had been little for him to do but rake the droppings from the stones. The falconer was scrupulous about daily cleaning.
‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Mistress Clare?’
Closer now, she could see sweat dampening his hair and the hose clinging to his legs. She peered at the falcons’ blocks, surprised to see he had even scrubbed away the whitish mute smears from the side of Wee One’s perch. ‘You’ve taken great care.’
He shrugged. ‘You’ve more blocks than birds.’
It was a pitiful mews, by most standards, she knew. Most of the birds there now belonged to the visitors, only temporary residents. ‘We had more, once. But birds and war are both costly. War has won.’
She pulled on her glove and held out her wrist. Wee One hopped on the fist, fluttering her feathers in delight. Clare rubbed her throat feathers gently, noting her crop was almost empty. She might be hungry enough to fly again tomorrow.
‘That’s the bird you were flying in the hills,’ he said.
‘I’ve had this one since she was just a brancher. She’s my favourite of all I’ve flown. Of course, I’ve never had one of the really fine birds from the cliffs near the sea.’
‘The best I’ve flown were northern birds, captured in the Low Countries.’
She assessed him anew. She had heard of such birds, but she’d never seen them and couldn’t have afforded them if a falcon dealer had brought them. If he had hawked with birds like that, he must be of better birth than she’d believed. ‘Those would be worthy of kings.’
He shrugged. ‘Origin means little. I’ve seen gyrfalcons refuse to fly and sparrowhawks take on rabbits three times their size. Did you train her yourself?’
She nodded. ‘I’m all she knows. She’ll not leave me.’
‘You cannot keep her on a creance and practise the art. Each flight is a risk. Each return a choice.’
She clutched the leather jesses tight between her gloved fingers. ‘This one will always come back.’
Behind her, she heard the flapping of wings. As she turned, a bird swooped down, talons nearly tangling in her hair. Then, he soared towards the ceiling directly above Wee One’s perch, performing an ecstasy of swoops and turns.
‘Stop him!’ Impossible. Accustomed to the entire sky, the bird hurtled dangerously close to the wall. A crash would mean a broken wing.
‘I think,’ Fitzjohn said, with awe in his voice she had never heard, ‘that he’s doing it for her.’
Wee One’s head followed his flight. Clare peered up through the dim light. It was hard to be sure, but the stripes under his wings and the ermine look of the feathers under his throat reminded her of the tercel she had seen two days ago.
She cupped her palm against Wee One’s breast, reassured that the bird had not tried to fly. ‘Please. I want him gone.’
Fitzjohn waved his arms and yelled at the bird.
As he widened his flight, the strange bird seemed to realise he was trapped. He flew towards the light from the window high in the wall, but the slats, designed to keep the birds inside, were too small for him to escape.
‘Open the door wider,’ Fitzjohn said.
She did, then stepped away to give the bird a clear path to freedom. The tercel made a final swoop and roll, then, close enough to the door to see his escape, flew through it and disappeared.
She released a breath, still shaking. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I was afraid he would hurt himself. He must have been wild and mad.’
‘He knew exactly what he was doing.’
Surprised, she turned to him, expecting a cynical expression. ‘What?’
‘Trying to get her attention.’
‘Why?’
‘For the usual reasons a male wants a female to notice him. He wants to mate.’
Heat touched her cheeks and she looked away. ‘I doubt that.’ His bare chest was within reach of her fingers. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss—
‘Where do you think falcons come from?’
Perhaps he didn’t know falcons as well as he implied. ‘The falcon dealer has brought most of these, but I caught Wee One near Hen Hole just east of here.’
His laugh cascaded over her. ‘Before that, I mean.’
She flushed. ‘Well, from eggs, of course.’ Could the tercel mean to mate with Wee One? ‘But a mews is not a nursery.’ She had never seen an egg laid in the mews. Was that even possible?
‘They mate for life, you know.’ His words were husky.
‘Unless one of them dies.’ And when her mother had died, her father had not hesitated to take another.
She turned away and tied Wee One safely back on her perch.
‘If the mews is cleaned to your satisfaction, I await your pleasure,’ he said, his voice caressing her back. ‘I offer again to put my sword in your service.’
‘My father will be home soon,’ she said, abruptly, not looking at him. Like the wild tercel, Fitzjohn had flown into her mews by accident, and now seemed trapped and out of place. Did he long for freedom? Or did he need a safe haven? ‘He’ll be the one to decide your fate.’ She felt she owed him that, though she did not know why.
‘Thank you, Mistress Clare.’
She started out of the mews, then turned. ‘I’ve an extra blanket, Fitzjohn. It will be yours tonight.’
He bowed, with a courtier’s grace. ‘I’m truly grateful, my lady.’
And for the first time since she’d met him, she truly felt like a lady.
The tercel returned a few days later.
She saw him in the weathering yard, where the birds had been taken outside for exercise, hoods off, but still tethered. This time, the male bird swooped down and joined Wee One on her perch. They bowed to each other, heads bobbing up and down like overactive courtiers.
She laughed and Fitzjohn, crossing the bailey, joined in.
‘They look so funny,’ she said.
‘They are courting.’
‘What?’
‘Now she’ll try to fly. Watch.’
Wee One rose, swooping with the strange bird in a sky dance, tugging against her leash as if wanting to escape.
Clare rushed over, clapping to scare the male away. Wee One tried to follow.
Clare pulled on the leather leash, drawing her falcon back until the bird
