaimed. “It’s the sheriff all right, and Sir Guy of Gisborne with him.”

  “No! Guy of Gisborne!” Lady Suzanne gasped, her shudder running through Matty.

  “Hide, Suzanne! Hide, Matty!” her father shouted. “Have they struck at any other castles?”

  “I daresay we’re the first to be hit,” Hodge said.

  “First, second, matters not—there will be more,” Lord William shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Suzanne, don’t dally. Hide!”

  Matty’s mother pressed her so close that her bodice lacings dug into Matty’s cheeks. Matty was eye-to-eye with the pendant that her mother always wore. The jewel, set in a filigree of finely wrought gold, was a midnight-blue star sapphire. If I just keep looking into this deep-blue stone, we shall be safe, Matty thought. It will be the sky, and we will be little stars and float away. Dear God, save us. She told herself, Keep looking at the star…the Star of Jerusalem.

  Was she praying or bargaining with God? Perhaps she herself wasn’t even sure. She knew only that she wanted to live, for no one to be hurt. But already she could hear the distant thunder of hooves of big horses, coursers and warhorses—horses trained to charge through hordes of defenseless people. They rarely flinched, never shied. They destroyed.

  The horses, ever closer, were pounding on the hard ground on the far side of the moat. Matty tried to blot out the fear.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the jewel. The milky streaks of light in most sapphires’ blue domes formed a star, but in this one the vertical rays had elongated to suggest a cross. Matty’s father had given the Star of Jerusalem to his wife in celebration of Matty’s birth. In another week, on September 23, she would turn ten. “Please, dear Lord, let me live to ten,” she whispered into her mother’s breast.

  “William,” she heard her mother say, “my jewel casket.”

  “Forget the jewels. Matty is our only jewel. Hide her!”

  “Where?”

  “The kitchen! The potato hole! I don’t know where. Just hide.”

  He was out the door and calling for his men. Matty could hear shouts; then the hoofbeats became deafening. As the horses crossed the drawbridge, even the floor on which she stood began to shake. The sheriff’s men had arrived!

  “Quick, Matty, to the kitchens!” Lady Suzanne pulled Matty with one hand and with the other began to fumble with a bracelet. They ran down the twisting steps and across a small service yard to the kitchen house.

  Crouching on the earthen floor near the huge oven where a pig was still turning on a spit, they dragged the cover off the potato hole. Her mother reached in and began hauling out potatoes and other root vegetables.

  “I’ll never fit, Mother. Never. I’m bigger than a potato. Bigger than a sack of potatoes.” There was a clatter just outside and then the glint of chain mail flashed in the sunlight. Matty and her mother exchanged horrified glances. Her mother’s fingers locked on the necklace. “Mother, the necklace might fit but not me!”

  Lady Suzanne blinked. “You’re right.” She began tearing off her rings. “Run, Matty! Run!”

  Matty streaked out the kitchen’s back door. She was running toward a small tower between the dog kennels and the stables in the bailey. Around her in the enclosed courtyard men on horseback were clashing with the remaining servants and few loyal vassals, the villeins, or tenant landholders, of Lord William. Squealing pigs and goats were dashing everywhere. The smoke from the burning wattle-and-daub huts surrounding the castle thickened as gusting winds drove it across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. Dogs were barking, hens were clucking, and the courtyard was swirling with frightened animals.

  Matty had but one thought: she must get to the tower mews where the hawks were kept. If she could get to them, the birds would keep her safe. She felt this in the deepest part of her being. Her father was a master falconer, the best in the shire—some said the best in all England. These thoughts streamed through her head and then everything stopped.

  The most immense horse she had ever seen was bearing down on her. Its ears were laid back, nostrils flared. She was frozen to the ground. The rider was not reining him in! The words came to her almost idly. He is not going to stop. I am going to die.

  Then suddenly there was a terrible squeal as the horse swerved to avoid hitting a pig. Matty broke from her daze and ran into the mews tower.

  The mews with its few narrow windows was a dim, shadowy place, but the shadows never seemed really dark. The moment she entered she felt wrapped in a fragile golden light like
a radiant mist that seemed to settle around her. What was it about the mews? she often wondered. It seemed to transform the simplest things, like stone and wood and the very air one breathed, into something different. When she crossed the threshold, she felt as if she had entered another world.

  There were three levels. The six hawks were kept on the first because it afforded the most room for their perches and the other necessities for tending their needs. As soon as she ran in Matty could tell the birds, some hooded, were agitated. Tethered to their perches by supple leather strips called jesses, they roused their wings futilely, making screeching cries of alarm.

  Matty’s heart was pounding as loudly as the horse hooves outside, but she could hear Moss, the peregrine, making low, guttural noises deep in her throat. The sounds soothed Matty. She felt her own heart quiet, and she could tell that the other birds were beginning to listen to Moss as well.

  Matty swallowed and tried to imitate these sounds. They reminded her of small pebbles rubbing together. Her first attempts were not successful. But gradually she felt the sounds forming. Soon she heard them coming from her own throat. Moss’s dark eyes were like two polished black stones ringed in yellow. The peregrine nodded as if to say continue. Matty did and soon heard Moss’s soothing sounds blending with her own. A calm seeped into the mews.

  Still making the gurgling sounds, Matty crept toward one of the small windows and peered out. She caught her breath. “No!” she whispered. A catapult had been wheeled to the center of the bailey. She saw her father being led forward. In the short space of time, he had become an old man. His mouth hung slack; his eyes were unseeing. Next to him was a man whose rich clothes proclaimed him to be Sir Guy of Gisborne. A thin strand dangled from his fingers. It seemed to be dripping and red. Something sparkled, a glint of gold in the last flare of the day’s sun. A disorganized jumble of images jostled in Matty’s mind. A ruby necklace? No, Mother doesn’t have rubies.

  Then the sun in its last spasm delivered a dagger of light, and Matty saw what Gisborne held. Her mother’s necklace! The Star of Jerusalem’s blue blazed. The gold chain dripped with the blood from her mother’s throat.

  As Matty retched and moaned, Moss’s wing brushed softly over her shoulder. The peregrine had flown down from her perch as far as her jesses would permit. There was a deathly quiet in the bailey. Then a creaking sound—the catapult—and a tortured sob. “My wife murdered. What next? My king? Where is my king?”

  But beneath her father’s anguished cry there was another voice, an elusive whispering deep in her mind. She turned and looked at Moss. It was as if the peregrine were trying to actually say something to her. It was one thing to imitate the birds, but could Matty ever understand their meaning?

  She turned back to the scene in the courtyard in time to see Sir Guy’s face redden with anger. “Richard is not king yet. Nor will he be.”

  “His eldest brother has died. He is the next in line after the old king dies,” Lord William said defiantly.

  “Swear allegiance now to Prince John.”

  “Never!” Lord William spat out the single word.

  Gisborne’s eyes glittered, then a sly smile like a knife blade split his face. He gave a signal to the sheriff. Matty inhaled sharply as she saw the sheriff’s men turn the catapult on the mews tower.

  “Prince John,” bellowed the sheriff, “has heard of your hawks. If you will not give him the peregrine and swear fealty to the prince, we have orders to destroy the mews.”

  “I could deliver my hawk, but Prince John will never master her. A hawk will never serve a tyrant! Moss is faithful to me. I am the one who raised her. A hawk is faithful to the one who has reared it with love and temperance!”

  “That remains to be seen,” the sheriff replied. His men drew back the arm of the catapult.

  Matty’s heart raced. What would Fynn do? Something clever, no doubt. It might have proven more dangerous than clever when Fynn, the month before, had stolen the eggs and also a royal forester’s wife’s prize hen. Fynn hadn’t kept the eggs for himself but given them to poor Nanny Wodehouse. The hen…well, no one knew exactly what had happened to the hen, but somewhere she was still laying, and every now and then her eggs appeared in the wattle huts of the poorest people in the village. Only Matty knew that Fynn was responsible for this bit of mischief, or at least she hoped she was the only one. So what would Fynn do in the face of a catapult trained squarely on the mews?

  Then once more she heard a whispering deep in the back of her mind. She tipped her head to one side and looked at Moss. The peregrine cocked her own head and looked back at her, murmuring—no, not at her but into her. The bird’s sound and vision seemed to go beyond her skin, beyond the human form and body that was recognized as Matilda Fitzwalter. She felt the shadow of another being stir inside her. Something is happening, Matty thought, something very odd.

  Then she rose as if in a trance.

  “I am to set you all free. That is the message!” Matty felt a wild joy at this sudden insight. It was as if the barriers between human and bird had suddenly dissolved.

  She rushed toward the snug corner where the hawking tools were kept. Among the various instruments were several small knives. She seized one and, just as the first large stone hit the tower, she cut the jesses off Moss. She worked quickly, cutting jesses and unhooding those birds who wore them. Then she ran about, flailing her arms, shooing them toward the upper windows. “Go! Go!”

  Stones pounded against the tower walls. The sound was deafening. The air seemed to convulse. She pressed her hands to her ears and screamed, “Go! Go! Fly away!”

  She watched as they spread their wings. She felt windy drafts as they roused in preparation for lifting off. If she could only fly! Fly away from this castle where her mother had just been murdered, away from this shire with its monstrous sheriff, away from this island realm called England. “Why did you leave us, Richard? Why? Why?” She screamed the question that ricocheted in her brain as the stones pounded the tower. Why had this knightly prince left them all to his monstrous brother and the fiendish sheriff? Fiends! Fiends! Fiends sent in to destroy her home, her family’s castle! Matilda Fitzwalter looked up as the walls of the tower began to crumble around her and she saw the last of the birds fly out. They’re free!

  Chapter 1

  FIRST LESSONS

  Hawking is not about the flight or the kill but about the bond between the falconer and the bird.

  THE HAWKS HAD COME back as Lord William had predicted—not all of them, but four returned. “The stalwarts,” he called them. Moss had been the first, flying into the chapel during Lady Suzanne’s funeral. Matty had not attended; she was unconscious from being knocked on the head by fragments of the mews walls. Hodge’s wife, old Meg, hovered around her bed for endless hours. Nelly Woodfynn, mother of Fynn, was there as well. She had come to help nurse, and Fynn paced anxiously nearby.

  Matty had been lying motionless for nearly two days, her lips drained of color, her eyelids so swollen that barely a quiver could be detected. But after his wife’s burial, Lord William had taken the peregrine into the chamber, and Matty began to rouse.

  “Look, my lord!” Fynn cried as Moss flew to perch on Matty’s bed. “Her eyelids are fluttering!”

  “Robert, I believe you’re right.” Lord William never called Matty’s friend Fynn but by his proper Christian name. His father was the warden of the woods of Barnsdale. Fynn, who was a year and a half older than Matty, had played with her at the castle when his parents had come there on business. Lord William often gave them food from the larder in exchange for Nelly’s nursing his family and servants. She was known to be the best midwife in the shire and one of the few who would treat lepers.

  Fynn stepped closer to the bed. “She’s coming around, my lord, I tell you. She’s trying to say something.”

  “Free…free,” Matty kept muttering. Her face was bruised more colors of purple than Fynn had ever seen. One eye was swollen completely shut. Above the other w
as a yellowish bump the size of a hen’s egg. But by some miracle Matty had survived with no broken bones.

  Perched on the bedstead, Moss began making strange guttural sounds. A hush fell across the room. Everyone sensed a further quickening of Matty’s slumbering spirit beneath the lumps and bumps and bruises. “Free…free,” Matty said more clearly. And then the words stopped, replaced by a slow gurgling sound from back of her throat.

  “She can’t breathe!” Fynn lurched toward the slight form in the bed. Lord William shot out his arm and stayed him as Moss raised her feathers threateningly and then in one quick hop landed on Matty’s pillow. It was an odd picture, the long deadly talons digging into the soft goose down. But Matty’s eyes suddenly opened.

  “You came back!” she whispered to the peregrine. “You came back!”

  Within hours, one by one, the other birds arrived: Morgana the kestrel, Ulysses the goshawk, and Lyra the short-winged hawk. They came back to their master, Lord William Fitzwalter, whose wife had been murdered; whose silver and gold and jewels had been stolen; whose larder had been emptied; whose fields had been burned; and whose servants, peasants, and vassals had gone. But most of his hawks had come back.